Up, John Kane! by Robert E. Howard

“Up, John Kane!” is a werewolf poem by Robert E. Howard. It was first published, posthumously, in Up, John Kane! & Other Poeems (1977). “Up, John Kane!” has subsequently appeared in several other Robert E. Howard anthologies including The Horror Stories of Robert E. Howard (2008) and The Collected Poetry of Robert E. Howard (2009).

 

About Robert E. Howard

Robert Ervin Howard was an American writer of pulp fiction. Often considered to be the man who began the sword and sorcery subgenre, Howard was the creator of Conan the Barbarian.

Howard began writing fiction when he was just nine years old. In December 1922, aged 16, his work began paying off when The Tattler (Brownwood High School newspaper) printed two of his stories: “‘Golden Hope Christmas” and “West is West”. Then, in 1924, after years of having his stories rejected by Weird Tales, he made his first sale to the magazine with a caveman story called “Spear and Fang”. This marked the start of Howard’s career as a pulp fiction writer and Weird Tales subsequently became one of his main outlets for weird fiction.

 

Up, John Kane!

By Robert E. Howard

Up, John Kane, the grey night’s falling;
The sun’s sunk in blood and the fog comes crawling;
From hillside to hill the grey wolves are calling;
Will ye come, will ye come, John Kane?

What of the oath that you swore by the river
Where the black shadows lurk and the sun comes
never,
And a Shape in the shadows wags its grisly head
forever?

You swore by the blood-crust that stained your dagger,
By the haunted woods where hoofed feet swagger,
And under grisly burdens misshapen creatures
stagger.

Up, John Kane, and cease your quaking!
You have made the pact which has no breaking,
And your brothers are eager their thirst to be slaking.

Up, John Kane! Why cringe there, and cower?
The pact was sealed with the dark blood-flower;
Glut now your fill in the werewolf ’s hour!

Fear not the night nor the shadows that play there;
Soundless and sure shall your bare feet stray there;
Strong shall your teeth be, to rend and to slay there.

Up, John Kane, the thick night’s falling;
Up from the valleys the white fog’s crawling;
Your four-footed brothers from the hills are calling:
Will ye come, will ye come, John Kane?

 

Robert E. Howard (1906 – 1936)