The Ballad of Hard-Luck Henry

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

Of camps where men got gold in chunks and he got none at all;

That's prospected a bit of ground and sold it for a song

To see it yield a fortune to some fool that came along;

That's sunk a dozen bed-rock holes, and not a speck in sight,

Yet sees them take a million from the claims to left and right?

Now aren't things like that enough to drive a man to booze?

But Hard-Luck Smith was hoodoo-proof -- he knew the way to lose.

'Twas in the fall of nineteen four -- leap-year I've heard them say --

When Hard-Luck came to Hunker Creek and took a hillside lay.

And lo! as if to make amends for all the futile past,

Late in the year he struck it rich, the real pay-streak at last.

The riffles of his sluicing-box were choked with speckled earth,

And night and day he worked that lay for all that he was worth.

And when in chill December's gloom his lucky lease expired,

He found that he had made a stake as big as he desired.

One day while meditating on the waywardness of fate,

He felt the ache of lonely man to find a fitting mate;

A petticoated pard to cheer his solitary life,

A woman with soft, soothing ways, a confidant, a wife.

And while he cooked his supper on his little Yukon stove,

He wished that he had staked a claim in Love's rich treasure-trove;

When suddenly he paused and held aloft a Yukon egg,

For there in pencilled letters was the magic name of Peg.

You know these Yukon eggs of ours -- some pink, some green, some blue --

A dollar per, assorted tints, assorted flavors too.

The supercilious cheechako might designate them high,

But one acquires a taste for them and likes them by-and-by.

Well, Hard-Luck Henry took this egg and held it to the light,

And there was more faint pencilling that sorely taxed his sight.

At last he made it out, and then the legend ran like this --

"Will Klondike miner write to Peg, Plumhollow, Squashville, Wis.?"

That night he got to thinking of this far-off, unknown fair;

It seemed so sort of opportune, an answer to his prayer.

She flitted sweetly through his dreams, she haunted him by day,

She smiled through clouds of nicotine, she cheered his weary way.

At last he yielded to the spell; his course of love he set --

Wisconsin his objective point; his object, Margaret.

With every mile of sea and land his longing grew and grew.

He practised all his pretty words, and these, I fear, were few.

At last, one frosty evening, with a cold chill down his spine,

He found himself before her house, the threshold of the shrine.

His courage flickered to a spark, then glowed with sudden flame --

He knocked; he heard a welcome word; she came -- his goddess came.

Oh, she was fair as any flower, and huskily he spoke:

"I'm all the way from Klondike, with a mighty heavy poke.

I'm looking for a lassie, one whose Christian name is Peg,

Who sought a Klondike miner, and who wrote it on an egg."

The lassie gazed at him a space, her cheeks grew rosy red;

She gazed at him with tear-bright eyes, then tenderly she said:

"Yes, lonely Klondike miner, it is true my name is Peg.

It's also true I longed for you and wrote it on an egg.

My heart went out to someone in that land of night and cold;

But oh, I fear that Yukon egg must have been mighty old.

I waited long, I hoped and feared; you should have come before;

I've been a wedded woman now for eighteen months or more.

I'm sorry, since you've come so far, you ain't the one that wins;

But won't you take a step inside -- I'll let you see the twins."

The Man from Eldorado

He's the man from Eldorado, and he's just arrived in town,

In moccasins and oily buckskin shirt.

He's gaunt as any Indian, and pretty nigh as brown;

He's greasy, and he smells of sweat and dirt.

He sports a crop of whiskers that would shame a healthy hog;

Hard work has racked his joints and stooped his back;

He slops along the sidewalk followed by his yellow dog,

But he's got a bunch of gold-dust in his sack.

He seems a little wistful as he blinks at all the lights,

And maybe he is thinking of his claim

And the dark and dwarfish cabin where he lay and dreamed at nights,

(Thank God, he'll never see the place again!)

Where he lived on tinned tomatoes, beef embalmed and sourdough bread,

On rusty beans and bacon furred with mould;

His stomach's out of kilter and his system full of lead,

But it's over, and his poke is full of gold.

