DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Babby Burds.
by John Hartley

Aw wander'd aght one summer's morn,
Across a meadow newly shorn;
Th' sun wor shinin breet and clear,
An fragrant scents rose up i'th' air,
An all wor still.
When, as my steps wor idly rovin,
Aw coom upon a seet soa lovin!
It fill'd mi heart wi' tender feelin,
As daan aw sank beside it, kneelin
O'th' edge o'th' hill.
It wor a little skylark's nest,
An two young babby burds, undrest,
Wor gapin wi' ther beaks soa wide,
Callin for mammy to provide
Ther mornin's meal;
An high aboon ther little hooam,
Th' saand o' daddy's warblin coom;
Ringin soa sweetly o' mi ear,
Like breathins throo a purer sphere,
He sang soa weel.
Ther mammy, a few yards away,
Wor hoppin on a bit o' hay;
Too feeard to coom, too bold to flee;
An watchin me wi' troubled e'e,
Shoo seem'd to say:
"Dooant touch my bonny babs, young man!
Ther daddy does the best he can
To cheer yo with his sweetest song;
An thoase 'll sing as weel, ere long,
Soa let 'em stay."
"Tha needn't think aw'd do 'em harm - 
Come shelter 'em and keep 'em warm!
For aw've a little nest misel,
An two young babs, aw'm praad to tell,
'At's precious too;
An they've a mammy watching thear,
'At howds them little ens as dear,
An dearer still, if that can be,
Nor what thease youngens are to thee,
Soa come, - nah do!
"A'a well! - tha'rt shy, tha hops away, - 
Tha doesn't trust a word aw say;
Tha thinks aw'm here to rob an plunder,
An aw confess aw dunnot wonder - 
But tha's noa need;
Aw'll leave yo to yorsels, - gooid bye!
For nah aw see yor daddy's nigh;
He's dropt that strain soa sweet and strong;
He loves yo better nor his song - 
He does indeed."
Aw walk'd away, and sooin mi ear
Caught up the saand o' warblin clear;
Thinks aw, they're happy once agean;
Aw'm glad aw didn't prove so meean
To rob that nest;
For they're contented wi' ther lot,
Nor envied me mi little cot;
An in this world, as we goa throo,
It is'nt mich gooid we can do,
An do awr best.
Then let us do as little wrong
To onny as we pass along,
An never seek a joy to gain
'At's purchased wi' another's pain,
It isn't reet.
Aw shall goa hooam wi' leeter heart,
To mend awr Johnny's little cart:
(He allus finds me wark enuff
To piecen up his brocken stuff,
For ivvery neet.)
An Sally - a'a! if yo could see her!
When aw sit daan to get mi teah,
Shoo puts her dolly o' mi knee,
An maks me sing it "Hush a bee,"
I'th' rocking chear;
Then begs some sugar for it too;
What it can't ait shoo tries to do;
An turnin up her cunnin e'e,
Shoo rubs th' doll maath, an says, "yo see,
It gets its share."
Sometimes aw'm rayther cross, aw fear!
Then starts a little tremblin tear,
'At, like a drop o' glitt'rin dew
Swimmin within a wild flaar blue,
Falls fro ther e'e;
But as the sun in April shaars
Revives the little droopin flaars,
A kind word brings ther sweet smile back:
Aw raylee think mi brain ud crack
If they'd ta dee.
Then if aw love my bairns soa weel,
May net a skylark's bosom feel
As mich consarn for th' little things
'At snooze i'th' shelter which her wings
Soa weel affoards?
If fowk wod nobbut bear i' mind
How mich is gained by bein kind;
Ther's fewer breasts wi' grief ud swell,
An fewer fowk ud thoughtless mell
Even o'th' burds.
My Doctrine.
by John Hartley

Aw wodn't care to live at all,
Unless aw could be jolly!
Let sanctimonious skinflints call
All recreation folly.
Aw still believe this world wor made
For fowk to have some fun in;
An net for everlastin trade,
An avarice an cunnin.
Aw dooant believe a chap should be
At th' grinnel stooan for ivver;
Ther's sewerly sometime for a spree,
An better lat nor nivver.
It's weel enuff for fowk to praich
An praise up self denial;
But them 'at's forradest to praich,
Dooant put it oft to trial.
They'd rayther show a thaasand fowk
A way, an point 'em to it;
Nor act as guides an stop ther tawk,
An try thersens to do it.
Aw think this world wor made for me,
Net me for th' world's enjoyment;
An to mak th' best ov all aw see
Will find me full employment.
"My race," they say, "is nearly run,
It mightn't last a minnit;"
But if ther's pleasure to be fun,
Yo bet yor booits awm in it.
Aw wodn't care to live at all,
Weighed daan wi' melancholy;
My doctrine is, goa in for all,
'At helps to mak life jolly.
Autumn
by William Browne

