DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Maniac.
by Mary Gardiner Horsford

A story is told in Spain, of a woman, who, by a sudden shock of domestic calamity, became insane, and ever after looked up incessantly to the sky.
O'er her infant's couch of death,
Bent a widowed mother low;
And the quick, convulsive breath
Marked the inward weight of woe.
Round the fair child's forehead clung
Golden tresses, damp and bright;
While Death's pinion o'er it hung,
And the parted lips grew white.
Reason left the mother's eye,
When the latest pang was o'er;
Then she raised her gaze on high,
Turned it earthward nevermore.
By the dark and silent tomb,
Where they laid the dead to rest;
By the empty cradle's gloom,
And the fireside once so blest;
In the lone and narrow cell,
Fettered by the clanking chain,
Where the maniac's piercing yell
Thrilled the heart with dread and pain;--
Upward still she fixed her gaze,
Tearless and bewildered too,
Speaking of the fearful night
Madness o'er the spirit threw;
Upward, upward,--till in love
Death removed the veil of Time,
Raised the broken heart above,
To the far-off healing clime.
Mortal! o'er the field of Life
Pressing with uncertain tread;
Mourning, in the torrent strife,
Blessings lost and pleasures fled;--
A sublimer faith was taught
By the maniac's frenzied eye,
Than Philosophy e'er caught
From intensest thought and high.
When the heart is crushed and broken
By the death-bell's sullen chime,
By the faded friendship's token,
Or the wild remorse of crime,
Turn to earth for succor never,
But beyond her light and shade,
Toward the blue skies look forever:
God, and God alone, can aid.
Table Song.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

O'er me how I cannot say, 
Heav'nly rapture's growing.
Will it help to guide my way
To yon stars all-glowing?
Yet that here I'd sooner be,
To assert I'm able,
Where, with wine and harmony,
I may thump the table.
Wonder not, my dearest friends,
What 'tis gives me pleasure;
For of all that earth e'er lends,
'Tis the sweetest treasure.
Therefore solemnly I swear,
With no reservation,
That maliciously I'll ne'er
Leave my present station.
Now that here we're gather'd round,
Chasing cares and slumbers,
Let, methought, the goblet sound
To the bard's glad numbers!
Many a hundred mile away,
Go those we love dearly;
Therefore let us here to-day
Make the glass ring clearly!
Here's His health, through Whom we live!
I that faith inherit.
To our king the next toast give,
Honour is his merit,
'Gainst each in and outward foe
He's our rock and tower.
Of his maintenance thinks he though,
More that grows his power.
Next to her good health I drink,
Who has stirr'd my passion;
Of his mistress let each think,
Think in knightly fashion.
If the beauteous maid but see
Whom 'tis I now call so,
Let her smiling nod to me:
"Here's my love's health also!"
To those friends, the two or three, 
Be our next toast given,
In whose presence revel we,
In the silent even, 
Who the gloomy mist so cold
Scatter gently, lightly;
To those friends, then, new or old,
Let the toast ring brightly.
Broader now the stream rolls on,
With its waves more swelling,
While in higher, nobler tone,
Comrades, we are dwelling, 
We who with collected might,
Bravely cling together,
Both in fortune's sunshine bright,
And in stormy weather.
Just as we are gather'd thus,
Others are collected;
On them, therefore, as on us,
Be Fate's smile directed!
From the springhead to the sea,
Many a mill's revolving,
And the world's prosperity
Is the task I'm solving.
Hymn For The Same Occasion (The Two Hundredth Anniversary King's Chapel)
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Sung By The Congregation To The Tune Of Tallis's Evening Hymn
O'ershadowed by the walls that climb,
Piled up in air by living hands,
A rock amid the waves of time,
Our gray old house of worship stands.
High o'er the pillared aisles we love
The symbols of the past look down;
Unharmed, unharming, throned above,
Behold the mitre and the crown!
Let not our younger faith forget
The loyal souls that held them dear;
The prayers we read their tears have wet,
The hymns we sing they loved to hear.
The memory of their earthly throne
Still to our holy temple clings,
But here the kneeling suppliants own
One only Lord, the King of kings.
Hark! while our hymn of grateful praise
The solemn echoing vaults prolong,
The far-off voice of earlier days
Blends with our own in hallowed song:
To Him who ever lives and reigns,
Whom all the hosts of heaven adore,
Who lent the life His breath sustains,
Be glory now and evermore!
The Auld Doctor.
by David Rorie M.D.

