"The Lure of the Tropics"

Anyone who has attended one of the early Gunsite Reunion/Theodore Roosevelt Memorial gatherings was probably been mesmerized by Dan Dennehy's rendition of the poem commonly known as "The Lure of the Tropics."  While it is not quite a "profound thoughts" it is good enough reading to include.

The poem, correctly titled "Down and Out" was written by Clarence Leonard Hay (1885 - 1969), and published in the August 3, 1912, Collier's Weekly, on page 35.  Oddly enough it appears to be the only poem Clarence Leonard Hay ever published.

This poem has been circulated in numerous versions and has also been published  in "Rough Men, Tough Men," Viking Press, New York, 1969, and in "The Best Loved Poems of the American People," Garden City, N.Y., Doubleday, 1936.

Despite the vividness of the poem, Hay himself was never exactly down and out. He was a direct heir to one of the largest private fortunes in America at the time, that of the Payne Whitney family. He was born in 1885, the son of John Hay, President Lincoln's private secretary, who later served as Secretary of State in the McKinley administration.  Clarence Leonard Hay had a lifelong interest in natural history and archeology.

From his New York Times obituary.

"On a 1912 trip to Yucatan, while Mr. Hay was a Central American Research Fellow at Harvard, he and R.E. Merwin discovered and then lost the largest known Mayan temple ruin.  "The temple, 55 feet high, was photographed and measured, and then almost immediately lost to sight in the dense jungle about 50 miles north of the Guatemalan border.

"'It seems strange,' Mr. Hay wrote in 1935, 'that a large temple ruin should disappear so utterly in a rather small and well defined section, but only one who has visited that part of Mexico can possibly visualize the density of the jungle. . . it is perfectly possible to pass within arm's length of the ruin without being able to see it. As a matter of fact, we only found it by running right into it.'  "On another expedition to Mexico Mr. Hay was rescued in Vercacruz by American marines [110 Marines?] in 1914 during the Mexican Revolution.

Mr. Hay's description of their ordeal outraged a Congressional committee.  "Mr. Hay put his scientific knowledge to use for the New York Police Department's Bomb Squad, and later joined the Army's Intelligence in World War I.  "He left his post at the museum in 1960, becoming an honorary trustee, and devoting a large part of his time to horticulture.

"He was a member of the New York Academy of Sciences, the American Ethnological Society, the Harvard Club, the Racquet and Tennis Club, the New York Horticultural Society, the Explorers Club, the University Club of Mexico City, the American Geographical Society, and the New York Zoological Society."

Clarence L. Hay died in 1969 in the Ritz Hotel in Paris, where he was vacationing.

I have posted below the original version, the version recited by Dan Dennehy, a hand written copy dated 11-14-12, and some commentary notes.

Special thanks to Stan Barnes, Naoma Foreman, and especially  Paul Kirchner (who did research above and beyond the call of duty and dug up the biographical data on Hay and a copy of the original published in Colliers), for their input on this poem.

DOWN AND OUT
a.k.a Lure of the Tropics
by Clarence Leonard Hay
Published August 3, 1912, Collier's Weekly
(Formatting and punctuation are as originally published)

So, son, you've come to the tropics, heard all you had to do
Was sit in the shade of a cocoanut glade while the dollars roll into you?
They gave you that at the bureau? Did you get the statistics straight?
Well, hear what it did to another kid, before you decide your fate.
You don't go down with a hard, short fall; you just sort of shuffle along,
And lighten your load of the moral code, till you can't tell the right from the wrong.
I started off to be honest, with everything on the square,
But a man can't fool with the Golden Rule in a crowd that won't play fair.
It's a choice of riding a dirty race, or of being an also ran,
My only hope was to steal and dope the horse of the other man.
I pulled a deal in Guayaquil, in an Inca silver mine,
But before they found 'twas salted ground I was safe in Argentine;
I made short weight on the River Plate, when running a freighter there,
And I cracked a crib on a rich estate without even turning a hair;
But the thing that'll double-bar my soul when it flaps at heaven's doors
Was peddling booze to the Santa Cruz, and Winchester forty-fours.
Made unafraid by my kindly aid, the drunk-crazed brutes came down
And left in a quivering, blazing mass a flourishing border town.
I was then in charge of a smugglers barge on the coast of Yucatan,
But she sank to hell off Cozumel one night in a hurricán.
I got to shore on a broken oar, in the filthy, shrieking dark,
With the other two of the good ship's crew converted into shark.
From a limestone cliff I flagged a skiff with a salt-soaked pair of jeans,
And I worked my way (for I couldn't pay) on a fruiter to New Orleans.