He has panted at the windlass, he has loaded in the drift,

He has pounded at the face of oozy clay;

He has taxed himself to sickness, dark and damp and double shift,

He has labored like a demon night and day.

And now, praise God, it's over, and he seems to breathe again

Of new-mown hay, the warm, wet, friendly loam;

He sees a snowy orchard in a green and dimpling plain,

And a little vine-clad cottage, and it's -- Home.

II.

He's the man from Eldorado, and he's had a bite and sup,

And he's met in with a drouthy friend or two;

He's cached away his gold-dust, but he's sort of bucking up,

So he's kept enough to-night to see him through.

His eye is bright and genial, his tongue no longer lags;

His heart is brimming o'er with joy and mirth;

He may be far from savory, he may be clad in rags,

But to-night he feels as if he owns the earth.

Says he: "Boys, here is where the shaggy North and I will shake;

I thought I'd never manage to get free.

I kept on making misses; but at last I've got my stake;

There's no more thawing frozen muck for me.

I am going to God's Country, where I'll live the simple life;

I'll buy a bit of land and make a start;

I'll carve a little homestead, and I'll win a little wife,

And raise ten little kids to cheer my heart."

They signified their sympathy by crowding to the bar;

They bellied up three deep and drank his health.

He shed a radiant smile around and smoked a rank cigar;

They wished him honor, happiness and wealth.

They drank unto his wife to be -- that unsuspecting maid;

They drank unto his children half a score;

And when they got through drinking very tenderly they laid

The man from Eldorado on the floor.

III.

He's the man from Eldorado, and he's only starting in

To cultivate a thousand-dollar jag.

His poke is full of gold-dust and his heart is full of sin,

And he's dancing with a girl called Muckluck Mag.

She's as light as any fairy; she's as pretty as a peach;

She's mistress of the witchcraft to beguile;

There's sunshine in her manner, there is music in her speech,

And there's concentrated honey in her smile.

Oh, the fever of the dance-hall and the glitter and the shine,

The beauty, and the jewels, and the whirl,

The madness of the music, the rapture of the wine,

The languorous allurement of a girl!

She is like a lost madonna; he is gaunt, unkempt and grim;

But she fondles him and gazes in his eyes;

Her kisses seek his heavy lips, and soon it seems to him

He has staked a little claim in Paradise.

"Who's for a juicy two-step?" cries the master of the floor;

The music throbs with soft, seductive beat.

There's glitter, gilt and gladness; there are pretty girls galore;

There's a woolly man with moccasins on feet.

They know they've got him going; he is buying wine for all;

They crowd around as buzzards at a feast,

Then when his poke is empty they boost him from the hall,

And spurn him in the gutter like a beast.

He's the man from Eldorado, and he's painting red the town;

Behind he leaves a trail of yellow dust;

In a whirl of senseless riot he is ramping up and down;

There's nothing checks his madness and his lust.

And soon the word is passed around -- it travels like a flame;

They fight to clutch his hand and call him friend,

The chevaliers of lost repute, the dames of sorry fame;

Then comes the grim awakening -- the end.

IV.

He's the man from Eldorado, and he gives a grand affair;

There's feasting, dancing, wine without restraint.

The smooth Beau Brummels of the bar, the faro men, are there;

The tinhorns and purveyors of red paint;

The sleek and painted women, their predacious eyes aglow --

Sure Klondike City never saw the like;

Then Muckluck Mag proposed the toast, "The giver of the show,

The livest sport that ever hit the pike."

The "live one" rises to his feet; he stammers to reply --

And then there comes before his muddled brain

A vision of green vastitudes beneath an April sky,

And clover pastures drenched with silver rain.

He knows that it can never be, that he is down and out;

Life leers at him with foul and fetid breath;

And then amid the revelry, the song and cheer and shout,

He suddenly grows grim and cold as death.

He grips the table tensely, and he says: "Dear friends of mine,

I've let you dip your fingers in my purse;

I've crammed you at my table, and I've drowned you in my wine,

And I've little left to give you but -- my curse.

I've failed supremely in my plans; it's rather late to whine;

My poke is mighty weasened up and small.

