DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Falstaff
by Walter De La Mare

'Twas in a tavern that with old age stooped
And leaned rheumatic rafters o'er his head - 
A blowzed, prodigious man, which talked, and stared,
And rolled, as if with purpose, a small eye
Like a sweet Cupid in a cask of wine.
I could not view his fatness for his soul,
Which peeped like harmless lightnings and was gone;
As haps to voyagers of the summer air.
And when he laughed, Time trickled down those beams,
As in a glass; and when in self-defence
He puffed that paunch, and wagged that huge, Greek head,
Nosed like a Punchinello, then it seemed
An hundred widows swept in his small voice,
Now tenor, and now bass of drummy war.
He smiled, compact of loam, this orchard man;
Mused like a midnight, webbed with moonbeam snares
Of flitting Love; woke - and a King he stood,
Whom all the world hath in sheer jest refused
For helpless laughter's sake. And then, forfend!
Bacchus and Jove reared vast Olympus there;
And Pan leaned leering from Promethean eyes.
"Lord!" sighed his aspect, weeping o'er the jest,
"What simple mouse brought such a mountain forth?"
The Howdie.
by David Rorie M.D.

'Twas in a wee bit but-an'-ben
She bade when first I kent her,
Doon the side roadie by the kirk
Whaur Andra was precentor.
An' a' the week he keepit thrang
At's wark as village thatcher,
Whiles sairly fashed by women folk,
Wi' "Hurry up an' catch her!"
Nae books e'er ravel't Tibbie's harns,
Nae college lear had reached her,
An' a' she kent aboot her job
Her ain experience teached her.
To this cauld warld in fifty year
She'd fosh near auchteen hunner.
Losh keep's! When a' thing's said an' dune,
The cratur' was a won'er!
A' gate she'd traivelled day an' nicht,
A' kin' o' orra weather
Had seen her trampin' on the road,
Or trailin' through the heather.
But Time had set her pechin' sair,
As on his way he birled;
The body startit failin' fast
An' gettin' auld an' nirled.
An' syne, to weet the bairnie's heid
Owre muckle, whiles, they'd gie her;
But noo she's deid-ay, mony a year-
An' Andra's sleepin' wi' her.
When Brother Peetree Prayed
by Edward Dyson

'Twas a sleepy little chapel by a wattled hill erected,
Where the storms were always muffled, and an atmosphere of peace
Hung about beneath the gum-trees, and the garden was respected
By the goats from Billybunga and the washer-woman's geese.
In the week-days it was sacred to my young imagination
From its walls there oozed a sentiment of reverence profound;
And on Sabbath morns the murmuring of the childish congregation
Seemed to spread a benediction in the bush land far around.
But when Brother Peetree prayed all the parrots flew dismayed,
And the hill shook to its centre, and the trees and fences swayed;
And we youngsters heard the rumble of the Day of Judgment there,
When the pious superintendent wrestled manfully in prayer.
They were horny-handed Methodists, and men of scanty knowledge,
Who controlled that 'little corner of the vine-yard' by the pound;
Their theology was not the kind that's warranted at college,
But their faith was most abundant, and their gospel always sound.
Brother Peetree was a miner at the Band of Hope. His leisure
He employed in 'sticking porkers' for his neighbours, and his skill
Was a theme of admiration; but his soul's sublimest pleasure
Was to speak a prayer on Sunday in the chapel 'neath the hill.
Froze the marrow in our bones at the sound of hollow groans,
And the shrieks of moral anguish, and the awful thunder tones;
And we saw the Hell-fire burning, and we smelt it in the air,
When dear Brother Peetree struggled with the Lord of Hosts in prayer.
Brother Peetree always started with a murmured supplication,
Knelt beside a form, serenely, with a meek, submissive face;
But he rose by certain stages to a rolling exhortation,
And a wild, ecstatic bellowing for sanctity and grace;
And he threw his arms to heaven, and the seats went down before him
As he fought his way along the aisle, and prayed with might and main,
With hysterical beseechings. Then a sudden peace fell o'er him,
And he finished, sobbing softly, at his starting-point again.
And the elders, to their ears pale with reverential fears,
And the sisters and the choir indulged in hot, repentant tears;
And the sinners for salvation did with eagerness declare,
When beloved Brother Peetree wrestled mightily in prayer.
Did Not.
by Thomas Moore

