Robert W. Service was another favourite poet of mine originally born in England in the late 1800s.
He is probably best known for his poems “The Shooting of Dan McGrew” and “The Cremation of Sam McGee”. He was not well regarded by the critics of his time, indeed he was often derided as writing doggerel, and compared to Rudyard Kipling — also not a darling of the critics.
Despite the sombre subject, I find that Service manages to tease that ember of hope that we so often lose. And at the end of The Long War, that little spark of hope is needed now, more than ever.
When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child,
And Death looks you bang in the eye,
And you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyle
To cock your revolver and . . . die.
But the Code of a Man says: "Fight all you can,"
And self-dissolution is barred.
In hunger and woe, oh, it's easy to blow . . .
It's the hell-served-for-breakfast that's hard.
"You're sick of the game!" Well, now, that's a shame.
You're young and you're brave and you're bright.
"You've had a raw deal!" I know — but don't squeal,
Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight.
It's the plugging away that will win you the day,
So don't be a piker, old pard!
Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit:
It's the keeping-your-chin-up that's hard.
It's easy to cry that you're beaten — and die;
It's easy to crawfish and crawl;
But to fight and to fight when hope's out of sight —
Why, that's the best game of them all!
And though you come out of each gruelling bout,
All broken and beaten and scarred,
Just have one more try — it's dead easy to die,
It's the keeping-on-living that's hard.~Robert W. Service
Just so.
Ian
This is the sort of poetry you would start kids on. If you actually wanted them to like poetry.
When I was between three and five I lived with my Grandmother while mom finished school after my dad died. She used to read Kipling and Service to me, thanks for the trip on the way back machine.
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."