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# The Song of the Sage

First published in The Collected Letters of Robert E. Howard, vol. 2 (2007), where it appears in a letter to Tevis Clyde Smith, ca. March 1930.
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The Song of the Sage
This work is from the United States and in the public domain because it was not legally published with the permission of the copyright holder before January 1, 2003 and the author died more than 70 years ago. This is a posthumous work and its copyright in certain countries and areas may depend on years since posthumous publication, rather than years since the author's death. Translations or editions published later may be copyrighted.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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# The Song of the Sirens

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Song of the Sirens."
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* The Song of the Sirens, collection of short stories by Edward Lucas White
* "The Song of the Sirens", short story from the above collection by Edward Lucas White
# The Song of the Rebel

The Song of the Rebel.
“Jackson’s Up”--Camp Talk.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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# The Song of the Oak

The Druids waved their golden knives And danced around the Oak When they had sacrificed a man; But though the learned search and scan No single modern person can Entirely see the joke. But though they cut the throats of men They cut not down the tree, And from the blood the saplings spring Of oak-woods yet to be.  But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood,  He rots the tree as ivy would,  He clings and crawls as ivy would  About the sacred tree.
King Charles he fled from Worcester fight And hid him in the Oak; In convent schools no man of tact Would trace and praise his every act, Or argue that he was in fact A strict and sainted bloke. But not by him the sacred woods Have lost their fancies free, And though he was extremely big He did not break the tree.  But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood,  He breaks the tree as ivy would,  And eats the woods as ivy would  Between us and the sea.
Great Collingwood walked down the glade And flung the acorns free, That oaks might still be in the grove As oaken as the beams above, When the great Lover sailors love Was kissed by Death at aea. But though for him the oak-trees fell To build the oaken ships, The woodman worshipped what he smote And honoured even the chips.  But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood,  He hates the tree as ivy would,  As the dragon of the ivy would  That has us in his grips.
# The Seven Seas/Mary, Pity Women!

Published also in Barrack-Room Ballads (Second Series, 1896).
'MARY, PITY WOMEN!'
You call yourself a man, For all you used to swear, An' leave me, as you can, My certain shame to bear? I 'ear! You do not care— You done the worst you know. I 'ate you, grinnin' there. . . . Ah, Gawd, I love you so!
Nice while it lasted, an' now it is over— Tear out your 'eart an' good-bye to your lover! What's the use o' grievin', when the mother that bore you (Mary, pity women!) knew it all before you?
It are'nt no false alarm, The finish to your fun; You—you 'ave brung the 'arm, An' I'm the ruined one; ​An' now you'll off an' run With some new fool in tow. Your 'eart? You 'aven't none. . . . Ah, Gawd, I love you so!
When a man is tired there is naught will bind 'im; All 'e solemn promised 'e will shove be'ind 'im. What's the good o' prayin' for The Wrath to strike 'im (Mary, pity women!), when the rest are like 'im?
What 'ope for me or—it? What's left for us to do? I've walked with men a bit, But this—but this is you. So 'elp me Christ, it's true! Where can I 'ide or go? You coward through and through! . . . Ah, Gawd, I love you so!
All the more you give 'em the less are they for givin'— Love lies dead, an' you can not kiss 'im livin'. Down the road 'e led you there is no returnin' (Mary, pity women!), but you're late in learnin'!
​You'd like to treat me fair? You can't, because we're pore? We'd starve? What do I care! We might, but this is shore! I want the name—no more— The name, an' lines to show, An' not to be an 'ore. . . . Ah, Gawd, I love you so!
What's the good o' pleadin, when the mother that bore you (Mary, pity women!) knew it all before you? Sleep on 'is promises an' wake to your sorrow (Mary, pity women!), for we sail to-morrow!
# The Seven Seas/Mulholland's Contract