O' a' the jobs that sweat the sark
Gie me a kintra doctor's wark,
Ye ca' awa' frae dawn till dark,
Whate'er the weather be, O!
Some tinkler wife is in the strae,
Your boots are owre the taps wi' clay
Through wadin' bog an' sklimmin' brae
The besom for to see, O!
Ye ken auld Jock o' Windybarns?
The bull had near ca'ed oot his harns,
His een were blinkin' fu' o' starns,
An' doon they ran for me, O!
There's ae guid wife, we're weel acquaint,
Nae trouble's kent but what she's taen't,
Yet aye she finds some new complaint,
O' which I hae the key, O!
She's had some unco queer mishaps,
Wi' nervish wind and clean collapse,
An' naethin' does her guid but draps-
Guid draps o' barley-bree, O!
I wouldna care a docken blade,
Gin her accoont she ever paid,
But while she gi'es me a' her trade,
There's ne'er a word o' fee, O!
Then De'il hae a' thae girnin' wives,
There's ne'er a bairn they hae that thrives,
It's aye the kink-hoast or the hives
That's gaun to gar them dee, O!
Tak' ony job ye like ava!
Tak' trade, the poopit or the law,
But gin ye're wise ye'll haud awa'
Frae medical degree, O!
Woone Smile Mwore
by William Barnes

O! MARY, when the zun went down, 
Woone night in spring, w' viry rim, 
Behind the nap wi' woody crown, 
An' left your smilen face so dim; 
Your little sister there, inside,
Wi' bellows on her little knee, 
Did blow the vire, a-glearen wide 
Drough window-panes, that I could zee,    
As you did stan' wi' me, avore 
The house, a-parten, woone smile mwore.
The chatt'ren birds, a-risen high, 
An' zinken low, did swiftly vlee 
Vrom shrinken moss, a-growen dry, 
Upon the lanen apple tree. 
An' there the dog, a-whippen wide
His hairy tail, an' comen near, 
Did fondly lay agan you zide 
His coal-black nose an' russet ear: 
To win what I 'd a-won avore, 
Vrom your gay; face, his woone smile mwore.
An' while your mother bustled sprack, 
A-getten supper out in hall, 
An' cast her shade, a-whiv'ren black 
Avore the vire, upon the wall; 
Your brother come, wi' easy pace, 
In drough the slammen gate, along 
The path, wi' healthy-bloomen face, 
A-whis'len shrill his last new zong: 
An' when he come avore the door, 
He met vrom you his woone smile mwore. 
Now you that wer the daughter there, 
Be mother on a husband's vloor, 
An' mid ye meet wi' less o' care 
Than what your harty mother bore; 
An' if abroad I have to rue 
The bitter tongue, or wrongvul deed, 
Mid I come hwome to share wi' you 
What 's needvul free o' pinchen need: 
An' vind that you ha' still in store 
My evenen meal, an' woone smile mwore.
Embro.
by James McIntyre

O'er various counties of the north,
When cruel order did go forth,
For to destroy many a home,
So that the wild deer free might roam;
The men of Sutherland and Ross,
The broad Atlantic they did cross,
Each seeking for a fertile farm,
These rolling lands for them had charm;
They ne'er desired again to roam,
Each happy in his woodland home,
Where middle branch of Thames doth flow
They built the village of Embro,
And it the hill tops now doth crown
Like its grand namesake Edina Town,
And good flour mills you here do find
And oats also they here do grind.
Brignall Banks
by Walter Scott (Sir)

