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Best Famous Miner Poems

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Written by Aleister Crowley | Create an image from this poem

A Birthday

 "Aug.
" 10, 1911.
Full moon to-night; and six and twenty years Since my full moon first broke from angel spheres! A year of infinite love unwearying --- No circling seasons, but perennial spring! A year of triumph trampling through defeat, The first made holy and the last made sweet By this same love; a year of wealth and woe, Joy, poverty, health, sickness --- all one glow In the pure light that filled our firmament Of supreme silence and unbarred extent, Wherein one sacrament was ours, one Lord, One resurrection, one recurrent chord, One incarnation, one descending dove, All these being one, and that one being Love! You sent your spirit into tunes; my soul Yearned in a thousand melodies to enscroll Its happiness: I left no flower unplucked That might have graced your garland.
I induct Tragedy, comedy, farce, fable, song, Each longing a little, each a little long, But each aspiring only to express Your excellence and my unworthiness --- Nay! but my worthiness, since I was sense And spirit too of that same excellence.
So thus we solved the earth's revolving riddle: I could write verse, and you could play the fiddle, While, as for love, the sun went through the signs, And not a star but told him how love twines A wreath for every decanate, degree, Minute and second, linked eternally In chains of flowers that never fading are, Each one as sempiternal as a star.
Let me go back to your last birthday.
Then I was already your one man of men Appointed to complete you, and fulfil From everlasting the eternal will.
We lay within the flood of crimson light In my own balcony that August night, And conjuring the aright and the averse Created yet another universe.
We worked together; dance and rite and spell Arousing heaven and constraining hell.
We lived together; every hour of rest Was honied from your tiger-lily breast.
We --- oh what lingering doubt or fear betrayed My life to fate! --- we parted.
Was I afraid? I was afraid, afraid to live my love, Afraid you played the serpent, I the dove, Afraid of what I know not.
I am glad Of all the shame and wretchedness I had, Since those six weeks have taught me not to doubt you, And also that I cannot live without you.
Then I came back to you; black treasons rear Their heads, blind hates, deaf agonies of fear, Cruelty, cowardice, falsehood, broken pledges, The temple soiled with senseless sacrileges, Sickness and poverty, a thousand evils, Concerted malice of a million devils; --- You never swerved; your high-pooped galleon Went marvellously, majestically on Full-sailed, while every other braver bark Drove on the rocks, or foundered in the dark.
Then Easter, and the days of all delight! God's sun lit noontide and his moon midnight, While above all, true centre of our world, True source of light, our great love passion-pearled Gave all its life and splendour to the sea Above whose tides stood our stability.
Then sudden and fierce, no monitory moan, Smote the mad mischief of the great cyclone.
How far below us all its fury rolled! How vainly sulphur tries to tarnish gold! We lived together: all its malice meant Nothing but freedom of a continent! It was the forest and the river that knew The fact that one and one do not make two.
We worked, we walked, we slept, we were at ease, We cried, we quarrelled; all the rocks and trees For twenty miles could tell how lovers played, And we could count a kiss for every glade.
Worry, starvation, illness and distress? Each moment was a mine of happiness.
Then we grew tired of being country mice, Came up to Paris, lived our sacrifice There, giving holy berries to the moon, July's thanksgiving for the joys of June.
And you are gone away --- and how shall I Make August sing the raptures of July? And you are gone away --- what evil star Makes you so competent and popular? How have I raised this harpy-hag of Hell's Malice --- that you are wanted somewhere else? I wish you were like me a man forbid, Banned, outcast, nice society well rid Of the pair of us --- then who would interfere With us? --- my darling, you would now be here! But no! we must fight on, win through, succeed, Earn the grudged praise that never comes to meed, Lash dogs to kennel, trample snakes, put bit In the mule-mouths that have such need of it, Until the world there's so much to forgive in Becomes a little possible to live in.
God alone knows if battle or surrender Be the true courage; either has its splendour.
But since we chose the first, God aid the right, And damn me if I fail you in the fight! God join again the ways that lie apart, And bless the love of loyal heart to heart! God keep us every hour in every thought, And bring the vessel of our love to port! These are my birthday wishes.
Dawn's at hand, And you're an exile in a lonely land.
But what were magic if it could not give My thought enough vitality to live? Do not then dream this night has been a loss! All night I have hung, a god, upon the cross; All night I have offered incense at the shrine; All night you have been unutterably mine, Miner in the memory of the first wild hour When my rough grasp tore the unwilling flower From your closed garden, mine in every mood, In every tense, in every attitude, In every possibility, still mine While the sun's pomp and pageant, sign to sign, Stately proceeded, mine not only so In the glamour of memory and austral glow Of ardour, but by image of my brow Stronger than sense, you are even here and now Miner, utterly mine, my sister and my wife, Mother of my children, mistress of my life! O wild swan winging through the morning mist! The thousand thousand kisses that we kissed, The infinite device our love devised If by some chance its truth might be surprised, Are these all past? Are these to come? Believe me, There is no parting; they can never leave me.
I have built you up into my heart and brain So fast that we can never part again.
Why should I sing you these fantastic psalms When all the time I have you in my arms? Why? 'tis the murmur of our love that swells Earth's dithyrambs and ocean's oracles.
But this is dawn; my soul shall make its nest Where your sighs swing from rapture into rest Love's thurible, your tiger-lily breast.