MULHOLLAND'S CONTRACT
The fear was on the cattle, for the gale was on the sea, An' the pens broke up on the lower deck an' let the creatures free— An' the lights went out on the lower deck, an' no one near but me.
I had been singin' to them to keep 'em quiet there, For the lower deck is the dangerousest, requirin' constant care, An' give to me as the strongest man, though used to drink and swear.
I see my chance was certain of bein' horned or trod, For the lower deck was packed with steers thicker'n peas in a pod, An' more pens broke at every roll—so I made a Contract with God.
​An' by the terms of the Contract, as I have read the same, If He got me to port alive I would exalt His Name, An' praise His Holy Majesty till further orders came.
He saved me from the cattle an' He saved me from the sea, For they found me 'tween two drownded ones where the roll had landed me — An' a four-inch crack on top of my head, as crazy as could be.
But that were done by a stanchion, an' not by a bullock at all, An' I lay still for seven weeks convalessing of the fall, An' readin' the shiny Scripture texts in the Seaman's Hospital.
An' I spoke to God of our Contract, an' He says to my prayer: 'I never puts on My ministers no more than they can bear. 'So back you go to the cattle-boats an' preach My Gospel there.
​'For human life is chancy at any kind of trade, 'But most of all, as well you know, when the steers are mad-afraid; 'So you go back to the cattle-boats an' preach 'em as I've said.
'They must quit drinkin' an' swearin', they mustn't knife on a blow, 'They must quit gamblin' their wages, and you must preach it so; 'For now those boats are more like Hell than anything else I know.'
I didn't want to do it, for I knew what I should get, An' I wanted to preach Religion, handsome an' out of the wet, But the Word of the Lord were lain on me, an' I done what I was set.
I have been smit an' bruiséd, as warned would be the case, An' turned my cheek to the smiter exactly as Scripture says; But following that, I knocked him down an' led him up to Grace.
​An' we have preaching on Sundays whenever the sea is calm, An' I use no knife or pistol an' I never take no harm, For the Lord abideth back of me to guide my fighting arm.
An' I sign for four pound ten a month and save the money clear, An' I am in charge of the lower deck, an' I never lose a steer; An' I believe in Almighty God an' preach His Gospel here.
The skippers say I'm crazy, but I can prove 'em wrong, For I am in charge of the lower deck with all that doth belong— Which they would not give to a lunatic, and the competition so strong!
# The Seven Seas/Sappers

SAPPERS
When the Waters were dried an' the Earth did appear, ('It's all one,' says the Sapper), The Lord He created the Engineer, Her Majesty's Royal Engineer, With the rank and pay of a Sapper!
When the Flood come along for an extra monsoon, 'Twas Noah constructed the first pontoon To the plans of Her Majesty's, etc.
But after fatigue in the wet an' the sun, Old Noah got drunk, which he wouldn't ha' done If he'd trained with, etc.
When the Tower o' Babel had mixed up men's bat, Some clever civilian was managing that, An' none of, etc.
​When the Jews had a fight at the foot of a hill, Young Joshua ordered the sun to stand still, For he was a Captain of Engineers, etc.
When the Children of Israel made bricks without straw, They were learnin' the regular work of our Corps, The work of, etc.
For ever since then, if a war they would wage, Behold us a-shinin' on history's page— First page for, etc.
We lay down their sidings an' help 'em entrain, An' we sweep up their mess through the bloomin' campaign, In the style of, etc.
They send us in front with a fuse an' a mine To blow up the gates that are rushed by the Line, But bent by, etc.
They send us behind with a pick an' a spade, To dig for the guns of a bullock-brigade Which has asked for, etc.
​We work under escort in trousers and shirt, An' the heathen they plug us tail-up in the dirt, Annoying, etc.
We blast out the rock an' we shovel the mud, We make 'em good roads an'—they roll down the khud. Reporting, etc.
We make 'em their bridges, their wells, an' their huts, An' the telegraph-wire the enemy cuts, An' it's blamed on, etc.
An' when we return, an' from war we would cease, They grudge us adornin' the billets of peace, Which are kept for, etc.
We build 'em nice barracks—they swear they are bad, That our Colonels are Methodist, married or mad, Insultin', etc.
They haven't no manners nor gratitude too, For the more that we help 'em, the less will they do, But mock at, etc.
​Now the Line's but a man with a gun in his hand, An' Cavalry's only what horses can stand, When helped by, etc.
Artillery moves by the leave o' the ground, But we are the men that do something all round, For we are, etc.
I have stated it plain, an' my argument's thus ('It's all one,' says the Sapper), There's only one Corps which is perfect—that's us; An' they call us Her Majesty's Engineers, Her Majesty's Royal Engineers, With the rank and pay of a Sapper!
# The Seven Seas/Soldier an' Sailor Too

