DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Army Headquarters
by Rudyard Kipling

Old is the song that I sing,
Old as my unpaid bills,
Old as the chicken that khitmutgars bring
Men at dak-bungalows, old as the Hills. 
Ahasuerus Jenkins of the "Operatic Own,"
Was dowered with a tenor voice of super-Santley tone.
His views on equitation were, perhaps, a trifle queer.
He had no seat worth mentioning, but oh! he had an ear.
He clubbed his wretched company a dozen times a day;
He used to quit his charger in a parabolic way;
His method of saluting was the joy of all beholders,
But Ahasuerus Jenkins had a head upon his shoulders.
He took two months at Simla when the year was at the spring,
And underneath the deodars eternally did sing.
He warbled like a bul-bul but particularly at
Cornelia Agrippina, who was musical and fat.
She controlled a humble husband, who, in turn, controlled a Dept.
Where Cornelia Agrippina's human singing-birds were kept
From April to October on a plump retaining-fee,
Supplied, of course, per mensem, by the Indian Treasury.
Cornelia used to sing with him, and Jenkins used to play;
He praised unblushingly her notes, for he was false as they;
So when the winds of April turned the budding roses brown,
Cornelia told her husband: "Tom, you mustn't send him down."
They haled him from his regiment, which didn't much regret him;
They found for him an office-stool, and on that stool they set him
To play with maps and catalogues three idle hours a day,
And draw his plump retaining-fee which means his double pay.
Now, ever after dinner, when the coffee-cups are brought,
Ahasuerus waileth o'er the grand pianoforte;
And, thanks to fair Cornelia, his fame hath waxen great,
And Ahasuerus Jenkins is a Power in the State!
Cake And Sack
by Walter De La Mare

Old King Caraway
Supped on cake,
And a cup of sack
His thirst to slake;
Bird in arras
And hound in hall
Watched very softly
Or not at all;
Fire in the middle,
Stone all round
Changed not, heeded not,
Made no sound;
All by himself
At the Table High
He'd nibble and sip
While his dreams slipped by;
And when he had finished,
He'd nod and say,
'Cake and sack
For King Caraway!'
On The Irish Bishops.[1]
by Jonathan Swift

Old Latimer preaching did fairly describe
A bishop, who ruled all the rest of his tribe;
And who is this bishop? and where does he dwell?
Why truly 'tis Satan, Archbishop of Hell.
And He was a primate, and He wore a mitre,
Surrounded with jewels of sulphur and nitre.
How nearly this bishop our bishops resembles!
But he has the odds, who believes and who trembles,
Could you see his grim grace, for a pound to a penny,
You'd swear it must be the baboon of Kilkenny:[2]
Poor Satan will think the comparison odious,
I wish I could find him out one more commodious;
But, this I am sure, the most reverend old dragon
Has got on the bench many bishops suffragan;
And all men believe he resides there incog,
To give them by turns an invisible jog.
Our bishops, puft up with wealth and with pride,
To hell on the backs of the clergy would ride.
They mounted and labour'd with whip and with spur
In vain - for the devil a parson would stir.
So the commons unhors'd them; and this was their doom,
On their crosiers to ride like a witch on a broom.
Though they gallop'd so fast, on the road you may find 'em,
And have left us but three out of twenty behind 'em.
Lord Bolton's good grace, Lord Carr and Lord Howard,[3]
In spite of the devil would still be untoward:
They came of good kindred, and could not endure
Their former companions should beg at their door.
When Christ was betray'd to Pilate the pretor
Of a dozen apostles but one proved a traitor:
One traitor alone, and faithful eleven;
But we can afford you six traitors in seven.
What a clutter with clippings, dividings, and cleavings!
And the clergy forsooth must take up with their leavings;
If making divisions was all their intent,
They've done it, we thank them, but not as they meant;
And so may such bishops for ever divide,
That no honest heathen would be on their side.
How should we rejoice, if, like Judas the first,
Those splitters of parsons in sunder should burst!
Now hear an allusion: - A mitre, you know,
Is divided above, but united below.
If this you consider our emblem is right;
The bishops divide, but the clergy unite.
Should the bottom be split, our bishops would dread
That the mitre would never stick fast on their head:
And yet they have learnt the chief art of a sovereign,
As Machiavel taught them, "divide and ye govern."
But courage, my lords, though it cannot be said
That one cloven tongue ever sat on your head;
I'll hold you a groat (and I wish I could see't)
If your stockings were off, you could show cloven feet.
But hold, cry the bishops, and give us fair play;
Before you condemn us, hear what we can say.
What truer affections could ever be shown,
Than saving your souls by damning our own?
And have we not practised all methods to gain you;
With the tithe of the tithe of the tithe to maintain you;
Provided a fund for building you spittals!
You are only to live four years without victuals.
Content, my good lords; but let us change hands;
First take you our tithes, and give us your lands.
So God bless the Church and three of our mitres;
And God bless the Commons, for biting the biters.
Paleface
by Paul Cameron Brown

