DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Widow At Windsor
by Rudyard Kipling

'Ave you 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor
With a hairy gold crown on 'er 'ead?
She 'as ships on the foam she 'as millions at 'ome,
An' she pays us poor beggars in red.
(Ow, poor beggars in red!)
There's 'er nick on the cavalry 'orses,
There's 'er mark on the medical stores
An' 'er troopers you'll find with a fair wind be'ind
That takes us to various wars.
(Poor beggars! barbarious wars!)
Then 'ere's to the Widow at Windsor,
An' 'ere's to the stores an' the guns,
The men an' the 'orses what makes up the forces
O' Missis Victorier's sons.
(Poor beggars! Victorier's sons!)
Walk wide o' the Widow at Windsor,
For 'alf o' Creation she owns:
We 'ave bought 'er the same with the sword an' the flame,
An' we've salted it down with our bones.
(Poor beggars! it's blue with our bones!)
Hands off o' the sons o' the Widow,
Hands off o' the goods in 'er shop,
For the Kings must come down an' the Emperors frown
When the Widow at Windsor says "Stop"!
(Poor beggars! we're sent to say "Stop"!)
Then 'ere's to the Lodge o' the Widow,
From the Pole to the Tropics it runs
To the Lodge that we tile with the rank an' the file,
An' open in form with the guns.
(Poor beggars! it's always they guns!)
We 'ave 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor,
It's safest to let 'er alone:
For 'er sentries we stand by the sea an' the land
Wherever the bugles are blown.
(Poor beggars! an' don't we get blown!)
Take 'old o' the Wings o' the Mornin',
An' flop round the earth till you're dead;
But you won't get away from the tune that they play
To the bloomin' old rag over'ead.
(Poor beggars! it's 'ot over'ead!)
Then 'ere's to the sons o' the Widow,
Wherever, 'owever they roam.
'Ere's all they desire, an' if they require
A speedy return to their 'ome.
(Poor beggars! they'll never see 'ome!)
Mi Fayther's Pipe.
by John Hartley

Aw've a treasure yo'd laff if yo saw,
But its mem'ries are dear to mi heart;
For aw've oft seen it stuck in a jaw,
Whear it seem'd to form ommost a part.
Its net worth a hawpny, aw know,
But its given mooar pleasure maybe,
Nor some things at mak far mooar show,
An yo can't guess its vally to me.
Mi fayther wor fond ov his pipe,
An this wor his favorite clay;
An if mi ideas wor ripe,
Awd enshrine it ith' folds ov a lay;
But words allus fail to express
What aw think when aw see its old face;
For aw know th' world holds one friend the less,
An mi hearth has one mooar vacant place.
Ov trubbles his life had its share,
But he kept all his griefs to hissen;
Tho aw've oft seen his brow knit wi care,
Wol he tried to crack jooaks nah an then.
But one comfort he'd ivver i' stooar,
An he'd creep to his favorite nook,
An seizin his old pipe once mooar,
All his trubbles would vanish i' smook.
If his fare should be roughish or scant,
He nivver repined at his lot;
He seem'd to have all he could want,
If he knew he'd some bacca ith' pot.
An he'd fill up this little black clay,
An as th' reek curled away o'er his heead,
Ivvery trace ov his sorrow gave way,
An a smile used to dwell thear asteead.
He grew waiker as years rolled along,
An his e'eseet an hearin gave way;
An his limbs at had once been soa strong,
Grew shakier day after day.
Yet his heart nivver seem'd to grow old,
Tho life's harvest had long been past ripe
For his ailments wor allus consoled,
When he'd getten a whiff ov his pipe,
Aw'll keep it as long as aw can,
For its all aw've been able to save,
To bind mi heart still to th' old man,
At's moulderin away in his grave.
He'd noa strikin virtues to booast,
Noa vices for th' world to condemn;
To be upright an honest an just,
In his lifetime he ne'er forgate them,
As a fayther, kind, patient and true,
His mem'ry will allus be dear;
For he acted soa far as he knew,
For th' best to all th' fowk he coom near.
An aw ne'er see this blackened old clay,
But aw find mi een dimmed wi a tear;
An aw ne'er put th' old relic away
But aw wish mi old fayther wor here.
Mists And Rains
by Charles Baudelaire

