DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Blue Bells.
by John Hartley

Bonny little Blue-bells
Mid young brackens green,
'Neath the hedgerows peeping
Modestly between;
Telling us that Summer
Is not far away,
When your beauties blend with
Blossoms of the May.
Sturdy, tangled hawthorns,
Fleck'd with white or red,
Whilst their nutty incense,
All around is shed.
Bonny drooping Blue-bells,
Happy you must be
With your beauties sheltered
'Neath such fragrant tree.
You need fear no rival, - 
Other blossoms blown,
With their varied beauties
But enhance your own.
Steals the soft wind gently,
'Round th' enchanted spot,
Sets your bells a-ringing
Though we hear them not.
Idle Fancy wanders
As you shake and swing,
Our hearts shape the message
We would have you bring.
Dreams of happy Springtimes
We hope yet to share;
Vague, but pleasant visions
All to melt in air.
Children's merry voices
Break your witching spells,
Chubby hands are clasping
Languishing Blue-bells.
Gay and happy children
Hop and skip along,
With their ringing laughter,
Sweet as skylark's song.
Slowly soon I follow
Through the rustic lane,
But the sight that greets me
Gives me pang of pain.
Strewed upon the pathway,
Fairy Blue-bells lie,
Trampled, crushed and wilted,
Cast away to die.
Yet they lived not vainly
Though their life was brief,
Shedding gleams of gladness
O'er a world of grief.
And they taught a lesson, - 
Rightly understood;
By their mute endeavour
Striving to do good.
Dreams
by William Henry Drummond

Bord ' Plouffe, Bord ' Plouffe,
W'at do I see    w'en I dream of you?
A shore w'ere de water is racin' by,
A small boy lookin', an' wonderin' w'y
He can't get fedder for goin' fly
Lak de hawk makin' ring on de summer sky.
Dat 's w'at I see.
Bord ' Plouffe, Bord ' Plouffe,
W'at do I hear w'en i dream of you?
Too many t'ing for sleepin' well!
De song of de ole tam cariole bell,
De voice of dat girl from Sainte Ang'le
(I geev' her a ring was mark "fid'le")
Dat 's what I hear.
Bord ' Plouffe, Bord ' Plouffe,
W'at do I smoke w'en I dream of you?
Havana cigar from across de sea,
An' get dem for not'ing too? No siree!
Dere 's only wan kin' of tabac for me.
An' it grow on de Rivi're des Prairies-
Dat 's what I smoke.
Bord ' Plouffe, Bord ' Plouffe,
How go I feel w'en I t'ink of you?
Sick, sick for the ole place way back dere-
An' to sleep on ma own leetle room upstair
W'ere de ghos' on de chimley mak' me scare
I 'd geev' more monee dan I can spare-
Dat 's how I feel.
Bord ' Plouffe, Bord ' Plouffe,
W'at will I do w'en I 'm back wit' you?
I 'll buy de farm of Bonhomme Martel,
Long tam he 's been waitin' a chance to sell,
Den pass de nex'    morning on Sainte Ang'le,
An' if she 's not marry -dat girl-    very well,
Dat 's w'at I 'll do.
The Pendulum
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

[In Edgar Allan Poe's story, 'The Pit and the Pendulum,' the victim is bound hand and foot, face upturned to a huge, knife-edged pendulum which swings back and forth across his body, the blade dropping closer to his heart at each swing.]
Bound hand and foot in the pit I lie,
And the wall about me is strong and high;
Stronger and higher it grows each day,
With maximum labour and minimum pay;
And there is no ladder whereon to climb
To a fairer world and a brighter time.
There is no ladder, there is no rope,
But the devil of greed has given a hope.
He swings before me the pendulum - Vice;
I know its purpose and know its price,
And the world's good people all know it, too,
And much they chatter and little they do.
I have sent up my cry to the hosts of men
Over and over and over again:
But should I cry once to the devil, ah, he
Would hurry to answer and set me free.
For Virtue to Virtue must ever call thrice,
But once brings an answer when Virtue calls Vice.
Bound hand and foot in the pit I lie
While the pendulum swings and the days go by.
Bonny Yorksher.
by John Hartley

