Best Famous Squatted Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Squatted poems. This is a select list of the best famous Squatted poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Squatted poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of squatted poems.

Search and read the best famous Squatted poems, articles about Squatted poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Squatted poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

• All Famous Squatted Poems

Written by Robert William Service | Equality The Elders of the Tribe were grouped And squatted in the Council Cave; They seemed to be extremely pooped, And some were grim, but all were grave: The subject of their big To-do Was axe-man Chow, the son of Choo. Then up spoke Tribal Wiseman Waw: "Brothers, today I talk to grieve: As an upholder of the Law You know how deeply we believe In Liberty, Fraternity, And likewise Equality. "A chipper of the flint am I; I make the weapons that you use, And though to hunt I never try, To bow to hunters I refuse: But stalwart Chow, the son of Choo Is equal to us any two. "He is the warrior supreme, The Super-caveman, one might say; The pride of youth, the maiden's dream, And in the chase the first to slay. Where we are stunted he is tall: In short, a menace to us all. "He struts with throwing stone and spear; And is he not the first to wear Around his waist with bully leer The pelt of wolf and baby bear! Admitting that he made the kill Why should he so exploit his skill? "Comrades, grave counsel we must take, And as he struts with jest and jibe, Let us act swiftly lest he make Himself Dictator of our Tribe: The Gods have built him on their plan: Let us reduce him to a man." And so they seized him in the night, And on the sacrificial stone The axe-men of the Tribe did smite, Until one limb he ceased to own. There! They had equalized the odds, Foiling unfairness of the Gods. So Chow has lost his throwing arm, And goes around like every one; No longer does he threaten harm, And tribal justice has been done. For men are equal, let us seek To grade the Strong down to the weak.

Written by Rudyard Kipling | Fuzzy-Wuzzy (Soudan Expeditionary Force) We've fought with many men acrost the seas, An' some of 'em was brave an' some was not: The Paythan an' the Zulu an' Burmese; But the Fuzzy was the finest o' the lot. We never got a ha'porth's change of 'im: 'E squatted in the scrub an' 'ocked our 'orses, 'E cut our sentries up at Suakim, An' 'e played the cat an' banjo with our forces. So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan; You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man; We gives you your certificate, an' if you want it signed We'll come an' 'ave a romp with you whenever you're inclined. We took our chanst among the Khyber 'ills, The Boers knocked us silly at a mile, The Burman give us Irriwaddy chills, An' a Zulu impi dished us up in style: But all we ever got from such as they Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller; We 'eld our bloomin' own, the papers say, But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us 'oller. Then 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' the missis and the kid; Our orders was to break you, an' of course we went an' did. We sloshed you with Martinis, an' it wasn't 'ardly fair; But for all the odds agin' you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you broke the square. 'E 'asn't got no papers of 'is own, 'E 'asn't got no medals nor rewards, So we must certify the skill 'e's shown In usin' of 'is long two-'anded swords: When 'e's 'oppin' in an' out among the bush With 'is coffin-'eaded shield an' shovel-spear, An 'appy day with Fuzzy on the rush Will last an 'ealthy Tommy for a year. So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' your friends which are no more, If we 'adn't lost some messmates we would 'elp you to deplore; But give an' take's the gospel, an' we'll call the bargain fair, For if you 'ave lost more than us, you crumpled up the square! 'E rushes at the smoke when we let drive, An', before we know, 'e's 'ackin' at our 'ead; 'E's all 'ot sand an' ginger when alive, An' 'e's generally shammin' when 'e's dead. 'E's a daisy, 'e's a ducky, 'e's a lamb! 'E's a injia-rubber idiot on the spree, 'E's the on'y thing that doesn't give a damn For a Regiment o' British Infantree! So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan; You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man; An' 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your 'ayrick 'ead of 'air -- You big black boundin' beggar -- for you broke a British square!

