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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
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Guitarist

Published by Webmaster on 07/30/2003 (2901 reads)
His aged hands were grained with grime

Guitarist

His aged hands were grained with grime
                Warped was his old guitar,
And as I paused a little time,
                So near and yet so far,
He looked at me with sightless stare,
                Yet knew that I was there.

He must have done. He played and air
                I sang in days gone bye.
'Twas Jeannie of the Nut-brown Hair;
                As softly as a sigh
He played, yet oh! So sad the strain
                It woke an ancient pain.

For though she left   me all alone,
                Bleak years and years away,
I think my minstrel must have known -
                His jazz he ceased to play,
And strummed so gently just for me
                That heart-break melody.

Blind folk, I think, are often fey,
                And second sight have got,
For every time I pass that way,
                Although he knows me not,
He looks at me with empty stare
                And plays that old-time air.

. . . There by the tragic plane we stand:
                No kisses, only sighs.
Her hand is groping for my hand,
                Her eyes down in my eyes . . .
Dark Tunesmith, echo my despair!
                Soft, soft her nut-brown hair.


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