Meme: When you see this, post a favorite poem in your journal.<\/p>\n
Well, I was going to post something by Shel Silverstein, but in honor of my father, and with wishes for his healing, I present two poems by his favorite poet, Robert W. Service. These come from a book of Robert W. Service poems that I have, dedicated from my father to my mother in May, 1957.<\/p>\n
Bessie’s Boil<\/b> by Robert W. Service<\/p>\n Says I to my Missis: “Ba goom, lass! you’ve something I see, on your mind.” So Misses goes off togged up tasty, and there at the ‘ospittel door So Misses she thanks ‘im politely, and ‘unts up and down as before, So Misses she thanks ‘im for sayin’ her boil is a hill of a boil, “Ah got a big boil,” begins Missis, “and if ye are sure you don’t mind, The Cremation of Sam McGee<\/b> by Robert W. Service<\/p>\n There are strange things done in the midnight sun Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows. On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail. And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow, Well, he seemed so low that I couldn\u2019t say no; then he says with a sort of moan: A pal\u2019s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail; There wasn\u2019t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven, Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code. And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow; Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay; Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire; Then I made a hike, for I didn\u2019t like to hear him sizzle so; I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear; And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar; There are strange things done in the midnight sun Meme: When you see this, post a favorite poem in your journal. Well, I was going to post something by Shel Silverstein, but in honor of my father, and with wishes for his healing, I present two poems by his favorite poet, Robert W. Service. These come from a book of Robert W. Service poems Read More …<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[33,1],"tags":[137,129,104],"class_list":["post-1046","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-memes","category-lj-xfer","tag-dear-old-dad","tag-memes-poetry","tag-robert-w-service"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/cahighways.org\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1046","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/cahighways.org\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/cahighways.org\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cahighways.org\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cahighways.org\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=1046"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/cahighways.org\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1046\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/cahighways.org\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=1046"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cahighways.org\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=1046"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cahighways.org\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=1046"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nSays she: “You are right, Sam, I’ve something. It ‘appens it’s on me be’ind.
\nA Boil as ‘ud make Job jealous. It ‘urts me no end when I sit.”
\nSays I: “Go to ‘ospittel, Missis. They might ‘ave to coot it a bit.”
\nSays she: “I just ‘ate to be showin’ the part of me person it’s at.”
\nSays I: “Don’t be fussy; them doctors see sights more ‘orrid than that.”<\/p>\n
\nThey tells ‘er to see the ‘ouse Doctor, ‘oose office is Room Thirty-four.
\nSo she ‘unts up and down till she finds it, and knocks and a voice says: “Come in,”
\nAnd there is a ‘andsome young feller, in white from ‘is ‘eels to ‘is chin.
\n“I’ve got a big boil,” says my Missis. “It ‘urts me for fair when I sit,
\nAnd Sam (that’s me ‘usband) ‘as asked me to ask you to coot it a bit.”
\nThen blushin’ she plucks up her courage, and bravely she shows ‘im the place,
\nAnd ‘e gives it a proper inspection, wi’ a ‘eap o’ surprise on ‘is face.
\nThen ‘e says wi’ an accent o’ Scotland: “Whit ye hae is a bile, Ah can feel,
\nBut ye’d better consult the heid Dockter; they caw him Professor O’Niel.
\nHe’s special for biles and carbuncles. Ye’ll find him in Room Sixty-three.
\nNo charge, Ma’am. It’s been a rare pleasure. Jist tell him ye’re comin’ from me.”<\/p>\n
\nTill she comes to a big ‘andsome room with “Professor O’Neil” on the door.
\nThen once more she plucks up her courage, and knocks, and a voice says: “All right.”
\nSo she enters, and sees a fat feller wi’ whiskers, all togged up in white.
\n“I’ve got a big boil,” says my Missis, “and if ye will kindly permit,
\nI’d like for to ‘ave you inspect it; it ‘urts me like all when I sit.”
\nSo blushin’ as red as a beet-root she ‘astens to show ‘im the spot,
\nAnd ‘e says wi’ a look o’ amazement: “Sure, Ma’am, it must hurt ye a lot.”
\nThen ‘e puts on ‘is specs to regard it, and finally says wi’ a frown:
\n“I’ll bet it’s as sore as the divvle, especially whin ye sit down.
\nI think it’s a case for the Surgeon; ye’d better consult Doctor Hoyle.
