Robert W. Service

Robert W. Service

1874–1958 · lived 84 years -- --

Robert W. Service was a poet and writer celebrated for his vivid and often humorous verses depicting life in the Yukon during the Klondike Gold Rush. His work captured the spirit of adventure, hardship, and camaraderie of the era, making him immensely popular. He is best known for narrative poems that tell compelling stories with a strong rhythm and memorable characters.

n. 1874-01-16, Preston · m. 1958-09-11, Lancieux

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Young Fellow My Lad

Young Fellow My Lad

"Where are you going, Young Fellow My Lad,
On this glittering morn of May?"
"I'm going to join the Colours, Dad;
They're looking for men, they say."
"But you're only a boy, Young Fellow My Lad;
You aren't obliged to go."
"I'm seventeen and a quarter, Dad,
And ever so strong, you know."

* * * *

"So you're off to France, Young Fellow My Lad,
And you're looking so fit and bright."
"I'm terribly sorry to leave you, Dad,
But I feel that I'm doing right."
"God bless you and keep you, Young Fellow My Lad,
You're all of my life, you know."
"Don't worry. I'll soon be back, dear Dad,
And I'm awfully proud to go."

* * * *

"Why don't you write, Young Fellow My Lad?
I watch for the post each day;
And I miss you so, and I'm awfully sad,
And it's months since you went away.
And I've had the fire in the parlour lit,
And I'm keeping it burning bright
Till my boy comes home; and here I sit
Into the quiet night.

* * * *

"What is the matter, Young Fellow My Lad?
No letter again to-day.
Why did the postman look so sad,
And sigh as he turned away?
I hear them tell that we've gained new ground,

But a terrible price we've paid:
God grant, my boy, that you're safe and sound;
But oh I'm afraid, afraid."

* * * *

"They've told me the truth, Young Fellow My Lad:
You'll never come back again:
(Oh God! the dreams and the dreams I've had,
and the hopes I've nursed in vain!)
For you passed in the night, Young Fellow My Lad,
And you proved in the cruel test
Of the screaming shell and the battle hell
That my boy was one of the best.


"So you'll live, you'll live, Young Fellow My Lad,
In the gleam of the evening star,
In the wood-note wild and the laugh of the child,
In all sweet things that are.
And you'll never die, my wonderful boy,
While life is noble and true;
For all our beauty and hope and joy
We will owe to our lads like you."
Read full poem
Bio

Identification and basic context

Robert William Service was born in Preston, Lancashire, England, and later became a Canadian citizen. He is most famous for his Yukon ballads, written during his time in the Canadian North. His writings often focused on the rugged and adventurous life experienced by prospectors and settlers.

Childhood and education

Service's early life was marked by a middle-class upbringing. He received a sound education, but his adventurous spirit led him to seek opportunities abroad rather than settling into a conventional life in England. He eventually traveled to Canada, working various jobs before finding his niche as a poet.

Literary trajectory

Service's literary career took off with the publication of "Songs of a Sourdough" (also known as "The Spell of the Yukon") in 1907, which achieved immediate success. His poetry chronicled the experiences and characters of the Yukon Gold Rush, becoming incredibly popular among both readers and critics. He continued to write prolifically throughout his life, producing novels and plays in addition to his famous ballads.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Service's major works include "Songs of a Sourdough," "The Ballads of a Cheechako," and "Rhymes of a Rolling Stone." His poetry is characterized by its strong narrative quality, accessible language, and rhythmic meter, often employing rhyme schemes that enhance the storytelling. Dominant themes include adventure, hardship, love, loss, and the harsh beauty of the northern landscape. His style is often described as ballad-like, with a direct and engaging tone that appeals to a broad audience. He successfully captured the spirit and vernacular of the people he wrote about, creating memorable characters and situations.

Cultural and historical context

Service's work is deeply rooted in the historical context of the Klondike Gold Rush and the early 20th century. His poems reflect the era's spirit of adventure, the challenges faced by pioneers, and the unique subculture that developed in the Yukon. He belonged to no specific formal literary movement but his popular appeal placed him within the broader tradition of narrative poetry that resonated with the public during his time.

Personal life

Service led a life of considerable adventure. After working in the Yukon, he served as a war correspondent during World War I and lived in various locations, including France and Monaco. His personal experiences often informed the settings and characters in his poetry and prose, imbuing them with authenticity and a sense of lived experience. He married Germaine Cornulier and had a daughter.

Recognition and reception

Robert W. Service achieved immense popularity during his lifetime, earning the nickname "The Bard of the Yukon." His books sold millions of copies, and his poems were widely recited and known. While sometimes criticized by literary elites for being too sentimental or simplistic, his work maintained a strong connection with ordinary readers and continues to be celebrated for its storytelling and evocative portrayal of the North.

