DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Here's Luck
by Henry Lawson

Old Time is tramping close to-day, you hear his bluchers fall,
A mighty change is on the way, an' God protect us all;
Some dust'll fly from beery coats, at least it's been declared.
I'm glad that wimin has the votes, but just a trifle scared.
I'm just a trifle scared, For why? The wimin mean to rule;
It makes me feel like days gone by when I was caned at school.
The days of men is nearly dead, of double moons and stars, 
They'll soon put out our pipes, 'tis said, an' close the public bars.
No more we'll take a glass of ale when pushed with care an' strife,
An'chuckle home with that old tale we used to tell the wife.
We'll laugh an'joke an' sing no more with jolly beery chums,
An' shout 'Here's luck!' while waitin' for the luck that never comes.
Did we prohibit swillin' tea clean out of common-sense
Or legislate on gossipin' across a backyard fence?
Did we prohibit bustles, or the hoops when they was here?
The wimin never think of this, they want to stop our beer.
The track o' life is dry enough, an' crossed with many a rut,
But, oh! we'll find it long an' rough when all the pubs is shut,
When all the pubs is shut, an' gone the doors we used to seek,
An' we go toilin', thirstin' on through Sundays all the week.
For since the days when pubs was 'inns', in years gone past'n' far, 
Poor sinful souls have drowned their sins an' sorrers at the bar;
An' though at times it led to crimes, an' debt, and such complaints, 
I scarce dare think about the time when all mankind is saints.
'Twould make the bones of Bacchus leap an' break his coffin lid;
And Burns's ghost would wail an' weep as Bobby never did.
But let the preachers preach in style, an' rave and rant, 'n' buck,
I rather guess they'll hear awhile the old war-cry: 'Here's Luck!'
The world might wobble round the sun, an' all the banks go bung,
But pipes'll smoke an' liquor run while Auld Lang Syne is sung.
While men are driven through the mill, an' flinty times is struck,
They'll find a private entrance still! Here's Luck, old man, Here's Luck!
Nursery Rhyme. CCLIV. Gaffers And Gammers.
by Unknown

Old woman, old woman, shall we go a shearing?
Speak a little louder, sir, I am very thick of hearing.
Old woman, old woman, shall I love you dearly?
Thank you, kind sir, I hear you very clearly.
In A Waiting-Room
by Thomas Hardy

On a morning sick as the day of doom
With the drizzling gray
Of an English May,
There were few in the railway waiting-room.
About its walls were framed and varnished
Pictures of liners, fly-blown, tarnished.
The table bore a Testament
For travellers' reading, if suchwise bent.
I read it on and on,
And, thronging the Gospel of Saint John,
Were figures - additions, multiplications -
By some one scrawled, with sundry emendations;
Not scoffingly designed,
But with an absent mind, -
Plainly a bagman's counts of cost,
What he had profited, what lost;
And whilst I wondered if there could have been
Any particle of a soul
In that poor man at all,
To cypher rates of wage
Upon that printed page,
There joined in the charmless scene
And stood over me and the scribbled book
(To lend the hour's mean hue
A smear of tragedy too)
A soldier and wife, with haggard look
Subdued to stone by strong endeavour;
And then I heard
From a casual word
They were parting as they believed for ever.
But next there came
Like the eastern flame
Of some high altar, children - a pair -
Who laughed at the fly-blown pictures there.
"Here are the lovely ships that we,
Mother, are by and by going to see!
When we get there it's 'most sure to be fine,
And the band will play, and the sun will shine!"
It rained on the skylight with a din
As we waited and still no train came in;
But the words of the child in the squalid room
Had spread a glory through the gloom.
Rest
by George William Russell

On me to rest, my bird, my bird:
The swaying branches of my heart
Are blown by every wind toward
The home whereto their wings depart.
Build not your nest, my bird, on me:
I know no peace but ever sway:
O, lovely bird, be free, be free,
On the wild music of the day.
But sometimes when your wings would rest,
And winds are laid on quiet eves:
Come, I will bear you breast to breast,
And lap you close with loving leaves.
Local Sketches.
by James McIntyre

On grassy amphitheatre,
Spectators sit to view the war,
'Mong bold contestants on the plain
Where each doth strive the prize to gain.
Come witness the great tug of war,
And see great hammer thrown afar,
See running, jumping, highland fling,
At concert hear the skylark sing.
And the bagpipes will send thrills,
Like echoes from the distant hills,
And the bold sound of the pibroch,
Which does resound o'er highland loch.
Young men and maids and fine old dames
Will gather on the banks of Thames,
And though we have a tug of war
'Twill leave no wound or deadly scar.
Poems From "A Shropshire Lad" - IX
by Alfred Edward Housman