\nI’ve no hisitation in sayin’ yer boil is a hill of a boil.”<\/p>\n
\nAnd ‘unts all around till she comes on a door that is marked: “Doctor Hoyle.”
\nBut by now she ‘as fair got the wind up, and trembles in every limb;
\nBut she thinks: “After all, ‘e’s a Doctor. Ah moosn’t be bashful wi’ ‘im.”
\nShe’s made o’ good stuff is the Missis, so she knocks and a voice says: “Oos there?”
\n“It’s me,” says ma Bessie, an’ enters a room which is spacious and bare.
\nAnd a wise-lookin’ old feller greets ‘er, and ‘e too is togged up in white.
\n“It’s the room where they coot ye,” thinks Bessie; and shakes like a jelly wi’ fright.<\/p>\n
\nI’d like ye to see it a moment. It ‘urts me, because it’s be’ind.”
\nSo thinkin’ she’d best get it over, she ‘astens to show ‘im the place,
\nAnd ‘e stares at ‘er kindo surprised like, an’ gets very red in the face.
\nBut ‘e looks at it most conscientious, from every angle of view,
\nThen ‘e says wi’ a shrug o’ ‘is shoulders: “Pore Lydy, I’m sorry for you.
\nIt wants to be cut, but you should ‘ave a medical bloke to do that.
\nSye, why don’t yer go to the ‘orsespittel, where all the Doctors is at?
\nYe see, Ma’am, this part o’ the buildin’ is closed on account o’ repairs;
\nUs fellers is only the pynters, a-pyntin’ the ‘alls and the stairs.”<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n
\nBy the men who moil for gold;
\nThe Arctic trails have their secret tales
\nThat would make your blood run cold;
\nThe Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
\nBut the queerest they ever did see
\nWas that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
\nI cremated Sam McGee.<\/b><\/p><\/blockquote>\n
\nWhy he left his home in the South to roam \u2018round the Pole, God only knows.
\nHe was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
\nThough he\u2019d often say in his homely way that \u201che\u2019d sooner live in hell.\u201d<\/p>\n
\nTalk of your cold! through the parka\u2019s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
\nIf our eyes we\u2019d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn\u2019t see;
\nIt wasn\u2019t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.<\/p>\n
\nAnd the dogs were fed, and the stars o\u2019erhead were dancing heel and toe,
\nHe turned to me, and \u201cCap,\u201d says he, \u201cI\u2019ll cash in this trip, I guess;
\nAnd if I do, I\u2019m asking that you won\u2019t refuse my last request.\u201d<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIt\u2019s the cursed cold, and it\u2019s got right hold till I\u2019m chilled clean through to the bone.
\nYet \u2018taint being dead–it\u2019s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
\nSo I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you\u2019ll cremate my last remains.\u201d<\/p>\n
\nAnd we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
\nHe crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
\nAnd before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.<\/p>\n
\nWith a corpse half hid that I couldn\u2019t get rid, because of a promise given;
\nIt was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: \u201cYou may tax your brawn and brains,
\nBut you promised true, and it\u2019s up to you to cremate those last remains.\u201d<\/p>\n
\nIn the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
\nIn the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
\nHowled out their woes to the homeless snows\u2014O God! how I loathed the thing.<\/p>\n
\nAnd on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
\nThe trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
\nAnd I\u2019d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.<\/p>\n
\nIt was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the \u201cAlice May.\u201d
\nAnd I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
\nThen \u201cHere,\u201d said I, with a sudden cry, \u201cis my cre-ma-tor-eum.\u201d<\/p>\n
\nSome coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
\nThe flames just soared, and the furnace roared\u2014such a blaze you seldom see;
\nAnd I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.<\/p>\n
\nAnd the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
\nIt was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don\u2019t know why;
\nAnd the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.<\/p>\n
\nBut the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
\nI was sick with dread, but I bravely said: \u201cI\u2019ll just take a peep inside.
\nI guess he\u2019s cooked, and it\u2019s time I looked;\u201d . . . then the door I opened wide.<\/p>\n
\nAnd he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: \u201cPlease close that door.
\nIt\u2019s fine in here, but I greatly fear you\u2019ll let in the cold and storm\u2014
\nSince I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it\u2019s the first time I\u2019ve been warm.\u201d<\/p>\n
\nBy the men who moil for gold;
\nThe Arctic trails have their secret tales
\nThat would make your blood run cold;
\nThe Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
\nBut the queerest they ever did see
\nWas that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
\nI cremated Sam McGee.<\/b><\/p><\/blockquote>\n<\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"