DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Two Sinners
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

There was a man, it was said one time,
Who went astray in his youthful prime.
Can the brain keep cool and the heart keep quiet
When the blood is a river that's running riot?
And boys will be boys, the old folks say,
And a man is the better who's had his day
The sinner reformed; and the preacher told
Of the prodigal son who came back to the fold.
And Christian people threw open the door,
With a warmer welcome than ever before.
Wealth and honour were his to command,
And a spotless woman gave him her hand.
And the world strewed their pathway with blossoms abloom,
Crying, "God bless ladye, and God bless groom!"
There was a maiden who went astray,
In the golden dawn of her life's young day.
She had more passion and heart than head,
And she followed blindly where fond Love led.
And Love unchecked is a dangerous guide
To wander at will by a fair girl's side.
The woman repented and turned from sin,
But no door opened to let her in.
The preacher prayed that she might be forgiven,
But told her to look for mercy - in heaven.
For this is the law of the earth, we know:
That the woman is stoned, while the man may go.
A brave man wedded her after all,
But the world said, frowning, "We shall not call."
To A Politician
by Edward Dyson

There was a moment when of you
A splendid hope I had to tell,
Believing "Here is one man who
Will serve our waiting country well."
I saw you sedulous and keen,
I heard the burning words you spoke.
It seemed that you were hard and clean,
And rapier sharp your every stroke.
Then came success, and in a night
An impish thing you stood apart,
All empty-handed for the fight,
With worse, alas! an empty heart.
Success had spoiled you, said your friends,
It was not so, for naught was there
To spoil but means to petty ends.
At last men saw you bleak and bare.
In those who give you grudging aid
These days, may we the spirits see
Who for the love of men would raid
The strongholds of iniquity?
Are these the heroes high and true,
Who, seeing right with honest eyes,
Will risk their all in putting through
Democracy's stern Enterprise?
You had no wealth of love. You failed
For that. Your heart may never cling
To men upon their crosses nailed,
To brothers sadly travailing.
The Cranes Of Ibycus.
by Emma Lazarus

There was a man who watched the river flow
Past the huge town, one gray November day.
Round him in narrow high-piled streets at play
The boys made merry as they saw him go,
Murmuring half-loud, with eyes upon the stream,
The immortal screed he held within his hand.
For he was walking in an April land
With Faust and Helen.    Shadowy as a dream
Was the prose-world, the river and the town.
Wild joy possessed him; through enchanted skies
He saw the cranes of Ibycus swoop down.
He closed the page, he lifted up his eyes,
Lo - a black line of birds in wavering thread
Bore him the greetings of the deathless dead!
Poem: Quantum Mutata
by Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde

There was a time in Europe long ago
When no man died for freedom anywhere,
But England's lion leaping from its lair
Laid hands on the oppressor! it was so
While England could a great Republic show.
Witness the men of Piedmont, chiefest care
Of Cromwell, when with impotent despair
The Pontiff in his painted portico
Trembled before our stern ambassadors.
How comes it then that from such high estate
We have thus fallen, save that Luxury
With barren merchandise piles up the gate
Where noble thoughts and deeds should enter by:
Else might we still be Milton's heritors.
A Successful Man
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

There was a man who killed a loving maid
In some mad mood of passion; and he paid
The price, upon a scaffold.    Now his name
Stands only as a synonym for shame.
There was another man, who took to wife
A loving woman.    She was full of life,
Of hope, and aspirations; and her pride
Clothed her like some rich mantle.
First, the wide
Glad stream of life that through her veins had sway
He dammed by rocks, cast in it, day by day.
Her flag of hope, flung gaily to the world,
He placed half mast, and then hauled down, and furled.
The aspirations, breathing in each word,
By subtle ridicule, were made absurd:
The delicate fine mantle of her pride,
With rude unfeeling hands, was wrenched aside:
And by mean avarice, or vulgar show,
Her quivering woman's heart was made to know
That she was but a chattel, bought to fill
Whatever niche might please the buyer's will.
So she was murdered, while the slow years went.
And her assassin, honoured, opulent,
Lived with no punishment, or social ban!
'A good provider, a successful man.'
There Was A Time, I Need Not Name.  [1]
by George Gordon Byron

