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

A pistol shot rings round and round the world:
In pitiful defeat a warrior lies.
A last defiance to dark Death is hurled,
A last wild challenge shocks the sunlit skies.
Alone he falls with wide, wan, woeful eyes:
Eyes that could smile at death⁠—could not face shame.

Alone, alone he paced his narrow room,
In the bright sunshine of that Paris day;
Saw in his thought the awful hand of doom;
Saw in his dream his glory pass away;
Tried in his heart, his weary heart, to pray:
“O God! who made me, give me strength to face
The spectre of this bitter, black disgrace.”

The burn brawls darkly down the shaggy glen,
The bee-kissed heather blooms around the door;
He sees himself a barefoot boy again,
Bending o’er page of legendary lore.
He hears the pibroch, grips the red claymore,
Runs with the Fiery Cross a clansman true,
Sworn kinsman of Rob Roy and Roderick Dhu.

Eating his heart out with a wild desire,
One day, behind his counter trim and neat,
He hears a sound that sets his brain afire⁠—
The Highlanders are marching down the street.
Oh, how the pipes shrill out, the mad drums beat!
“On to the gates of Hell, my Gordons gay!”
He flings his hated yardstick far away.

He sees the sullen pass, high-crowned with snow,
Where Afghans cower with eyes of gleaming hate.
He hurls himself against the hidden foe.
They try to rally⁠—ah, too late, too late!
Again, defenceless, with fierce eyes that wait
For death, he stands, like baited bull at bay,
And flouts the Boers, that mad Majuba day.

He sees again the murderous Sudan,
Blood-slaked and rapine swept. He seems to stand
Upon the gory plain of Omdurman.
Then Magersfontein, and supreme command
Over his Highlanders. To shake his hand
A King is proud, and princes call him friend,
And glory crowns his life⁠—and now the end.

The awful end. His eyes are dark with doom;
He hears the shrapnel shrieking overhead:
He sees the ravaged ranks, the flame-stabbed gloom.
Oh, to have fallen! the battlefield his bed,
With Wauchope and his glorious brother-dead.
Why was he saved for this, for this? And now
He raises the revolver to his brow.

In many a Highland home, framed with rude art,
You’ll find his portrait, rough-hewn, stern and square:
It’s graven in the Fuyam fellah’s heart;
The Ghurka reads it at his evening prayer;
The raw lands know it, where the fierce suns glare;
The Dervish fears it. Honour to his name,
Who holds aloft the shield of England’s fame.

Mourn for our hero, men of Northern race!
We do not know his sin; we only know
His sword was keen. He laughed death in the face,
And struck, for Empire’s sake, a giant blow.
His arm was strong. Ah! well they learnt, the foe.
The echo of his deeds is ringing yet,
Will ring for aye. All else⁠ ⁠… let us forget.

An angel was tired of heaven, as he lounged in the golden street;
His halo was tilted sideways, and his harp lay mute at his feet;
So the Master stooped in His pity, and gave him a pass to go,
For the space of a moon, to the earth-world, to mix with the men below.

He doffed his celestial garments, scarce waiting to lay them straight;
He bade goodbye to Peter, who stood by the golden gate;
The sexless singers of heaven chanted a fond farewell,
And the imps looked up as they pattered on the red-hot flags of hell.

Never was seen such an angel: eyes of a heavenly blue,
Features that shamed Apollo, hair of a golden hue;
The women simply adored him, his lips were like Cupid’s bow;
But he never ventured to use them⁠—and so they voted him slow.

Till at last there came One Woman, a marvel of loveliness,
And she whispered to him: “Do you love me?” And he answered that woman, “Yes.”
And she said: “Put your arms around me, and kiss me, and hold me⁠—so⁠—”
But fiercely he drew back, saying: “This thing is wrong, and I know.”

Then sweetly she mocked his scruples, and softly she him beguiled:
“You, who are verily man among men, speak with the tongue of a child.
We have outlived the old standards; we have burst, like an over-tight thong,
The ancient, outworn, puritanic traditions of Right and Wrong.”

Then the Master feared for His angel, and called him again to His side,
For oh, the woman was wondrous, and oh, the angel was tried.
And deep in his hell sang the Devil, and this was the strain of his song:
“The ancient, outworn, puritanic traditions of Right and Wrong.”

We couldn’t sit and study for the law;
The stagnation of a bank we couldn’t stand;
For our riot blood was surging, and we didn’t need much urging
To excitements and excesses that are banned.

So we took to wine and drink and other things,
And the devil in us struggled to be free;
Till our friends rose up in wrath, and they pointed out the path,
And they paid our debts and packed us o’er the sea.

Oh, they shook us off and shipped us o’er the foam,
To the larger lands that lure a man to roam;
And we took the chance they gave
Of a far and foreign grave,
And we bade goodbye for evermore to home.

And some of us are climbing on the peak,
And some of us are camping on the plain;
By pine and palm you’ll find us, with never claim to bind us,
By track and trail you’ll meet us once again.

We are fated serfs to freedom⁠—sky and sea;
We have failed where slummy cities overflow;
But the stranger ways of earth know our pride and know our worth,
And we go into the dark as fighters go.

Yes, we go into the night as brave men go,
Though our faces they be often streaked with woe;
Yet we’re hard as cats to kill,
And our hearts are reckless still,
And we’ve danced with death a dozen times or so.

And you’ll find us in Alaska after gold,
And you’ll find us herding cattle in the South.
We like strong drink and fun; and when the race is