It's kind of a habit, the tropics, it gets you worse than rum;
You'll get away and you swear you'll stay, but it calls, and back you come.
Six shot months went by before I was back there on the job,
Running a war in Salvador, with a black-faced, barefoot mob.
I was General Santiago Hicks at the head of a grand revolt,
And my only friend from start to end was a punishing army Colt.
I might have been a President now, a prosperous man of means,
But a gunboat came and blocked my game with a hundred and ten marines.
So I awoke from my dream, dead broke, then drifted from from bad to worse,
And sank as low as a man can go who walks with an empty purse.
But stars, they say, appear by day, when you're down in a deep, black pit.
My Lucky Star found me that way when I was about to quit.
In a fiery hot, flea-ridden cot, I was down with the Yellow Jack,
Alone in the Bush and all but dead; She found me and nursed me back.
She came like the miracle man of old and opened my bad, blind eyes,
And upon me shone a bright new dawn as I turned my face to the skies.
There was pride and grace in her brown young face, for hers was the blood of kings;
In her eyes there shone the glory of empires gone, and the secret of world-old things.
We were spliced in a Yankee meeting house on the land of your Uncle Sam,
And I drew my pay from the U. S. A., for I worked at the Gatun Dam.
Mind you, I take no credit for coming back to my own,
Though I walked again with honest men, I couldn't have done it alone.
Then the Devil sent his right-hand man--I might have expected he would--
And he took her life with a long thin knife, because she was straight and good.

Within me died hope, honor, pride, and all but a primitive will
To hound him down on his blood-red trail, and find--and kill-- and kill!
Through logwood swamps and chicle camps I hunted him many a moon,
And I found my man in a long pit pan, at the edge of a blue lagoon.
The chase was o'er at the farther shore; it ended a two years quest,
And I left him there with a vacant stare and a "John Crow" on his chest.

You see these punctures on my arm; you'd like to know what they mean?
Those marks were left by fingers deft of my trained nurse, "Miss Morphine."
Perhaps you think that's worse than drink--it's possible, too, you're right;
At least it drives away the Things that come and stare in the night.
There is a homestead down in an old Maine town, with lilacs round the gate,
And the Northerners whisper: "It might have been," but the truth has come too late.
They say they give me a month to live--a month or a year's the same;
I haven't the heart to play my part to the end of a losing game.
For whenever you play, whatever the way, for stakes that are large or small,
The claws of the tropics will gather your pile, and the dealer gets it all!

The reference to "John Crow" refers to a Jamaican buzzard which was considered an evil omen."

The Lure of the Tropics
As recited by Dan Dennehy and other sources

So, son, you’ve come down to the tropics, And heard all you had to do
Was sit in the shade of a coconut glade, While the dollars rolled in to you.
They tell you that at the bureau? Have you got your statistics straight?
But listen to what it did to another kid Before you decide your fate.

You don’t go down with a sharp, hard fall, You just sort of shuffle along,
And lighten your load of the moral code, Till you don’t know right from wrong.
I started in to be honest,  With everything on the square;
But the man can’t fool with the Golden Rule, In a crowd that won’t play fair.

‘Twas a case of riding a crooked race, Or being an also ran,
My only hope was to sneak and dope, The horse of another man.
I pulled a deal down in Guayaquil, In an Inca silver mine
And before they found it was salted ground, I was safe in the Argentine.

But the thing that’ll double-bar my soul, When it flaps at Heaven’s doors,
Was peddling booze in Santa Cruz, And Winchester forty-fours.
Made unafraid by my friendly aid, The drink-crazed brutes came down
And left a blazing, quivering mass, Of a flourishing border town.

I then took charge of a smuggler’s barge, Down the coast from Yucatan.
But she went to hell off Christobal, One night in a hurricane.
I got ashore on a broken oar,* In the filthy, stinking dark,
While the other two of the good ship’s crew, Were converted into shark.

From a sun baked cliff I flagged a skiff, With a salt soaked pair of jeans.
Then worked my, for I couldn’t pay, On a fruiter to New Orleans.
But their kind of habit, the tropics, It gets you worse than rum.
You’ll get away and you swear you’ll stay, But they call, and back you come.

T’was just six short months before, I was back there on the job,
Running a war in Salvador, With a barefoot, black-faced mob.
A mob that made me their General, * Leading a Grand Revolt,
But my only friend, from beginning to end, Was a 45 Army Colt.

I might have become their President, A prosperous man of means,
But a gunboat came and spoiled my game, With a hundred and ten Marines.
So I awoke form my dream, dead broke,* And drifted from bar to worse,
And sank as low as a man can go, Who walks with an empty purse.

But the stars, they say, appear by day, When you are down in the deep, dark pit.
And my lucky star found me that way, When I was about to quit.
Alone on a hot, flea-ridden cot,* I was down with the yellowjack.
Alone in the bush and damned near dead, She found me and brought me back.

In her eyes shone lights of Empires gone, For hers was the blood of Kings.
When she spoke, her voice inspired high thoughts, And dreams of nobler things.

We were spliced in a Yankee meeting house, In the land of your Uncle Sam.
And I drew my pay form the USA, For I worked on the Gatun dam.
The the devil sent his right hand man, And I might have suspected he would,
And he took her life with a long, thing knife, Because she was pure and good.

Within me died hope, honor, and pride, And all but a primitive will
To hound him down on his blood-red trail, And find, and kill, and kill!
O’er chicle camps and logwood swamps,* I hunted him many a moon.
Then I found my man in Long Pit Pan, At the edge of a blue lagoon.

