DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
To the Lord Generall Cromwell May 1652.
by John Milton

Cromwell, our cheif of men, who through a cloud
Not of warr onely, but detractions rude,
Guided by faith & matchless Fortitude
To peace & truth thy glorious way hast plough'd,
And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud
Hast reard Gods Trophies, & his work pursu'd,
While Darwen stream with blood of Scotts imbru'd,
And Dunbarr field resounds thy praises loud,
And Worsters laureat wreath; yet much remaines
To conquer still; peace hath her victories
No less renownd then warr, new foes aries
Threatning to bind our soules with secular chaines:
Helpe us to save free Conscience from the paw
Of hireling wolves whose Gospell is their maw.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCXX. Games.
by Unknown

[A game at ball.]
Cuckoo, cherry tree,
Catch a bird, and give it to me;
Let the tree be high or low,
Let it hail, rain, or snow.
Broken-Hearted.
by Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

"Cross my hands upon my breast,"
Read her last behest.
"Turn my cheek upon the pillow,
As resting from life's stormy billow
With sleep's fine zest!"
"Cross my hands upon my breast,"
Read her last behest,
"That the patient bones may lie
In form of thanks eternally,
Grimly expressed!"
We clasped her hands upon her breast:
Oh mockery at misery's hest!
We hid in flowers her body's grief, - 
Counting by many a rose and leaf
Her days unblessed!
Lines To A Pedantic Critic
by Thomas Oldham

Critic! should I vouchsafe to learn of thee,
Correct, no doubt, but cold my strains would be:
Now, cold correctness! I despise the name;
Is that a passport through the gates of fame?
Thy pedant rules with care I studied once;
Was I made wiser, or a greater dunce?
Hence, Critic, hence! I'll study them no more;
My eyes are open'd, and the folly's o'er.
When Genius opes the floodgates of the soul,
Fancy's outbursting tides impetuous roll,
Onward they rush with unresisted sway,
Sweeping fools, pedants, critics, all away
Who would with obstacles their progress stay.
As mighty Ocean bids his waves comply
With the great luminaries of the sky,
So Genius, to direct his course aright,
Owns but one guide, the inspiring God of light.
For A Present Of Roses
by Robert Fuller Murray

Crimson and cream and white--
My room is a garden of roses!
Centre and left and right,
Three several splendid posies.
As the sender is, they are sweet,
These lovely gifts of your sending,
With the stifling summer heat
Their delicate fragrance blending.
What more can my heart desire?
Has it lost the power to be grateful?
Is it only a burnt-out fire,
Whose ashes are dull and hateful?
Yet still to itself it doth say,
'I should have loved far better
To have found, coming in to-day,
The merest scrap of a letter.'
The Blessed
by William Butler Yeats

Cumhal called out, bending his head,
Till Dathi came and stood,
With a blink in his eyes at the cave mouth,
Between the wind and the wood.
And Cumhal said, bending his knees,
'I have come by the windy way
'To gather the half of your blessedness
'And learn to pray when you pray.
'I can bring you salmon out of the streams
'And heron out of the skies.'
But Dathi folded his hands and smiled
With the secrets of God in his eyes.
And Cumhal saw like a drifting smoke
All manner of blessed souls,
Women and children, young men with books,
And old men with croziers and stoles.
'Praise God and God's mother,' Dathi said,
'For God and God's mother have sent
'The blessedest souls that walk in the world
'To fill your heart with content.'
'And which is the blessedest,' Cumhal said,
'Where all are comely and good?
'Is it these that with golden thuribles
'Are singing about the wood?'
'My eyes are blinking,' Dathi said,
'With the secrets of God half blind,
'But I can see where the wind goes
'And follow the way of the wind;
'And blessedness goes where the wind goes,
'And when it is gone we are dead;
'I see the blessedest soul in the world
'And he nods a drunken head.
'O blessedness comes in the night and the day
'And whither the wise heart knows;
'And one has seen in the redness of wine
'The Incorruptible Rose,
'That drowsily drops faint leaves on him
'And the sweetness of desire,
'While time and the world are ebbing away
'In twilights of dew and of fire.'
Thou Also
by George MacDonald

