Robert William Service

(16 January 1874 - 11 September 1958 / Preston)

Robert William Service Poems

361. The Bread-Knife Ballad 1/13/2003
362. Second Childhood 11/28/2014
363. The God Of Common-Sense 1/13/2003
364. The Song Of The Soldier-Born 1/13/2003
365. The Ballad Of The Brand 1/13/2003
366. The Pretty Lady 1/13/2003
367. The Philistine And The Bohemian 1/13/2003
368. Resolutions 1/13/2003
369. The Man From Athabaska 1/13/2003
370. The Sniper 1/13/2003
371. Moon Song 1/13/2003
372. The Lunger 1/13/2003
373. The Ape And I 1/13/2003
374. The Other One 1/13/2003
375. The Anniversary 1/13/2003
376. The Hat 1/13/2003
377. Madam La Maquise 1/13/2003
378. The Ballad Of Soulful Sam 1/13/2003
379. Pragmatic 1/13/2003
380. To The Man Of The High North 1/13/2003
381. Old Engine Driver 1/13/2003
382. Oh, It Is Good 1/13/2003
383. Post Office Romance 1/13/2003
384. The Faceless Man 1/13/2003
385. My Future 1/13/2003
386. The Squaw Man 1/13/2003
387. The Parson's Son 1/13/2003
388. The Man Who Knew 1/13/2003
389. The Junior God 1/13/2003
390. The Ballad Of The Leather Medal 1/13/2003
391. Lottery Ticket 1/13/2003
392. Take It Easy 1/13/2003
393. The Sewing-Girl 1/13/2003
394. Kittens 1/13/2003
395. Premonition 1/13/2003
396. Two Husbands 1/13/2003
397. My Husky Team 1/13/2003
398. On The Wire 1/13/2003
399. No Sunday Chicken 1/13/2003
400. The Bandit 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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