DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Soldier An' Sailor Too
by Rudyard Kipling

As I was spittin' into the Ditch aboard o' the Crocodile,
I seed a man on a man-o'-war got up in the Reg'lars' style.
'E was scrapin' the paint from off of 'er plates, an' I sez to 'im, "'Oo are you?"
Sez 'e, "I'm a Jolly, 'Er Majesty's Jolly, soldier an' sailor too!"
Now 'is work begins by Gawd knows when, and 'is work is never through;
'E isn't one o' the reg'lar Line, nor 'e isn't one of the crew.
'E's a kind of a giddy harumfrodite, soldier an' sailor too!
An' after I met 'im all over the world, a-doin' all kinds of things,
Like landin' 'isself with a Gatlin' gun to talk to them 'eathen kings;
'E sleeps in an 'ammick instead of a cot, an' 'e drills with the deck on a slew,
An' 'e sweats like a Jolly, 'Er Majesty's Jolly, soldier an' sailor too!
For there isn't a job on the top o' the earth the beggar don't know, nor do,
You can leave 'im at night on a bald man's 'ead, to paddle 'is own canoe,
'E's a sort of a bloomin' cosmopolouse, soldier an' sailor too.
We've fought 'em in trooper, we've fought 'em in dock, and drunk with 'em in betweens,
When they called us the seasick scull'ry-maids, an' we called 'em the Ass Marines;
But, when we was down for a double fatigue, from Woolwich to Bernardmyo,
We sent for the Jollies, 'Er Majesty's Jollies, soldier an' sailor too!
They think for 'emselves, an' they steal for 'emselves, and they never ask what's to do,
But they're camped an' fed an' they're up an' fed before our bugle's blew.
Ho! they ain't no limpin' procrastitutes, soldier an' sailor too.
You may say we are fond of an 'arness-cut, or 'ootin' in barrick-yards,
Or startin' a Board School mutiny along o' the Onion Guards;
But once in a while we can finish in style for the ends of the earth to view,
The same as the Jollies, 'Er Majesty's Jollies, soldier an' sailor too!
They come of our lot, they was brothers to us; they was beggars we'd met an' knew;
Yes, barrin' an inch in the chest an' the arm, they was doubles o' me an' you;
For they weren't no special chrysanthemums, soldier an' sailor too!
To take your chance in the thick of a rush, with firing all about,
Is nothing so bad when you've cover to 'and, an' leave an' likin' to shout;
But to stand an' be still to the Birken'ead drill is a damn tough bullet to chew,
An' they done it, the Jollies, 'Er Majesty's Jollies, soldier an' sailor too!
Their work was done when it 'adn't begun; they was younger nor me an' you;
Their choice it was plain between drownin' in 'eaps an' bein' mopped by the screw,
So they stood an' was still to the Birken'ead drill, soldier an' sailor too!
We're most of us liars, we're 'arf of us thieves, an' the rest are as rank as can be,
But once in a while we can finish in style (which I 'ope it won't 'appen to me).
But it makes you think better o' you an' your friends, an' the work you may 'ave to do,
When you think o' the sinkin' Victorier's Jollies, soldier an' sailor too!
Now there isn't no room for to say ye don't know, they 'ave proved it plain and true,
That whether it's Widow, or whether it's ship, Victorier's work is to do,
An' they done it, the Jollies, 'Er Majesty's Jollies, soldier an' sailor too!
Thought
by Walt Whitman

As I sit with others, at a great feast, suddenly, while the music is playing, 
To my mind, (whence it comes I know not,) spectral, in mist, of a wreck at sea; 
Of certain ships, how they sail from port with flying streamers, and wafted kisses, and that is the last of them! 
Of the solemn and murky mystery about the fate of the President; 
Of the flower of the marine science of fifty generations, founder'd off the Northeast coast, and going down, Of the steamship Arctic going down,
Of the veil'd tableau, Women gather'd together on deck, pale, heroic, waiting the moment that draws so close, O the moment! 
A huge sob, A few bubbles, the white foam spirting up, And then the women gone, 
Sinking there, while the passionless wet flows on, And I now pondering, Are those women indeed gone? 
Are Souls drown'd and destroy'd so? 
Is only matter triumphant?
The Gingham Dream Utterance
by Paul Cameron Brown

