Sister Azorius had us memorize this in 5th grade. The class recited it in unison as part of the Christmas program that year.
Maybe that’s why I turned out to be more of a beer and limerick kind of guy.
Good old Robert Service. I still have the book of his poems that my Dad gave me when I was a stripling.
In Memoriam to Robert Service:
Now that I’m over that great divide
between middle and senior age
I remember my schemes to go far and wide
upon life’s adventurous stage
I wanted to search for gold and toil
Like Service’s miner’s of old
But I never learned how to successfully ‘moil’
And so never found any gold.
I memorized this in 7th grade. Still remember most of it.
Then, a few years back, I paraphrased it thus:
The Bulldozing of Rachel Corrie
There are strange things done in the blazing sun
By tools who toil for causes.
The desert sands have their Arab bands
Who have seen less wins than losses.
The Mid-East blights have seen queer sights;
But the queerest of all, the most gory
Was that day on the tip of the Gaza Strip
I bulldozed Rachel Corrie.
Rachel Corrie came from Isle of Maury,
Where the liberal breeds and grows.
Why she left her gang out west to hang
With the rags, God only knows.
She was never told that the lands of old
Had a Hebrew tale to tell;
And she’d often say in her churlish way,
“Those Jews should burn in Hell!”
On March 16 our ragtime queen
Made herself a human shield.
It was 5 PM and the light was dim
When in her horn she squealed.
“Now stop right there while I prepare
For a sit-in, brave and burly.”
But she was not seen and our ragtime queen
Was a sandy, gritty girlie.
There are strange things done in the blazing sun
By tools who toil for causes.
The desert sands have their Arab bands
Who have seen less wins than losses.
The Mid-East blights have seen queer sights;
But the queerest of all, the most gory
Was that day on the tip of the Gaza Strip
I bulldozed Rachel Corrie.
I’m glad that you posted this poem because it brings back fond memories of high school when a friend of mine (long since lost) used to stand on the high school steps, under the street lamp, and recite this by memory, in dramatic fashion, to all of the “Jr. Statesmen” (a high school club) gathered there after our meeting had adjourned for the evening.
If we applauded loud enough, he would follow with Dan McGrew and other Service poems. Great entertainment.
But, what prompted you to post this today? It’s not exactly breaking news...
LOL
The Ballad of Salvation Bill
‘Twas in the bleary middle of the hard-boiled Arctic night,
I was lonesome as a loon, so if you can,
Imagine my emotions of amazement and delight
When I bumped into that Missionary Man.
He was lying lost and dying in the moon’s unholy leer,
And frozen from his toes to finger-tips’
The famished wolf-pack ringed him; but he didn’t seem to fear,
As he pressed his ice-bond Bible to his lips.
‘Twas the limit of my trap-line, with the cabin miles away,
And every step was like a stab of pain;
But I packed him like a baby, and I nursed him night and day,
Till I got him back to health and strength again.
So there we were, benighted in the shadow of the Pole,
And he might have proved a priceless little pard,
If he hadn’t got to worrying about my blessed soul,
And a-quotin’ me his Bible by the yard.
Now there was I, a husky guy, whose god was Nicotine,
With a “coffin-nail” a fixture in my mug;
I rolled them in the pages of a pulpwood magazine,
And hacked them with my jack-knife from the plug.
For, Oh to know the bliss and glow that good tobacco means,
Just live among the everlasting ice . . .
So judge my horror when I found my stock of magazines
Was chewed into a chowder by the mice.
A woeful week went by and not a single pill I had,
Me that would smoke my forty in a day;
I sighed, I swore, I strode the floor; I felt I would go mad:
The gospel-plugger watched me with dismay.
My brow was wet, my teeth were set, my nerves were rasping raw;
And yet that preacher couldn’t understand:
So with despair I wrestled there - when suddenly I saw
The volume he was holding in his hand.
Then something snapped inside my brain, and with an evil start
The wolf-man in me woke to rabid rage.
“I saved your lousy life,” says I; “so show you have a heart,
And tear me out a solitary page.”
He shrank and shrivelled at my words; his face went pewter white;
‘Twas just as if I’d handed him a blow:
And then . . . and then he seemed to swell, and grow to Heaven’s height,
And in a voice that rang he answered: “No!”
I grabbed my loaded rifle and I jabbed it to his chest:
“Come on, you shrimp, give me that Book,” says I.
Well sir, he was a parson, but he stacked up with the best,
And for grit I got to hand it to the guy.
“If I should let you desecrate this Holy Word,” he said,
“My soul would be eternally accurst;
So go on, Bill, I’m ready. You can pump me full of lead
And take it, but - you’ve got to kill me first.”
Now I’m no foul assassin, though I’m full of sinful ways,
And I knew right there the fellow had me beat;
For I felt a yellow mongrel in the glory of his gaze,
And I flung my foolish firearm at his feet,
Then wearily I turned away, and dropped upon my bunk,
And there I lay and blubbered like a kid.