Written by Robert Browning | The Englishman In Italy (PIANO DI SORRENTO.) Fortu, Frotu, my beloved one, Sit here by my side, On my knees put up both little feet! I was sure, if I tried, I could make you laugh spite of Scirocco; Now, open your eyes— Let me keep you amused till he vanish In black from the skies, With telling my memories over As you tell your beads; All the memories plucked at Sorrento —The flowers, or the weeds, Time for rain! for your long hot dry Autumn Had net-worked with brown The white skin of each grape on the bunches, Marked like a quail's crown, Those creatures you make such account of, Whose heads,—specked with white Over brown like a great spider's back, As I told you last night,— Your mother bites off for her supper; Red-ripe as could be. Pomegranates were chapping and splitting In halves on the tree: And betwixt the loose walls of great flintstone, Or in the thick dust On the path, or straight out of the rock side, Wherever could thrust Some burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-flower Its yellow face up, For the prize were great butterflies fighting, Some five for one cup. So, I guessed, ere I got up this morning, What change was in store, By the quick rustle-down of the quail-nets Which woke me before I could open my shutter, made fast With a bough and a stone, And look through the twisted dead vine-twigs, Sole lattice that's known! Quick and sharp rang the rings down the net-poles, While, busy beneath, Your priest and his brother tugged at them, The rain in their teeth: And out upon all the flat house-roofs Where split figs lay drying, The girls took the frails under cover: Nor use seemed in trying To get out the boats and go fishing, For, under the cliff, Fierce the black water frothed o'er the blind-rock No seeing our skiff Arrive about noon from Amalfi, —Our fisher arrive, And pitch down his basket before us, All trembling alive With pink and grey jellies, your sea-fruit, —You touch the strange lumps, And mouths gape there, eyes open, all manner Of horns and of humps. Which only the fisher looks grave at, While round him like imps Cling screaming the children as naked And brown as his shrimps; Himself too as bare to the middle— —You see round his neck The string and its brass coin suspended, That saves him from wreck. But today not a boat reached Salerno, So back to a man Came our friends, with whose help in the vineyards Grape-harvest began: In the vat, half-way up in our house-side, Like blood the juice spins, While your brother all bare-legged is dancing Till breathless he grins Dead-beaten, in effort on effort To keep the grapes under, Since still when he seems all but master, In pours the fresh plunder From girls who keep coming and going With basket on shoulder, And eyes shut against the rain's driving, Your girls that are older,— For under the hedges of aloe, And where, on its bed Of the orchard's black mould, the love-apple Lies pulpy and red, All the young ones are kneeling and filling Their laps with the snails Tempted out by this first rainy weather,— Your best of regales, As tonight will be proved to my sorrow, When, supping in state, We shall feast our grape-gleaners (two dozen, Three over one plate) With lasagne so tempting to swallow In slippery ropes, And gourds fried in great purple slices, That colour of popes. Meantime, see the grape-bunch they've brought you,— The rain-water slips O'er the heavy blue bloom on each globe Which the wasp to your lips Still follows with fretful persistence— Nay, taste, while awake, This half of a curd-white smooth cheese-ball, That peels, flake by flake, Like an onion's, each smoother and whiter; Next, sip this weak wine From the thin green glass flask, with its stopper, A leaf of the vine,— And end with the prickly-pear's red flesh That leaves through its juice The stony black seeds on your pearl-teeth ...Scirocco is loose! Hark! the quick, whistling pelt of the olives Which, thick in one's track, Tempt the stranger to pick up and bite them, Though not yet half black! How the old twisted olive trunks shudder! The medlars let fall Their hard fruit, and the brittle great fig-trees Snap off, figs and all,— For here comes the whole of the tempest No refuge, but creep Back again to my side and my shoulder, And listen or sleep. O how will your country show next week When all the vine-boughs Have been stripped of their foliage to pasture The mules and the cows? Last eve, I rode over the mountains; Your brother, my guide, Soon left me, to feast on the myrtles That offered, each side, Their fruit-balls, black, glossy and luscious,— Or strip from the sorbs A treasure, so rosy and wondrous, Of hairy gold orbs! But my mule picked his sure, sober path out, Just stopping to neigh When he recognized down in