1.
There was a time, I need not name,
Since it will ne'er forgotten be,
When all our feelings were the same
As still my soul hath been to thee.
2.
And from that hour when first thy tongue
Confess'd a love which equall'd mine,
Though many a grief my heart hath wrung,
Unknown, and thus unfelt, by thine,
3.
None, none hath sunk so deep as this - 
To think how all that love hath flown;
Transient as every faithless kiss,
But transient in thy breast alone.
4.
And yet my heart some solace knew,
When late I heard thy lips declare,
In accents once imagined true,
Remembrance of the days that were.
5.
Yes! my adored, yet most unkind!
Though thou wilt never love again,
To me 'tis doubly sweet to find
Remembrance of that love remain. 
6.
Yes! 'tis a glorious thought to me,
Nor longer shall my soul repine,
Whate'er thou art or e'er shall be,
Thou hast been dearly, solely mine.
The Unexplorer
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

There was a road ran past our house
Too lovely to explore.
I asked my mother once--she said
That if you followed where it led
It brought you to the milk-man's door.
(That's why I have not traveled more.)
Certitude
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

There was a time when I was confident
That God's stupendous mystery of birth
Was mine to know.    The wonder of it lent
New ecstasy and glory to the earth.
I heard no voice that uttered it aloud,
Nor was it written for me on a scroll;
Yet, if alone or in the common crowd,
I felt myself a consecrated soul.
My child leaped in its dark and silent room
And cried, 'I am,' though all unheard by men.
So leaps my spirit in the body's gloom
And cries, 'I live!    I shall be born again.'
Elate with certitude towards death I go,
Nor doubt, nor argue, since I know, I know!
The Squatter, Three Cornstalks, And The Well
by Henry Lawson

(A Dirge of Sin and Sorrow, Sung by Joe Swallow)
There was a Squatter in the land,
So runs the truthful tale I tell,
There also were three cornstalks, and
There also was the Squatter's Well.
Singing (slowly): 'Sin and sorrer, sin and sor-rer, sin and sor-r-r-rer.'
The Squatter he was full of pluck,
The Cornstalks they were full of sin,
The well it was half full of muck
That many rains had drifted in.
Singing (with increased feeling): 'Sin, &c.'
The Squatter hired the Cornstalks Three
To cleanse the well of mud and clay;
And so they started willing-lee
At five-and-twenty bob a day.
Singing (apprehensively): 'Sin, &c.'
At five-and-twenty bob the lot,
That's eight-and-four the day would bring
To each; and so they thought they'd got
A rather soft and easy thing.
Singing (sadly): 'Sin, &c.'
The Cornstalks cleaned the well within
A day or two, or thereabout,
And then they worked an awful sin,
A scheme to make the job last out.
Singing (reproachfully): 'Sin and sorrer, &c.'
For when the well was cleaned out quite
Of all its logs and muck and clay
They tipped a drayload down at night
And worked to haul it up next day.
Singing (dismally): 'Sin, &c.'
But first the eldest, christened Hodge,
He greased the dray-wheel axles, so
The super wouldn't smell the dodge
And couldn't let the Squatter know.
Singing (hopelessly): 'Sin and sorrer, &c.'
The stuff they surfaced out each day
With some surprise the Squatter saw.
He never dreamt the sand and clay
Was three miles off the night before.
Singing (mournfully): 'Sin and sorrer, &c.'
But he got something in his eye;
It wasn't green, that's very plain.
He said the well was rather dry,
And they could fill it up again.
Singing (mournfully and dismally): 'Sin and sorrer, &c.'
The Cornstalks went to work next day
In hope, of course, of extra tin,
The Squatter watched, and, sad to say,
The mullock wouldn't all go in.
Singing (with great pathos): 'Sin and sorrer, &c.'
And though the Cornstalks twigged the ruse
Whereby the boss had done 'em brown,
They argued that the clay was loose,
And wanted time to settle down.
Singing (hopelessly): 'Sin and sorrer, &c.'
The boss began to rave and tear,
And yelled with a most awful frown,
'I will not settle up, I swear,
Till that there clay is settled down!'
Singing (hopefully): 'Sin, &c.'
'Before my cheques yer'Il pocket, boys,
Yer'll put a mountain in a well',
The Cornstalks didn't make a noise,
They only murmured sadly, !
Singing (triumphantly): 'Sin and sorrer, &c.'
MORAL:
There is a moral to my rhyme,
A moral to the dirge I sing,
That when you do go in for crime
You mustn't overdoo the thing.
Singing (more dismally than ever): 'Sin and sorrer, s-i-n and sor-r-r-r-rer!'
Learned Negro, The
by Unknown