'Twas a new feeling--something more
Than we had dared to own before.
Which then we hid not;
We saw it in each other's eye,
And wished, in every half-breathed sigh,
To speak, but did not.
She felt my lips' impassioned touch--
'Twas the first time I dared so much,
And yet she chid not;
But whispered o'er my burning brow,
"Oh! do you doubt I love you now?"
Sweet soul! I did not.
Warmly I felt her bosom thrill,
I prest it closer, closer still,
Though gently bid not;
Till--oh! the world hath seldom heard
Of lovers, who so nearly erred,
And yet, who did not.
The Honeysuckle Vine
by Arthur Macy

'Twas a tender little honeysuckle vine
That smiled and danced in the warm sunshine,
And spied a maid as fair as all maids be,
Who said, "Little honeysuckle, come up to me."
So it climbed and climbed in the sun and the shade,
And all summer long at her window stayed;
For that is the way that honeysuckles go,
And that is the way that true loves grow.
Then the loving little honeysuckle vine
Kissed the little maid in the warm sunshine;
But the winter came with an angry frown,
And the false little maid shut the window down;
And the sorrowing vine on the wintry side
Mourned and mourned for the love that died,
And faded away in the wind and snow, - 
And that is the way that some loves go.
Upon A Virgin Kissing A Rose.
by Robert Herrick

'Twas but a single rose,
Till you on it did breathe;
But since, methinks, it shows
Not so much rose as wreath.
That V.C.
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

'Twas in the days of front attack;
This glorious truth we'd yet to learn it,
That every "front" has got a back.
And French was just the man to turn it.
A wounded soldier on the ground
Was lying hid behind a hummock;
He proved the good old proverb sound,
An army travels on its stomach.
He lay as flat as any fish;
His nose had worn a little furrow;
He only had one frantic wish,
That like an ant-bear he could burrow.
The bullets whistled into space,
The pom-pom gun kept up its braying,
The fout-point-seven supplied the bass,
You'd think the devil's band was playing.
A valiant comrade crawling near
Observed his most supine behaviour,
And crept towards him; "Hey! what cheer?
Buck up," said he, "I've come to save yer.
"You get up on my shoulders, mate,
And, if we live beyond the firing,
I'll get the V.C. sure as fate,
Because our blokes is all retiring.
"It's fifty pound a year," says he,
"I'll stand you lots of beer and whisky."
"No," says the wounded man, "not me,
I'll not be saved, it's far too risky.
"I'm fairly safe behind this mound,
I've worn a hole that seems to fit me;
But if you lift me off the ground
It's fifty pounds to one they'll hit me."
So back towards the firing-line
Our friend crept slowly to the rear-oh!
Remarking "What a selfish swine!
He might have let me be a hero."
The Night Of Death.
by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

Twas a night of dreadful horror, -
Death was sweeping through the land;
And the wings of dark destruction
Were outstretched from strand to strand
Strong men's hearts grew faint with terror,
As the tempest and the waves
Wrecked their homes and swept them downward,
Suddenly to yawning graves.
'Mid the wastes of ruined households,
And the tempest's wild alarms,
Stood a terror-stricken mother
With a child within her arms.
Other children huddled 'round her,
Each one nestling in her heart;
Swift in thought and swift in action,
She at least from one must part.
Then she said unto her daughter,
"Strive to save one child from death."
"Which one?" said the anxious daughter,
As she stood with bated breath.
Oh! the anguish of that mother;
What despair was in her eye!
All her little ones were precious;
Which one should she leave to die?
Then outspake the brother Bennie:
"I will take the little one."
"No," exclaimed the anxious mother;
"No, my child, it can't be done."
"See! my boy, the waves are rising,
Save yourself and leave the child!"
"I will trust in Christ," he answered;
Grasped the little one and smiled.
Through the roar of wind and waters
Ever and anon she cried;
But throughout the night of terror
Never Bennie's voice replied.
But above the waves' wild surging
He had found a safe retreat,
As if God had sent an angel,
Just to guide his wandering feet.
When the storm had spent its fury,
And the sea gave up its dead
She was mourning for her loved ones,
Lost amid that night of dread.
While her head was bowed in anguish,
On her ear there fell a voice,
Bringing surcease to her sorrow,
Bidding all her heart rejoice.
"Didn't I tell you true?" said Bennie,
And his eyes were full of light,
"When I told you God would help me
Through the dark and dreadful night?"
And he placed the little darling
Safe within his mother's arms,
Feeling Christ had been his guardian,
'Mid the dangers and alarms.
Oh! for faith so firm and precious,
In the darkest, saddest night,
Till life's gloom-encircled shadows
Fade in everlasting light.
And upon the mount of vision
We our loved and lost shall greet,
With earth's wildest storms behind us,
And its cares beneath our feet.
The Three Beggars
by Walter De La Mare