Cry out upon the crime, and then let slip
The dogs of hate, whose hanging muzzles track
The bloody secret; let the welkin crack
Reverberating, while ye dance and skip
About the horrid blaze! or else ye strip,
More secretly, for the avenging rack,
Him who hath done the deed, till, oozing black
Ye watch the anguish from his nostrils drip,
And all the knotted limbs lie quivering!
Or, if your hearts disdain such banqueting,
With wide and tearless eyes go staring through
The murder cells! but think--that, if your knees
Bow not to holiness, then even in you
Lie deeper gulfs and blacker crimes than these.
His Wedded Wife
by Rudyard Kipling

Cry "Murder" in the market-place, and each
Will turn upon his neighbour anxious eyes
Asking: "Art thou the man?" We hunted Cain
Some centuries ago across the world.
This bred the fear our own misdeeds maintain
To-day.
Imitation Of Tibullus. Sulpicia Ad Cerinthum (Lib. Quart.).
by George Gordon Byron

Cruel Cerinthus! does the fell disease 
Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please?
Alas! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain,
That I might live for Love and you again;
But, now, I scarcely shall bewail my fate:
By Death alone I can avoid your hate.
Dame Hickory
by Walter De La Mare

'Dame Hickory, Dame Hickory,
Here's sticks for your fire,
Furze-twigs, and oak-twigs,
And beech-twigs, and briar!'
But when old Dame Hickory came for to see,
She found 'twas the voice of the false faerie.
'Dame Hickory, Dame Hickory,
Here's meat for your broth,
Goose-flesh, and hare's flesh,
And pig's trotters both!'
But when old Dame Hickory came for to see,
She found 'twas the voice of the false faerie.
'Dame Hickory, Dame Hickory,
Here's a wolf at your door,
His teeth grinning white,
And his tongue wagging sore!'
'Nay!' said Dame Hickory, 'ye false faerie!'
But a wolf 'twas indeed, and famished was he.
'Dame Hickory, Dame Hickory,
Here's buds for your tomb,
Bramble, and lavender,
And rosemary bloom!'
'Hush!' said Dame Hickory, 'ye false faerie,
Ye cry like a wolf, ye do, and trouble poor me.'
Dance A Baby
by Walter Crane

Dance a baby diddy!
What can mammy do wid'e?
Sit in her lap,
Give it some pap,
And dance a baby diddy!
Amour 26
by Michael Drayton

Cupid, dumbe-Idoll, peeuish Saint of loue,
No more shalt thou nor Saint nor Idoll be;
No God art thou, a Goddesse shee doth proue,
Of all thine honour shee hath robbed thee.
Thy Bowe, halfe broke, is peec'd with old desire;
Her Bowe is beauty with ten thousand strings
Of purest gold, tempred with vertues fire,
The least able to kyll an hoste of Kings.
Thy shafts be spent, and shee (to warre appointed)
Hydes in those christall quiuers of her eyes
More Arrowes, with hart-piercing mettel poynted,
Then there be starres at midnight in the skyes.
With these she steales mens harts for her reliefe,
Yet happy he thats robd of such a thiefe!
L'Eau Dormante
by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

Curled up and sitting on her feet,
Within the window's deep embrasure,
Is Lydia; and across the street,
A lad, with eyes of roguish azure,
Watches her buried in her book.
In vain he tries to win a look,
And from the trellis over there
Blows sundry kisses through the air,
Which miss the mark, and fall unseen,
Uncared for. Lydia is thirteen.
My lad, if you, without abuse,
Will take advice from one who's wiser,
And put his wisdom to more use
Than ever yet did your adviser;
If you will let, as none will do,
Another's heartbreak serve for two,
You'll have a care, some four years hence,
How you lounge there by yonder fence
And blow those kisses through that screen--
For Lydia will be seventeen.
T. D. Mcgee.
by James McIntyre

