DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Priscilla
by Robert William Service

Jerry MacMullen, the millionaire,
Driving a red-meat bus out there - 
How did he win his Croix de Guerre?
Bless you, that's all old stuff:
Beast of a night on the Verdun road,
Jerry stuck with a woeful load,
Stalled in the mud where the red lights glowed,
Prospect devilish tough.
"Little Priscilla" he called his car,
Best of our battered bunch by far,
Branded with many a bullet scar,
Yet running so sweet and true.
Jerry he loved her, knew her tricks;
Swore: "She's the beat of the best big six,
And if ever I get in a deuce of a fix
Priscilla will pull me through."
"Looks pretty rotten right now," says he;
"Hanged if the devil himself could see.
Priscilla, it's up to you and me
To show 'em what we can do."
Seemed that Priscilla just took the word;
Up with a leap like a horse that's spurred,
On with the joy of a homing bird,
Swift as the wind she flew.
Shell-holes shoot at them out of the night;
A lurch to the left, a wrench to the right,
Hands grim-gripping and teeth clenched tight,
Eyes that glare through the dark.
"Priscilla, you're doing me proud this day;
Hospital's only a league away,
And, honey, I'm longing to hit the hay,
So hurry, old girl. . . . But hark!"
Howl of a shell, harsh, sudden, dread;
Another . . . another. . . . "Strike me dead
If the Huns ain't strafing the road ahead
So the convoy can't get through!
A barrage of shrap, and us alone;
Four rush-cases - you hear 'em moan?
Fierce old messes of blood and bone. . . .
Priscilla, what shall we do?"
Again it seems that Priscilla hears.
With a rush and a roar her way she clears,
Straight at the hell of flame she steers,
Full at its heart of wrath.
Fury of death and dust and din!
Havoc and horror! She's in, she's in;
She's almost over, she'll win, she'll win!
Woof! Crump! right in the path.
Little Priscilla skids and stops,
Jerry MacMullen sways and flops;
Bang in his map the crash he cops;
Shriek from the car: "Mon Dieu!"
One of the bless's hears him say,
Just at the moment he faints away:
"Reckon this isn't my lucky day,
Priscilla, it's up to you."
Sergeant raps on the doctor's door;
"Car in the court with couch's four;
Driver dead on the dashboard floor;
Strange how the bunch got here."
"No," says the Doc, "this chap's alive;
But tell me, how could a man contrive
With both arms broken, a car to drive?
Thunder of God! it's queer."
Same little bless' makes a spiel;
Says he: "When I saw our driver reel,
A Strange Shape leapt to the driving wheel
And sped us safe through the night."
But Jerry, he says in his drawling tone:
"Rats! Why, Priscilla came in on her own.
Bless her, she did it alone, alone. . . ."
Hanged if I know who's right.
Jehovah.
by Robert Herrick

Jehovah, as Bo'tius saith,
No number of the plural hath.
Jim's Dream.
by A. Hoatson

Jim was a boy who was fond of clowns,
And thought they were excellent fun;
He talked so much of them and their ways,
That one night he dreamed he was one.
He dreamed he was feeding five fat geese
On boiled slate-pencils and rice:
He said it was wholesome food for geese,
But they said, "More wholesome than nice."
He dreamed that he set two geese to dance,
While he took a fiddle and played.
He said, "You look pretty and gay, my dears."
"We feel very tired," they said.
"What, tired!" he said, "with that nice pink sash,
"And that waistcoat of vivid blue?"
Then he tried to teach them the way to sing--
A thing geese never can do.
He made them try to stand on their heads
And wave their feet in the air,
Although they said the pain in their necks
Was more than a goose could bear.
He said that it didn't hurt his back--
He liked it, for his part;
And all the geese declared he had
A most unfeeling heart.
He knocked the bottom out of the pot
That had held the pencil-stew,
And held it in the air while five
Reluctant geese jumped through.
They said they burned their wings and feet
With the sides of the smoking pot.
He laughed, "Oh, nonsense! Now, my dears,
"We'll try something really hot."
So he made a terrified goose jump through
A hoop all blazing alight,
While all the rest of the geese stood round
And screamed with all their might.
And he was just about to try
To teach them how to swim,
When all the geese made up their minds
They'd have some games with him.
They put him on a spit, to roast
Before a blazing fire;
And one fat goose with bellows blew,
To make the flame go higher.
He woke up shrieking with fear and pain,
And, as he cuddled down
Between the sheets, he vowed he'd never
Become a cruel clown.
Brown Of Ossawatomie
by John Greenleaf Whittier

