The Harpy – A Story of Survival on the Fringes

The Story Behind Robert Service’s Poem The Harpy

Robert Service was known for writing about rugged men of the North, but every now and then, he turned his focus to the women who lived in those same wild, unforgiving places. The Harpy is one of those poems.

In Greek and Roman mythology, a harpy was a terrifying creature—part woman, part bird, known for stealing souls and carrying them away. But by the time of the California, Colorado, and Yukon Gold Rushes, the word had taken on a new meaning. It became slang for a prostitute—one of the many women who followed the gold and tried to carve out a living in a world dominated by men.

Service had a way of making even the roughest, most hardened characters feel human, and that’s what makes this poem stand out. It’s not just about a woman who lives on the edge of society—it’s about her resentment, her loneliness, and the hard truths she has to face.

Even over a hundred years later, The Harpy still hits like a punch to the gut.

The Harpy

By Robert W. Service

There was a woman, and she was wise; woefully wise was she;
She was old, so old, yet her years all told were but a score and three;
And she knew by heart, from finish to start, the Book of Iniquity.

There is no hope for such as I on earth, nor yet in Heaven;
Unloved I live, unloved I die, unpitied, unforgiven;
A loathèd jade, I ply my trade, unhallowed and unshriven.

I paint my cheeks, for they are white, and cheeks of chalk men hate;
Mine eyes with wine I make them shine, that man may seek and sate;
With overhead a lamp of red I sit me down and wait

Until they come, the nightly scum, with drunken eyes aflame;
Your sweethearts, sons, ye scornful onesi’tis I who know their shame.
The gods, ye see, are brutes to meiand so I play my game.

For life is not the thing we thought, and not the thing we plan;
And Woman in a bitter world must do the best she cani
Must yield the stroke, and bear the yoke, and serve the will of man;

Must serve his need and ever feed the flame of his desire,
Though be she loved for love alone, or be she loved for hire;
For every man since life began is tainted with the mire.

And though you know he love you so and set you on love’s throne;
Yet let your eyes but mock his sighs, and let your heart be stone,
Lest you be left (as I was left) attainted and alone.

From love’s close kiss to hell’s abyss is one sheer flight, I trow,
And wedding ring and bridal bell are will-o’-wisps of woe,
And ’tis not wise to love too well, and this all women know.

Wherefore, the wolf-pack having gorged upon the lamb, their prey,
With siren smile and serpent guile I make the wolf-pack payi
With velvet paws and flensing claws, a tigress roused to slay.

One who in youth sought truest truth and found a devil’s lies;
A symbol of the sin of man, a human sacrifice.
Yet shall I blame on man the shame? Could it be otherwise?

Was I not born to walk in scorn where others walk in pride?
The Maker marred, and, evil-starred, I drift upon His tide;
And He alone shall judge His own, so I His judgment bide.

Fate has written a tragedy; its name is “The Human Heart.”
The Theatre is the House of Life, Woman the mummer’s part;
The Devil enters the prompter’s box and the play is ready to start.