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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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Published by Webmaster on 07/30/2003 (2859 reads)
Of children we had only one;


Of children we had only one;
Alas! A little crippled son
                                Was all I bore;
And after seen years of care
And gloom and grief we did not dare
                                To pray for more.
Now Edward's hair is almost white
And mine is gentling in the light
                                With silver touch;
We're growing old . . . it's long ago,
Yet still I clasp with heart of woe
                                I tiny crutch.

I keep it up the garret stair,
Well hid, for Edward cannot bear
                                To look on it;
He thought that I had best destroy
This sad memento of a boy
                                For life unfit.
I wonder if he did not blame
Me darkly  that the lad was lame -
                                I've heard him say
There was  not in his family
A taint of ill  and sound was he
                                In every way.

He freezes up, his face is set,
He fondly thinks he can forget
                                Yet evermore
I know, like me, with inner ear
A ghostly tap tap he will hear
                                Upon the floor.
For mouse-like as I climbed the stair
I cam on him all unaware
                                And saw him clutch
Close in his arms with weary woe,
And sob and sob with grief, although
It's oh so long and long ago -
                                A tiny crutch.

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