'SOLDIER AN' SAILOR TOO'
As I was spittin' into the Ditch aboard o' the Crocodile, I seed a man on a man-o'-war got up in the Reg'lars' style, 'E was scrapin' the paint from off of 'er plates, an' I sez to 'im, ''Oo are you?' Sez 'e, 'I'm a Jolly—'Er Majesty's Jolly—soldier an' sailor too!' Now 'is work begins by Gawd knows when, and 'is work is never through; 'E isn't one o' the reg'lar Line, nor 'e isn't one of the crew. 'E's a kind of a giddy harumfrodite—soldier an' sailor too!
An' after I met 'im all over the world, a-doin' all kinds of things, Like landin' 'isself with a Gatlin' gun to talk to them 'eathen kings; ​'E sleeps in an 'ammick instead of a cot, an' 'e drills with the deck on a slew, An' 'e sweats like a Jolly—'Er Majesty's Jolly—soldier an' sailor too! For there isn't a job on the top o' the earth the beggar don't know, nor do— You can leave 'im at night on a bald man's 'ead, to paddle 'is own canoe— 'E's a sort of a bloorain' cosmopolouse—soldier an' sailor too.
We've fought 'em in trooper, we've fought 'em in dock, and drunk with 'em in betweens, When they called us the seasick scull'ry-maids, an we called 'em the Ass Marines; But, when we was down for a double fatigue, from Woolwich to Bernardmyo, We sent for the Jollies—'Er Majesty's Jollies—soldier an' sailor too! They think for 'emselves, an' they steal for 'emselves, and they never ask what's to do, But they're camped an' fed an' they're up an' fed before our bugle's blew. Ho! they ain't no limpin' procrastitutes—soldier an' sailor too.
​You may say we are fond of an 'arness-cut, or 'ootin' in barrick-yards, Or startin' a Board School mutiny along o' the Onion Guards; But once in a while we can finish in style for the ends of the earth to view, The same as the Jollies—'Er Majesty's Jollies—soldier an' sailor too! They come of our lot, they was brothers to us; they was beggars we'd met an' knew; Yes, barrin' an inch in the chest an' the arm, they was doubles o' me an' you; For they weren't no special chrysanthemums—soldier an' sailor too!
To take your chance in the thick of a rush, with firing all about, Is nothing so bad when you've cover to 'and, an' leave an' likin' to shout; But to stand an' be still to the Birken'ead drill is a damn tough bullet to chew, An' they done it, the Jollies—'Er Majesty's Jollies—soldier an' sailor too! Their work was done when it 'adn't begun; they was younger nor me an' you; ​Their choice it was plain between drownin' in 'eaps an' bein' mopped by the screw, So they stood an' was still to the Birken'ead drill, soldier an' sailor too!
We're most of us liars, we 're 'arf of us thieves, an' the rest are as rank as can be, But once in a while we can finish in style (which I 'ope it won't 'appen to me). But it makes you think better o' you an' your friends, an' the work you may 'ave to do, When you think o' the sinkin' Victorier's Jollies—soldier an' sailor too! Now there isn't no room for to say ye don't know—they 'ave proved it plain and true— That whether it's Widow, or whether it's ship, Victorier's work is to do, An' they done it, the Jollies—'Er Majesty's Jollies—soldier an' sailor too!
# The Seven Seas/In the Neolithic Age