the valley His mates on their way With the faggots, and barrels of water; And soon we emerged From the plain, where the woods could scarce follow And still as we urged Our way, the woods wondered, and left us, As up still we trudged Though the wild path grew wilder each instant, And place was e'en grudged 'Mid the rock-chasms, and piles of loose stones (Like the loose broken teeth Of some monster, which climbed there to die From the ocean beneath) Place was grudged to the silver-grey fume-weed That clung to the path, And dark rosemary, ever a-dying, That, 'spite the wind's wrath, So loves the salt rock's face to seaward,— And lentisks as staunch To the stone where they root and bear berries,— And... what shows a branch Coral-coloured, transparent, with circlets Of pale seagreen leaves— Over all trod my mule with the caution Of gleaners o'er sheaves, Still, foot after foot like a lady— So, round after round, He climbed to the top of Calvano, And God's own profound Was above me, and round me the mountains, And under, the sea, And within me, my heart to bear witness What was and shall be! Oh Heaven, and the terrible crystal! No rampart excludes Your eye from the life to be lived In the blue solitudes! Oh, those mountains, their infinite movement! Still moving with you— For, ever some new head and breast of them Thrusts into view To observe the intruder—you see it If quickly you turn And, before they escape you, surprise them— They grudge you should learn How the soft plains they look on, lean over, And love (they pretend) -Cower beneath them; the flat sea-pine crouches The wild fruit-trees bend, E'en the myrtle-leaves curl, shrink and shut— All is silent and grave— 'Tis a sensual and timorous beauty— How fair, but a slave! So, I turned to the sea,—and there slumbered As greenly as ever Those isles of the siren, your Galli; No ages can sever The Three, nor enable their sister To join them,—half-way On the voyage, she looked at Ulysses— No farther today; Though the small one, just launched in the wave, Watches breast-high and steady From under the rock, her bold sister Swum half-way already. Fortu, shall we sail there together And see from the sides Quite new rocks show their faces—new haunts Where the siren abides? Shall we sail round and round them, close over The rocks, though unseen, That ruffle the grey glassy water To glorious green? Then scramble from splinter to splinter, Reach land and explore, On the largest, the strange square black turret With never a door, Just a loop to admit the quick lizards; Then, stand there and hear The birds' quiet singing, that tells us What life is, so clear! The secret they sang to Ulysses, When, ages ago, He heard and he knew this life's secret, I hear and I know! Ah, see! The sun breaks o'er Calvano— He strikes the great gloom And flutters it o'er the mount's summit In airy gold fume! All is over! Look out, see the gipsy, Our tinker and smith, Has arrived, set up bellows and forge, And down-squatted forthwith To his hammering, under the wall there; One eye keeps aloof The urchins that itch to be putting His jews'-harps to proof, While the other, through locks of curled wire, Is watching how sleek Shines the hog, come to share in the windfalls —An abbot's own cheek! All is over! Wake up and come out now, And down let us go, And see the fine things got in order At Church for the show Of the Sacrament, set forth this evening; Tomorrow's the Feast Of the Rosary's Virgin, by no means Of Virgins the least— As you'll hear in the off-hand discourse Which (all nature, no art) The Dominican brother, these three weeks, Was getting by heart. Not a post nor a pillar but's dizened With red and blue papers; All the roof waves with ribbons, each altar A-blaze with long tapers; But the great masterpiece is the scaffold Rigged glorious to hold All the fiddlers and fifers and drummers And trumpeters bold, Not afraid of Bellini nor Auber, Who, when the priest's hoarse, Will strike us up something that's brisk For the feast's second course. And then will the flaxen-wigged Image Be carried in pomp Through the plain, while in gallant procession The priests mean to stomp. And all round the glad church lie old bottles With gunpowder stopped, Which will be, when the Image re-enters, Religiously popped. And at night from the crest of Calvano Great bonfires will hang, On the plain will the trumpets join chorus, And more poppers bang! At all events, come—to the garden, As far as the wall, See me tap with a hoe on the plaster Till out there shall fall A scorpion with wide angry nippers! ..."Such trifles"—you say? Fortu, in my England at home, Men meet gravely today And debate, if abolishing Corn-laws Is righteous and wise —If 'tis proper, Scirocco should vanish In black from the skies!