O, Brignall banks are wild and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there,
Would grace a summer queen:
And as I rode by Dalton Hall,
Beneath the turrets high,
A Maiden on the castle wall
Was singing merrily:
'O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green!
I'd rather rove with Edmund there
Than reign our English Queen.'
'If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me
To leave both tower and town,
Thou first must guess what life lead we,
That dwell by dale and down:
And if thou canst that riddle read,
As read full well you may,
Then to the green-wood shalt thou speed
As blithe as Queen of May.'
Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,
And Greta woods are green!
I'd rather rove with Edmund there
Than reign our English Queen.
'I read you by your bugle horn
And by your palfrey good,
I read you for a Ranger sworn
To keep the King's green-wood.'
'A Ranger, Lady, winds his horn,
And 'tis at peep of light;
His blast is heard at merry morn,
And mine at dead of night.'
Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,
And Greta woods are gay!
I would I were with Edmund there,
To reign his Queen of May!
'With burnish'd brand and musketoon
So gallantly you come,
I read you for a bold Dragoon,
That lists the tuck of drum.'
'I list no more the tuck of drum,
No more the trumpet hear;
But when the beetle sounds his hum,
My comrades take the spear.
'And O! though Brignall banks be fair,
And Greta woods be gay,
Yet mickle must the maiden dare,
Would reign my Queen of May!
'Maiden! a nameless life I lead,
A nameless death I'll die;
The fiend whose lantern lights the mead
Were better mate than I!
And when I'm with my comrades met
Beneath the green-wood bough,
What once we were we all forget,
Nor think what we are now.'
Chorus.
Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather flowers there
Would grace a summer queen.
Sonnet CXXXI.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Or che 'l ciel e la terra e 'l vento tace.
NIGHT BRINGS PEACE TO ALL SAVE HIM.
O'er earth and sky her lone watch silence keeps,
And bird and beast in stirless slumber lie,
Her starry chariot Night conducts on high,
And in its bed the waveless ocean sleeps.
I wake, muse, burn, and weep; of all my pain
The one sweet cause appears before me still;
War is my lot, which grief and anger fill,
And thinking but of her some rest I gain.
Thus from one bright and living fountain flows
The bitter and the sweet on which I feed;
One hand alone can harm me or can heal:
And thus my martyrdom no limit knows,
A thousand deaths and lives each day I feel,
So distant are the paths to peace which lead.
MACGREGOR.
'Tis now the hour when midnight silence reigns
O'er earth and sea, and whispering Zephyr dies
Within his rocky cell; and Morpheus chains
Each beast that roams the wood, and bird that wings the skies.
More blest those rangers of the earth and air,
Whom night awhile relieves from toil and pain;
Condemn'd to tears and sighs, and wasting care.
To me the circling sun descends in vain!
Ah me! that mingling miseries and joys,
Too near allied, from one sad fountain flow!
The magic hand that comforts and annoys
Can hope, and fell despair, and life, and death bestow!
Too great the bliss to find in death relief:
Fate has not yet fill'd up the measure of my grief.
WOODHOUSELEE.
The Crystal-Hunters. (Swiss Air.)
by Thomas Moore

O'er mountains bright
With snow and light,
We Crystal-Hunters speed along;
While rocks and caves,
And icy wares,
Each instant echo to our song;
And, when we meet with store of gems,
We grudge not kings their diadems.
O'er mountains bright
With snow and light,
We Crystal-Hunters speed along;
While grots and caves,
And icy waves,
Each instant echo to our song.
Not half so oft the lover dreams
Of sparkles from his lady's eyes,
As we of those refreshing gleams
That tell where deep the crystal lies;
Tho', next to crystal, we too grant,
That ladies' eyes may most enchant.
O'er mountains bright, etc.
Sometimes, when on the Alpine rose
The golden sunset leaves its ray,
So like a gem the floweret glows,
We hither bend our headlong way;
And, tho' we find no treasure there,
We bless the rose that shines so fair.
O'er mountains bright
With snow and light,
We Crystal-Hunters speed along;
While rocks and caves,
And icy waves,
Each instant echo to our song,
Henry And Eliza.
by Thomas Gent