There was a negro preacher, I have heard,
In Southern parts before rebellion stirred,
Who did not spend his strength in empty sound;
His was a mind deep-reaching and profound.
Others might beat the air, and make a noise,
And help to amuse the silly girls and boys;
But as for him, he was a man of thought,
Deep in theology, although untaught.
He could not read or write, but he was wise,
And knew right smart how to extemporize.
One Sunday morn, when hymns and prayers were said,
The preacher rose and rubbing up his head,
"Bredren and sisterin, and companions dear,
Our preachment for to-day, as you shall hear,
Will be ob de creation, ob de plan
On which God fashioned Adam, de fust man.
When God made Adam, in de ancient day,
He made his body out ob earth and clay,
He shape him all out right, den by and by,
He set him up again de fence to dry."
"Stop," said a voice; and straightway there arose
An ancient negro in his master's clothes.
"Tell me," said he, "before you farder go,
One little thing which I should like to know.
It does not quite get through dis niggar's har,
How came dat fence so nice and handy dar?"
Like one who in the mud is tightly stuck,
Or one nonplussed, astonished, thunderstruck,
The preacher looked severely on the pews,
And rubbed his hair to know what words to use:
"Bredren," said he, "dis word I hab to say;
De preacher can't be bothered in dis way;
For, if he is, it's jest as like as not,
Our whole theology will be upsot."
Patriotism
by Robert Fuller Murray

There was a time when it was counted high
To be a patriot--whether by the zeal
Of peaceful labour for the country's weal,
Or by the courage in her cause to die:
For King and Country was a rallying cry
That turned men's hearts to fire, their nerves to steel;
Not to unheeding ears did it appeal,
A pulpit formula, a platform lie.
Only a fool will wantonly desire
That war should come, outpouring blood and fire,
And bringing grief and hunger in her train.
And yet, if there be found no other way,
God send us war, and with it send the day
When love of country shall be real again!
A Song About Myself
by John Keats

I.
There was a naughty boy,
A naughty boy was he,
He would not stop at home,
He could not quiet be
He took
In his knapsack
A book
Full of vowels
And a shirt
With some towels,
A slight cap
For night cap,
A hair brush,
Comb ditto,
New stockings
For old ones
Would split O!
This knapsack
Tight at's back
He rivetted close
And followed his nose
To the north,
To the north,
And follow'd his nose
To the north.
II.
There was a naughty boy
And a naughty boy was he,
For nothing would he do
But scribble poetry
He took
An ink stand
In his hand
And a pen
Big as ten
In the other,
And away
In a pother
He ran
To the mountains
And fountains
And ghostes
And postes
And witches
And ditches
And wrote
In his coat
When the weather
Was cool,
Fear of gout,
And without
When the weather
Was warm
Och the charm
When we choose
To follow one's nose
To the north,
To the north,
To follow one's nose
To the north!
III.
There was a naughty boy
And a naughty boy was he,
He kept little fishes
In washing tubs three
In spite
Of the might
Of the maid
Nor afraid
Of his Granny-good
He often would
Hurly burly
Get up early
And go
By hook or crook
To the brook
And bring home
Miller's thumb,
Tittlebat
Not over fat,
Minnows small
As the stall
Of a glove,
Not above
The size
Of a nice
Little baby's
Little fingers
O he made
'Twas his trade
Of fish a pretty kettle
A kettle
A kettle
Of fish a pretty kettle
A kettle!
IV.
There was a naughty boy,
And a naughty boy was he,
He ran away to Scotland
The people for to see
There he found
That the ground
Was as hard,
That a yard
Was as long,
That a song
Was as merry,
That a cherry
Was as red,
That lead
Was as weighty,
That fourscore
Was as eighty,
That a door
Was as wooden
As in England
So he stood in his shoes
And he wonder'd,
He wonder'd,
He stood in his
Shoes and he wonder'd.
A Generation (1917)
by John Collings Squire, Sir