First published in The Idler (December 1892) under the title "Primum Tempus".
IN THE NEOLITHIC AGE
In the Neolithic Age savage warfare did I wage For food and fame and two-toed horses' pelt; I was singer to my clan in that dim, red Dawn of Man, And I sang of all we fought and feared and felt.
Yea, I sang as now I sing, when the Prehistoric spring Made the piled Biscayan ice-pack split and shove; And the troll and gnome and dwerg, and the Gods of Cliff and Berg Were about me and beneath me and above.
​But a rival, of Solutré, told the tribe my style was outré— 'Neath a hammer, grooved of dolomite, he fell. And I left my views on Art, barbed and tanged, below the heart Of a mammothistic etcher at Grenelle.
Then I stripped them, scalp from skull, and my hunting dogs fed full, And their teeth I threaded neatly on a thong; And I wiped my mouth and said, 'It is well that they are dead, For I know my work is right and theirs was wrong.'
But my Totem saw the shame; from his ridgepole shrine he came, And he told me in a vision of the night:— 'There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays, And every single one of them is right!'
​Then the silence closed upon me till They put new clothing on me Of whiter, weaker flesh and bone more frail; And I stepped beneath Time's finger, once again a tribal singer [And a minor poet certified by Tr—ll].
Still they skirmish to and fro, men my messmates on the snow, When we headed off the aurochs turn for turn; When the rich Allobrogenses never kept amanuenses, And our only plots were piled in lakes at Berne.
Still a cultured Christian age sees us scuffle, squeak, and rage, Still we pinch and slap and jabber, scratch and dirk; Still we let our business slide—as we dropped the half-dressed hide— To show a fellow-savage how to work.
​Still the world is wondrous large,—seven seas from marge to marge,— And it holds a vast of various kinds of man; And the wildest dreams of Kew are the facts of Khatmandhu, And the crimes of Clapham chaste in Martaban.
Here's my wisdom for your use, as I learned it when the moose And the reindeer roared where Paris roars to-night:— There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays, And—every—single—one—of—them—is—right!
# The Seven Seas/L'Envoi

L'ENVOI
When Earth's last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried, When the oldest colours have faded, and the youngest critic has died, We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it—lie down for an æon or two, Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall put us to work anew!
And those that were good shall be happy: they shall sit in a golden chair; They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comets' hair; They shall find real saints to draw from—Magdalene, Peter, and Paul; They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all!
​And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame; And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame, But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star, Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They Are!
Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty at the Edinburgh University Press
# The Seven Seas/Sestina of the Tramp-Royal

SESTINA OF THE TRAMP-ROYAL
Speakin' in general, I 'ave tried 'em all, The 'appy roads that take you o'er the world. Speakin' in general, I 'ave found them good For such as cannot use one bed too long, But must get 'ence, the same as I 'ave done, An' go observin' matters till they die.
What do it matter where or 'ow we die, So long as we've our 'ealth to watch it all— The different ways that different things are done, An' men an' women lovin' in this world— Takin' our chances as they come along, An' when they ain't, pretendin' they are good?
In cash or credit—no, it aren't no good; You 'ave to 'ave the 'abit or you'd die, Unless you lived your life but one day long, Nor didn't prophesy nor fret at all, But drew your tucker some'ow from the world, An' never bothered what you might ha' done.
​But, Gawd, what things are they I 'aven't done? I've turned my 'and to most, an' turned it good, In various situations round the world— For 'im that doth not work must surely die; But that's no reason man should labour all 'Is life on one same shift; life's none so long.
Therefore, from job to job I've moved along. Pay couldn't 'old me when my time was done, For something in my 'ead upset me all, Till I 'ad dropped whatever 'twas for good, An', out at sea, be'eld the dock-lights die, An' met my mate—the wind that tramps the world!
It's like a book, I think, this bloomin' world, Which you can read and care for just so long, But presently you feel that you will die Unless you get the page you're readin' done, An' turn another—likely not so good; But what you're after is to turn 'em all.
Gawd bless this world! Whatever she 'ath done— Excep' when awful long—I've found it good. So write, before I die, ''E liked it all!'
# The Seven Seas/That Day

Also published in Barrack-Room Ballads (Second Series, 1896).
THAT DAY
It got beyond all orders an' it got beyond all 'ope; It got to shammin' wounded an' retirin' from the 'alt. 'Ole companies was lookin' for the nearest road to slope; It were just a bloomin' knock-out—an' our fault!
Now there ain't no chorus 'ere to give, Nor there ain't no band to play; An I wish I was dead 'fore I done what I did, Or seen what I seed that day!
We was sick o' bein' punished, an' we let 'em know it, too; An' a company-commander up an' 'it us with a sword, ​An' some one shouted ''Ook it!' an' it come to sove-ki-poo, An' we chucked our rifles from us—O my Gawd!
There was thirty dead an' wounded on the ground we wouldn't keep— No, there wasn't more than twenty when the front begun to go; But, Christ! along the line o' flight they cut us up like sheep, An' that was all we gained by doin' so.
I 'eard the knives be'ind me, but I dursn't face my man, Nor I don't know where I went to, 'cause I didn't 'alt to see, Till I 'eard a beggar squealin' out for quarter as 'e ran, An' I thought I knew the voice an'—it was me!
We was 'idin' under bedsteads more than 'arf a march away; We was lyin' up like rabbits all about the country side; ​An' the major cursed 'is Maker 'cause 'e lived to see that day, An' the colonel broke 'is sword acrost, an' cried.
We was rotten 'fore we started—we was never disciplined; We made it out a favour if an order was obeyed; Yes, every little drummer 'ad 'is rights an' wrongs to mind, So we had to pay for teachin'—an' we paid!
The papers 'id it 'andsome, but you know the Army knows; We was put to groomin' camels till the regiments withdrew, An' they gave us each a medal for subduin' England's foes, An' I 'ope you like my song—because it's true!
An' there ain't no chorus 'ere to give, Nor there ain't no band to play; But I wish I was dead 'fore I done what I did, Or seen what I seed that day!
# The Samuel

