Rhymes of a Rolling Stone

The Idealist

Oh you who have daring deeds to tell!

And you who have felt Ambition's spell!

Have you heard of the louse who longed to dwell

In the golden hair of a queen?

He sighed all day and he sighed all night,

And no one could understand it quite,

For the head of a slut is a louse's delight,

But he pined for the head of a queen.

So he left his kinsfolk in merry play,

And off by his lonesome he stole away,

From the home of his youth so bright and gay,

And gloriously unclean.

And at last he came to the palace gate,

And he made his way in a manner straight

(For a louse may go where a man must wait)

To the tiring-room of the queen.

The queen she spake to her tiring-maid:

"There's something the matter, I'm afraid.

To-night ere for sleep my hair ye braid,

Just see what may be seen."

And lo, when they combed that shining hair

They found him alone in his glory there,

And he cried: "I die, but I do not care,

For I've lived in the head of a queen!"

Athabaska Dick

When the boys come out from Lac Labiche in the lure of the early Spring,

To take the pay of the "Hudson's Bay", as their fathers did before,

They are all a-glee for the jamboree, and they make the Landing ring

With a whoop and a whirl, and a "Grab your girl", and a rip and a skip and a roar.

For the spree of Spring is a sacred thing, and the boys must have their fun;

Packer and tracker and half-breed Cree, from the boat to the bar they leap;

And then when the long flotilla goes, and the last of their pay is done,

The boys from the banks of Lac Labiche swing to the heavy sweep.

And oh, how they sigh! and their throats are dry, and sorry are they and sick:

Yet there's none so cursed with a lime-kiln thirst as that Athabaska Dick.

He was long and slim and lean of limb, but strong as a stripling bear;

And by the right of his skill and might he guided the Long Brigade.

All water-wise were his laughing eyes, and he steered with a careless care,

And he shunned the shock of foam and rock, till they came to the Big Cascade.

And here they must make the long portage, and the boys sweat in the sun;

And they heft and pack, and they haul and track, and each must do his trick;

But their thoughts are far in the Landing bar, where the founts of nectar run:

And no man thinks of such gorgeous drinks as that Athabaska Dick.

'Twas the close of day and his long boat lay just over the Big Cascade,

When there came to him one Jack-pot Jim, with a wild light in his eye;

And he softly laughed, and he led Dick aft, all eager, yet half afraid,

And snugly stowed in his coat he showed a pilfered flask of "rye".

And in haste he slipped, or in fear he tripped, but -- Dick in warning roared --

And there rang a yell, and it befell that Jim was overboard.

Oh, I heard a splash, and quick as a flash I knew he could not swim.

I saw him whirl in the river swirl, and thresh his arms about.

In a queer, strained way I heard Dick say: "I'm going after him,"

Throw off his coat, leap down the boat -- and then I gave a shout:

"Boys, grab him, quick! You're crazy, Dick! Far better one than two!

Hell, man! You know you've got no show! It's sure and certain death. . . ."

And there we hung, and there we clung, with beef and brawn and thew,

And sinews cracked and joints were racked, and panting came our breath;

And there we swayed and there we prayed, till strength and hope were spent --

Then Dick, he threw us off like rats, and after Jim he went.

With mighty urge amid the surge of river-rage he leapt,

And gripped his mate and desperate he fought to gain the shore;

With teeth a-gleam he bucked the stream, yet swift and sure he swept

To meet the mighty cataract that waited all a-roar.

And there we stood like carven wood, our faces sickly white,

And watched him as he beat the foam, and inch by inch he lost;

And nearer, nearer drew the fall, and fiercer grew the fight,

Till on the very cascade crest a last farewell he tossed.

Then down and down and down they plunged into that pit of dread;

And mad we tore along the shore to claim our bitter dead.

And from that hell of frenzied foam, that crashed and fumed and boiled,

Two little bodies bubbled up, and they were heedless then;

And oh, they lay like senseless clay! and bitter hard we toiled,

Yet never, never gleam of hope, and we were weary men.

And moments mounted into hours, and black was our despair;

And faint were we, and we were fain to give them up as dead,

When suddenly I thrilled with hope: "Back, boys! and give him air;

I feel the flutter of his heart. . . ." And, as the word I said,

Dick gave a sigh, and gazed around, and saw our breathless band;

And saw the sky's blue floor above, all strewn with golden fleece;

And saw his comrade Jack-pot Jim, and touched him with his hand:

And then there came into his eyes a look of perfect peace.

