Rhymes of the Survey and Frontier — Inside the Classic

They were needed there, there were none to spare, In stemming disaster's tide.

Not a smile was seen, as the strange array Was mustered, and still they came From the Southern Cross and the midnight sun, The desert and from the plain: They came from the mountains and Grosvenor Square, The trapper beside the knight, The men of the jungle and Labrador, In eagerness for the fight.

They came in detachments, they came alone, They paid or they worked their way, In moccasins, chaps, or in overalls, The young with the old and grey: Their law was the law of the _Forty-four_, And grimly across the waves They came, for the King was in need of them, His men of the damn-fool trades.

They came from the mist of a future dawn, The lands of to-morrow's sun; The lands that in exile and weariness Had awaited the man to come. They came from the shade of a Moslem mosque, The desert of long ago; These men who had welcomed the Legion's call, Their loyalty e'en to show.

They came from the shanty and lumber camp, They came from a prairie shack, The office and camp of the engineers, The Irishman and the Mac; They came from the land of the Golden Fleece, And far from an Indian shore, Obeying the word that was passed along, The Frontiersman's call to war.

For the call had reached, God alone knew how, And Britons beyond the seas Caught its wailing cry, as it passed them by, Borne on by the evening breeze; In the fevered zone, or the Northern home, O'er wilderness, dark and bare, It spoke, and its note was o'er-pregnant, With weariness, pain, and care.

Then I seemed to be in a land of strife, With Britain against the wall, Where the pride of an empire was falling For ever beyond recall; And the flag that had waved in its glory Was drooping amid the gloom. 'Twas the end, and I fancied I heard it, The song of Britannia's doom.

But its notes were hushed, as with, vengeance flushed, In anger, the Legion came, Like a surging sea, for a moment free, Avengers of England's fame; And the flag was saved, but the lonely graves Recorded the price they paid, Ere the work of the Legion was ended, The doom of an Empire stayed.

And, then, thro' the mist of the cordite's gloom, I saw them return again, But many who gathered were missing now, And others were streaked with pain: For the desert would grieve for her children, The plains would resound no more With the voices of they who were sleeping Afar on that awful shore.

They turned them again to the wilderness Like shadows amid the night, Away to the silence and lonely camp, For ever from England's sight; But they heard the call, and the ones to fall Remembered throughout their pain, When the King was in need of their service The King had not called in vain.

_Would ye know them, these men of the Legion? Then seek where the trails divide; In the gloom they are waiting the message, Recalling them to your side. When the squares shall be shattered and broken. And victory's songs are stilled, Then the dream that I dreamed of to-morrow, The dream shall be e'en fulfilled._

(A Story of the Suez Canal)

Alone, yes, alone, a deserted coast, Though once I was lord of all; A king, and a fear, in the Southern Sea, To men who obeyed my call. Yet long was my reign, and my triumphs great, In days that are dead and gone; And now I am waiting, my voices dumb, A giant of my glory shorn.

I know they are passing me in the North By way of the great canal, And mocking the passage around the Cape, Where I and my victims dwell; Forsaken, undone, but I wait my chance, With wanderers, sorely pressed, The ones who at last will my boundaries pass, To fall on my waiting breast.

Alone, but for one who will ever sail, For aye in my mighty grasp; The Dutchman, who, trying to round my coast, Was felled by my raging blast; For the story's true of the spectral crew Who wander amid the gloom, While my surges sing a deathless hymn, The song of the Dutchman's doom.

He'd a mighty ship, and he dared my wrath With haughty contempt and pride, And a scornful sneer, which I turned to fear As vainly escape he tried; Well I knew his woe, as he tried to go, In spite of my raging storm, With a bragging curse, which could not disperse The fear that was in him born.

How I drew him on, and the moonlight shone On faces so drawn and white, And I mocked the care that was written there Aloud in my wild delight; There was naught to save from my grave, I watched them, as one by one To my rest were borne, in the early morn, Believing their work was done.