Written by Walt Whitman | Create an image from this poem

American Feuillage

 AMERICA always! 
Always our own feuillage! 
Always Florida’s green peninsula! Always the priceless delta of Louisiana! Always the
 cotton-fields of Alabama and Texas! 
Always California’s golden hills and hollows—and the silver mountains of New
 Mexico!
 Always soft-breath’d Cuba! 
Always the vast slope drain’d by the Southern Sea—inseparable with the slopes
 drain’d
 by the Eastern and Western Seas;
The area the eighty-third year of These States—the three and a half millions of
 square
 miles; 
The eighteen thousand miles of sea-coast and bay-coast on the main—the thirty
 thousand
 miles of
 river navigation, 
The seven millions of distinct families, and the same number of dwellings—Always
 these,
 and
 more, branching forth into numberless branches; 
Always the free range and diversity! always the continent of Democracy! 
Always the prairies, pastures, forests, vast cities, travelers, Kanada, the snows;
Always these compact lands—lands tied at the hips with the belt stringing the huge
 oval
 lakes; 
Always the West, with strong native persons—the increasing density there—the
 habitans,
 friendly, threatening, ironical, scorning invaders; 
All sights, South, North, East—all deeds, promiscuously done at all times, 
All characters, movements, growths—a few noticed, myriads unnoticed, 
Through Mannahatta’s streets I walking, these things gathering;
On interior rivers, by night, in the glare of pine knots, steamboats wooding up; 
Sunlight by day on the valley of the Susquehanna, and on the valleys of the Potomac and
 Rappahannock, and the valleys of the Roanoke and Delaware; 
In their northerly wilds, beasts of prey haunting the Adirondacks, the hills—or
 lapping
 the
 Saginaw waters to drink; 
In a lonesome inlet, a sheldrake, lost from the flock, sitting on the water, rocking
 silently; 
In farmers’ barns, oxen in the stable, their harvest labor done—they rest
 standing—they are too tired;
Afar on arctic ice, the she-walrus lying drowsily, while her cubs play around; 
The hawk sailing where men have not yet sail’d—the farthest polar sea, ripply,
 crystalline, open, beyond the floes; 
White drift spooning ahead, where the ship in the tempest dashes; 
On solid land, what is done in cities, as the bells all strike midnight together; 
In primitive woods, the sounds there also sounding—the howl of the wolf, the scream
 of the
 panther, and the hoarse bellow of the elk;
In winter beneath the hard blue ice of Moosehead Lake—in summer visible through the
 clear
 waters, the great trout swimming; 
In lower latitudes, in warmer air, in the Carolinas, the large black buzzard floating
 slowly,
 high
 beyond the tree tops, 
Below, the red cedar, festoon’d with tylandria—the pines and cypresses, growing
 out
 of the
 white sand that spreads far and flat; 
Rude boats descending the big Pedee—climbing plants, parasites, with color’d
 flowers
 and
 berries, enveloping huge trees, 
The waving drapery on the live oak, trailing long and low, noiselessly waved by the wind;
The camp of Georgia wagoners, just after dark—the supper-fires, and the cooking and
 eating
 by
 whites and *******, 
Thirty or forty great wagons—the mules, cattle, horses, feeding from troughs, 
The shadows, gleams, up under the leaves of the old sycamore-trees—the
 flames—with
 the
 black smoke from the pitch-pine, curling and rising; 
Southern fishermen fishing—the sounds and inlets of North Carolina’s
 coast—the
 shad-fishery and the herring-fishery—the large sweep-seines—the windlasses on
 shore
 work’d by horses—the clearing, curing, and packing-houses; 
Deep in the forest, in piney woods, turpentine dropping from the incisions in the
 trees—There
 are the turpentine works,
There are the ******* at work, in good health—the ground in all directions is
 cover’d
 with
 pine straw: 
—In Tennessee and Kentucky, slaves busy in the coalings, at the forge, by the
 furnace-blaze, or
 at the corn-shucking; 
In Virginia, the planter’s son returning after a long absence, joyfully welcom’d
 and
 kiss’d by the aged mulatto nurse; 
On rivers, boatmen safely moor’d at night-fall, in their boats, under shelter of high
 banks, 
Some of the younger men dance to the sound of the banjo or fiddle—others sit on the
 gunwale,
 smoking and talking;
Late in the afternoon, the mocking-bird, the American mimic, singing in the Great Dismal
 Swamp—there are the greenish waters, the resinous odor, the plenteous moss, the
 cypress
 tree,
 and the juniper tree; 
—Northward, young men of Mannahatta—the target company from an excursion
 returning
 home at
 evening—the musket-muzzles all bear bunches of flowers presented by women; 
Children at play—or on his father’s lap a young boy fallen asleep, (how his lips
 move! how
 he smiles in his sleep!) 
The scout riding on horseback over the plains west of the Mississippi—he ascends a
 knoll
 and
 sweeps his eye around; 
California life—the miner, bearded, dress’d in his rude costume—the stanch
 California
 friendship—the sweet air—the graves one, in passing, meets, solitary, just
 aside the
 horsepath;
Down in Texas, the cotton-field, the *****-cabins—drivers driving mules or oxen
 before
 rude
 carts—cotton bales piled on banks and wharves; 
Encircling all, vast-darting, up and wide, the American Soul, with equal
 hemispheres—one
 Love,
 one Dilation or Pride; 
—In arriere, the peace-talk with the Iroquois, the aborigines—the calumet, the
 pipe
 of
 good-will, arbitration, and indorsement, 
The sachem blowing the smoke first toward the sun and then toward the earth, 
The drama of the scalp-dance enacted with painted faces and guttural exclamations,
The setting out of the war-party—the long and stealthy march, 
The single-file—the swinging hatchets—the surprise and slaughter of enemies; 
—All the acts, scenes, ways, persons, attitudes of These States—reminiscences,
 all
 institutions, 
All These States, compact—Every square mile of These States, without excepting a
 particle—you also—me also, 
Me pleas’d, rambling in lanes and country fields, Paumanok’s fields,
Me, observing the spiral flight of two little yellow butterflies, shuffling between each
 other,
 ascending high in the air; 
The darting swallow, the destroyer of insects—the fall traveler southward, but
 returning
 northward early in the spring; 
The country boy at the close of the day, driving the herd of cows, and shouting to them as
 they
 loiter to browse by the road-side; 
The city wharf—Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Charleston, New Orleans, San
 Francisco, 
The departing ships, when the sailors heave at the capstan;
—Evening—me in my room—the setting sun, 
The setting summer sun shining in my open window, showing the swarm of flies, suspended,
 balancing
 in the air in the centre of the room, darting athwart, up and down, casting swift shadows
 in
 specks
 on the opposite wall, where the shine is; 
The athletic American matron speaking in public to crowds of listeners; 
Males, females, immigrants, combinations—the copiousness—the individuality of
 The
 States,
 each for itself—the money-makers; 
Factories, machinery, the mechanical forces—the windlass, lever, pulley—All
 certainties,
The certainty of space, increase, freedom, futurity, 
In space, the sporades, the scatter’d islands, the stars—on the firm earth, the
 lands, my
 lands; 
O lands! all so dear to me—what you are, (whatever it is,) I become a part of that,
 whatever it
 is; 
Southward there, I screaming, with wings slowly flapping, with the myriads of gulls
 wintering
 along
 the coasts of Florida—or in Louisiana, with pelicans breeding; 
Otherways, there, atwixt the banks of the Arkansaw, the Rio Grande, the Nueces, the
 Brazos, the
 Tombigbee, the Red River, the Saskatchawan, or the Osage, I with the spring waters
 laughing
 and
 skipping and running;
Northward, on the sands, on some shallow bay of Paumanok, I, with parties of snowy herons
 wading in
 the wet to seek worms and aquatic plants; 
Retreating, triumphantly twittering, the king-bird, from piercing the crow with its bill,
 for
 amusement—And I triumphantly twittering; 
The migrating flock of wild geese alighting in autumn to refresh themselves—the body
 of
 the
 flock feed—the sentinels outside move around with erect heads watching, and are from
 time
 to
 time reliev’d by other sentinels—And I feeding and taking turns with the rest; 
In Kanadian forests, the moose, large as an ox, corner’d by hunters, rising
 desperately on
 his
 hind-feet, and plunging with his fore-feet, the hoofs as sharp as knives—And I,
 plunging
 at the
 hunters, corner’d and desperate; 
In the Mannahatta, streets, piers, shipping, store-houses, and the countless workmen
 working in
 the
 shops,
And I too of the Mannahatta, singing thereof—and no less in myself than the whole of
 the
 Mannahatta in itself, 
Singing the song of These, my ever united lands—my body no more inevitably united,
 part to
 part, and made one identity, any more than my lands are inevitably united, and made ONE
 IDENTITY; 
Nativities, climates, the grass of the great Pastoral Plains; 
Cities, labors, death, animals, products, war, good and evil—these me, 
These affording, in all their particulars, endless feuillage to me and to America, how can
 I do
 less
 than pass the clew of the union of them, to afford the like to you?
Whoever you are! how can I but offer you divine leaves, that you also be eligible as I am?