There was a time that's gone
And will not come again,
We knew it was a pleasant time,
How good we never dreamed.
When, for a whimsy's sake,
We'd even play with pain,
For everything awaited us
And life immortal seemed.
It seemed unending then
To forward-looking eyes,
No thought of what postponement meant
Hung dark across our mirth;
We had years and strength enough
For any enterprise,
Our numerous companionship
Were heirs to all the earth.
But now all memory
Is one ironic truth,
We look like strangers at the boys
We were so long ago;
For half of us are dead,
And half have lost their youth,
And our hearts are scarred by many griefs,
That only age should know.
Nursery Rhyme. XXVI. Historical
by Unknown

[From MS. Sloane, 1489, fol. 19, written in the time of Charles I. It appears from MS. Harl. 390, fol. 85, that these verses were written in 1626, against the Duke of Buckingham.]
There was a monkey climb'd up a tree,
When he fell down, then down fell he.
There was a crow sat on a stone,
When he was gone, then there was none.
There was an old wife did eat an apple,
When she had eat two, she had eat a couple.
There was a horse going to the mill,
When he went on, he stood not still.
There was a butcher cut his thumb,
When it did bleed, then blood did come.
There was a lackey ran a race,
When he ran fast, he ran apace.
There was a cobbler clowting shoon,
When they were mended, they were done.
There was a chandler making candle,
When he them strip, he did them handle.
There was a navy went into Spain,
When it return'd it came again.
Fragment II
by Alan Seeger

There was a time when I thought much of Fame,
And laid the golden edifice to be
That in the clear light of eternity
Should fitly house the glory of my name.
But swifter than my fingers pushed their plan,
Over the fair foundation scarce begun,
While I with lovers dallied in the sun,
The ivy clambered and the rose-vine ran.
And now, too late to see my vision, rise,
In place of golden pinnacles and towers,
Only some sunny mounds of leaves and flowers,
Only beloved of birds and butterflies.
My friends were duped, my favorers deceived;
But sometimes, musing sorrowfully there,
That flowered wreck has seemed to me so fair
I scarce regret the temple unachieved.
Nursery Rhyme. LIII. Tales.
by Unknown

There was a man, and he had naught,
And robbers came to rob him;
He crept up to the chimney pot,
And then they thought they had him.
But he got down on t'other side,
And then they could not find him;
He ran fourteen miles in fifteen days,
And never look'd behind him.
Why He Lost The Track or, The Black Tracker
by Henry Lawson

There was a tracker in the force
Of wondrous sight (the story ran):,
He never failed to track a horse,
He never failed to find his man.
They brought him from a distant town
Once more to gain reward and praise,
Nor dreamed the man he hunted down
Had saved his life in bygone days.
Away across the farthest run,
And far across the stony plain,
The outlaw's horse's tracks, each one,
Unto the black man's eyes were plain.
Those tracks across the ranges wide
Right well he knew that he could trace,
And oft he turned aside to hide
The tears upon his dusky face.
Now was his time, for he could claim
Reward and praise if he prevailed!
Now was the time to win him fame,
When all the other blacks had failed.
He struggled well to play his part,
For in the art he took a pride.
But, ah! there beat a white man's heart
Beneath his old, black wrinkled hide.
Against that heart he struggled well,
But gratitude was in the black,
He failed, and only he could tell
The reason why he lost the track.
Belts
by Rudyard Kipling