Having been kindly invited as a member of the Mechanics' Institute some 25 years ago by the late Jeremiah O'Neill, Esq., to meet that gentleman in company with a number of our townsmen, when Mr. McGee was rising from the table the chair being new stuck to him, and it being near a general election he very wittily remarked that he hoped the people of Montreal would be as anxious to retain him in his seat as the people here are. We wrote the following lines at the time, the last verse was added afterwards.
D Arcy McGee,
All compliment thee,
The hope of the land
On your lecture so grand.
Though that is your forte,
Oh give us the sport
Of an hour of your chat,
Then we'll laugh and grow fat.
For none but the vile
Could 'ere cease to smile,
When near to thee
So brilliant and free.
Plant of green Erin's isle,
Long in Canadian soil,
May you take deep root
And bear much noble fruit.
Our hopes were in vain,
Alas he is slain,
By a crankish hand
The flower of the land.
Midnight Oil
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Cut if you will, with Sleep's dull knife,
Each day to half its length, my friend,--
The years that Time takes off my life,
He'll take from off the other end!
Alpha--Omega
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

Curly head, and laughing eyes,--
Mischief that all blame defies.
Cricket,--footer,--Eton-jacket,--
Everlasting din and racket.
Tennis,--boating,--socks and ties,--
Tragedies,--and comedies.
Business,--sobered,--getting on,--
One girl now,--The Only One.
London Scottish,--sporran,--kilt,--
Bonnet cocked at proper tilt.
Dies Irae!--Off to France,--
Lord,--a safe deliverance!
Deadly work,--foul gases,--trenches;
Naught that radiant spirit quenches.
Letters dated "Somewhere--France,"--
Mud,--and grub,--and no romance.
Hearts at home all on the quiver,
Telegrams make backbones shiver.
Silence!--Feverish enquiry;--
Dies Irae!--Dies Irae!
His the joy,--and ours the pain,
But, ere long, we'll meet again.
Not too much we'll sorrow--for
It's both "' Dieu!" and "au revoir!"
Nursery Rhyme. CLXXXII. Songs.
by Unknown

Dame, get up and bake your pies,
Bake your pies, bake your pies;
Dame, get up and bake your pies,
On Christmas-day in the morning.
Dame, what makes your maidens lie,
Maidens lie, maidens lie;
Dame, what makes your maidens lie,
On Christmas-day in the morning?
Dame, what makes your ducks to die,
Ducks to die, ducks to die;
Dame, what makes your ducks to die,
On Christmas-day in the morning?
Their wings are cut and they cannot fly,
Cannot fly, cannot fly;
Their wings are cut and they cannot fly,
On Christmas-day in the morning.
Upon Ralph. Epig.
by Robert Herrick

Curse not the mice, no grist of thine they eat;
But curse thy children, they consume thy wheat.
The Henpecked Husband.
by Robert Burns

Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life,
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife!
Who has no will but by her high permission;
Who has not sixpence but in her possession;
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell;
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell!
Were such the wife had fallen to my part,
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart;
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch,
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b----h.
To Mr. Cyriack Skinner upon his Blindness.
by John Milton

Cyriack, this three years day these eys, though clear
To outward view, of blemish or of spot;
Bereft of light thir seeing have forgot,
Nor to thir idle orbs doth sight appear
Of Sun or Moon or Starre throughout the year,
Or man or woman. Yet I argue not
Against heavns hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of heart or hope; but still bear vp and steer
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?
The conscience, Friend, to have lost them overply'd
In libertyes defence, my noble task,
Of which all Europe talks from side to side.
This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask
Content though blind, had I no better guide.
Lorenzo De Lardy
by William Schwenck Gilbert

