DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Weepin' Willie
by Edward Dyson

Whey our trooper hit wide water every heart was yearin' back
To the little 'ouse at Coogee or a hut at Barrenjack.
She was 'ookin' up to spike the stars, or rootin' in the wave,
An' me liver turned a hand spring with each buck the beggar gave.
Then we pulls a sick 'n' silly smile 'n' tips a saucy lid,
Crackin' hardy. Willie didn't. Willie snivelled like a kid.
At Gallip' the steamer dumped us, 'n' we got right down to work,
Whoopin' up the hill splendacious, playin' tiggie with the Turk.
When the stinkin' Abdul hit us we curled down upon a stone,
'N' we yelled for greater glory, crackin' 'ardy on our own.
Not so Willie. He was cursin', cold ez death 'n' grey ez steel,
'N' the smallest thing that busted made the little blighter squeal.
In the bitter day's that follered, spillin' life beside the sea,
We would fake a spry expression for the things that had to be,
Always dressin' up the winder, crackin' 'ardy though we felt
Fearful creepy in the whiskers, very cold beneath the belt.
But his jills would sniff 'n' shiver in the mother of a fright,
'N' go blubberin' 'n' quakin' out to waller in the fight.
In the West we liked the weather, 'n' we fattened in the mud,
Crackin' 'ardy, stewed together, rats an' slurry men 'n' blood.
Weepin' Willie wouldn't have it these was pleasin' things abed,
'N' he shuddered in his shimmy if they passed him with the dead.
When he cried about his mother, in a gentle voice he'd tell
Them as dumb-well didn't like it they could go to sudden 'ell.
There was nothin' sweet for Willie in a rough-up in the wet;
But if all things scared him purple, not a thing had stopped him yet.
If some chaps was wanted urgent special dirty work to do
Willie went in with a shudder, but he alwiz saw it through.
Oh, a busy little body was our Willie in a crush!
Then he'd cry out in the night about the faces in the slush.
Well they pinked him one fine mornin' with a thumpin' 'unk iv shell;
Put it in 'n' all across him. What he was you couldn't tell.
I saw him stitched 'n' mended where he whimpered in his bed,
'N' he'd on'y lived because he was afraid to die, he said.
Sez he 'Struth, they're out there fightin', trimmin' Boshes good 'n' smart,
While I'm bedded here 'n' 'elpless. It fair breaks a feller's 'eart.'
But he came again last Tuesday '-n' we go it in a breath
'London's big 'n' black 'n' noisy. It would scare a bloke to death.'
He's away now in the trenches, white 'n' nervous, but, you bet,
Playin' lovely 'ands of poker with his busy bay-o-net,
'Fraid of givin' 'n' of takin', 'fraid of gases, 'fraid of guns
But a champion lightweight terror to the gor- forsaken 'Uns!
Truthful James to the Editor
by Bret Harte (Francis)

Which it is not my style
To produce needless pain
By statements that rile
Or that go 'gin the grain,
But here's Captain Jack still a-livin', and Nye has no skelp on his brain!
On that Caucasian head
There is no crown of hair;
It has gone, it has fled!
And Echo sez 'Where?'
And I asks, 'Is this Nation a White Man's, and is generally things on the square?'
She was known in the camp
As 'Nye's other squaw,'
And folks of that stamp
Hez no rights in the law,
But is treacherous, sinful, and slimy, as Nye might hev well known before.
But she said that she knew
Where the Injins was hid,
And the statement was true,
For it seemed that she did,
Since she led William where he was covered by seventeen Modocs, and slid!
Then they reached for his hair;
But Nye sez, 'By the law
Of nations, forbear!
I surrenders no more:
And I looks to be treated, you hear me? as a pris'ner, a pris'ner of war!'
But Captain Jack rose
And he sez, 'It's too thin!
Such statements as those
It's too late to begin.
There's a Modoc Indictment agin you, O Paleface, and you're goin' in!
'You stole Schonchin's squaw
In the year sixty-two;
It was in sixty-four
That Long Jack you went through,
And you burned Nasty Jim's rancheria, and his wives and his papooses too.
'This gun in my hand
Was sold me by you
'Gainst the law of the land,
And I grieves it is true!'
And he buried his face in his blanket and wept as he hid it from view.
But you're tried and condemned,
And skelping's your doom,'
And he paused and he hemmed
But why this resume?
He was skelped 'gainst the custom of nations, and cut off like a rose in its bloom.
So I asks without guile,
And I trusts not in vain,
If this is the style
That is going to obtain
If here's Captain Jack still a-livin', and Nye with no skelp on his brain?
Saxon War-Song
by Walter Scott (Sir)