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14 U.S. 9
The Samuel

## Notes

This work is in the public domain in the United States because it is a work of the United States federal government (see 17 U.S.C. 105).
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# The Souvenir of Western Women/Judge Pratt in Bedticking

Judge Pratt in Bedticking
In early times Mr. Robert C. Kinney's home in the Chehalem Valley stood with open doors to all who chanced to pass that way. Itinerant pioneer preachers, homeless pedagogues, and judges of the courts were numbered among the many who oft filled a place in the circle around the blazing fire in the wide, open fireplace or at the ample family board. One day in late autumn, when Oregon rains had been more than raining, a tall and stately person, picturesquely attired in sombrero hat, buckskin trousers set off with elaborate fringe down the sides and secured around the waist with a long silken scarf of bright crimson (a Spanish fashion introduced from California), and a heavy flannel shirt of brilliant hue, alighted at the door. This uniquely costumed gentleman was none other than His Honor, Judge Pratt, Oregon's first territorial judge—a man of fine personal appearance and gentlemanly bearing. Saturated by the copious rains, he was doubly glad to seek shelter in Mr. Kinney's home, where the bright fire warmed and the kindly hospitality cheered. After the judge had retired, Mrs. Kinney thoughtfully hung his rain-soaked pantaloons by the fire that they might dry before morning, which they did and more. To those not acquainted "with the peculiarities of wet buckskin we will say that in drying the trousers shrank to such an extent that the judge could not possibly get into them. Having no others with him, the situation was grave, but Mrs. Kinney arose equal to the emergency. Taking one of her blue and white striped bedticks, she set about to make a pair of trousers for the disabled judge, while he reposed in bed till they were completed, "When ready, he gratefully donned these emergency trousers, not so picturesque, perhaps, as the elaborate ones of buckskin, but surely equally attractive. Thus attired, he proceeded on his way to discharge the duties of his office.—(Notes furnished by Mrs. Jane M. Smith of Astoria.)
THE WASHINGTON
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
The Washington is the Heast hotel in the Pacific Northwest, and probably west of Chicago. It was formally opened May 23 and 24, 1903, when President Roosevelt made it his headquarters while in Seattle. It is most complete, comfortable and homelike, and has every convenience, luxury and attractive feature known to modern hotels. New throughout.
Tourists are finding in The Washington an ideal halting place—making a visit to Seattle and the Northwest a pleasure that has heretofore been impossible.
Its atmosphere of refinement, exclusive patronage and charming interior, together with scenic location unsurpassed, tend to make The Washington the most popular high type hotel in the West.
JAMES A. MOORE, Owner.
# The Souvenir of Western Women/Killen cow

This short, untitled item is not included in the book's table of contents.
​John Killin and family came to Oregon from Iowa in 1845, and were the first to settle south of the Calapooia River, at a point about three miles below the present town of Brownsville. There were no neighbors but Indians, and they were troublesome on account of their thieving propensities. First one thing, then another disappeared, but Mr. Killin seemed reluctant to attempt to recover the stolen property. At length a milch cow was stolen, whereat Mrs. Killin, after vainly entreating her husband to seek its rescue, determined to take the initiative. Accordingly, she armed herself with a butcher knife, went to the chief's camp, found the cow, cut the retaining rope, brandished her weapon in the face of the astounded chief and his subjects, and drove the beast back to her cabin. From that time Mrs. Killin was known as a "Skookum Kloochman"—strong-hearted woman—and thereafter the property of the family was not molested. Mrs. Killin is still living, and is now in her ninety-third year.—(George H. Himes.)