DALILAH DE DARDY adored
The very correctest of cards,
LORENZO DE LARDY, a lord
He was one of Her Majesty's Guards.
DALILAH DE DARDY was fat,
DALILAH DE DARDY was old
(No doubt in the world about that)
But DALILAH DE DARDY had gold.
LORENZO DE LARDY was tall,
The flower of maidenly pets,
Young ladies would love at his call,
But LORENZO DE LARDY had debts.
His money-position was queer,
And one of his favourite freaks
Was to hide himself three times a year,
In Paris, for several weeks.
Many days didn't pass him before
He fanned himself into a flame,
For a beautiful "DAM DU COMPTWORE,"
And this was her singular name:
ALICE EULALIE CORALINE
EUPHROSINE COLOMBINA THERESE
JULIETTE STEPHANIE CELESTINE
CHARLOTTE RUSSE DE LA SAUCE MAYONNAISE.
She booked all the orders and tin,
Accoutred in showy fal-lal,
At a two-fifty Restaurant, in
The glittering Palais Royal.
He'd gaze in her orbit of blue,
Her hand he would tenderly squeeze,
But the words of her tongue that he knew
Were limited strictly to these:
"CORALINE CELESTINE EULALIE,
Houp la! Je vous aime, oui, mossoo,
Combien donnez moi aujourd'hui
Bonjour, Mademoiselle, parlez voo."
MADEMOISELLE DE LA SAUCE MAYONNAISE
Was a witty and beautiful miss,
Extremely correct in her ways,
But her English consisted of this:
"Oh my! pretty man, if you please,
Blom boodin, biftek, currie lamb,
Bouldogue, two franc half, quite ze cheese,
Rosbif, me spik Angleesh, godam."
A waiter, for seasons before,
Had basked in her beautiful gaze,
And burnt to dismember MILOR,
HE LOVED DE LA SAUCE MAYONNAISE.
He said to her, "Mechante THERESE,
Avec desespoir tu m'accables.
Penses-tu, DE LA SAUCE MAYONNAISE,
Ses intentions sont honorables?
"Flirtez toujours, ma belle, si tu oses
Je me vengerai ainsi, ma chere,
Je lui dirai de quoi l'on compose
Vol au vent a la Financiere!"
LORD LARDY knew nothing of this
The waiter's devotion ignored,
But he gazed on the beautiful miss,
And never seemed weary or bored.
The waiter would screw up his nerve,
His fingers he'd snap and he'd dance
And LORD LARDY would smile and observe,
"How strange are the customs of France!"
Well, after delaying a space,
His tradesmen no longer would wait:
Returning to England apace,
He yielded himself to his fate.
LORD LARDY espoused, with a groan,
MISS DARDY'S developing charms,
And agreed to tag on to his own,
Her name and her newly-found arms.
The waiter he knelt at the toes
Of an ugly and thin coryphee,
Who danced in the hindermost rows
At the Theatre des Varietes.
MADEMOISELLE DE LA SAUCE MAYONNAISE
Didn't yield to a gnawing despair
But married a soldier, and plays
As a pretty and pert Vivandiere.
Youth and Age
by Arthur Hugh Clough

Dance on, dance on, we see, we see
Youth goes, alack, and with it glee,
A boy the old man ne'er can be;
Maternal thirty scarce can find
The sweet sixteen long left behind;
Old folks must toil, and scrape, and strain,
That boys and girls may once again
Be that for them they cannot be,
But which it gives them joy to see,
Youth goes and glee; but not in vain
Young folks if only you remain.
Dance on, dance on, 'tis joy to see;
The dry red leaves on winter's tree,
Can feel the new sap rising free.
On, on, young folks; so you survive,
The dead themselves are still alive;
The blood in dull parental veins
Long numbed, a tingling life regains.
Deep down in earth, the tough old root
Is conscious still of flower and fruit.
Spring goes and glee but were not vain:
In you, young folks, they come again.
Dance on, dance on, we see, we feel;
Wind, wind your waltzes, wind and wheel,
Our senses too with music reel;
Nor let your pairs neglect to fill
The old ancestral scorned quadrille.
Let hand the hand uplifted seek,
And pleasure fly from cheek to cheek;
Love too; but gently, nor astray,
And yet, deluder, yet in play.
Dance on; youth goes: but all's not vain,
Young folks, if only you remain.
Dance on, dance on, 'tis joy to see;
We once were nimble e'en as ye,
And danced to give the oldest glee;
O wherefore add, as we, you too,
Once gone your prime cannot renew;
You too, like us, at last shall stand
To watch and not to join the band,
Content some day (a far-off day)
To your supplanters soft to say,
Youth goes, but goes not all in vain,
Young folks, so only you remain,
Dance on, dance on, 'tis joy to see.
Sonnets: Idea XLVIII
by Michael Drayton

