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Best Famous Tried And True Poems

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Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Accordion

 Some carol of the banjo, to its measure keeping time;
Of viol or of lute some make a song.
My battered old accordion, you're worthy of a rhyme, You've been my friend and comforter so long.
Round half the world I've trotted you, a dozen years or more; You've given heaps of people lots of fun; You've set a host of happy feet a-tapping on the floor .
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Alas! your dancing days are nearly done.
I've played you from the palm-belt to the suburbs of the Pole; From the silver-tipped sierras to the sea.
The gay and gilded cabin and the grimy glory-hole Have echoed to your impish melody.
I've hushed you in the dug-out when the trench was stiff with dead; I've lulled you by the coral-laced lagoon; I've packed you on a camel from the dung-fire on the bled, To the hell-for-breakfast Mountains of the Moon.
I've ground you to the shanty men, a-whooping heel and toe, And the hula-hula graces in the glade.
I've swung you in the igloo to the lousy Esquimau, And the Haussa at a hundred in the shade.
The ****** on the levee, and the Dinka by the Nile have shuffled to your insolent appeal.
I've rocked with glee the chimpanzee, and mocked the crocodile, And shocked the pompous penquin and the seal.
I've set the yokels singing in a little Surrey pub, Apaches swinging in a Belville bar.
I've played an obligato to the tom-tom's rub-a-dub, And the throb of Andalusian guitar.
From the Horn to Honolulu, from the Cape to Kalamazoo, From Wick to Wicklow, Samarkand to Spain, You've roughed it with my kilt-bag like a comrade tried and true.
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Old pal! We'll never hit the trail again.
Oh I know you're cheap and vulgar, you're an instrumental crime.
In drawing-rooms you haven't got a show.
You're a musical abortion, you're the voice of grit and grime, You're the spokesman of the lowly and the low.
You're a democratic devil, you're the darling of the mob; You're a wheezy, breezy blasted bit of glee.
You're the headache of the high-bow, you're the horror of the snob, but you're worth your weight in ruddy gold to me.
For you've chided me in weakness and you've cheered me in defeat; You've been an anodyne in hours of pain; And when the slugging jolts of life have jarred me off my feet, You've ragged me back into the ring again.
I'll never go to Heaven, for I know I am not fit, The golden harps of harmony to swell; But with asbestos bellows, if the devil will permit, I'll swing you to the fork-tailed imps of Hell.
Yes, I'll hank you, and I'll spank you, And I'll everlasting yank you To the cinder-swinging satellites of Hell.


Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

While The Bannock Bakes

 Light up your pipe again, old chum, and sit awhile with me;
I've got to watch the bannock bake -- how restful is the air!
You'd little think that we were somewhere north of Sixty-three,
Though where I don't exactly know, and don't precisely care.
The man-size mountains palisade us round on every side; The river is a-flop with fish, and ripples silver-clear; The midnight sunshine brims yon cleft -- we think it's the Divide; We'll get there in a month, maybe, or maybe in a year.
It doesn't matter, does it, pal? We're of that breed of men With whom the world of wine and cards and women disagree; Your trouble was a roofless game of poker now and then, And "raising up my elbow", that's what got away with me.
We're merely "Undesirables", artistic more or less; My horny hands are Chopin-wise; you quote your Browning well; And yet we're fooling round for gold in this damned wilderness: The joke is, if we found it, we would both go straight to hell.
Well, maybe we won't find it -- and at least we've got the "life".
We're both as brown as berries, and could wrestle with a bear: (That bannock's raising nicely, pal; just jab it with your knife.
) Fine specimens of manhood they would reckon us out there.
It's the tracking and the packing and the poling in the sun; It's the sleeping in the open, it's the rugged, unfaked food; It's the snow-shoe and the paddle, and the campfire and the gun, And when I think of what I was, I know that it is good.
Just think of how we've poled all day up this strange little stream; Since life began no eye of man has seen this place before; How fearless all the wild things are! the banks with goose-grass gleam, And there's a bronzy musk-rat sitting sniffing at his door.
A mother duck with brood of ten comes squattering along; The tawny, white-winged ptarmigan are flying all about; And in that swirly, golden pool, a restless, gleaming throng, The trout are waiting till we condescend to take them out.
Ah, yes, it's good! I'll bet that there's no doctor like the Wild: (Just turn that bannock over there; it's getting nicely brown.
) I might be in my grave by now, forgotten and reviled, Or rotting like a sickly cur in some far, foreign town.
I might be that vile thing I was, -- it all seems like a dream; I owed a man a grudge one time that only life could pay; And yet it's half-forgotten now -- how petty these things seem! (But that's "another story", pal; I'll tell it you some day.
) How strange two "irresponsibles" should chum away up here! But round the Arctic Circle friends are few and far between.
We've shared the same camp-fire and tent for nigh on seven year, And never had a word that wasn't cheering and serene.
We've halved the toil and split the spoil, and borne each other's packs; By all the Wild's freemasonry we're brothers, tried and true; We've swept on danger side by side, and fought it back to back, And you would die for me, old pal, and I would die for you.
Now there was that time I got lost in Rory Bory Land, (How quick the blizzards sweep on one across that Polar sea!) You formed a rescue crew of One, and saw a frozen hand That stuck out of a drift of snow -- and, partner, it was Me.
But I got even, did I not, that day the paddle broke? White water on the Coppermine -- a rock -- a split canoe -- Two fellows struggling in the foam (one couldn't swim a stroke): A half-drowned man I dragged ashore .
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and partner, it was You.
* * * * * In Rory Borealis Land the winter's long and black.
The silence seems a solid thing, shot through with wolfish woe; And rowelled by the eager stars the skies vault vastly back, And man seems but a little mite on that weird-lit plateau.
No thing to do but smoke and yarn of wild and misspent lives, Beside the camp-fire there we sat -- what tales you told to me Of love and hate, and chance and fate, and temporary wives! In Rory Borealis Land, beside the Arctic Sea.
One yarn you told me in those days I can remember still; It seemed as if I visioned it, so sharp you sketched it in; Bellona was the name, I think; a coast town in Brazil, Where nobody did anything but serenade and sin.
I saw it all -- the jewelled sea, the golden scythe of sand, The stately pillars of the palms, the feathery bamboo, The red-roofed houses and the swart, sun-dominated land, The people ever children, and the heavens ever blue.
You told me of that girl of yours, that blossom of old Spain, All glamour, grace and witchery, all passion, verve and glow.
How maddening she must have been! You made me see her plain, There by our little camp-fire, in the silence and the snow.
You loved her and she loved you.
She'd a husband, too, I think, A doctor chap, you told me, whom she treated like a dog, A white man living on the beach, a hopeless slave to drink -- (Just turn that bannock over there, that's propped against the log.
) That story seemed to strike me, pal -- it happens every day: You had to go away awhile, then somehow it befell The doctor chap discovered, gave her up, and disappeared; You came back, tired of her in time .
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there's nothing more to tell.
Hist! see those willows silvering where swamp and river meet! Just reach me up my rifle quick; that's Mister Moose, I know -- There now, I've got him dead to rights .
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but hell! we've lots to eat I don't believe in taking life -- we'll let the beggar go.
Heigh ho! I'm tired; the bannock's cooked; it's time we both turned in.
The morning mist is coral-kissed, the morning sky is gold.
The camp-fire's a confessional -- what funny yarns we spin! It sort of made me think a bit, that story that you told.
The fig-leaf belt and Rory Bory are such odd extremes, Yet after all how very small this old world seems to be .
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Yes, that was quite a yarn, old pal, and yet to me it seems You missed the point: the point is that the "doctor chap" .
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was ME.
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Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery | Create an image from this poem

The Hill Maples

 Here on a hill of the occident stand we shoulder to shoulder,
Comrades tried and true through a mighty swath of the years!
Spring harps glad laughter through us, and ministrant rains of the autumn
Sing us again the songs of ancient dolor and tears.
The glory of sunrise smites on our fair, free brows uplifted When the silver-kirtled day steps over the twilight's bars; At evening we look adown into valleys hearted with sunset, And we whisper old lore together under the smouldering stars.
Crescent moons of the summer gleam through our swaying branches, Knee-deep in fern we stand while the days of the sun-time go; And the winds of winter love us­the keen, gay winds of the winter, Coming to our gray arms from over the plains of snow.
Down in the valleys beneath us is wooing and winning and wedding, Down in the long, dim valleys earth-children wail and weep; But here on these free hills we grow and are strong and flourish, Comrades shoulder to shoulder our watch of the years to keep.