As I watch the clouds assemble, steam-ship fashion, with funnels to
alert passersby, I realize the Romanovs tore silk & riches from
every bazaar leaving the bright spot of this evening studded with emerald marks.
A dot in the ocean is a spark upon which minnows play, their silver
bellies upturned to imitate the moon's white shawl.
I am wanting in the delights of the reef narrowly hauled from
rambunctious depths, the tiniest splashes of green, yellow, blue darting in an upturned fish's tail.
An octopus rock commands squadrons of fingerlings while the eisel
fish decorates a steeper, coral garden.
Jet black sand crowns the lagoon volcanic ages' past the innocence
of this spurting palm while mounds of pitch dark ants deposit slivers of rich eggs.
After a fashion, onyx enamours pearl and pearl ivory as cays and
atolls are swept to the wiggle of sun's dance on white sand. Eel-like
islands are only pomegranates undigested by the moon.
The amber breath of growing leaves is rich dark coffee stolen as in a smile.
Almond drink is refreshing as the tips of cloven hooves to the dried earth.
One might hesitate to watch firm nipples being given as broaches to
a king but the sandpiper is a river barge commanding slow access to the next water.
Near barely lit lamps alongside make-shift beds, a woman with olive
skin prepares her toilet.
Hatchet brown birds beseech her with brittle songs stolen from one wing.
A cathedral bowl lies overturned in the warm twilight of lovers
kneeling before the growing strength of day.
Stone stars are flattened by the glare of sun and shell encrusted
beaches bear a passing resemblance to chalices strung around an avuncular stretch of land.
Perhaps in the hunted meadow near red spined caterpillars feeding
near the larvae of the elephant hawkmoth, a cistern will open the
earth and drink as a thirsty spoon.
Letter X. From The Blue-Bottle Fly To The Grasshopper. (The Bird And Insects' Post-Office.)
by Robert Bloomfield

(CHARLES BLOOMFIELD.)
I.
As I roamed t'other day,
Neighbour Hop, in my way
I discovered a nice rotten plum,
Which you know is a treat;
And, to taste of the sweet,
A swarm of relations had come.
II.
So we all settled round,
As it lay on the ground,
And were feasting ourselves with delight;
But, for want of more thought
To have watched, as we ought,
We were suddenly seized - and held tight.
III.
In a human clenched hand,
Where, unable to stand,
We were twisted and tumbled about;
But, perceiving a chink,
You will readily think
I exerted myself - I got out.
IV.
How the rest got away
I really can't say;
But I flew with such ardour and glee.
That again, unawares,
I got into the snares
Of my foe Mr. Spider, you see;
V.
Who so fiercely came out
Of his hole, that no doubt
He expected that I was secure:
But he found 'twould not do,
For I forced my way through,
Overjoyed on escaping, you're sure.
VI.
But I'll now take my leave,
For the clouds I perceive
Are darkening over the sky;
The sun has gone in,
And I really begin
To feel it grow colder. - Good bye!
I'm, as ever, yours,
BLUE-BOTTLE FLY.
Nursery Rhyme. CCXXXII. Riddles.
by Unknown

[A fire-brand with sparks on it.]
As I was going o'er London Bridge,
And peep'd through a nick,
I saw four and twenty ladies
Riding on a stick!
Through The Metidja To Abd-El-Kadr
by Robert Browning

I.
As I ride, as I ride,
With a full heart for my guide,
So its tide rocks my side,
As I ride, as I ride,
That, as I were double-eyed,
He, in whom our Tribes confide,
Is descried, ways untried
As I ride, as I ride.
II.
As I ride, as I ride
To our Chief and his Allied,
Who dares chide my heart's pride
As I ride, as I ride?
Or are witnesses denied
Through the desert waste and wide
Do I glide unespied
As I ride, as I ride?
III.
As I ride, as I ride,
When an inner voice has cried,
The sands slide, nor abide
(As I ride, as I ride)
O'er each visioned homicide
That came vaunting (has he lied?)
To reside, where he died,
As I ride, as I ride.
IV.
As I ride, as I ride,
Ne'er has spur my swift horse plied,
Yet his hide, streaked and pied,
As I ride, as I ride,
Shows where sweat has sprung and dried,
Zebra-footed, ostrich-thighed,
How has vied stride with stride
As I ride, as I ride!
V.
As I ride, as I ride,
Could I loose what Fate has tied,
Ere I pried, she should hide
(As I ride, as I ride)
All that's meant me: satisfied
When the Prophet and the Bride
Stop veins I'd have subside
As I ride, as I ride!
Come-By-Chance
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