Cupid, I hate thee, which I'd have thee know;
A naked starveling ever mayst thou be!
Poor rogue, go pawn thy fascia and thy bow
For some poor rags wherewith to cover thee;
Or if thou'lt not thy archery forbear,
To some base rustic do thyself prefer,
And when corn's sown or grown into the ear,
Practice thy quiver and turn crowkeeper;
Or being blind, as fittest for the trade,
Go hire thyself some bungling harper's boy;
They that are blind are minstrels often made,
So mayst thou live to thy fair mother's joy;
That whilst with Mars she holdeth her old way,
Thou, her blind son, mayst sit by them and play.
A Song For Marna.
by Bliss Carman (William)

Dame of the night of hair
Like blue smoke blown!
World yet undreamed-of there
Lurks to be known.
Dame of the dizzy eyes,
Lure of dim quests!
World of what midnights lies
Under thy breasts!
Dame of the quench of love,
Give me to quaff!
There's all the world's made of
Under thy laugh.
Dame of the dare of gods,
Let the sky lower!
Time, give the world for odds,--
I choose this hour.
A Pastoral
by Walter Savage Landor

Damon was sitting in the grove
With Phyllis, and protesting love;
And she was listening; but no word
Of all he loudly swore she heard.
How! was she deaf then? no, not she,
Phyllis was quite the contrary.
Tapping his elbow, she said, 'Hush!
O what a darling of a thrush!
I think he never sang so well
As now, below us, in the dell.'
Camping Out.
by Clara Doty Bates

Dame Spider had spun herself lank and thin
With trying to take her neighbors in;
Grasshopper had traveled so far and so fast
That he found he must give up at last;
And the maiden Ant had bustled about
The village till she was all worn out.
Old Bumble Bee had lived on sweet
Till he couldn't help but overeat;
Miss Worm had measured her puny length
Till she had no longer any strength;
And Mr. Beetle was shocked to find
His eyes were failing and almost blind.
So they all decided that they must seek
Their health in the country for a week.
And they made a mixed but a merry throng,
For those who had children took them along.
They pitched their tent and made their camp,
Shelter from possible cold and damp.
'Twas novel, and each in his own way
Sought to make happy the holiday.
Grasshopper took his youngest daughter
Out for a stroll along the water;
She shrieked with joy, "O, see the cherries!"
When they found some low-bush huckleberries.
Dame Spider, with mischief in her eye,
Thought she would angle for a fly;
So, spinning a silk thread, long and fine,
With wicked skill she cast the line;
While Bumble Bee, in his gold-laced clothes,
In the shade of a clover leaf lay for a doze.
Miss Worm, who was full of sentiment,
With the maiden Ant for a ramble went;
Here was a flower, and there a flower--
But suddenly rose a thunder shower.
They screamed; but they got on very well,
For they found what the Ant called an "umberell."
A leaf on the water lay afloat,
Which the blundering Beetle thought a boat.
Far down in his heart his dearest wish
Was to find some hitherto unfound fish.
He never came back from that fatal swim,
So 'twas always thought that a fish found him.
At night when the cheery fire was lit
They heaped dry branches over it,
And in the light of the crackling blaze
Told funny stories of other days,
And smoked, till the Ant yawned wide and said:
"'Tis time we folks were all abed!"
But scarce was each to his slumber laid,
When the country folks came to serenade;
With twang of fiddle, and toot of horn,
And shriek of fife, they stayed till morn!
Poor Campers! never a wink got they!
So they started for home at break of day.
Dainty Little Love
by Arthur Macy

Dainty little Love came tripping
Down the hill,
Smiling as he thought of sipping
Sweets at will.
SHE said, "No,
Love must go."
Dainty little Love came tripping
Down the hill.
Dainty little Love went sighing
Up the hill,
All his little hopes were dying - 
Love was ill.
Vain he tried
Tears to hide.
Dainty little Love went sighing
Up the hill.
Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XXXV.
by Thomas Moore

