Ballads of a Cheechako

The Telegraph Operator

     I will not wash my face;
      I will not brush my hair;
     I "pig" around the place—
      There's nobody to care.
     Nothing but rock and tree;
      Nothing but wood and stone,
     Oh, God, it's hell to be
      Alone, alone, alone!

     Snow-peaks and deep-gashed draws
      Corral me in a ring.
     I feel as if I was
      The only living thing
     On all this blighted earth;
      And so I frowst and shrink,
     And crouching by my hearth
      I hear the thoughts I think.

     I think of all I miss—
      The boys I used to know;
     The girls I used to kiss;
      The coin I used to blow:
     The bars I used to haunt;
      The racket and the row;
     The beers I didn't want
      (I wish I had 'em now).

     Day after day the same,
      Only a little worse;
     No one to grouch or blame—
      Oh, for a loving curse!
     Oh, in the night I fear,
      Haunted by nameless things,
     Just for a voice to cheer,
      Just for a hand that clings!

     Faintly as from a star
      Voices come o'er the line;
     Voices of ghosts afar,
      Not in this world of mine;
     Lives in whose loom I grope;
      Words in whose weft I hear
     Eager the thrill of hope,
      Awful the chill of fear.

     I'm thinking out aloud;
      I reckon that is bad;
     (The snow is like a shroud)—
      Maybe I'm going mad.
     Say! wouldn't that be tough?
      This awful hush that hugs
     And chokes one is enough
      To make a man go "bugs".

     There's not a thing to do;
      I cannot sleep at night;
     No wonder I'm so blue;
      Oh, for a friendly fight!
     The din and rush of strife;
      A music-hall aglow;
     A crowd, a city, life—
      Dear God, I miss it so!

     Here, you have moped enough!
      Brace up and play the game!
     But say, it's awful tough—
      Day after day the same
     (I've said that twice, I bet).
      Well, there's not much to say.
     I wish I had a pet,
      Or something I could play.

     Cheer up! don't get so glum
      And sick of everything;
     The worst is yet to come;
      God help you till the Spring.
     God shield you from the Fear;
      Teach you to laugh, not moan.
     Ha! ha! it sounds so queer—
      Alone, alone, alone!