Autumn's last days, winters and mud-soaked spring
I praise the stupefaction that you bring
By so enveloping my heart and brain
In shroud of vapours, tomb of mist and rain.
In this great flatness where the chill winds course,
Where through the nights the weather-cock grows hoarse,
My soul, more than in springtime's tepid sky,
Will open out her raven's wings to fly.
O blankest seasons, queens of all my praise,
Nothing is sweet to the funereal breast
That has been steeped in frost and wintriness
But the continuous face of your pale shades
- Except we two, where moonlight never creeps
Daring in bed to put our griefs to sleep.
Time's Monotone
by Richard Le Gallienne

Autumn and Winter,
Summer and Spring - 
Hath Time no other song to sing?
Weary we grow of the changeless tune - 
June - December,
December - June!
Time, like a bird, hath but one song,
One way to build, like a bird hath he;
Thus hath he built so long, so long,
Thus hath he sung - Ah me!
Time, like a spider, knows, be sure,
One only wile, though he seems so wise:
Death is his web, and Love his lure,
And you and I his flies.
'Love!' he sings
In the morning clear,
'Love! Love! Love!'
And you never hear
How, under his breath,
He whispers, 'Death!
Death! Death!'
Yet Time - 'tis the strangest thing of all - 
Knoweth not the sense of the words he saith;
Eternity taught him his parrot-call
Of 'Love and Death.'
Year after year doth the old man climb
The mountainous knees of Eternity,
But Eternity telleth nothing to Time - 
It may not be.
A Millionaire.
by John Hartley

Aw wodn't gie a penny piece
To be a millionaire,
For him 'at's little cattle, is
The chap wi' little care.
Jewels may flash o'er achin broos,
An silken robes may hide
Bosoms all fair to look upon,
Whear braikin hearts abide.
Gie me enuff for daily needs,
An just a bit to spend;
Enuff to pay mi honest way,
An help a strugglin friend.
Aw'll be contented it aw keep
The wolf from off mi door;
Aw'll envy nubdy o' ther brass,
An nivver dream awm poor.
Dewdrops 'at shine i'th' early morn
Are diamons for me.
An jewels glint i' ivvery tint,
On th' hill or daan i'th' lea.
My sweet musicianers are burds
At tune their joyous lay,
Araand mi cottage winder,
An nivver strike for pay.
Aw lang for noa fine carriages
To drag me raand about!
Shanks galloway my purpose fits
Far better, beyond daat.
An when at times aw weary grow,
An fain wod have a rest;
Aw toddle hooam an goa to bed, - 
That allus answers best.
"Insomnia;" ne'er bothers me, - 
It's tother way abaght;
Aw sleep throo tummelin into bed,
Wol th' time to tummel aght.
Aw nivver want a "pick-me-up,"
To tempt mi appetite;
Aw ait what's set anent me,
An aw relish ivvery bite.
What pleasure has a millionaire
'At aw've net one to match?
Awd show 'em awm best off o'th' two,
If they'd come up to th' scratch.
Ov one thing aw feel sartin sewer,
They've mooar nor me to bear;
Yo bet! its net all    "Lavender,"
To be a millionaire.
Sixty, Turned, To-day.
by John Hartley

