Songs of a Sourdough by Robert W. Service (read after TXT) 📕

Songs of a Sourdough

By Robert W. Service.

Table of Contents Titlepage Imprint Dedication Epigraph Songs of a Sourdough The Law of the Yukon The Parson’s Son The Spell of the Yukon The Call of the Wild The Lone Trail The Heart of the Sourdough The Three Voices The Pines The Harpy The Lure of Little Voices The Song of the Wage-Slave Grin The Shooting of Dan McGrew The Cremation of Sam McGee My Madonna Unforgotten The Reckoning Quatrains The Men That Don’t Fit In Music in the Bush The Rhyme of the Remittance Man The Low-Down White The Little Old Log Cabin The Younger Son The March of the Dead “Fighting Mac” The Woman and the Angel The Rhyme of the Restless Ones New Year’s Eve Comfort Premonition The Tramps L’Envoi Colophon Uncopyright Imprint

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To
C. M.

The lonely sunsets flare forlorn
Down valleys dreadly desolate;
The lordly mountains soar in scorn,
As still as death, as stern as fate.

The lonely sunsets flame and die;
The giant valleys gulp the night;
The monster mountains scrape the sky,
Where eager stars are diamond-bright.

So gaunt against the gibbous moon,
Piercing the silence velvet-piled,
A lone wolf howls his ancient rune,
The fell arch-spirit of the Wild.

O outcast land! O leper land!
Let the lone wolf-cry all express⁠—
The hate insensate of thy hand,
Thy heart’s abysmal loneliness.

Songs of a Sourdough The Law of the Yukon

This is the law of the Yukon, and ever she makes it plain:
“Send not your foolish and feeble; send me your strong and your sane.
Strong for the red rage of battle; sane, for I harry them sore;
Send me men girt for the combat, men who are grit to the core;
Swift as the panther in triumph, fierce as the bear in defeat,
Sired of a bulldog parent, steeled in the furnace heat.
Send me the best of your breeding, lend me your chosen ones;
Them will I take to my bosom, them will I call my sons;
Them will I gild with my treasure, them will I glut with my meat;
But the others⁠—the misfits, the failures⁠—I trample under my feet.
Dissolute, damned, and despairful, crippled and palsied and slain,
Ye would send me the spawn of your gutters⁠—Go! take back your spawn again.

“Wild and wide are my borders, stern as death is my sway;
From my ruthless throne I have ruled alone for a million years and a day;
Hugging my mighty treasure, waiting for man to come:
Till he swept like a turbid torrent, and after him swept⁠—the scum.
The pallid pimp of the deadline, the enervate of the pen,
One by one I weeded them out, for all that I sought was⁠—Men.
One by one I dismayed them, frighting them sore with my glooms;
One by one I betrayed them unto my manifold dooms.
Drowned them like rats in my rivers, starved them like curs on my plains,
Rotted the flesh that was left them, poisoned the blood in their veins;
Burst with my winter upon them, searing forever their sight,
Lashed them with fungus-white faces, whimpering wild in the night;
Staggering blind through the storm-whirl, stumbling mad through the snow,
Frozen stiff in the ice pack, brittle and bent like a bow;
Featureless, formless, forsaken, scented by wolves in their flight,
Left for the wind to make music through ribs that are glittering white;
Gnawing the black crust of failure, searching the pit of despair,
Crooking the toe in the trigger, trying to patter a prayer;
Going outside with an escort, raving with lips all afoam;
Writing a cheque for a million, drivelling feebly of home;
Lost like a louse in the burning⁠ ⁠… or else in tented town
Seeking a drunkard’s solace, sinking and sinking down;
Steeped in the slime at the bottom, dead to a decent world,
Lost ’mid the human flotsam, far on the frontier hurled;
In the camp at the bend of the river, with its dozen saloons aglare,
Its gambling dens a-riot, its gramophones all a-blare;
Crimped with the crimes of a city, sin-ridden and bridled with lies,
In the hush of my mountained vastness, in the flush of my midnight skies.
Plague-spots, yet tools of my purpose, so natheless I suffer them thrive,
Crushing my Weak in their clutches, that only my Strong may survive.

“But the others, the men of my mettle, the men who would ’stablish my fame,
Unto its ultimate issue, winning me honour, not shame;
Searching my uttermost valleys, fighting each step as they go,
Shooting the wrath of my rapids, scaling my ramparts of snow;
Ripping the guts of my mountains, looting the beds of my creeks,
Them will I take to my bosom, and speak as a mother speaks.
I am the land that listens, I am the land that broods;
Steeped in eternal beauty, crystalline waters and woods.
Long have I waited lonely, shunned as a thing accurst,
Monstrous, moody, pathetic, the last of the lands and the first;
Visioning campfires at twilight, sad with a longing forlorn,
Feeling my womb o’er-pregnant with the seed of cities unborn.
Wild and wide are my borders, stern as death is my sway,
And I wait for the men who will win me⁠—and I will not be won