On moonlit heath and lonesome bank
The sheep beside me graze;
And yon the gallows used to clank
Fast by the four cross ways.
A careless shepherd once would keep
The flocks by moonlight there, [1]
And high amongst the glimmering sheep
The dead man stood on air.
They hang us now in Shrewsbury jail:
The whistles blow forlorn,
And trains all night groan on the rail
To men that die at morn.
There sleeps in Shrewsbury jail to-night,
Or wakes, as may betide,
A better lad, if things went right,
Than most that sleep outside.
And naked to the hangman's noose
The morning clocks will ring
A neck God made for other use
Than strangling in a string.
And sharp the link of life will snap,
And dead on air will stand
Heels that held up as straight a chap
As treads upon the land.
So here I'll watch the night and wait
To see the morning shine,
When he will hear the stroke of eight
And not the stroke of nine;
And wish my friend as sound a sleep
As lads' I did not know,
That shepherded the moonlit sheep
A hundred years ago.
On Juda's Cliff
by Adam Bernard Mickiewicz

On Juda's Cliff I love to lean and look
On waves that battling beat and break with might,
While farther seaward in a bland delight,
I see them shining where a rainbow shook.
On Juda's Cliff I love to lean and look
On waves that like sea-armies swing to sight,
To send upon the shore their billows white,
And, ebbing, to leave pearls in every nook.
Thus, Poet, in your youth when storms are wild
And passions break upon the heart and brain,
To leave their ruin there--shipwreck and waste--
Pick up your lute! Upon it undefiled
You'll find song-pearls that your heart-deeps retain,
The crown the years have brought you, white and chaste.
To The Memory Of U. P. Vrevsky
by Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev

On dirt, on stinking wet straw under the shelter of a tumble-down barn, turned in haste into a camp hospital, in a ruined Bulgarian village, for over a fortnight she lay dying of typhus.
She was unconscious, and not one doctor even looked at her; the sick soldiers, whom she had tended as long as she could keep on her legs, in their turn got up from their pestilent litters to lift a few drops of water in the hollow of a broken pot to her parched lips.
She was young and beautiful; the great world knew her; even the highest dignitaries had been interested in her. Ladies had envied her, men had paid her court ... two or three had loved her secretly and truly. Life had smiled on her; but there are smiles that are worse than tears.
A soft, tender heart ... and such force, such eagerness for sacrifice! To help those who needed help ... she knew of no other happiness ... knew not of it, and had never once known it. Every other happiness passed her by. But she had long made up her mind to that; and all aglow with the fire of unquenchable faith, she gave herself to the service of her neighbours.
What hidden treasure she buried there in the depth of her heart, in her most secret soul, no one ever knew; and now, of course, no one will ever know.
Ay, and what need? Her sacrifice is made ... her work is done.
But grievous it is to think that no one said thanks even to her dead body, though she herself was shy and shrank from all thanks.
May her dear shade pardon this belated blossom, which I make bold to lay upon her grave!
September 1878.
Celebrity.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

On bridges small and bridges great
Stands Nepomucks in ev'ry state,
Of bronze, wood, painted, or of stone,
Some small as dolls, some giants grown;
Each passer must worship before Nepomuck,
Who to die on a bridge chanced to have the ill luck,
When once a man with head and ears
A saint in people's eyes appears,
Or has been sentenced piteously
Beneath the hangman's hand to die,
He's as a noted person prized,
In portrait is immortalized.
Engravings, woodcuts, are supplied,
And through the world spread far and wide.
Upon them all is seen his name,
And ev'ry one admits his claim;
Even the image of the Lord
Is not with greater zeal ador'd.
Strange fancy of the human race!
Half sinner frail, half child of grace
We see HERR WERTHER of the story
In all the pomp of woodcut glory.
His worth is first made duly known,
By having his sad features shown
At ev'ry fair the country round;
In ev'ry alehouse too they're found.
His stick is pointed by each dunce
"The ball would reach his brain at once!"
And each says, o'er his beer and bread:
"Thank Heav'n that 'tis not we are dead!"
The Jubilee Sov'reign
by Marriott Edgar

