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The old picture of Sam McGee's cabin brings back fond memories for me. This photo shows the cabin located on Elliot Street between third and fourth avenues in Whitehorse before it was moved to its present site at the MacBride Museum. Contributed by Les McLaughlin.

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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 (3143 reads)
My Granny smoked a cutty pipe


My Granny smoked a cutty pipe
And lit it at a fire of peat;
Her face was like a pippin ripe,
Framed by her mutch and sagely sweet.
She sat upon a three-legged stool,
With by her side a cat apurr,
And talked of when she went to school,
And Grandfather came courting her.

They married in their teens, I guess,
And of braw bairnies she had seven;
'Twas counted shame to mother less,
Though four preceded her to Heaven;
She never had a kitched help,
She did her housework all alone:
With seven little daups to skelp,
She worked her fingers to the bone.

And now I sit before a fire
in sculped Carrara marble set;
I've luxury to heart's desire,
And I am old as Granny - yet
I have not in my eyes the joy
Of hers beneath that cottage Thatch,
As when she hailed a tiny boy
Who had to reach to lift the latch.

No urchin by the olive glow
Waits wistfully beside my knee;
Her youth, a hundred years ago
How happily she told to me!
Her "but and ben" had scarce a clout,
But Oh! How she was gay and glad!
Alas, my fire is dying out . . .
And I - I have no little lad!

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