Aw'm turned o' sixty, nah, old lass,
Yet weel aw mind the time,
When like a young horse turned to grass,
Aw gloried i' mi prime.
Aw'st ne'er forget that bonny face
'At stole mi heart away;
Tho' years have hurried on apace: - 
Aw'm sixty, turned, to-day.
We had some jolly pranks an gams,
E'en fifty year ago,
When sportive as a pair o' lambs,
We nivver dreeamed ov woe.
When ivvery morn we left us bed,
Wi' spirits leet an gay, - 
But nah, old lass, those days have fled: - 
Aw'm sixty, turned, to-day.
Yet we've noa reason to repine,
Or luk back wi' regret;
Those youthful days ov thine an mine,
Live sweet in mem'ry yet.
Thy winnin smile aw still can see,
An tho' thi hair's turned grey;
Tha'rt still as sweet an dear to me,
Tho' sixty, turned, to-day.
We've troubles had, an sickness too,
But then in spite ov all,
We've somha managed to pool throo,
Whativver might befall.
Awr pleasurs far outweighed the pain
We've met along life's way;
An losses past aw caant as gain, - 
When sixty, turned, to-day.
Awr childer nah are wed an gooan,
To mak hooams for thersels;
But we shall nivver feel alooan,
Wol love within us dwells.
We're drawin near awr journey's end,
We can't much longer stay;
Yet still awr hearts together blend,
Tho' sixty, turned, to-day.
Then let us humbly bow the knee,
To Him, whose wondrous love,
Has helpt an guided thee an me,
On th' pathway to above.
His mercies we will ne'er forget,
Then let us praise an pray,
To Him whose wings protect us yet;
Tho' sixty, turned, to-day.
Aw Can't Tell.
by John Hartley

Aw nivver rammel mich abaat,
Aw've summat else to do;
But yet aw think, withaat a daat,
Aw've seen a thing or two.
One needn't leeav his native shoor,
An visit foreign lands, - 
At hooam he'll find a gooid deeal moor
Nor what he understands.
Aw can't tell why a empty heead
Should be held up soa heigh,
Or why a suit o' clooas should leead
Soa monny fowk astray.
Aw can't tell why a child 'at's born
To lord or lady that,
Should be soa worship'd, wol they scorn
A poor man's little brat.
Aw can't tell why a workin man
Should wear his life away,
Wol maisters grasp at all they can,
An grudge a chap his pay.
Aw can't tell why a lot o' things
Are as they seem to be;
But if its nowt to nubdy else,
Ov coorse its nowt to me.
Australia Federata
by James Lister Cuthbertson

Australia! land of lonely lake
And serpent-haunted fen;
Land of the torrent and the fire
And forest-sundered men:
Thou art not now as thou shalt be
When the stern invaders come,
In the hush before the hurricane,
The dread before the drum.
A louder thunder shall be heard
Than echoes on thy shore,
When o'er the blackened basalt cliffs
The foreign cannon roar,
When the stand is made in the sheoaks' shade
When heroes fall for thee,
And the creeks in gloomy gullies run
Dark crimson to the sea:
When under honeysuckles gray,
And wattles' swaying gold,
The stalwart arm may strike no more,
The valiant heart is cold,
When thou shalt know the agony,
The fever, and the strife
Of those who wrestle against odds
For liberty and life:
Then is the great Dominion born,
The seven sisters bound,
From Sydney's greenly wooded port
To lone King George's Sound,
Then shall the islands of the south,
The lands of bloom and snow,
Forth from their isolation come
To meet the common foe.
Then, only then, when after war
Is peace with honour born,
When from the bosom of the night
Comes golden-sandalled morn,
When laurelled victory is thine,
And the day of battle done,
Shall the heart of a mighty people stir,
And Australia be as one.
Prologue To 'The Three Hours After Marriage'
by Alexander Pope

Authors are judged by strange capricious rules;
The great ones are thought mad, the small ones fools:
Yet sure the best are most severely fated;
For fools are only laugh'd at, wits are hated.
Blockheads with reason men of sense abhor;
But fool 'gainst fool, is barbarous civil war.
Why on all authors, then, should critics fall?
Since some have writ, and shown no wit at all.
Condemn a play of theirs, and they evade it;
Cry, 'Damn not us, but damn the French, who made it.'
By running goods these graceless owlers gain;
Theirs are the rules of France, the plots of Spain;
But wit, like wine, from happier climates brought,
Dash'd by these rogues, turns English common draught.
They pall Moli're's and Lopez' sprightly strain,
And teach dull harlequins to grin in vain.
How shall our author hope a gentler fate,
Who dares most impudently not translate?
It had been civil, in these ticklish times,
To fetch his fools and knaves from foreign climes;
Spaniards and French abuse to the world's end,
But spare old England, lest you hurt a friend.
If any fool is by our satire bit,
Let him hiss loud, to show you all he's hit.
Poets make characters, as salesmen clothes;
We take no measure of your fops and beaux;
But here all sizes and all shapes you meet,
And fit yourselves, like chaps in Monmouth Street.
Gallants, look here! this fool's cap[60] has an air,
Goodly and smart, with ears of Issachar.
Let no one fool engross it, or confine
A common blessing: now 'tis yours, now mine.
But poets in all ages had the care
To keep this cap for such as will, to wear.
Our author has it now (for every wit
Of course resign'd it to the next that writ)
And thus upon the stage 'tis fairly thrown;[61]
Let him that takes it wear it as his own.
Avaunt All Specious Pliancy Of Mind
by William Wordsworth