As I pondered very weary o'er a volume long and dreary,
For the plot was void of interest; 'twas the Postal Guide, in fact,
There I learnt the true location, distance, size and population
Of each township, town, and village in the radius of the Act.
And I learnt that Puckawidgee stands beside the Murrumbidgee,
And the Booleroi and Bumble get their letters twice a year,
Also that the post inspector, when he visited Collector,
Closed the office up instanter, and re-opened Dungalear.
But my languid mood forsook me, when I found a name that took me;
Quite by chance I came across it, "Come-by-Chance" was what I read;
No location was assigned it, not a thing to help one find it,
Just an N which stood for northward, and the rest was all unsaid.
I shall leave my home, and forthward wander stoutly to the northward
Till I come by chance across it, and I'll straightway settle down;
For there can't be any hurry, nor the slightest cause for worry
Where the telegraph don't reach you nor the railways run to town.
And one's letters and exchanges come by chance across the ranges,
Where a wiry young Australian leads a packhorse once a week,
And the good news grows by keeping, and you're spared the pain of weeping
Over bad news when the mailman drops the letters in a creek.
But I fear, and more's the pity, that there's really no such city,
For there's not a man can find it of the shrewdest folk I know;
"Come-by-Chance", be sure it never means a land of fierce endeavour,
It is just the careless country where the dreamers only go.
*             *             *             *             *             *             *
Though we work and toil and hustle in our life of haste and bustle,
All that makes our life worth living comes unstriven for and free;
Man may weary and importune, but the fickle goddess Fortune
Deals him out his pain or pleasure, careless what his worth may be.
All the happy times entrancing, days of sport and nights of dancing,
Moonlit rides and stolen kisses, pouting lips and loving glance:
When you think of these be certain you have looked behind the curtain,
You have had the luck to linger just a while in "Come-by-Chance".
The Wild Flower's Song
by William Blake

As I wandered the forest,
The green leaves among,
I heard a Wild Flower
Singing a song.
'I slept in the earth
In the silent night,
I murmured my fears
And I felt delight.
'In the morning I went
As rosy as morn,
To seek for new joy;
But oh! met with scorn.'
Nursery Rhyme. CLXIII. Songs.
by Unknown

As I was going up the hill,
I met with Jack the piper,
And all the tunes that he could play
Was "Tie up your petticoats tighter."
I tied them once, I tied them twice,
I tied them three times over;
And all the songs that he could sing
Was "Carry me safe to Dover."
The Gods Of The Copybook Headings
by Rudyard Kipling

As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race,
I Make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market-Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.
We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.
We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market-Place.
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.
With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings.
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.
When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Heading said: "Stick to the Devil you know."
On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."
In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."
Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew,
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.
*     *     *     *     *
As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man,
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began,
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mice,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire,
And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!
Nursery Rhyme. CLXVII. Songs.
by Unknown

As I was going along, long, long,
A singing a comical song, song, song,
The lane that I went was so long, long, long,
And the song that I sung was as long, long, long,
And so I went singing along.
To The Handsome Mistress Grace Potter
by Robert Herrick

As is your name, so is your comely face
Touch'd every where with such diffused grace,
As that in all that admirable round,
There is not one least solecism found;
And as that part, so every portion else
Keeps line for line with beauty's parallels.
As If A Phantom Caress'd Me
by Walt Whitman

As if a phantom caress'd me,
I thought I was not alone, walking here by the shore;
But the one I thought was with me, as now I walk by the shore--the one I loved, that caress'd me,
As I lean and look through the glimmering light--that one has utterly disappear'd,
And those appear that are hateful to me, and mock me.
Sonnets: Idea L
by Michael Drayton

As in some countries far remote from hence,
The wretched creature destin'd to die,
Having the judgment due to his offence,
By surgeons begged, their art on him to try,
Which on the living work without remorse,
First make incision on each mastering vein,
Then staunch the bleeding, then transpierce the corse,
And with their balms recure the wounds again,
Then poison and with physic him restore;
Not that they fear the hopeless man to kill,
But their experience to increase the more:
Even so my mistress works upon my ill,
By curing me and killing me each hour,
Only to show her beauty's sovereign power.
Lines Have Their Linings, And Books Their Buckram.
by Robert Herrick

