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

a bitter world must do the best she can;
Must yield the stroke, and bear the yoke, and serve the will of man;

Must serve his need and ever feed the flame of his desire;
Though be she loved for love alone, or be she loved for hire;
For every man since life began is tainted with the mire.

And though you know he love you so, and set you on love’s throne,
Yet let your eyes but mock his sighs, and let your heart be stone,
Lest you be left (as I was left) attainted and alone.

From love’s close kiss to hell’s abyss is one sheer flight, I trow;
And wedding-ring and bridal bell are will-o’-wisps of woe;
And ’tis not wise to love too well, and this all women know.

Wherefore, the wolf-pack having gorged upon the lamb, their prey,
With siren smile and serpent guile I make the wolf-pack pay;
With velvet paws and flensing claws, a tigress roused to slay.

One who in youth sought truest truth, and found a devil’s lies;
A symbol of the sin of man, a human sacrifice:
Yet shall I blame on man the shame? Could it be otherwise?

Was I not born to walk in scorn where others walk in pride?
The Maker marred, and evil-starred I drift upon His tide;
And He alone shall judge His own, so I His judgment bide.

Fate has written a tragedy; its name is “The Human Heart.”
The theatre is the House of Life, Woman the mummer’s part:
The Devil enters the prompter’s box and the play is ready to start.

The Lure of Little Voices

There’s a cry from out the Loneliness⁠—Oh, listen, Honey, listen!
Do you hear it, do you fear it, you’re a-holding of me so?
You’re a-sobbing in your sleep, dear, and your lashes, how they glisten⁠—
Do you hear the Little Voices all a-begging me to go?

All a-begging me to leave you. Day and night they’re pleading, praying,
On the North-wind, on the West-wind, from the peak and from the plain;
Night and day they never leave me⁠—do you know what they are saying?
“He was ours before you got him, and we want him once again.”

Yes, they’re wanting me, they’re haunting me, the awful lonely places;
They’re whining and they’re whimpering as if each had a soul;
They’re calling from the wilderness, the vast and godlike spaces,
The stark and sullen solitudes that sentinel the Pole.

They miss my little campfires, ever brightly, bravely gleaming
In the womb of desolation where was never man before;
As comradeless I sought them, lionhearted, loving, dreaming;
And they hailed me as a comrade, and they loved me evermore.

And now they’re all a-crying, and it’s no use me denying:
The spell of them is on me and I’m helpless as a child;
My heart is aching, aching, but I hear them sleeping, waking;
It’s the Lure of Little Voices, it’s the mandate of the Wild.

I’m afraid to tell you, Honey, I can take no bitter leaving;
But softly in the sleep-time from your love I’ll steal away.
Oh, it’s cruel, dearie, cruel, and it’s God knows how I’m grieving;
But His Loneliness is calling and He knows I must obey.

The Song of the Wage-Slave

When the long, long day is over, and the Big Boss gives me my pay,
I hope that it won’t be hellfire, as some of the parsons say.
And I hope that it won’t be heaven, with some of the parsons I’ve met⁠—
All I want is just quiet, just to rest and forget.
Look at my face, toil-furrowed; look at my calloused hands;
Master, I’ve done Thy bidding, wrought in Thy many lands⁠—
Wrought for the little masters, big-bellied they be, and rich;
I’ve done their desire for a daily hire, and I die like a dog in a ditch.
I have used the strength Thou hast given, Thou knowest I did not shirk;
Threescore years of labour⁠—Thine be the long day’s work.
And now, Big Master, I’m broken and bent and twisted and scarred,
But I’ve held my job, and Thou knowest, and Thou wilt not judge me hard.
Thou knowest my sins are many, and often I’ve played the fool⁠—
Whiskey and cards and women, they made me the devil’s tool.
I was just like a child with money: I flung it away with a curse,
Feasting a fawning parasite, or glutting a harlot’s purse,
Then back to the woods repentant, back to the mill or the mine,
I, the worker of workers, everything in my line.
Everything hard but headwork (I’d no more brains than a kid),
A brute with brute strength to labour, doing as I was bid;
Living in camps with men-folk, a lonely and loveless life;
Never knew kiss of sweetheart, never caress of wife.
A brute with brute strength to labour, and they were so far above⁠—
Yet I’d gladly have gone to the gallows for one little look of Love.
I with the strength of two men, savage and shy and wild⁠—
Yet how I’d ha’ treasured a woman, and the sweet, warm kiss of a child.
Well, ’tis Thy world, and Thou knowest. I blaspheme and my ways be rude;
But I’ve lived my life as I found it, and I’ve done my best to be good;
I, the primitive toiler, half naked, and grimed to the eyes,
Sweating it deep in their ditches, swining it stark in their styes,
Hulling down forests before me, spanning tumultuous streams;
Down in the ditch building o’er me palaces fairer than dreams;
Boring the rock to the ore-bed, driving the road through the fen,
Resolute, dumb, uncomplaining, a man in a world of men.
Master, I’ve filled my contract, wrought in Thy many lands;
Not by my sins wilt Thou judge me, but by the work of my hands.
Master, I’ve done Thy bidding, and the light is low in the west,
And the long, long shift is over⁠ ⁠… Master, I’ve earned it⁠—Rest.

Grin

If you’re up against a bruiser and you’re getting knocked about⁠—
Grin.
If you’re feeling pretty groggy, and you’re licked beyond a doubt⁠—
Grin.
Don’t let him see you’re funking, let him know with every clout,
Though your face is battered to a pulp, your blooming heart is stout;
Just stand upon your pins until