Old Sawbones, pale as a sheet,
white sand, whispering edge of the sea.
II
The mind tarries not one place long,
(longitudinal wanderings off a map).
Is shiftless, both a shirker (and army deserter)
devours like larvae,
a bullet ledge for leaves.
III
I saw in a rusty tankard
a gallon drum
(ghostly galleon at that),
a tin can floating for
all the world shores
of its alkaline prison,
pirating salinity with anchoring sounds,
brackish bench-pressed sound of waves
wedged between far-off distant gulls
and mezzanine,
dimly-lit funeral parlour
of the sun.
Ah! Yet Consider It Again!
by Arthur Hugh Clough

'Old things need not be therefore true,'
O brother men, nor yet the new;
Ah! still awhile the old thought retain,
And yet consider it again!
The souls of now two thousand years,
Have laid up here their toils and fears,
And all the earnings of their pain,
Ah, yet consider it again!
We! what do we see? each a space
Of some few yards before his face;
Does that the whole wide plan explain?
Ah, yet consider it again!
Alas! the great world goes its way,
And takes its truth from each new day;
They do not quit, nor can retain,
Far less consider it again.
The Perils Of Invisibility.
by William Schwenck Gilbert

Old Peter led a wretched life -
Old Peter had a furious wife;
Old Peter too was truly stout,
He measured several yards about.
The little fairy Picklekin
One summer afternoon looked in,
And said, "Old Peter, how de do?
Can I do anything for you?
"I have three gifts the first will give
Unbounded riches while you live;
The second health where'er you be;
The third, invisibility."
"O little fairy Picklekin,"
Old Peter answered with a grin,
"To hesitate would be absurd, -
Undoubtedly I choose the third."
"'Tis yours," the fairy said; "be quite
Invisible to mortal sight
Whene'er you please. Remember me
Most kindly, pray, to MRS. P."
Old MRs. Peter overheard
Wee Picklekin's concluding word,
And, jealous of her girlhood's choice,
Said, "That was some young woman's voice:
Old Peter let her scold and swear -
Old Peter, bless him, didn't care.
"My dear, your rage is wasted quite -
Observe, I disappear from sight!"
A well-bred fairy (so I've heard)
Is always faithful to her word:
Old Peter vanished like a shot,
Put then his suit of clothes did not!
For when conferred the fairy slim
Invisibility on him,
She popped away on fairy wings,
Without referring to his "things."
So there remained a coat of blue,
A vest and double eyeglass too,
His tail, his shoes, his socks as well,
His pair of no, I must not tell.
Old MRS. Peter soon began
To see the failure of his plan,
And then resolved (I quote the Bard)
To "hoist him with his own petard."
Old Peter woke next day and dressed,
Put on his coat, and shoes, and vest,
His shirt and stock; but could not find
His only pair of never mind!
Old Peter was a decent man,
And though he twigged his lady's plan,
Yet, hearing her approaching, he
Resumed invisibility.
"Dear MRS. P., my only joy,"
Exclaimed the horrified old boy,
"Now, give them up, I beg of you -