Written by Anthony Hecht | Saul And David It was a villainous spirit, snub-nosed, foul Of breath, thick-taloned and malevolent, That squatted within him wheresoever he went .......And possessed the soul of Saul. There was no peace on pillow or on throne. In dreams the toothless, dwarfed, and squinny-eyed Started a joyful rumor that he had died .......Unfriended and alone. The doctors were confounded. In his distress, he Put aside arrogant ways and condescended To seek among the flocks where they were tended .......By the youngest son of Jesse, A shepherd boy, but goodly to look upon, Unnoticed but God-favored, sturdy of limb As Michelangelo later imagined him, .......Comely even in his frown. Shall a mere shepherd provide the cure of kings? Heaven itself delights in ironies such As this, in which a boy's fingers would touch .......Pythagorean strings And by a modal artistry assemble The very Sons of Morning, the ranked and choired Heavens in sweet laudation of the Lord, .......And make Saul cease to tremble.

Written by Carolyn Forche | The Garden Shukkei-en By way of a vanished bridge we cross this river as a cloud of lifted snow would ascend a mountain. She has always been afraid to come here. It is the river she most remembers, the living and the dead both crying for help. A world that allowed neither tears nor lamentation. The matsu trees brush her hair as she passes beneath them, as do the shining strands of barbed wire. Where this lake is, there was a lake, where these black pine grow, there grew black pine. Where there is no teahouse I see a wooden teahouse and the corpses of those who slept in it. On the opposite bank of the Ota, a weeping willow etches its memory of their faces into the water. Where light touches the face, the character for heart is written. She strokes a burnt trunk wrapped in straw: I was weak and my skin hung from my fingertips like cloth Do you think for a moment we were human beings to them? She comes to the stone angel holding paper cranes. Not an angel, but a woman where she once had been, who walks through the garden Shukkei-en calling the carp to the surface by clapping her hands. Do Americans think of us? So she began as we squatted over the toilets: If you want, I'll tell you, but nothing I say will be enough. We tried to dress our burns with vegetable oil. Her hair is the white froth of rice rising up kettlesides, her mind also. In the postwar years she thought deeply about how to live. The common greeting dozo-yiroshku is please take care of me. All hibakusha still alive were children then. A cemetery seen from the air is a child's city. I don't like this particular red flower because it reminds me of a woman's brain crushed under a roof. Perhaps my language is too precise, and therefore difficult to understand? We have not, all these years, felt what you call happiness. But at times, with good fortune, we experience something close. As our life resembles life, and this garden the garden. And in the silence surrounding what happened to us it is the bell to awaken God that we've heard ringing.

Written by Robert William Service | Bill The Bomber The poppies gleamed like bloody pools through cotton-woolly mist; The Captain kept a-lookin' at the watch upon his wrist; And there we smoked and squatted, as we watched the shrapnel flame; 'Twas wonnerful, I'm tellin' you, how fast them bullets came. 'Twas weary work the waiting, though; I tried to sleep a wink, For waitin' means a-thinkin', and it doesn't do to think. So I closed my eyes a little, and I had a niceish dream Of a-standin' by a dresser with a dish of Devon cream; But I hadn't time to sample it, for suddenlike I woke: "Come on, me lads!" the Captain says, 'n I climbed out through the smoke. We spread out in the open: it was like a bath of lead; But the boys they cheered and hollered fit to raise the bloody dead, Till a beastly bullet copped 'em, then they lay without a sound, And it's odd -- we didn't seem to heed them corpses on the ground. And I kept on thinkin', thinkin', as the bullets faster flew, How they picks the werry best men, and they lets the rotters through; So indiscriminatin' like, they spares a man of sin, And a rare lad wot's a husband and a father gets done in. And while havin' these reflections and advancin' on the run, A bullet biffs me shoulder, and says I: "That's number one." Well, it downed me for a jiffy, but I didn't lose me calm, For I knew that I was needed: I'm a bomber, so I am. I 'ad lost me cap and rifle, but I "carried on" because I 'ad me bombs and knew that they was needed, so they was. We didn't 'ave no singin' now, nor many men to cheer; Maybe the shrapnel drowned 'em, crashin' out so werry near; And the Maxims got us sideways, and the bullets faster flew, And I copped one on me flipper, and says I: "That's number two." I was pleased it was the left one, for I 'ad me bombs, ye see, And 'twas 'ard if they'd be wasted like, and all along o' me. And I'd lost me 'at and rifle -- but I told you that before, So I packed me mit inside me coat and "carried on" once more. But the rumpus it was wicked, and the men were scarcer yet, And I felt me ginger goin', but me jaws I kindo set, And we passed the Boche first trenches, which was 'eapin' 'igh with dead, And we started for their second, which was fifty feet ahead; When something like a 'ammer smashed me savage on the knee, And down I came all muck and blood: Says I: "That's number three." So there I lay all 'elpless like, and bloody sick at that, And worryin' like anythink, because I'd lost me 'at; And thinkin' of me missis, and the partin' words she said: "If you gets killed, write quick, ol' man, and tell me as you're dead." And lookin' at me bunch o' bombs -- that was the 'ardest blow, To think I'd never 'ave the chance to 'url them at the foe. And there was all our boys in front, a-fightin' there like mad, And me as could 'ave 'elped 'em wiv the lovely bombs I 'ad. And so I cussed and cussed, and then I struggled back again, Into that bit of battered trench, packed solid with its slain. Now as I lay a-lyin' there and blastin' of me lot, And wishin' I could just dispose of all them bombs I'd got, I sees within the doorway of a shy, retirin' dug-out Six Boches all a-grinnin', and their Captain stuck 'is mug out; And they 'ad a nice machine gun, and I twigged what they was at; And they fixed it on a tripod, and I watched 'em like a cat; And they got it in position, and they seemed so werry glad, Like they'd got us in a death-trap, which, condemn their souls! they 'ad. For there our boys was fightin' fifty yards in front, and 'ere This lousy bunch of Boches they 'ad got us in the rear. Oh it set me blood a-boilin' and I quite forgot me pain, So I started crawlin', crawlin' over all them mounds of slain; And them barstards was so busy-like they 'ad no eyes for me, And me bleedin' leg was draggin', but me right arm it was free. . . . And now they 'ave it all in shape, and swingin' sweet and clear; And now they're all excited like, but -- I am drawin' near; And now they 'ave it loaded up, and now they're takin' aim. . . . Rat-tat-tat-tat! Oh here, says I, is where I join the game. And my right arm it goes swingin', and a bomb it goes a-slingin', And that "typewriter" goes wingin' in a thunderbolt of flame. Then these Boches, wot was left of 'em, they tumbled down their 'ole, And up I climbed a mound of dead, and down on them I stole. And oh that blessed moment when I heard their frightened yell, And I laughed down in that dug-out, ere I bombed their souls to hell. And now I'm in the hospital, surprised that I'm alive; We started out a thousand men, we came back thirty-five. And I'm minus of a trotter, but I'm most amazin' gay, For me bombs they wasn't wasted, though, you might say, "thrown away".