How can I but, as here, chanting, invite you for yourself to collect bouquets of the
 incomparable
 feuillage of These States?
Written by Pablo Neruda | Create an image from this poem

Ode To Maize

 America, from a grain
of maize you grew
to crown
with spacious lands
the ocean foam.
A grain of maize was your geography.
From the grain a green lance rose, was covered with gold, to grace the heights of Peru with its yellow tassels.
But, poet, let history rest in its shroud; praise with your lyre the grain in its granaries: sing to the simple maize in the kitchen.
First, a fine beard fluttered in the field above the tender teeth of the young ear.
Then the husks parted and fruitfulness burst its veils of pale papyrus that grains of laughter might fall upon the earth.
To the stone, in your journey, you returned.
Not to the terrible stone, the bloody triangle of Mexican death, but to the grinding stone, sacred stone of your kitchens.
There, milk and matter, strength-giving, nutritious cornmeal pulp, you were worked and patted by the wondrous hands of dark-skinned women.
Wherever you fall, maize, whether into the splendid pot of partridge, or among country beans, you light up the meal and lend it your virginal flavor.
Oh, to bite into the steaming ear beside the sea of distant song and deepest waltz.
To boil you as your aroma spreads through blue sierras.
But is there no end to your treasure? In chalky, barren lands bordered by the sea, along the rocky Chilean coast, at times only your radiance reaches the empty table of the miner.
Your light, your cornmeal, your hope pervades America's solitudes, and to hunger your lances are enemy legions.
Within your husks, like gentle kernels, our sober provincial children's hearts were nurtured, until life began to shuck us from the ear.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Ballad Of Hard-Luck Henry

