Classic Poem

White and pure by the Northern Sea in the Arctic day it lies,
Fairer far than St Petersburg, and greater in Finnish eyes:
By snow-drift and floe-drift where the distant bergs are grand,
And the ice blink and the northern lights like a frozen fairyland;
And still they cleave to the Swedish church, the Norsemen of the Norse,
In, not a collection of greasy huts — but the city of Helsingfors.

Big and blonde, and with flaxen hair, and a grin for his downs and ups,
And a womanish seeming affection, unknown to an Englishman, in his cups,
Was Oscar Ackmann, the Russian Finn, who came to dese lands to dwell,
And he'd brought his viddered old varder with him, and his words began with Ve-ell.

Dusty and hot, and the sweat that rained from their foreheads made 'em blink,
Two strong teams wrought in a tug-of-war in the Darlinghurst Skating Rink;
One was British, and we were there to pull for the South like sin,
But the foremost man in the foreign team was Oscar Ackmann, the Finn.

Ere the word was given, a blooming Swede stood up in a front-rank chair,
And, " Pull for all Finland, Oscar, " he cried, " for your father's sitting there! "
" Turn him out! Sit down!! You're drunk, yer blank! " the gallery yelled as one,
And the big Swede slumped in his chair again — But Sweden's work was done.

We hauled and we heaved like five men each, but Oscar hove like ten,
And a Forest Devil of largest size was the thing we needed then.
For a bundle of whiskers in front row chairs — as rough as the mountain gorse —
Was yelling, in Finnish, " Pull, Oscar! Pull! for the honour of Helsingfors. "

The old man howled till his old voice broke, and the cracked voice rose to a scream,
In desperation, " Bool! Oscar! Bool! Dere's a Russ in der English team! "
'Twas a damned Finn lie! but we couldn't speak — it was played low-down on us —
We pulled for Australia and England, too, but Oscar wanted the " Russ " .

Well — over we went — he'd have got us all — and that's how we lost the day —
As someone explained to our ignorance as we wiped the sweat away.
But we shouted for Oscar till he shed tears — 'twas a most un-English fuss —
We even treated the old man, too, while cursing his phantom " Russ " .

The Irish praise was unprintable, and the Scottish a Language Test —
And the Welshman spoke in his native tongue, so of course we gave him best.
Said Britain: " Bai Jove " ; said the Bush: " My oath! " and Sydney spoke with a vim:
" It's no use pullin' a Blanky Bloke when his old 'un pulls for him! "

How often and often in peace and war — how often by board and bed —
Do the spirits of our dead parents pull — the absent and the dead!
I don't infer that they'd raise a Russ — at least not in the realms above.
(Though I think that the shade of a love would lie for the sake of a living love.)

My father's picture hangs on the wall, and his father-in-law's as well:
One was a Bushman, and one a Norse from the seaport of Arundel.
They were true men — true, on the tracks they came, whether by land or sea.
And I sometimes trust, in the worst of times, that one of them pulls for me.

White and cold by the Frozen Sea, in the Arctic night it lies,
Fairer far than St Petersburg, and greater in Finnish eyes.
By snow-drift and floe-drift, where the distant bergs are grand,
And the ice blink and the northern lights like a frozen fairyland,
She cleaves to her ancient customs still, and thrives on her frozen shores,
With her still, white lights in the winter nights — the city of Helsingfors.