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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.
All Entries 1997 - 2002
All Entries 2002
Odds and Ends, Other Items Of Interest About Robert

Alias Bill

Published by Susan on 07/27/2003 (2929 reads)
We bore him to his boneyard lot...

We bore him to his boneyard lot
One afternoon at three;
The clergyman was on the spot
To earn his modest fee.
We sprinkled on his coffin lid
The customary loam,
And so old Bill was snugly slid
                            To his last home.

A lonesome celebate, we thought,
For close as calm was he;
We never guessed that he had got
A lawful family,
Till lo! we saw a gorgeous wreath
Reposing on his bier,
With on a scarlet scroll beneath:
                            "To Father Dear."

He ordered it hisself, they said,
Before he had to go.
His folks don't know that he is dead -
Maybe they'll never know.
His step was frail, his hair was grey,
But though his sight was dim,
He liked to kid hisself that they
                            Still thought of him.

Maybe they did: we never knew,
And he would never tell;
Perhaps their hearts were broken too -
He was, I think . . . Ah well,
We left him in his boneyard lot
With none to shed a tear,
And just a wreath, the one he bought:
                            "To Father Dear."


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