 Now wouldn't you expect to find a man an awful crank
That's staked out nigh three hundred claims, and every one a blank;
That's followed every fool stampede, and seen the rise and fall
Of camps where men got gold in chunks and he got none at all;
That's prospected a bit of ground and sold it for a song
To see it yield a fortune to some fool that came along;
That's sunk a dozen bed-rock holes, and not a speck in sight,
Yet sees them take a million from the claims to left and right?
Now aren't things like that enough to drive a man to booze?
But Hard-Luck Smith was hoodoo-proof--he knew the way to lose.
'Twas in the fall of nineteen four--leap-year I've heard them say-- When Hard-Luck came to Hunker Creek and took a hillside lay.
And lo! as if to make amends for all the futile past, Late in the year he struck it rich, the real pay-streak at last.
The riffles of his sluicing-box were choked with speckled earth, And night and day he worked that lay for all that he was worth.
And when in chill December's gloom his lucky lease expired, He found that he had made a stake as big as he desired.
One day while meditating on the waywardness of fate, He felt the ache of lonely man to find a fitting mate; A petticoated pard to cheer his solitary life, A woman with soft, soothing ways, a confidant, a wife.
And while he cooked his supper on his little Yukon stove, He wished that he had staked a claim in Love's rich treasure-trove; When suddenly he paused and held aloft a Yukon egg, For there in pencilled letters was the magic name of Peg.
You know these Yukon eggs of ours--some pink, some green, some blue-- A dollar per, assorted tints, assorted flavors too.
The supercilious cheechako might designate them high, But one acquires a taste for them and likes them by-and-by.
Well, Hard-Luck Henry took this egg and held it to the light, And there was more faint pencilling that sorely taxed his sight.
At last he made it out, and then the legend ran like this-- "Will Klondike miner write to Peg, Plumhollow, Squashville, Wis.
?" That night he got to thinking of this far-off, unknown fair; It seemed so sort of opportune, an answer to his prayer.
She flitted sweetly through his dreams, she haunted him by day, She smiled through clouds of nicotine, she cheered his weary way.
At last he yielded to the spell; his course of love he set-- Wisconsin his objective point; his object, Margaret.
With every mile of sea and land his longing grew and grew.
He practised all his pretty words, and these, I fear, were few.
At last, one frosty evening, with a cold chill down his spine, He found himself before her house, the threshold of the shrine.
His courage flickered to a spark, then glowed with sudden flame-- He knocked; he heard a welcome word; she came--his goddess came.
Oh, she was fair as any flower, and huskily he spoke: "I'm all the way from Klondike, with a mighty heavy poke.
I'm looking for a lassie, one whose Christian name is Peg, Who sought a Klondike miner, and who wrote it on an egg.
" The lassie gazed at him a space, her cheeks grew rosy red; She gazed at him with tear-bright eyes, then tenderly she said: "Yes, lonely Klondike miner, it is true my name is Peg.
It's also true I longed for you and wrote it on an egg.
My heart went out to someone in that land of night and cold; But oh, I fear that Yukon egg must have been mighty old.
I waited long, I hoped and feared; you should have come before; I've been a wedded woman now for eighteen months or more.
I'm sorry, since you've come so far, you ain't the one that wins; But won't you take a step inside--I'll let you see the twins.
"
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Five-Per-Cent

 Because I have ten thousand pounds I sit upon my stern,
And leave my living tranquilly for other folks to earn.
For in some procreative way that isn't very clear, Ten thousand pounds will breed, they say, five hundred every year.
So as I have a healthy hate of economic strife, I mean to stand aloof from it the balance of my life.
And yet with sympathy I see the grimy son of toil, And heartly congratulate the tiller of the soil.
I like the miner in the mine, the sailor on the sea, Because up to five hundred pounds they sail and mine for me.
For me their toil is taxed unto that annual extent, According to the holy shibboleth of Five-per-Cent.
So get ten thousand pounds, my friend, in any way you can.
And leave your future welfare to the noble Working Man.
He'll buy you suits of Harris tweed, an Airedale and a car; Your golf clubs and your morning Times, your whisky and cigar.
He'll cosily install you in a cottage by a stream, With every modern comfort, and a garden that's a dream> Or if your tastes be urban, he'll provide you with a flat, Secluded from the clamour of the proletariat.
With pictures, music, easy chairs, a table of good cheer, A chap can manage nicely on five hundred pounds a year.
And though around you painful signs of industry you view, Why should you work when you can make your money work for you? So I'll get down upon my knees and bless the Working Man, Who offers me a life of ease through all my mortal span; Whose loins are lean to make me fat, who slaves to keep me free, Who dies before his prime to let me round the century; Whose wife and children toil in urn until their strength is spent, That I may live in idleness upon my five-per-cent.
And if at times they curse me, why should I feel any blame? For in my place I know that they would do the very same.
Aye, though hey hoist a flag that's red on Sunday afternoon, Just offer them ten thousand pounds and see them change their tune.
So I'll enjoy my dividends and live my life with zest, And bless the mighty men who first - invented Interest.


