DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
A Loving-Cup Song
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Come, heap the fagots! Ere we go
Again the cheerful hearth shall glow;
We 'll have another blaze, my boys!
When clouds are black and snows are white,
Then Christmas logs lend ruddy light
They stole from summer days, my boys,
They stole from summer days.
And let the Loving-Cup go round,
The Cup with blessed memories crowned,
That flows whene'er we meet, my boys;
No draught will hold a drop of sin
If love is only well stirred in
To keep it sound and sweet, my boys,
To keep it sound and sweet.
Give me, to pin upon my breast,
The blossoms twain I love the best,
A rosebud and a pink, my boys;
Their leaves shall nestle next my heart,
Their perfumed breath shall own its part
In every health we drink, my boys,
In every health we drink.
The breathing blossoms stir my blood,
Methinks I see the lilacs bud
And hear the bluebirds sing, my boys;
Why not? Yon lusty oak has seen
Full tenscore years, yet leaflets green
Peep out with every spring, my boys,
Peep out with every spring.
Old Time his rusty scythe may whet,
The unmowed grass is glowing yet
Beneath the sheltering snow, my boys;
And if the crazy dotard ask,
Is love worn out? Is life a task?
We'll bravely answer No! my boys,
We 'll bravely answer No!
For life's bright taper is the same
Love tipped of old with rosy flame
That heaven's own altar lent, my boys,
To glow in every cup we fill
Till lips are mute and hearts are still,
Till life and love are spent, my boys,
Till life and love are spent.
To M.L. Gray.
by Eugene Field

Come, dear old friend, and with us twain
To calm Digentian groves repair;
The turtle coos his sweet refrain
And posies are a-blooming there;
And there the romping Sabine girls
Bind myrtle in their lustrous curls.
I know a certain ilex-tree
Whence leaps a fountain cool and clear.
Its voices summon you and me;
Come, let us haste to share its cheer!
Methinks the rapturous song it sings
Should woo our thoughts from mortal things.
But, good old friend, I charge thee well,
Watch thou my brother all the while,
Lest some fair Lydia cast her spell
Round him unschooled in female guile.
Those damsels have no charms for me;
Guard thou that brother,--I'll guard thee!
And, lo, sweet friend! behold this cup,
Round which the garlands intertwine;
With Massic it is foaming up,
And we would drink to thee and thine.
And of the draught thou shalt partake,
Who lov'st us for our father's sake.
Hark you! from yonder Sabine farm
Echo the songs of long ago,
With power to soothe and grace to charm
What ills humanity may know;
With that sweet music in the air,
'T is Love and Summer everywhere.
So, though no grief consumes our lot
(Since all our lives have been discreet),
Come, in this consecrated spot,
Let's see if pagan cheer be sweet.
Now, then, the songs; but, first, more wine.
The gods be with you, friends of mine!
Spring
by John Clare

Come, gentle Spring, and show thy varied greens
In woods, and fields, and meadows, by clear brooks;
Come, gentle Spring, and bring thy sweetest scenes,
Where peace, with solitude, the loveliest looks;
Where the blue unclouded sky
Spreads the sweetest canopy,
And Study wiser grows without her books.
Come hither, gentle May, and with thee bring
Flowers of all colours, and the wild briar rose;
Come in wind-floating drapery, and bring
Fragrance and bloom, that Nature's love bestows--
Meadow pinks and columbines,
Kecksies white and eglantines,
And music of the bee that seeks the rose.
Come, gentle Spring, and bring thy choicest looks,
Thy bosom graced with flowers, thy face with smiles;
Come, gentle Spring, and trace thy wandering brooks,
Through meadow gates, o'er footpath crooked stiles;
Come in thy proud and best array,
April dews and flowers of May,
And singing birds that come where heaven smiles.
The Wounded Heart
by Robert Herrick

