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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
Odds and Ends, Other Items Of Interest About Robert

Little Sister

Published by Webmaster on 07/30/2003 (3768 reads)
She always had a crave to write,

Little Sister

She always had a crave to write,
    And when we walked from school,
Her bits of verse she would recite
    Until I felt a fool.
She filled a ten-cents copy-book
    With lines and lines of rhyme,
Until she had to wash and cook,
                        And had no time.

She ran the home - that's quite a chore;
    Her hours were hard and long.
Right heavy was the load she bore,
    And her not over-strong:
To milk the cows, to clean and byre,
    To wash and darn and mend;
To chop the faggots for the fire,
                        Toil, toil, no end.

"To paint the prairie," said she,
    "How words are weak and vain!
The earth as level as the sea,
    The sky God's window-pane.
How I would give my sum of days
    For beauty's sake if I
Could sing one starry hymn of praise
                        Before I die!"

Now she is dead and I'm alone,
    And still I sow and reap,
And work my fingers to the bone,
    While she is soft asleep.
So selfless was the way she took,
    For these be bitter times. . . .
Poor Sis! Well, there's her copy-book
                        Of childish rhymes.

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