'Twas autumn daybreak gold and wild,
While past St. Ann's grey tower they shuffled,
Three beggars spied a fairy-child
In crimson mantle muffled.
The daybreak lighted up her face
All pink, and sharp, and emerald-eyed;
She looked on them a little space,
And shrill as hautboy cried: - 
"O three tall footsore men of rags
Which walking this gold morn I see,
What will ye give me from your bags
For fairy kisses three?"
The first, that was a reddish man,
Out of his bundle takes a crust:
"La, by the tombstones of St. Ann,
There's fee, if fee ye must!"
The second, that was a chestnut man,
Out of his bundle draws a bone:
"Lo, by the belfry of St. Ann,
And all my breakfast gone!"
The third, that was a yellow man,
Out of his bundle picks a groat,
"La, by the Angel of St. Ann,
And I must go without."
That changeling, lean and icy-lipped,
Touched crust, and bone, and groat, and lo!
Beneath her finger taper-tipped
The magic all ran through.
Instead of crust a peacock pie,
Instead of bone sweet venison,
Instead of groat a white lily
With seven blooms thereon.
And each fair cup was deep with wine:
Such was the changeling's charity,
The sweet feast was enough for nine,
But not too much for three.
O toothsome meat in jelly froze!
O tender haunch of elfin stag!
O rich the odour that arose!
O plump with scraps each bag!
There, in the daybreak gold and wild,
Each merry-hearted beggar man
Drank deep unto the fairy child,
And blessed the good St. Ann.
Christmas at Church.
by Hattie Howard

'Twas drawing near the holiday,
When piety and pity met
In whisp'ring council, and agreed
That Christmas time, in homes of need,
Should be remembered in a way
They never could forget.
Then noble generosity
Took youth and goodness by the hand,
And planned a thousand charming ways
To celebrate this best of days,
While hearts were held in sympathy
By love's encircling band.
So multitudes together came,
Like wandering magi from the East
With precious gifts unto the King,
With every good and perfect thing
To satisfy a shivering frame
Or amplify a feast.
The angels had looked long and far
The happy scene to parallel,
When through the sanctuary door
Were carried gifts from shop and store,
The treasures of the rich bazaar,
To give - but not to sell.
As once the apostolic twelve
Of goods allotment made,
So equity dealt out with care
The widow's and the orphan's share,
And of the aged forced to delve
At drudging task or trade.
Oh, could the joy which tears express
That out of gladness come
Be mirrored in its tender glow,
Before the beautiful tableau
Ingratitude and selfishness
Would shrink abashed and dumb!
If every year and everywhere
Could kindness thus expand
In bounteous gratuity,
To all her children earth would be
A flowery vale like Eden fair,
A milk-and-honey land.
The Hare And The Tortoise
by Walter Crane

'Twas a race between Tortoise and Hare,
Puss was sure she'd so much time to spare,
That she lay down to sleep,
And let old Thick-shell creep
To the winning post first!--You may stare.
Persistence Beats Impulse
Sabine Farmer's Serenade, The
by Father Prout

I
'Twas on a windy night,
At two o'clock in the morning,
An Irish lad so tight,
All wind and weather scorning,
At Judy Callaghan's door.
Sitting upon the palings,
His love-tale he did pour,
And this was part of his wailings:-
Only say
You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan;
Don't say nay,
Charming Judy Callaghan.
II
Oh! list to what I say,
Charms you've got like Venus;
Own your love you may,
There's but the wall between us.
You lie fast asleep
Snug in bed and snoring;
Round the house I creep,
Your hard heart imploring.
Only say
You'll have Mr. Brallaghan;
Don't say nay,
Charming Judy Callaghan.
III
I've got a pig and a sow,
I've got a sty to sleep 'em
A calf and a brindled cow,
And a cabin too, to keep 'em;
Sunday hat and coat,
An old grey mare to ride on,
Saddle and bridle to boot,
Which you may ride astride on.
Only say
You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan;
Don't say nay,
Charming Judy Callaghan.
IV
I've got an acre of ground,
I've got it set with praties;
I've got of 'baccy a pound,
I've got some tea for the ladies;
I've got the ring to wed,
Some whisky to make us gaily;
I've got a feather bed
And a handsome new shillelagh.
Only say
You'll have Mr. Brallaghan;
Don't say nay,
Charming Judy Callaghan.
V
You've got a charming eye,
You've got some spelling and reading
You've got, and so have I,
A taste for genteel breeding;
You're rich, and fair, and young,
As everybody's knowing;
You've got a decent tongue
Whene'er 'tis set a-going.
Only say
You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan;
Don't say nay,
Charming Judy Callaghan.
VI
For a wife till death
I am willing to take ye;
But, och! I waste my breath,
The devil himself can't wake ye.
'Tis just beginning to rain,
So I'll get under cover;
To-morrow I'll come again,
And be your constant lover.
Only say
You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan;
Don't say nay,
Charming Judy Callaghan.
The Declaration
by Nathaniel Parker Willis