Influences and legacy

Service's work was influenced by popular ballad traditions and the real-life stories of the people he encountered. He, in turn, influenced countless readers and writers with his ability to capture the spirit of adventure and the human condition in challenging environments. His poems remain a significant cultural touchstone for understanding the Yukon Gold Rush era and continue to be read and enjoyed worldwide.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Critics often analyze Service's work for its portrayal of romanticized adventure versus the harsh realities of frontier life. His poems can be interpreted as both celebrating and critiquing the pursuit of fortune, as well as exploring themes of loneliness, companionship, and the resilience of the human spirit against nature's unforgiving backdrop.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Despite his fame as a poet of the North, Service spent relatively little time in the Yukon compared to the duration of his life. His ability to capture the atmosphere and spirit of the region was a testament to his observational skills and imaginative writing. He was also known for his adventurous lifestyle outside of his writing career.

Death and memory

Robert W. Service passed away in 1958. His memory is kept alive through his enduringly popular poems, which continue to be published, recited, and celebrated, ensuring his place as a beloved chronicler of the Yukon's golden age.

Poems

416

Unholy Trinity

Unholy Trinity

Though Virtue hurt you Vice is nice;
Aye, Parson says it's wrong,
Yet for my pleasing I'll suffice
With Women, Wine and Song.
But though it be with jocund glee
my tavern voice is ringing,
Had I to chuck on of the three,
By gad! I'd give up singing.


Bu not the vine. What draught divine
Could better souse my throttle?
God never meant that mellow wine
Should languish in the bottle.
So Cellerman, your best bring up;
Let silver cobwebs mist it;
When gold or ruby brims the cup,
Could even saint resist it?


I love the ladies, yes, I do,
I always did and will;
I like with dainty dames to coo,
And have been known to bill.
Yes, I agree it's wrong of me,
So call me grey rapscallion,
But when a lusty lass I see
I whinny like a stallion.


Oh let me be a reprobate,
Your canting care defying;
I'll court that gay triumvirate
Right to the day I'm dying.
So troll until the rafter rings,
And may my life be long
To praise the Lord for precious things
like Women, Wine and Song.
219

Two Words

Two Words

'God' is composed of letters three,
But if you put an 'l'
Before the last it seems to me
A synonym for Hell.
For all of envy, greed and hate
The human heart can hold
Respond unto the devil's bait
Of Gold.

When God created Gold to be
For our adorning fit,
I little think he dreamed that we
Would come to worship it.
But when you ruefully have scanned
The chronicles of Time,
You'll find that lucre lends a hand
To Crime.

So if you are a millionaire,
To be of Heaven sure,
Give every penny you can spare
Unto the sick and poor.
From Gold strike out the evil 'ell,'
And so with letters odd
You can with peace of spirit spell
Just GOD.
219

Two Husbands

Two Husbands

Unpenitent, I grieve to state,
Two good men stood by heaven's gate,
Saint Peter coming to await.
The stopped the Keeper of the Keys,
Saying: "What suppliants are these,
Who wait me not on bended knees?


"To get my heavenly Okay
A man should have been used to pray,
Or suffered in some grievous way."


"Oh I have suffered," cried the first.
"Of wives I had the wicked worst,
Who made my life a plague accurst.


"Such martyrdom no tongue can tell;
In mercy's name it is not well
To doom me to another hell."


Saint Peter said: "I comprehend;
But tribulations have their end.
The gate is open, - go my friend."


Then said the second: "What of me?
More I deserve to pass than he,
For I've been wedded twice, you see."


Saint Peter looked at him a while,
And then he answered with a smile:
"Your application I will file.


"Yet twice in double yoke you've driven . . .
Though sinners with our Saints we leaven,
We don't take IMBECILES in heaven."
284

Two Children

Two Children

Give me your hand, oh little one!
Like children be we two;
Yet I am old, my day is done
That barely breaks for you.
A baby-basket hard you hold,
With in it cherries four:
You cherish them as men do gold,
And count them o'er.

And then you stumble in your walk;
The cherries scattered lie.
You pick them up with foolish talk
And foolish glad am I,
When you wipe one quite clean of dust
And give it unto me;
So in the baby-basket just
Are three.

All this is simple, I confess,
A moment piled with peace;
Yet loving men have died for less,
And will till time shall cease. . . .
A silken hand in crinkled one-O
Little Innocence!
O blessed moment in the son
E'er I go hence!
181

Tri-Colour

Tri-Colour


Poppies, you try to tell me, glowing there in the wheat;

Poppies! Ah no! You mock me: It's blood, I tell you, it's blood.
It's gleaming wet in the grasses; it's glist'ning warm in the wheat;
It dabbles the ferns and the clover; it brims in an angry flood;

It leaps to the startled heavens; it smothers the sun; it cries
With scarlet voices of triumph from blossom and bough and blade.
See the bright horror of it! It's roaring out of the skies,
And the whole red world is a-welter. . . . Oh God! I'm afraid! I'm afraid!

Cornflowers, you say, just cornflowers, gemming the golden grain;
Ah no! You can't deceive me. Can't I believe my eyes?
Look! It's the dead, my comrades, stark on the dreadful plain,
All in their dark-blue blouses, staring up at the skies.
Comrades of canteen laughter, dumb in the yellow wheat.
See how they sprawl and huddle! See how their brows are white!
Goaded on to the shambles, there in death and defeat. . . .
Father of Pity, hide them! Hasten, O God, Thy night!