Autumn it was when droop'd the sweetest flow'rs,
And rivers, swoll'n with pride, o'erlook'd the banks;
Poor grew the day of summer's golden hours,
And void of sap stood Ida's cedar-ranks.
The pleasant meadows sadly lay
In chill and cooling sweats
By rising fountains, or as they
Fear'd winter's wastfull threats.
The Shepherd's Pipe.
Before The Snow.
by George Parsons Lathrop

Autumn is gone: through the blue woodlands bare
Shatters the windy rain. A thousand 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.
Sonnets. XV - On the late Massacher In Piemont.
by John Milton

Avenge O lord thy slaughter'd Saints, whose bones
Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold,
Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old
When all our Fathers worship't Stocks and Stones,
Forget not: in thy book record their groanes
Who were thy Sheep and in their antient Fold
Slayn by the bloody Piemontese that roll'd
Mother with Infant down the Rocks.    Their moans
The Vales redoubl'd to the Hills, and they
To Heav'n.    Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow
O're all th'Italian fields where still doth sway
The triple Tyrant: that from these may grow
A hunder'd-fold, who having learnt thy way
Early may fly the Babylonian wo.
Autumn Song
by George MacDonald

Autumn clouds are flying, flying
O'er the waste of blue;
Summer flowers are dying, dying,
Late so lovely new.
Labouring wains are slowly rolling
Home with winter grain;
Holy bells are slowly tolling
Over buried men.
Goldener light sets noon a sleeping
Like an afternoon;
Colder airs come stealing, creeping
From the misty moon;
And the leaves, of old age dying,
Earthy hues put on;
Out on every lone wind sighing
That their day is gone.
Autumn's sun is sinking, sinking
Down to winter low;
And our hearts are thinking, thinking
Of the sleet and snow;
For our sun is slowly sliding
Down the hill of might;
And no moon is softly gliding
Up the slope of night.
See the bare fields' pillaged prizes
Heaped in golden glooms!
See, the earth's outworn sunrises
Dream in cloudy tombs!
Darkling flowers but wait the blowing
Of a quickening wind;
And the man, through Death's door going,
Leaves old Death behind.
Mourn not, then, clear tones that alter;
Let the gold turn gray;
Feet, though feeble, still may falter
Toward the better day!
Brother, let not weak faith linger
O'er a withered thing;
Mark how Autumn's prophet finger
Burns to hues of Spring.
Missed his Mark.
by John Hartley

Aw like fowrk to succeed i' life if they've an honest aim,
An even if they chonce to trip awm varry loath to blame;
Its sich a simple thing sometimes maks failure or success,
Th' prize oft slips by strugglin men to them 'at's striven less.
Aw envy nubdy Fortun's smiles, aw lang for 'em misen, - 
But them at win her favors should dispense 'em nah an then.
An them 'at's blest wi' sunshine let 'em think o' those i'th' dark,
An nivver grudge a helpin hand to him 'at's missed his mark.
We connot allus hit it, - an ther's monny a toilin brain,
Has struggled for a lifetime, but its efforts proved in vain;
An monny a hardy son ov toil has worn his life away,
An all his efforts proved in vain to keep poverty at bay;
Wol others, bi a lucky stroke, have carved ther way to fame,
An ivvery thing they've tackled on has proved a winnin' game;
Let those who've met wi' fav'rin winds to waft-life's little bark,
Just spare a thowt, an gie a lift, to him 'at's missed his mark.
Aw hate to hear a purse-praad chap keep booastin of his gains, - 
Sneerin at humble workin fowk who're richer far i' brains!
Aw hate all meean hard graspin slaves, who mak ther gold ther god, - 
For if they could grab all ther is, awm pratty sewer they wod.
Aw hate fowk sanctimonious, whose humility is pride,
Who, when they see a chap distressed, pass by on tother side!
Aw hate those drones 'at share earth's hive, but shirk ther share o' wark,
Yet curl ther nooas at some poor soul, who's toiled, yet missed his mark.
Give me that man whose heart can feel for others griefs an woes; - 
Who loves his friends an nivver bears a grudge ageean his foes;
Tho' kindly words an cheerin smiles are all he can bestow, - 
If he gives that wi' willin heart, he does some gooid below.
An when th' time comes, as come it will, when th' race is at an end,
He'll dee noa poorer for what gooid he's ivver done a friend.
An when they gently put him by, - unconscious, stiff an stark,
His epetaph shall be, 'Here's one 'at didn't miss his mark.'
The Chimes Play "Life's A Bumper!"
by Thomas Hardy

