Robert W. Service

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Robert W. Service was born on January 16, 1874, in Preston, England. His early life didn’t immediately point to a career as a poet; instead, Service spent time working a variety of jobs, from banking to journalism, before his travels took him to Canada. It was in the Yukon Territory that Service’s poetic career truly began to take shape. His time in the Canadian wilderness, especially his work as a bank clerk in remote areas, would influence much of his later writing. He found a voice in the rugged landscape and the hard, often harsh lives of those around him.

While he wasn’t directly involved in military service in his early years, Service’s poems would later reflect themes of survival, strength, and the stark realities of life, much like the qualities seen in soldiers during wartime. His literary influences were diverse, but Service found his niche in writing for the common person, capturing stories that resonated with themes of struggle and human resilience. His poems often told the stories of the people he encountered, from adventurers in the Yukon to everyday folk battling life’s difficulties.

Service’s writing career took off with the publication of The Spell of the Yukon and Other Verses in 1907. His work struck a chord with the public, with its focus on adventure, hardship, and the spirit of the frontier. Service’s poems, with their narrative style and often brash tone, were immensely popular, though they were sometimes seen as more accessible than the works of other poets of the time. His fame grew quickly, and soon his poems were being read around the world. Service wasn’t just a poet but a storyteller, and his writing style was built to captivate and entertain as much as to reflect the complexities of life.

Though Service didn’t serve in combat during World War I, his experiences and observations of human suffering and endurance during the war were evident in his poetry. He lived in France during the war and witnessed the struggles of soldiers and civilians alike. Service’s time in Europe was pivotal, as it gave him a chance to connect with the realities of the war, which would shape his later works. Even without direct military involvement, his poetry from this period reflects the same themes of hardship and survival that characterized his earlier work. His most famous poem, The Cremation of Sam McGee, captures the spirit of those battling tough conditions and doing whatever they can to survive, much like the soldiers at the front.

Although Service was not a soldier himself, his writing about the Yukon and the experiences of those he met in the wilderness and during his travels resonated with the sense of resilience and perseverance that soldiers of the Great War could identify with. His poems were read by soldiers and civilians alike, offering comfort and connection to people in tumultuous times. His work didn’t just remain about the frontiers of the wilderness; it became a part of the shared cultural landscape of the war era.

In his later years, Service lived in various locations, including France and the United States, where he continued to write and publish. By the time of his death on September 11, 1958, Service had cemented his place in literary history. Though some critics later dismissed his work as overly sentimental or too commercial, his poems endured, particularly for their accessibility and the rugged spirit they captured. In many ways, Service’s work embodied the human struggle against the elements, be it the harsh wilderness or the brutal realities of war.

His legacy is tied to his ability to connect with ordinary people through his poetry. He wrote about survival, about the challenges of life, and about the will to keep going even in the face of great adversity. His poems, particularly those that deal with the North and the experiences of those who lived there, remain popular to this day. Robert W. Service wasn’t just a poet of the Yukon, but a poet who captured the spirit of resilience in times of hardship, making his work resonate across different generations and backgrounds.

You may learn more at the Poetry Foundation and Wikipedia.

L’Envoi

Robert W. Service
My job is done; my rhymes are ranked and ready,

My word-battalions marching verse by verse;
Here stanza-companies are none too steady;

The Mourners

Robert W. Service
I look into the aching womb of night;

I look across the mist that masks the dead;
The moon is tired and gives but little light,

The Song of the Soldier-born

Robert W. Service
Give me the scorn of the stars and a peak defiant;

Wail of the pines and a wind with the shout of a giant;
Night and a trail unknown and a heart reliant.

The Twins

Robert W. Service
There were two brothers, John and James,

And when the town went up in flames,
To save the house of James dashed John,

The Song of the Pacifist

Robert W. Service
What do they matter, our headlong hates, when we take the toll of our Dead?

Think ye our glory and gain will pay for the torrent of blood we have shed?
By the cheers of our Victory will the heart of the mother be comforted?

My Job

Robert W. Service
I’ve got a little job on ‘and, the time is drawin’ nigh;

At seven by the Captain’s watch I’m due to go and do it;
I wants to ‘ave it nice and neat, and pleasin’ to the eye,

My Foe

Robert W. Service
A Belgian Priest-Soldier Speaks:—

GURR! You ‘cochon’! Stand and fight!
Show your mettle! Snarl and bite!

