So why the hard luck bit?
Is it cos you live near Liverpool (I see you mentioned the Mersey in one of your posts!!!) LOL
Is it cos you live near Liverpool (I see you mentioned the Mersey in one of your posts!!!) LOL
Hard Luck Henry?????
- Thread starter EmmaDibbs
- Start date
That's the one, Twila 
. No real reason, though, just like the poem, slight Canadee connection, and it's a bit of fun.
THE BALLAD OF HARD-LUCK HENRY
by
Robert William Service
Now wouldn't you expect to find a man an awful crank
That's staked out nigh three hundred claims, and every one a blank;
That's followed every fool stampede, and seen the rise and fall
Of camps where men got gold in chunks and he got none at all;
That's prospected a bit of ground and sold it for a song
To see it yield a fortune to some fool that came along;
That's sunk a dozen bed-rock holes, and not a speck in sight,
Yet sees them take a million from the claims to left and right?
Now aren't things like that enough to drive a man to booze?
But Hard-Luck Smith was hoodoo-proof -- he knew the way to lose.
'Twas in the fall of nineteen four -- leap-year I've heard them say --
When Hard-Luck came to Hunker Creek and took a hillside lay.
And lo! as if to make amends for all the futile past,
Late in the year he struck it rich, the real pay-streak at last.
The riffles of his sluicing-box were choked with speckled earth,
And night and day he worked that lay for all that he was worth.
And when in chill December's gloom his lucky lease expired,
He found that he had made a stake as big as he desired.
One day while meditating on the waywardness of fate,
He felt the ache of lonely man to find a fitting mate;
A petticoated pard to cheer his solitary life,
A woman with soft, soothing ways, a confidant, a wife.
And while he cooked his supper on his little Yukon stove,
He wished that he had staked a claim in Love's rich treasure-trove;
When suddenly he paused and held aloft a Yukon egg,
For there in pencilled letters was the magic name of Peg.
You know these Yukon eggs of ours -- some pink, some green, some blue --
A dollar per, assorted tints, assorted flavors too.
The supercilious cheechako might designate them high,
But one acquires a taste for them and likes them by-and-by.
Well, Hard-Luck Henry took this egg and held it to the light,
And there was more faint pencilling that sorely taxed his sight.
At last he made it out, and then the legend ran like this --
"Will Klondike miner write to Peg, Plumhollow, Squashville, Wis.?"
That night he got to thinking of this far-off, unknown fair;
It seemed so sort of opportune, an answer to his prayer.
She flitted sweetly through his dreams, she haunted him by day,
She smiled through clouds of nicotine, she cheered his weary way.
At last he yielded to the spell; his course of love he set --
Wisconsin his objective point; his object, Margaret.
With every mile of sea and land his longing grew and grew.
He practised all his pretty words, and these, I fear, were few.
At last, one frosty evening, with a cold chill down his spine,
He found himself before her house, the threshold of the shrine.
His courage flickered to a spark, then glowed with sudden flame --
He knocked; he heard a welcome word; she came -- his goddess came.
Oh, she was fair as any flower, and huskily he spoke:
"I'm all the way from Klondike, with a mighty heavy poke.
I'm looking for a lassie, one whose Christian name is Peg,
Who sought a Klondike miner, and who wrote it on an egg."
The lassie gazed at him a space, her cheeks grew rosy red;
She gazed at him with tear-bright eyes, then tenderly she said:
"Yes, lonely Klondike miner, it is true my name is Peg.
It's also true I longed for you and wrote it on an egg.
My heart went out to someone in that land of night and cold;
But oh, I fear that Yukon egg must have been mighty old.
I waited long, I hoped and feared; you should have come before;
I've been a wedded woman now for eighteen months or more.
I'm sorry, since you've come so far, you ain't the one that wins;
But won't you take a step inside -- I'll let you see the twins."
