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Robert W Service - The Man From Athabaska
Work rating: Medium

Oh the wife she tried to tell me that `twas nothing but the thrumming
    Of a wood-pecker a-rapping on the hollow of a tree;
And she thought that I was fooling when I said it was the drumming
    Of the mustering of legions, and `twas calling unto me;
    `Twas calling me to pull my freight and hop across the sea.

And a-mending of my fish-nets sure I started up in wonder,
    For I heard a savage roaring and `twas coming from afar;
Oh the wife she tried to tell me that `twas only summer thunder,
    And she laughed a bit sarcastic when I told her it was War;
    `Twas the chariots of battle where the mighty armies are.

Then down the lake came Half-breed Tom with russet sail a-flying,
    And the word he said was "War" again, so what was I to do?
Oh the dogs they took to howling, and the missus took to crying,
    As I flung my silver foxes in the little birch canoe:
    Yes, the old girl stood a-blubbing till an island hid the view.

Says the factor: "Mike, you`re crazy! They have soldier men a-plenty.
    You`re as grizzled as a badger, and you`re sixty year or so."
"But I haven`t missed a scrap," says I, "since I was one and twenty.
    And shall I miss the biggest? You can bet your whiskers — no!"
    So I sold my furs and started . . . and that`s eighteen months ago.

For I joined the Foreign Legion, and they put me for a starter
    In the trenches of the Argonne with the Boche a step away;
And the partner on my right hand was an apache from Montmartre;
    On my left there was a millionaire from Pittsburg, U. S. A.
    (Poor fellow! They collected him in bits the other day.)

But I`m sprier than a chipmunk, save a touch of the lumbago,
    And they calls me Old Methoosalah, and `blagues` me all the day.
I`m their exhibition sniper, and they work me like a Dago,
    And laugh to see me plug a Boche a half a mile away.
    Oh I hold the highest record in the regiment, they say.

And at night they gather round me, and I tell them of my roaming
    In the Country of the Crepuscule beside the Frozen Sea,
Where the musk-ox runs unchallenged, and the cariboo goes homing;
    And they sit like little children, just as quiet as can be:
    Men of every crime and colour, how they harken unto me!

And I tell them of the Furland, of the tumpline and the paddle,
    Of secret rivers loitering, that no one will explore;
And I tell them of the ranges, of the pack-strap and the saddle,
    And they fill their pipes in silence, and their eyes beseech for more;
    While above the star-shells fizzle and the high explosives roar.

And I tell of lakes fish-haunted, where the big bull moose are calling,
    And forests still as sepulchres with never trail or track;
And valleys packed with purple gloom, and mountain peaks appalling,
    And I tell them of my cabin on the shore at Fond du Lac;
    And I find myself a-thinking: Sure I wish that I was back.

So I brag of bear and beaver while the batteries are roaring,
    And the fellows on the firing steps are blazing at the foe;
And I yarn of fur and feather when the `marmites` are a-soaring,
    And they listen to my stories, seven `poilus` in a row,
    Seven lean and lousy poilus with their cigarettes aglow.

And I tell them when it`s over how I`ll hike for Athabaska;
    And those seven greasy poilus they are crazy to go too.
And I`ll give the wife the "pickle-tub" I promised, and I`ll ask her
    The price of mink and marten, and the run of cariboo,
    And I`ll get my traps in order, and I`ll start to work anew.

For I`ve had my fill of fighting, and I`ve seen a nation scattered,
    And an army swung to slaughter, and a river red with gore,
And a city all a-smoulder, and . . . as if it really mattered,
    For the lake is yonder dreaming, and my cabin`s on the shore;
And the dogs are leaping madly, and the wife is singing gladly,
    And I`ll rest in Athabaska, and I`ll leave it nevermore.
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