On Jubilee Day the Ramsbottoms
Invited relations to tea,
Including young Albert's grandmother,
An awkward old . . party, was she.
She'd seen Queen Victoria's accession
And 'er wedding to Albert (the Good)
But she got quite upset when young Albert
Asked 'er 'ow she'd got on in the Flood.
She cast quite a damper on't party,
But she warmed up a bit after tea,
And gave Albert a real golden sovereign
She'd been saving since last Jubilee.
It 'ad picture of Queen on't one side
And a dragon fight on the reverse,
And it smelled of camphor and cobwebs
Through being so long in 'er purse.
Albert 'andled the coin, and 'e kissed it
And 'e felt the rough edge with 'is tongue;
For 'e knew by the look of 'is father
That it wouldn't be 'is very long.
"I'll show you a trick wi' that sovereign,"
Said Pa, 'oo were 'overin' near,
And 'e took and pretended to eat it,
Then brought it back out of 'is ear.
This magic filled Albert with wonder,
And before you could say "Uncle Dick",
'E'd got the coin back from 'is father
And performed the first part of the trick.
When they all saw where the money 'ad gone
With excitement the relatives burned;
And each one suggested some process
For getting the money returned.
Some were for fishing with tweezers,
While some were for shaking it out;
"If we only got back a few shillings,"
They said "'twould be better than nowt."
They tried 'olding Albert 'ead downward
And giving 'is shoulders a clump,
'Till his uncle, 'oo worked for a chemist
Said "There's nowt for it but stomach pump."
Well, they 'adn't a stomach pump 'andy,
But Pa did the best that 'e could
With a bicycle pump that they borrowed
But that weren't nearly so good.
So off they went to the doctor
'Oo looked down 'is throat with a glass;
'E said "This'll mean operation,
I fear that 'e'll 'ave to 'ave gas."
"'Ow much is this 'ere goin' to cost me?"
Said Father, beginning to squirm.
"I'm afraid that it comes out expensive,
The best gas is eight pence a therm.
There's my time, six shillings an hour;
You can't do these things in two ticks,
By rights I should charge you a guinea,
But I'll do it for eighteen and six."
"Wot, eighteen and six to get sovereign?"
Said Father, "That doesn't sound sense
I'll tell you, you'd best keep young Albert
And give us the odd eighteen pence!"
The doctor concurred this arrangement,
But to this day he stands in some doubt
As to whether he's in eighteen shillings
Or whether he's eighteen pence out.
What Went Ye Out For To See?
by Nora Pembroke (Margaret Moran Dixon McDougall)

On Jordan's banks gathered an eager crowd,
The Royal city poured its dwellers out;
The vintage was untouched in Ephraim;
No fisher's boat from Magdala put out.
Up from Engedi's fountain, down the slope
Of terraced Olivet, an eager throng,
Filled with one purpose, one absorbing hope,
Unto the Jordan take their way along.
The priestly robe, the saintly Pharisee,
The publican, the sinner, all were there,
The doubting, sneering, questioning Sadducee,
Just risen from his seat, the scorner's chair.
All carried there the consciousness of sin;
A wish for some one having power to save;
Ready to do some great thing peace to win;
So came they to the ford by Jordan's wave.
What did they see? not one in purple vest,
Who lives deliciously, abides by choice
In palaces, and he in hair doth drest,
And leathern girdled is--Is what? a voice.
In poor array, the greatest prophet stood
Beside the waters where the banks are green.
"Art thou the looked-for one? Will Jordan's flood
Touched by thy hand have power to make us clean?"
"The Jordan will not wash your guilt and shame;
Sin must be washed away in sinless blood."
And looking upon Jesus as he came,
He said to them, "Behold the Lamb of God."
A Reasonable Affliction
by Matthew Prior

On his death-bed poor Lubin lies:
His spouse is in despair;
With frequent cries, and mutual sighs,
They both express their care.
"A different cause," says Parson Sly,
"The same effect may give:
Poor Lubin fears that he may die;
His wife, that he may live."
Incident Characteristic Of A Favorite Dog
by William Wordsworth