Written by Jean Cocteau | Create an image from this poem

Preamble (A Rough Draft For An Ars Poetica)

 .
.
.
Preamble A rough draft for an ars poetica .
.
.
.
.
.
.
Let's get our dreams unstuck The grain of rye free from the prattle of grass et loin de arbres orateurs I plant it It will sprout But forget about the rustic festivities For the explosive word falls harmlessly eternal through the compact generations and except for you nothing denotates its sweet-scented dynamite Greetings I discard eloquence the empty sail and the swollen sail which cause the ship to lose her course My ink nicks and there and there and there and there sleeps deep poetry The mirror-paneled wardrobe washing down ice-floes the little eskimo girl dreaming in a heap of moist ******* her nose was flattened against the window-pane of dreary Christmases A white bear adorned with chromatic moire dries himself in the midnight sun Liners The huge luxury item Slowly founders all its lights aglow and so sinks the evening-dress ball into the thousand mirrors of the palace hotel And now it is I the thin Columbus of phenomena alone in the front of a mirror-paneled wardrobe full of linen and locking with a key The obstinate miner of the void exploits his fertile mine the potential in the rough glitters there mingling with its white rock Oh princess of the mad sleep listen to my horn and my pack of hounds I deliver you from the forest where we came upon the spell Here we are by the pen one with the other wedded on the page Isles sobs of Ariadne Ariadnes dragging along Aridnes seals for I betray you my fair stanzas to run and awaken elsewhere I plan no architecture Simply deaf like you Beethoven blind like you Homer numberless old man born everywhere I elaborate in the prairies of inner silence and the work of the mission and the poem of the work and the stanza of the poem and the group of the stanza and the words of the group and the letters of the word and the least loop of the letters it's your foot of attentive satin that I place in position pink tightrope walker sucked up by the void to the left to the right the god gives a shake and I walk towards the other side with infinite precaution
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Ballad Of How Macpherson Held The Floor