Bonny Yorksher! how aw love thi!
Hard an rugged tho' thi face is;
Ther's an honest air abaat thi,
Aw ne'er find i' other places.
Ther's a music i' thi lingo,
Spreeads a charm o'er hill an valley,
As a drop ov Yorksher stingo
Warms an cheers a body's bally.
Ther's noa pooasies 'at smell sweeter,
Nor thy modest moorland blossom,
Th' violet's een ne'er shone aght breeter
Nor on thy green mossy bosom.
Hillsides deckt wi' purple heather,
Guard thy dales, whear plenty dwellin
Hand i' hand wi' Peace, together
Tales ov sweet contentment tellin.
On the scroll ov fame an glory,
Names ov Yorksher heroes glisten;
History tells noa grander stooary,
An it thrills me as aw listen.
Young men blest wi' brain an muscle,
Swarm i' village, taan an city,
Nah as then prepared to tussle,
Wi' the brave, the wise, the witty.
An thy lasses, - faithful, - peerless, - 
Matchless i' ther bloom an beauty, - 
Modest, lovin, brave an fearless,
Praad ov Hooam an firm to Duty.
Aw've met nooan i' other places
Can a cannle hold beside 'em;
Rich i' charms an winnin graces; - 
Aw should know becoss aw've tried 'em.
Balmy breezes, blow yer mildest!
Sun an shaars yer blessins shed!
Thrush an blackburd pipe yor wildest
Skylarks trill heigh ovverheead!
Robin redbreast, - little linnet,
Sing yor little songs wi' glee;
Till wi' melody each minnit,
Makin vocal bush an tree.
Wild flaars don yer breetest dresses,
Breathe sweet scents on ivvery gale;
Stately trees wave heigh yer tresses,
Flingin charms o'er hill an dale.
Dew fall gently, - an sweet Luna,
Keep thy lovin watch till morn; - 
All unite to bless an prosper,
That dear spot whear aw wor born.
The Englishman
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Born in the flesh, and bred in the bone,
Some of us harbour still
A New World pride:    and we flaunt or hide
The Spirit of Bunker Hill.
We claim our place, as a separate race,
Or a self-created clan;
Till there comes a day when we like to say,
'We are kin of the Englishman.'
For under the front that seems so cold,
And the voice that is wont to storm,
We are certain to find, a big, broad mind
And a heart that is soft and warm.
And he carries his woes in a lordly way,
As only the great souls can:
And it makes us glad when in truth we say,
We are kin of the Englishman.'
He slams his door in the face of the world,
If he thinks the world too bold.
He will even curse; but he opens his purse
To the poor, and the sick, and the old.
He is slow in giving to woman the vote,
And slow to put up her fan;
But he gives her room in the hour of doom,
And dies - like an Englishman.
The Garden
by Lola Ridge

Bountiful Givers,
I look along the years
And see the flowers you threw...
Anemones
And sprigs of gray
Sparse heather of the rocks,
Or a wild violet
Or daisy of a daisied field...
But each your best.
I might have worn them on my breast
To wilt in the long day...
I might have stemmed them in a narrow vase
And watched each petal sallowing...
I might have held them so - mechanically - 
Till the wind winnowed all the leaves
And left upon my hands
A little smear of dust.
Instead
I hid them in the soft warm loam
Of a dim shadowed place...
Deep
In a still cool grotto,
Lit only by the memories of stars
And the wide and luminous eyes
Of dead poets
That love me and that I love...
Deep... deep...
Where none may see - not even ye who gave - 
About my soul your garden beautiful.
Tom Tinker's dog
by Helen Beatrix Potter

Bow, wow, wow!
Whose dog art thou?
"I'm little Tom Tinker's dog,
Bow, wow, wow!"
The Bullfinches
by Thomas Hardy