Whet the bright steel,
Sons of the White Dragon!
Kindle the torch,
Daughter of Hengist!
The steel glimmers not for the carving of the banquet,
It is hard, broad, and sharply pointed;
The torch goeth not to the bridal chamber,
It steams and glitters blue with sulphur.
Whet the steel, the raven croaks!
Light the torch, Zernebock is yelling!
Whet the steel, sons of the Dragon!
Kindle the torch, daughter of Hengist!
The black cloud is low over the thane's castle
The eagle screams, he rides on its bosom.
Scream not, grey rider of the sable cloud,
Thy banquet is prepared!
The maidens of Valhalla look forth,
The race of Hengist will send them guests.
Shake your black tresses, maidens of Valhalla!
And strike your loud timbrels for joy!
Many a haughty step bends to your halls,
Many a helmed head.
Dark sits the evening upon the thanes castle,
The black clouds gather round;
Soon shall they be red as the blood of the valiant!
The destroyer of forests shall shake his red crest against them.
He, the bright consumer of palaces,
Broad waves he his blazing banner,
Red, wide and dusky,
Over the strife of the valiant:
His joy is in the clashing swords and broken bucklers;
He loves to lick the hissing blood as it bursts warm from the wound!
All must perish!
The sword cleaveth the helmet;
The strong armour is pierced by the lance;
Fire devoureth the dwelling of princes,
Engines break down the fences of the battle.
All must perish!
The race of Hengist is gone,
The name of Horsa is no more!
Shrink not then from your doom, sons of the sword!
Let your blades drink blood like wine;
Feast ye in the banquet of slaughter,
By the light of the blazing halls!
Strong be your swords while your blood is warm,
And spare neither for pity nor fear,
For vengeance hath but an hour;
Strong hate itself shall expire
I also must perish.
The Advertisement
by Rudyard Kipling

Whether to wend through straight streets strictly,
Trimly by towns perfectly paved;
Or after office, as fitteth thy fancy,
Faring with friends far among fields;
There is none other equal in action,
Sith she is silent, nimble, unnoisome,
Lordly of leather, gaudily gilded,
Burgeoning brightly in a brass bonnet,
Certain to steer well between wains.
The Philosophies.
by Friedrich Schiller

Which among the philosophies will be enduring? I know not,
But that philosophy's self ever may last is my hope.
Upon Nodes.
by Robert Herrick

Wherever Nodes does in the summer come,
He prays his harvest may be well brought home.
What store of corn has careful Nodes, think you,
Whose field his foot is, and whose barn his shoe?
My Faith.
by Friedrich Schiller

Which religion do I acknowledge? None that thou namest.
"None that I name? And why so?" Why, for religion's own sake?
St. Agnes' Shrine.
by George Pope Morris

