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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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Bide-A-Wee

Published by Webmaster on 07/30/2003 (3666 reads)
You've heard, may be, of Maw McGee

Bide-A-Wee

You've heard, may be, of Maw McGee
    Who from Old Reckie came;
A lorn and lonely widder she,
    And sorry for the same;
Who put her scanty savings in
    A tiny shop for tea,
In Lucky Strike, that bed of sin,
And called it Bide-a-Wee.

The which is Scotch for Rest-A-While,
    But somehow no one did,
And poor Maw with a sickly smile
    Her woe and worry hid.
Her hand-made scones  and cookies were
    Forever growing stale,
For sourdoughs vinously aver
    Tea's splendid - for the trail.

Then one day Montreal Maree,
    In gaily passing bye
Saw silver-haired old Maw McGee
    Partaking of a cry.
So bold she breezed into the shop:
    "I like your joint," says she:
"And every afternoon I'll stop
    To have a cup of tea."

Right there she tuckered in with toast
    And orange-pekoe brew;

Of shortbread that was Scotland's boast
    She bought a pound or  two.
The to the dance-hall dolls she spoke:
    "I sink zere ess no doubt
Zat poor ol' leddy she go broke:
    We gotta help her out."

And so next day 'twas joy to see
    Them babies bargin' in,
And maw was busy as a bee
    Amid the merry din.
And then the hooch-hounds lent their aid;
    Said they: "It's jest like home."
Why, even spoonin' marmalade
    Was Black Moran from Nome.

The Nugget bar was lonesome-like
    From four to five each day,
And wondering was One-eyed Mike
    What kept the boys away.
Says he: "Where are them sons o' guns?
    I'll stroll the street to see."
When lo! he found them buying buns
    In jam-packed Bide-a-Wee.

The boys looked sheepish, I'll allow,
    As One-eyed Mike strolled in,
To see him kiss Maw on the brow
    And greet her with a grin.
"Why, bless you, dear, give me a pot,
    And make it strong," says he;
"Since   Mother died I've quite forgot
    The taste of home made tea."

So in the Camp of Lucky Strike
    Maw sure  has made the grade,
And patronized by One-eyed Mike
    She plies a pretty trade.
To all the girls a mother's part
    She plays, but oh how she
Is grateful for the golden heart
    Of Montreal Maree!


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