You know what I'm referring to!"
But no; the cross old lady swore
She'd keep his what I said before -
To make him publicly absurd;
And MRS. Peter kept her word.
The poor old fellow had no rest;
His coat, his stick, his shoes, his vest,
Were all that now met mortal eye -
The rest, invisibility!
"Now, madam, give them up, I beg -
I've had rheumatics in my leg;
Besides, until you do, it's plain
I cannot come to sight again!
"For though some mirth it might afford
To see my clothes without their lord,
Yet there would rise indignant oaths
If he were seen without his clothes!"
But no; resolved to have her quiz,
The lady held her own and his -
And Peter left his humble cot
To find a pair of you know what.
But here's the worst of the affair -
Whene'er he came across a pair
Already placed for him to don,
He was too stout to get them on!
So he resolved at once to train,
And walked and walked with all his main;
For years he paced this mortal earth,
To bring himself to decent girth.
At night, when all around is still,
You'll find him pounding up a hill;
And shrieking peasants whom he meets,
Fall down in terror on the peats!
Old Peter walks through wind and rain,
Resolved to train, and train, and train,
Until he weighs twelve stone' or so -
And when he does, I'll let you know.
Those Foreign Engineers
by Henry Lawson

Old Ivan McIvanovitch, with knitted brow of care,
Has climbed up from the engine-room to get a breath of air;
He slowly wipes the grease and sweat from hairy face and neck.
And from beneath his bushy brows he glowers around the deck.
The weirdest Russian in the fleet, whose words are strange to hear,
He seems to run the battleship, though but an engineer.
He is not great, he has no rank, and he is far from rich,
'Tis strange the admiral salutes old McIvanovitch.
He gives the order 'Whusky!' ere he goes below once more,
And 'Whusky' is a Russian word I never heard before;
Perhaps some Tartar dialect, because, you know, you'll meet
Some very various Muscovites aboard the Baltic fleet.
And on another battleship that sailed out from Japan
The boss of all the engineers, you'll find another man
With flaming hair and eyes like steel, and he is six-foot three,
His name is Jock McNogo, and a fearsome Jap is he.
He wears a beard upon his chest, his face you won't forget,
His like was never found amongst the heathen idols yet;
His words are awesome words to hear, his lightest smile is grim,
And daily in the engine-room the heathen bow to him.
Now, if the fleets meet in the North and settle matters there,
Say, how will McIvanovitch and Jock McNogo fare?
But if you ken that Russian and that Jap, you needn't fret,
They'll hae a drap, or maybe twa, some nicht in Glesca yet.
Those foreigners will ship again aboard some foreign boat,
And do their best to drive her through and keep the tub afloat.
They'll stir the foreign greasers up and prove from whence they came,
And all to win the bawbees for the wife and bairns at hame.
Old Mother Laidinwool
by Rudyard Kipling