On his morning rounds the Master
Goes to learn how all things fare;
Searches pasture after pasture,
Sheep and cattle eyes with care;
And, for silence or for talk,
He hath comrades in his walk;
Four dogs, each pair of different breed,
Distinguished two for scent, and two for speed.
See a hare before him started!
Off they fly in earnest chase;
Every dog is eager-hearted,
All the four are in the race:
And the hare whom they pursue,
Knows from instinct what to do;
Her hope is near: no turn she makes;
But, like an arrow, to the river takes.
Deep the river was, and crusted
Thinly by a one night's frost;
But the nimble Hare hath trusted
To the ice, and safely crost;
She hath crost, and without heed
All are following at full speed,
When, lo! the ice, so thinly spread,
Breaks and the greyhound, DART, is overhead!
Better fate have PRINCE and SWALLOW
See them cleaving to the sport!
MUSIC has no heart to follow,
Little MUSIC, she stops short.
She hath neither wish nor heart,
Hers is now another part:
A loving creature she, and brave!
And fondly strives her struggling friend to save.
From the brink her paws she stretches,
Very hands as you would say!
And afflicting moans she fetches,
As he breaks the ice away.
For herself she hath no fears,
Him alone she sees and hears,
Makes efforts with complainings; nor gives o'er
Until her fellow sinks to re-appear no more.
The Torch
by Walt Whitman

On my northwest coast in the midst of the night, a fishermen's group stands watching;
Out on the lake, that expands before them, others are spearing salmon;
The canoe, a dim shadowy thing, moves across the black water,
Bearing a Torch a-blaze at the prow.
by Charles Graham Halpine AKA Miles O'Reilly

LAURA
On me he shall ne'er put a ring,
So, mamma, 'tis in vain to take trouble,
For I was but eighteen in spring
While his age exactly is double.
MAMMA
He's but in his thirty-sixth year,
Tall, handsome, good-natured and witty,
And should you refuse him, my dear,
May you die an old maid without pity!
LAURA
His figure, I grant you, will pass,
And at present he's young enough plenty;
But when I am sixty, alas!
Will not he be a hundred and twenty?
The Two Ages
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

On great cathedral window I have seen
A summer sunset swoon and sink away,
Lost in the splendours of immortal art.
Angels and saints and all the heavenly hosts,
With smiles undimmed by half a thousand years,
From wall and niche have met my lifted gaze.
Sculpture and carving and illumined page,
And the fair, lofty dreams of architects,
That speak of beauty to the centuries -
All these have fed me with divine repasts.
Yet in my mouth is left a bitter taste,
The taste of blood that stained that age of art.
Those glorious windows shine upon the black
And hideous structure of the guillotine;
Beside the haloed countenance of saints
There hangs the multiple and knotted lash.
The Christ of love, benign and beautiful,
Looks at the torture-rack, by hate conceived
And bigotry sustained.    The prison cell,
With blood-stained walls, where starving men went mad,
Lies under turrets matchless in their grace.
God, what an age!    How was it that You let
Colossal genius and colossal crime
Walk for a hundred years across the earth,
Like giant twins?    How was it then that men,
Conceiving such vast beauty for the world,
And such large hopes of heaven, could entertain
Such hellish projects for their fellow-men?
How could the hand that, with consummate skill
And loving patience, limned the luminous page,
Drop pen and brush, and seize the branding-rod,
To scourge a brother for his differing faith?
Not great this age in beauty or in art;
Nothing is wrought to-day that shall endure,
For earth's adornment, through long centuries
Not ours the fervid worship of a God
That wastes its splendid opulence on glass,
Leaving but hate, to give it mortal kin.
Yet great this age:    its mighty work is man
Knowing himself, the universal life.
And great our faith, which shows itself in works
For human freedom and for racial good.
The true religion lies in being kind.
No age is greater than its faith is broad.
Through liberty and love men climb to God.
A Week
by Thomas Hardy

On Monday night I closed my door,
And thought you were not as heretofore,
And little cared if we met no more.
I seemed on Tuesday night to trace
Something beyond mere commonplace
In your ideas, and heart, and face.
On Wednesday I did not opine
Your life would ever be one with mine,
Though if it were we should well combine.
On Thursday noon I liked you well,
And fondly felt that we must dwell
Not far apart, whatever befell.
On Friday it was with a thrill
In gazing towards your distant vill
I owned you were my dear one still.
I saw you wholly to my mind
On Saturday even one who shrined
All that was best of womankind.
As wing-clipt sea-gull for the sea
On Sunday night I longed for thee,
Without whom life were waste to me!
Lines Written Extempore On Mr. Harley's Being Stabbed, And Addressed To His Physician, 1710-11 [1]
by Jonathan Swift

On Britain Europe's safety lies,
Britain is lost if Harley dies:
Harley depends upon your skill:
Think what you save, or what you kill.
Nobody Cometh to Woo
by John Clare