Come, bring your sampler, and with art
Draw in't a wounded heart,
And dropping here and there;
Not that I think that any dart
Can make your's bleed a tear,
Or pierce it any where;
Yet do it to this end, that I
May by
This secret see,
Though you can make
That heart to bleed, your's ne'er will ache
For me,
The Stirrup Cup
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Come, drink a stirrup cup with me,
Before we close our rouse.
You 're all aglow with wine, I know:
The master of the house,
Unmindful of our revelry,
Has drowned the carking devil care,
And slumbers in his chair.
Come, drink a cup before we start;
We 've far to ride to-night.
And Death may take the race we make,
And check our gallant flight:
But even he must play his part,
And tho' the look he wears be grim,
We 'll drink a toast to him!
For Death,--a swift old chap is he,
And swift the steed He rides.
He needs no chart o'er main or mart,
For no direction bides.
So, come, a final, cup with me,
And let the soldiers' chorus swell,--
To hell with care, to hell!
Down Among The Dead Men
by William Morris

Come, comrades, come, your glasses clink;
Up with your hands a health to drink,
The health of all that workers be,
In every land, on every sea.
And he that will this health deny,
Down among the dead men, down among the dead men,
Down, down, down, down,
Down among the dead men let him lie!
Well done! now drink another toast,
And pledge the gath'ring of the host,
The people armed in brain and hand,
To claim their rights in every land.
And he that will this health deny,
Down among the dead men, down among the dead men,
Down, down, down, down,
Down among the dead men let him lie!
There's liquor left; come, let's be kind,
And drink the rich a better mind,
That when we knock upon the door,
They may be off and say no more.
And he that will this health deny,
Down among the dead men, down among the dead men,
Down, down, down, down,
Down among the dead men let him lie!
Now, comrades, let the glass blush red,
Drink we the unforgotten dead
That did their deeds and went away,
Before the bright sun brought the day.
And he that will this health deny,
Down among the dead men, down among the dead men,
Down, down, down, down,
Down among the dead men let him lie!
The Day?    Ah, friends, late grows the night;
Drink to the glimmering spark of light,
The herald of the joy to be,
The battle-torch of thee and me!
And he that will this health deny,
Down among the dead men, down among the dead men,
Down, down, down, down,
Down among the dead men let him lie!
Take yet another cup in hand
And drink in hope our little band;
Drink strife in hope while lasteth breath,
And brotherhood in life and death;
And he that will this health deny,
Down among the dead men, down among the dead men,
Down, down, down, down,
Down among the dead men let him lie!
A Bucolic, Or Discourse Of Neatherds.
by Robert Herrick

1. Come, blitheful neatherds, let us lay
A wager who the best shall play,
Of thee or I, the roundelay
That fits the business of the day.
Chor. And Lalage the judge shall be,
To give the prize to thee, or me.
2. Content, begin, and I will bet
A heifer smooth, and black as jet,
In every part alike complete,
And wanton as a kid as yet.
Chor. And Lalage, with cow-like eyes,
Shall be disposeress of the prize.
1. Against thy heifer, I will here
Lay to thy stake a lusty steer
With gilded horns, and burnish'd clear.
Chor. Why, then, begin, and let us hear
The soft, the sweet, the mellow note
That gently purls from either's oat.
2. The stakes are laid: let's now apply
Each one to make his melody.
Lal. The equal umpire shall be I,
Who'll hear, and so judge righteously.
Chor. Much time is spent in prate; begin,
And sooner play, the sooner win.
[1 Neatherd plays
2. That's sweetly touch'd, I must confess,
Thou art a man of worthiness;
But hark how I can now express
My love unto my neatherdess.            [He sings
Chor. A sugar'd note! and sound as sweet
As kine when they at milking meet.
1. Now for to win thy heifer fair,
I'll strike thee such a nimble air
That thou shalt say thyself 'tis rare,
And title me without compare.
Chor. Lay by a while your pipes, and rest,
Since both have here deserved best.
2. To get thy steerling, once again
I'll play thee such another strain
That thou shalt swear my pipe does reign
Over thine oat as sovereign.            [He sings
Chor. And Lalage shall tell by this,
Whose now the prize and wager is.
1.    Give me the prize. 2. The day is mine.
1.    Not so; my pipe has silenc'd thine:
And hadst thou wager'd twenty kine,
They were mine own. Lal. In love combine.
Chor. And lay ye down your pipes together,
As weary, not o'ercome by either.
Help Thisen.
by John Hartley