Avaunt all specious pliancy of mind
In men of low degree, all smooth pretense!
I better like a blunt indifference,
And self-respecting slowness, disinclined
To win me at first sight: and be there joined
Patience and temperance with this high reserve,
Honour that knows the path and will not swerve;
Affections, which, if put to proof, are kind;
And piety towards God. Such men of old
Were England's native growth; and, throughout Spain
(Thanks to high God) forests of such remain:
Then for that Country let our hopes be bold;
For matched with these shall policy prove vain,
Her arts, her strength, her iron, and her gold.
Done Agean.
by John Hartley

Aw've a rare lump o' beef on a dish,
We've some bacon 'at's hung up o' th' thack,
We've as mich gooid spice-cake as we wish,
An wi' currens its varry near black;
We've a barrel o' gooid hooam brewed drink,
We've a pack o' flaar reared agean th' clock,
We've a load o' puttates under th' sink,
So we're pretty weel off as to jock.
Aw'm soa fain aw can't tell whear to bide,
But the cause aw dar hardly let aat;
It suits me moor nor all else beside:
Aw've a paand at th' wife knows nowt abaat.
Aw can nah have a spree to misel;
Aw can treat mi old mates wi' a glass;
An' aw sha'nt ha' to come home an tell
My old lass, ha' aw've shut all mi brass.
Some fowk say, when a chap's getten wed,
He should nivver keep owt thro' his wife;
If he does awve oft heeard 'at it's sed,
'At it's sure to breed trouble an strife;
If it does aw'm net baan to throw up,
Though awd mich rayther get on withaat;
But who wodn't risk a blow up,
For a paand 'at th' wife knows nowt abaat.
Aw hid it i' th' coil hoil last neet,
For fear it dropt aat o' mi fob,
Coss aw knew, if shoo happened to see 't,
'At mi frolic wod prove a done job.
But aw'll gladden mi e'en wi' its face,
To mak sure at its safe in its nick; - 
But aw'm blest if ther's owt left i' th' place!
Why, its hook'd it as sure as aw'm wick.
Whear its gooan to's a puzzle to me,
An' who's taen it aw connot mak aat,
For it connot be th' wife, coss you see
It's a paand 'at shoo knew nowt abaat.
But thear shoo is, peepin' off th' side,
An' aw see 'at shoo's all on a grin;
To chait her aw've monny a time tried,
But I think it's nah time to give in,
A chap may be deep as a well,
But a woman's his maister when done;
He may chuckle and flatter hissel,
But he'll wakken to find at shoo's won.
It's a rayther unpleasant affair,
Yet it's better it's happened noa daat;
Aw'st be fain to come in for a share
O' that paand at th' wife knows all abaat.
Fragments Of Ancient Poetry, Fragment V
by James Macpherson