I thank you each for coming here; the happiness is mine --

And now, you thieves and harlots, take it all."

He twists the thong from off his poke; he swings it o'er his head;

The nuggets fall around their feet like grain.

They rattle over roof and wall; they scatter, roll and spread;

The dust is like a shower of golden rain.

The guests a moment stand aghast, then grovel on the floor;

They fight, and snarl, and claw, like beasts of prey;

And then, as everybody grabbed and everybody swore,

The man from Eldorado slipped away.

V.

He's the man from Eldorado, and they found him stiff and dead,

Half covered by the freezing ooze and dirt.

A clotted Colt was in his hand, a hole was in his head,

And he wore an old and oily buckskin shirt.

His eyes were fixed and horrible, as one who hails the end;

The frost had set him rigid as a log;

And there, half lying on his breast, his last and only friend,

There crouched and whined a mangy yellow dog.

My Friends

The man above was a murderer, the man below was a thief;

And I lay there in the bunk between, ailing beyond belief;

A weary armful of skin and bone, wasted with pain and grief.

My feet were froze, and the lifeless toes were purple and green and gray;

The little flesh that clung to my bones, you could punch it in holes like clay;

The skin on my gums was a sullen black, and slowly peeling away.

I was sure enough in a direful fix, and often I wondered why

They did not take the chance that was left and leave me alone to die,

Or finish me off with a dose of dope -- so utterly lost was I.

But no; they brewed me the green-spruce tea, and nursed me there like a child;

And the homicide he was good to me, and bathed my sores and smiled;

And the thief he starved that I might be fed, and his eyes were kind and mild.

Yet they were woefully wicked men, and often at night in pain

I heard the murderer speak of his deed and dream it over again;

I heard the poor thief sorrowing for the dead self he had slain.

I'll never forget that bitter dawn, so evil, askew and gray,

When they wrapped me round in the skins of beasts and they bore me to a sleigh,

And we started out with the nearest post an hundred miles away.

I'll never forget the trail they broke, with its tense, unuttered woe;

And the crunch, crunch, crunch as their snowshoes sank through the crust of the hollow snow;

And my breath would fail, and every beat of my heart was like a blow.

And oftentimes I would die the death, yet wake up to life anew;

The sun would be all ablaze on the waste, and the sky a blighting blue,

And the tears would rise in my snow-blind eyes and furrow my cheeks like dew.

And the camps we made when their strength outplayed and the day was pinched and wan;

And oh, the joy of that blessed halt, and how I did dread the dawn;

And how I hated the weary men who rose and dragged me on.

And oh, how I begged to rest, to rest -- the snow was so sweet a shroud;

And oh, how I cried when they urged me on, cried and cursed them aloud;

Yet on they strained, all racked and pained, and sorely their backs were bowed.

And then it was all like a lurid dream, and I prayed for a swift release

From the ruthless ones who would not leave me to die alone in peace;

Till I wakened up and I found myself at the post of the Mounted Police.

And there was my friend the murderer, and there was my friend the thief,

With bracelets of steel around their wrists, and wicked beyond belief:

But when they come to God's judgment seat -- may I be allowed the brief.

The Prospector

I strolled up old Bonanza, where I staked in ninety-eight,

A-purpose to revisit the old claim.

I kept thinking mighty sadly of the funny ways of Fate,

And the lads who once were with me in the game.

Poor boys, they're down-and-outers, and there's scarcely one to-day

Can show a dozen colors in his poke;

And me, I'm still prospecting, old and battered, gaunt and gray,

And I'm looking for a grub-stake, and I'm broke.

I strolled up old Bonanza. The same old moon looked down;

The same old landmarks seemed to yearn to me;

But the cabins all were silent, and the flat, once like a town,

Was mighty still and lonesome-like to see.

There were piles and piles of tailings where we toiled with pick and pan,

And turning round a bend I heard a roar,

And there a giant gold-ship of the very newest plan

Was tearing chunks of pay-dirt from the shore.

It wallowed in its water-bed; it burrowed, heaved and swung;

It gnawed its way ahead with grunts and sighs;

Its bill of fare was rock and sand; the tailings were its dung;

It glared around with fierce electric eyes.