. No real reason, though, just like the poem, slight Canadee connection, and it's a bit of fun.THE BALLAD OF HARD-LUCK HENRY
by
Robert William Service
Now wouldn't you expect to find a man an awful crank
That's staked out nigh three hundred claims, and every one a blank;
That's followed every fool stampede, and seen the rise and fall
Of camps where men got gold in chunks and he got none at all;
That's prospected a bit of ground and sold it for a song
To see it yield a fortune to some fool that came along;
That's sunk a dozen bed-rock holes, and not a speck in sight,
Yet sees them take a million from the claims to left and right?
Now aren't things like that enough to drive a man to booze?
But Hard-Luck Smith was hoodoo-proof -- he knew the way to lose.
'Twas in the fall of nineteen four -- leap-year I've heard them say --
When Hard-Luck came to Hunker Creek and took a hillside lay.
And lo! as if to make amends for all the futile past,
Late in the year he struck it rich, the real pay-streak at last.
The riffles of his sluicing-box were choked with speckled earth,
And night and day he worked that lay for all that he was worth.
And when in chill December's gloom his lucky lease expired,
He found that he had made a stake as big as he desired.
One day while meditating on the waywardness of fate,
He felt the ache of lonely man to find a fitting mate;
A petticoated pard to cheer his solitary life,
A woman with soft, soothing ways, a confidant, a wife.
And while he cooked his supper on his little Yukon stove,
He wished that he had staked a claim in Love's rich treasure-trove;
When suddenly he paused and held aloft a Yukon egg,
For there in pencilled letters was the magic name of Peg.
You know these Yukon eggs of ours -- some pink, some green, some blue --
A dollar per, assorted tints, assorted flavors too.
The supercilious cheechako might designate them high,
But one acquires a taste for them and likes them by-and-by.
Well, Hard-Luck Henry took this egg and held it to the light,
And there was more faint pencilling that sorely taxed his sight.
At last he made it out, and then the legend ran like this --
"Will Klondike miner write to Peg, Plumhollow, Squashville, Wis.?"
That night he got to thinking of this far-off, unknown fair;
It seemed so sort of opportune, an answer to his prayer.
She flitted sweetly through his dreams, she haunted him by day,
She smiled through clouds of nicotine, she cheered his weary way.
At last he yielded to the spell; his course of love he set --
Wisconsin his objective point; his object, Margaret.
With every mile of sea and land his longing grew and grew.
He practised all his pretty words, and these, I fear, were few.
At last, one frosty evening, with a cold chill down his spine,
He found himself before her house, the threshold of the shrine.
His courage flickered to a spark, then glowed with sudden flame --
He knocked; he heard a welcome word; she came -- his goddess came.
Oh, she was fair as any flower, and huskily he spoke:
"I'm all the way from Klondike, with a mighty heavy poke.
I'm looking for a lassie, one whose Christian name is Peg,
Who sought a Klondike miner, and who wrote it on an egg."
The lassie gazed at him a space, her cheeks grew rosy red;
She gazed at him with tear-bright eyes, then tenderly she said:
"Yes, lonely Klondike miner, it is true my name is Peg.
It's also true I longed for you and wrote it on an egg.
My heart went out to someone in that land of night and cold;
But oh, I fear that Yukon egg must have been mighty old.
I waited long, I hoped and feared; you should have come before;
I've been a wedded woman now for eighteen months or more.
I'm sorry, since you've come so far, you ain't the one that wins;
But won't you take a step inside -- I'll let you see the twins."
The creation of Sam McGee is the best of his poems....I don't think he was a canadian tho.