"Awake! I'm off to cities far away,"
I said; and rose, on peradventures bent.
The chimes played "Life's a Bumper!" on that day
To the measure of my walking as I went:
Their sweetness frisked and floated on the lea,
As they played out "Life's a Bumper!" there to me.
"Awake!" I said. "I go to take a bride!"
The sun arose behind me ruby-red
As I journeyed townwards from the countryside,
The chiming bells saluting near ahead.
Their sweetness swelled in tripping tings of glee
As they played out "Life's a Bumper!" there to me.
"Again arise." I seek a turfy slope,
And go forth slowly on an autumn noon,
And there I lay her who has been my hope,
And think, "O may I follow hither soon!"
While on the wind the chimes come cheerily,
Playing out "Life's a Bumper!" there to me.
Awake, Arise, Thy Light Is Come. (Air.--Stevenson.)
by Thomas Moore

Awake, arise, thy light is come;[1]
The nations, that before outshone thee,
Now at thy feet lie dark and dumb--
The glory of the Lord is on thee!
Arise--the Gentiles to thy ray,
From every nook of earth shall cluster;
And kings and princes haste to pay
Their homage to thy rising lustre.[2]
Lift up thine eyes around, and see
O'er foreign fields, o'er farthest waters,
Thy exiled sons return to thee,
To thee return thy home-sick daughters.[3]
And camels rich, from Midians' tents,
Shall lay their treasures down before thee;
And Saba bring her gold and scents,
To fill thy air and sparkle o'er thee.[4]
See, who are these that, like a cloud,[5]
Are gathering from all earth's dominions,
Like doves, long absent, when allowed
Homeward to shoot their trembling pinions.
Surely the isles shall wait for me,[6]
The ships of Tarshish round will hover,
To bring thy sons across the sea,
And waft their gold and silver over.
And Lebanon thy pomp shall grace[7]--
The fir, the pine, the palm victorious
Shall beautify our Holy Place,
And make the ground I tread on glorious.
No more shall dischord haunt thy ways,[8]
Nor ruin waste thy cheerless nation;
But thou shalt call thy portal Praise,
And thou shalt name thy walls Salvation.
The sun no more shall make thee bright,[9]
Nor moon shall lend her lustre to thee;
But God, Himself, shall be thy Light,
And flash eternal glory thro' thee.
Thy sun shall never more go down;
A ray from heaven itself descended
Shall light thy everlasting crown--
Thy days of mourning all are ended.[10]
My own, elect, and righteous Land!
The Branch, for ever green and vernal,
Which I have planted with this hand--
Live thou shalt in Life Eternal.[11]
The Land Of Dreams
by William Blake

Awake, awake, my little boy!
Thou wast thy mother's only joy;
Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep?
Awake! thy father does thee keep.
"O, what land is the Land of Dreams?
What are its mountains, and what are its streams?
O father! I saw my mother there,
Among the lilies by waters fair.
"Among the lambs, cloth?d in white,
She walk'd with her Thomas in sweet delight.
I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn;
O! when shall I again return?"
Dear child, I also by pleasant streams
Have wander'd all night in the Land of Dreams;
But tho' calm and warm the waters wide,
I could not get to the other side.
"Father, O father! what do we here
In this land of unbelief and fear?
The Land of Dreams is better far
Above the light of the morning star."
Nursery Rhyme. CCLXXXIV. Games.
by Unknown

Awake, arise, pull out your eyes,
And hear what time of day;
And when you have done, pull out your tongue,
And see what you can say.
The Finest View
by John Kendall (Dum-Dum)

Away, away! The plains of Ind
Have set their victim free;
I give my sorrows to the wind,
My sun-hat to the sea;
And, standing with a chosen few,
I watch a dying glow,
The passing of the Finest View
That all the world can show.
It would not fire an artist's eye,
This View whereof I sing;
Poets, no doubt, would pass it by
As quite a common thing;
The Tourist with belittling sniff
Would find no beauties there - 
He couldn't if he would, and if
He could he wouldn't care.
Only for him that turns the back
On dark and evil days
It throws a glory down his track
That sets his heart ablaze;
A charm to make the wounded whole,
Which wearied eyes may draw
Luxuriously through the soul,
Like cocktails through a straw.
I have seen strong men moved to tears
When gazing o'er the deep,
Hard men, whom I have known for years,
Nor dreamt that they could weep;
Even myself, though stern and cold
Beyond the common line,
Cannot, for very joy, withhold
The tribute of my brine.
Farewell, farewell, thou best of Views!
I leave thee to thy pain,
And, while I have the power to choose,
We shall not meet again;
But, 'mid the scenes of joy and mirth,
My fancies oft will turn
Back to the Finest Sight on Earth,
The Bombay Lights - astern!
Westward Ho!
by John Campbell

