Frank
The only relative he ever mentioned was his mother, and that in terms
most respectful and loving
most respectful and loving
He used to brag about his escapades in the night life in Chicago. He used
to say jokingly that when he got in a fight he would gouge out his
opponent's eyeballs with his thumb.
to say jokingly that when he got in a fight he would gouge out his
opponent's eyeballs with his thumb.
He said that he awoke one morning and found only one eye in his pocket.
He said to himself, "Frankie, old boy, you are slipping. Where is the other
eye?"
He said to himself, "Frankie, old boy, you are slipping. Where is the other
eye?"
I vividly remember the long, hot, nights in the hospital in ShamShuiPo, with
the moonlight streaming in through the holes that once framed windows,
Bower, as we called him, pacing up and down the concrete floor,
complaining about his sore feet, and regaling us with stories of his
adventures, and sometimes reciting the poems of Robert Service.
the moonlight streaming in through the holes that once framed windows,
Bower, as we called him, pacing up and down the concrete floor,
complaining about his sore feet, and regaling us with stories of his
adventures, and sometimes reciting the poems of Robert Service.
He knew a number of Robert Service poems. Another one that he used to
recite, he called "The Shack by the Yukon Trail"
recite, he called "The Shack by the Yukon Trail"
The poem does not appear in the complete works of Robert Service. I
have toyed with the idea that the old character composed it himself.
have toyed with the idea that the old character composed it himself.
I can still remember the words as he recited them so long ago. I'll put them
down here, and I would appreciate it if anyone could enlighten me as to its
origin. The poem has the same meter as many of Service's poems, and the
story line is also one that he might have used.
down here, and I would appreciate it if anyone could enlighten me as to its
origin. The poem has the same meter as many of Service's poems, and the
story line is also one that he might have used.
The Shack by the Yukon Trail
There's a lonely shack by a northern track where the snows of Alaska fall,
There are dead men's bones, and the cold wind moans, and the howl of
the wolf in counter tones, And God's hand over all.
There are dead men's bones, and the cold wind moans, and the howl of
the wolf in counter tones, And God's hand over all.
A lonely man staked out a claim, which never seemed to pay,
And late one night a stranger came, who chanced to lose his way.
And late one night a stranger came, who chanced to lose his way.
They supped, they smoked, they talked a while, and then a silence fell,
And each man dreamt of a woman's face, and a woman's last farewell.
And each man dreamt of a woman's face, and a woman's last farewell.
That silence touched the hearts of both, and each man told his tale,
How he longed and pined for a lucky find, For the sake of a girl he had
left behind, in a far-off English vale.
How he longed and pined for a lucky find, For the sake of a girl he had
left behind, in a far-off English vale.
Then each man showed a photograph, signed by the loved one's name.
As they gazed on there, by the candle's flare, They discovered the pictures
a perfect pair, and the signatures the same.
As they gazed on there, by the candle's flare, They discovered the pictures
a perfect pair, and the signatures the same.
Dark hate flashed out from both men's eyes, They fought, one failed to
rise, For death had come to claim a prize, In that shack by the Yukon Trail
rise, For death had come to claim a prize, In that shack by the Yukon Trail
One man dug deep, and deeper still, to hide the dead thing there
Those dreadful words, "Thou shalt not kill" seemed thundered through the
air.
Those dreadful words, "Thou shalt not kill" seemed thundered through the
air.
He dug and toiled with pick and spade, by the light that the candle gave
Till suddenly a seam showed gold, that came like a hell-sent dream,
From the heart of the dead man's grave.
Till suddenly a seam showed gold, that came like a hell-sent dream,
From the heart of the dead man's grave.
At last in frenzied hate and dread, he crossed the cabin floor
He kicked the dead outside the shed, and locked and barred the door.
He kicked the dead outside the shed, and locked and barred the door.
He heard the howl of the wolf outside, and he shook in every limb
As they ripped and tore by the cabin door at the thing that had breathed
but a while before, Then madness came to him.
As they ripped and tore by the cabin door at the thing that had breathed
but a while before, Then madness came to him.
A loaded gun, a broken prayer, a shot that rent the startled air,
Then dawn cam up to peep in there, In that shack by the Yukon Trail.
Then dawn cam up to peep in there, In that shack by the Yukon Trail.
Yes, there are dead men's bones, where the cold wind moans
By that shack by the Yukon Trail
There are two lives paid for the love betrayed, for the broken vows that a
woman made, In a far-off English vale.
By that shack by the Yukon Trail
There are two lives paid for the love betrayed, for the broken vows that a
woman made, In a far-off English vale.
Did Robert Service write the poem? Was it perhaps something he wrote
and discarded as being unworthy to include in his "Complete Works of
Robert Service"?
and discarded as being unworthy to include in his "Complete Works of
Robert Service"?
I don't think Frank Bowerbank wrote it although he was expert at reciting
it.I certainly didn't write it although it impressed me enough to remember
the words, just from listening to Frank.
it.I certainly didn't write it although it impressed me enough to remember
the words, just from listening to Frank.
Whatever the case, I don't claim any rights to the piece. If the author can
be found it would please me greatly, and put an end to one of the
questions that have been sometimes in my thoughts "when on my couch I
lie, in vacant or in pensive mood", although this tale is certainly not about
Wordsworth's daffodils.
be found it would please me greatly, and put an end to one of the
questions that have been sometimes in my thoughts "when on my couch I
lie, in vacant or in pensive mood", although this tale is certainly not about
Wordsworth's daffodils.