There was a row in Silver Street that's near to Dublin Quay,
Between an Irish regiment an' English cavalree;
It started at Revelly an' it lasted on till dark:
The first man dropped at Harrison's, the last forninst the Park.
For it was: "Belts, belts, belts, an' that's one for you!"
An' it was "Belts, belts, belts, an' that's done for you!"
O buckle an' tongue
Was the song that we sung
From Harrison's down to the Park!
There was a row in Silver Street the regiments was out,
They called us "Delhi Rebels", an' we answered "Threes about!"
That drew them like a hornet's nest we met them good an' large,
The English at the double an' the Irish at the charge.
Then it was: "Belts, &c."
There was a row in Silver Street an' I was in it too;
We passed the time o' day, an' then the belts went whirraru!
I misremember what occurred, but subsequint the storm,
A Freeman's Journal Supplemint was all my uniform.
O it was: "Belts, &c."
There was a row in Silver Street they sent the Polis there,
The English were too drunk to know, the Irish didn't care;
But when they grew impertinint we simultaneous rose,
Till half o' them was Liffey mud an' half was tatthered clo'es.
For it was: "Belts, &c."
There was a row in Silver Street it might ha' raged till now,
But some one drew his side-arm clear, an' nobody knew how;
'Twas Hogan took the point an' dropped; we saw the red blood run:
An' so we all was murderers that started out in fun.
While it was: "Belts, &c."
There was a row in Silver Street but that put down the shine,
Wid each man whisperin' to his next: "'Twas never work o' mine!"
We went away like beaten dogs, an' down the street we bore him,
The poor dumb corpse that couldn't tell the bhoys were sorry for him.
When it was: "Belts, &c."
There was a row in Silver Street it isn't over yet,
For half of us are under guard wid punishments to get;
'Tis all a merricle to me as in the Clink I lie:
There was a row in Silver Street begod, I wonder why!
But it was: "Belts, belts, belts, an' that's one for you!"
An' it was "Belts, belts, belts, an' that's done for you!"
O buckle an' tongue
Was the song that we sung
From Harrison's down to the Park!
At Nineveh
by Madison Julius Cawein

Written for my friend Walter S. Mathews.
There was a princess once, who loved the slave
Of an Assyrian king, her father; known
At Nineveh as Hadria; o'er whose grave
The sands of centuries have long been blown;
Yet sooner shall the night forget its stars
Than love her story: - How, unto his throne,
One day she came, where, with his warriors,
The king sat in the hall of audience,
'Mid pillared trophies of barbaric wars,
And, kneeling to him, asked, "O father, whence
Comes love and why?" - He, smiling on her, said, - 
"O Hadria, love is of the gods, and hence
Divine, is only soul-interpreted.
But why love is, ah, child, we do not know,
Unless 'tis love that gives us life when dead." - 
And then his daughter, with a face aglow
With all the love that clamored in her blood
Its sweet avowal, lifted arms of snow,
And, like Aurora's rose, before him stood,
Saying, - "Since love is of the powers above,
I love a slave, O Asshur! Let the good
The gods have giv'n be sanctioned. Speak not of
Dishonor and our line's ancestral dead!
They are imperial dust. I live and love." - 
Black as black storm then rose the king and said, - 
A lightning gesture at her standing there, - 
"Enough! ho, Rhana, strike me off her head!"
And at the mandate, with his limbs half bare
A slave strode forth. Majestic was his form
As some young god's. He, gathering up her hair,
Wound it three times around his sinewy arm.
Then drew his sword. It for one moment shone
A semicircling light, and, dripping warm,
Lifting the head he stood before the throne.
Then cried the despot, "By the horn of Bel!
This was no child of mine!" - Like chiselled stone
Still stood the slave, a son of Israel.
Then striding towards the monarch, in his eye
The wrath of heaven and the hate of hell,
Shrieked, "Lust! I loved her! look on us and die!"
Swifter than fire clove him to the brain.
Then kissed the dead fair face of her held high,
And crying, "Judge, O God, between us twain!"
A thousand daggers in his heart, fell slain.
More Nonsense Limerick 27
by Edward Lear