Away to the west! Westward ho! Westward ho!
Where over the prairies the summer winds blow!
Why known to so few were its rivers and plains,
Where rustle so tall in their ripeness the grains?
The bison and Red-men alone cared to roam
O'er realms that to millions must soon give a home;
The vast fertile levels Old Time loved to reap
The haymaker's song hath awakened from sleep.
Away to the West! Westward ho! Westward ho!
Why waited we fearing to plant and to sow?
Not ours was the waiting! By God was ordained
The hour when the ocean's grey steeds were up-reined,
And green marshes rose, and the bittern's abode
Became the Lone Land where the wild hunter strode,
And soils with grass harvests grew rich, and the clime
For us was prepared in the fulness of Time!
Away to the West! Westward ho! Westward ho!
For us 'twas prepared long ago, long ago!
There came from the Old World at last o'er the sea,
The bravest and best to this land of the free;
And, leal to their flag, won the fruits of the earth
By might that has given new nations a birth,
But found in our North-land a bride to be known
More worthy than all of the love of the throne.
Away to the West! Westward ho! Westward ho!
God's hand is our guide; 'tis His will that we go!
To lands yet more happy than Europe's, for here
We mould the young nation for Freedom to rear.
Full strongly we build, and have nought to pull down,
For, true to ourselves, we are true to the Crown;
The will of the people its honour shows forth,
As pole-star, whose radiance points steadfastly north.
Away to the West! Westward ho! Westward ho!
Where rooted in Freedom shall Liberty grow!
Right good is the loam that for five score of days
Its rolling lands show, or its plains' scented ways:
Nor used is the pick, if the earth has concealed
The waters it keeps for the house and the field;
The spade finds enough, until burst on the sight
Our Rocky Sierras' sweet rivers of light.
Away to the West! Westward ho! Westward ho!
From mountains and lakes there the great rivers flow!
If told of Brazil or great Mexico's gold,
Of Cotton States' warmth and of Canada's cold,
Go say how we prize, like the ore of the mine,
The snows sapphire-shadowed in winter's sunshine;
--Our gayest of seasons! which guards the good soil
For races who won it through faith and through toil.
Away to the West! Westward ho! Westward ho!
Bright sparkles its winter, and light is its snow!
There gaily, in measureless meadows, all day
The sun and the breeze with the grass are at play,
In billows that never can break as they pass,
But toss the gold foam of the flower-laden grass,
The bright yellow disks of the asters upcast
On waves that in blossoms flow silently past.
Away to the West! Westward-ho! Westward ho!
Where over the prairies the summer winds blow.
The West for you, boys! where our God has made room
For field and for city, for plough and for loom.
The West for you, girls! for our Canada deems
Love's home better luck than a gold-seeker's dreams.
Away! and your children shall bless you, for they
Shall rule o'er a land fairer far than Cathay.
Away to the West! Westward ho! Westward ho!
Thou God of their fathers, Thy blessing bestow!
Aubade
by Madison Julius Cawein

Awake! the dawn is on the hills!
Behold, at her cool throat a rose,
Blue-eyed and beautiful she goes,
Leaving her steps in daffodils.
Awake! arise! and let me see
Thine eyes, whose deeps epitomize
All dawns that were or are to be,
O love, all Heaven in thine eyes!
Awake! arise! come down to me!
Behold! the dawn is up: behold!
How all the birds around her float,
Wild rills of music, note on note,
Spilling the air with mellow gold.
Arise! awake! and, drawing near,
Let me but hear thee and rejoice!
Thou, who keep'st captive, sweet and clear,
All song, O love, within they voice!
Arise! awake! and let me hear!
See, where she comes, with limbs of day,
The dawn! with wild-rose hands and feet,
Within whose veins the sunbeams beat,
And laughters meet of wind and ray.
Arise! come down! and, heart to heart,
Love, let me clasp in thee all these
The sunbeam, of which thou art part,
And all the rapture of the breeze!
Arise! come down! loved that thou art!
Sonnet.
by Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny)

