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Robert W Service - The Logger
Work rating: Low

In the moonless, misty night, with my little pipe alight, 
I am sitting by the camp-fire`s fading cheer; 
Oh, the dew is falling chill on the dim, deer-haunted hill, 
And the breakers in the bay are moaning drear. 
The toilful hours are sped, the boys are long abed, 
And I alone a weary vigil keep; 
In the sightless, sullen sky I can hear the night-hawk cry, 
And the frogs in frenzied chorus from the creek. 

And somehow the embers` glow brings me back the long ago, 
The days of merry laughter and light song; 
When I sped the hours away with the gayest of the gay 
In the giddy whirl of fashion`s festal throng. 
Oh, I ran a grilling race and I little recked the pace, 
For the lust of youth ran riot in my blood; 
But at last I made a stand in this God-forsaken land 
Of the pine-tree and the mountain and the flood. 

And now I`ve got to stay, with an overdraft to pay, 
For pleasure in the past with future pain; 
And I`m not the chap to whine, for if the chance were mine 
I know I`d choose the old life once again. 
With its woman`s eyes a-shine, and its flood of golden wine; 
Its fever and its frolic and its fun; 
The old life with its din, its laughter and its sin — 
And chuck me in the gutter when it`s done. 

Ah, well! it`s past and gone, and the memory is wan, 
That conjures up each old familiar face; 
And here by fortune hurled, I am dead to all the world, 
And I`ve learned to lose my pride and keep my place. 
My ways are hard and rough, and my arms are strong and tough, 
And I hew the dizzy pine till darkness falls; 
And sometimes I take a dive, just to keep my heart alive, 
Among the gay saloons and dancing halls. 

In the distant, dinful town just a little drink to drown 
The cares that crowd and canker in my brain; 
Just a little joy to still set my pulses all a-thrill, 
Then back to brutish labour once again. 
And things will go on so until one day I shall know 
That Death has got me cinched beyond a doubt; 
Then I`ll crawl away from sight, and morosely in the night 
My weary, wasted life will peter out. 

Then the boys will gather round, and they`ll launch me in the ground, 
And pile the stones the timber wolf to foil; 
And the moaning pine will wave overhead a nameless grave, 
Where the black snake in the sunshine loves to coil. 
And they`ll leave me there alone, and perhaps with softened tone 
Speak of me sometimes in the camp-fire`s glow, 
As a played-out, broken chum, who has gone to Kingdom Come, 
And who went the pace in England long ago.
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