And as there, at his very feet, the thwarted river raved,

I heard him murmur low and deep:

"Thank God! the whiskey's saved."

Cheer

It's a mighty good world, so it is, dear lass,

When even the worst is said.

There's a smile and a tear, a sigh and a cheer,

But better be living than dead;

A joy and a pain, a loss and a gain;

There's honey and may be some gall:

Yet still I declare, foul weather or fair,

It's a mighty good world after all.

For look, lass! at night when I break from the fight,

My Kingdom's awaiting for me;

There's comfort and rest, and the warmth of your breast,

And little ones climbing my knee.

There's fire-light and song -- Oh, the world may be wrong!

Its empires may topple and fall:

My home is my care -- if gladness be there,

It's a mighty good world after all.

O heart of pure gold! I have made you a fold,

It's sheltered, sun-fondled and warm.

O little ones, rest! I have fashioned a nest;

Sleep on! you are safe from the storm.

For there's no foe like fear, and there's no friend like cheer,

And sunshine will flash at our call;

So crown Love as King, and let us all sing --

"It's a mighty good world after all."

The Return

They turned him loose; he bowed his head,

A felon, bent and grey.

His face was even as the Dead,

He had no word to say.

He sought the home of his old love,

To look on her once more;

And where her roses breathed above,

He cowered beside the door.

She sat there in the shining room;

Her hair was silver grey.

He stared and stared from out the gloom;

He turned to go away.

Her roses rustled overhead.

She saw, with sudden start.

"I knew that you would come," she said,

And held him to her heart.

Her face was rapt and angel-sweet;

She touched his hair of grey;

. . . . .

But he, sob-shaken, at her feet,

Could only pray and pray.

The Junior God

The Junior God looked from his place

In the conning towers of heaven,

And he saw the world through the span of space

Like a giant golf-ball driven.

And because he was bored, as some gods are,

With high celestial mirth,

He clutched the reins of a shooting star,

And he steered it down to earth.

The Junior God, 'mid leaf and bud,

Passed on with a weary air,

Till lo! he came to a pool of mud,

And some hogs were rolling there.

Then in he plunged with gleeful cries,

And down he lay supine;

For they had no mud in paradise,

And they likewise had no swine.

The Junior God forgot himself;

He squelched mud through his toes;

With the careless joy of a wanton boy

His reckless laughter rose.

Till, tired at last, in a brook close by,

He washed off every stain;

Then softly up to the radiant sky

He rose, a god again.

The Junior God now heads the roll

In the list of heaven's peers;

He sits in the House of High Control,

And he regulates the spheres.

Yet does he wonder, do you suppose,

If, even in gods divine,

The best and wisest may not be those

Who have wallowed awhile with the swine?

The Nostomaniac

On the ragged edge of the world I'll roam,

And the home of the wolf shall be my home,

And a bunch of bones on the boundless snows

The end of my trail . . . who knows, who knows!

I'm dreaming to-night in the fire-glow, alone in my study tower,

My books battalioned around me, my Kipling flat on my knee;

But I'm not in the mood for reading, I haven't moved for an hour;

Body and brain I'm weary, weary the heart of me;

Weary of crushing a longing it's little I understand,

For I thought that my trail was ended, I thought I had earned my rest;

But oh, it's stronger than life is, the call of the hearthless land!

And I turn to the North in my trouble, as a child to the mother-breast.

Here in my den it's quiet; the sea-wind taps on the pane;

There's comfort and ease and plenty, the smile of the South is sweet.

All that a man might long for, fight for and seek in vain,

Pictures and books and music, pleasure my last retreat.

Peace! I thought I had gained it, I swore that my tale was told;

By my hair that is grey I swore it, by my eyes that are slow to see;

Yet what does it all avail me? to-night, to-night as of old,

Out of the dark I hear it -- the Northland calling to me.

And I'm daring a rampageous river that runs the devil knows where;

My hand is athrill on the paddle, the birch-bark bounds like a bird.

Hark to the rumble of rapids! Here in my morris chair

Eager and tense I'm straining -- isn't it most absurd?

Now in the churn and the lather, foam that hisses and stings,

Leap I, keyed for the struggle, fury and fume and roar;

Rocks are spitting like hell-cats -- Oh, it's a sport for kings,

Life on a twist of the paddle . . . there's my "Kim" on the floor.

How I thrill and I vision! Then my camp of a night;

Red and gold of the fire-glow, net afloat in the stream;

Scent of the pines and silence, little "pal" pipe alight,

Body a-purr with pleasure, sleep untroubled of dream:

Banquet of paystreak bacon! moment of joy divine,

When the bannock is hot and gluey, and the teapot's nearing the boil!

