Robert Service Poems

  • 501.  
    This is the end of all my ways,
    My wanderings on earth,My gloomy and my golden days,
  • 502.  
    'Twas in a pub in Battersea
    They call the “Rose and Crown,”Quite suddenly, it seemed to me,
  • 503.  
    My soldier boy has crossed the sea
    To fight the foeman;But he'll come back to make of me
  • 504.  
    Someone's Mother trails the street
    Wrapt in rotted rags;Broken slippers on her feet
  • 505.  
    He hurried away, young heart of joy, under our Devon sky!
    And I watched him go, my beautiful boy, and a weary woman was I.For my hair is grey, and his was gold; he'd the best of his life to live;
  • 506.  
    A fat man sat in an orchestra stall and his cheeks were wet with tears,
    As he gazed at the primadonna tall, whom he hadn't seen in years.“Oh don't you remember” he murmured low “that Spring in Montparnasse,
  • 507.  
    The Men of Seville are, they say,
    The laziest of Spain.Consummate artists in delay,
  • 508.  
    We have no aspiration vain
    For paradise Utopian,And here in our sun-happy Spain,
  • 509.  
    The Spanish women don't wear slacks
    Because their hips are too enormous.'Tis true each bulbous bosom lacks
  • 510.  
    My mother loved her horses and
    Her hounds of pedigree;She did not kiss the baby hand
  • 511.  
    When young I was a Socialist
    Despite my tender years;No blessed chance I ever missed
  • 512.  
    My worldly wealth I hoard in albums three,
    My life collection of rare postage stamps;My room is cold and bare as you can see,
  • 513.  
    We'd left the sea-gulls long behind,
    And we were almost in mid-ocean;The sky was soft and blue and kind,
  • 514.  
    My precious grand-child, aged two,
    Is eager to unlace one shoe, And then the other;
  • 515.  
    Striving is life, yet life is striving;
    I fight to live, yet live to fight;The vital urge is in my driving,
  • 516.  
    Stupidity, woe's anodyne,
    Be kind and comfort me in mine;Smooth out the furrows of my brow,
  • 517.  
    You ask me what I call Success-
    It is, I wonder, Happiness?
  • 518.  
    I wonder if successful men
    Are always happy?And do they sing with gusto when
  • 519.  

  • 520.  
    It's mighty nice at shut of day
    With weariness to hit the hey,To close your eyes, tired through and through,
  • 521.  
    When I was young and Scottish I
    Allergic was to spending;I put a heap of bawbees by,
  • 522.  
    My daughter Susie, aged two,
    Apes me in every way,For as my household chores I do
  • 523.  
    My Muse is simple,-yet it's nice
    To think you don't need to think twice On words I write.
  • 524.  
    When I was boxing in the ring
    In ‘Frisco back in ninety-seven,I used to make five bucks a fling
  • 525.  
    It was foretold by sybils three
    that in an air crash he would die.“I'll fool their prophesy,” said he;
  • 526.  
    O Teddy Bear! with your head awry
    And your comical twisted smile,You rub your eyes-do you wonder why
  • 527.  
    He's yonder, on the terrace of the Cafe de la Paix,
    The little wizened Spanish man, I see him every day.He's sitting with his Pernod on his customary chair;
  • 528.  
    Enthusiastic was the crowd
    That hailed him with delight;The wine was bright, the laughter loud
  • 529.  
    Softly every night they come
    To the picture show,That old couple, deaf and dumb
  • 530.  
    Although my blood I've shed
    In war's red wrath,Oh how I darkly dread
  • 531.  
    The General now lives in town;
    He's eighty odd, they say;You'll see him strolling up and down
  • 532.  
    “This bunch of violets,” he said,
    “Is for my daughter dear.Since that glad morn when she was wed
  • 533.  
    Bill has left his house of clay,
    Slammed the door and gone away:How he laughed but yesterday!
  • 534.  
    Son put a poser up to me
    That made me scratch my head:“God made the whole wide world,” quoth he;
  • 535.  
    Said a monkey unto me:
    “How I'm glad I am not you!See, I swing from tree to tree,
  • 536.  
    Said Jock McBrown to Tam McSmith,
    “A little bet I'm game to take on,That I can scotch this Shakespeare myth
  • 537.  
    All day with brow of anxious thought
    The dictionary through,Amid a million words he sought
  • 538.  
    What are you doing here, Tom Thorne, on the white top-knot o' the world,
    Where the wind has the cut of a naked knife and the stars are rapier keen?Hugging a smudgy willow fire, deep in a lynx robe curled,
  • 539.  
    Her little head just topped the window-sill;
    She even mounted on a stool, maybe;She pressed against the pane, as children will,
  • 540.  
    When Chewed-ear Jenkins got hitched up to Guinneyveer McGee,
    His flowin' locks, ye recollect, wuz frivolous an' free;But in old Hymen's jack-pot, it's a most amazin' thing,
  • 541.  
    I took a contract to bury the body of blasphemous Bill MacKie,
    Whenever, wherever or whatsoever the manner of death he die-Whether he die in the light o' day or under the peak-faced moon;
  • 542.  
    You've heard of “Casey at The Bat,”
    And “Casey's Tabble Dote”; But now it's time
  • 543.  
    He was an old prospector with a vision bleared and dim.
    He asked me for a grubstake, and the same I gave to him. He hinted of a hidden trove, and when I made so bold
  • 544.  
    Now Fireman Flynn met Hank the Finn where lights of Lust-land glow;
    “Let's leave,” says he, “the lousy sea, and give the land a show.I'm fed up to the molar mark with wallopin' the brine;
  • 545.  
    Now wouldn't you expect to find a man an awful crank
    That's staked out nigh three hundred claims, and every one a blank;That's followed every fool stampede, and seen the rise and fall
  • 546.  
    Said President MacConnachie to Treasurer MacCall:
    “We ought to have a piper for our next Saint Andrew's Ball.Yon squakin' saxophone gives me the syncopated gripes.
  • 547.  
    This is the yarn he told me
    As we sat in Casey's Bar, That Rooshun mug who scammed from the jug
  • 548.  
    This is the tale that was told to me by the man with the crystal eye,
    As I smoked my pipe in the camp-fire light, and the Glories swept the sky;As the Northlights gleamed and curved and streamed, and the bottle of “hooch” was dry.
  • 549.  
    “The North has got him.”-Yukonism.

  • 550.  
    'Twas in the bleary middle of the hard-boiled Arctic night,
    I was lonesome as a loon, so if you can,Imagine my emotions of amazement and delight
Total 831 poems written by Robert Service

Poem of the day

Two Songs For Solitude: The Solitary
 by Sara Teasdale

Let them think I love them more than I do,
Let them think I care, though I go alone,
If it lifts their pride, what is it to me
Who am self-complete as a flower or a stone?

It is one to me that they come or go
If I have myself and the drive of my will,
And strength to climb on a summer night

Read complete poem

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