Bother Bulleys, let us sing
From the dawn till evening! -
For we know not that we go not
When the day's pale pinions fold
Unto those who sang of old.
When I flew to Blackmoor Vale,
Whence the green-gowned faeries hail,
Roosting near them I could hear them
Speak of queenly Nature's ways,
Means, and moods, - well known to fays.
All we creatures, nigh and far
(Said they there), the Mother's are:
Yet she never shows endeavour
To protect from warrings wild
Bird or beast she calls her child.
Busy in her handsome house
Known as Space, she falls a-drowse;
Yet, in seeming, works on dreaming,
While beneath her groping hands
Fiends make havoc in her bands.
How her hussif'ry succeeds
She unknows or she unheeds,
All things making for Death's taking!
- So the green-gowned faeries say
Living over Blackmoor way.
Come then, brethren, let us sing,
From the dawn till evening! -
For we know not that we go not
When the day's pale pinions fold
Unto those who sang of old.
Ostende
by Charles G. Leland

'Hupsa! jonker Jan,
Die wel ruiter worden kan.'
Boon tidings to der Breitmann came
Ash he at table end,
Dere's right goot fisch at Blankenberghe,
Und oysters in Ostend.
Denn to Ostland ve will reiten gaen,
To Ostland o'er de sand,
Dou und I mit pridle drawn
For dere ish de oyster land.
Und vhen dey shtood bei Ostersee,
Vhere de waters roar like sin,
Dere coom five hundert fischer volk
To dake der Breitmann in.
'Gotts doonder! Should ve doomple down
Amoong de waters plue,
I kess you'd vant more help from me
Dan I should vant from you!
'If you hat peen vhere I hafe peen
Und see vot I hafe see,
Vhere de surf rise oop nine tausend feet,
In de land of Nieuw Jarsie
Und schwimmed dat surf ash I hafe schwimmed,
Peside de Jersey stran''
From dat day fort' de Ostland men
Shdeered glear of der Breitemann.
Boot von ding set him schvearin so,
I dinked he'd nefer cease,
De Ostend oysters kostet more
In Ostend als Paris.
Hans asked an anciendt fisherman,
To 'splain dis if he may,
Und says he, 'Mijn Heer dey're beter hier
Als ein hundert leagues afay.
'Und as de oysters beter hier
Of course dey kostet more'
Der Breitmann dook his bilcrim shdaff,
Und toorned him to de toor.
Says Hans, 'De Vlaemsche fischermen
Can sheat de vorldt I pet
Dey sheaten von anoder too,
All's fisch to a Dutchman's net.
'Der king peginned a palace hier,
De palace hat to shtop,
He foundt de beoples sheaten so
He gife de bildin oop.
Aldough das Leben hier ish goot,
Ad least Ostend-sibly'
So shpoke der Breitemann und cut
Dat city py de sea.
The Bonnie Wee Thing.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Bonnie wee thing."
I.
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing,
Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine,
I wad wear thee in my bosom,
Lest my jewel I should tine.
Wishfully I look and languish
In that bonnie face o' thine;
And my heart it stounds wi' anguish,
Lest my wee thing be na mine.
II.
Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty
In ae constellation shine;
To adore thee is my duty,
Goddess o' this soul o' mine!
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing.
Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine,
I wad wear thee in my bosom,
Lest my jewel I should tine!
Cavalier Tunes - III - Boot And Saddle
by Robert Browning

I.
Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
Rescue my castle before the hot day
Brightens to blue from its silvery grey,
(Chorus). Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
II.
Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say;
Many's the friend there, will listen and pray
'God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay,
(Chorus). 'Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!'
III.
Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,
Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array:
Who laughs, 'Good fellows ere this, by my fay,
(Chorus). 'Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!'
IV.
Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay,
Laughs when you talk of surrendering, 'Nay!
'I've better counsellors; what counsel they?
(Chorus). 'Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!'
Jim Carew
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