 Said President MacConnachie to Treasurer MacCall:
"We ought to have a piper for our next Saint Andrew's Ball.
Yon squakin' saxophone gives me the syncopated gripes.
I'm sick of jazz, I want to hear the skirling of the pipes.
" "Alas! it's true," said Tam MacCall.
"The young folk of to-day Are fox-trot mad and dinna ken a reel from Strathspey.
Now, what we want's a kiltie lad, primed up wi' mountain dew, To strut the floor at supper time, and play a lilt or two.
In all the North there's only one; of him I've heard them speak: His name is Jock MacPherson, and he lives on Boulder Creek; An old-time hard-rock miner, and a wild and wastrel loon, Who spends his nights in glory, playing pibrochs to the moon.
I'll seek him out; beyond a doubt on next Saint Andrew's night We'll proudly hear the pipes to cheer and charm our appetite.
Oh lads were neat and lassies sweet who graced Saint Andrew's Ball; But there was none so full of fun as Treasurer MacCall.
And as Maloney's rag-time bank struck up the newest hit, He smiled a smile behind his hand, and chuckled: "Wait a bit.
" And so with many a Celtic snort, with malice in his eye, He watched the merry crowd cavort, till supper time drew nigh.
Then gleefully he seemed to steal, and sought the Nugget Bar, Wherein there sat a tartaned chiel, as lonely as a star; A huge and hairy Highlandman as hearty as a breeze, A glass of whisky in his hand, his bag-pipes on his knees.
"Drink down your doch and doris, Jock," cried Treasurer MacCall; "The time is ripe to up and pipe; they wait you in the hall.
Gird up your loins and grit your teeth, and here's a pint of hooch To mind you of your native heath - jist pit it in your pooch.
Play on and on for all you're worth; you'll shame us if you stop.
Remember you're of Scottish birth - keep piping till you drop.
Aye, though a bunch of Willie boys should bluster and implore, For the glory of the Highlands, lad, you've got to hold the floor.
" The dancers were at supper, and the tables groaned with cheer, When President MacConnachie exclaimed: "What do I hear? Methinks it's like a chanter, and its coming from the hall.
" "It's Jock MacPherson tuning up," cried Treasurer MacCall.
So up they jumped with shouts of glee, and gaily hurried forth.
Said they: "We never thought to see a piper in the North.
" Aye, all the lads and lassies braw went buzzing out like bees, And Jock MacPherson there they saw, with red and rugged knees.
Full six foot four he strode the floor, a grizzled son of Skye, With glory in his whiskers and with whisky in his eye.
With skelping stride and Scottish pride he towered above them all: "And is he no' a bonny sight?" said Treasurer MacCall.
While President MacConnachie was fairly daft with glee, And there was jubilation in the Scottish Commy-tee.
But the dancers seemed uncertain, and they signified their doubt, By dashing back to eat as fast as they had darted out.
And someone raised the question 'twixt the coffee and the cakes: "Does the Piper walk to get away from all the noise he makes?" Then reinforced with fancy food they slowly trickled forth, And watching in patronizing mood the Piper of the North.
Proud, proud was Jock MacPherson, as he made his bag-pipes skirl, And he set his sporran swinging, and he gave his kilts a whirl.
And President MacConnachie was jumping like a flea, And there was joy and rapture in the Scottish Commy-tee.
"Jist let them have their saxophones wi' constipated squall; We're having Heaven's music now," said Treasurer MacCall.
But the dancers waxed impatient, and they rather seemed to fret For Maloney and the jazz of his Hibernian Quartette.
Yet little recked the Piper, as he swung with head on high, Lamenting with MacCrimmon on the heather hills of Skye.
With Highland passion in his heart he held the centre floor; Aye, Jock MacPherson played as he had never played before.
Maloney's Irish melodists were sitting in their place, And as Maloney waited, there was wonder in his face.
'Twas sure the gorgeous music - Golly! wouldn't it be grand If he could get MacPherson as a member of his band? But the dancers moped and mumbled, as around the room they sat: "We paid to dance," they grumbled; "But we cannot dance to that.
Of course we're not denying that it's really splendid stuff; But it's mighty satisfying - don't you think we've had enough?" "You've raised a pretty problem," answered Treasurer MacCall; "For on Saint Andrew's Night, ye ken, the Piper rules the Ball.
" Said President MacConnachie: "You've said a solemn thing.
Tradition holds him sacred, and he's got to have his fling.
But soon, no doubt, he'll weary out.
Have patience; bide a wee.
" "That's right.
Respect the Piper," said the Scottish Commy-tee.
And so MacPherson stalked the floor, and fast the moments flew, Till half an hour went past, as irritation grew and grew.
Then the dancers held a council, and with faces fiercely set, They hailed Maloney, heading his Hibernian Quartette: "It's long enough, we've waited.
Come on, Mike, play up the Blues.
" And Maloney hesitated, but he didn't dare refuse.
So banjo and piano, and guitar and saxophone Contended with the shrilling of the chanter and the drone; And the women's ears were muffled, so infernal was the din, But MacPherson was unruffled, for he knew that he would win.
Then two bright boys jazzed round him, and they sought to play the clown, But MacPherson jolted sideways, and the Sassenachs went down.
And as if it was a signal, with a wild and angry roar, The gates of wrath were riven - yet MacPherson held the floor.
Aye, amid the rising tumult, still he strode with head on high, With ribbands gaily streaming, yet with battle in his eye.
Amid the storm that gathered, still he stalked with Highland pride, While President and Treasurer sprang bravely to his side.
And with ire and indignation that was glorious to see, Around him in a body ringed the Scottish Commy-tee.
Their teeth were clenched with fury; their eyes with anger blazed: "Ye manna touch the Piper," was the slogan that they raised.
Then blows were struck, and men went down; yet 'mid the rising fray MacPherson towered in triumph - and he never ceased to play.
Alas! his faithful followers were but a gallant few, And faced defeat, although they fought with all the skill they knew.
For President MacConnachie was seen to slip and fall, And o'er his prostrate body stumbled Treasurer MacCall.
And as their foes with triumph roared, and leagured them about, It looked as if their little band would soon be counted out.
For eyes were black and noses red, yet on that field of gore, As resolute as Highland rock - MacPherson held the floor.
Maloney watched the battle, and his brows were bleakly set, While with him paused and panted his Hibernian Quartette.
For sure it is an evil spite, and breaking to the heart, For Irishman to watch a fight and not be taking part.
Then suddenly on high he soared, and tightened up his belt: "And shall we see them crush," he roared, "a brother and a Celt? A fellow artiste needs our aid.
Come on, boys, take a hand.
" Then down into the mêlée dashed Maloney and his band.
Now though it was Saint Andrew's Ball, yet men of every race, That bow before the Great God Jazz were gathered in that place.
Yea, there were those who grunt: "Ya! Ya!" and those who squeak: "We! We!" Likewise Dutch, Dago, Swede and Finn, Polack and Portugee.
Yet like ripe grain before the gale that national hotch-potch Went down before the fury of the Irish and the Scotch.
Aye, though they closed their gaping ranks and rallied to the fray, To the Shamrock and the Thistle went the glory of the day.
You should have seen the carnage in the drooling light of dawn, Yet 'mid the scene of slaughter Jock MacPherson playing on.
Though all lay low about him, yet he held his head on high, And piped as if he stood upon the caller crags of Skye.
His face was grim as granite, and no favour did he ask, Though weary were his mighty lungs and empty was his flask.
And when a fallen foe wailed out: "Say! when will you have done?" MacPherson grinned and answered: "Hoots! She's only ha'f begun.
" Aye, though his hands were bloody, and his knees were gay with gore, A Grampian of Highland pride - MacPherson held the floor.
And still in Yukon valleys where the silent peaks look down, They tell of how the Piper was invited up to town, And he went in kilted glory, and he piped before them all, But wouldn't stop his piping till he busted up the Ball.
Of that Homeric scrap they speak, and how the fight went on, With sally and with rally till the breaking of the dawn.
And how the Piper towered like a rock amid the fray, And the battle surged about him, but he never ceased to play.
Aye, by the lonely camp-fires, still they tell the story o'er- How the Sassenach was vanquished and - MacPherson held the floor.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Ballad Of Gum-Boot Ben

