I will not wash my face;
I will not brush my hair;
I " pig " around the place —
There's nobody to care.
Nothing but rock and tree;
Nothing but wood and stone,
Oh, God, it's hell to be
Alone, alone, alone!

Snow-peaks and deep-gashed draws
Corral me in a ring.
I feel as if I was
The only living thing
On all this blighted earth;
And so I frowst and shrink,
And crouching by my hearth
I hear the thoughts I think.

I think of all I miss —
The boys I used to know;
The girls I used to kiss;

" The aristocratic ne'er-do-well in Canada frequently finds his way into the ranks of the Royal North-West Mounted Police. " — Extract .

Hark to the ewe that bore him:
" What has muddied the strain?
Never his brothers before him
Showed the hint of a stain. "
Hark to the tups and wethers;
Hark to the old gray ram:
" We're all of us white, but he's black as night,
And he'll never be worth a damn. "

'Tis the wail of the male of the Anglo-Saxon race —
" Shet yer head! " —
Who is hurled round the world and then hurtled into space —
" Shet yer head! " —
To his cackling, harping woman,
Who with vigour superhuman
(Or endurance granted few men)
Clacks and mags at him for ever.
(Shet yer head!)

Shut your head! Shut your head!
Shut your head! Shut yer head.
Shut your head, shut your head;
Shet yer head!
Shut your — shut your head!
Shut yer head. Shut your head!

I strolled up old Bonanza, where I staked in ninety-eight,
A-purpose to revisit the old claim.
I kept thinking mighty sadly of the funny ways of Fate,
And the lads who once were with me in the game.
Poor boys, they're down-and-outers, and there's scarcely one to-day
Can show a dozen colors in his poke;
And me, I'm still prospecting, old and battered, gaunt and gray,
And I'm looking for a grub-stake, and I'm broke.

I strolled up old Bonanza. The same old moon looked down;
The same old landmarks seemed to yearn to me;

Upon seeing a poor Object expiring in the Road near Bath , as the Author return'd from a Morning's Airing .

I.

Whilst I, upon my Churchill 's Back,
(I've bid adieu to stumbling Hack)
 Return'd from Morning's Ride;

II.

I saw, alas! it chill'd my Heart,
For, as a Man, who cou'd depart
 Without a plaintive Sigh?

III.

I saw, surrounded by a Croud,
Give Ear, ye rich, superfluous Proud,
 An Object, pale and wan;

IV.

Seiz'd with a sudden, fatal Stroke,
Her Face approaching Death bespoke—

Heir of all the ages, I, —
Heir of all that they have wrought,
All their store of emprise high,
All their wealth of precious thought!

Every golden deed of theirs
Sheds its lustre on my way;
All their labors, all their prayers,
Sanctify this present day.

Heir of all that they have earned
By their passion and their tears:
Heir of all that they have learned
Through the weary, toiling years;

Heir of all the faith sublime
On whose wings they soared to heaven;
Heir of every hope that time

Pretty Phaebe Lane and I,
In the soft May weather,
Barefoot down the furrows went
Dropping corn together.

Side by side across the field
Back and forth we hurried;
All the golden grains we dropped
Soon the ploughshare buried.

Bluebirds on the hedges sat,
Chirping low and billing;
" Why, " thought I, " not follow suit,
If the maid is willing? "

So I whispered, " Phaebe, dear,
Kiss me " — " Keep on dropping! "
Called her father from the plough;
" There's no time for stopping! "

Renowned Lord, Ingenuously I grant,
Of an high birth you very well may vant,
By high attempts your high births graces grace,
Ever at vertue aime, in chiefest place
Reach to her rubys . They are not below:
'Tis an high hand, high things must reach, you know:
Vainly receive not then Rubbish on earth;
Since you may rubys reach , to fit your birth.

Reach to her rubys then, let them be hers ,
I meane faire vertue, whom true worth prefers;
Chuse Charity, of feigned ones beware:
Hers be true rubys ; reach them, & do not spare,

O Thou, whose perfect goodness crowns
With peace and joy this sacred day,
Our hearts are glad for all the years
Thy love has kept us in thy way.

For common tasks of help and cheer,
For quiet hours of thought and prayer,
For moments when we seemed to feel
The breath of a diviner air:

For mutual love and trust that keep
Unchanged through all the changing time;
For friends within the veil who thrill
Our spirits with a hope sublime:

For truth that evermore makes free
From bounds of sect and bonds of creed;

The sky is like an envelope ,
One of those blue official things;
And, sealing it, to mock our hope,
The moon, a silver wafer, clings.
What shall we find when death gives leave
To read — our sentence or reprieve?
I'm holding it down on God's scrap-pile, up on the fag-end of earth;
O'er me a menace of mountains, a river that grits at my feet;
Face to face with my soul-self, weighing my life at its worth;