Then a fancy came, for my future fame, To tell of their deathless doom, So I sent the ship in its ceaseless trip, A phantom amid the gloom; And the story's spread of the restless dead-- They call it the ship of hell-- But I held it fast, when the others passed Away to the great canal.

For the Dutchman said that, alive or dead, He'd conquer amidst the storm, And I've heard them tell, in the depths of hell, Of spectres that then were born; They with me agreed he should ne'er be freed Till proving his reckless vow; And he's sailing yet, with his royals set. In anguish I see him now.

If he knew the way of the ships to-day, From Suez they mock me still, If he knew the passage that men have made His boast he could e'en fulfill. If he knew his vow could be proven now How gladly he'd say farewell, But he'll never know that he's free to go By way of the Great Canal.

THE RHYME OF THE ROLLING STONE

"The stone that rolleth ne'er shall find The moss, no substance make," Was written by the prophet old, Who words of wisdom spake; But, shadowed 'midst its shady bed, The stone of mossy store Is useless for the work of man, And rotten to the core.

The moss the hoard, and man the stone-- Methinks the semblance good, And rolling stones shall find no moss, Is wisdom understood; But where the voice of Empire calls, The moss is parched and dry, And we are rolling on our way Beneath a burning sky.

'Twas planned and modelled from the first, That we should pioneer, That we should know the hunger, and The desert's nameless fear; And from the East unto the West, You find the rolling stone Is playing still a useful part For you, who stay at home.

You'll find us where, in purple hue, The shadows slant the sand, As rivetters of Empire, we're The fellows you have damned; You'll find us where the Islam priest Is chanting at the dawn, Or throwing out the challenge, on A crystal Arctic morn.

You'll find us running surveys on Creation's ragged end, Or camping in the desert, where The past and future blend; We're busy building railways on The map's deserted spot, Or staking out an empire in The land that God forgot.

We haven't failed, tho' p'raps we're not As steady as the rest, But still we play the game that's set The player's skill to test; We often curse the deal that made Us wand'rers in the land, But not a man who's known the game Would ever change his hand.

So spurn ye not the polished stone For one of mossy coat, For some must roll the wilderness, And some must roll afloat; And some are making of the moss-- Your harvest p'raps was sown By he you brand for ever as A useless rolling stone.

(The Song of the Wild)

Rugged and dark are my paths to fame, Shadowed by men who have gone, Buried, but rising to point the way To he who shall seek the dawn; Haggard and grey, be ye not afraid, But greet with a fearless hand The shapes that await in the silence, My sentinels of the land.

Hasten their rest, be ye undismayed, For weary and tired they be, And long have they waited your coming, For ever to set them free; From a vigil long in the stillness, To you, who are of the brand, They call, they are waiting your answer, These Sentinels in the land.

Don't you hear their cry? It is pregnant With weariness; will you go? For theirs was the price of an Empire, And theirs was the seed to sow; And theirs were the dreams of a nation, Ah, will ye not understand That ye were begotten to follow My Sentinels in the land!

Will ye take the hand that they offer? Or else will ye mock their pain? Will ye heed the wail from the silence? For, hark, 'tis the call again; In the land of ages and myst'ry, Your love they will e'er requite, And there shall ye find of my treasure, 'Midst Sentinels of the night.

It takes a lot to make a world, all classes and all kinds, But where the flag is flying now, a fellow always finds A figure that's familiar, and a work that's ever new, A little Army bonnet and a uniform of blue.

We've toughed it in the Yukon, and we've surveyed o'er the plain, And been where easy comfort is a thing you'd seek in vain, But ever where the hardest was, we'd see the worker true, A little Army bonnet and a uniform of blue.

'Way up on old Bonanza, ere we surveyed out the line, Where hell was throned in glory, ruby lights and devil's wine, There stood a sacred cottage, and a home it was for two, Two little Army bonnets and the uniforms of blue.

