Robert W. Service

“ Julot the Apache You've heard of Julot the apache, and Gigolette, his môme. . . . Montmartre was their hunting-ground, but Belville was their home. A little chap just like a boy, with smudgy black mustache,— Yet there was nothing juvenile in Julot the apache. From head to heel as tough as steel, as nimble as a cat, With every trick of twist and kick, a master of savate. And Gigolette was tall and fair, as stupid as a cow, With three combs in the greasy hair she banged upon her brow. You'd see her on the Place Pigalle on any afternoon, A primitive and strapping wench as brazen as the moon. ”

“ I have drunk buckets of cider, and eaten many an omelette that seemed like a golden glorification of its egg. It has all been very sweet, but it will also be sweet to loaf awhile.
Oh, It Is Good Oh, it is good to drink and sup, And then beside the kindly fire To smoke and heap the faggots up, And rest and dream to heart's desire. Oh, it is good to ride and run, To roam the greenwood wild and free; To hunt, to idle in the sun, To leap into the laughing sea. Oh, it is good with hand and brain To gladly till the chosen soil, And after honest sweat and strain To see the harvest of one's toil. ”

“ I'll watch the ways of ants and bees in quiet sunny nooks, I'll understand Creation as I never did before. When gossips round the tea-cups talk I'll listen to it all; On smiling days some kindly friend will take me for a drive: I'll own a shaggy collie dog that dashes to my call: I'll celebrate my second youth when I am Sixty-five. Ah, though I've twenty years to go, I see myself quite plain, A wrinkling, twinkling, rosy-cheeked, benevolent old chap; I think I'll wear a tartan shawl and lean upon a cane. I hope that I'll have silver hair beneath a velvet cap. ”

“ O beauty land of Little Things! I sometimes wonder, after all, Amid this tangled web of fate, If what is great may not be small, And what is small may not be great. So wondering I go my way, Yet in my heart contentment sings . . . O may I ever see, I pray, God's grace and love in Little Things. So give to me, I only beg, A little roof to call my own, A little cider in the keg, A little meat upon the bone; A little garden by the sea, A little boat that dips and swings . . . Take wealth, take fame, but leave to me, O Lord of Life, just Little Things. ”

“ A child whose eyes first opened wide to swinishness and sin, A child whose love and innocence met only curse and blow. And so in due and proper course she took the path of shame, And gladly died in hospital, quite old at twenty years; And when God comes to weigh it all, ah! whose shall be the blame For all her maimed and poisoned life, her torture and her tears? For oh, it is not what we do, but what we have not done! And on that day of reckoning, when all is plain and clear, What if we stand before the Throne, blood-guilty every one? ”

“ You beside your bock of beer, I behind my demi-tasse. Chatting of no matter what. You the Mummer, I the Bard; Oh, it's jolly, is it not?— Sitting on the Boulevard. More amusing than a book, If a chap has eyes to see; For, no matter where I look, Stories, stories jump at me. Moving tales my pen might write; Poems plain on every face; Monologues you could recite With inimitable grace. (Ah! Imagination's power) See yon demi-mondaine there, Idly toying with a flower, Smiling with a pensive air . . . Well, her smile is but a mask, For I saw within her muff Such a wicked little flask: Vitriol—ugh! ”

“ I'm back upon the old Boul' Mich', And how my heart's aglow! Though in my coat's an empty sleeve, Ah! do not think I ever grieve (The pension for it, I believe, Will keep me on the go) . So I'll be free to write and write, And give my soul to sheer delight, Till joy is almost pain; To stand aloof and watch the throng, And worship youth and sing my song Of faith and hope again; To seek for beauty everywhere, To make each day a living prayer That life may not be vain. To sing of things that comfort me, The joy in mother-eyes, the glee Of little ones at play ”

“ The Sightless Man Out of the night a crash, A roar, a rampart of light; A flame that leaped like a lash, Searing forever my sight; Out of the night a flash, Then, oh, forever the Night! Here in the dark I sit, I who so loved the sun; Supple and strong and fit, In the dark till my days be done; Aye, that's the hell of it, Stalwart and twenty-one. Marie is stanch and true, Willing to be my wife; Swears she has eyes for two . . . Aye, but it's long, is Life. What is a lad to do With his heart and his brain at strife? There now, my pipe is out ”