Old Mother Laidinwool had nigh twelve months been dead.
She heard the hops was doing well, an' so popped up her head
For said she: "The lads I've picked with when I was young and fair,
They're bound to be at hopping and I'm bound to meet 'em there!"
Let me up and go 
Back to the work I know, Lord!
Back to the work I know, Lord!
For it is dark where I lie down, My Lord!
An' it's dark where I lie down!
Old Mother Laidinwool, she give her bones a shake,
An' trotted down the churchyard-path as fast as she could make.
She met the Parson walking, but she says to him, says she:
"Oh, don't let no one trouble for a poor old ghost like me!"
'Twas all a warm September an' the hops had flourished grand.
She saw the folks get into 'em with stockin's on their hands,
An' none of 'em was foreigners but all which she had known,
And old Mother Laidinwool she blessed 'em every one.
She saw her daughters picking an' their children them-beside,
An' she mowed among the babies an' she stilled 'em when they cried.
She saw their clothes was bought, not begged, an' they was clean an' fat,
An' old Mother Laidinwool she thanked the Lord for that.
Old Mother Laidinwool she waited on all day
Until it come too dark to see an' people went away,
Until it was too dark to see an' lights began to show,
An' old Mother Laidinwool she hadn't where to go. 
Old Mother Laidinwool she give her bones a shake
An 'trotted back to churchyard-mould as fast as she could make.
She went where she was bidden to an' there laid down her ghost, . . .
An' the Lord have mercy on you in the Day you need it most!
Let me in again, 
Out of the wet an' rain, Lord!
Out of the wet an' rain, Lord! 
For it's best as You shall say, My Lord! 
An' it's best as You shall say!
Nursery Rhyme. LXIII. Tales.
by Unknown

Old Mother Goose, when
She wanted to wander,
Would ride through the air
On a very fine gander.
Mother Goose had a house,
'Twas built in a wood,
Where an owl at the door
For sentinel stood.
This is her son Jack,
A plain-looking lad,
He is not very good,
Nor yet very bad.
She sent him to market,
A live goose he bought,
Here, mother, says he,
It will not go for nought.
Jack's goose and her gander,
Grew very fond;
They'd both eat together,
Or swim in one pond.
Jack found one morning,
As I have been told,
His goose had laid him
An egg of pure gold.
Jack rode to his mother,
The news for to tell,
She call'd him a good boy,
And said it was well.
Jack sold his gold egg
To a rogue of a Jew,
Who cheated him out of
The half of his due.
Then Jack went a courting,
A lady so gay,
As fair as the lily,
And sweet as the May.
The Jew and the Squire
Came behind his back,
And began to belabour
The sides of poor Jack.
The old Mother Goose,
That instant came in,
And turned her son Jack
Into fam'd Harlequin.
She then with her wand,
Touch'd the lady so fine,
And turn'd her at once
Into sweet Columbine.
The gold egg into the sea
Was thrown then, - 
When Jack jump'd in,
And got the egg back again.
The Jew got the goose,
Which he vow'd he would kill,
Resolving at once
His pockets to fill.
Jack's mother came in,
And caught the goose soon,
And mounting its back,
Flew up to the moon.
Upon Parson Beanes.
by Robert Herrick

Old Parson Beanes hunts six days of the week,
And on the seventh, he has his notes to seek.
Six days he hollows so much breath away,
That on the seventh, he can nor preach or pray.
The Main-Truck; Or, A Leap for Life A Nautical Ballad.
by George Pope Morris

[Founded upon a well-known tale from the pen of the late William Leggett, Esq.]
Old Ironsides at anchor lay,
In the harbor of Mahon;
A dead calm rested on the bay--
The waves to sleep had gone;
When little Jack, the captain's son,
With gallant hardihood,
Climbed shroud and spar--and then upon
The main-truck rose and stood!
A shudder ran through every vein--
All eyes were turned on high!
There stood the boy, with dizzy brain,
Between the sea and sky!
No hold had he above--below,
Alone he stood in air!
At that far height none dared to go--
No aid could reach him there.
We gazed--but not a man could speak!--
With horror all aghast
In groups, with pallid brow and cheek,
We watched the quivering mast.
The atmosphere grew thick and hot,
And of a lurid hue,
As, riveted unto the spot,
Stood officers and crew.
The father came on deck--He gasped,
"O, God, Thy will be done!"
Then suddenly a rifle grasped,
And aimed it at his son!
"Jump far out, boy! into the wave!
Jump, or I fire!" he said:
"That only chance your life can save!
Jump--jump, boy!"--He obeyed.
He sank--he rose--he lived--he moved--
He for the ship struck out!
On board we hailed the lad beloved
With many a manly shout.
His father drew, in silent joy,
Those wet arms round his neck,
Then folded to his heart the boy
And fainted on the deck!
Old Photographs.
by George Augustus Baker, Jr.