Full fifty buckets crammed its maw; it bellowed out for more;

It looked like some great monster in the gloom.

With two to feed its sateless greed, it worked for seven score,

And I sighed: "Ah, old-time miner, here's your doom!"

The idle windlass turns to rust; the sagging sluice-box falls;

The holes you digged are water to the brim;

Your little sod-roofed cabins with the snugly moss-chinked walls

Are deathly now and mouldering and dim.

The battle-field is silent where of old you fought it out;

The claims you fiercely won are lost and sold;

But there's a little army that they'll never put to rout --

The men who simply live to seek the gold.

The men who can't remember when they learned to swing a pack,

Or in what lawless land the quest began;

The solitary seeker with his grub-stake on his back,

The restless buccaneer of pick and pan.

On the mesas of the Southland, on the tundras of the North,

You will find us, changed in face but still the same;

And it isn't need, it isn't greed that sends us faring forth --

It's the fever, it's the glory of the game.

For once you've panned the speckled sand and seen the bonny dust,

Its peerless brightness blinds you like a spell;

It's little else you care about; you go because you must,

And you feel that you could follow it to hell.

You'd follow it in hunger, and you'd follow it in cold;

You'd follow it in solitude and pain;

And when you're stiff and battened down let someone whisper "Gold",

You're lief to rise and follow it again.

Yet look you, if I find the stuff it's just like so much dirt;

I fling it to the four winds like a child.

It's wine and painted women and the things that do me hurt,

Till I crawl back, beggared, broken, to the Wild.

Till I crawl back, sapped and sodden, to my grub-stake and my tent --

There's a city, there's an army (hear them shout).

There's the gold in millions, millions, but I haven't got a cent;

And oh, it's me, it's me that found it out.

It was my dream that made it good, my dream that made me go

To lands of dread and death disprized of man;

But oh, I've known a glory that their hearts will never know,

When I picked the first big nugget from my pan.

It's still my dream, my dauntless dream, that drives me forth once more

To seek and starve and suffer in the Vast;

That heaps my heart with eager hope, that glimmers on before --

My dream that will uplift me to the last.

Perhaps I am stark crazy, but there's none of you too sane;

It's just a little matter of degree.

My hobby is to hunt out gold; it's fortressed in my brain;

It's life and love and wife and home to me.

And I'll strike it, yes, I'll strike it; I've a hunch I cannot fail;

I've a vision, I've a prompting, I've a call;

I hear the hoarse stampeding of an army on my trail,

To the last, the greatest gold camp of them all.

Beyond the shark-tooth ranges sawing savage at the sky

There's a lowering land no white man ever struck;

There's gold, there's gold in millions, and I'll find it if I die,

And I'm going there once more to try my luck.

Maybe I'll fail -- what matter? It's a mandate, it's a vow;

And when in lands of dreariness and dread

You seek the last lone frontier, far beyond your frontiers now,

You will find the old prospector, silent, dead.

You will find a tattered tent-pole with a ragged robe below it;

You will find a rusted gold-pan on the sod;

You will find the claim I'm seeking, with my bones as stakes to show it;

But I've sought the last Recorder, and He's -- God.

The Black Sheep

"The aristocratic ne'er-do-well in Canada frequently finds his way into the ranks of the Royal North-West Mounted Police." -- Extract.

Hark to the ewe that bore him:

"What has muddied the strain?

Never his brothers before him

Showed the hint of a stain."

Hark to the tups and wethers;

Hark to the old gray ram:

"We're all of us white, but he's black as night,

And he'll never be worth a damn."

I'm up on the bally wood-pile at the back of the barracks yard;

"A damned disgrace to the force, sir", with a comrade standing guard;

Making the bluff I'm busy, doing my six months hard.

"Six months hard and dismissed, sir." Isn't that rather hell?

And all because of the liquor laws and the wiles of a native belle --

Some "hooch" I gave to a siwash brave who swore that he wouldn't tell.

At least they say that I did it. It's so in the town report.

