Saturday, December 31, 2016

A recently rediscovered poem by Robert W. Service

O gather ye northern voyagers, and gather ye trappers of old
For the snow’s blown off of a curious tale that’s never been truly told
It’s the strangest yarn of the frozen zone that ever I yet did hear
Whether trapper Smith told it true and straight (or maybe ’twas just the beer)

In the winter of ’34, he said, came an Irishman name of Pease
Without so much as a howdy-do, like a man blown in by the breeze
He’d only one great dream, he swore, and it held him in its grip
And that was to find, though the snow made him blind, Lord Franklin’s missing ship

He’d a map, he said, from Rasmussen, and it laid out clear and plain
Where the lost logbooks of the fabled crew nigh a century had lain
X marked the spot! and yet all that he’d brought was a single scrawny dog
Yet ’twas was clear from the start that he had the heart, no matter how long the slog

To hear Smith tell it, they all thought him mad, but at last they figured they’d help
The death of one man was a thing they could stand, but they pitied the loss of the whelp
So Angus MacIver, a fine old dog-driver, a fellow who never felt dread
Went and hitched up his sled, and another for Pease; with a crack of a whip they were fled

Their progress was slow through the blinding snows, for the first hundred miles or so
MacIver was minded to turn back to town, but Pease pleaded onward to go
At last the storm cleared, and their eyelids were seared, by the glare of the midnight sun
And onward they pressed, though they’d never have guessed, what lay at the end of their run.

At last they made camp, by the light of a lamp, as the polar twilight fell 
Pease bumped into something nearby in the drifts, and suddenly let out a yell!
’Twas a low house of logs, with no window or door, the length and the breadth of a man
In this lonely zone, where so few paths were known, there had ended a human lifespan.  

Strange figures were carved in the uppermost log, that MacIver deciphered, bar none
“The grave of a white man” the legend did read, and the date eighteen fifty and one
“’Tis the grave of the last of Lord Franklin’s bold crew” cried out Pease, with his hat in his hand
And his heart trembled inward, and grief racked his frame, and he found that he scarcely could stand.

Recovering his wits, he dug in with his mitts, and soon cleared the snow off for a space
With an axe in his hand he then broke through the bands that had held the logs firmly in place
He lowered the lamp and peered into the damp, but no sign of a corpse could he find
There were animal bones, rusty nails, cannon shot, and some pieces of cloth and old twine.

Had the grave then been looted? Had wolves tunneled in? Had the body been carried away?
Pease looked at MacIver, but the good old dog driver could hardly think what he could say
’’Tis the Law of the North that a man who goes forth, in a climate that never forgives
Becomes food for the famished, now that his life is done, so that other poor creatures may live

Pease looked for a sign, but saw naught but the stars, that yet shine on the living and dead
And he wondered out loud, but could never say how’d, he e’er got such ideas in his head
So he turned back to town, with his face in a frown, and from there sailed back over the sea
He had yearned to discover the fate of another, but ’twas his own fate he found — mo chroi!

O gather ye northern voyagers, and gather ye trappers of old
For the snow’s blown off of a curious tale that’s never been truly told
It’s the strangest yarn of the frozen zone that ever I yet did hear
Whether trapper Smith told it true and straight (or maybe ’twas just the beer)

2 comments:

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.