!'Twas late, and the gay company was gone,
And the light lay soft on the deserted room
From alabaster vases, and a scent
Of orange leaves, and sweet verbena came
Through the unshutter'd window on the air,
And the rich pictures with their dark old tints
Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things
Seem'd hush'd into a slumber. Isabel,
The dark-eyed, spiritual Isabel
Was leaning on her harp, and I had stay'd
To whisper what I could not when the crowd
Hung on her look like worshippers. I knelt,
And with the fervor of a lip unused
To the cool breath of reason, told my love.
There was no answer, and I took the hand
That rested on the strings, and press'd a kiss
Upon it unforbidden, and again
Besought her, that this silent evidence
That I was not indifferent to her heart,
Might have the seal of one sweet syllable.
I kiss'd the small white fingers as I spoke,
And she withdrew them gently, and upraised
Her forehead from its resting place, and look'd
Earnestly on me, She had been asleep
The Needed One.
by Hattie Howard

'Twas not rare versatility,
Nor gift of poesy or art,
Nor piquant, sparkling jeux d'esprit
Which at the call of fancy come,
That touched the universal heart,
And won the world's encomium.
It was not beauty's potent charm;
For admiration followed her
Unmindful of the rounded arm,
The fair complexion's brilliancy,
If form and features shapely were
Or lacked the grace of symmetry.
So not by marked, especial power
She grew endeared to human thought,
But just because, in trial's hour,
Was loving service to be done
Or sympathy and counsel sought,
She made herself the needed one.
Oh, great the blessedness must be
Of heart and hand and brain alert
In projects wise and manifold,
Impending sorrow to avert
That duller natures fail to see,
Or stand aloof severe and cold!
And who shall doubt that this is why
In womanhood's florescent prime
She passed the portals of the sky?
As if a life thus truly given
To purpose pure and act sublime
Were needed also up in Heaven.
One of the Least of These.
by Hattie Howard

'Twas on a day of cold and sleet,
A little nomad of the street
With tattered garments, shoeless feet,
And face with hunger wan,
Great wonder-eyes, though beautiful,
Hedged in by features pinched and dull,
Betraying lines so pitiful
By sorrow sharply drawn;
Ere yet the service half was o'er,
Approached the great cathedral door
As choir and organ joined to pour
Their sweetness on the air;
Then, sudden, bold, impelled to glide
With fleetness to the altar's side,
Her trembling form she sought to hide
Amid the shadows there,
Half fearful lest some worshiper,
Enveloped close in robes of fur,
Had cast a scornful glance at her
As she had stolen by,
But soon the swelling anthem, fraught
With reverence, her spirit caught
As rapt she listened, heeding not
The darkness drawing nigh.
'Mid novelty and sweet surprise
Her soul, enraptured, seemed to rise
And tread the realms of Paradise;
Her shivering limbs grew warm,
And as the shadows longer crept
Across the chancel, angels kept
Their vigils o'er her as she slept
Secure from cold and storm.
No sound her peaceful slumber broke,
But one, whose gentle face bespoke
True goodness, took her costly cloak
In tender, thoughtful way,
And as the sleeper sweetly smiled,
Perchance by dreams of Heaven beguiled,
O'erspread the passive, slumbering child,
And softly stepped away.
So rest thee, child! since Sorrow's dart
Has touched like thine the Saviour's heart,
Thou hast a nearer, dearer part
In his great love for thee;
And when life's shadows all are gone,
May Heaven reveal a brighter dawn
To thee who, unaware, hast drawn
Our hearts in sympathy.
The Rhine
by William Lisle Bowles

'Twas morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow
(Hung with the clusters of the bending vine)
Shone in the early light, when on the Rhine
We bounded, and the white waves round the prow
In murmurs parted: varying as we go,
Lo! the woods open, and the rocks retire,
As some gray convent-wall or glistening spire
'Mid the bright landscape's track unfolding slow!
Here dark, with furrowed aspect, like Despair,
Frowns the bleak cliff! There on the woodland's side
The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide;
Whilst Hope, enchanted with the scene so fair,
Counts not the hours of a long summer's day,
Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.
Rhymes On The Road. Extract I. Geneva.
by Thomas Moore