"Come, help thisen, lad, - help thisen!"
Wor what mi uncle sed.
We'd just come in throo makkin hay,
To get some cheese an breead.
An help misen aw did, - yo bet!
Aw wor a growin lad;
Aw thowt then, an aw fancy yet,
'Twor th' grandest feed aw'd had.
When aw grew up aw fell i' love, - 
Shoo wor a bonny lass!
But bein varry young an shy,
Aw let mi chonces pass.
Aw could'nt for mi life contrive
A thing to do or say,
For fear aw should offend her, soa
Aw let her walk away.
But what aw suffered nooan can tell; - 
Aw loved her as mi life!
But dursn't ax her for the world
To be mi darlin wife.
Aw desperate grew, - we met, - aw ax'd
For just one kuss, - an then,
Shoo blushed, an shook her bonny curls,
But let me help misen.
It's varry monny years sin then, - 
Mi hair's nah growin gray;
But oft throo life aw've thowt aw've heeard
That same owd farmer say, - 
When in some fix aw've vainly sowt
For aid from other men, - 
"Tha'rt wastin time, - if tha wants help
Pluck up, an help thisen."
If th' prize yo long for seems too heigh,
Dooant let yor spirits drop;
Ther may be lots o' thrustin, but
Yo'll find ther's room at th' top.
Yo connot tell what yo can do
Until yo've had a try;
It may be a hard struggle, but
Yo'll get thear, by-an-bye.
Nah, young fowk, bear this in yor mind
An let it be yor creed,
For sooin yo'll find fowk's promises
Are but a rotten reed.
Feight yor own battles bravely throo,
Yo'll sewerly win, an then
Yo'll find ther's lots will help yo,
When yo con help yorsen.
The Widow To Her Hour-Glass.
by Robert Bloomfield

Come, friend, I'll turn thee up again:
Companion of the lonely hour!
Spring thirty times hath fed with rain
And cloath'd with leaves my humble bower,
Since thou hast stood
In frame of wood,
On Chest or Window by my side:
At every Birth still thou wert near,
Still spoke thine admonitions clear. - 
And, when my Husband died,
I've often watch'd thy streaming sand
And seen the growing Mountain rise,
And often found Life's hopes to stand
On props as weak in Wisdom's eyes:
Its conic crown
Still sliding down,
Again heap'd up, then down again;
The sand above more hollow grew,
Like days and years still filt'ring through,
And mingling joy and pain.
While thus I spin and sometimes sing,
(For now and then my heart will glow)
Thou measur'st Time's expanding wing
By thee the noontide hour I know:
Though silent thou,
Still shalt thou flow,
And jog along thy destin'd way:
But when I glean the sultry fields,
When Earth her yellow Harvest yields,
Thou get'st a Holiday.
Steady as Truth, on either end
Thy daily task performing well,
Thou'rt Meditation's constant friend,
And strik'st the Heart without a Bell:
Come, lovely May!
Thy lengthen'd day
Shall gild once more thy native plain;
Curl inward here, sweet Woodbine flow'r; - 
'Companion of the lonely hour,
'I'll turn thee up again.
Phrenology.
by William Schwenck Gilbert

