From the latest issue of African Hunter magazine:

"There's a race of men that don't fit in,
A race the can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest.
There's is the curse of the Gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest."

-Robert Service

For everyone else who just can't wait to see what's over the next hill!

Brett

Here's the whole poem:

The Men That Don't Fit In
By Robert Service

There's a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.

If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.

He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.
Life's been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;
He's a man who won't fit in.


And some more Service:


Freedom’s Fool
By Robert Service

To hell with Government I say;
I'm sick of all the piddling pack.
I'd like to scram, get clean away,
And never, nevermore come back.
With heart of hope I long to go
To some lost island of the sea,
And there get drunk with joy to know
No one on earth is over me.

There will be none to say me nay,
So from my lexicon I can
Obliterate the word "obey",
And mock the meddling laws of man.
The laws of Nature and of God
Are good enough for guys like me,
Who scorn to kiss the scarlet rod
Of office and authority.

No Stars and Stripes nor Union Jack,
Nor tri-colour nor crimson rag
Shall claim my love, I'll turn my back
On every land, on every flag.
My banner shall be stainless white,
An emblem of the Golden Rule,
Yet for its freedom I will fight
And die - like any other fool.

Oh Government's a bitter pill!
No force or fear shall forge my fate;
I'll bow to no communal will,
For I myself shall be the State.
Uncurst by man-curb and control,
my Isle shall be emparadised,
And I will re-possess my soul . . .
Mad Anarchist! - Well, wasn't Christ?

And some more:

The Land of Beyond
By Robert Service

Have you ever heard of the Land of Beyond,
That dream at the gates of the day?
Alluring it lies at the skirts of the skies,
And ever so far away;
Alluring it calls: O ye yoke of galls,
And ye of the trails overfond,
With saddle and pack, by paddle and track,
Let’s go to the Land of Beyond!

Have ever you stood where the silences brood,
And vast the horizons begin,
At the dawn of the day to behold far away
The goal you would strive for and win?
Yet ah! in the night when you gain to the height,
With the vast pool of heaven star-spawned,
Afar and agleam, like a valley of dream,
Still mocks you the Land of Beyond.

Thank God! there is always the Land of Beyond
For us who are true to the trail;
A vision to seek, a beckoning peak,
A fairness that never will fail;
A proud in our soul that mocks at a goal,
A manhood that irks at a bond,
And try how we will, unattainable still,
Behold it, our Land of Beyond!


And some C Emily Dibb:

The Call of Africa
By C. Emily Dibb

When you've acquired a taste for dust,
The scent of our first rain,
You're hooked for life on Africa
And you'll not be right again
Till you can watch the setting moon
And hear the jackals bark
And know that they're around you,
Waiting in the dark.

When you long to see the elephants,
Or to hear the coucal's song,
When the moonrise sets your blood on fire,
You've been away too long
It's time to cut the traces loose
And let your heart go free
Beyond that far horizon,
Where your spirit yearns to be

Africa is waiting - come!
Since you've touched the open sky
And learned to love the rustling grass,
The wild fish-eagles cry.
You'll always hunger for the bush,
For the lion's rasping roar,
To camp at last beneath the stars
And to be at peace once more

The Exile
By C. Emily Dibb

I miss the earth of Africa,
The hot dry stones, the sand,
The friendly feel of sun warmed rock,
Beneath my outspread hand.

I miss the smell of Africa,
The fragrance of the grass,
At dewfall in the evening.
In the glades where leopards pass.

I miss the light of Africa,
The glare that hurts the eyes,
The shock of blinding brilliance,
In noonday’s cloud-massed skies.

I miss the sounds of Africa,
The barking of baboon,
And the thunder of the lion’s roar,
That greets the rising moon.

I miss the wind of Africa,
That blows before the rain,
The warm, wet wind of heaven,
I must breathe it once again.

Oh I long to sleep in Africa,
Through a velvet summer night,
And there to dream of days gone by,
Until my soul takes flight.

Then should I wake in Africa,
I’ll hear the bulbul’s song,
And know that I am home at last,
Back home where I belong.

Thank you for raising our literary standards!

+1

Damn, Brett. I guess Steve showed how to post poetry!

Tom

Plenty more good stuff yet:

The rhyme of the Restless Ones
By Robert Service


We couldn't sit and study for the law;
The stagnation of a bank we couldn't stand;
For our riot blood was surging, and we didn't need much urging
To excitements and excesses that are banned.
So we took to wine and drink and other things,
And the devil in us struggled to be free;
Till our friends rose up in wrath, and they pointed out the path,
And they paid our debts and packed us o'er the sea.

Oh, they shook us off and shipped us o'er the foam,
To the larger lands that lure a man to roam;
And we took the chance they gave
Of a far and foreign grave,
And we bade good-by for evermore to home.

And some of us are climbing on the peak,
And some of us are camping on the plain;
By pine and palm you'll find us, with never claim to bind us,
By track and trail you'll meet us once again.

We are the fated serfs to freedom -- sky and sea;
We have failed where slummy cities overflow;
But the stranger ways of earth know our pride and know our worth,
And we go into the dark as fighters go.

Yes, we go into the night as brave men go,
Though our faces they be often streaked with woe;
Yet we're hard as cats to kill,
And our hearts are reckless still,
And we've danced with death a dozen times or so.

And you'll find us in Alaska after gold,
And you'll find us herding cattle in the South.
We like strong drink and fun, and, when the race is run,
We often die with curses in our mouth.
We are wild as colts unbroke, but never mean.
Of our sins we've shoulders broad to bear the blame;
But we'll never stay in town and we'll never settle down,
And we'll never have an object or an aim.

No, there's that in us that time can never tame;
And life will always seem a careless game;
And they'd better far forget --
Those who say they love us yet --
Forget, blot out with bitterness our name


CARRY ON!
By Robert Service

It’s easy to fight when everything’s right,
And you’re mad with thrill and the glory;
It’s easy to cheer when victory’s near,
And wallow in fields that are gory.
It’s a different song when everything’s wrong,
When you’re feeling infernally mortal;
When it’s ten against one, and hope there is none,
Buck up, little soldier, and chortle:

Carry on! Carry on!
There isn’t much punch in your blow.
You are glaring and staring and hitting out blind;
You are muddy and bloody, but never you mind.
Carry on! Carry on!
You haven’t the ghost of a show.
It’s looking like death, but while you’ve a breath,
Carry on, my son! Carry on!

And so in the strife of the battle of life
It’s easy to fight when you’re winning;
It’s easy to slave, and starve and be brave,
When the dawn of success is beginning.
But the man who can meet despair and defeat
With a cheer, there’s the man of God’s choosing;
The man who can fight to Heaven’s own height
Is the man who can fight when he’s losing.

Carry on! Carry on!
Thing never were looming so black.
But show that you haven’t a cowardly streak,
And though you’re unlucky you never are weak.
Carry on! Carry on!
Brace up for another attack.
It’s looking like hell, but – you never tell.
Carry on, old man! Carry on!

There are some who drift out in the desert of doubt
And some who in brutishness wallow;
There are others, I know, who in piety go
Because of a Heaven to follow.
But to labor with zest, and to give of your best,
For the sweetness and joy of the giving;
To help folks along with a hand and a song;
Why, there’s the real sunshine of living.

Carry on! Carry on!
Fight the good fight and true;
Believe in your mission, greet life with a cheer;
There’s big work to do, and that’s why you are here.
Carry on! Carry on!
Let the world be the better for you;
And at last when you die, let this be your cry!
Carry on, my soul! Carry on!


Here's one from Brian Brooke for you:

Nature
By Brian Brooke

It is strange to think of, but I never cared for flowers,
With their tints of pink and purple, blue and red,
For their bloom is short and fragile, it as most can last for hours,
And they’re hideously ugly when they’re dead.

I would rather see a snowflake falling softly on the land,
Though it’s life may last a minute and it’s o’er
And to see the snowdrifts whirling is a sight that’s really grand,
Though their strength and beauty passes in the thaw.

But the things I love in nature are the height, the depth the length,
Of the mountains and the ocean, and the plain,
All the things that tell so wondrously, the magnitude and strength
Of the hand that made the things, which will remain.

Oh I love to see the mountains with their everlasting snow,
And the things too big and fine to understand,
Like the huge and mighty cataracts where the waters ever flow,
And the limitless expanse of desert sand.

And I like the clear bright sunlight, and the snow, the hail, the rain,
And the thunderstorms where the lightnings fork and flash;
And the forests and the jungles and the desert and the plain;
Where the colours always mix and never clash.

For there’s nothing bad in nature, nothing ever small or mean,
Ev’rything is always good and square and strong;
And there’s nothing looks untidy, ev’ry place is pure and clean,
And there’s no mistakes, and nothings ever wrong.

Oh I love to lie at midnight in the clear and open veldt,
And to watch the stars above me in the sky;
That’s the time I do my thinking, and at times I’ve often felt
That’s the sort of time and place I’d like to die.

It is good to be out somewhere all alone in nature’s arms,
When one lays one’s blanket down and goes to rest;
And I’ve often thought of all her gifts, of all of Nature’s charms,
That the glory of her silence is the best.

Astronomers and scientists can name each star they see.
And can reckon out their distances and speed;
But to lie awake and watch them, that is good enough for me,
And as good as any novel you can read.

First the clear and ashen moon light stealing out across the plain,
And the first dim grayish colouring of morn;
Then the fading of the starlight as the moon begins to wane,
And the blood-red golden triumph of the dawn.

Oh no atheist can really be an atheist at heart,
Who has lived alone with Nature in the bush,
Who has heard the desert calling and has seen the night depart,
And has slumbered ‘neath that awe-inspiring hush.

Where the mountains pierce the heavens and the plains stretch far and wide,
Whether desert sand or rich and fertile sod;
Where the raging, roaring torrents cleave the cliffs on either side,
There is nature and there surely is a God.

And it’s not the God we worship or the God that other’s do,
We must always be the one and only thought;
For with Christian, Mohammedan, the Buddhist and the Jew,
It’s the God whom each in childhood has been taught.

If he hopes for resurrection, or he trusts alone to fate,
If he plays the game and plays it fair and square,
Whatever his religion is, as long as he is straight,
The God who made the mountains will not care.

But I moralise and weary you with fancies such as these,
And such tales from me I know are out of place;
But it’s hard to live with Nature long and see the things one sees,
And not to look religion in the face;

When you lie awake at midnight, half awake and half asleep,
And you see the silver moon afloat on high,
Or from some lonely Kopje see the early sunbeams creep,
Like streams of golden liquid o’er the sky.

I have no books of science by the clever and the wise,
So I only know the nature that I see;
But I glory in her power, and her strength I realise,
And – well Nature seems to hit it off with me.

When I lie me down at twilight ‘neath some wide and spreading tree,
She will whisper as the night breeze gently hums,
Oh that boy, he gets my meaning, and he understands me,
And I calculate that boy and me are chums.

Now you know why Steve is so entertaining in camp

I've even got a quote for when bad shots & misses:

The moving finger writes, and having writ,
Moves on, nor all thy piety nor wit,
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all thy tears wash out a word of it.

From the Rubiat of Omar Khayyam

I resemble that!! some day I will learn to proof read my postings before I post them JUST NOT TODAY

The literary bar has been raised. Thanks for sharing Robert Services poems, great way to start the weekend (even if it is only Friday)

MMmmhhhh!! Quite the deep bastard.

quote:

Originally posted by Scriptus:
MMmmhhhh!! Quite the deep bastard.

Especially when it comes to good poetry and good whisky my friend.