Autumn is dark on the mountains;
grey mist rests on the hills. The
whirlwind is heard on the heath. Dark
rolls the river through the narrow plain.
A tree stands alone on the hill, and
marks the grave of Connal. The leaves
whirl round with the wind, and strew
the grave of the dead. At times are
seen here the ghosts of the deceased,
when the musing hunter alone stalks
slowly over the heath.
Who can reach the source of thy
race, O Connal? and who recount thy
Fathers? Thy family grew like an oak
on the mountain, which meeteth the
wind with its lofty head. But now it
is torn from the earth. Who shall supply
the place of Connal?
Here was the din of arms; and
here the groans of the dying. Mournful
are the wars of Fingal! O Connal!
it was here thou didst fall. Thine arm
was like a storm; thy sword, a beam
of the sky; thy height, a rock on the
plain; thine eyes, a furnace of fire.
Louder than a storm was thy voice,
when thou confoundedst the field. Warriors
fell by thy sword, as the thistle by
the staff of a boy.
Dargo the mighty came on, like a
cloud of thunder. His brows were contracted
and dark. His eyes like two
caves in a rock. Bright rose their
swords on each side; dire was the clang
of their steel.
The daughter of Rinval was near;
Crimora, bright in the armour of man;
her hair loose behind, her bow in her
hand. She followed the youth to the
war, Connal her much beloved. She
drew the string on Dargo; but erring
pierced her Connal. He falls like an
oak on the plain; like a rock from the
shaggy hill. What shall she do, hapless
maid!--He bleeds; her Connal dies.
All the night long she cries, and all the
day, O Connal, my love, and my
friend! With grief the sad mourner
died.
Earth here incloseth the loveliest
pair on the hill. The grass grows between
the stones of their tomb; I sit in
the mournful shade. The wind sighs
through the grass; and their memory
rushes on my mind. Undisturbed you
now sleep together; in the tomb of the
mountain you rest alone.
Before The Snow
by George Parsons Lathrop

Autumn is gone: through the blue woodlands bare
Shatters the rainy wind. A myriad leaves,
Like birds that fly the mournful Northern air.
Flutter away from the old forest's eaves.
Autumn is gone: as yonder silent rill,
Slow eddying o'er thick leaf-heaps lately shed,
My spirit, as I walk, moves awed and still,
By thronging fancies wild and wistful led.
Autumn is gone: alas, how long ago
The grapes were plucked, and garnered was the grain!
How soon death settles on us, and the snow
Wraps with its white alike our graves, our gain!
Yea, autumn's gone! Yet it robs not my mood
Of that which makes moods dear, - some shoot of spring
Still sweet within me; or thoughts of yonder wood
We walked in, - memory's rare environing.
And, though they die, the seasons only take
A ruined substance. All that's best remains
In the essential vision that can make
One light for life, love, death, their joys, their pains.
The Far Future
by Henry Kendall

Australia, advancing with rapid winged stride,
Shall plant among nations her banners in pride,
The yoke of dependence aside she will cast,
And build on the ruins and wrecks of the Past.
Her flag on the tempest will wave to proclaim
'Mong kingdoms and empires her national name;
The Future shall see it, asleep or unfurl'd,
The shelter of Freedom and boast of the world.
Australia, advancing like day on the sky,
Has glimmer'd thro' darkness, will blazon on high,
A Gem in its glitter has yet to be seen,
When Progress has placed her where England has been;
When bursting those limits above she will soar,
Outstretching all rivals who've mounted before,
And, resting, will blaze with her glories unfurl'd,
The empire of empires and boast of the world.
Australia, advancing with Power, will entwine
With Honour and Justice a Mercy divine;
No Despot shall trample no slave shall be bound
Oppression must totter and fall to the ground.
The stain of all ages, tyrannical sway,
Will pass like a flash or a shadow away,
And shrink to nothing 'neath thunderbolts hurl'd
From the hand of the terror the boast of the world.
Australia, advancing with rapid wing'd stride,
Shall plant among nations her banners in pride;
The yoke of dependence aside she will cast,
And build on the ruins and wrecks of the Past.
Her flag in the tempest will wave to proclaim,
'Mong kingdoms and empires her national name,
And Ages shall see it, asleep or unfurl'd
The shelter of Freedom and boast of the world.
Th' Lad 'at Loves his Mother.
by John Hartley

