Ballads of a Bohemian Part 30

We chatted bravely at the platform gate.

I watched the clock. My train must go at eight.

One minute to the hour . . . we kissed good-by, Then, oh, they both broke down, with piteous cry.

I went. . . . Their way was barred; they could not pa.s.s.

I looked back as the train began to start; Once more I ran with anguish at my heart And through the bars I kissed my little la.s.s. . . .

Three years have gone; they've waited day by day.

I never came. I did not even write.

For when I saw my face was such a sight I thought that I had better . . . stay away.

And so I took the name of one who died, A friendless friend who perished by my side.

In Prussian prison camps three years of h.e.l.l I kept my secret; oh, I kept it well!

And now I'm free, but none shall ever know; They think I died out there . . . it's better so.

To-day I pa.s.sed my wife in widow's weeds.

I brushed her arm. She did not even look.

So white, so pinched her face, my heart still bleeds, And at the touch of her, oh, how I shook!

And then last night I pa.s.sed the window where They sat together; I could see them clear, The lamplight softly gleaming on their hair, And all the room so full of cozy cheer.

My wife was sewing, while my daughter read; I even saw my portrait on the wall.

I wanted to rush in, to tell them all; And then I cursed myself: "You're dead, you're dead!"

G.o.d! how I watched them from the darkness there, Clutching the dripping branches of a tree, Peering as close as ever I might dare, And sobbing, sobbing, oh, so bitterly!

But no, it's folly; and I mustn't stay.

To-morrow I am going far away.

I'll find a ship and sail before the mast; In some wild land I'll bury all the past.

I'll live on lonely sh.o.r.es and there forget, Or tell myself that there has never been The gay and tender courage of Lucette, The little loving arms of Jacqueline.

A man lonely upon a lonely isle, Sometimes I'll look towards the North and smile To think they're happy, and they both believe I died for France, and that I lie at rest; And for my glory's sake they've ceased to grieve, And hold my memory sacred. Ah! that's best.

And in that thought I'll find my joy and peace As there alone I wait the Last Release.

L'Envoi

_We've finished up the filthy war; We've won what we were fighting for . . .

(Or have we? I don't know).

But anyway I have my wish: I'm back upon the old Boul' Mich', And how my heart's aglow!

Though in my coat's an empty sleeve, Ah! do not think I ever grieve (The pension for it, I believe, Will keep me on the go).

So I'll be free to write and write, And give my soul to sheer delight, Till joy is almost pain; To stand aloof and watch the throng, And worship youth and sing my song Of faith and hope again; To seek for beauty everywhere, To make each day a living prayer That life may not be vain.

To sing of things that comfort me, The joy in mother-eyes, the glee Of little ones at play; The blessed gentleness of trees, Of old men dreaming at their ease Soft afternoons away; Of violets and swallows' wings, Of wondrous, ordinary things In words of every day.

To rhyme of rich and rainy nights, When like a legion leap the lights And take the town with gold; Of taverns quaint where poets dream, Of cafes gaudily agleam, And vice that's overbold; Of crystal shimmer, silver sheen, Of soft and soothing nicotine, Of wine that's rich and old,

Of gutters, chimney-tops and stars, Of apple-carts and motor-cars, The sordid and sublime; Of wealth and misery that meet In every great and little street, Of glory and of grime; Of all the living tide that flows-- From princes down to puppet shows-- I'll make my humble rhyme.

So if you like the sort of thing Of which I also like to sing, Just give my stuff a look; And if you don't, no harm is done--

In writing it I've had my fun; Good luck to you and every one-- And so Here ends my book._

Notes.

While 'Stephen Poore' is a fictional character, he is real enough in some ways. Robert Service was himself in the Ambulance Corps, and his descriptions of 'Bohemia' of this day, and the emergence of war, bear striking similarities to the case of Alan Seeger--and, no doubt, a great many other 'war poets' of the "Great War". It has been said that every section of the trench had its own poet, and many of them, such as Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sa.s.soon, and Robert Graves, became famous for their poetry of the war. This book, in its way, presents a striking picture of the effect of the war on Europe--though it stops short of showing just how great the effect was.

I hope you enjoyed Service's references to himself in the text, as "Sourdough Service"--but they should not be taken too seriously.

The names of two great Russian composers, Tchaikovsky and Stravinsky, were originally spelled Tschaikowsky and Stravinski in "The Philistine and the Bohemian". These composers were contemporaries of the author, and due to the difficulty of transliterating from the Russian (Cyrillic) alphabet to the Roman Alphabet, hampered by different uses of Roman letters in various European languages, it is not until fairly recently that the current spellings have taken hold--and their grip is not yet firm. A couple of other names were given incorrectly in the same poem: Mallarme was spelled with one L, and E. Burne-Jones (a pre-Raphaelite painter and a.s.sociate of Rossetti) was given as F. B. Jones. These names are corrected in this text, as is Synge, given as Singe in the original ("L'Escargot D'Or").

The Introduction to Alan Seeger's Poems, written by William Archer, is included in the Project Gutenberg edition of Seeger's Poems, if you feel inclined to compare and contrast the cases.

If you enjoy Service's style of poetry, I would like to recommend to you the works of A. B. 'Banjo' Paterson, an Australian poet, author of 'The Man from Snowy River' and 'Waltzing Matilda'. His style and his sense of humour are similar. Several of his works are available from Project Gutenberg.

Alan R. Light, Monroe, North Carolina, June 1997.

This list of books written by Robert Service is probably incomplete, possibly incorrect, but may serve as a starting point for those interested in his works.

Novels: The Trail of '98--A Northland Romance (1910) The Pretender The Poisoned Paradise The Roughneck The Master of the Microbe The House of Fear (1927)

Autobiography:

Ploughman of the Moon (1945) A two-volume Harper of Heaven (1948) autobiography.

Miscellaneous: Why Not Grow Young

Verse: * The Spell of the Yukon (1907) a.k.a. Songs of a Sourdough * Ballads of a Cheechako (1909) [Note: A Sourdough is an old-timer, while a Cheechako is a newbie.]

* Rhymes of a Rolling Stone (1912) * Rhymes of a Red Cross Man (1916) * Ballads of a Bohemian (1921) Bar-room Ballads (1940) The Complete Poems (The first 6 books) Songs of a Sunlover Rhymes of a Roughneck Lyrics of a Low Brow Rhymes of a Rebel The Collected Poems Songs For My Supper (1953) Rhymes For My Rags (1956)

* Books marked by an asterisk are presently online.

About the Author

Robert William Service was born 16 January 1874 in Preston, England, but also lived in Scotland before emigrating to Canada in 1894. Service went to the Yukon Territory in 1904 as a bank clerk, and became famous for his poems about this region, which are mostly in his first two books of poetry. He wrote quite a bit of prose as well, and worked as a reporter for some time, but those writings are not nearly as well known as his poems. He travelled around the world quite a bit, and narrowly escaped from France at the beginning of the Second World War, during which time he lived in Hollywood, California. He died 11 September 1958 in France.

Incidentally, he played himself in a movie called "The Spoilers", starring John Wayne and Marlene Dietrich.