O'er the wide heath now moon-tide horrors hung,
And night's dark pencil dimm'd the tints of spring;
The boding minstrel now harsh omens sung,
And the bat spread his dark nocturnal wing.
At that still hour, pale Cynthia oft had seen
The fair Eliza (joyous once and gay),
With pensive step, and melancholy mien,
O'er the broad plain in love-born anguish stray.
Long had her heart with Henry's been entwined,
And love's soft voice had waked the sacred blaze
Of Hymen's altar; while, with him combined,
His cherub train prepared the torch to raise:
When, lo! his standard raging war uprear'd,
And honour call'd her Henry from her charms.
He fought, but ah! torn, mangled, blood-besmear'd,
Fell, nobly fell, amid his conquering arms!
In her sad bosom, a tumultuous world
Of hopes and fears on his dear mem'ry spread;
For fate had not the clouded roll unfurl'd,
Nor yet with baleful hemlock crown'd her head.
Reflection, oft to sad remembrance brought
The well known spot, where they so oft had stray'd;
While fond affection ten-fold ardour caught,
And smiling innocence around them play'd.
But these were past! and now the distant bell
(For deep and pensive thought had held her there)
Toll'd midnight out, with long resounding knell,
While dismal echoes quiver'd in the air.
Again 'twas silence--when from out the gloom
She saw, with awe-struck eye, a phantom glide:
'Twas Henry's form!--what pencil shall presume
To paint her horror!----HENRY AS HE DIED!
Enervate, long she stood--a sculptured dread,
Till waking sense dissolved amazement's chain;
Then home, with timid haste, distracted fled,
And sunk in dreadful agony of pain.
Not the deep sigh, which madden'd Sappho gave,
When from Leucate's craggy height she sprung,
Could equal that which gave her to the grave,
The last sad sound that echo'd from her tongue.
To An Absentee.
by Thomas Hood

O'er hill, and dale, and distant sea,
Through all the miles that stretch between,
My thought must fly to rest on thee,
And would, though worlds should intervene.
Nay, thou art now so dear, methinks
The farther we are forced apart,
Affection's firm elastic links
But bind the closer round the heart.
For now we sever each from each,
I learned what I have lost in thee;
Alas, that nothing else could teach
How great indeed my love should be!
Farewell! I did not know thy worth;
But thou art gone, and now 'tis prized:
So angels walk'd unknown on earth,
But when they flew were recognized!
Sonnet XXXI. To The Departing Spirit Of An Alienated Friend.
by Anna Seward

O, EVER DEAR! thy precious, vital powers
Sink rapidly! - the long and dreary Night
Brings scarce an hope that Morn's returning light
Shall dawn for THEE! - In such terrific hours,
When yearning Fondness eagerly devours
Each moment of protracted life, his flight
The Rashly-Chosen of thy heart has ta'en
Where dances, songs, and theatres invite.
EXPIRING SWEETNESS! with indignant pain
I see him in the scenes where laughing glide
Pleasure's light Forms; - see his eyes gaily glow,
Regardless of thy life's fast ebbing tide;
I hear him, who shou'd droop in silent woe,
Declaim on Actors, and on Taste decide!
Hanrahan Reproves The Curlew
by William Butler Yeats

O, Curlew, cry no more in the air,
Or only to the waters in the West;
Because your crying brings to my mind
Passion-dimmed eyes and long heavy hair
That was shaken out over my breast:
There is enough evil in the crying of wind.
Speak, God Of Visions
by Emily Bronte