[1]
Cupid once upon a bed
Of roses laid his weary head;
Luckless urchin not to see
Within the leaves a slumbering bee;
The bee awaked--with anger wild
The bee awaked, and stung the child.
Loud and piteous are his cries;
To Venus quick he runs, he flies;
"Oh mother!--I am wounded through--
I die with pain--in sooth I do!
Stung by some little angry thing,
Some serpent on a tiny wing--
A bee it was--for once, I know,
I heard a rustic call it so."
Thus he spoke, and she the while,
Heard him with a soothing smile;
Then said, "My infant, if so much
Thou feel the little wild-bee's touch,
How must the heart, ah, Cupid be,
The hapless heart that's stung by thee!"
Nursery Rhyme. CCXXXVII. Charms.
by Unknown

Cushy cow bonny, let down thy milk,
And I will give thee a gown of silk;
A gown of silk and a silver tee,
If thou wilt let down thy milk to me.
Xmas Day In Ye Morning
by Walter Crane

1.
Dame, get up and bake your pies,
Bake your pies, bake your pies;
Dame, get up and bake your pies,
On Christmas-day in the morning.
2.
Dame, what makes your maidens lie,
Maidens lie, maidens lie?
Dame, what makes your maidens lie,
On Christmas-day in the morning?
3.
Dame, what makes your ducks to die,
Ducks to die, ducks to die?
Dame, what makes your ducks to die,
On Christmas-day in the morning?
4.
Their wings are cut, they cannot fly,
Cannot fly, cannot fly;
Their wings are cut, they cannot fly,
On Christmas-day in the morning.
A Rebus. By Vanessa
by Jonathan Swift

Cut the name of the man [1] who his mistress denied,
And let the first of it be only applied
To join with the prophet[2] who David did chide;
Then say what a horse is that runs very fast;[3]
And that which deserves to be first put the last;
Spell all then, and put them together, to find
The name and the virtues of him I design'd.
Like the patriarch in Egypt, he's versed in the state;
Like the prophet in Jewry, he's free with the great;
Like a racer he flies, to succour with speed,
When his friends want his aid, or desert is in need.
Sonnet 48
by Michael Drayton

Cupid, I hate thee, which I'de haue thee know,
A naked Starueling euer may'st thou be,
Poore Rogue, goe pawne thy Fascia and thy Bow,
For some few Ragges, wherewith to couer thee;
Or if thou'lt not, thy Archerie forbeare,
To some base Rustick doe thy selfe preferre,
And when Corne's sowne, or growne into the Eare,
Practise thy Quiuer, and turne Crow-keeper;
Or being Blind (as fittest for the Trade)
Goe hyre thy selfe some bungling Harpers Boy;
They that are blind, are Minstrels often made,
So may'st thou liue, to thy faire Mothers Ioy:
That whilst with MARS she holdeth her old way,
Thou, her Blind Sonne, may'st sit by them, and play.
Nursery Rhyme. DLXXVII. Natural History.
by Unknown

[Imitated from a pigeon.]
Curr dhoo, curr dhoo,
Love me, and I'll love you!
To A Child Dancing In The Wind
by William Butler Yeats

I
Dance there upon the shore;
What need have you to care
For wind or water's roar?
And tumble out your hair
That the salt drops have wet;
Being young you have not known
The fool's triumph, nor yet
Love lost as soon as won,
Nor the best labourer dead
And all the sheaves to bind.
What need have you to dread
The monstrous crying of wind?
II
Has no one said those daring
Kind eyes should be more learn'd?
Or warned you how despairing
The moths are when they are burned,
I could have warned you, but you are young,
So we speak a different tongue.
O you will take what ever's offered
And dream that all the world's a friend,
Suffer as your mother suffered,
Be as broken in the end.
But I am old and you are young,
And I speak a barbarous tongue.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCLXXXIII. Lullabies.
by Unknown

Dance to your daddy,
My little babby,
Dance to your daddy;
My little lamb.
You shall have a fishy,
In a little dishy;
You shall have a fishy
When the boat comes in.