John Brown of Ossawatomie spake on his dying day:
"I will not have to shrive my soul a priest in Slavery's pay.
But let some poor slave-mother whom I have striven to free,
With her children, from the gallows-stair put up a prayer for me!"
John Brown of Ossawatomie, they led him out to die;
And lo! a poor slave-mother with her little child pressed nigh.
Then the bold, blue eye grew tender, and the old harsh face grew mild,
As he stooped between the jeering ranks and kissed the negro's child.
The shadows of his stormy life that moment fell apart;
And they who blamed the bloody hand forgave the loving heart.
That kiss from all its guilty means redeemed the good intent,
And round the grisly fighter's hair the martyr's aureole bent!
Perish with him the folly that seeks through evil good
Long live the generous purpose unstained with human blood!
Not the raid of midnight terror, but the thought which underlies;
Not the borderer's pride of daring, but the Christian's sacrifice.
Nevermore may yon Blue Ridges the Northern rifle hear,
Nor see the light of blazing homes flash on the negro's spear.
But let the free-winged angel Truth their guarded passes scale,
To teach that right is more than might, and justice more than mail!
So vainly shall Virginia set her battle in array;
In vain her trampling squadrons knead the winter snow with clay.
She may strike the pouncing eagle, but she dares not harm the dove;
And every gate she bars to Hate shall open wide to Love
A Motto For Mr. Jason Hasard
by Jonathan Swift

WOOLLEN-DRAPER IN DUBLIN, WHOSE SIGN WAS THE GOLDEN FLEECE
Jason, the valiant prince of Greece,
From Colchis brought the Golden Fleece;
We comb the wool, refine the stuff,
For modern Jasons, that's enough.
Oh! could we tame yon watchful dragon,[1]
Old Jason would have less to brag on.
Jeannie Marsh.
by George Pope Morris

Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley,
At whose call the muses rally;
Of all the nine none so divine
As Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley.
She minds me of her native scenes,
Where she was born among the cherries;
Of peaches, plums, and nectarines,
Pears, apricots, and ripe strawberries.
Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley,
In whose name the muses rally;
Of all the nine none so divine
As Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley.
A sylvan nymph of queenly grace,
A goddess she in form and feature;
The sweet expression of the place,
A dimple in the smile of nature.
John And Freddy
by William Schwenck Gilbert

JOHN courted lovely MARY ANN,
So likewise did his brother, FREDDY.
FRED was a very soft young man,
While JOHN, though quick, was most unsteady.
FRED was a graceful kind of youth,
But JOHN was very much the strongest.
"Oh, dance away," said she, "in truth,
I'll marry him who dances longest."
JOHN tries the maiden's taste to strike
With gay, grotesque, outrageous dresses,
And dances comically, like
CLODOCHE AND Co., at the Princess's.
But FREDDY tries another style,
He knows some graceful steps and does 'em
A breathing Poem Woman's smile
A man all poesy and buzzem.
Now FREDDY'S operatic pas
Now JOHNNY'S hornpipe seems entrapping:
Now FREDDY'S graceful entrechats
Now JOHNNY'S skilful "cellar-flapping."
For many hours for many days
For many weeks performed each brother,
For each was active in his ways,
And neither would give in to t'other.
After a month of this, they say
(The maid was getting bored and moody)
A wandering curate passed that way
And talked a lot of goody-goody.
"Oh my," said he, with solemn frown,
"I tremble for each dancing frater,
Like unregenerated clown
And harlequin at some the-ayter."
He showed that men, in dancing, do
Both impiously and absurdly,
And proved his proposition true,
With Firstly, Secondly, and Thirdly.
For months both JOHN and FREDDY danced,
The curate's protests little heeding;
For months the curate's words enhanced
The sinfulness of their proceeding.
At length they bowed to Nature's rule
Their steps grew feeble and unsteady,
Till FREDDY fainted on a stool,
And JOHNNY on the top of FREDDY.
"Decide!" quoth they, "let him be named,
Who henceforth as his wife may rank you."
"I've changed my views," the maiden said,
"I only marry curates, thank you!"
Says FREDDY, "Here is goings on!
To bust myself with rage I'm ready."
"I'll be a curate!" whispers JOHN
"And I," exclaimed poetic FREDDY.
But while they read for it, these chaps,
The curate booked the maiden bonny
And when she's buried him, perhaps,
She'll marry FREDERICK or JOHNNY.
How Marigolds Came Yellow.
by Robert Herrick