Missis Moriarty’s Boy

Robert W. Service
Missis Moriarty called last week, and says she to me, says she:

“Sure the heart of me’s broken entirely now—
it’s the fortunate woman you are;

The Coward

Robert W. Service
‘Ave you seen Bill’s mug in the Noos to-day?

‘E’s gyned the Victoriar Cross, they say;
Little Bill wot would grizzle and run away,

Wounded

Robert W. Service
Is it not strange? A year ago to-day,

With scarce a thought beyond the hum-drum round,
I did my decent job and earned my pay;

The Stretcher-Bearer

Robert W. Service
My stretcher is one scarlet stain,

And as I tries to scrape it clean,
I tell you wot—I’m sick with pain

The Whistle of Sandy McGraw

Robert W. Service
You may talk o’ your lutes and your dulcimers fine,

Your harps and your tabors and cymbals and a’,
But here in the trenches jist gie me for mine

Bill the Bomber

Robert W. Service
The poppies gleamed like bloody pools through cotton-woolly mist;

The Captain kept a-lookin’ at the watch upon his wrist;
And there we smoked and squatted, as we watched the shrapnel flame;

The Little Piou-piou

Robert W. Service
* The French “Tommy”.

Oh, some of us lolled in the chateau,
And some of us slinked in the slum;

The Black Dudeen

Robert W. Service
Humping it here in the dug-out,

Sucking me black dudeen,
I’d like to say in a general way,

Son

Robert W. Service
He hurried away, young heart of joy, under our Devon sky!

And I watched him go, my beautiful boy, and a weary woman was I.
For my hair is grey, and his was gold; he’d the best of his life to live;

Grand-père

Robert W. Service
And so when he reached my bed

The General made a stand:
“My brave young fellow,” he said,

The Revelation

Robert W. Service
The same old sprint in the morning, boys, to the same old din and smut;

Chained all day to the same old desk, down in the same old rut;
Posting the same old greasy books, catching the same old train:

Tri-colour

Robert W. Service
POPPIES, you try to tell me, glowing there in the wheat;

Poppies! Ah no! You mock me: It’s blood, I tell you, it’s blood.
It’s gleaming wet in the grasses; it’s glist’ning warm in the wheat;

My Prisoner

Robert W. Service
We was in a crump-‘ole, ‘im and me;

Fightin’ wiv our bayonets was we;
Fightin’ ‘ard as ‘ell we was,

Pilgrims

Robert W. Service
For oh, when the war will be over

We’ll go and we’ll look for our dead;
We’ll go when the bee’s on the clover,

Only a Boche

Robert W. Service
We brought him in from between the lines: we’d better have let him lie;

For what’s the use of risking one’s skin for a TYKE that’s going to die?
What’s the use of tearing him loose under a gruelling fire,

The Ballad of Soulful Sam

Robert W. Service
You want me to tell you a story, a yarn of the firin’ line,

Of our thin red kharki ‘eroes, out there where the bullets whine;
Out there where the bombs are bustin’,

My Bay’nit

Robert W. Service
When first I left Blighty they gave me a bay’nit

And told me it ‘ad to be smothered wiv gore;
But blimey! I ‘aven’t been able to stain it,

Cocotte

Robert W. Service
When a girl’s sixteen, and as poor as she’s pretty,

And she hasn’t a friend and she hasn’t a home,
Heigh-ho! She’s as safe in Paris city

Going Home

Robert W. Service
I’m goin’ ‘ome to Blighty—ain’t I glad to ‘ave the chance!

I’m loaded up wiv fightin’, and I’ve ‘ad my fill o’ France;
I’m feelin’ so excited-like, I want to sing and dance,

Bill’s Grave

Robert W. Service
I’m gatherin’ flowers by the wayside to lay on the grave of Bill;

I’ve sneaked away from the billet, ’cause Jim wouldn’t understand;
‘E’d call me a silly fat’ead, and larf till it made ‘im ill,

Young Fellow My Lad

Robert W. Service
“Where are you going, Young Fellow My Lad,

On this glittering morn of May?”
“I’m going to join the Colours, Dad;

Milking Time

Robert W. Service
There’s a drip of honeysuckle in the deep green lane;

There’s old Martin jogging homeward on his worn old wain;
There are cherry petals falling, and a cuckoo calling, calling,

