Just to show that Sam McGee & Dan McGrew aren't all of Service: When the long, long day is over, and the Big Boss gives me my pay, I hope that it won't be hell-fire, as some of the parsons say. And I hope that it won't be heaven, with some of the parsons I've met -- All I want is quiet, just to rest and forget. Look at my face, toil-furrowed; look at my calloused hands; Master, I've done Thy bidding, wrought in Thy many lands -- Wrought for the little masters, big-bellied they be, and rich; I've done their desire for a daily hire, and I die like a dog in a ditch. I have used the strength Thou hast given, Thou knowest I did not shirk; Threescore years of labor -- Thine be the long day's work. And now, Big Master, I'm broken and bent and twisted and scarred, But I've held my job, and Thou knowest, and Thou will not judge me hard. Thou knowest my sins are many, and often I've played the fool -- Whiskey and cards and women, they made me the devil's tool. I was just like a child with money; I flung it away with a curse, Feasting a fawning parasite, or glutting a harlot's purse; Then back to the woods repentant, back to the mill or the mine, I, the worker of workers, everything in my line. Everything hard but headwork (I'd no more brains than a kid), A brute with brute strength to labor, doing as I was bid; Living in camps with men-folk, a lonely and loveless life; Never knew kiss of sweetheart, never caress of wife. A brute with brute strength to labor, and they were so far above -- Yet I'd gladly have gone to the gallows for one little look of Love. I, with the strength to two men, savage and shy and wild -- Yet how I'd ha' treasured a woman, and the sweet, warm kiss of a child! Well, 'tis Thy world, and Thou knowest. I blaspheme and my ways be rude; But I've lived my life as I found it, and I've done my best to be good; I, the primitive toiler, half naked and grimed to the eyes, Sweating it deep in their ditches, swining it stark in their styes; Hurling down forests before me, spanning tumultuous streams; Down in the ditch building o'er me palaces fairer than dreams; Boring the rock to the ore-bed, driving the road through the fen, Resolute, dumb, uncomplaining, a man in a world of men. Master, I've filled my contract, wrought in Thy many lands; Not by my sins wilt Thou judge me, but by the work of my hands. Master, I've done Thy bidding, and the light is low in the west, And the long, long shift is over. . .Master, I've earned it -- Rest. Sorry it's so long, but Service didn't major in succinct.

Service tells a story in the most delightful and touching way. He is not succinct, but he is very good a catching hold of a mood and making it part of his readers' excperineces. Thanks for this! Mark, if you have not yet, check Poetic Caricatures for "The Ballad of Yukon Jake" which was my Father's favorite.

I did read Yukon Jake, but remain unconvinced, I am afraid. As a copy/continuation of Sam McGee & Dan McGrew, it comes up a little short of Service's quality, and as a parody it doesn't really work, because Service goes almost as far both in both bathos and the bizarre himself. Of course this is only my opinion, and I know I get a little defensive of Robert Service because so few know his work (you are of course an honourable exception). And real poetry critics revile this stuff for some reason.

It was popular when my Dad was in college, and the only Service parody I have ever seen. What surprised me was that he had memorized it but had several gaps in his rendition and wanted a copy of the original. It took me about 4 years of on-and-off hunting for it in the University periodicals collection - but I did find it and Xeroxed it for him. He was delighted. Then came the poetic caricatures and I thought of it again...and found it on the Internet. Parodies are never as good as the original, beca se they were not written with the same genius. They might be of equal interest, but most often not as good...! I am not such a snob that good rhyme and meter are lost on me...I enjoyed Jake for what it was...not as good as the original, but still good.

(It is probably a really bad parody, but I remember my father most fondly, and I can still hear his spirited narration... so I am not a good judge of it.)

Dark Pine By Robert W. Service If my life force, by death decree, Could find green haven in a tree, And there in peace untroubled years Could dream, immune from toil and tears, Though I'm a lover of all trees I woud not favor one of these... I would not choose a brittle palm Beside a sea of senile calm; Or willow droopily adream Above bright babble of a stream. No cypress would inhibit me With dark and dour austerity; Nor olive, shattering the light, Nor popular, purple in the night. The sanctuary of my search Would not be oak, nor ash, nor birch: Ah no! Their comfort I decline, - Let my life-force pervade a Pine. Aye, when my soul shall sally forth Let it be to the naked North, And in a lone pine desolate Achieve its fit and final fate; A pine by artic tempest torn, Snow-scourged, wind-savaged and forlorn; A viking trunk, a warrior tree, A hostage to dark destiny Of iron earth and icy sky, That valiantly disdains to die. There is the home where I would bide, If trees like men had souls inside,- Which is, of course, a fantasy None could conceive but dolts like me... Let others vision Heaven's gate, Dark Pine, I dream for me you wait.