There was a young lady in white,
Who looked out at the depths of the night;
But the birds of the air, 
Filled her heart with despair,
And oppressed that young lady in white.
Domestic Relations
by Unknown

There was a young man of Dunbar,
Who playfully poisoned his Ma;
When he'd finished his work,
He remarked with a smirk,
"This will cause quite a family jar."
Book Of Nonsense Limerick 93.
by Edward Lear

There was a Young Lady of Wales,
Who caught a large fish without scales;
When she lifted her hook,
She exclaimed, "Only look!"
That ecstatic Young Lady of Wales.
Book Of Nonsense Limerick 54.
by Edward Lear

There was a Young Lady of Lucca,
Whose lovers completely forsook her;
She ran up a tree,
And said, "Fiddle-de-dee!"
Which embarrassed the people of Lucca.
More Nonsense Limerick 65
by Edward Lear

There was a young lady of Greenwich,
Whose garments were border'd with Spinach;
But a large spotty Calf 
Bit her shawl quite in half,
Which alarmed that young lady of Greenwich.
Cats
by Unknown

There was a young lady whose dream
Was to feed a black cat on whipt cream,
But the cat with a bound
Spilt the milk on the ground,
So she fed a whipt cat on black cream.
Extravagance
by Unknown

There was a young girl named O'Neill,
Who went up in the great Ferris wheel;
But when half way around
She looked at the ground,
And it cost her an eighty-cent meal.
Gluttony
by Unknown

There was a young person named Ned,
Who dined before going to bed,
On lobster and ham
And salad and jam,
And when he awoke he was dead.
Book Of Nonsense Limerick 73.
by Edward Lear

There was a Young Lady of Hull,
Who was chased by a virulent Bull;
But she seized on a spade,
And called out - "Who's afraid!"
Which distracted that virulent Bull.
Boston
by Unknown

There was a young lady from Boston,
A two-horned dilemma was tossed on,
As to which was the best,
To be rich in the west
Or poor and peculiar in Boston.
Book Of Nonsense Limerick 42.
by Edward Lear

There was a Young Lady of Turkey,
Who wept when the weather was murky;
When the day turned out fine,
She ceased to repine,
That capricious Young Lady of Turkey.
Book Of Nonsense Limerick 101.
by Edward Lear

There was a Young Girl of Majorca,
Whose aunt was a very fast walker;
She walked seventy miles,
And leaped fifteen stiles,
Which astonished that Girl of Majorca.
Book Of Nonsense Limerick 91.
by Edward Lear

There was a Young Lady of Russia,
Who screamed so that no one could hush her;
Her screams were extreme,
No one heard such a scream,
As was screamed by that Lady of Russia.
More Nonsense Limerick 30
by Edward Lear

There was a young person in red,
Who carefully covered her head,
With a bonnet of leather, 
And three lines of feather,
Besides some long ribands of red.
Book Of Nonsense Limerick 100.
by Edward Lear

There was a Young Lady of Sweden,
Who went by the slow train to Weedon;
When they cried, "Weedon Station!"
She made no observation,
But thought she should go back to Sweden.
Blunders
by Unknown

There was a young man from the city,
Who met what he thought was a kitty;
He gave it a pat,
And said, "Nice little cat!"
And they buried his clothes out of pity.
Book Of Nonsense Limerick 40.
by Edward Lear

There was a Young Lady of Bute,
Who played on a silver-gilt flute;
She played several jigs,
To her uncle's white pigs,
That amusing Young Lady of Bute.