Lillies (the light is waning), only lilies you say,
Nestling and softly shining there where the spear-grass waves.
No, my friend, I know better; brighter I see than day:
It's the poor little wooden crosses over their quiet graves.
Oh, how they're gleaming, gleaming! See! Each cross has a crown.
Yes, it's true I am dying; little will be the loss. . . .
Darkness . . . but look! In Heaven a light, and it's shining down. . . .
God's accolade! Lift me up, friends. I'm going to win -- my Cross.
208

Trixie

Trixie


Dogs have a sense beyond our ken -
At least my little Trixie had:
Tail-wagging when I laughed, and when
I sighed, eyes luminously sad.
And if I planned to go away,
She'd know, oh, days and days before:
Aye, dogs I think are sometimes fey,
They seem to sense our fate in store.


Now take the case of old Tome Low;
With flowers each week he'd call on me.
Dear Trixie used to love him so,
With joyous jump upon his knee.
Yet when he wandered in one day,
Her hair grew sudden stark with dread;
She growled, she howled, she ran away . . .
Well, ten hours later Tom was dead.


Aye, dogs hear sounds we cannot hear,
And dogs see sights we cannot see;
And that is why I took the fear
That one day she would glare at me
As if a Shape cowered on my bead,
And with each hair on end she'd creep
Beneath the couch and whine with dread . . .
And so I've had her put to sleep.


Now Trixie's gone, the only one
Who loved me in my lonely life,
And here I wait, my race nigh run,
My ill too grievous for the knife.
My hand of ice she'll never lick,
My heedless mask she'll never see:
No heartbreak - just a needle prick. . . .
Oh, Doctor, do the same for me!
232

Tranquilism

Tranquilism


I call myself a Tranquilist;
With deep detachment I exist,

From friction free;
While others court the gilded throng
And worship Women, Wine and Song,

I scorn the three.
For I have reached the sober age
When I prefer to turn a page

Beside the fire,
And from the busy mart of men
To meditative book and pen

With grace retire.

If you are craving peace of mind,
In Tranquilism you will find

Philosophy;
Serenely fold your hands and wait
Be cloistered calm whatever fate

The Gods decree.
And though the world with rage be rent,
Hold it remote and claim content

With quiet heart;
You can't do much to better it,
But your good-will may help a bit,

Ere you depart.

So let us who are old and sere
To din of battle shut the ear,

And trumpet vain;
And though in no monastic mood
Accept the balm of solitude

And grace regain.
Let us be Tranquilists and try
In placid places to apply

Life's wisdom won;
In Nature's bounty we may bless
The Gods and wait with thankfulness

Our setting sun.
211

Treat 'Em Rough

Treat 'Em Rough

First time I dared propose,
A callow lad was I;
I donned my Sunday clothes,
I wore my Old School Tie.
Awaiting me Louise
Was dolled to beat the band,
So going on my knees
I begged her hand.

Oh yes, she gave me her hand,-A
box upon the ear;
I could not understand,
I blinked away a tear.
Then scornfully she said:
'Next time you kneel before
A maid, young man don't spread
Your hankey on the floor.'

So next time I proposed,
Thinks I, I'll treat 'em rough.
Her name was Lily Rose,
I gave her he-man stuff.
I yanked her on my knee,
And as her ear I bit,
To my amazement she
Seemed to like it.

The old cave-men knew best;
Grab girlies by the hair,
And though they may protest
Drag them into your lair.
So young men seeking mates,
Take my tip, if rejected:
A modern maid just hates
To be respected.
212

Tom

Tom


That Tom was poor was sure a pity,
Such guts for learning had the lad;
He took to Greek like babe to titty,
And he was mathematic mad.
I loved to prime him up with knowledge,
A brighter lad I never knew;
I dreamed that he would go to college
And there be honoured too.

But no! His Dad said, "Son, I need you
To keep the kettle on the boil;
No longer can I clothe and feed you,
Buy study books and midnight oil.
I carry on as best I'm able,
A humble tailor, as you know;
And you must squat cross-legged a table
And learn to snip and sew."

And that is what poor Tom is doing.
He bravely makes the best of it;

But as he "fits" you he is knowing
That he himself is a misfit;
And thinks as he fulfils his calling,


With patient heart yet deep distaste,
Like clippings from his shears down-falling,
--He, too, is Waste.
235

Tourist

Tourist


'Twas in a village in Lorraine
Whose name I quite forget,
I found I needfully was fain
To buy a serviette.
I sought a shop wherein they sell
Such articles as these,
And told a smiling mademoiselle;
'I want a towel, please.'

'Of kinds,' said she, 'I've only two,'
And took the bundles down;
And one was coloured azure blue,
And one was khaki brown.
With doubt I scratched my hoary head;
The quality was right;
The size too, yet I gravely said:
'Too bad you haven't white.'

That pretty maid had sunny hair,
Her gaze was free from guile,
And while I hesitated there
She watched me with a smile.
Then as I went to take the blue
She said 'Non' meaning no.
'Ze khaki ones are best, M'sieu:
Ze dirts zey do not show.'
263

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