Sky’s a—waxin’ grey, Got to be a—goin’; Gittin’ on my way, Where? I ain’t a—knowin’. Fellers, no more jokes,

Men of the High North, the wild s… Islands of opal float on silver se… Swift splendors kindle, barbaric,… Pale ports of amber, golden argosi… Ringed all around us the proud pea…

Each time that I switch on the li… A Miracle it seems to me That I should rediscover sight And banish dark so utterly. One moment I am bleakly blind,

(The French “Tommy”). Oh, some of us lolled in the chate… And some of us slinked in the slum… But now we are here with a song an… To serve at the sign of the drum.

No man can be a failure if he thin… he may not own his roof—tree overh… He may be on his uppers and have h… (Financially speaking —in the red) He may have chronic shortage to re…

Her baby was so full of glee, And through the day It laughed and babbled on her knee In happy play. It pulled her hair all out of curl

When I played my penny whistle on… The heather bloomed about us, and… As you bent above your knitting so… And fine and soft and slow the rai… Your cheeks were pink like painted…

Where are the dames I used to kno… In Dawson in the days of yore? Alas, it’s fifty years ago, And most, I guess, have “gone bef… The swinging scythe is swift to mo…

From out her shabby rain—coat pock… The little Jew girl in the train Produced a dinted silver locket With pasted in it portraits twain. “These are my parents, sir” she sa…

Let laureates sing with rapturous… Of the wonder and glory of work; Let pulpiteers preach and with pas… The indolent wretches who shirk. No doubt they are right: in the st…

I never could imagine God: I don’t suppose I ever will. Beside His altar fire I nod With senile drowsiness but still In old of age as sight grows dim

Grimy men with picks and shovels Who in darkness sweat unseen, Climb from out your lousy hovels, Build a palace for the Queen; Praise the powers that be for givi…

“Gather around me, children dear; The wind is high and the night is… Closer, little ones, snuggle near; Let’s seek a story of ages old; A magic tale of a bygone day,

I wrote a poem to the moon But no one noticed it; Although I hoped that late or soo… Someone would praise a bit Its purity and grace forlone,

The portrait there above my bed They tell me is a work of art; My Wife,—since twenty years she’s… Her going nearly broke my heart. Alas! No little ones we had