Robert William Service

(16 January 1874 - 11 September 1958 / Preston)

Robert William Service Poems

121. The Sniper 1/13/2003
122. The Smoking Frog 1/13/2003
123. The Silent Ones 1/13/2003
124. The Sightless Man 1/13/2003
125. The Shorter Catechism 1/13/2003
126. The Shooting Of Dan Mcgrew 1/13/2003
127. The Sewing-Girl 1/13/2003
128. The Seed 1/13/2003
129. The Search 1/13/2003
130. The Seance 1/13/2003
131. The Scribe's Prayer 1/13/2003
132. The Score 1/13/2003
133. The Sceptic 1/13/2003
134. The Sacrifices 1/13/2003
135. The Rover 1/13/2003
136. The Robbers 1/13/2003
137. The Rhyme Of The Restless Ones 1/13/2003
138. The Rhyme Of The Remittance Man 1/13/2003
139. The Revelation 1/13/2003
140. The Return 1/13/2003
141. The Release 1/13/2003
142. The Red Retreat 1/13/2003
143. The Record 1/13/2003
144. The Reckoning 1/13/2003
145. The Receptionist 1/13/2003
146. The Quitter 1/13/2003
147. The Quest 1/13/2003
148. The Prospector 1/13/2003
149. The Prisoner 1/13/2003
150. The Pretty Lady 1/13/2003
151. The Portrait 1/13/2003
152. The Pines 1/13/2003
153. The Pigeons Of St. Marks 1/13/2003
154. The Pigeon Shooting 1/13/2003
155. The Philistine And The Bohemian 1/13/2003
156. The Philanderer 1/13/2003
157. The Petit Vieux 1/13/2003
158. The Pencil Seller 1/13/2003
159. The Passing Of The Year 1/13/2003
160. The Parting 1/13/2003
Best Poem of Robert William Service

The Cremation Of Sam Mcgee

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in ...

Read the full of The Cremation Of Sam Mcgee

Wistful

Oh how I'd be gay and glad
If a little house I had,
Snuggled in a shady lot,
With behind a garden plot;
Simple grub, old duds to wear,
A book, a pipe, a rocking-chair . . .
You would never hear me grouse
If I had a little house.

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