Written by Anne Sexton | The Angel Food Dogs Leaping, leaping, leaping, down line by line, growling at the cadavers, filling the holy jugs with their piss, falling into windows and mauling the parents, but soft, kiss-soft, and sobbing sobbing into their awful dog dish. No point? No twist for you in my white tunnel? Let me speak plainly, let me whisper it from the podium-- Mother, may I use your pseudonym? May I take the dove named Mary and shove out Anne? May I take my check book, my holographs, my eight naked books, and sign it Mary, Mary, Mary full of grace? I know my name is not offensive but my feet hang in the noose. I want to be white. I want to be blue. I want to be a bee digging into an onion heart, as you did to me, dug and squatted long after death and its fang. Hail Mary, full of me, Nibbling in the sitting room of my head. Mary, Mary, virgin forever, whore forever, give me your name, give me your mirror. Boils fester in my soul, so give me your name so I may kiss them, and they will fly off, nameless but named, and they will fly off like angel food dogs with thee and with thy spirit. Let me climb the face of my kitchen dog and fly off into my terrified years.

Written by Robert William Service | My Bear I never killed a bear because I always thought them critters was So kindo' cute; Though round my shack they often came, I'd raise my rifle and take aim, But couldn't shoot. Yet there was one full six-feet tall Who came each night and gobbled all The grub in sight; On my pet garden truck he'd feast, Until I thought I must at least Give him a fight. I put some corn mush in a pan; He lapped it swiftly down and ran With bruin glee; A second day I did the same, Again with eagerness he came To gulp and flee. The third day I mixed up a cross Of mustard and tobasco sauce, And ginger too, Well spiced with pepper of cayenne, Topped it with treacled mush, and then Set out the brew. He was a huge and husky chap; I saw him shamble to the trap, The dawn was dim. He squatted down on his behind, And through the cheese-cloth window-blind I peeked at him. I never saw a bear so glad; A look of joy seraphic had His visage brown; He slavered, and without suspish- - Ion hugged that horrid dish, And swilled it down. Just for a moment he was still, Then he erupted loud and shrill With frantic yell; The picket fence he tried to vault; He turned a double somersault, And ran like hell. I saw him leap into the lake, As if a thirst of fire to slake, And thrash up foam; And then he sped along the shore, And beat his breast with raucous roar, And made for home. I guess he told the folks back there My homestead was taboo for bear For since that day, Although my pumpkins star the ground, No other bear has come around, Nor trace of bruin have I found, - Well, let me pray!