Born of a thoroughbred English race,
Well proportioned and closely knit,
Neat, slim figure and handsome face,
Always ready and always fit,
Hardy and wiry of limb and thew,
That was the ne'er-do-well Jim Carew.
One of the sons of the good old land,
Many a year since his like was known;
Never a game but he took command,
Never a sport but he held his own;
Gained at his college a triple blue,
Good as they make them was Jim Carew.
Came to grief, was it card or horse?
Nobody asked and nobody cared;
Ship him away to the bush of course,
Ne'er-do-well fellows are easily spared;
Only of women a sorrowing few
Wept at parting from Jim Carew.
Gentleman Jim on the cattle-camp,
Sitting his horse with an easy grace;
But the reckless living has left its stamp
In the deep drawn lines of that handsome face,
And the harder look in those eyes of blue:
Prompt at a quarrel is Jim Carew.
Billy the Lasher was out for gore,
Twelve-stone navvy with chest of hair,
When he opened out with a hungry roar
On a ten-stone man, it was hardly fair;
But his wife was wise if his face she knew
By the time you were done with him, Jim Carew.
Gentleman Jim in the stockmen's hut
Works with them, toils with them, side by side;
As to his past, well, his lips are shut.
"Gentleman once," say his mates with pride,
And the wildest Cornstalk can ne'er outdo
In feats of recklessness Jim Carew.
What should he live for? A dull despair!
Drink is his master and drags him down,
Water of Lethe that drowns all care.
Gentleman Jiim has a lot to drown,
And he reigns as king with a drunken crew,
Sinking to misery, Jim Carew.
Such is the end of the ne'er-do-well,
Jimmy the Boozer, all down at heel;
But he straightens up when he's asked to tell
His name and race, and a flash of steel
Still lightens up in those eyes of blue,
"I am, or, no, I was, Jim Carew."
Come Thi Ways!
by John Hartley

Bonny lassie, come thi ways,
An let us goa together!
Tho' we've met wi stormy days,
Ther'll be some sunny weather.
An if joy should spring for me,
Tha shall freely share it;
An if trouble comes to thee,
Aw can help to bear it.
Tho' thi mammy says us nay,
An thi dad's unwillin';
Wod ta have me pine away
Wi this love at's killin'?
Come thi ways, an let me twine
Mi arms once moor abaght thee;
Weel tha knows mi heart is thine,
Aw couldn't live withaat thee.
Ivvery day an haar at slips,
Some pleasure we are missin',
For those bonny rooasy lips
Awm nivver stall'd o' kissin'.
If men wor wise to walk life's track
Withaat sith joys to glad 'em,
He must ha made a sad mistak
At gave a Eve to Adam.
Spring Flowers
by John Clare

Bowing adorers of the gale,
Ye cowslips delicately pale,
Upraise your loaded stems;
Unfold your cups in splendour; speak!
Who decked you with that ruddy streak
And gilt your golden gems?
Violets, sweet tenants of the shade,
In purple's richest pride arrayed,
Your errand here fulfil;
Go, bid the artist's simple stain
Your lustre imitate--in vain--
And match your Maker's skill.
Daisies, ye flowers of lowly birth,
Embroiderers of the carpet earth,
That stud the velvet sod,
Open to Spring's refreshing air,
In sweetest smiling bloom declare
Your Maker and your God.
Merry Maid
by John Clare

Bonny and stout and brown, without a hat,
She frowns offended when they call her fat--
Yet fat she is, the merriest in the place,
And all can know she wears a pretty face.
But still she never heeds what praise can say,
But does the work, and oft runs out to play,
To run about the yard and ramp and noise
And spring the mop upon the servant boys.
When old hens noise and cackle every where
She hurries eager if the eggs are dear,
And runs to seek them when they lay away
To get them ready for the market day.
She gambols with the men and laughs aloud
And only quarrels when they call her proud.
Brandon
by Emily Pauline Johnson

(ACROSTIC)
Born on the breast of the prairie, she smiles to her sire - the sun,
Robed in the wealth of her wheat-lands, gift of her mothering soil,
Affluence knocks at her gateways, opulence waits to be won.
Nuggets of gold are her acres, yielding and yellow with spoil,
Dream of the hungry millions, dawn of the food-filled age,
Over the starving tale of want her fingers have turned the page;
Nations will nurse at her storehouse, and God gives her grain for wage.
Work Away.
by John Hartley

