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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 (3393 reads)
They say love makes the world go round,


They say love makes the world go round,
But though my husband is a dear,
No family I dare to found,
For I am overcome by fear;
And even one black sheep in seven
Would make a hell out of my heaven.

How many tote a load of care,
And are will ill-starred offspring curst?
Of all the crosses hard to bear
An erring daughter is the worst.
How many are with anguish torn,
And wish a son had ne'er been born!

My sister has a girl that's lame,
With bones that never will be well;
My brother has a son of shame
Who ornaments a prison cell;
My neighbour has an idiot boy,
Who poisons at its source her joy.
There are but three of many more,
Who make me glad I have no brood;
For I am coward to the core
And shrink the chance of motherhood. . . .

Weak woman, voicing direful doom;
A President my wait your womb.

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