Away, away! bear me away, away,
Into the boundless void, thou mighty wind!
That rushest on thy midnight way,
And leav'st this weary world, far, far behind!
Away, away! bear me away, away,
To the wide strandless deep,
Ye headlong waters! whose mad eddies leap
From the pollution of your bed of clay!
Away, away, bear me away, away,
Into the fountains of eternal light,
Ye rosy clouds! that to my longing sight
Seem melting in the sun's devouring ray!
Away, away! oh, for some mighty blast,
To sweep this loathsome life into the past!
A Holiday Song.
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

Away to the hills, away! - 
There is health in the summer air; - 
The rustling bough, and the bending spray,
And the breath of flowers are there - 
The honey-bee's hum and the wild bird's song,
And sunshine and summer winds all day long!
Away to the hills, away!
There are peace and calmness there - 
White cloudlets floating in light all day
Through the blue transparent air, - 
Rose-tinted mornings and noontides rare,
And sunsets of crimson and gold are there!
Away to the hills, away!
From your weariness and care - 
From toil that has held on with tyrant sway,
To quiet and calmness there;
And bask in the beauty and bloom that fills
The cool, sweet depths of the summer hills!
Sailor-Boy's Song
by Hanford Lennox Gordon

Away, away, o'er the bounding sea
My spirit flies like a gull;
For I know my Mary is watching for me,
And the moon is bright and full.
She sits on the rock by the sounding shore,
And gazes over the sea;
And she sighs, "Will my sailor-boy come no more?
Will he never come back to me?"
The moonbeams play in her raven hair;
And the soft breeze kisses her brow;
But if your sailor-boy, love, were there,
He would kiss your sweet lips I trow.
And mother she sits in the cottage-door;
But her heart is out on the sea;
And she sighs, "Will my sailor-boy come no more?
Will he never come back to me?"
Ye winds that over the billows roam
With a low and sullen moan,
O swiftly come to waft me home;
O bear me back to my own.
For long have I been on the billowy deep,
On the boundless waste of sea;
And while I sleep there are two who weep,
And watch and pray for me.
When the mad storm roars till the stoutest fear
And the thunders roll over the sea,
I think of you, Mary and mother dear,
For I know you are thinking of me.
Then blow, ye winds, for my swift return;
Let the tempest roar o'er the main;
Let the billows yearn and the lightning burn;
They will hasten me home again.
That Lad Next Door.
by John Hartley

Aw've nowt agean mi naybors,
An aw wod'nt have it sed
'At aw wor cross an twazzy,
For aw'm kind an mild asteead.
But ther's an end to patience,
E'en Job knew that aw'm sewer; - 
An he nivver had noa dealins
Wi' that lad 'at lives next door.
It wod'nt do to tell 'em
What aw think abaat that lad,
One thing aw'm sarten sewer on,
Is, he's ivverything 'at's bad.
He's nivver aght o' mischief,
An he nivver stops his din, - 
He's noa sooiner aght o' one scrape,
Nor he's another in.
If he wor mine aw'd thresh him,
Wol th' skin coom off his back;
Aw'd cure him teein door-snecks,
Then givin th' door a whack.
Aw'd leearn him to draw th' shape o' me
Wi' chalk on th' nessy door,
An mak mud pies o' awr front steps
An leeav 'em thear bi th' scooar.
He's been a trifle quieter
For this last day or two;
He's up to some new devilment, - 
Aw dooant know what he'll do.
But here's his father comin,
He's lukkin awful sad, - 
Noa wonder, - aw'st be sad enuff
If aw had sich a lad.
Aw nivver thowt 'at aw could feel
Sich sorrow, or should grieve,
But little Dick is varry sick,
They dunnot think he'll live.
Aw'd nivver nowt agean him!
Aw liked that lad aw'm sure!
Pray God, be merciful, an spare
That lad 'at lives next door.
Our Thrissles Flourished Fresh And Fair.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Awa Whigs, awa."
Chorus.
Awa Whigs, awa!
Awa Whigs, awa!
Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns,
Ye'll do nae good at a'.
I
Our thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair,
And bonnie bloom'd our roses;
But Whigs came like a frost in June,
And wither'd a' our posies.
II.
Our ancient crown's fa'n in the dust,
Deil blin' them wi' the stoure o't;
And write their names in his black beuk,
Wha gae the Whigs the power o't.
III.
Our sad decay in Church and State
Surpasses my descriving:
The Whigs came o'er us for a curse,
And we hae done wi' thriving.
IV.
Grim vengeance lang ha's taen a nap,
But we may see him wauken;
Gude help the day when royal heads
Are hunted like a maukin.
Awa Whigs, awa!
Awa Whigs, awa!
Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns,
Ye'll do nae gude at a'.