Jealous girls these sometimes were,
While they liv'd or lasted here:
Turn'd to flowers, still they be
Yellow, mark'd for jealousy.
Nursery Rhyme. DXCIII. Accumulative Stories.
by Unknown

[Traditional pieces are frequently so ancient, that possibility will not be outraged by conjecturing the John Ball of the following piece to be the priest who took so distinguished a part in the rebellion temp. Richard II.]
John Ball shot them all;
John Scott made the shot,
But John Ball shot them all.
John Wyming made the priming,
And John Brammer made the rammer,
And John Scott made the shot,
But John Ball shot them all.
John Block made the stock,
And John Brammer made the rammer,
And John Wyming made the priming,
And John Scott made the shot,
But John Ball shot them all.
John Crowder made the powder,
And John Block made the stock,
And John Wyming made the priming,
And John Brammer made the rammer,
And John Scott made the shot,
But John Ball shot them all.
John Puzzle made the muzzle,
And John Crowder made the powder,
And John Block made the stock,
And John Wyming made the priming,
And John Brammer made the rammer,
And John Scott made the shot,
But John Ball shot them all.
John Clint made the flint,
And John Puzzle made the muzzle,
And John Crowder made the powder,
And John Block made the stock,
And John Wyming made the priming,
And John Brammer made the rammer,
And John Scott made the shot,
But John Ball shot them all.
John Patch made the match,
John Clint made the flint,
John Puzzle made the muzzle,
John Crowder made the powder,
John Block made the stock,
John Wyming made the priming,
John Brammer made the rammer,
John Scott made the shot,
But John Ball shot them all.
Then Ag'in
by Sam Walter Foss

Jim Bowker, he said, ef he'd had a fair show,
And a big enough town for his talents to grow,
And the least bit assistance in hoein' his row,
Jim Bowker, he said,
He'd filled the world full of the sound of his name,
An' clim the top round in the ladder of fame.
It may have been so;
I dunno;
Jest so, it might been,
Then ag'in,
But he had tarnal luck, eyerythin' went ag'in him,
The arrers of fortune they allus' 'ud pin him;
So he didn't get no chance to show off what was in him.
Jim Bowker, he said,
Ef he'd had a fair show, you couldn't tell where he'd come,
An' the feats he'd a-done, an' the heights he'd a-clum,
It may have been so;
I dunno;
Jest so, it might been,
Then ag'in,
But we're all like Jim Bowker, thinks I, more or less,
Charge fate for our bad luck, ourselves for success,
An' give fortune the blame for all our distress,
As Jim Bowker, he said,
Ef it hadn't been for luck an' misfortune an' sich,
We might a-been famous, an' might a-been rich.
It might be jest so;
I dunno;
Jest so, it might been,
Then ag'in,
Long Afore He Knowed Who Santy-Claus Wuz.
by James Whitcomb Riley