While before St. Agnes' shrine
Knelt a true knight's lady-love,
From the wars of Palestine
Came a gentle carrier-dove.
Round his neck a Silken string
Fastened words the warrior writ:
At her call he stooped his wing,
And upon her finger lit.
She, like one enchanted, pored
O'er the contents of the scroll--
For that lady loved her lord
With a pure, devoted soul.
To her heart her dove she drew,
While she traced the burning line;
Then away his minion flew
Back to sainted Palestine.
To and fro, from hand to hand
Came and went a carrier-dove,
Till throughout the Holy Land
War resigned his sword to Love.
Swift her dove, on wings of light,
Brought the news from Palestine,
And the lady her true knight
Wedded at St. Agnes' shrine.
An Epistle To Dr. Moore.
by Helen Maria Williams

Whether dispensing hope, and ease
To the pale victim of disease,
Or in the social crowd you sit,
And charm the group with sense and wit,
Moore's partial ear will not disdain
Attention to my artless strain.
Lines, on Startling a Rabbit.
by John Hartley

Whew! - Tha'rt in a famous hurry!
Awm nooan baan to try to catch thi!
Aw've noa dogs wi' me to worry
Thee poor thing, - aw like to watch thi.
Tha'rt a runner! aw dar back thi,
Why, tha ommost seems to fly!
Did ta think aw meant to tak thi?
Well, awm fond o' rabbit pie.
Aw dooan't want th' world to misen, mun,
Awm nooan like a dog i'th' manger;
Yet still 'twor happen best to run,
For tha'rt th' safest aght o' danger.
An sometimes fowks' inclination
Leads 'em to do what they shouldn't; - 
But tha's saved me a temptation, - 
Aw've net harmed thi, 'coss aw couldn't.
Aw wish all temptations fled me,
As tha's fled throo me to-day;
For they've oft to trouble led me,
For which aw've had dear to pay.
An a taicher wise aw've faand thi,
An this lesson gained throo thee;
'At when dangers gether raand me,
Th' wisest tactics is to flee.
They may call thi coward, Bunny,
But if mine had been thy lot,
Aw should fail to see owt funny,
To be stewin in a pot.
Life to thee, awm sewer is sweeter,
Nor thi flesh to me could prove;
May thy lot an mine grow breeter,
Blest wi' liberty an love.
Wherefore?
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Wherefore in dreams are sorrows borne anew,
A healed wound opened, or the past revived?
Last night in my deep sleep I dreamed of you;
Again the old love woke in me, and thrived
On looks of fire, and kisses, and sweet words
Like silver waters purling in a stream,
Or like the amorous melodies of birds:
A dream - a dream!
Again upon the glory of the scene
There settled that dread shadow of the cross
That, when hearts love too well, falls in between;
That warns them of impending woe and loss.
Again I saw you drifting from my life,
As barques are rudely parted in a stream;
Again my heart was torn with awful strife:
A dream - a dream!
Again the deep night settled on me there,
Alone I groped, and heard strange waters roll,
Lost in that blackness of supreme despair
That comes but once to any living soul.
Alone, afraid, I called your name aloud - 
Mine eyes, unveiled, beheld white stars agleam,
And lo! awake, I cried, "Thank God, thank God!
A dream - a dream!"
Songs In "The Conquest Of Granada."
by John Dryden

