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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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Bob Smart's Dream

Published by Susan on 08/10/2003 (10701 reads)
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Bob Smart's Dream 

This is my dream of Whitehorse
When fifty years have sped,
As after the Rogers' Banquet
I lay asleep in my bed. 

I tottered along the sidewalk
That was made of real cement;
A skyscraper loomed above me,
Where once I remembered a tent. 

I heard the roar of a trolley,
And I stumbled out of the way;
I dodged a few automobiles,
And I felt I was getting quite gay. 

I thought I'd cross the Yukon,
Over the big steel bridge;
I heard the roar of the stamp mills
Up on the western ridge. 

Crushing the quartz from bullion,
And borne on the evening breeze
I sniffed the fumes of the smelter
And the suphur made me sneeze. 

So I thought I'd go to Ear Lake Park
Where nature was fresh and fair;
('Twas donated by J.P.Whitney,
The multi-millionaire.) 

Out past the smiling suburbs,
The villas with gardens aflower,
The factories down by the rapids
Run by the water power. 

I took a car to the Canyon
And transferred up to the Park
And I sat on a bench by the fountain
Feeling as old as the Ark. 

I sighed for the ancient landmarks,
The men that I used to know,
Till I stumbled against a statue,
And spelled out the name - Bob Lowe. 

A litle chap who saw me
Said with evident pride:
"That is a bust of my grandpa:
It's twenty years since he died. 

And if you think I'm fooling,
Ask that boy and you'll see -
He's little Billy Grainger, my playmate,
And that's little Barney McGee." 

Then I turned once more to the city,
With its streets like canyons aroar;
And the lights of Taylor & Drury's
Colossal department store: 

The eighteen storey steel palace
Where once stood the White Pass Hotel,
The silent rush of its elevators
The clamor of bell upon bell. 

And over there at the depot
The hurry, the crush and the din,
The flyer just starting for Dawson,
The bullion express coming in. 

The business blocks all abustle,
The theatres all alight,
The Home of Indigent Sourdoughs
Endowed by Armstrong and White. 

And everywhere were strangers,
And I thought in the midst of these
Of Old Bill Clark in his homespun,
And debonnaire Mr.Breze: 

And Fish, and Doc and the Deacon,
And the solo bunch at the club -
Now grown to a stately mansion
That would make the old place look dub. 

It was all so real, so lifelike,
I awoke like a man in a fog,
So I shed a few tears in the darkness,
And groped for the hair of the dog. 

This was my dream of Whitehorse
When fifty years have sped,
As I lay asleep in my bed. 

___ Robert W. Service, 1905 __________

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