O, thy bright eyes must answer now,
When Reason, with a scornful brow,
Is mocking at my overthrow!
O, thy sweet tongue must plead for me,
And tell why I have chosen thee!
Stern Reason is to judgment come,
Arrayed in all her forms of gloom:
Wilt thou, my advocate, be dumb?
No, radiant angel, speak and say
Why I did cast the world away;
Why I have presevered to shun
The common paths that others run,
And on a strange road journeyed on,
Heedless alike of wealth and power,
Of Glory's wreath and Pleasure's flower.
These once, indeed, seemed Beings Divine;
And they, perchance, heard vows of mine,
And saw my offerings on their shrine;
But careless gifts are seldom prized,
And mine were worthily despised.
So, with a ready heart I swore
To seek their altar-stone no more;
And gave my spirit to adore
Thee, ever-present, phantom thing
My slave, my comrade, and my king.
A slave, because I rule thee still,
Incline thee to my changeful will,
And make thy influence good or ill;
A comrade, for by day and night
Thou art my intimate delight,
My darling pain that wounds and sears,
And wrings a blessing out of tears
Be deadening me to earthly cares;
And yet, a king, though Prudence well
Have taught thy subject to rebel.
And I am wrong to worship where
Faith cannot doubt, nor Hope despair,
Since my own soul can grant my prayer?
Speak, God of Visions, plead for me,
And tell why I have chosen thee!
A Red, Red Rose.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Graham's Strathspey."
I.
O, my luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
O, my luve's like the melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.
II.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
'Till a' the seas gang dry.
III.
'Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun:
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
IV.
And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel a-while!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
O Willie Brew'd.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Willie brew'd a peck o' maut."
I.
O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut,
And Rob and Allan came to see:
Three blither hearts, that lee-lang night
Ye wad na find in Christendie.
We are na fou, we're no that fou,
But just a drappie in our e'e;
The cock may craw, the day may daw,
And aye we'll taste the barley bree.
II.
Here are we met, three merry boys,
Three merry boys, I trow, are we;
And mony a night we've merry been,
And mony mae we hope to be!
III.
It is the moon--I ken her horn,
That's blinkin in the lift sae hie;
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,
But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee!
IV.
Wha first shall rise to gang awa',
A cuckold, coward loon is he!
Wha last beside his chair shall fa',
He is the king amang us three!
We are na fou, we're no that fou,
But just a drappie in our e'e;
The cock may craw, the day may daw,
And aye we'll taste the barley bree.
To D. H. O, - Falmouth Is A Fine Town
by William Ernest Henley

O, Falmouth is a fine town with ships in the bay,
And I wish from my heart it's there I was to-day;
I wish from my heart I was far away from here,
Sitting in my parlour and talking to my dear.
For it's home, dearie, home - it's home I want to be.
Our topsails are hoisted, and we'll away to sea.
O, the oak and the ash and the bonnie birken tree
They're all growing green in the old countrie.
In Baltimore a-walking a lady I did meet
With her babe on her arm, as she came down the street;
And I thought how I sailed, and the cradle standing ready
For the pretty little babe that has never seen its daddie.
And it's home, dearie, home . . .
O, if it be a lass, she shall wear a golden ring;
And if it be a lad, he shall fight for his king:
With his dirk and his hat and his little jacket blue
He shall walk the quarter-deck as his daddie used to do.
And it's home, dearie, home . . .
O, there's a wind a-blowing, a-blowing from the west,
And that of all the winds is the one I like the best,
For it blows at our backs, and it shakes our pennon free,
And it soon will blow us home to the old countrie.
For it's home, dearie, home - it's home I want to be.
Our topsails are hoisted, and we'll away to sea.
O, the oak and the ash and the bonnie birken tree
They're all growing green in the old countrie.
1878
To Mr. Syme. With A Present Of A Dozen Of Porter.
by Robert Burns