Never was wolf so hungry, stomach cleaving to spine. . . .

Ha! there's my servant calling, says that dinner will spoil.

What do I want with dinner? Can I eat any more?

Can I sleep as I used to? . . . Oh, I abhor this life!

Give me the Great Uncertain, the Barren Land for a floor,

The Milky Way for a roof-beam, splendour and space and strife:

Something to fight and die for -- the limpid Lake of the Bear,

The Empire of Empty Bellies, the dunes where the Dogribs dwell;

Big things, real things, live things . . . here on my morris chair

How I ache for the Northland! "Dinner and servants" -- Hell!!

Am I too old, I wonder? Can I take one trip more?

Go to the granite-ribbed valleys, flooded with sunset wine,

Peaks that pierce the aurora, rivers I must explore,

Lakes of a thousand islands, millioning hordes of the Pine?

Do they not miss me, I wonder, valley and peak and plain?

Whispering each to the other: "Many a moon has passed . . .

Where has he gone, our lover? Will he come back again?

Star with his fires our tundra, leave us his bones at last?"

Yes, I'll go back to the Northland, back to the way of the bear,

Back to the muskeg and mountain, back to the ice-leaguered sea.

Old am I! what does it matter? Nothing I would not dare;

Give me a trail to conquer -- Oh, it is "meat" to me!

I will go back to the Northland, feeble and blind and lame;

Sup with the sunny-eyed Husky, eat moose-nose with the Cree;

Play with the Yellow-knife bastards, boasting my blood and my name:

I will go back to the Northland, for the Northland is calling to me.

Then give to me paddle and whiplash, and give to me tumpline and gun;

Give to me salt and tobacco, flour and a gunny of tea;

Take me up over the Circle, under the flamboyant sun;

Turn me foot-loose like a savage -- that is the finish of me.

I know the trail I am seeking, it's up by the Lake of the Bear;

It's down by the Arctic Barrens, it's over to Hudson's Bay;

Maybe I'll get there, -- maybe: death is set by a hair. . . .

Hark! it's the Northland calling! now must I go away. . . .

Go to the Wild that waits for me;

Go where the moose and the musk-ox be;

Go to the wolf and the secret snows;

Go to my fate . . . who knows, who knows!

Ambition

They brought the mighty chief to town;

They showed him strange, unwonted sights;

Yet as he wandered up and down,

He seemed to scorn their vain delights.

His face was grim, his eye lacked fire,

As one who mourns a glory dead;

And when they sought his heart's desire:

"Me like'um tooth same gold," he said.

A dental place they quickly found.

He neither moaned nor moved his head.

They pulled his teeth so white and sound;

They put in teeth of gold instead.

Oh, never saw I man so gay!

His very being seemed to swell:

"Ha! ha!" he cried, "Now Injun say

Me heap big chief, me look like Hell."

To Sunnydale

There lies the trail to Sunnydale,

Amid the lure of laughter.

Oh, how can we unhappy be

Beneath its leafy rafter!

Each perfect hour is like a flower,

Each day is like a posy.

How can you say the skies are grey?

You're wrong, my friend, they're rosy.

With right good will let's climb the hill,

And leave behind all sorrow.

Oh, we'll be gay! a bright to-day

Will make a bright to-morrow.

Oh, we'll be strong! the way is long

That never has a turning;

The hill is high, but there's the sky,

And how the West is burning!

And if through chance of circumstance

We have to go bare-foot, sir,

We'll not repine -- a friend of mine

Has got no feet to boot, sir.

This Happiness a habit is,

And Life is what we make it:

See! there's the trail to Sunnydale!

Up, friend! and let us take it.

The Blind and the Dead

She lay like a saint on her copper couch;

Like an angel asleep she lay,

In the stare of the ghoulish folks that slouch

Past the Dead and sneak away.

Then came old Jules of the sightless gaze,

Who begged in the streets for bread.

Each day he had come for a year of days,

And groped his way to the Dead.

"What's the Devil's Harvest to-day?" he cried;

"A wanton with eyes of blue!

I've known too many a such," he sighed;

"Maybe I know this . . . mon Dieu!"

He raised the head of the heedless Dead;

He fingered the frozen face. . . .

Then a deathly spell on the watchers fell --

God! it was still, that place!

He raised the head of the careless Dead;

He fumbled a vagrant curl;

And then with his sightless smile he said:

"It's only my little girl."