I.
Wherever I am, and whatever I do,
My Phyllis is still in my mind;
When angry, I mean not to Phyllis to go,
My feet, of themselves, the way find:
Unknown to myself I am just at her door,
And when I would rail, I can bring out no more,
Than, Phyllis too fair and unkind!
When Phyllis I see, my heart bounds in my breast,
And the love I would stifle is shown;
But asleep or awake I am never at rest,
When from my eyes Phyllis is gone.
Sometimes a sad dream does delude my sad mind;
But, alas! when I wake, and no Phyllis I find,
How I sigh to myself all alone!
Should a king be my rival in her I adore,
He should offer his treasure in vain:
Oh, let me alone to be happy and poor,
And give me my Phyllis again!
Let Phyllis be mine, and but ever be kind,
I could to a desert with her be confined,
And envy no monarch his reign.
Alas! I discover too much of my love,
And she too well knows her own power!
She makes me each day a new martyrdom prove,
And makes me grow jealous each hour:
But let her each minute torment my poor mind,
I had rather love Phyllis, both false and unkind,
Than ever be freed from her power.
II.
HE.    How unhappy a lover am I,
While I sigh for my Phyllis in vain:
All my hopes of delight
Are another man's right,
Who is happy, while I am in pain!
SHE. Since her honour allows no relief,
But to pity the pains which you bear,
'Tis the best of your fate,
In a hopeless estate,
To give o'er, and betimes to despair.
HE.    I have tried the false medicine in vain;
For I wish what I hope not to win:
From without, my desire
Has no food to its fire;
But it burns and consumes me within.
SHE. Yet, at least, 'tis a pleasure to know
That you are not unhappy alone:
For the nymph you adore
Is as wretched, and more;
And counts all your sufferings her own.
HE.    O ye gods, let me suffer for both;
At the feet of my Phyllis I'll lie:
I'll resign up my breath,
And take pleasure in death,
To be pitied by her when I die.
SHE. What her honour denied you in life,
In her death she will give to your love.
Such a flame as is true
After fate will renew,
For the souls to meet closer above.
The School Or Pearl Of Putney, The Mistress Of All Singular Manners, Mistress Portman.
by Robert Herrick

Whether I was myself, or else did see
Out of myself that glorious hierarchy;
Or whether those, in orders rare, or these
Made up one state of sixty Venuses;
Or whether fairies, syrens, nymphs they were,
Or muses on their mountain sitting there;
Or some enchanted place, I do not know,
Or Sharon, where eternal roses grow.
This I am sure: I ravished stood, as one
Confus'd in utter admiration.
Methought I saw them stir, and gently move,
And look as all were capable of love;
And in their motion smelt much like to flowers
Inspir'd by th' sunbeams after dews and showers.
There did I see the reverend rectress stand,
Who with her eye's gleam, or a glance of hand,
Those spirits raised; and with like precepts then,
As with a magic, laid them all again.
A happy realm! When no compulsive law,
Or fear of it, but love keeps all in awe.
Live you, great mistress of your arts, and be
A nursing mother so to majesty,
As those your ladies may in time be seen,
For grace and carriage, everyone a queen.
One birth their parents gave them; but their new,
And better being, they receive from you.
Man's former birth is graceless; but the state
Of life comes in, when he's regenerate.
Zenith And Nadir.
by Friedrich Schiller

Wheresoever thou wanderest in space, thy Zenith and Nadir
Unto the heavens knit thee, unto the axis of earth.
Howsoever thou attest, let heaven be moved by thy purpose,
Let the aim of thy deeds traverse the axis of earth!
Prototypes
by Madison Julius Cawein

Whether it be that we in letters trace
The pure exactness of a wood bird's strain,
And name it song; or with the brush attain
The high perfection of a wildflower's face;
Or mold in difficult marble all the grace
We know as man; or from the wind and rain
Catch elemental rapture of refrain
And mark in music to due time and place:
The aim of Art is Nature; to unfold
Her truth and beauty to the souls of men
In close suggestions; in whose forms is cast
Nothing so new but 'tis long eons old;
Nothing so old but 'tis as young as when
The mind conceived it in the ages past.
Sir Walter Raleigh.
by James Barron Hope

Whether in velvet white, slashed, and be-pearled,
And rich in knots of clustering gems a-glow:
Or, in his rusted armor, he unfurled
St. George's Cross by Oronoko's flow;
He was a man to note right well as one
Who shot his arrows straightway at the sun.
Dark was his hair, his beard all crisp and curled.
And narrow-lidded were his piercing eyes,
Anhungered in their glances for a world
That he might win by daring enterprise, - 
Explorer, soldier, scholar, poet, he
Not only wrote but acted historie! - 
And that great Captain, of our Saxon stock,
Took his last slumber on the ghastly block!
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet XXX
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