On Martinmas eve the dogs did bark,
And I opened the window to see,
When every maiden went by with her spark
But neer a one came to me.
And O dear what will become of me?
And O dear what shall I do,
When nobody whispers to marry me--
Nobody cometh to woo?
None's born for such troubles as I be:
If the sun wakens first in the morn
"Lazy hussy" my parents both call me,
And I must abide by their scorn,
For nobody cometh to marry me,
Nobody cometh to woo,
So here in distress must I tarry me--
What can a poor maiden do?
If I sigh through the window when Jerry
The ploughman goes by, I grow bold;
And if I'm disposed to be merry,
My parents do nothing but scold;
And Jerry the clown, and no other,
Eer cometh to marry or woo;
They think me the moral of mother
And judge me a terrible shrew.
For mother she hateth all fellows,
And spinning's my father's desire,
While the old cat growls bass with the bellows
If eer I hitch up to the fire.
I make the whole house out of humour,
I wish nothing else but to please,
Would fortune but bring a new comer
To marry, and make me at ease!
When I've nothing my leisure to hinder
I scarce get as far as the eaves;
Her head's instant out of the window
Calling out like a press after thieves.
The young men all fall to remarking,
And laugh till they're weary to see't,
While the dogs at the noise begin barking,
And I slink in with shame from the street.
My mother's aye jealous of loving,
My father's aye jealous of play,
So what with them both there's no moving,
I'm in durance for life and a day.
O who shall I get for to marry me?
Who will have pity to woo?
Tis death any longer to tarry me,
And what shall a poor maiden do?
Sonnet CXXIII.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

I' vidi in terra angelici costumi.
THE EFFECTS OF HER GRIEF.
On earth reveal'd the beauties of the skies,
Angelic features, it was mine to hail;
Features, which wake my mingled joy and wail,
While all besides like dreams or shadows flies.
And fill'd with tears I saw those two bright eyes,
Which oft have turn'd the sun with envy pale;
And from those lips I heard--oh! such a tale,
As might awake brute Nature's sympathies!
Wit, pity, excellence, and grief, and love
With blended plaint so sweet a concert made,
As ne'er was given to mortal ear to prove:
And heaven itself such mute attention paid,
That not a breath disturb'd the listening grove--
Even 'ther's wildest gales the tuneful charm obey'd.
WRANGHAM.
Yes, I beheld on earth angelic grace,
And charms divine which mortals rarely see,
Such as both glad and pain the memory;
Vain, light, unreal is all else I trace:
Tears I saw shower'd from those fine eyes apace,
Of which the sun ofttimes might envious be;
Accents I heard sigh'd forth so movingly,
As to stay floods, or mountains to displace.
Love and good sense, firmness, with pity join'd
And wailful grief, a sweeter concert made
Than ever yet was pour'd on human ear:
And heaven unto the music so inclined,
That not a leaf was seen to stir the shade;
Such melody had fraught the winds, the atmosphere.
NOTT.
The Child Of The Maid
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

On Christmas Day The Child was born,
On Christmas Day in the morning;--
--To tread the long way, lone and lorn,
--To wear the bitter crown of thorn,
--To break the heart by man's sins torn,
--To die at last the Death of Scorn.
For this The Child of The Maid was born,
On Christmas Day in the morning.
But that first day when He was born,
Among the cattle and the corn,
The sweet Maid-Mother wondering,
And sweetly, deeply, pondering
The words that in her heart did ring,
Unto her new-born king did sing,--
"My baby, my baby,
My own little son,
Whence come you,
Where go you,
My own little one?
Whence come you?
Ah now, unto me all alone
That wonder of wonders is properly known.
Where go you?
Ah, that now, 'tis only He knows,
Who sweetly on us, dear, such favour bestows.
In us, dear, this day is some great work begun,--
Ah me, little son dear, I would it were done!
I wonder ...    I wonder ...
And--wish--it--were--done!
"O little, little feet, dears.
So curly, curly sweet!--
How will it be with you, dears,
When all your work's complete?
O little, little hands, dears,
That creep about my breast!--
What great things you will do, dears,
Before you lie at rest!
O softest little head, dear,
It shall have crown of gold,
For it shall have great honour
Before the world grows old!
O sweet, white, soft round body,
It shall sit upon a throne!
My little one, my little one,
Thou art the Highest's son!
All this the angel told me,
And so I'm sure it's true,
For he told me who was coming,--
And that sweet thing is YOU."
On Christmas Day The Child was born,
On Christmas Day in the morning;--
--He trod the long way, lone and lorn,
--He wore the bitter crown of thorn,
--His hands and feet and heart were torn,
--He died at last the Death of Scorn.
But through His coming Death was slain,
That you and I might live again.
For this The Child of The Maid was born,
On Christmas Day in the morning.