Bonny lads, and bonny lasses!
Work away! work away!
Think how swift each moment passes,
Time does never stay.
Then let's up and to our labours,
They who will, must sure succeed,
He does best who best endeavours, - 
Try again shall be our creed.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCLXXXIII. Love And Matrimony. [Cumberland courtship.]
by Unknown

Bonny lass, canny lass, willta be mine?
Thou'se neither wesh dishes, nor sarrah ( serve) the swine,
Thou sall sit on a cushion, and sew up a seam,
And thou sall eat strawberries, sugar, and cream!
On Lucretia Borgia's Hair
by Walter Savage Landor

Borgia, thou once wert almost too august
And high for adoration; now thou 'rt dust;
All that remains of thee these plaits unfold,
Calm hair meandering in pellucid gold.
Upon Boreman. Epig.
by Robert Herrick

Boreman takes toll, cheats, natters, lies; yet Boreman,
For all the devil helps, will be a poor man.
Destiny.
by Emma Lazarus

1879.
Born to the purple, lying stark and dead,
Transfixed with poisoned spears, beneath the sun
Of brazen Africa!    Thy grave is one,
Fore-fated youth (on whom were visited
Follies and sins not thine), whereat the world,
Heartless howe'er it be, will pause to sing
A dirge, to breathe a sigh, a wreath to fling
Of rosemary and rue with bay-leaves curled.
Enmeshed in toils ambitious, not thine own,
Immortal, loved boy-Prince, thou tak'st thy stand
With early doomed Don Carlos, hand in hand
With mild-browed Arthur, Geoffrey's murdered son.
Louis the Dauphin lifts his thorn-ringed head,
And welcomes thee, his brother, 'mongst the dead.
To th' Swallow.
by John Hartley

Bonny burd! aw'm fain to see thee,
For tha tells ov breeter weather;
But aw connot quite forgie thee, - 
Connot love thee altogether.
'Tisn't thee aw fondly welcome - 
'Tis the cheerin news tha brings,
Tellin us fine weather will come,
When we see thi dappled wings.
But aw'd rayther have a sparrow, - 
Rayther hear a robin twitter; - 
Tho' they may net be thi marrow,
May net fly wi' sich a glitter;
But they nivver leeav us, nivver - 
Storms may come, but still they stay;
But th' first wind 'at ma's thee shivver,
Up tha mounts an flies away.
Ther's too monny like thee, swallow,
'At when fortun's sun shines breet,
Like a silly buzzard follow,
Doncin raand a bit o' leet.
But ther's few like Robin redbreast,
Cling throo days o' gloom an care;
Soa aw love mi old tried friends best - 
Fickle hearts aw'll freely spare.
The Ballad Of The Rose
by Madison Julius Cawein

Booted and spurred he rode toward the west,
A rose, from the woman who loved him best,
Lay warm with her kisses there in his breast,
And the battle beacons were burning.
As over the draw he galloping went,
She, from the gateway's battlement,
With a wafted kiss and a warning bent
"Beware of the ford at the turning!"
An instant only he turned in his sell,
And lightly fingered his petronel,
Then settled his sword in its belt as well,
And the horns to battle were sounding.
She watched till he reached the beacon there,
And saw its gleam on his helm and hair,
Then turned and murmured, "God keep thee, Clare!
From that wolf of the hills and his hounding."
And on he rode till he came to the hill,
Where the road turned off by the ruined mill,
Where the stream flowed shallow and broad and still,
And the battle beacon was burning.
Into the river with little heed,
Down from the hill he galloped his steed
The water whispered on rock and reed,
"Death hides by the ford at the turning!"
And out of the night on the other side,
Their helms and corselets dim descried,
He saw ten bandit troopers ride,
And the horns to battle were blaring.
Then he reined his steed in the middle ford,
And glanced behind him and drew his sword,
And laughed as he shouted his battle-word,
"Clare! Clare! and my steel needs airing!"
Then down from the hills at his back there came
Ten troopers more. With a face of flame
Red Hugh of the Hills led on the same,
In the glare of the beacon's burning.
Again the cavalier turned and gazed,
Then quick to his lips the rose he raised,
And kissed it, crying, "Now God be praised!
And help her there when mourning!"
Then he rose in his stirrups and loosened rein,
And shouting his cry spurred on amain
Into the troopers to slay and be slain,
While the horns to battle were blowing.
With ten behind him and ten before,
And the battle beacon to light the shore,
Small doubt of the end in his mind he bore,
With her rose in his bosom glowing.
One trooper he slew with his petronel,
And one with his sword when his good steed fell,
And they haled him, fighting, from horse and sell
In the light of the beacon's burning.
Quoth Hugh of the Hills, "To yonder tree
Now hang him high where she may see;
Then bear this rose and message from me
'The ravens feast at the turning.'"
The Agreement.
by Friedrich Schiller