“ At night, I fear, I fight for breath, And wake up whiter than a spook; And crawl off to a bistro near, And drink until my brain is clear. Rare Absinthe! Oh, it gives me strength To write and write; and so I spend Day after day, until at length With joy and pain I'll write The End: Then let this carcase rot; I give The world my Book—my Book will live. For every line is tense with truth, There's hope and joy on every page; A cheer, a clarion call to Youth, A hymn, a comforter to Age: All's there that I was meant to be, My part divine, the God in me. ”

“ Let virtue lie in joy and song, The only sin be sadness. So let me troll a jolly air, Come what come will to-morrow; I'll be no cabotin of care, No souteneur of sorrow. Let those who will indulge in strife, To my most merry thinking, The true philosophy of life Is laughing, loving, drinking. And there's that weird and ghastly hag Who walks head bent, with lips a-mutter; With twitching hands and feet that drag, And tattered skirts that sweep the gutter. An outworn harlot, lost to hope, With staring eyes and hair that's hoary I hear her gibber, dazed with dope: I often wonder what's her story. ”

“ Pencils I deal in, red and black and blue; It's hard, but still I do the best I can. Most days I make enough to pay for bread, A cup o' coffee, stretching room at night. One needs so little—to be warm and fed, A hole to kennel in—oh, one's all right . . . Excuse me, you're a painter, are you not? I saw you looking at that dealer's show, The croûtes he has for sale, a shabby lot— What do I know of Art? What do I know . . . Well, look! That David Strong so well displayed, "White Sorcery" it's called, all gossamer, And pale moon-magic and a dancing maid (You like the little elfin face of her?) ”

“ And as you scrub I sadly fear Your daughters speed the dance to-day. O windmill land and crescent moon! O Columbine and Pierrette! To you my old guitar I tune Ere I forget, ere I forget. . . . So come, good men who toil and tire, Who smoke and sip the kindly cup, Ring round about the tavern fire Ere yet you drink your liquor up; And hear my simple songs of earth, Of youth and truth and living things; Of poverty and proper mirth, Of rags and rich imaginings; Of cock-a-hoop, blue-heavened days, Of hearts elate and eager breath, Of wonder, worship, pity, praise, Of sorrow, sacrifice and death ”

“ I awoke this morning to see the bright sunshine flooding my garret. No chamber in the palace of a king could have been more fair. How I sang as I dressed! How I lingered over my coffee, savoring every drop! How carefully I packed my pipe, gazing serenely over the roofs of Paris.
Never is the city so lovely as in this month of May, when all the trees are in the fullness of their foliage. As I look, I feel a freshness of vision in my eyes. Wonder wakes in me. The simplest things move me to delight. ”

“ In slouching hat and shabby cloak he looks and is the part, A sodden old Bohemian, without a single sou. A boon companion of the days of Rimbaud and Verlaine, He broods and broods, and chews the cud of bitter souvenirs; Beneath his mop of grizzled hair his cheeks are gouged with pain, The saffron sockets of his eyes are hollowed out with tears. Well, one night in the D'Harcourt's din I saw him in his place, When suddenly the door was swung, a woman halted there; A woman cowering like a dog, with white and haggard face, A broken creature, bent of spine, a daughter of Despair. ”

“ It gives you an exquisite pleasure, Your lovers remark on its taste. Yet . . . oh, the poor little white faces, The tense midnight toil and the fret . . . I fear that the foam of its laces Is salt with the tears of Babette. It takes a brave heart to be cheery With no gleam of hope in the sky; The future's so utterly dreary, I'm laughing—in case I should cry. And if, where the gay lights are glowing, I dine with a man I have met, And snatch a bright moment—who's going To blame a poor little Babette? ”

“ And they'll look at me with their velvet eyes And I'll stroke their flanks with my woman's hand, And they'll answer to me with soft replies, And somehow I fancy they'll understand. And the horses too, they know me well; I'm sure that they pity my wretched lot, And the big fat ram with the jingling bell . . . Oh, the beasts are the only friends I've got. And my old dog, too, he loves me more, I think, than ever he did before. Thank God for the beasts that are all so kind, That know and pity the helpless blind! Ha! they're coming, the loving pair. My hand's a-shake as my pipe I fill. ”