They didn't have a fancy church, with organ and a choir, And didn't always talk about the judgment and the fire, But, seeking out the worst that were, they started them anew To climb the ladder where they fell, those angels dressed in blue.

It wasn't long before we saw a change was taking place, And brutish looks were vanishing from many a hardened face, And seeds were planted deep in hell, which up to heaven grew, By little Army bonnets in Salvation Army blue.

We play the game and never tame, and never settle down, And on our many weaknesses our better brothers frown, Although we seldom read the Book, we know it must be true, For once we met its angels, _in a uniform of blue_.

Have you ever cursed at the Master's work, when life's been a sort of hell? If so, then perhaps you will understand the story I'm going to tell; There are chaps you know who have never seen the edge of a thing called life, And have never known of the challenge thrown in the darkness of the strife.

There's a land we knew in the days of old, when we trudged the wilderness, 'Twas the land of pain, with the brand of Cain, the home of the loneliness; We had cursed it oft with the blackest curse, a reckless and godless lot, And headed our letters for going home, "the country that God forgot."

We had all been out since the early Spring, and things had been going wrong, And it seemed misfortune had dogged our trail each day, as it dragged along; It appeared to be as an alien land, forsaken by God and man, Till we heard the voice of the one who gave it birth when the world began.

We had cursed that day more than e'er before, as fellows in anger do, And a storm that gathered above us broke, soaking us through and through; As we tramped it back to the lonely camp, it seemed that place was banned, And Brown with an awful curse had said "The devil controls the land."

Then the thunder rolled, and the lightning flashed, with its wondrous lurid glow, And we who had challenged the wilderness wandered the earth below. It seemed that a message was from above, the knowledge of endless things, The power that quickens the soul of man, and models the hearts of kings.

I remember as though 'twere yesterday, the lesson we learnt that night, The answer that broke on our startled ears, the voice from the riven height. The God we had challenged with angry words was guarding and watching yet, And loving the wilderness we had cursed, the God who could not forget.

He knew of the lonely location crew, away in the shadowed past, He knew of the road we had come to build, reserving it to the last. He knew we would say He had long forgot the arid and thirsty land, But spoke from the heavens that night to show 'twas even as He had planned.

Where the mountains rise in splendour, And the shadows darkly fall, And the torrent rushes o'er the silent glen, Where the coyote's bark is wailing With its never-ending call, How I miss my home among the lonely men.

Left it all because they called me, Left it all a year ago. Tried to think the things of home could satisfy. Changed the silence for the glitter Of a city's empty glow. Tried to crush my soul of things that never die.

Things that were and ever shall be, Things that never, never change. Things that men I see around can never know. Things I know and love for ever, Thro' my wand'ring vision range, Things that whisper in the silence "You must go."

You who've never heard them calling, Pleading voices in the night,-- You who've never known the challenge of the wild, Cannot know the aching longing For the freedom and the fight When the loneliness is calling for her child.

There's a trail that lies a-waiting In a dim and aged land. There are monuments unbuilded in the gloom. There are epitaphs unwritten, Sleeping men who understand, There's a challenge, there's a fight against the doom.

When the wild is closing on you, And defiance you have hurled, And the trail is fading dimly in the night, As the mystic lights are dancing On the frontier of the world You are fighting grim and silent for your life.

When you're staking on the limit With a hope that's nearly gone, Then you grit your teeth and bluff the wild again, Till you see the lights a-gleaming In the coulee thro' the storm, And you shout a mocking triumph thro' your pain.

There's an awful, awful stillness, There's a something, God knows what. There's a recklessness that, born, can never die. There's a voice you try to silence Of the thing that once you sought, There's a longing in your heart you can't deny.

Far away amid the shadows Of the future and the past, Where the Mother waits the breaking of the day When her lands shall rise in splendour And her love be known at last, She is calling, and I know I must obey.