"Dear, my dear, did they hurt you so!

Come to your daddy's heart. . . ."

Aye, and he held so tight, you know,

They were hard to force apart.

No! Paris isn't always gay;

And the morgue has its stories too:

You are a writer of tales, you say --

Then there is a tale for you.

The Atavist

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,

You that's a lord's own son, Tom Thorne -- what does your madness mean?

Go home, go home to your clubs, Tom Thorne! home to your evening dress!

Home to your place of power and pride, and the feast that waits for you!

Why do you linger all alone in the splendid emptiness,

Scouring the Land of the Little Sticks on the trail of the caribou?

Why did you fall off the Earth, Tom Thorne, out of our social ken?

What did your deep damnation prove? What was your dark despair?

Oh with the width of a world between, and years to the count of ten,

If they cut out your heart to-night, Tom Thorne, her name would be graven there!

And you fled afar for the thing called Peace, and you thought you would find it here,

In the purple tundras vastly spread, and the mountains whitely piled;

It's a weary quest and a dreary quest, but I think that the end is near;

For they say that the Lord has hidden it in the secret heart of the Wild.

And you know that heart as few men know, and your eyes are fey and deep,

With a "something lost" come welling back from the raw, red dawn of life:

With woe and pain have you greatly lain, till out of abysmal sleep

The soul of the Stone Age leaps in you, alert for the ancient strife.

And if you came to our feast again, with its pomp and glee and glow,

I think you would sit stone-still, Tom Thorne, and see in a daze of dream,

A mad sun goading to frenzied flame the glittering gems of the snow,

And a monster musk-ox bulking black against the blood-red gleam.

I think you would see berg-battling shores, and stammer and halt and stare,

With a sudden sense of the frozen void, serene and vast and still;

And the aching gleam and the hush of dream, and the track of a great white bear,

And the primal lust that surged in you as you sprang to make your kill.

I think you would hear the bull-moose call, and the glutted river roar;

And spy the hosts of the caribou shadow the shining plain;

And feel the pulse of the Silences, and stand elate once more

On the verge of the yawning vastitudes that call to you in vain.

For I think you are one with the stars and the sun, and the wind and the wave and the dew;

And the peaks untrod that yearn to God, and the valleys undefiled;

Men soar with wings, and they bridle kings, but what is it all to you,

Wise in the ways of the wilderness, and strong with the strength of the Wild?

You have spent your life, you have waged your strife where never we play a part;

You have held the throne of the Great Unknown, you have ruled a kingdom vast:

. . . . .

But to-night there's a strange, new trail for you, and you go, o weary heart!

To the peace and rest of the Great Unguessed . . . at last, Tom Thorne, at last.

---

The Sceptic

My Father Christmas passed away

When I was barely seven.

At twenty-one, alack-a-day,

I lost my hope of heaven.

Yet not in either lies the curse:

The hell of it's because

I don't know which loss hurt the worse --

My God or Santa Claus.

---

The Rover

I

Oh, how good it is to be

Foot-loose and heart-free!

Just my dog and pipe and I, underneath the vast sky;

Trail to try and goal to win, white road and cool inn;

Fields to lure a lad afar, clear spring and still star;

Lilting feet that never tire, green dingle, fagot fire;

None to hurry, none to hold, heather hill and hushed fold;

Nature like a picture book, laughing leaf and bright brook;

Every day a jewel bright, set serenely in the night;

Every night a holy shrine, radiant for a day divine.

Weathered cheek and kindly eye, let the wanderer go by.

Woman-love and wistful heart, let the gipsy one depart.

For the farness and the road are his glory and his goad.

Oh, the lilt of youth and Spring! Eyes laugh and lips sing.

Yea, but it is good to be

Foot-loose and heart-free!

II

Yet how good it is to come

Home at last, home, home!

On the clover swings the bee, overhead's the hale tree;

Sky of turquoise gleams through, yonder glints the lake's blue.

In a hammock let's swing, weary of wandering;

Tired of wild, uncertain lands, strange faces, faint hands.

Has the wondrous world gone cold? Am I growing old, old?

Grey and weary . . . let me dream, glide on the tranquil stream.

Oh, what joyous days I've had, full, fervid, gay, glad!

Yet there comes a subtile change, let the stripling rove, range.

From sweet roving comes sweet rest, after all, home's best.

And if there's a little bit of woman-love with it,

I will count my life content, God-blest and well spent. . . .

Oh but it is good to be

Foot-loose and heart-free!

Yet how good it is to come

Home at last, home, home!

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