All that said, the best -- the absolute hands down best -- Service poem for cold nights and campfires, is The Ballad of Blasphemous Bill. It's the story of a man who accepted money from a miner/trapper to find his body and bury it if he died in the wilds of the Yukon Territory -- apparently contracts to bury were common during the gold rush. The narrator finds Bill's body on the floor of his cabin, glittering with ice, frozen stiff with arms and legs outspread ("hard as a log and trussed like a frog"). He tries for days to thaw Bill out, with no luck. Finally, the narrator resorts to the only way he can think of to get frozen Bill in the coffin. The last line, delivered in a calm low voice around a campfire, cements a Boy Scout's memories of cold weather camping forever: "I often think of poor old Bill, and how hard he was to saw." When you finish, the silence is complete and look on the Scouts' faces is priceless.
It was my joy to recite Blasphemous Bill at a cold, New-Mexico-mountains-campfire at Beaubien, Philmont Scout Ranch, several years ago.
You should also read The Ballad of Athabasca Pete, whose main concern when going over a waterfall (having fallen out of a boat), is to keep his bottle of liquor from breaking.
Finally, find a copy of Bessie's Boil, about a shy young woman with a carbuncle very close to a delicate bodily opening, who goes to the hospital. She shows her dermatological outbreak to a man in a white coat, who sends her to another room for a second opinion from another man in white . . . and again and again until one of the men tells her to see a doctor about it -- on the floor below -- seems all of the physician offices have been relocated while the floor she's on is being painted.
If you haven't figured it out, I love Robert W. Service's work. I often recite him when the going gets tough on a backpacking trip. I've done miles and miles at Philmont to Robert W. Service.
Thanks for bringing back those memories!
A Lancashire Ballad by Robert W. Service
(Read in yer best Lancaster brogue)
Says I to my Missis: "Ba goom, lass! you've something I see, on your mind."
Says she: "You are right, Sam, I've something. It 'appens it's on me be'ind.
A Boil as 'ud make Job jealous. It 'urts me no end when I sit."
Says I: "Go to 'ospittel, Missis. They might 'ave to coot it a bit."
Says she: "I just 'ate to be showin' the part of me person it's at."
Says I: "Don't be fussy; them doctors see sights more 'orrid than that."
So Misses goes off togged up tasty, and there at the 'ospittel door
They tells 'er to see the 'ouse Doctor, 'oose office is Room Thirty-four.
So she 'unts up and down till she finds it, and knocks and a voice says: "Come in,"
And there is a 'andsome young feller, in white from 'is 'eels to 'is chin.
"I've got a big boil," says my Missis. "It 'urts me for fair when I sit,
And Sam (that's me 'usband) 'as asked me to ask you to coot it a bit."
Then blushin' she plucks up her courage, and bravely she shows 'im the place,
And 'e gives it a proper inspection, wi' a 'eap o' surprise on 'is face.
Then 'e says wi' an accent o' Scotland: "Whit ye hae is a bile, Ah can feel,
But ye'd better consult the heid Dockter; they caw him Professor O'Niel.
He's special for biles and carbuncles. Ye'll find him in Room Sixty-three.
No charge, Ma'am. It's been a rare pleasure. Jist tell him ye're comin' from me."
So Misses she thanks 'im politely, and 'unts up and down as before,
Till she comes to a big 'andsome room with "Professor O'Neil" on the door.
hen once more she plucks up her courage, and knocks, and a voice says: "All right."
So she enters, and sees a fat feller wi' whiskers, all togged up in white.
"I've got a big boil," says my Missis, "and if ye will kindly permit,
I'd like for to 'ave you inspect it; it 'urts me like all when I sit."
So blushin' as red as a beet-root she 'astens to show 'im the spot,
And 'e says wi' a look o' amazement: "Sure, Ma'am, it must hurt ye a lot."
Then 'e puts on 'is specs to regard it, and finally says wi' a frown:
"I'll bet it's as sore as the divvle, especially whin ye sit down.
I think it's a case for the Surgeon; ye'd better consult Doctor Hoyle.
I've no hisitation in sayin' yer boil is a hill of a boil."
So Misses she thanks 'im for sayin' her boil is a hill of a boil,
And 'unts all around till she comes on a door that is marked: "Doctor Hoyle."
But by now she 'as fair got the wind up, and trembles in every limb;
But she thinks: "After all, 'e's a Doctor. Ah moosn't be bashful wi' 'im."
She's made o' good stuff is the Missis, so she knocks and a voice says: "Oos there?"
"It's me," says ma Bessie, an' enters a room which is spacious and bare.
And a wise-lookin' old feller greets 'er, and 'e too is togged up in white.
"It's the room where they coot ye," thinks Bessie; and shakes like a jelly wi' fright.
"Ah got a big boil," begins Missis, "and if ye are sure you don't mind,
I'd like ye to see it a moment. It 'urts me, because it's be'ind."
So thinkin' she'd best get it over, she 'astens to show 'im the place,
And 'e stares at 'er kindo surprised like, an' gets very red in the face.
But 'e looks at it most conscientious, from every angle of view,
Then 'e says wi' a shrug o' 'is shoulders: "Pore Lydy, I'm sorry for you.
It wants to be cut, but you should 'ave a medical bloke to do that.
Sye, why don't yer go to the 'orsespittel, where all the Doctors is at?
Ye see, Ma'am, this part o' the buildin' is closed on account o' repairs;
Us fellers is only the pynters, a-pyntin' the 'alls and the stairs."