View of the Lake of Geneva from the Jura.[1]--Anxious to reach it before the Sun went down.--Obliged to proceed on Foot.--Alps.--Mont Blanc.--Effect of the Scene.
'Twas late--the sun had almost shone
His last and best when I ran on
Anxious to reach that splendid view
Before the daybeams quite withdrew
And feeling as all feel on first
Approaching scenes where, they are told,
Such glories on their eyes will burst
As youthful bards in dreams behold.
'Twas distant yet and as I ran
Full often was my wistful gaze
Turned to the sun who now began
To call in all his out-posts rays,
And form a denser march of light,
Such as beseems a hero's flight.
Oh, how I wisht for JOSHUA'S power,
To stay the brightness of that hour?
But no--the sun still less became,
Diminisht to a speck as splendid
And small as were those tongues of flame,
That on the Apostles' heads descended!
'Twas at this instant--while there glowed
This last, intensest gleam of light--
Suddenly thro' the opening road
The valley burst upon my sight!
That glorious valley with its Lake
And Alps on Alps in clusters swelling,
Mighty and pure and fit to make
The ramparts of a Godhead's dwelling.
I stood entranced--as Rabbins say
This whole assembled, gazing world
Will stand, upon that awful day,
When the Ark's Light aloft unfurled
Among the opening clouds shall shine,
Divinity's own radiant sign!
Mighty MONT BLANC, thou wert to me
That minute, with thy brow in heaven,
As sure a sign of Deity
As e'er to mortal gaze was given.
Nor ever, were I destined yet
To live my life twice o'er again,
Can I the deep-felt awe forget,
The dream, the trance that rapt me then!
'Twas all that consciousness of power
And life, beyond this mortal hour;--
Those mountings of the soul within
At thoughts of Heaven--as birds begin
By instinct in the cage to rise,
When near their time for change of skies;--
That proud assurance of our claim
To rank among the Sons of Light,
Mingled with shame--oh bitter shame!--
At having riskt that splendid right,
For aught that earth thro' all its range
Of glories offers in exchange!
'Twas all this, at that instant brought
Like breaking sunshine o'er my thought--
'Twas all this, kindled to a glow
Of sacred zeal which could it shine
Thus purely ever man might grow,
Even upon earth a thing divine,
And be once more the creature made
To walk unstained the Elysian shade!
No, never shall I lose the trace
Of what I've felt in this bright place.
And should my spirit's hope grow weak,
Should I, oh God! e'er doubt thy power,
This mighty scene again I'll seek,
At the same calm and glowing hour,
And here at the sublimest shrine
That Nature ever reared to Thee
Rekindle all that hope divine
And feel my immortality!
Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XXXIII.
by Thomas Moore

'Twas noon of night, when round the pole
The sullen Bear is seen to roll;
And mortals, wearied with the day,
Are slumbering all their cares away;
An infant, at that dreary hour,
Came weeping to my silent bower,
And waked me with a piteous prayer,
To shield him from the midnight air.
"And who art thou," I waking cry,
"That bid'st my blissful visions fly?"
"Ah, gentle sire!" the infant said,
"In pity take me to thy shed;
Nor fear deceit; a lonely child
I wander o'er the gloomy wild.
Chill drops the rain, and not a ray
Illumes the drear and misty way!"
I heard the baby's tale of woe:
I heard the bitter night-winds blow;
And sighing for his piteous fate,
I trimmed my lamp and oped the gate.
'Twas Love! the little wandering sprite,
His pinion sparkled through the night,
I knew him by his bow and dart;
I knew him by my fluttering heart.
Fondly I take him in, and raise
The dying embers' cheering blaze;
Press from his dank and clinging hair
The crystals of the freezing air,
And in my hand and bosom hold
His little fingers thrilling cold.
And now the embers' genial ray,
Had warmed his anxious fears away;
"I pray thee," said the wanton child,
(My bosom trembled as he smiled,)
"I pray thee let me try my bow,
For through the rain I've wandered so,
That much I fear the midnight shower
Has injured its elastic power."
The fatal bow the urchin drew;
Swift from the string the arrow flew;
As swiftly flew as glancing flame,
And to my inmost spirit came!
"Fare thee well," I heard him say
As laughing wild he winged away,
"Fare thee well, for now I know
The rain has not relaxt my bow;
It still can send a thrilling dart,
As thou shalt own with all thy heart!"
Jove To Hercules.
by Friedrich Schiller

'Twas not my nectar made thy strength divine,
But 'twas thy strength which made my nectar thine!