Poem by Robert William Service

The Sceptic

My Father Christmas passed away
When I was barely seven.
At twenty-one, alack-a-day,
I lost my hope of heaven.

Yet not in either lies the curse:
The hell of it's because
I don't know which loss hurt the worse --
My God or Santa Claus.

1. “Fighting Mac”
2. The March of the Dead
3. The Cremation of Sam Mcgee
4. Music in the Bush
5. The Rhyme of the Remittance Man

Louisa Bevington The Sceptic ("SWEET were the faiths our wishes bred; cruel is faithless fate")

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