"Come, collar this bad man -
Around the throat he knotted me
Till I to choke began -
In point of fact, garotted me!"
So spake Sir Herbert Write
To James, Policeman Thirty-two -
All ruffled with his fight
Sir Herbert was, and dirty too.
Policeman nothing said
(Though he had much to say on it),
But from the bad man's head
He took the cap that lay on it.
"No, great Sir Herbert White -
Impossible to take him up.
This man is honest quite -
Wherever did you rake him up?
"For Burglars, Thieves, and Co.,
Indeed, I'm no apologist,
But I, some years ago,
Assisted a Phrenologist.
"Observe his various bumps,
His head as I uncover it:
His morals lie in lumps
All round about and over it."
"Now take him," said Sir White,
"Or you will soon be rueing it;
Bless me! I must be right, -
I caught the fellow doing it!"
Policeman calmly smiled,
"Indeed you are mistaken, sir,
You're agitated riled -
And very badly shaken, sir.
"Sit down, and I'll explain
My system of Phrenology,
A second, please, remain" -
(A second is horology).
Policeman left his beat -
(The Bart., no longer furious,
Sat down upon a seat,
Observing, "This is curious!")
"Oh, surely, here are signs
Should soften your rigidity:
This gentleman combines
Politeness with timidity.
"Of Shyness here's a lump -
A hole for Animosity -
And like my fist his bump
Of Impecuniosity.
"Just here the bump appears
Of Innocent Hilarity,
And just behind his ears
Are Faith, and Hope, and Charity.
He of true Christian ways
As bright example sent us is -
This maxim he obeys,
'Sorte tua contentus sis.'
"There, let him go his ways,
He needs no stern admonishing."
The Bart., in blank amaze,
Exclaimed, "This is astonishing!
"I must have made a mull,
This matter I've been blind in it:
Examine, please, my skull,
And tell me what you find in it."
That Crusher looked, and said,
With unimpaired urbanity,
"SIR HERBERT, you've a head
That teems with inhumanity.
"Here's Murder, Envy, Strife
(Propensity to kill any),
And Lies as large as life,
And heaps of Social Villany.
"Here's Love of Bran-New Clothes,
Embezzling Arson Deism -
A taste for Slang and Oaths,
And Fraudulent Trusteeism.
"Here's Love of Groundless Charge -
Here's Malice, too, and Trickery,
Unusually large
Your bump of Pocket-Pickery "
"Stop!" said the Bart., "my cup
Is full I'm worse than him in all;
Policeman, take me up -
No doubt I am some criminal!"
That Pleeceman's scorn grew large
(Phrenology had nettled it),
He took that Bart. in charge -
I don't know how they settled it.
Come, My Beloved!
by Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)

Come, my beloved! And I say again: Come, my beloved!
The doves are moaning and calling and will not cease.
Come, my beloved!
"The fairies have made me queen, and my heart is love.
Sweeter than the green cane is my red mouth."
Come, my beloved!
The jacinth has spilled odour on your hair,
The balance of your neck is like a jacinth;
You have set a star of green between your brows.
Come, my beloved!
Like lemon-trees among the rocks of grey hills
Are the soft colours of the airy veil
To your rose knee from your curved almond waist.
Come, my beloved!
Your light breast veil is tawny brown with stags,
Stags with eyes of emerald, hunted by red kings.
Come, my beloved!
Muhammad Din is wandering; he is drunken and mad;
For a year he has been dying. Send for the doctor!
Come, my beloved!
From the Pus'hto of Muhammad Din Tilai (Afghans, nineteenth century).
Summer Portents
by John Kendall (Dum-Dum)

Come, let us quaff the brimming cup
Of sorrow, bitterness, and pain;
For clearly, things are warming up
Again.
Observe with what awakened powers
The vulgar Sun resumes the right
Of rising in the hallowed hours
Of night.
Bound to the village water-wheel,
The motive bullock bows his crest,
And signals forth a mute appeal
For rest.
His neck is galled beneath the yoke:
His patient eyes are very dim:
Life is a dismal sort of joke
To him.
Yet one there is, to whom the ox
Is kin; who knows, as habitat,
The cold, unsympathetic box,
Or mat;
Who urges on, with wearied arms,
The punkah's rhythmic, laboured sweep,
Nor dares to contemplate the charms
Of sleep.
Now 'mid a host of lesser things
That pasture through the heaving nights,
The sharp mosquito flaps his wings,
And bites;
With other Anthropophagi,
Such as that microscopic brand
The common Sand-fly (or the fly
Of sand),
Who, with a hideous lust uncurbed
By clappings of the frequent palm,
Devours one's ankles, undisturbed,
And calm.
The scorpion nips one unaware:
The lizard flops upon the head:
And cobras, uninvited, share
One's bed.
Oh, if I only had the luck
To feel the grand Olympic fire
That thrilled the Greater when they struck
The lyre!
When Homer wrote of this and that:
When Dante sang like one possessed:
When Milton groaned and laboured at
His Best!
Had I the swelling rise and fall,
Whereof the Bo'sun's quivering moan
Derives a breezy fragrance all
Its own:
Oh, I would pour such passion out - 
Good gracious me! - I would so sing
That you should know the facts about
This thing!
Then w-w-wake, my Lyre! O halting lilt!
O miserable, broken lay!
It may not be: I am not built
That way.
Yet other gifts the gods bestow.
I do not weep, I do not grieve.
Far from it. I shall simply go
On leave.
Horace To Phyllis
by Eugene Field