Whether the Turkish new moone minded be
To fill her hornes this yeere on Christian coast;
How Poles right king means without leaue of host
To warm with ill-made fire cold Muscouy;
If French can yet three parts in one agree:
What now the Dutch in their full diets boast;
How Holland hearts, now so good townes be lost,
Trust in the shade of pleasant Orange-tree;
How Vlster likes of that same golden bit
Wherewith my father once made it half tame;
If in the Scotch Court be no weltring yet;
These questions busy wits to me do frame:
I, cumbred with good manners, answer doe,
But know not how; for still I thinke of you.
The White Man
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Wherever the white man's feet have trod
(Oh far does the white man stray)
A bold road rifles the virginal sod,
And the forest wakes out of its dream of God,
To yield him the right of way.
For this is the law:    BY THE POWER OF THOUGHT,
FOR WORSE, OR FOR BETTER, ARE MIRACLES WROUGHT.
Wherever the white man's pathway leads,
(Far, far has that pathway gone)
The Earth is littered with broken creeds - 
And alway the dark man's tent recedes,
And the white man pushes on.
For this is the law:    BE IT GOOD OR ILL,
ALL THINGS MUST YIELD TO THE STRONGER WILL.
Wherever the white man's light is shed,
(Oh far has that light been thrown)
Though Nature has suffered and beauty bled,
Yet the goal of the race has been thrust ahead,
And the might of the race has grown.
For this is the law:    BE IT CRUEL OR KIND,
THE UNIVERSE SWAYS TO THE POWER OF MIND.
"Whether My Bark Went Down At Sea,"
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Whether my bark went down at sea,
Whether she met with gales,
Whether to isles enchanted
She bent her docile sails;
By what mystic mooring
She is held to-day, --
This is the errand of the eye
Out upon the bay.
While Beams Of Orient Light Shoot Wide And High
by William Wordsworth

While beams of orient light shoot wide and high,
Deep in the vale a little rural Town
Breathes forth a cloud-like creature of its own,
That mounts not toward the radiant morning sky,
But, with a less ambitious sympathy,
Hangs o'er its Parent waking to the cares
Troubles and toils that every day prepares.
So Fancy, to the musing Poet's eye,
Endears that Lingerer. And how blest her sway
(Like influence never may my soul reject)
If the calm Heaven, now to its zenith decked
With glorious forms in numberless array,
To the lone shepherd on the hills disclose
Gleams from a world in which the saints repose.
Little Girls
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Whether you frolic with comrade boys,
Or sit at your studies, or play with toys,
Whatever your station, or place, or sphere,
For just one purpose God sent you here;
And always and ever, you are to me - 
Dear little Mothers, of Men to be.
So would I guard you from all mean things;
From the dwarfing of wealth, and from poverty's stings.
And from silly mothers of fuss and show,
And from dissolute fathers whose aims are low,
I would take you, and shield you, and set you free,
Dear little Mothers, of Men to be.
And then were the wish of my heart fulfilled,
Around about you, the world should build
A wall of Wisdom, with Truth for its Tower,
Where mind and body would wax in power,
Till the tender twig was a splendid tree - 
Dear little Mothers, of Men to be.
It is only a dream; but the world grows wise,
And a mighty truth in the dream seed lies
That shall gladden the earth, in its time and place.
WE MUST BETTER THE MOTHERS TO BETTER THE RACE.
A dream? nay, a vision, which all must see,
Dear little Mothers, of Men to be.
Plain Language from Truthful James
by Bret Harte (Francis)