Written by Robert William Service | The Smoking Frog Three men I saw beside a bar, Regarding o'er their bottle, A frog who smoked a rank cigar They'd jammed within its throttle. A Pasha frog it must have been So big it as and bloated; And from its lips the nicotine In graceful festoon floated. And while the trio jeered and joked, As if it quite enjoyed it, Impassively it smoked and smoked, (It could now well avoid it). A ring of fire its lips were nigh Yet it seemed all unwitting; It could not spit, like you and I, Who've learned the art of spitting. It did not wink, it did not shrink, As there serene it squatted' Its eyes were clear, it did not fear The fate the Gods allotted. It squatted there with calm sublime, Amid their cruel guying; Grave as a god, and all the time It knew that it was dying. And somehow then it seemed to me These men expectorating, Were infinitely less than he, The dumb thing they were baiting. It seemed to say, despite their jokes: "This is my hour of glory. It isn't every frog that smokes: My name will live in story." Before its nose the smoke arose; The flame grew nigher, nigher; And then I saw its bright eyes close Beside that ring of fire. They turned it on its warty back, From off its bloated belly; It legs jerked out, then dangled slack; It quivered like a jelly. And then the fellows went away, Contented with their joking; But even as in death it lay, The frog continued smoking. Life's like a lighted ***, thought I; We smoke it stale; then after Death turns our belly to the sky: The Gods must have their laughter.

Written by Robert William Service | The Gramaphone At Fond-Du-Lac Now Eddie Malone got a swell grammyfone to draw all the trade to his store; An' sez he: "Come along for a season of song, which the like ye had niver before." Then Dogrib, an' Slave, an' Yellow-knife brave, an' Cree in his dinky canoe, Confluated near, to see an' to hear Ed's grammyfone make its dayboo. Then Ed turned the crank, an' there on the bank they squatted like bumps on a log. For acres around there wasn't a sound, not even the howl of a dog. When out of the horn there sudden was born such a marvellous elegant tone; An' then like a spell on that auddyence fell the voice of its first grammyfone. "Bad medicine!" cried Old Tom, the One-eyed, an' made for to jump in the lake; But no one gave heed to his little stampede, so he guessed he had made a mistake. Then Roll-in-the-Mud, a chief of the blood, observed in choice Chippewayan: "You've brought us canned beef, an' it's now my belief that this here's a case of canned man." Well, though I'm not strong on the Dago in song, that sure got me goin' for fair. There was Crusoe an' Scotty, an' Ma'am Shoeman Hank, an' Melber an' Bonchy was there. 'Twas silver an' gold, an' sweetness untold to hear all them big guinneys sing; An' thick all around an' inhalin' the sound, them Indians formed in a ring. So solemn they sat, an' they smoked an' they spat, but their eyes sort o' glistened an' shone; Yet niver a word of approvin' occurred till that guy Harry Lauder came on. Then hunter of moose, an' squaw an' papoose jest laughed till their stummicks was sore; Six times Eddie set back that record an' yet they hollered an' hollered for more. I'll never forget that frame-up, you bet; them caverns of sunset agleam; Them still peaks aglow, them shadders below, an' the lake like a petrified dream; The teepees that stood by the edge of the wood; the evenin' star blinkin' alone; The peace an' the rest, an' final an' best, the music of Ed's grammyfone. Then sudden an' clear there rang on my ear a song mighty simple an' old; Heart-hungry an' high it thrilled to the sky, all about "silver threads in the gold". 'Twas tender to tears, an' it brung back the years, the mem'ries that hallow an' yearn; 'Twas home-love an' joy, 'twas the thought of my boy . . . an' right there I vowed I'd return. Big Four-finger Jack was right at my back, an' I saw with a kind o' surprise, He gazed at the lake with a heartful of ache, an' the tears irrigated his eyes. An' sez he: "Cuss me, pard! but that there hits me hard; I've a mother does nuthin' but wait. She's turned eighty-three, an' she's only got me, an' I'm scared it'll soon be too late." * * * * * On Fond-du-lac's shore I'm hearin' once more that blessed old grammyfone play. The summer's all gone, an' I'm still livin' on in the same old haphazardous way. Oh, I cut out the booze, an' with muscles an' thews I corralled all the coin to go back; But it wasn't to be: he'd a mother, you see, so I -- sliped it to Four-finger Jack.