Robert W. Service
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 clime and colour, how they hearken 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 explos ives 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.
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