Page:Canadian poems of the great war.djvu/213

 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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