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Robert W Service - The Ballad Of Soulful Sam
Work rating: Medium

You want me to tell you a story, a yarn of the firin` line,
Of our thin red kharki `eroes, out there where the bullets whine;
Out there where the bombs are bustin`,
and the cannons like `ell-doors slam —
Just order another drink, boys, and I`ll tell you of Soulful Sam.

Oh, Sam, he was never `ilarious, though I`ve `ad some mates as was wus;
He `adn`t C. B. on his programme, he never was known to cuss.
For a card or a skirt or a beer-mug he `adn`t a friendly word;
But when it came down to Scriptures, say! Wasn`t he just a bird!

He always `ad tracts in his pocket, the which he would haste to present,
And though the fellers would use them in ways that they never was meant,
I used to read `em religious, and frequent I`ve been impressed
By some of them bundles of `oly dope he carried around in his vest.

For I — and oh, `ow I shudder at the `orror the word conveys!
`Ave been — let me whisper it `oarsely — a gambler `alf of me days;
A gambler, you `ear — a gambler. It makes me wishful to weep,
And yet `ow it`s true, my brethren! — I`d rather gamble than sleep.

I`ve gambled the `ole world over, from Monte Carlo to Maine;
From Dawson City to Dover, from San Francisco to Spain.
Cards! They `ave been me ruin. They`ve taken me pride and me pelf,
And when I`d no one to play with — why, I`d go and I`d play by meself.

And Sam `e would sit and watch me, as I shuffled a greasy deck,
And `e`d say: "You`re bound to Perdition,"
And I`d answer: "Git off me neck!"
And that`s `ow we came to get friendly, though built on a different plan,
Me wot`s a desprite gambler, `im sich a good young man.

But on to me tale. Just imagine . . . Darkness! The battle-front!
The furious `Uns attackin`! Us ones a-bearin` the brunt!
Me crouchin` be`ind a sandbag, tryin` `ard to keep calm,
When I `ears someone singin` a `ymn toon; be`old! it is Soulful Sam.

Yes; right in the crash of the combat, in the fury of flash and flame,
`E was shootin` and singin` serenely as if `e enjoyed the same.
And there in the `eat of the battle, as the `ordes of demons attacked,
He dipped down into `is tunic, and `e `anded me out a tract.

Then a star-shell flared, and I read it: Oh, Flee From the Wrath to Come!
Nice cheerful subject, I tell yer, when you`re `earin` the bullets `um.
And before I `ad time to thank `im, just one of them bits of lead
Comes slingin` along in a `urry, and it `its my partner. . . . Dead?

No, siree! not by a long sight! For it plugged `im `ard on the chest,
Just where `e`d tracts for a army corps stowed away in `is vest.
On its mission of death that bullet `ustled along, and it caved
A `ole in them tracts to `is `ide, boys — but the life o` me pal was saved.

And there as `e showed me in triumph, and `orror was chokin` me breath,
On came another bullet on its `orrible mission of death;
On through the night it cavorted, seekin` its `aven of rest,
And it zipped through a crack in the sandbags, and it wolloped me bang on the breast.

Was I killed, do you ask? Oh no, boys. Why am I sittin` `ere
Gazin` with mournful vision at a mug long empty of beer?
With a throat as dry as a — oh, thanky! I don`t much mind if I do.
Beer with a dash of `ollands, that`s my particular brew.

Yes, that was a terrible moment. It `ammered me `ard o`er the `eart;
It bowled me down like a nine-pin, and I looked for the gore to start;
And I saw in the flash of a moment, in that thunder of hate and strife,
Me wretched past like a pitchur — the sins of a gambler`s life.

For I `ad no tracts to save me, to thwart that mad missile`s doom;
I `ad no pious pamphlets to `elp me to cheat the tomb;
I `ad no `oly leaflets to baffle a bullet`s aim;
I`d only — a deck of cards, boys, but . . . it seemed to do just the same.
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