The search was o’er at the farthest shore, It ended a two-year quest.
And I left him there with an empty stare, And a Dan-D knife in his chest.**
You see those marks upon my arm? You wonder what they mean?
Those marks were left by fingers deft, Of my trained nurse – Miss Morphine.

You say that habit’s no worse than rum? Well, it’s possible, too, you’re right,
But at least it drives away the things, That come and stare at night.
There’s a homestead down in an old Maine town, And there’s lilac ‘round the gate,
And the night winds whisper, “It might have been”, But the truth has come too late.

For the odds are against you, whatever you play,  Tho’ the stakes be large or small,
And the chances are that the deck is stacked, And the dealer gets it all.
Now that’s the law of the tropics,* And you can buck it if you will,
But take my advice and go back home, son, While you’ve still got your mind and the will.

Notes

All or some of the verses marked with an * may be omitted in some records of this poem. In the  line marked ** Dan always substituted his knife brand name Dan-D. 

Oldest Known Hand Written Version

This version of "Lure of the Tropics" was supplied to me by a correspondent, Stan Barnes. It was found by him written on several pieces of paper, dated 11-14-1912, stuffed in a book of poetry that was published on 1907. The book was owned by someone named Silverhorn from Ardmore S.D. and the poem states Ardmore, SD, next to the date, but there is no telling who wrote down the verses. 

Photo courtesy of Stan Barnes, 2005.

So son you have come to the tropics, heard all that you had to do, was sit in the shade of a coconut glade, and let the dollars roll in to you.  They gave you that at the bureau, you got this statistic straight, well hear what it did to another kid, before you decide your fate.

You don't go down with a short hard fall, you just naturally shuffle along, and lighten your load of the moral code, till you cant tell the right from the wrong. I started in to be honest, with everything on the square, but a man cant fool with the golden rule, in a crowd that won’t play fair.

It is a choice of riding a dirty race, or being an also ran, so my only hope was to sneak and dope, the horse of the other man. I pulled a deal at Guayaquil, in an Inca silver mine, and before they found it was salted ground, I was safe in the Argentine.

I made short weight on the river plate, while running a freighter there, and cracked a crib in richer state, without ever turning a hair.  But the thing that will double bar my soul, when it knocks at heavens door, was peddling booze to the Santa Cruise, and Winchester 44's.

Made unafraid by my kindly aid, the drink crazed brutes came down, and left in a quivering blazing mass, a flourishing border town.  I was then in charge of a smugglers barge, on the coast of Yucatan, but she sank to the hell off Cozumel, one night in a hurricane.  

I reached the shore on a broken oar, in the filthy shrieking dark, while the other two of the good ships crew, were converted into shark.  From a limestone cliff I flagged a skiff, with a salt soaked pair of jeans, and worked my way for I couldn't pay, on a fruiter to New Orleans.

It is sort of a habit the tropics, that gets you worse than rum, you get away and you swear you'll stay, but it calls and back you come.  Just six short months went by before, I was back there on the job, running a war in Salvador, with a black faced bare foot mob.

I was general Santiago, at the head of a grand revolt, my only friend from start to end, was a punishing army Colt.  I might have been presidente now, and a prosperous man of means, but a gun boat came and blocked my game, with a hundred and ten marines.

I awoke from my dream dead broke, then drifted from bad to worse, and sank as low as a man can go, who walks with on empty purse.  But stars they say appear by day, when you are down in a deep black pit, and my lucky star found me that way, when I was about to quit.

On a firey hot flu ridden cot, I was down with the yellow jack, alone in the bush and all but dead, she found me and nursed me back.  She came like the miracle man of old, and opened my bad blind eyes, and upon me shown a clear new dawn, when I turned my head to the skies.

There was pride and grace in her brown young face, for hers was the blood of kings, and from her eyes flashed the glories of empires gone, and the secrets of world-old things.  We were spliced in a Yankee meeting house, on the land of your uncle sam, and I drew my pay from the U.S.A., for I worked on the Goddard dam.

Mind you I take no credit, for coming back to my own, though I walked again with honest men, I couldn't a done it alone. Then the devil sent his right hand man, I might of suspected he would, and he took her life with a long thin knife, because she was straight and good.

Within me died hope honor pride, and all but a primitive will, to hound him down on his blood red trail, and find and kill and kill.  Through log wood swamps and chicle camps,  I hunted him a many a moon, and found my man in a long pit pan, at the edge of a blue lagoon.

The chase was o're at the farther shore, it ended at a two years quest, I left him there with a vacant stare, and a John Crow on his chest.  You see those punctures on my arm, and you would like to know what they mean, those marks were left by the fingers deft, of my trained nurse miss morphine.

Perhaps you think that is worse than drink, well perhaps you are right, but it serves to drive away, the things that comes and stare in the night.  There is a homestead down in an old Maine town, with lilacs around the gate, the northerners whisper it might have been, but now it is too late.

For they say I have but a month to live, a month or a year is the same, for I haven't the heart to play my part, at the end of a losing game.   For wherever you play or whatever way, for stakes that are big or small, the call of the tropics will gather your pile, and the dealer gets it all.

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Updated 2005-10-07