Robert Service - The Spell of the Yukon and Other Verses

The lonely sunsets flare forlorn
Down valleys dreadly desolate;
The lordly mountains soar in scorn
As still as death, as stern as fate.
The lonely sunsets flame and die;
The giant valleys gulp the night;
The monster mountains scrape the sky,
Where eager stars are diamond-bright.
So gaunt against the gibbous moon,
Piercing the silence velvet-piled,
A lone wolf howls his ancient rune
The fell arch-spirit of the Wild.
O outcast land! O leper land!
Let the lone wolf-cry all express
The hate insensate of thy hand,
Thy heart's abysmal loneliness.

Contents with First Lines:
The Land God Forgot
The lonely sunsets flare forlorn,
The Spell of the Yukon
I wanted the gold, and I sought it,
The Heart of the Sourdough
There where the mighty mountains bare their fangs unto the moon,
The Three Voices
The waves have a story to tell me,
The Law of the Yukon
This is the law of the Yukon, and ever she makes it plain,
The Parson's Son
This is the song of the parson's son, as he squats in his shack alone,
The Call of the Wild
Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there's nothing else to gaze on,
The Lone Trail
Ye who know the Lone Trail fain would follow it,
The Pines
We sleep in the sleep of ages, the bleak, barbarian pines,
The Lure of Little Voices
There's a cry from out the loneliness oh, listen, Honey, listen!
The Song of the Wage-Slave
When the long, long day is over, and the Big Boss gives me my pay,
Grin
If you're up against a bruiser and you're getting knocked about,
The Shooting of Dan McGrew
A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon,
The Cremation of Sam McGee
There are strange things done in the midnight sun,
My Madonna
I haled me a woman from the street,
Unforgotten
I know a garden where the lilies gleam,
The Reckoning
It's fine to have a blow-out in a fancy restaurant,
Quatrains
One said: Thy life is thine to make or mar,
The Men That Don't Fit In
There's a race of men that don't fit in,
Music in the Bush
O'er the dark pines she sees the silver moon,
The Rhyme of the Remittance Man
There's a four-pronged buck a-swinging in the shadow of my cabin,
The Low-Down White
This is the pay-day up at the mines, when the bearded brutes come down,
The Little Old Log Cabin
When a man gets on his uppers in a hard-pan sort of town,
The Younger Son
If you leave the gloom of London and you seek a glowing land,
The March of the Dead
The cruel war was over oh, the triumph was so sweet,
"Fighting Mac"
A pistol shot rings round and round the world,
The Woman and the Angel
An angel was tired of heaven, as he lounged in the golden street,
The Rhyme of the Restless Ones
We couldn't sit and study for the law,
New Year's Eve
It's cruel cold on the water-front, silent and dark and drear,
Comfort
Say! You've struck a heap of trouble,
The Harpy
There was a woman, and she was wise; woefully wise was she,
Premonition
'Twas a year ago, and the moon was bright,
The Tramps
Can you recall, dear comrade, when we tramped God's land together,
L'Envoi
You who have lived in the land,

I wanted the gold, and I sought it,
I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.
Was it famine or scurvy I fought it;
I hurled my youth into a grave.
I wanted the gold, and I got it
Came out with a fortune last fall,
Yet somehow life's not what I thought it,
And somehow the gold isn't all.
No! There's the land. (Have you seen it?)
It's the cussedest land that I know,
From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it
To the deep, deathlike valleys below.
Some say God was tired when He made it;
Some say it's a fine land to shun;
Maybe; but there's some as would trade it
For no land on earth and I'm one.
You come to get rich (damned good reason);
You feel like an exile at first;
You hate it like hell for a season,
And then you are worse than the worst.
It grips you like some kinds of sinning;
It twists you from foe to a friend;
It seems it's been since the beginning;
It seems it will be to the end.
I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow
That's plumb-full of hush to the brim;
I've watched the big, husky sun wallow
In crimson and gold, and grow dim,
Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming,
And the stars tumbled out, neck and crop;
And I've thought that I surely was dreaming,
With the peace o' the world piled on top.
The summer no sweeter was ever;
The sunshiny woods all athrill;
The grayling aleap in the river,
The bighorn asleep on the hill.
The strong life that never knows harness;
The wilds where the caribou call;
The freshness, the freedom, the farness
O God! how I'm stuck on it all.
The winter! the brightness that blinds you,
The white land locked tight as a drum,
The cold fear that follows and finds you,
The silence that bludgeons you dumb.
The snows that are older than history,
The woods where the weird shadows slant;
The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery,
I've bade 'em good-by but I can't.
There's a land where the mountains are nameless,
And the rivers all run God knows where;
There are lives that are erring and aimless,
And deaths that just hang by a hair;
There are hardships that nobody reckons;
There are valleys unpeopled and still;
There's a land oh, it beckons and beckons,
And I want to go back and I will.
They're making my money diminish;
I'm sick of the taste of champagne.
Thank God! when I'm skinned to a finish
I'll pike to the Yukon again.
I'll fight and you bet it's no sham-fight;
It's hell! but I've been there before;
And it's better than this by a damsite
So me for the Yukon once more.
There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting;
It's luring me on as of old;
Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting
So much as just finding the gold.
It's the great, big, broad land 'way up yonder,
It's the forests where silence has lease;
It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder,
It's the stillness that fills me with peace.

There where the mighty mountains bare their fangs unto the moon,
There where the sullen sun-dogs glare in the snow-bright, bitter noon,
And the glacier-glutted streams sweep down at the clarion call of June.
There where the livid tundras keep their tryst with the tranquil snows;
There where the silences are spawned, and the light of hell-fire flows
Into the bowl of the midnight sky, violet, amber and rose.
There where the rapids churn and roar, and the ice-floes bellowing run;
Where the tortured, twisted rivers of blood rush to the setting sun
I've packed my kit and I'm going, boys, ere another day is done.

I knew it would call, or soon or late, as it calls the whirring wings;
It's the olden lure, it's the golden lure,
it's the lure of the timeless things,
And to-night, oh, God of the trails untrod,
how it whines in my heart-strings!
I'm sick to death of your well-groomed gods, your make believe and your show;
I long for a whiff of bacon and beans, a snug shakedown in the snow;
A trail to break, and a life at stake, and another bout with the foe.
With the raw-ribbed Wild that abhors all life,