Which I wish to remark,
And my language is plain,
That for ways that are dark
And for tricks that are vain,
The heathen Chinee is peculiar,
Which the same I would rise to explain.
Ah Sin was his name;
And I shall not deny,
In regard to the same,
What that name might imply;
But his smile it was pensive and childlike,
As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye.
It was August the third,
And quite soft was the skies;
Which it might be inferred
That Ah Sin was likewise;
Yet he played it that day upon William
And me in a way I despise.
Which we had a small game,
And Ah Sin took a hand:
It was Euchre. The same
He did not understand;
But he smiled as he sat by the table,
With the smile that was childlike and bland.
Yet the cards they were stocked
In a way that I grieve,
And my feelings were shocked
At the state of Nye's sleeve,
Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers,
And the same with intent to deceive.
But the hands that were played
By that heathen Chinee,
And the points that he made,
Were quite frightful to see,
Till at last he put down a right bower,
Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.
Then I looked up at Nye,
And he gazed upon me;
And he rose with a sigh,
And said, 'Can this be?
We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor,'
And he went for that heathen Chinee.
In the scene that ensued
I did not take a hand,
But the floor it was strewed
Like the leaves on the strand
With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding,
In the game 'he did not understand.'
In his sleeves, which were long,
He had twenty-four packs,
Which was coming it strong,
Yet I state but the facts;
And we found on his nails, which were taper,
What is frequent in tapers, that's wax.
Which is why I remark,
And my language is plain,
That for ways that are dark
And for tricks that are vain,
The heathen Chinee is peculiar,
Which the same I am free to maintain.
To The Rev. John M'Math.
by Robert Burns

Sept. 17th, 1785.
While at the stook the shearers cow'r
To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r,
Or in gulravage rinnin' scow'r
To pass the time,
To you I dedicate the hour
In idle rhyme.
My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet
On gown, an' ban', and douse black bonnet,
Is grown right eerie now she's done it,
Lest they should blame her,
An' rouse their holy thunder on it
And anathem her.
I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy,
That I, a simple countra bardie,
Shou'd meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy,
Wha, if they ken me,
Can easy, wi' a single wordie,
Lowse hell upon me.
But I gae mad at their grimaces,
Their sighin' cantin' grace-proud faces,
Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile graces,
Their raxin' conscience,
Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces,
Waur nor their nonsense.
There's Gaun,[1] miska't waur than a beast,
Wha has mair honour in his breast
Than mony scores as guid's the priest
Wha sae abus't him.
An' may a bard no crack his jest
What way they've use't him.
See him, the poor man's friend in need,
The gentleman in word an' deed,
An' shall his fame an' honour bleed
By worthless skellums,
An' not a muse erect her head
To cowe the blellums?
O Pope, had I thy satire's darts
To gie the rascals their deserts,
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts,
An' tell aloud
Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts
To cheat the crowd.
God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be,
Nor am I even the thing I cou'd be,
But twenty times, I rather wou'd be
An atheist clean,
Than under gospel colours hid be
Just for a screen.
An honest man may like a glass,
An honest man may like a lass,
But mean revenge, an' malice fause
He'll still disdain,
An' then cry zeal for gospel laws,
Like some we ken.
They take religion in their mouth;
They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth,
For what? to gie their malice skouth
On some puir wight,
An' hunt him down, o'er right, an' ruth,
To ruin straight.
All hail, Religion! maid divine!
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine,
Who in her rough imperfect line,
Thus daurs to name thee;
To stigmatize false friends of thine
Can ne'er defame thee.
Tho' blotch'd an' foul wi' mony a stain,
An' far unworthy of thy train,
With trembling voice I tune my strain
To join with those,
Who boldly daur thy cause maintain
In spite o' foes:
In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs,
In spite of undermining jobs,
In spite o' dark banditti stabs
At worth an' merit,
By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes,
But hellish spirit.
O Ayr! my dear, my native ground,
Within thy presbyterial bound
A candid lib'ral band is found
Of public teachers,
As men, as Christians too, renown'd,
An' manly preachers.
Sir, in that circle you are nam'd;
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd;
An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd,
(Which gies you honour,)
Even Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd,
An' winning manner.
Pardon this freedom I have ta'en,
An' if impertinent I've been,
Impute it not, good Sir, in ane
Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye,
But to his utmost would befriend
Ought that belang'd ye.