O, had the malt thy strength of mind,
Or hops the flavour of thy wit,
'Twere drink for first of human kind,
A gift that e'en for Syme were fit.
Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries.
Lady Mary Ann.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Craigtown's growing."
I.
O, Lady Mary Ann
Looks o'er the castle wa',
She saw three bonnie boys
Playing at the ba';
The youngest he was
The flower amang them a'
My bonnie laddie's young,
But he's growin' yet.
II.
O father! O father!
An' ye think it fit,
We'll send him a year
To the college yet:
We'll sew a green ribbon
Round about his hat,
And that will let them ken
He's to marry yet.
III.
Lady Mary Ann
Was a flower i' the dew,
Sweet was its smell,
And bonnie was its hue;
And the langer it blossom'd
The sweeter it grew;
For the lily in the bud
Will be bonnier yet.
IV.
Young Charlie Cochran
Was the sprout of an aik;
Bonnie and bloomin'
And straught was its make:
The sun took delight
To shine for its sake,
And it will be the brag
O' the forest yet.
V.
The simmer is gane,
When the leaves they were green,
And the days are awa,
That we hae seen;
But far better days
I trust will come again,
For my bonnie laddie's young,
But he's growin' yet.
The Palmer
by Walter Scott (Sir)

"O, open the door, some pity to show,
Keen blows the northern wind!
The glen is white with the drifted snow,
And the path is hard to find.
"No outlaw seeks your castle gate,
From chasing the King's deer,
Though even an outlaw's wretched state
Might claim compassion here.
"A weary Palmer, worn and weak,
I wander for my sin;
O, open, for our Lady's sake!
A pilgrim's blessing win!
"I'll give you pardons from the Pope,
And reliques from o'er the sea,
Or if for these you will not ope,
Yet open for charity.
"The hare is crouching in her form,
The hard beside the hind;
An aged man, amid the storm,
No shelter can I find.
"You hear the Ettrick's sullen roar,
Dark, deep, and strong is he,
And I must ford the Ettrick o'er,
Unless you pity me.
"The iron gate is bolted hard,
At which I knock in vain;
The owner's heart is closer barr'd,
Who hears me thus complain.
"Farewell, farewell! and Mary grant,
When old and frail you be,
You never may the shelter want,
That's now denied to me."
The Ranger on his couch lay warm,
And heard him plead in vain;
But oft amid December's storm,
He'll hear that voice again:
For lo, when through the vapours dank,
Morn shone on Ettrick fair,
A corpse amid the alders rank,
The Palmer welter'd there.
In Hospital - XVII - Interlude
by William Ernest Henley

O, the fun, the fun and frolic
That The Wind that Shakes the Barley
Scatters through a penny-whistle
Tickled with artistic fingers!
Kate the scrubber (forty summers,
Stout but sportive) treads a measure,
Grinning, in herself a ballet,
Fixed as fate upon her audience.
Stumps are shaking, crutch-supported;
Splinted fingers tap the rhythm;
And a head all helmed with plasters
Wags a measured approbation.
Of their mattress-life oblivious,
All the patients, brisk and cheerful,
Are encouraging the dancer,
And applauding the musician.
Dim the gas-lights in the output
Of so many ardent smokers,
Full of shadow lurch the corners,
And the doctor peeps and passes.
There are, maybe, some suspicions
Of an alcoholic presence . . .
'Tak' a sup of this, my wumman!' . . .
New Year comes but once a twelvemonth.
Sae Far Awa.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Dalkeith Maiden Bridge."
I.
O, sad and heavy should I part,
But for her sake sae far awa;
Unknowing what my way may thwart,
My native land sae far awa.
Thou that of a' things Maker art,
That form'd this fair sae far awa,
Gie body strength, then I'll ne'er start
At this my way sae far awa.
II.
How true is love to pure desert,
So love to her, sae far awa:
And nocht can heal my bosom's smart,
While, oh! she is sae far awa.
Nane other love, nane other dart,
I feel but hers, sae far awa;
But fairer never touch'd a heart
Than hers, the fair sae far awa.