 He was an old prospector with a vision bleared and dim.
He asked me for a grubstake, and the same I gave to him.
He hinted of a hidden trove, and when I made so bold To question his veracity, this is the tale he told.
"I do not seek the copper streak, nor yet the yellow dust; I am not fain for sake of gain to irk the frozen crust; Let fellows gross find gilded dross, far other is my mark; Oh, gentle youth, this is the truth--I go to seek the Ark.
"I prospected the Pelly bed, I prospected the White; The Nordenscold for love of gold I piked from morn till night; Afar and near for many a year I led the wild stampede, Until I guessed that all my quest was vanity and greed.
"Then came I to a land I knew no man had ever seen, A haggard land, forlornly spanned by mountains lank and lean; The nitchies said 'twas full of dread, of smoke and fiery breath, And no man dare put foot in there for fear of pain and death.
"But I was made all unafraid, so, careless and alone, Day after day I made my way into that land unknown; Night after night by camp-fire light I crouched in lonely thought; Oh, gentle youth, this is the truth--I knew not what I sought.
"I rose at dawn; I wandered on.
'Tis somewhat fine and grand To be alone and hold your own in God's vast awesome land; Come woe or weal, 'tis fine to feel a hundred miles between The trails you dare and pathways where the feet of men have been.
"And so it fell on me a spell of wander-lust was cast.
The land was still and strange and chill, and cavernous and vast; And sad and dead, and dull as lead, the valleys sought the snows; And far and wide on every side the ashen peaks arose.
"The moon was like a silent spike that pierced the sky right through; The small stars popped and winked and hopped in vastitudes of blue; And unto me for company came creatures of the shade, And formed in rings and whispered things that made me half afraid.
"And strange though be, 'twas borne on me that land had lived of old, And men had crept and slain and slept where now they toiled for gold; Through jungles dim the mammoth grim had sought the oozy fen, And on his track, all bent of back, had crawled the hairy men.
"And furthermore, strange deeds of yore in this dead place were done.
They haunted me, as wild and free I roamed from sun to sun; Until I came where sudden flame uplit a terraced height, A regnant peak that seemed to seek the coronal of night.
"I scaled the peak; my heart was weak, yet on and on I pressed.
Skyward I strained until I gained its dazzling silver crest; And there I found, with all around a world supine and stark, Swept clean of snow, a flat plateau, and on it lay--the Ark.
"Yes, there, I knew, by two and two the beasts did disembark, And so in haste I ran and traced in letters on the Ark My human name--Ben Smith's the same.
And now I want to float A syndicate to haul and freight to town that noble boat.
" I met him later in a bar and made a gay remark Anent an ancient miner and an option on the Ark.
He gazed at me reproachfully, as only topers can; But what he said I can't repeat--he was a bad old man.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Shooting Of Dan McGrew

 A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon;
The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a jag-time tune;
Back of the bar, in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,
And watching his luck was his light-o'-love, the lady that's known as Lou.
When out of the night, which was fifty below, and into the din and the glare, There stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks, dog-dirty, and loaded for bear.
He looked like a man with a foot in the grave and scarcely the strength of a louse, Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar, and he called for drinks for the house.
There was none could place the stranger's face, though we searched ourselves for a clue; But we drank his health, and the last to drink was Dangerous Dan McGrew.
There's men that somehow just grip your eyes, and hold them hard like a spell; And such was he, and he looked to me like a man who had lived in hell; With a face most hair, and the dreary stare of a dog whose day is done, As he watered the green stuff in his glass, and the drops fell one by one.
Then I got to figgering who he was, and wondering what he'd do, And I turned my head -- and there watching him was the lady that's known as Lou.
His eyes went rubbering round the room, and he seemed in a kind of daze, Till at last that old piano fell in the way of his wandering gaze.
The rag-time kid was having a drink; there was no one else on the stool, So the stranger stumbles across the room, and flops down there like a fool.
In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway; Then he clutched the keys with his talon hands -- my God! but that man could play.
Were you ever out in the Great Alone, when the moon was awful clear, And the icy mountains hemmed you in with a silence you most could HEAR; With only the howl of a timber wolf, and you camped there in the cold, A half-dead thing in a stark, dead world, clean mad for the muck called gold; While high overhead, green, yellow and red, the North Lights swept in bars? -- Then you've a haunch what the music meant .
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hunger and night and the stars.
And hunger not of the belly kind, that's banished with bacon and beans, But the gnawing hunger of lonely men for a home and all that it means; For a fireside far from the cares that are, four walls and a roof above; But oh! so cramful of cosy joy, and crowned with a woman's love -- A woman dearer than all the world, and true as Heaven is true -- (God! how ghastly she looks through her rouge, -- the lady that's known as Lou.
) Then on a sudden the music changed, so soft that you scarce could hear; But you felt that your life had been looted clean of all that it once held dear; That someone had stolen the woman you loved; that her love was a devil's lie; That your guts were gone, and the best for you was to crawl away and die.
'Twas the crowning cry of a heart's despair, and it thrilled you through and through -- "I guess I'll make it a spread misere," said Dangerous Dan McGrew.
The music almost died away .
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then it burst like a pent-up flood; And it seemed to say, "Repay, repay," and my eyes were blind with blood.
The thought came back of an ancient wrong, and it stung like a frozen lash, And the lust awoke to kill, to kill .
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then the music stopped with a crash, And the stranger turned, and his eyes they burned in a most peculiar way; In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway; Then his lips went in in a kind of grin, and he spoke, and his voice was calm, And "Boys," says he, "you don't know me, and none of you care a damn; But I want to state, and my words are straight, and I'll bet my poke they're true, That one of you is a hound of hell .
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and that one is Dan McGrew.
" Then I ducked my head, and the lights went out, and two guns blazed in the dark, And a woman screamed, and the lights went up, and two men lay stiff and stark.
Pitched on his head, and pumped full of lead, was Dangerous Dan McGrew, While the man from the creeks lay clutched to the breast of the lady that's known as Lou.
These are the simple facts of the case, and I guess I ought to know.
They say that the stranger was crazed with "hooch", and I'm not denying it's so.
I'm not so wise as the lawyer guys, but strictly between us two -- The woman that kissed him and -- pinched his poke -- was the lady that's known as Lou.
Written by William Topaz McGonagall | Create an image from this poem