(The Rhyme of the Old Cook)

There are things you dream, And they often seem To have happened real and true, And the story which I am going to pitch He told while he stirred the stew. He had got his name When at first he came To cook on a grading pike, He had just one leg And a lumber peg, So they called him Wooden Mike.

The things he had done With his traps and gun, Were wonderful to relate. But strangest of all Was once in the fall, This story I heard him state. He had gone that fall, At an urgent call, To cook for a lumber firm, Where he worked so quick That he had to lick His hands so they wouldn't burn.

When he fried the cakes, That a fellow makes For breakfast, the griddle style, To have worked the way That they do to-day Would have taken quite awhile. So he hired a man For to grease the pan, Its size would be hard to beat; And the guy would skate Right across the plate With bacon rinds on his feet.

Now I wondered much As I thought of such, And asked him about the fire; The amount it took For the stuff to cook, The fuel that it would require. So he scratched his head As he quietly said The amount he'd clean forgot, But he understood That he used more wood Than ever the comp'ny got.

When he made his pie He would never try To finish them one by one; With an oven large As a young garage, The baking was quickly done. With his pies all lined, And the man behind, They close to the oven drew, He would throw the pie To the other guy, Which baked as it travelled through.

He'd a cycle path That was made of lath Where the men at dinner sat, And the waiter rode With a ready load Of eatables on his back. He was soaked with grease, But he couldn't cease, For washing to think about, So he lined his bunk With some sandy junk To keep him from slipping out.

He had lost his leg, While at sea he said-- Got wrecked on a desert isle, Where the cannibals, And the animals Had given themselves the bile. They had tried to eat Some of Mike's own meat, And one of his legs prepared, But they found the stuff Was exceeding tough, So that's why his life was spared.

Now I don't ask you. To believe it's true, For Mike was a bad old man. I with him agreed, For to get a feed, Believing it like a lamb.

_They call it the Prairie Madness. Be-ware as you enter its lair, For many have started in gladness. But few can the loneliness bear._

Desolate, lonely, forsaken, deserted for many a year, The joy of a soul in its building, with its hopes, lie buried here; For the grim old shack has a story that few but the winds ever know, The man who lived for its building, the man who was wrecked in its woe.

Bringing his logs from the mountain, toting them over the plain, Never a thought of his danger, smiling again and again, Thinking of her who would help him, watching his work as it grew, Speaking aloud in the silence the things that he meant to do.

Fretting alone through the winter, planning his plans all anew, Wondering why in the silence shapes in his memory grew. Trying to crush out the Spectre, still by his side it would lurk, Humming the snatch of a chorus, hymns he had sung in the Kirk.

Cooking his sol-a-try supper, dreaming of days that should come; Love that his soul could not utter held him unspeakably dumb, Trying to pierce through the shadows, oft that would darken his brain, Laughing because of the fancies, following on in their train.

Working alone for the future, thinking his waiting was o'er; Sending for her o'er the ocean, welcoming her at the door; Cursing the mists all around him, gleefully hemming him in; Sneaking his way round a corner, grinning the maniac's grin.

Taken one morn by the Sheriff, cursing and raving and wild, Songs he had sung in his schooldays, prayers he had learned as a child, Raving of her who awaited his message from over the sea, Living a death in the darkness, never again to be free.

_Far in the heart of a city, waiting a message in vain, Asking each day of the postman, lining her forehead with pain, Wondering why he had left her, drooping each day as it passed, Carried one morn to the churchyard, knowing the answer at last._

Funny a fellow always sees, wherever he may stray, The same old sun his people see, some thousand miles away. Pity a genius can't invent--the thing would surely pay-- A rapid transit vehicle attached to Solly's ray.

Many a plunger would be found who'd organize the scheme, For travelling would be quicker far than "twenty per" by steam. It's just a fancy, but to me it seems the missing link, To couple up the hemispheres, of which they never think.

Professors think of radium, and devil-wagon things, A washer that the clothing automatically wrings. I offer this suggestion, it's a winner barring none-- A thousand miles a minute _with a trailer on the Sun_.