“Forgive me, pard,” says I at last, “for acting like a skunk,
But hide the blasted rifle...” Which he did.
And he also hid his Bible, which was maybe just as well,
For the sight of all that paper gave me pain;
And there were crimson moments when I felt I’d o to hell
To have a single cigarette again.
And so I lay day after day, and brooded dark and deep,
Until one night I thought I’d end it all;
Then rough I roused the preacher, where he stretched pretending sleep,
With his map of horror turned towards the wall.
“See here, my pious pal,” says I, “I’ve stood it long enough...
Behold! I’ve mixed some strychnine in a cup;
Enough to kill a dozen men - believe me it’s no bluff;
Now watch me, for I’m gonna drink it up.
You’ve seen me bludgeoned by despair through bitter days and nights,
And now you’ll see me squirming as I die.
You’re not to blame, you’ve played the game according to your lights...
But how would Christ have played it? - Well, good-bye...”
With that I raised the deadly drink and laid it to my lips,
But he was on me with a tiger-bound;
And as we locked and reeled and rocked with wild and wicked grips,
The poison cup went crashing to the ground.
“Don’t do it, Bill,” he madly shrieked. “Maybe I acted wrong.
See, here’s my Bible - use it as you will;
But promise me - you’ll read a little as you go along...
You do! Then take it, Brother; smoke your fill.”
And so I did. I smoked and smoked from Genesis to Job,
And as I smoked I read each blessed word;
While in the shadow of his bunk I heard him sigh and sob,
And then . . . a most peculiar thing occurred.
I got to reading more and more, and smoking less and less,
Till just about the day his heart was broke,
Says I: “Here, take it back, me lad. I’ve had enough I guess.
Your paper makes a mighty rotten smoke.”
So then and there with plea and prayer he wrestled for my soul,
And I was racked and ravaged by regrets.
But God was good, for lo! next day there came the police patrol,
With paper for a thousand cigarettes. . .
So now I’m called Salvation Bill; I teach the Living Law,
And Bally-hoo the Bible with the best;
And if a guy won’t listen - why, I sock him on the jaw,
And preach the Gospel sitting on his chest.
***
“So now I’m called Salvation Bill And of evil paths
I’ve trod, to him who asks, I say, “Brother, you’ll be
saved If you read and then INHALE the word of God!”
Has anyone heard of this alternate ending?
I have to say that I prefer this ending, because it’s
more clever than merely preaching the Gospel sitting on
someone’s chest;
it ties everything up more nicely, in my opinion.
Anyone else heard this ending?
Fabulous! Brilliant! ... Warms my old heart indeed. Now, if you can find “The Haunted Pond” for me, I’d be much obliged, for my memory ‘s failin’ and I can’t recall how my Grandpa said it all. Oh I kin recitate Darius Green and Little Orphan Annie, but that pond just seems to have slipped away. ... Somethin’ about a merry maid down on the Pee Dee in SOuth Caroline, but the part about Daddy Joe, well I don’t recollect how that did go.
What made you bring this up? It’s a great poem, but I just wondered...
I was privileged to visit the Yukon gold fields last year.
The country is just fantastic
Country song that is like Robert Service lyrics.
***
I was born in Saginaw Michigan I grew up in a
house on Saginaw bay
My dad was a poor hard working Saginaw fisherman
Too many times he came home with too little pay
I loved a girl in Saginaw Michigan the daughter
of a wealthy wealthy man
But he called me that son of a Saginaw fisherman
And said I wasn’t good enough for his daughter’s hand
That’s why I went up to Alaska searchin’ around for gold
Like a crazy fool I was diggin’ in the frozen ground so
cold
But with each new day I pray I’d strike it rich and then
I’ll go back home and claim my love in Saginaw Michigan
I wrote my love in Saginaw Michigan I said honey I’m
comin’ home please wait for me
And you can tell your dad I’m coming back a richer man
I’ve hit the biggest strike in Klondike historyn
So her dad met me in Saginaw Michigan
He gave me a great big party and we served champagne
Then he said son now you’re a wise young ambitious man
Now won’t you sell your father-in-law your Klondike claim
So now he’s up there in Alaska diggin’ in the cold cold ground
Why the greedy fool is lookin’ for the gold I never found
It serves him right and no one here is a missin’ him
Least of all the newly weds of Saginaw Michigan
Least of all us newly weds of Saginaw Michigan (Saginaw Michigan)
Iv’e got that poem and others on MP3 read by Hank Snow. Really good.
God, I love Robert Service- have the “Collected Poems of Robert Service” in my bookcase- we used to read him to my son when he was growing up....in lieu of another computer game.
He LOVED them (and does to this day)!
Outstanding!!!
This was my grandmother’s favorite poet, and her favorite poem.
I recited the last stanza at her eulogy.
By chance, I happened to visit the
alt.binaries.sounds.mp3.country
... news group earlier today, and there is a collection posted of Robert Service poems (including Sam McGee) being read by none other than Hank Snow.
You’ll need a newsreader capable of downloading and decoding yEnc binary files to hear them...
- John