Come, Phyllis, I've a cask of wine
That fairly reeks with precious juices,
And in your tresses you shall twine
The loveliest flowers this vale produces.
My cottage wears a gracious smile,--
The altar, decked in floral glory,
Yearns for the lamb which bleats the while
As though it pined for honors gory.
Hither our neighbors nimbly fare,--
The boys agog, the maidens snickering;
And savory smells possess the air
As skyward kitchen flames are flickering.
You ask what means this grand display,
This festive throng, and goodly diet?
Well, since you're bound to have your way,
I don't mind telling, on the quiet.
'Tis April 13, as you know,--
A day and month devote to Venus,
Whereon was born, some years ago,
My very worthy friend Maecenas.
Nay, pay no heed to Telephus,--
Your friends agree he doesn't love you;
The way he flirts convinces us
He really is not worthy of you!
Aurora's son, unhappy lad!
You know the fate that overtook him?
And Pegasus a rider had--
I say he had before he shook him!
Haec docet (as you must agree):
'T is meet that Phyllis should discover
A wisdom in preferring me
And mittening every other lover.
So come, O Phyllis, last and best
Of loves with which this heart's been smitten,--
Come, sing my jealous fears to rest,
And let your songs be those I've written.
Come, Play Me That Simple Air Again. A Ballad.
by Thomas Moore

Come, play me that simple air again,
I used so to love, in life's young day,
And bring, if thou canst, the dreams that then
Were wakened by that sweet lay
The tender gloom its strain
Shed o'er the heart and brow
Grief's shadow without its pain--
Say where, where is it now?
But play me the well-known air once more,
For thoughts of youth still haunt its strain
Like dreams of some far, fairy shore
We never shall see again.
Sweet air, how every note brings back
Some sunny hope, some daydream bright,
That, shining o'er life's early track,
Filled even its tears with light.
The new-found life that came
With love's first echoed vow;--
The fear, the bliss, the shame--
Ah--where, where are they now?
But, still the same loved notes prolong,
For sweet 'twere thus, to that old lay,
In dreams of youth and love and song,
To breathe life's hour away.
Outward Bound.
by Henry Austin Dobson

(HORACE, III. 7.)
"Quid fles, Asterie, quem tibi candidi
Primo restituent vere Favonii--
Gygen?"
Come, Laura, patience. Time and Spring
Your absent Arthur back shall bring,
Enriched with many an Indian thing
Once more to woo you;
Him neither wind nor wave can check,
Who, cramped beneath the "Simla's" deck,
Still constant, though with stiffened neck,
Makes verses to you.
Would it were wave and wind alone!
The terrors of the torrid zone,
The indiscriminate cyclone,
A man might parry;
But only faith, or "triple brass,"
Can help the "outward-bound" to pass
Safe through that eastward-faring class
Who sail to marry.
For him fond mothers, stout and fair,
Ascend the tortuous cabin stair
Only to hold around his chair
Insidious sessions;
For him the eyes of daughters droop
Across the plate of handed soup,
Suggesting seats upon the poop,
And soft confessions.
Nor are these all his pains, nor most.
Romancing captains cease to boast--
Loud majors leave their whist--to roast
The youthful griffin;
All, all with pleased persistence show
His fate,--"remote, unfriended, slow,"--
His "melancholy" bungalow,--
His lonely tiffin.
In vain. Let doubts assail the weak;
Unmoved and calm as "Adam's Peak,"
Your "blameless Arthur" hears them speak
Of woes that wait him;
Naught can subdue his soul secure;
"Arthur will come again," be sure,
Though matron shrewd and maid mature
Conspire to mate him.
But, Laura, on your side, forbear
To greet with too impressed an air
A certain youth with chestnut hair,--
A youth unstable;
Albeit none more skilled can guide
The frail canoe on Thamis tide,
Or, trimmer-footed, lighter glide
Through "Guards" or "Mabel."
Be warned in time. Without a trace
Of acquiescence on your face,
Hear, in the waltz's breathing-space,
His airy patter;
Avoid the confidential nook;
If, when you sing, you find his look
Grow tender, close your music-book,
And end the matter.
Nets And Cages.[1] (Swedish Air.)
by Thomas Moore

