Robert W. Service, 'Bide-A-Wee'
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Bide-A-Wee
You've heard, may be, of Maw McGee
Who from Old Reckie came;
A lorn and lonely widder she,
And sorry for the same;
Who put her scanty savings in
A tiny shop for tea,
In Lucky Strike, that bed of sin,
And called it Bide-a-Wee.
The which is Scotch for Rest-A-While,
But somehow no one did,
And poor Maw with a sickly smile
Her woe and worry hid.
Her hand-made scones and cookies were
Forever growing stale,
For sourdoughs vinously aver
Tea's splendid - for the trail.
Then one day Montreal Maree,
In gaily passing by
Saw silver-haired old Maw McGee
Partaking of a cry.
So bold she breezed into the shop:
"I like your joint," says she:
"And every afternoon I'll stop
To have a cup of tea."
Right there she tuckered in with toast
And orange-pekoe brew;
Of shortbread that was Scotland's boast
She bought a pound or two.
Then to the dance-hall dolls she spoke:
"I sink zere ess no doubt
Zat poor ol' leddy she go broke:
We gotta help her out."
And so next day 'twas joy to see
Them babies bargin' in,
And Maw was busy as a bee
Amid the merry din.
And then the hooch-hounds lent their aid;
Said they: "It's jest like home."
Why, even spoonin' marmalade
Was Black Moran from Nome.
The Nugget bar was lonesome-like
From four to five each day,
And wondering was One-eyed Mike
What kept the boys away.
Says he: "Where are them sons o' guns?
I'll stroll the street to see."
When lo! he found them buying buns
In jam-packed Bide-a-Wee.
The boys looked sheepish, I'll allow,
As One-eyed Mike strolled in,
To see him kiss Maw on the brow
And greet her with a grin.
"Why, bless you, dear, give me a pot,
And make it strong," says he;
"Since Mother died I've quite forgot
The taste of home made tea."
So in the Camp of Lucky Strike
Maw sure has made the grade,
And patronized by One-eyed Mike
She plies a pretty trade.
To all the girls a mother's part
She plays, but oh how she
Is grateful for the golden heart
Of Montreal Maree!
By Robert W. Service
You've heard, may be, of Maw McGee
Who from Old Reckie came;
A lorn and lonely widder she,
And sorry for the same;
Who put her scanty savings in
A tiny shop for tea,
In Lucky Strike, that bed of sin,
And called it Bide-a-Wee.
The which is Scotch for Rest-A-While,
But somehow no one did,
And poor Maw with a sickly smile
Her woe and worry hid.
Her hand-made scones and cookies were
Forever growing stale,
For sourdoughs vinously aver
Tea's splendid - for the trail.
Then one day Montreal Maree,
In gaily passing by
Saw silver-haired old Maw McGee
Partaking of a cry.
So bold she breezed into the shop:
"I like your joint," says she:
"And every afternoon I'll stop
To have a cup of tea."
Right there she tuckered in with toast
And orange-pekoe brew;
Of shortbread that was Scotland's boast
She bought a pound or two.
Then to the dance-hall dolls she spoke:
"I sink zere ess no doubt
Zat poor ol' leddy she go broke:
We gotta help her out."
And so next day 'twas joy to see
Them babies bargin' in,
And Maw was busy as a bee
Amid the merry din.
And then the hooch-hounds lent their aid;
Said they: "It's jest like home."
Why, even spoonin' marmalade
Was Black Moran from Nome.
The Nugget bar was lonesome-like
From four to five each day,
And wondering was One-eyed Mike
What kept the boys away.
Says he: "Where are them sons o' guns?
I'll stroll the street to see."
When lo! he found them buying buns
In jam-packed Bide-a-Wee.
The boys looked sheepish, I'll allow,
As One-eyed Mike strolled in,
To see him kiss Maw on the brow
And greet her with a grin.
"Why, bless you, dear, give me a pot,
And make it strong," says he;
"Since Mother died I've quite forgot
The taste of home made tea."
So in the Camp of Lucky Strike
Maw sure has made the grade,
And patronized by One-eyed Mike
She plies a pretty trade.
To all the girls a mother's part
She plays, but oh how she
Is grateful for the golden heart
Of Montreal Maree!
By Robert W. Service
no subject
Date: 2016-11-05 07:39 pm (UTC)