“ There's the Morgue to end it all, And it's later than you think. Yon's a playwright—mark his face, Puffed and purple, tense and tired; Pasha-like he holds his place, Hated, envied and admired. How you gobble life, my friend; Wine, and woman soft and pink! Well, each tether has its end: Sir, it's later than you think. See yon living scarecrow pass With a wild and wolfish stare At each empty absinthe glass, As if he saw Heaven there. Poor damned wretch, to end your pain There is still the Greater Drink. Yonder waits the sanguine Seine . ”

“ I Have Some Friends I have some friends, some worthy friends, And worthy friends are rare: These carpet slippers on my feet, That padded leather chair; This old and shabby dressing-gown, So well the worse of wear. I have some friends, some honest friends, And honest friends are few; My pipe of briar, my open fire, A book that's not too new; My bed so warm, the nights of storm I love to listen to. I have some friends, some good, good friends, Who faithful are to me: My wrestling partner when I rise, The big and burly sea ”

“ Am I not in Bohemia the Magical, Bohemia of Murger, of de Musset, of Verlaine? Shades of Mimi Pinson, of Trilby, of all that immortal line of laughterful grisettes, do not tell me that the days of love and fun are forever at an end!
Yes, youth is golden, but what of age? Shall it too not testify to the rhapsody of existence? Let the years between be those of struggle, of sufferance—of disillusion if you will; but let youth and age affirm the ecstasy of being. Let us look forward all to a serene sunset, and in the still skies "a late lark singing". ”

“ A tourist horde from every land that's underneath the sun— That little wizened Spanish man, he misses never one. Oh, foul or fair he's always there, and many a drink he buys, And there's a fire of red desire within his hollow eyes. And sipping of my Pernod, and a-knowing what I know, Sometimes I want to shriek aloud and give away the show. I've lost my nerve; he's haunting me; he's like a beast of prey, That Spanish man that's watching at the Cafe de la Paix. ”

“ It's long ago—she's dead." He went to her; he laid his hand upon her wasted arm: "Oh, Marie Toro, come with me, though poor and sick am I. For old times' sake I cannot bear to see you come to harm; Ah! there are memories, God knows, that never, never die. . . ." "Too late!" she sighed; "I've lived my life of splendor and of shame; I've been adored by men of power, I've touched the highest height; I've squandered gold like heaps of dirt—oh, I have played the game; I've had my place within the sun . . . and now I face the night. Look! look! you see I'm lost to hope; I live no matter how . ”

“ The Little Workgirl Three gentlemen live close beside me— A painter of pictures bizarre, A poet whose virtues might guide me, A singer who plays the guitar; And there on my lintel is Cupid; I leave my door open, and yet These gentlemen, aren't they stupid! They never make love to Babette. I go to the shop every morning; I work with my needle and thread; Silk, satin and velvet adorning, Then luncheon on coffee and bread. Then sewing and sewing till seven; Or else, if the order I get, I toil and I toil till eleven— And such is the day of Babette. ”

“ There is such an one I sometimes see being wheeled about in the Luxembourg. His face is beautiful in its thankfulness.
The Contented Man "How good God is to me," he said; "For have I not a mansion tall, With trees and lawns of velvet tread, And happy helpers at my call? With beauty is my life abrim, With tranquil hours and dreams apart; You wonder that I yield to Him That best of prayers, a grateful heart?" "How good God is to me," he said; "For look! though gone is all my wealth, How sweet it is to earn one's bread With brawny arms and brimming health. Oh, now I know the joy of strife! ”

“ And hither too, to dream and drain, And drown despair, came poor Verlaine. Here Wilde would talk and Synge would muse, Maybe like me with just ten sous. Ah! one is lucky, is one not? With ghosts so rare to drain a pot! So may your custom never fail, O Tavern of the Golden Snail!
There! my pipe is out. Let me light it again and consider. I have no illusions about myself. I am not fool enough to think I am a poet, but I have a knack of rhyme and I love to make verses. Mine is a tootling, tin-whistle music. ”

“ I think it's better to be dead When little children look at you with dread; And when you know your coming home again Will only give the ones who love you pain. Ah! who can help but shrink? One cannot blame. They see the hideous husk, not, not the flame Of sacrifice and love that burns within; While souls of satyrs, riddled through with sin, Have bodies fair and excellent to see. ”

“ That each of us must be born again, And live and die as a little child; So that with souls all shining white, White as snow and without one sin, We may come to the Gates of Eternal Light, Where only children may enter in. So, gentle mothers, don't ever grieve Because you have lost, but kiss the rod; From the depths of your woe be glad, believe You've given an angel unto God. ”