Aw like to see a lot o' lads
All frolicsome an free,
An hear ther noisy voices,
As they run an shaat wi' glee;
But if ther's onny sooart o' lad
Aw like better nor another,
'At maks mi heart mooast truly glad,
It's th' lad 'at loves his Mother.
He may be rayther dull at schooil,
Or rayther slow at play;
He may be rough an quarrelsome, - 
Mischievous in his way;
He may be allus in a scrape,
An cause noa end o' bother;
But ther's summat gooid an honest
In the lad 'at loves his Mother.
He may oft do what isn't reight,
But conscience will keep prickin;
He dreeads far mooar his mother's grief,
Nor what he'd fear a lickin.
Her trubbled face, - her tearful een,
Her sighs shoo tries to smother,
Are coals ov foir on the heead
Ov th' lad 'at loves his Mother.
When years have passed, an as a man
He faces toil an care;
An whear his mother used to sit
Is but a empty chair; - 
When bi his side sits her he loves,
Mooar dear nor onny other,
He still will cherish, love an bless,
The mem'ry ov his Mother.
A guardian angel throo life's rooad,
Her spirit still will be;
An in the shadow ov her wings,
He'll find security.
A better husband he will prove,
A father or a brother;
For th' lad 'at maks the noblest man,
Is th' lad 'at loves his Mother.
Nationalism And M'Ilwraith! The Queensland Elections Cry, 1888.
by Francis William Lauderdale Adams

Australia listened! Through the brawling game
Of played-out rascals gambling for her gold,
The rotten-hearted traitors who had sold
For flimsy English gauds her righteous fame - 
Through the foul hubbub, it did seem, there came
The still small voice of nobler things untold.
But now, but now with wonder manifold
She hears a voice that calls her by her name!
Australia listens, as the mother wilt
To hear her first-born cry. "Say, is it death,
Or life and all life's hope made audible
That thrills my heart and gives my spirit faith?"
From out the gathering war-hosts leaps forth shrill
The double cry, "Australia, M'Ilwraith!"
The dawn is breaking northward! Rise, O Sun,
Australian Liberty, and give us light!
And thou who through the dark and doubtful night
With great clear eyes of patience looking on
Even to that splendid hour REPUBLICAN,
O know what things are with thee in the fight - 
What hope and trust, what truth, what right, what might
To never leave this work till it be done!
Not as these others were, the helpless slaves
Of each diurnal need and cringing debt,
Australia's statesman, have we known thee yet! - 
The world's great heroes call from a thousand graves:
"Thy land, a nation, cries to thee to be set
Free as the freedom of her ocean waves!"
Autumn.
by Susanna Moodie

Autumn, thy rushing blast
Sweeps in wild eddies by,
Whirling the sear leaves past,
Beneath my feet, to die.
Nature her requiem sings
In many a plaintive tone,
As to the wind she flings
Sad music, all her own.
The murmur of the rill
Is hoarse and sullen now,
And the voice of joy is still
In grove and leafy bough.
There's not a single wreath,
Of all Spring's thousand flowers,
To strew her bier in death,
Or deck her faded bowers.
I hear a spirit sigh
Where the meeting pines resound,
Which tells me all must die,
As the leaf dies on the ground.
The brightest hopes we cherish,
Which own a mortal trust,
But bloom awhile to perish
And moulder in the dust.
Sweep on, thou rushing wind,
Thou art music to mine ear,
Awakening in my mind
A voice I love to hear.
The branches o'er my head
Send forth a tender moan;
Like the wail above the dead
Is that sad and solemn tone.
Though all things perish here,
The spirit cannot die,
It owns a brighter sphere,
A home in yon fair sky.
The soul will flee away,
And when the silent clod
Enfolds my mouldering clay,
Shall live again with God;
Where Autumn's chilly blast
Shall never strip the bowers,
Or icy Winter cast
A blight upon the flowers;
But Spring, in all her bloom,
For ever flourish there,
And the children of the tomb
Forget this world of care.--
The children who have passed
Death's tideless ocean o'er,
And Hope's blest anchor cast
On that bright eternal shore;
Who sought, through Him who bled
Their erring race to save,
A Sun, whose beams shall shed
A light upon the grave!
Avenging And Bright.
by Thomas Moore

Avenging and bright fall the swift sword of Erin[1]
On him who the brave sons of Usna betrayed!
For every fond eye he hath wakened a tear in,
A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade.
By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling,[2]
When Ulad's[3] three champions lay sleeping in gore--
By the billows of war, which so often, high swelling,
Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore--
We swear to revenge them!--no joy shall be tasted,
The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed,
Our halls shall be mute and our fields shall lie wasted,
Till vengeance is wreaked on the murderer's head.
Yes, monarch! tho' sweet are our home recollections,
Tho' sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall;
Tho' sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our affections,
Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all!