Both of us seek for truth in the world without thou dost seek it,
I in the bosom within; both of us therefore succeed.
If the eye be healthy, it sees from without the Creator;
And if the heart, then within doubtless it mirrors the world.
Odes From Horace. - To His Attendant. Book The First, Ode The Thirty-Eighth.
by Anna Seward

Boy, not in these Autumnal bowers
Shalt thou the Persian Vest dispose,
Of artful fold, and rich brocade;
Nor tie in gaudy knots the sprays and flowers.
Ah! search not where the latest rose
Yet lingers in the sunny glade;
Plain be the vest, and simple be the braid!
I charge thee with the myrtle wreath
Not one resplendent bloom entwine;
We both become that modest band,
As stretch'd my vineyard's ample shade beneath,
Jocund I quaff the rosy wine;
While near me thou shalt smiling stand,
And fill the sparkling cup with ready hand.
The Parting
by Maurice Henry Hewlett

Breathless was she and would not have us part:
"Adieu, my Saint," I said, "'tis come to this."
But she leaned to me, one hand at her heart,
And all her soul sighed trembling in a kiss.
The Admiral's Return.
by Charles Hamilton Musgrove

(Written on the occasion of the bringing of the body of Admiral John Paul Jones to the United States for reburial.)
Brave ships are these that bear thee home again
From under far-off skies--brave flags that fly
Above the deck whereon thine ashes lie,
Waiting their urn beyond the alien main;
The nations pause to view thy funeral train
As slowly moving up 'twixt sea and sky
It comes with stately pomp, and Liberty
Holds out her hands and calls thy name in vain.
And yet, mayhap, in vision vague and sweet,
Another sight thou seest beyond the boast
Of patriot pride--beside the new-born fleet,
Spectral and strange, no guest for such a host,
Yet making thy home-coming all complete,
The old "Bon Homme Richard's" unlaid ghost.
A Career
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

"Break me my bounds, and let me fly
To regions vast of boundless sky;
Nor I, like piteous Daphne, be
Root-bound. Ah, no! I would be free
As yon same bird that in its flight
Outstrips the range of mortal sight;
Free as the mountain streams that gush
From bubbling springs, and downward rush
Across the serrate mountain's side,--
The rocks o'erwhelmed, their banks defied,--
And like the passions in the soul,
Swell into torrents as they roll.
Oh, circumscribe me not by rules
That serve to lead the minds of fools!
But give me pow'r to work my will,
And at my deeds the world shall thrill.
My words shall rouse the slumb'ring zest
That hardly stirs in manhood's breast;
And as the sun feeds lesser lights,
As planets have their satellites,
So round about me will I bind
The men who prize a master mind!"
He lived a silent life alone,
And laid him down when it was done;
And at his head was placed a stone
On which was carved a name unknown!
To-Days
by Abram Joseph Ryan

Brief while they last,
Long when they are gone;
They catch from the past
A light to still live on.
Brief! yet I ween
A day may be an age,
The poet's pen may screen
Heart-stories on one page.
Brief! but in them,
From eve back to morn,
Some find the gem,
Many find the thorn.
Brief! minutes pass
Soft as flakes of snow,
Shadows o'er the grass
Could not swifter go.
Brief! but along
All the after-years
To-day will be a song
Of smiles or of tears.
Patriotism 1: Innominatus
by Walter Scott (Sir)

Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
'This is my own, my native land!'
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd
From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self.
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.