All that I can recall is a night of revel and sport,

When I woke with a "head" in the guard-room, and they dragged me sick into court.

And the O. C. said: "You are guilty", and I said never a word;

For, hang it, you see I couldn't -- I didn't know what had occurred,

And, under the circumstances, denial would be absurd.

But the one that cooked my bacon was Grubbe, of the City Patrol.

He fagged for my room at Eton, and didn't I devil his soul!

And now he is getting even, landing me down in the hole.

Plugging away on the wood-pile; doing chores round the square.

There goes an officer's lady -- gives me a haughty stare --

Me that's an earl's own nephew -- that is the hardest to bear.

To think of the poor old mater awaiting her prodigal son.

Tho' I broke her heart with my folly, I was always the white-haired one.

(That fatted calf that they're cooking will surely be overdone.)

I'll go back and yarn to the Bishop; I'll dance with the village belle;

I'll hand round tea to the ladies, and everything will be well.

Where I have been won't matter; what I have seen I won't tell.

I'll soar to their ken like a comet. They'll see me with never a stain;

But will they reform me? -- far from it. We pay for our pleasure with pain;

But the dog will return to his vomit, the hog to his wallow again.

I've chewed on the rind of creation, and bitter I've tasted the same;

Stacked up against hell and damnation, I've managed to stay in the game;

I've had my moments of sorrow; I've had my seasons of shame.

That's past; when one's nature's a cracked one, it's too jolly hard to mend.

So long as the road is level, so long as I've cash to spend.

I'm bound to go to the devil, and it's all the same in the end.

The bugle is sounding for stables; the men troop off through the gloom;

An orderly laying the tables sings in the bright mess-room.

(I'll wash in the prison bucket, and brush with the prison broom.)

I'll lie in my cell and listen; I'll wish that I couldn't hear

The laugh and the chaff of the fellows swigging the canteen beer;

The nasal tone of the gramophone playing "The Bandolier".

And it seems to me, though it's misty, that night of the flowing bowl,

That the man who potlatched the whiskey and landed me into the hole

Was Grubbe, that unmerciful bounder, Grubbe, of the City Patrol.

The Telegraph Operator

I will not wash my face;

I will not brush my hair;

I "pig" around the place --

There's nobody to care.

Nothing but rock and tree;

Nothing but wood and stone,

Oh, God, it's hell to be

Alone, alone, alone!

Snow-peaks and deep-gashed draws

Corral me in a ring.

I feel as if I was

The only living thing

On all this blighted earth;

And so I frowst and shrink,

And crouching by my hearth

I hear the thoughts I think.

I think of all I miss --

The boys I used to know;

The girls I used to kiss;

The coin I used to blow:

The bars I used to haunt;

The racket and the row;

The beers I didn't want

(I wish I had 'em now).

Day after day the same,

Only a little worse;

No one to grouch or blame --

Oh, for a loving curse!

Oh, in the night I fear,

Haunted by nameless things,

Just for a voice to cheer,

Just for a hand that clings!

Faintly as from a star

Voices come o'er the line;

Voices of ghosts afar,

Not in this world of mine;

Lives in whose loom I grope;

Words in whose weft I hear

Eager the thrill of hope,

Awful the chill of fear.

I'm thinking out aloud;

I reckon that is bad;

(The snow is like a shroud) --

Maybe I'm going mad.

Say! wouldn't that be tough?

This awful hush that hugs

And chokes one is enough

To make a man go "bugs".

There's not a thing to do;

I cannot sleep at night;

No wonder I'm so blue;

Oh, for a friendly fight!

The din and rush of strife;

A music-hall aglow;

A crowd, a city, life --

Dear God, I miss it so!

Here, you have moped enough!

Brace up and play the game!

But say, it's awful tough --

Day after day the same

(I've said that twice, I bet).

Well, there's not much to say.

I wish I had a pet,

Or something I could play.

Cheer up! don't get so glum

And sick of everything;

The worst is yet to come;

God help you till the Spring.

God shield you from the Fear;

Teach you to laugh, not moan.

Ha! ha! it sounds so queer --

Alone, alone, alone!

Back to the index.