'Twas in the bleary middle of the hard-boiled Arctic night,
I was lonesome as a loon so if you can,
Imagine my emotions of amazement and delight
When I bumped into that Missionary Man.
He was lying lost and dying in the moon’s unholy leer
And frozen from his toes to finger-tips;
The famished wolf-pack ringed him ; but he didn’t seem to fear,
As he pressed his ice-bound bible to his lips
'Twas the limit of my trap-line, with the cabin miles away,
And every step was like a stab of pain;
But I packed him like a baby, and I nursed him night and day,
Till I got him back to health and strength again.
So there we were, benighted in the shadow of the Pole,
And he might have proved a priceless little pard,
If he hadn’t got to worrying about my blessed soul,
And a-quotin’ me his bible by the yard.
Now there was I, a husky guy, who’s god was Nicotine.
With a “coffin-nail” a fixture in my mug;
I rolled them in the pages of a pulpwood magazine,
And hacked them with my jack-knife from the plug.
For, oh to know the bliss and glow that good tobacco means,
There among the everlasting ice . . .
So judge my horror when I found my stack of magazines
Was chewed into a chowder by the mice.
A woeful week went by and not a single pill I had,
Me who would smoke my forty in a day;
I sighed, I swore, I strode the floor; I felt I would go mad;
The gospel-plugger watched me in dismay.
My brow was wet, my teethe were set, my nerves were rasping raw;
And yet that preacher couldn’t understand;
So with despair I wrestle there —when suddenly I saw
The volume he was holding in his hand.
Then something snapped inside my brain,
and with an evil start
The wolf-man in me woke to rabid rage.
“I saved your lousy life” says I; “So show you have a hear,
And tear me out a solitary page.”
He shrank and shriveled at my words; his face went pewter white;
'Twas just as if I’d handed him a blow,
And then . . . and then he seemed to swell, and grow to Heaven’s height,
And in a voice that rang he answered “No!”
I grabbed my loaded rifle and I jabbed it to his chest;
“Come on you shrimp, give up that Book,” says I.
Well sir, he was a parson, but he stacked up with the best,
And for grit I got to hand it to the guy.
“If I should let you desecrate this Holy Word,” he said,
“My soul would be eternally accurst;
So go on, Bill, I’m ready, You can pump me full of lead
And take it, but—you’ve got to kill me first.”
Now I’m no foul assassin, though I’m full of sinful ways,
And I knew right there the fellow had me beat;
For I felt a yellow mongrel in the glory of his gaze,
And I flung the foolish firearm at his feet.
Then wearily I turned away, and dropped upon my bunk,
And there I lay and blubbered like a kid.
“Forgive me pard,” says I at last, “for acting like a skunk,
But hide that blasted rifle . . .” which he did.
And he also hid his bible, which was maybe just as well,
For the sight of all that paper gave me pain,
And there were crimson moments when I felt I’d go to hell
To have a single cigarette again.
And so I lay day after day, and brooded dark and deep,
Until one night I thought I’d end it all;
Then rough I roused the preacher, where he stretched pretending sleep,
With his map of horror tuned towards the wall.
“See here, my pious pal,” says I, “I’ve stood this long enough . . .
Behold! I’ve mixed some strychnine in a cup;
Enough to kill a dozen men—behold me it’s no bluff;
Now watch me, for I’m gonna drink it up.
You’ve seen me bludgened by despair through bitter days and night and nights,
And now you’ll see me squirming as I die.
You’re not to blame, you’ve played the game according to your lights . . .
But how would have Christ played it?—Well goodbye. . .”
With that I raised the deadly drink and laid it to my lips,
But he was on me with a tiger-bound;
And as we locked and reeled and rocked with wild and wicked grips,
The poisoned cup went crashing to the ground.
“Don’t do it, Bill,” He madly shrieked, Maybe I acted wrong,
See, here’s my Bible—use it as you will;
But promise me—you’ll read a little as you go along . . .
You do! Then take it, Brother; smoke your fill."
And so I did. I smoked and smoked from Genesis to job,
And as I smoked I read each blessed word;
While in the shadow of his bunk I heard him sigh and sob,
And then . . . a most peculiar thing occurred.
I got to reading more and more, and smoking less and less,
Till just about the day his heart was broke,
Says I: “here, take it back, me lad. I’ve had enough, I guess.
Your paper makes a mighty rotten smoke.”
So then and there with plea and prayer he wrestled for my soul,
And I was racked and ravaged by regrets.
But God was good, for lo! next day there came the police patrol,
With papers for a thousand cigarettes. . .
So now I’m called Salvation Bill; I teach the living Law,
And Bally—hoo the Bible with the best;
And if a guy won’t listen—why, I sock him on the jaw,
And preach the Gospel sitting on his chest.
From Bar Room Ballads 1940
Other works by Robert W. Service...