Jenny Carrister The Heroine of Lucknow-Mine

 A heroic story I will unfold,
Concerning Jenny Carrister, a heroine bold,
Who lived in Australia, at a gold mine called Lucknow,
And Jenny was beloved by the the miners, somehow.
Jenny was the only daughter of the old lady who owned the mine- And Jenny would come of an evening, like a gleam of sunshine, And by the presence of her bright face and cheery voice, She made the hearts of the unlucky diggers rejoice.
There was no pride about her, and day after day, She walked with her young brother, who was always gay, A beautiful boy he was, about thirteen years old, And Jenny and her brother by the miners were greatly extolled.
Old Mrs Carrister was every inch a lady in her way, Because she never pressed any of the miners that weren't able to pay For the liberty of working the gold-field, Which was thirty pounds per week for whatever it might yield.
It was in the early part of the year 1871, That Jack Allingford, a miner, hit on a plan, That in the mine, with powder, he'd loosen the granite-bound face, So he selected, as he thought, a most suitable place.
And when all his arrangements had been made, He was lowered down by a miner that felt a little afraid, But most fortunately Jenny Carrister came up at the time, Just as Jack Allingford was lowered into the mine.
Then she asked the man at the windlass if he'd had any luck, But he picked up a piece of candle and then a match he struck; Then Jenny asked the miner, What is that for? And he replied to blast the mine, which I fear and abhor.
Then with a piece of rope he lowered the candle and matches into the mine, While brave Jenny watched the action all the time; And as the man continued to turn round the windlass handle, Jenny asked him, Isn't it dangerous to lower the matches and candle? Then the man replied, I hope there's no danger, Jenny, my lass, But whatsoever God has ordained will come to pass; And just as he said so the windlass handle swung round, And struck him on the forehead, and he fell to the ground.
And when Jenny saw the blood streaming from the fallen man's head, She rushed to the mouth of the shaft without any dread, And Jenny called loudly, but received no reply, So to her brother standing near by she heaved a deep sigh.
Telling him to run for assistance, while she swung herself on to the hand-rope, Resolved to save Jack Allingford's life as she earnestly did hope; And as she proceeded down the shaft at a quick pace, The brave heroine knew that death was staring her in the face.
And the rope was burning her hands as she descended, But she thought if she saved Jack her task would be ended; And when she reached the bottom of the mine she did not hesitate, But bounding towards Jack Allingford, who was lying seemingly inanimate.
And as she approached his body the hissing fuse burst upon her ears, But still the noble girl no danger fears; While the hissing of the fuse was like an engine grinding upon her brain, Still she resolved to save Jack while life in her body did remain.
She noticed a small jet of smoke issuing from a hole near his head, And if he'd lain a few seconds longer there he'd been killed dead, But God had sent an angel to his rescue, For seizing him by the arms his body to the air shaft she drew.
It was a supernatural effort, but she succeeded at last, And Jenny thanked God when the danger was past, But at the same instant the silence was broke By a loud explosion, which soon filled the mine with smoke.
But, oh, God be thanked! the greatest danger was past, But when Jenny saw Jack Allingford, she stood aghast, Because the blood was issuing from his nest and ears, And as Jenny viewed his wounds she shed many tears.
But heroic Jenny was not one of the fainting sort, For immediately to the mouth of the mine she did resort, And she called loudly for help, the noble lass, And her cry was answered by voices above at the windlass.
So there were plenty to volunteer their services below, And the rope was attached to the windlass, and down they did go, And Jack Allingford and Jenny were raised to the top, While Jenny, noble soul, with exhaustion was like to drop.
And when the miners saw her safe above there was a burst of applause, Because she had rescued Jack Allingford from death's jaws; So all ye that read or hear this story, I have but to say, That Jenny Carrister was the noblest heroine I've ever heard of in my day.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry