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in the shadow of my cabin,

      And it roamed the velvet valley till today;

      But I tracked it by the river, and I trailed it in the cover,

      And I killed it on the mountain miles away.

      Now I’ve had my lazy supper, and the level sun is gleaming

      On the water where the silver salmon play;

      And I light my little corncob, and I linger, softly dreaming,

      In the twilight, of a land that’s far away.

      Far away, so faint and far, is flaming London, fevered Paris,

      That I fancy I have gained another star;

      Far away the din and hurry, far away the sin and worry,

      Far away — God knows they cannot be too far.

      Gilded galley-slaves of Mammon — how my purse-proud brothers taunt me!

      I might have been as well-to-do as they

      Had I clutched like them my chances, learned their wisdom, crushed my fancies,

      Starved my soul and gone to business every day.

      Well, the cherry bends with blossom and the vivid grass is springing,

      And the star-like lily nestles in the green;

      And the frogs their joys are singing, and my heart in tune is ringing,

      And it doesn’t matter what I might have been.

      While above the scented pine-gloom, piling heights of golden glory,

      The sun-god paints his canvas in the west,

      I can couch me deep in clover, I can listen to the story

      Of the lazy, lapping water — it is best.

      While the trout leaps in the river, and the blue grouse thrills the cover,

      And the frozen snow betrays the panther’s track,

      And the robin greets the dayspring with the rapture of a lover,

      I am happy, and I’ll nevermore go back.

      For I know I’d just be longing for the little old log cabin,

      With the morning glory clinging to the door,

      Till I loathed the city places, cursed the care on all the faces,

      Turned my back on lazar London evermore.

      So send me far from Lombard Street, and write me down a failure;

      Put a little in my purse and leave me free.

      Say: “He turned from Fortune’s offering to follow up a pale lure,

      He is one of us no longer — let him be.”

      I am one of you no longer; by the trails my feet have broken,

      The dizzy peaks I’ve scaled, the campfire’s glow;

      By the lonely seas I’ve sailed in — yea, the final word is spoken,

      I am signed and sealed to nature. Be it so.

      The Low-Down White

      This is the payday up at the mines, when the bearded brutes come down;

      There’s money to burn in the streets tonight, so I’ve sent my klooch to town,

      With a haggard face and ribband of red entwined in her hair of brown.

      And I know at the dawn she’ll come reeling home with the bottles, one, two, three —

      One for herself, to drown her shame, and two big bottles for me,

      To make me forget the thing I am and the man I used to be.

      To make me forget the brand of the dog, as I crouch in this hideous place;

      To make me forget once I kindled the light of love in a lady’s face,

      Where even the squalid Siwash now holds me a black disgrace.

      Oh, I have guarded my secret well! And who would dream as I speak

      In a tribal tongue like a rogue unhung, ’mid the ranch-house filth and reek,

      I could roll to bed with a Latin phrase and rise with a verse of Greek?

      Yet I was a senior prizeman once, and the pride of a college eight;

      Called to the bar — my friends were true! but they could not keep me straight;

      Then came the divorce, and I went abroad and “died” on the River Plate.

      But I’m not dead yet; though with half a lung there isn’t time to spare,

      And I hope that the year will see me out, and, thank God, no one will care —

      Save maybe the little slim Siwash girl with the rose of shame in her hair.

      She will come with the dawn, and the dawn is near; I can see its evil glow,

      Like a corpse-light seen through a frosty pane in a night of want and woe;

      And yonder she comes by the bleak bull-pines, swift staggering through the snow.

      The Tramps

      Can you recall, dear comrade, when we tramped God’s land together,

      And we sang the old, old Earth-song, for our youth was very sweet;

      When we drank and fought and lusted, as we mocked at tie and tether,

      And the road to Anywhere, the wide world at our feet —

      Along the road to Anywhere, when each day had its story;

      When the time was yet our vassal, and life’s jest was still unstale;

      When peace unfathomed filled our hearts as, bathed in amber glory,

      Along the road to Anywhere we watched the sunsets pale?

      Alas! the road to Anywhere is pitfalled with disaster;

      There’s hunger, want, and weariness, yet O we loved it so!

      As on we tramped exultantly, and no man was our master,

      And no man guessed what dreams were ours, as, swinging heel and toe,

      We tramped the road to Anywhere, the magic road to Anywhere,

      The tragic road to Anywhere, such dear, dim years ago.

      L’Envoi

      You who have lived in the land,

      You who have trusted the trail,

      You who are strong to withstand,

      You who are swift to assail:

      Songs have I sung to beguile,

      Vintage of desperate years

      Hard as a harlot’s smile,

      Bitter as unshed tears.

      Little of joy or mirth,

      Little of ease I sing;

      Sagas of men of earth

      Humanly suffering,

      Such as you all have done;

      Savagely faring forth,

      Sons of the midnight sun,

      Argonauts of the North.

      Far in the land God forgot

      Glimmers the lure of your trail;

      Still in your lust are you taught

      Even to win is to fail.

      Still you must follow and fight

      Under the vampire wing;

      There

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