Funk

Robert W. Service
When your marrer bone seems ‘oller,

And you’re glad you ain’t no taller,
And you’re all a-shakin’ like you ‘ad the chills;

Fleurette

Robert W. Service
(The Wounded Canadian Speaks)

My leg? It’s off at the knee.
Do I miss it? Well, some. You see

Tipperary Days

Robert W. Service
Oh, weren’t they the fine boys! You never saw the beat of them,

Singing all together with their throats bronze-bare;
Fighting-fit and mirth-mad, music in the feet of them,

The Lark

Robert W. Service
From wrath-red dawn to wrath-red dawn,

The guns have brayed without abate;
And now the sick sun looks upon

The Haggis of Private McPhee

Robert W. Service
“Hae ye heard whit ma auld mither’s postit tae me?

It fair maks me hamesick,” says Private McPhee.
“And whit did she send ye?” says Private McPhun,

The Red Retreat

Robert W. Service
Tramp, tramp, the grim road, the road from Mons to Wipers

(I’ve ‘ammered out this ditty with me bruised and bleedin’ feet);
Tramp, tramp, the dim road—we didn’t ‘ave no pipers,

The Fool

Robert W. Service
“But it isn’t playing the game,” he said,

And he slammed his books away;
“The Latin and Greek I’ve got in my head

The Call_

Robert W. Service
(France, August first, 1914)

Far and near, high and clear,
Hark to the call of War!

Foreword

Robert W. Service
I’ve tinkered at my bits of rhymes

In weary, woeful, waiting times;
In doleful hours of battle-din,

Faith

Robert W. Service
Since all that is was ever bound to be;

Since grim, eternal laws our Being bind;
And both the riddle and the answer find,

A Song Of The Sandbags

Robert W. Service
No, Bill, I’m not a-spooning out no patriotic tosh

(The cove be’ind the sandbags ain’t a death-or-glory cuss).
And though I strafes ’em good and ‘ard I doesn’t ‘ate the Boche,

My Mate

Robert W. Service
I’ve been sittin’ starin’, starin’ at ‘is muddy pair of boots,

And tryin’ to convince meself it’s ‘im.
(Look out there, lad! That sniper — ‘e’s a dysey when ‘e shoots;

Our Hero

Robert W. Service
“Flowers, only flowers — bring me dainty posies,

Blossoms for forgetfulness,” that was all he said;
So we sacked our gardens, violets and roses,

Afternoon Tea

Robert W. Service
As I was saying . . . (No, thank you; I never take cream with my tea;

Cows weren’t allowed in the trenches — got out of the habit, y’see.)
As I was saying, our Colonel leaped up like a youngster of ten:

A Pot Of Tea

Robert W. Service
You make it in your mess-tin by the brazier’s rosy gleam;

You watch it cloud, then settle amber clear;
You lift it with your bay’nit, and you sniff the fragrant steam;

Over The Parapet

Robert W. Service
All day long when the shells sail over

I stand at the sandbags and take my chance;
But at night, at night I’m a reckless rover,

Jean Desprez

Robert W. Service
Oh ye whose hearts are resonant, and ring to War’s romance,

Hear ye the story of a boy, a peasant boy of France;
A lad uncouth and warped with toil, yet who, when trial came,

The Convalescent

Robert W. Service
. . . So I walked among the willows very quietly all night;

There was no moon at all, at all; no timid star alight;
There was no light at all, at all; I wint from tree to tree,

The Volunteer_

Robert W. Service
Sez I: My Country calls? Well, let it call.

I grins perlitely and declines wiv thanks.
Go, let ’em plaster every blighted wall,

A Song Of Winter Weather

Robert W. Service
It isn’t the foe that we fear;

It isn’t the bullets that whine;
It isn’t the business career

Carry On

Robert W. Service
It’s easy to fight when everything’s right,

And you’re mad with the thrill and the glory;
It’s easy to cheer when victory’s near,

On The Wire

Robert W. Service
O God, take the sun from the sky!

It’s burning me, scorching me up.
God, can’t You hear my cry?

The Volunteer

Ewart Alan Mackintosh
I took my heart from the fire of love,

Molten and warm not yet shaped clear.
And tempered it to steel of proof

The Call

W.N. Hodgson
Ah! We have dwelt in Arcady long time

With sun and youth eternal round our ways
And in the magic of that golden clime

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