Jes' a little bit o' feller - I remember still, -
Ust to almost cry far Christmas, like a youngster will.
Fourth o' July's nothin' to it! - New-Year's ain't a smell:
Easter-Sunday - Circus-day - jes' all dead in the shell!
Lordy, though! at night, you know, to set around and hear
The old folks work the story off about the sledge and deer,
And "Santy" skootin' round the roof, all wrapped in fur and fuzz -
Long afore
I knowed who
"Santy-Claus" wuz!
Ust to wait, and set up late, a week er two ahead:
Couldn't hardly keep awake, ner wouldn't go to bed:
Kittle stewin' on the fire, and Mother settin' here
Darnin' socks, and rockin' in the skreeky rockin'-cheer;
Pap gap', and wunder where it wuz the money went,
And quar'l with his frosted heels, and spill his liniment:
And me a-dreamin' sleigh-bells when the clock 'ud whir and buzz,
Long afore
I knowed who
"Santy-Claus" wuz!
Size the fire-place up, and figger how "Old Santy" could
Manage to come down the chimbly, like they said he would:
Wisht that I could hide and see him - wundered what he 'd say
Ef he ketched a feller layin' far him thataway!
But I bet on him, and liked him, same as ef he had
Turned to pat me on the back and say, "Look here, my lad,
Here's my pack, - jes' he'p yourse'f, like all good boys does!"
Long afore
I knowed who
"Santy-Claus" wuz!
Wisht that yarn was true about him, as it 'peared to be -
Truth made out o' lies like that-un's good enough far me! -
Wisht I still wuz so confidin' I could jes' go wild
Over hangin' up my stockin's, like the little child
Climbin' in my lap to-night, and beggin' me to tell
'Bout them reindeers, and "Old Santy" that she loves so well
I'm half sorry far this little-girl-sweetheart of his -
Long afore
She knows who
"Santy-Claus" is!
Jockey's Ta'En The Parting Kiss.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss."
I.
Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss,
O'er the mountains he is gane;
And with him is a' my bliss,
Nought but griefs with me remain.
Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw,
Plashy sleets and beating rain!
Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw,
Drifting o'er the frozen plain.
II.
When the shades of evening creep
O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e,
Sound and safely may he sleep,
Sweetly blithe his waukening be!
He will think on her he loves,
Fondly he'll repeat her name;
For where'er he distant roves,
Jockey's heart is still at hame.
Ballad Of Low-Lie-Down
by Madison Julius Cawein

John-A-Dreams and Harum-Scarum
Came a-riding into town:
At the Sign o' the Jug-and-Jorum
There they met with Low-lie-down.
Brave in shoes of Romany leather,
Bodice blue and gypsy gown,
And a cap of fur and feather,
In the inn sat Low-lie-down.
Harum-Scarum kissed her lightly;
Smiled into her eyes of brown:
Clasped her waist and held her tightly,
Laughing, "Love me, Low-lie-down!"
Then with many an oath and swagger,
As a man of great renown,
On the board he clapped his dagger,
Called for sack and sat him down.
So a while they laughed together;
Then he rose and with a frown
Sighed, "While still 'tis pleasant weather,
I must leave thee, Low-lie-down."
So away rode Harum-Scarum;
With a song rode out of town;
At the Sign o' the Jug-and-Jorum
Weeping tarried Low-lie-down.
Then this John-a-dreams, in tatters,
In his pocket ne'er a crown,
Touched her, saying, "Wench, what matters!
Dry your eyes and, come, sit down.
"Here's my hand: we'll roam together,
Far away from thorp and town.
Here's my heart, - for any weather, - 
And my dreams, too, Low-lie-down.
"Some men call me dreamer, poet:
Some men call me fool and clown - 
What I am but you shall know it,
Only you, sweet Low-lie-down."
For a little while she pondered:
Smiled: then said, "Let care go drown!"
Up and kissed him.... Forth they wandered,
John-a-dreams and Low-lie-down.
To A Lady Playing And Singing In The Morning
by Thomas Hardy

Joyful lady, sing!
And I will lurk here listening,
Though nought be done, and nought begun,
And work-hours swift are scurrying.
Sing, O lady, still!
Aye, I will wait each note you trill,
Though duties due that press to do
This whole day long I unfulfil.
" It is an evening tune;
One not designed to waste the noon,"
You say. I know: time bids me go 
For daytide passes too, too soon!
But let indulgence be,
This once, to my rash ecstasy:
When sounds nowhere that carolled air
My idled morn may comfort me!
Nursery Rhyme. DXXIX. Natural History.
by Unknown

