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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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Published by Webmaster on 07/30/2003 (3127 reads)
In this Cathedral of Seville


In this Cathedral of Seville,
    Beneath a dizzy dome,
I saw three washer-women kneel
    And scrub the flags to foam.
With mop and pail they laboured where
    A Tomb was towering high,
And shocked by their flipacious air
    To them said I:

"Fair dames, in Genoa slum
    A weaver's boy was born,
Who from his father's loom would run,
    Dream-driven and forlorn.
To dockland gutter he would stray,
    And stare and stare to sea,
As if he knew beyond it lay
    His Destiny."

"This weaver's boy," I told the three,
    "Died in Valladolid.
Afar from his beloved sea
    A broken heart he hid.
And now in languorous Seville
    In rich cathedral gloom,
We Western pilgrims come to kneel
    Before his Tomb."

The washer-women scrubbed away
    As if I were a bore.
"American!" I heard them say,
    And sloshed the marble floor.
While in that proud Tomb lay the bones
    Of on of mighty fame;
And yet I'll bet these lousy crones
    Knew not his name.

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