Submitted by jamescookenotthatone t3_z7rs6k in todayilearned
Good suggestion. Thanks!
The Cremation of Sam McGee has always been a favourite...
There are strange things done in the midnight sun,
What an interesting last name that is, Service. ( It also happens to be mine.)
...since I left Plum Tree, in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm.
Story time. Back in the late '70s my dad worked on the road as a laboratory instrument repairman covering parts of four states. He had a CB in the car because, no cell phones. One night he got tired of hearing the truckers cursing on the CB so he jumped on and recited the entirety of The Cremation of Sam Mcgee. When he got off there were a few seconds of stunned silence followed by truckers cursing him for taking up the channel that long with a poem. Until another guy jumped on. It turned out this guy had a doctorate in English literature and had written his thesis on the works of Robert W Service. You find all kinds of folks on the CB at night deep down in Georgia.
"at your Service"
By the men who moil for gold...
Rather less savoury addition.... I got into RWS as a kid: one of his collected poems was in my Dads library, we didn't have a TV (we didn't have a lot of money, period - but I did have access to a lot of books) and something about the rhythm, the cadence of his poetry really did it for me.
Came as a bit of a shock in my teenage years to discover the pastiche versions, especially 'Eskimo Nell'...
I needed this, thank you!
As a rural small town kid in the 70's I read voraciously. Anything I could get my hands on. One of the books that found its way to my house was a high school literature text, probably late 60's. In it was Service's "The Cremation of Sam McGee". That textbook was the first thing I thought of when I saw this post. Many great hours with my nose in that book, I wish I could remember the title.
The cremation of Sam McGhee was always one, I loved! I was a boy scout in my first big canoe trip sitting in front of a late night summer fire, maybe 12 or 13 at best...having paddled my arms off all day at a wind that seemed to laugh, I could barely tell if we we're moving forward, perhaps even moving aft. But...our bellies were full, our camp made, and almost time to rest. This poem we were read and ready for bed but its memory is one of my best.
FYI, The Cremation of Sam McGhee can be sung to the tune of Gilligan’s Island.
"It's later than you think..."
jamescookenotthatone OP t1_iy7to4z wrote
>After having collected enough poems for a book, Service "sent the poems to his father, who had emigrated to Toronto, and asked him to find a printing house so they could make it into a booklet. He enclosed a cheque to cover the costs and intended to give these booklets away to his friends in Whitehorse" for Christmas. His father took the manuscript to William Briggs in Toronto, whose employees loved the book. "The foreman and printers recited the ballads while they worked. A salesman read the proofs out loud as they came off the typesetting machines."[10] An "enterprising salesman sold 1700 copies in advance orders from galley proofs."[11] The publisher "sent Robert's cheque back to him and offered a ten percent royalty contract for the book."[10]
Also of interest
>Service was 40 when World War I broke out; he attempted to enlist, but was turned down "due to varicose veins."[3] He briefly covered the war for the Toronto Star (from December 11, 1915, through January 29, 1916), but "was arrested and nearly executed in an outbreak of spy hysteria in Dunkirk." He then "worked as a stretcher bearer and ambulance driver with the Ambulance Corps of the American Red Cross, until his health broke." Convalescing in Paris, he wrote a new book of mainly war poetry, Rhymes of a Red Cross Man, in 1916. The book was dedicated to the memory of Service's "brother, Lieutenant Albert Service, Canadian Infantry, Killed in Action, France, August 1916."[18] Robert Service received three medals for his war service: 1914–15 Star, British War Medal and the Victory Medal.[19]
>With the end of the war, Service "settled down to being a rich man in Paris.... During the day he would promenade in the best suits, with a monocle. At night he went out in old clothes with the company of his doorman, a retired policeman, to visit the lowest dives of the city".[18] During his time in Paris he was reputedly the wealthiest author living in the city, yet was known to dress as a working man and walk the streets, blending in and observing everything around him. Those experiences would be used in his next book of poetry, Ballads of a Bohemian (1921): "The poems are given in the persona of an American poet in Paris who serves as an ambulance driver and an infantryman in the war. The verses are separated by diary entries over a period of four years."[18]