Robert W. Service Quotations

It isn't the mountain ahead that wears you out; it's the grain of sand in your shoe.

It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones who win in the lifelong race.

A promise made is a debt unpaid.

Be sure your wisest words are those you do not say.

I have an intense dislike for artificial society. In France, one could lead a free life - to do what one wanted to do without interference or criticism from one's neighbors.

I have some friends, some honest friends, and honest friends are few; My pipe of briar, my open fire, A book that's not too new.

Avoid extremes: be moderate In saving and in spending; An equable and easy gait Will win an easy ending.

No man can be a failure if he thinks he's a success; If he thinks he is a winner, then he is.

The only society I like is rough and tough, and the tougher the better. There's where you get down to bedrock and meet human people.

Write verse, not poetry. The public wants verse. If you have a talent for poetry, then don't by any means mother it, but try your hand at verse.

I remember little of the Yukon or what I wrote there.

His life, though none too long, Was never dull: Of woman, wine and song Bill had his full.

I haled me a woman from the street, Shameless but oh so fair, I bade her sit in the model's seat, And I painted her sitting there.

My pipe is out, my glass is dry; My fire is almost ashes too; But once again, before you go, And I prepare to meet the New : Old Year! a parting word that's true, For we've been comrades, you and I - I thank God for each day of you; There! bless yo

Pitched on his head, and pumped full of lead, was Dangerous Dan McGrew, While the man from the creeks lay clutched to the breast of the lady that's known as Lou.

Oh it is good to ride and run,To roam the greenwood wild and free;To hunt, to idle in the sun,To leap into the laughing sea

Ah! the clock is always slow; It is later than you think; Sadly later than you think; Far, far later than you think

It's a different song when everything's wrong, when you're feeling infernally mortal; when it's ten against one, and hope there is none, buck up, little soldier, and chortle.

This is the Law of the Yukon, that only the Strong shall thrive;That surely the Weak shall perish, and only the Fit survive.

Our breath is brief, and being so Let's make our heaven here below, And lavish kindness as we go.

Be master of your petty annoyances and conserve your energies for the big, worthwhile things. It isn't the mountain ahead that wears you out - it's the grain of sand in your shoe.

There's a race of men that don't fit in, A race that can't sit still; So they break the hearts of kith and kin, And they roam the world at will. They range the field and rove the flood, And they climb the mountain's crest; Their's is the curse of the gypsy blood, And they don't know how to rest.

The trails of the world be countless, and most of the trails be tried; You tread on the heels of the many, till you come where the ways divide;And one lies safe in the sunlight, and the other is dreary and wan,But you look aslant at the Lone Trail, and the Lone Trail lures you on.

Carry on! Carry on! Fight the good fight and true; Believe in you mission, greet life with a cheer;

Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit - It's the keeping your chin up that's hard.

The Wanderlust has got me... by the belly-aching fire

This is the law of the Yukon, that only the strong shall thrive; that surely the weak shall perish, and only the fit survive.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs With a brilliant, fitful pace, It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones Who win in the lifelong race. And each forgets that his youth has fled, Forgets that his prime is past, Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead, In the glare of the truth at last.

The happy man is he who knows his limitations, yet bows to no false gods.

It's easy to fight when everything's right And you're mad with the thrill and the glory; It's easy to cheer when victory's near, And wallow in fields that are gory. It's a different song when everything's wrong, When you're feeling infernally mortal; When it's ten against one, and hope there is none, Buck up, little soldier, and chortle!

The lonely sunsets flare forlorn Down valleys dreadly desolate; The lonely mountains soar in scorn As still as death, as stern as fate.

Even goats may have starlight in their eyes.

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.

Alas! the road to Anywhere is pitfalled with disaster; There's hunger, want, and weariness, yet O we loved it so! As on we tramped exultantly, and no man was our master, And no man guessed what dreams were ours, as, swinging heel and toe, We tramped the road to Anywhere, the magic road to Anywhere, The tragic road to Anywhere, such dear, dim years ago.

Ah! the clock is always slow; it is later than you think.

I like to think that when I fall, A rain-drop in Death's shoreless sea, This shelf of books along the wall, Beside my bed, will mourn for me.

Some praise the Lord for Light, The living spark; I thank God for the Night The healing dark.

I have no doubts that the Devil grins, As seas of ink I spatter. Ye gods, forgive my “literary” sins – The other kind don’t matter.

When children's children shall talk of War as a madness that may not be; When we thank our God for our grief today, and blazon from sea to sea In the name of the Dead the banner of Peace ... that will be Victory.

Then you've a hunch what the music meant . . . hunger and night and the stars.

Old Year! upon the Stage of Time You stand to bow your last adieu; A moment, and the prompter's chime Will ring the curtain down on you.