Old lady, put your glasses on,
With polished lenses, mounting golden,
And once again look slowly through
The album olden.
How the old portraits take you back
To friends who once would 'round you gather 
All scattered now, like frosted leaves
In blustering weather.
Why, who is this, the bright coquette?
Her eyes with Love's bright arrows laden 
"Poor Nell, she's living single yet,
An ancient maiden."
And this, the fragile poetess?
Whose high soul-yearnings nought can smother 
"She's stouter far than I am now,
A kind grandmother."
Who is this girl with flowing curls,
Who on the golden future muses?
"What splendid hair she had! and now
A 'front' she uses."
And this? "Why, if it's not my own;
And did I really e'er resemble
That bright young creature? Take the book 
My old hands tremble.
"It seems that only yesterday
We all were young; ah, how time passes!"
Old lady, put the album down,
And wipe your glasses.
Song Of The Going Away.
by Jean Ingelow

"Old man, upon the green hillside,
With yellow flowers besprinkled o'er,
How long in silence wilt thou bide
At this low stone door?
"I stoop: within 'tis dark and still;
But shadowy paths methinks there be,
And lead they far into the hill?"
"Traveller, come and see."
"'Tis dark, 'tis cold, and hung with gloom;
I care not now within to stay;
For thee and me is scarcely room,
I will hence away."
"Not so, not so, thou youthful guest,
Thy foot shall issue forth no more:
Behold the chamber of thy rest,
And the closing door!"
"O, have I 'scaped the whistling ball,
And striven on smoky fields of fight,
And scaled the 'leaguered city's wall
In the dangerous night;
"And borne my life unharm'd still
Through foaming gulfs of yeasty spray,
To yield it on a grassy hill
At the noon of day?"
"Peace! Say thy prayers, and go to sleep,
Till some time, ONE my seal shall break,
And deep shall answer unto deep,
When He crieth, 'AWAKE!'"
Nursery Rhyme. I. Historical - Old King Cole
by Unknown

Old King Cole
Was a merry old soul,
And a merry old soul was he;
He called for his pipe,
And he called for his bowl,
And he called for his fiddlers three.
Every fiddler, he had a fiddle,
And a very fine fiddle had he;
Twee tweedle dee, tweedle dee, went the fiddlers.
Oh, there's none so rare,
As can compare
With King Cole and his fiddlers three!
The Fox And The Stork.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
Old Mister Fox was at expense, one day,
To dine old Mistress Stork.
The fare was light, was nothing, sooth to say,
Requiring knife and fork.
That sly old gentleman, the dinner-giver,
Was, you must understand, a frugal liver.
This once, at least, the total matter
Was thinnish soup served on a platter,
For madam's slender beak a fruitless puzzle,
Till all had pass'd the fox's lapping muzzle.
But, little relishing his laughter,
Old gossip Stork, some few days after,
Return'd his Foxship's invitation.
Without a moment's hesitation,
He said he'd go, for he must own he
Ne'er stood with friends for ceremony.
And so, precisely at the hour,
He hied him to the lady's bower;
Where, praising her politeness,
He finds her dinner right nice.
Its punctuality and plenty,
Its viands, cut in mouthfuls dainty,
Its fragrant smell, were powerful to excite,
Had there been need, his foxish appetite.
But now the dame, to torture him,
Such wit was in her,
Served up her dinner
In vases made so tall and slim,
They let their owner's beak pass in and out,
But not, by any means, the fox's snout!
All arts without avail,
With drooping head and tail,
As ought a fox a fowl had cheated,
The hungry guest at last retreated.
Ye knaves, for you is this recital,
You'll often meet Dame Stork's requital.
Nursery Rhyme. CCII. Riddles.
by Unknown

