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Rhymes of a Red Cross Man

Robert W. Service

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Rhymes of a Red Cross Man | Robert W. Service

Rhymes of a Red Cross Man

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Robert Service was born in Lancashire, England, but at age 21 moved to Canada and eventually ended up in the Yukon during the gold rush. His poems "The Shooting of Dan McGrew" and "The Cremation of Sam McGee" helped secure his reputation as the “Bard of the Yukon.” During World War I, Service was an ambulance driver and stretcher bearer for the Red Cross. This volume of poems springs from these experiences during the war.
m, grey waves; Tramp, tramp, the 'ell road, the 'orror and the ruin there, The graves of me mateys there, the grim, sour graves.




The Haggis of Private McPhee

 "Hae ye heard whit ma auld mither's postit tae me?
 It fair maks me hamesick," says Private McPhee.
 "And whit did she send ye?" says Private McPhun,
 As he cockit his rifle and bleezed at a Hun.
 "A haggis!  A HAGGIS!" says Private McPhee;
 "The brawest big haggis I ever did see.
 And think! it's the morn when fond memory turns
 Tae haggis and whuskey—the Birthday o' Burns.
 We maun find a dram; then we'll ca' in the rest
 O' the lads, and we'll hae a Burns' Nicht wi' the best."

 "Be ready at sundoon," snapped Sergeant McCole;
 "I want you two men for the List'nin' Patrol."
 Then Private McPhee looked at Private McPhun:
 "I'm thinkin', ma lad, we're confoundedly done."
 Then Private McPhun looked at Private McPhee:
 "I'm thinkin' auld chap, it's a' aff wi' oor spree."
 But up spoke their crony, wee Wullie McNair:
 "Jist lea' yer braw haggis for me tae prepare;
 And as for the dram, if I search the camp roun',
 We maun hae a drappie tae jist haud it doon.
 Sae rin, lads, and think, though the nicht it be black,
 O' the haggis that's waitin' ye when ye get back."

 My! but it wis waesome on Naebuddy's Land,
 And the deid they were rottin' on every hand.
 And the rockets like corpse candles hauntit the sky,
 And the winds o' destruction went shudderin' by.
 There wis skelpin' o' bullets and skirlin' o' shells,
 And breengin' o' bombs and a thoosand death-knells;
 But cooryin' doon in a Jack Johnson hole
 Little fashed the twa men o' the List'nin' Patrol.
 For sweeter than honey and bricht as a gem
 Wis the thocht o' the haggis that waitit for them.

 Yet alas! in oor moments o' sunniest cheer
 Calamity's aften maist
              

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