As in our clothes, so likewise he who looks,
Shall find much farcing buckram in our books.
Jane.
by Robert von Ranke Graves

As Jane walked out below the hill,
She saw an old man standing still,
His eyes in tranced sorrow bound
On the broad stretch of barren ground.
His limbs were knarled like aged trees,
His thin beard wrapt about his knees,
His visage broad and parchment white,
Aglint with pale reflected light.
He seemed a creature fall'n afar
From some dim planet or faint star.
Jane scanned him very close, and soon
Cried, "'Tis the old man from the moon."
He raised his voice, a grating creak,
But only to himself would speak.
Groaning with tears in piteous pain,
"O! O! would I were home again."
Then Jane ran off, quick as she could,
To cheer his heart with drink and food.
But ah, too late came ale and bread,
She found the poor soul stretched stone-dead.
And a new moon rode overhead.
Nursery Rhyme. CCXXVII. Riddles.
by Unknown

[A Cherry.]
As I went through the garden gap,
Who should I meet but Dick Red-cap!
A stick in his hand, a stone in his throat,
If you'll tell me this riddle, I'll give you a groat.
Jove's Eagle, And Murmuring Beasts.
by John Gay

As Jove once on his judgment-seat,
Opened the trap-door at his feet;
Up flew the murmurs of creation,
Of every brute that had sensation.
The Thunderer, therefore, called his Eagle,
Which came obedient as a beagle, - 
And him commanded to descend,
And to such murmurs put an end.
The eagle did so - citing all
To answer the imperial call.
He spoke: "Ye murmurers declare
What are these ills which trouble air? - 
Just are the universal laws.
Now let the dog first plead his cause."
A beagle answered him: "How fleet
The greyhound's course, how nerved his feet!
I hunt by scent, by scent alone;
That lost, and all my chance has flown."
Answered the greyhound: "If I had
That which he scorns, I should be glad;
Had I the hound's sagacious scent,
I ne'er had murmured discontent."
The lion murmured he had not
Sly Reynard's wits to lay a plot;
Sly Reynard pleaded that, to awe,
He should possess the lion's paw.
The cock desired the heron's flight;
The heron wished for greater might.
And fish would feed upon the plain,
And beasts would refuge in the main.
None their ambitious wish could smother,
And each was envious of another.
The eagle answered: "Mutineers,
The god rejects your idle prayers.
But any may exchange who wishes,
And chop and change, - birds, beasts, and fishes."
The eagle paused; but none consented
To quit the race they represented,
And recognised the restless mind
And proud ambition of mankind.
Peculiar Morning
by Paul Cameron Brown

As if every living thing lived, breathed
its existence
explained why water took the shape
of a container,
studied sharpened awareness of cold,
broke night spots onto a peculiar morning.
The Little Filcher; Or, The Captiv'd Bee
by Robert Herrick

As Julia once a-slumb'ring lay,
It chanced a bee did fly that way,
After a dew, or dew-like shower,
To tipple freely in a flower;
For some rich flower, he took the lip
Of Julia, and began to sip;
But when he felt he suck'd from thence
Honey, and in the quintessence,
He drank so much he scarce could stir;
So Julia took the pilferer.
And thus surprised, as filchers use,
He thus began himself t'excuse:
'Sweet lady-flower, I never brought
Hither the least one thieving thought;
But taking those rare lips of yours
For some fresh, fragrant, luscious flowers,
I thought I might there take a taste,
Where so much sirup ran at waste.
Besides, know this, I never sting
The flower that gives me nourishing;
But with a kiss, or thanks, do pay
For honey that I bear away.'
This siid, he laid his little scrip
Of honey 'fore her ladyship,
And told her, as some tears did fall,
That, that he took, and that was all.
At which she smiled, and bade him go
And take his bag; but thus much know,
When next he came a-pilfering so,
He should from her full lips derive
Honey enough to fill his hive.
Fair Margaret And Sweet William
by George Wharton Edwards

