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This poem is often wrongly thought to be by Robert W Service. It is published here to the memory of Hugh Antoine D'Arcy, its rightful father.
An Evening with the Bard of the Yukon, July 18 th 2003 at 20.30pm in the Town-Hall of Lancieux, Brittany.
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The Robbers

Published by Susan on 08/09/2003 (2470 reads)
Alas! I see that thrushes three...

Alas! I see that thrushes three
    Are ravishing my old fig tree,
In whose green shade I smoked my pipe
    And waited for the fruit to ripe;
From green to purple softly swell
    Then drop into my lap to tell
That it is succulently sweet
    And excellent to eat.

And now I see the crimson streak,
    The greedy gash of yellow beak.
And look! the finches come in throng,
    In wavy passage, light with song;
Of course I could scare them away,
    But with a shrug: 'The heck!' I say.
I owe them something for their glee,
    So let them have their spree.

For all too soon in icy air
    My fig tree will be bleak and bare,
Until it wake from Winter sleep
    And button buds begin to peep.
Then broad leaves come to shelter me
    In luminous placidity.
Then figs will ripen with a rush
    And brash will come the thrush.

But what care I though birds destroy
My fruit,--they pay me back with joy.

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