[A needle and thread.]
Old mother Twitchett had but one eye,
And a long tail which she let fly;
And every time she went over a gap,
She left a bit of her tail in a trap.
The Blind Soldier And His Daughter. (From The Villager's Verse-Book.)
by William Lisle Bowles

Old soldier! old soldier! the beams of the day,
That shone on thy sabre, have long passed away,
And thy sun is gone down, and thy few hairs are gray,
Old soldier!
The drum and the hurrahs, where victory led,
No longer are heard on the battle-field red;
Thy comrades in glory are scattered or dead,
Old soldier!
Perhaps thou wert foremost of some gallant band,
By Acre's white walls, or in that ancient land
Where the sphynx and gray pyramid shaded the sand,
Old soldier!
Left lonely and poor, but to fortune resigned,
Forgetting the trumpet that clanged in the wind,
Thou turnest thy organ unnoticed and blind,
Old soldier!
That faded red jacket still speaks of some pride,
And a dutiful daughter is seen at thy side,
To beat her light drum, and thy footsteps to guide,
Old soldier!
Ah! woe to the heart that would seek to betray,
Or turn from a desolate father away,
That dutiful child, of thy age the last stay,
Old soldier!
But may every true Briton, whose country is dear,
Bestow a small boon, now the season is drear,
Thy warm chimney corner at Christmas to cheer,
Old soldier!
Then the thought of the days of past glory shall spring,
And wiping one tear from thy cheek, thou shalt sing,
Old England for ever, and God save the King!
Old soldier!
The Wretched Monk
by Charles Baudelaire

Old monasteries under steadfast walls
Displayed tableaux of holy Verity,
Warming the inner men in those cold halls
Against the chill of their austerity.
Those times, when seeds of Christ would thrive and grow,
More than one monk, now in obscurity,
Taking the graveyard as his studio,
Ennobled Death, in all simplicity.
My soul's a tomb that, wretched cenobite,
I travel in throughout eternity;
Nothing adorns the walls of this sad shrine
O slothful monk! Oh, when may I assign
This living spectacle of misery
To labour of my hands, my eyes' delight?
Nursery Rhyme. CCLXV. Gaffers And Gammers.
by Unknown

Old mother Hubbard
Went to the cupboard,
To get her poor dog a bone;
But when she came there
The cupboard was bare,
And so the poor dog had none.
She went to the baker's
To buy him some bread,
But when she came back
The poor dog was dead.
She went to the joiner's
To buy him a coffin,
But when she came back
The poor dog was laughing.[*]
She took a clean dish
To get him some tripe,
But when she came back
He was smoking his pipe.
She went to the fishmonger's
To buy him some fish,
And when she came back
He was licking the dish.
She went to the ale-house
To get him some beer,
But when she came back
The dog sat in a chair.
She went to the tavern
For white wine and red,
But when she came back
The dog stood on his head.
She went to the hatter's
To buy him a hat,
But when she came back
He was feeding the cat.
She went to the barber's
To buy him a wig,
But when she came back
He was dancing a jig.
She went to the fruiterer's
To buy him some fruit,
But when she came back
He was playing the flute.
She went to the tailor's
To buy him a coat,
But when she came back
He was riding a goat.
She went to the cobbler's
To buy him some shoes,
But when she came back
He was reading the news.
She went to the sempstress
To buy him some linen,
But when she came back
The dog was spinning.
She went to the hosier's
To buy him some hose,
But when she came back
He was dress'd in his clothes.
The dame made a curtsey,
The dog made a bow;
The dame said, your servant,
The dog said, bow, wow.
[Footnote *: Probably loffing or loffin', to complete the rhyme. So in Shakspeare's 'Mids. Night's Dream,' act ii, sc. 1:
"And then the whole quire hold their hips, and loffe."]