Come, listen to my story, while
Your needle task you ply:
At what I sing some maids will smile,
While some, perhaps, may sigh.
Though Love's the theme, and Wisdom blames
Such florid songs as ours,
Yet Truth sometimes, like eastern dames,
Can speak her thoughts by flowers.
Then listen, maids, come listen, while
Your needle's task you ply;
At what I sing there's some may smile,
While some, perhaps, will sigh.
Young Cloe, bent on catching Loves,
Such nets had learned to frame,
That none, in all our vales and groves,
E'er caught so much small game:
But gentle Sue, less given to roam,
While Cloe's nets were taking
Such lots of Loves, sat still at home,
One little Love-cage making.
Come, listen, maids, etc.
Much Cloe laughed at Susan's task;
But mark how things went on:
These light-caught Loves, ere you could ask
Their name and age, were gone!
So weak poor Cloe's nets were wove,
That, tho' she charm'd into them
New game each hour, the youngest Love
Was able to break thro' them.
Come, listen, maids, etc.
Meanwhile, young Sue, whose cage was wrought
Of bars too strong to sever,
One Love with golden pinions caught.
And caged him there for ever;
Instructing, thereby, all coquettes,
Whate'er their looks or ages,
That, tho 'tis pleasant weaving Nets,
'Tis wiser to make Cages.
Thus, maidens, thus do I beguile
The task your fingers ply.--
May all who hear like Susan smile,
And not, like Cloe, sigh!
The Wonder Maker
by William Henry Davies

Come, if thou'rt cold to Summer's charms,
Her clouds of green, her starry flowers,
And let this bird, this wandering bird,
Make his fine wonder yours;
He, hiding in the leaves so green,
When sampling this fair world of ours,
Cries cuckoo, clear; and like Lot's wife,
I look, though it should cost my life.
When I can hear that charmed one's voice,
I taste of immortality;
My joy's so great that on my heart
Doth lie eternity,
As light as any little flower, 
So strong a wonder works in me;
Cuckoo! he cries, and fills my soul
With all that's rich and beautiful.
Horace IV, II.
by Eugene Field

Come, Phyllis, I've a cask of wine
That fairly reeks with precious juices.
And in your tresses you shall twine
The loveliest flowers this vale produces.
My cottage wears a gracious smile--
The altar decked in floral glory,--
Yearns for the lamb which bleats the while
As though it pined for honors gory.
Hither our neighbors nimbly fare--
The boys agog, the maidens snickering,
And savory smells possess the air
As skyward kitchen flames are flickering.
You ask what means this grand display,
This festive throng and goodly diet?
Well--since you're bound to have your way--
I don't mind telling on the quiet.
'Tis April 13, as you know--
A day and month devote to Venus,
Whereon was born some years ago,
My very worthy friend, Macenas.
Nay, pay no heed to Telephus--
Your friends agree he doesn't love you;
The way he flirts convinces us
He really is not worthy of you!
Aurora's son, unhappy lad!
You know the fate that overtook him?
And Pegasus a rider had--
I say he had before he shook him!
Haec docet (as you may agree):
'Tis meet that Phyllis should discover
A wisdom in preferring me
And mittening every other lover.
So come, O Phyllis, last and best
Of loves with which this heart's been smitten;
Come, sing my jealous fears to rest--
And let your songs be those I've written.