Johnny Armstrong kill'd a calf,
Peter Henderson got the half;
Willy Wilkinson got the head,
Ring the bell, the calf is dead!
Joy's Magic
by Madison Julius Cawein

Joy's is the magic sweet,
That makes Youth's pulses beat,
Puts music in young feet,
The old heart hears, the sad heart hears, that 's near it:
And Joy's the pleasant pain,
That holds us, heart and brain,
When Old Age, sound and sane,
With memories nears, long memories nears the spirit.
Joy's is the witchery rare,
That on the face of Care
Puts smiles; and rapture where
Love holds her breath, her heart's wild breath, to still her:
And Joy it is that plays
On Time's old lute of days
As Life goes on her ways
With thoughts of Death, gray thoughts of Death, that chill her.
John Gilbert (Bushranger)
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

[He and his gang stuck up the township of Canowindra for two days in 1859.]
(Air: 'Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.')
John Gilbert was a bushranger of terrible renown,
For sticking lots of people up and shooting others down.
John Gilbert said unto his pals, 'Although they make a bobbery
About our tricks we have never done a tip-top thing in robbery.
'We have all of us a fancy for experiments in pillage,
Yet never have we seized a town, or even sacked a village.'
John Gilbert said unto his mates''Though partners we have been
In all rascality, yet we no festal day have seen.'
John Gilbert said he thought he saw no obstacle to hinder a
Piratical descent upon the town of Canowindra.
So into Canowindra town rode Gilbert and his men,
And all the Canowindra folk subsided there and then.
The Canowindra populace cried, 'Here's a lot of strangers!!!'
But immediately recovered when they found they were bushrangers.
And Johnny Gilbert said to them, 'You need not be afraid.
We are only old companions whom bushrangers you have made.'
And Johnny Gilbert said, said he, 'We'll never hurt a hair
Of men who bravely recognise that we are just all there.'
The New South Welshmen said at once, not making any fuss,
That Johnny Gilbert, after all, was 'Just but one of us.'
So Johnny Gilbert took the town (including public houses),
And treated all the    'cockatoos' and shouted for their spouses.
And Miss O'Flanagan performed in manner quite gintailly
Upon the grand planner for the bushranger O'Meally.
And every stranger passing by they took, and when they got him
They robbed him of his money and occasionally shot him.
And Johnny's enigmatic feat admits of this solution,
That bushranging in New South Wales is a favoured institution.
So Johnny Gilbert ne'er allows an anxious thought to fetch him,
For well he knows the Government don't really want to ketch him.
And if such practices should be to New South Welshmen dear,
With not the least demurring word ought we to interfere.
The Clown's Reply
by Oliver Goldsmith

John Trott was desired by two witty peers
To tell them the reason why asses had ears?
'An't please you,' quoth John, 'I'm not given to letters,
Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters;
Howe'er, from this time I shall ne'er see your graces,
As I hope to be saved! without thinking on asses.'
Nursery Rhyme. CXLVII. Songs.
by Unknown

Johnny shall have a new bonnet,
And Johnny shall go to the fair,
And Johnny shall have a blue ribbon
To tie up his bonny brown hair.
And why may not I love Johnny?
And why may not Johnny love me?
And why may not I love Johnny
As well as another body?
And here's a leg for a stocking,
And here is a leg for a shoe,
And he has a kiss for his daddy,
And two for his mammy, I trow.
And why may not I love Johnny?
And why may not Johnny love me?
And why may not I love Johnny,
As well as another body?
A Wall-Street Lyric.
by George Pope Morris

