Captivity
O meadow lark, so wild and free,
It cannot be, it cannot be,
That men to merchandise your spell
Do close you in a wicker hell!
O hedgerow thrush so mad with glee,
it cannot be, it cannot be,
They rape you from your hawthorn foam
To make a cell of steel your home!
O blackbird in the orchard tree,
In cannot be, it cannot be,
That devils in a narrow cage
Would prison your melodic rage!
O you who live for liberty,
Can you believe that it can be,
That we of freedom's faith destroy
In dungeons, innocence and joy?
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poem by Robert William Service
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A Mediocre Man
I'm just a mediocre man
Of no high-brow pretence;
A comfortable life I plan
With care and commonsense.
I do the things most people do,
I echo what they say;
And through my morning paper view
The problems of the day.
No doubt you think I'm colourless,
Profoundly commonplace;
And yet I fancy, more or less,
I represent the race.
My name may stand for everyone,
At least for nine in ten,
For all in all the world is run
By mediocre men.
Of course you'll maybe not agree
That you are average,
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poem by Robert William Service
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The Silent Ones
I'm just an ordinary chap
Who comes home to his tea,
And mostly I don't care a rap
What people think of me;
I do my job and take my pay,
And love of peace expound;
But as I go my patient way,
--Don't push me round.
Though I respect authority
And order never flout,
When Law and Justice disagree
You can include me out.
The Welfare State I tolerate
If it is kept in bound,
But if you wish to rouse my hate
--Just push me round.
And that's the way with lots of us:
We want to feel we're free;
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poem by Robert William Service
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Surtax
When I was young and Scottish I
Allergic was to spending;
I put a heap of bawbees by,
But now my life is ending,
Although I would my hoarded pelf
Impetuously scatter,
Each day I live I find myself
Financially fatter.
Though all the market I might buy,
There's nothing to my needing;
I only have one bed to lie,
One mouth for feeding.
So what's the good of all that dough
Accumulating daily?
I should have spent it long ago
In living gaily.
So take my tip, my prudent friend,
Without misgiving;
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poem by Robert William Service
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Relativity
I looked down on a daisied lawn
To where a host of tiny eyes
Of snow and gold from velvet shone
And made me think of starry skies.
I looked up to the vasty night
Where stars were very small indeed,
And in their galaxy of light
They made me think of daised mead.
I took a daisy in my hold;
Its snowy rays were tipped with rose,
And with its tiny boss of gold
I thought--how like a star it glows!
I dreamt I plucked from Heaven's field
A star and held it in my hand.
Said I: "The might of God I wield,
The Great and Small I understand."
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poem by Robert William Service
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Profane Poet
Oh how it would enable me
To titillate my vanity
If you should choose to label me
A Poet of Profanity!
For I've been known with vulgar slang
To stoke the Sacred Fire,
And even used a word like 'hang',
Suggesting ire.
Yea, I've been slyly told, although
It savours of inanity,
In print the ladies often show
A failing for profanity.
So to delight the dears I try,
And often in the past
In fabricating sonnets I
Have fulminated: 'Blast!'
I know I shock the sober folk
Who doubt my lyric sanity,
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poem by Robert William Service
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Rich Poor Man
We pitied him because
He lived alone;
His tiny cottage was
His only own.
His little garden had
A wall around;
Yet never was so glad
A bit of ground.
It seemed to fair rejoice
With flowers and fruit;
With blooms it found a voice
When ours was muts.
It smiled without a pause
In gracious glow:
I think it was because
He loved it so.
He had no news to read,
No rent to pay;
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poem by Robert William Service
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Wheels
Since I am sick of Wheels
That jar my day,
Unto the hush that heals
I steal away.
Unto the core of Peace
Nature reveals,
I go to win release
From Wheels.
Let me beneath the moon
Take desert trail;
Or on some lost lagoon
Serenely sail;
Win to some peak the grey
Storm cloud conceals . . .
Life, let me get away
From Wheels!
Why was I born so late?
A skin-clad man
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poem by Robert William Service
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Pipe Smoker
Because I love the soothing weed
And am of sober type,
I'd choose me for a friend in need
A man who smokes a pipe.
A cove who hasn't much to say,
And spits into the fire,
Puffing like me a pipe of clay,
Corn-cob or briar.
A chap original of thought,
With cheery point of view,
Who has of gumption quite a lot,
And streaks of humour too.
He need not be a whiskered sage,
With wisdom over-ripe:
Just give me in the old of age
A pal who smokes a pipe.
A cigarette may make for wit,
Although I like it not;
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poem by Robert William Service
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Failure
He wrote a play; by day and night
He strove with passion and delight;
Yet knew, long ere the curtain drop,
His drama was a sorry flop.
In Parliament he sought a seat;
Election Day brought dire defeat;
Yet he had wooed with word and pen
Prodigiously his fellow men.
And then he wrote a lighter play
That made him famous in a day.
He won a seat in Parliament,
And starry was the way he went.
Yet as he neared the door of death
They heard him say with broken breath:
'For all I've spoken, planned and penned,
I'm just a wash-out in the end.'
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poem by Robert William Service
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