Men of the High North, the wild s… Islands of opal float on silver se… Swift splendors kindle, barbaric,… Pale ports of amber, golden argosi… Ringed all around us the proud pea…

I looked down on a daisied lawn To where a host of tiny eyes Of snow and gold from velvet shone And made me think of starry skies. I looked up to the vasty night

For all good friends who care to r… here let me lyre my living creed .… One: you may deem me Pacifist, For I’ve no sympathy with strife. Like hell I hate the iron fist,

My Pa and Ma their honeymoon Passed in an Andulasian June, And though produced in Drury Lane… I must have been conceived in Spa… Now having lapsed from fair estate…

You make it in your mess—tin by th… You watch it cloud, then settle am… You lift it with your bay’nit, and… The very breath of it is ripe with… You’re awful cold and dirty, and a…

'Why did the lady in the lift Slap that poor parson’s face?' Said Mother, thinking as she snif… Of clerical disgrace. Said Sonny Boy: 'Alas, I know.

Just Home and Love! the words are… Four little letters unto each; And yet you will not find in all The wide and gracious range of spe… Two more so tenderly complete:

Playboy I greet the challenge of the dawn With weary, bleary eyes; Into the sky so ashen wan I wait the sun to rise;

To be a bony feed Sourdough You must, by Yukon Law, Have killed a moose, And robbed a sluice, AND BUNKED UP WITH A SQU…

A—sittin’ in the Bull and Pump With double gins to keep us cheery Says she to me, says Polly Crump" “What makes ye look so sweet. me d… As if ye’d gotten back yer youth .…

I bought a cuckoo clock And glad was I To hear its tick and tock, Its dulcet cry. But Jones, whose wife is young

Son put a poser up to me That made me scratch my head: “God made the whole wide world,” q… “That’s right, my boy,” I said. Said son: “He mad the mountains s…

I ran a nail into my hand, The wound was hard to heal; So bitter was the pain to stand I thought how it would feel, To have spikes thrust through hand…

Is it because I’m bent and grey, Though wearing rather well, That I can slickly get away With all the yarns I tell? Is it because my bleary eye

I hate my neighbour Widow Green; I’d like to claw her face; But if I did she’d make a scene And run me round the place: For widows are in way of spleen