As it fell out on a long summer's day,
Two lovers they sat on a hill;
They sat together that long summer's day,
And could not talk their fill.
"I see no harm by you, Margaret,
And you see none by mee;
Before to-morrow at eight o' the clock
A rich wedding you shall see."
Fair Margaret sat in her bower-wind w,
Combing her yellow hair;
There she spyed sweet William and his bride,
As they were a riding near.
Then down she layd her ivory combe,
And braided her hair in twain:
She went alive out of her bower,
But ne'er came alive in't again.
When day was gone, and night was come,
And all men fast asleep,
Then came the spirit of Fair Marg'ret,
And stood at William's feet.
"Are you awake, sweet William?" shee said,
"Or, sweet William, are you asleep?
God give you joy of your gay bride-bed,
And me of my winding sheet."
When day was come, and night was gone,
And all men wak'd from sleep,
Sweet William to his lady sayd,
"My dear, I have cause to weep.
"I dreamt a dream, my dear ladye,
Such dreames are never good:
I dreamt my bower was full of red 'wine,'
And my bride-bed full of blood."
"Such dreams, such dreams, my honoured sir,
They never do prove good;
To dream thy bower was full of red 'wine,'
And thy bride-bed full of blood."
He called up his merry men all,
By one, by two, and by three;
Saying, "I'll away to fair Marg'ret's bower,
By the leave of my ladie."
And when he came to fair Marg'ret's bower,
He knocked at the ring;
And who so ready as her seven brethren
To let sweet William in.
Then he turned up the covering-sheet;
"Pray let me see the dead;
Methinks she looks all pale and wan.
She hath lost her cherry red.
"I'll do more for thee, Margaret,
Than any of thy kin:
For I will kiss thy pale wan lips,
Though a smile I cannot win."
With that bespake the seven brethren,
Making most piteous mone,
"You may go kiss your jolly brown bride,
And let our sister alone."
"If I do kiss my jolly brown bride,
I do but what is right;
I ne'er made a vow to yonder poor corpse,
By day, nor yet by night.
"Deal on, deal on, my merry men all,
Deal on your cake and your wine:
For whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day,
Shall be dealt to-morrow at mine."
Fair Margaret dyed to-day, to-day,
Sweet William dyed the morrow:
Fair Margaret dyed for pure true love,
Sweet William dyed for sorrow.
Margaret was buryed in the lower chancel,
And William in the higher:
Out of her brest there sprang a rose,
And out of his a briar.
They grew till they grew unto the church top,
And then they could grow no higher;
And there they tyed in a true lover's knot,
Which made all the people admire.
Then came the clerk of the parish,
As you the truth shall hear,
And by misfortune cut them down,
Or they had now been there.
The Inn Of Life
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

As It was in the Beginning,--
Is Now,--
And...?
Anno Domini I.
*             *             *             *             *
"No room!
No room!
The Inn is full,
Yea--overfull.
No room have we
for such as ye--
Poor folk of Galilee,
Pass on! Pass on!"
"Nay then!--
Your charity
Will ne'er deny
Some corner mean,
Where she may lie unseen.
For see!--
Her time is nigh."
"Alack! And she
So young and fair!
Place have we none;
And yet--how bid ye gone?
Stay then!--out there
Among the beasts
Ye may find room,
And eke a truss
To lie upon."
Anno Domini 1913, etc., etc.
*             *             *             *             *
"No room!
No room!
No room for Thee,
Thou Man of Galilee!
The house is full,
Yea, overfull.
There is no room for Thee,--
Pass on! Pass on!
Nay--see!
The place is packed.
"We scarce have room
For our own selves,
So how shall we
Find room for Thee,
Thou Man of Galilee,--
Pass on! Pass on!
But--if Thou shouldst
This way again,
And we can find
So much as one small corner
Free from guest,
Not then in vain
Thy quest.
But now--
The house is full.
Pass on!"
Christ passes
On His ceaseless quest,
Nor will He rest
With any,
Save as Chiefest Guest.
Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 - XXVI. - Continued
by William Wordsworth

As indignation mastered grief, my tongue
Spake bitter words; words that did ill agree
With those rich stores of Nature's imagery,
And divine Art, that fast to memory clung
Thy gifts, magnificent Region, ever young
In the sun's eye, and in his sister's sight
How beautiful! how worthy to be sung
In strains of rapture, or subdued delight!
I feign not; witness that unwelcome shock
That followed the first sound of German speech,
Caught the far-winding barrier Alps among.
In that announcement, greeting seemed to mock
Parting; the casual word had power to reach
My heart, and filled that heart with conflict strong.