"There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That make your blood run cold;"
"There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That make your blood run cold;"
EmmaDibbs said:
To be honest Emma, I rather like Liverpool, and don't feel at all unlucky to live in this region. It gets a bad press sometimes, but is actually a very friendly, vibrant, ethnically diverse place, with some good architecture, top class galleries, shops and places to eat, whatever really. It's got two large Universities, which are very popular places to study, and the large student community adds something, too. It's also very handily placed for someone who enjoys outdoor activities - I can be in Wales in 30 minutes, The Lake District in an hour, and then there's the Penines, Peak District etc too. (It has it's bad elements, but that's city life. You'll also find that places like London, Manchester and Birmingham have far worse records when it comes to crime, too, just to put that old chestnut to bed) If you're still in the UK in 2008, you should come and attend some of the European Capital of Culture events which will be taking place there - I'll guarantee you a good time.
peapod said:The creation of Sam McGee is the best of his poems....I don't think he was a canadian tho.
"There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That make your blood run cold;"
He was Scottish, but lived and worked in Vancouver and the Yukon - I actually heard him described as The Bard of Canada somewhere. Wish I could remember where, now.
Really twila??? So Robert Service was his grandfather 8O Thats cool twila 8) Tell more please!!!!!!
Re: RE: Hard Luck Henry?????
Personally, I'm intrigued, not least as he's my namesake; tell us more, Twila, please
Twila said:
Personally, I'm intrigued, not least as he's my namesake; tell us more, Twila, please
Wish I could. tell you more. Sadly I can't. Except that Hard Luck Henry grew up in Langly BC. Which is where Mr. Service met him.
terrible isnt' it? I'll talk to my fiancee. He mentioned something about how some of the poem means something different then what it says. Something about the egg being something other then an egg or something.
terrible isnt' it? I'll talk to my fiancee. He mentioned something about how some of the poem means something different then what it says. Something about the egg being something other then an egg or something.
I used to have a shirt with that on it...actually I had few shirts with poems on them. My parents brought them all back the first time they drove to Alaska...some kind of weird theme thing, I guess. My friends used to recite off of my shirts at parties, it was...odd.
Actually Henry I have never been to Liverpool- but they do speak funny up there!! All the big cities are being regenerated nowadays though- I had to go to Newcastle a while back and that had been done up pretty well- Glasgow also looks pretty good now!!
Of course, I live in Bournemouth, which was voted one of the 'Nothing' towns in the UK!!! Oh well!
Of course, I live in Bournemouth, which was voted one of the 'Nothing' towns in the UK!!! Oh well!
peapod said:
I don't think so, p.; not funny, just different. Definitely English,though, - although whenever I've been working in the south, particularly London, some people seem to be unable to unserstand me, and assume I'm foreign. This annoys me, a little, as most can understand me perfectly well, and so I think those who can't are just being lazy, or ignorant. But it's amusing, too. :lol:
and Emma; Bournemouth looks beautiful, especially if you like beaches, parks and gardens, and who in their right mind doesn't? 8)
peapod said:
8) Indeed, peapod; I'm reasonably well educated (not great) and can articulate myself as well as most, when required to, but my accent is part of my background,part of an even bigger history. I like it.
The Merseyside accent, like much else in the city, owes its roots to Liverpool’s position as a port. The melting pot created by the influx of people from far and wide was the origin of this distinctive sound.
The major influence comes from the influx of Irish and Welsh into the region. The mixing of these different accents and dialects, joining with words and sayings picked up from global maritime arrivals, all fused together to create a unique accent. Every tide brought ashore a new imported verb and many stuck becoming part of everyday language.
My accent isn't as strong as some, but it's recognisible. I think this link with one's roots is important - my roots, my culture, my person, like my accent, are global. To recognise that you're part of a global melting pot is no bad thing, I think.
I have a friend from Bradford. He is easy to understand until he's had a few, then he speaks a language that comes right out of the James Herriot books. I end up trying to translate for him because I've read all those books.
He was telling me about the various "accents" of beer in Britain though. They like it flat in London, apparently, but the further north you go, the more foam they like. Is that right, Henry, or is my friend just confused because of all the beer he drank while observing this?
He was telling me about the various "accents" of beer in Britain though. They like it flat in London, apparently, but the further north you go, the more foam they like. Is that right, Henry, or is my friend just confused because of all the beer he drank while observing this?