John was thought both rich and great--
Dick so-so, but comfortable:
John lived at a splendid rate--
Coach and horses in his stable.
John could ride when Dick should walk--
(This excited people's talk!)--
For John's wealth, Dick's rugged health
Few would exchange if they were able!
Dick was friendly years ago--
With ingratitude John paid him:
Dick found this was always so
When John had a chance to aid him.
John still cut a brilliant dash,
While he could command the cash,
But for Dick, whom John would kick,
At last a change of luck has made him!
John, 'tis said, is "bound" to lose
Lots by rail, and 'bus, and cable!
And the banks his notes refuse,
Now they think his state unstable.
This may be a story strange
Of the bulls and bears on 'change,
Where the truth, in age and youth,
Is often a poetic fable!
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCLV. Love And Matrimony.
by Unknown

"John, come sell thy fiddle,
And buy thy wife a gown."
"No, I'll not sell my fiddle,
For ne'er a wife in town."
Composed Near Calais, On The Road Leading To Ardres, August 7, 1802
by William Wordsworth

Jones! as from Calais southward you and I
Went pacing side by side, this public Way
Streamed with the pomp of a too-credulous day,
When faith was pledged to new-born Liberty:
A homeless sound of joy was in the sky:
From hour to hour the antiquated Earth
Beat like the heart of Man: songs, garlands, mirth,
Banners, and happy faces, far and nigh!
And now, sole register that these things were,
Two solitary greetings have I heard,
"Good-morrow, Citizen!" a hollow word,
As if a dead man spake it! Yet despair
Touches me not, though pensive as a bird
Whose vernal coverts winter hath laid bare.
A Poem
by Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)

Joy fills my eyes, remembering your hair, with tears,
And these tears roll and shine;
Into my thoughts are woven a dark night with raindrops
And the rolling and shining of love songs.
From the Hindustani of Mir Taqui (eighteenth century).
Johnny.
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

FOUNDED ON AN ANECDOTE OF THE FIRST FRENCH REVOLUTION.
Johnny had a golden head
Like a golden mop in blow,
Right and left his curls would spread
In a glory and a glow,
And they framed his honest face
Like stray sunbeams out of place.
Long and thick, they half could hide
How threadbare his patched jacket hung;
They used to be his Mother's pride;
She praised them with a tender tongue,
And stroked them with a loving finger
That smoothed and stroked and loved to linger.
On a doorstep Johnny sat,
Up and down the street looked he;
Johnny did not own a hat,
Hot or cold tho' days might be;
Johnny did not own a boot
To cover up his muddy foot.
Johnny's face was pale and thin,
Pale with hunger and with crying;
For his Mother lay within,
Talked and tossed and seemed a-dying,
While Johnny racked his brains to think
How to get her help and drink,
Get her physic, get her tea,
Get her bread and something nice;
Not a penny piece had he,
And scarce a shilling might suffice;
No wonder that his soul was sad,
When not one penny piece he had.
As he sat there thinking, moping,
Because his Mother's wants were many,
Wishing much but scarcely hoping
To earn a shilling or a penny,
A friendly neighbor passed him by
And questioned him: Why did he cry?
Alas! his trouble soon was told:
He did not cry for cold or hunger,
Though he was hungry both and cold;
He only felt more weak and younger,
Because he wished so to be old
And apt at earning pence or gold.
Kindly that neighbor was, but poor,
Scant coin had he to give or lend;
And well he guessed there needed more
Than pence or shillings to befriend
The helpless woman in her strait,
So much loved, yet so desolate.
One way he saw, and only one:
He would - he could not - give the advice,
And yet he must: the widow's son
Had curls of gold would fetch their price;
Long curls which might be clipped, and sold
For silver, or perhaps for gold.
Our Johnny, when he understood
Which shop it was that purchased hair,
Ran off as briskly as he could,
And in a trice stood cropped and bare,
Too short of hair to fill a locket,
But jingling money in his pocket.
Precious money - tea and bread,
Physic, ease, for Mother dear,
Better than a golden head:
Yet our hero dropped one tear
When he spied himself close shorn,
Barer much than lamb new born.
His Mother throve upon the money,
Ate and revived and kissed her son:
But oh! when she perceived her Johnny,
And understood what he had done
All and only for her sake,
She sobbed as if her heart must break.