DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
To Promise Is One Thing; To Keep It, Another
by Jean de La Fontaine

JOHN courts Perrette; but all in vain;
Love's sweetest oaths, and tears, and sighs
All potent spells her heart to gain
The ardent lover vainly tries:
Fruitless his arts to make her waver,
She will not grant the smallest favour:
A ruse our youth resolved to try
The cruel air to mollify: - 
Holding his fingers ten outspread
To Perrette's gaze, and with no dread
"So often," said he, "can I prove,
"My sweet Perrette, how warm my love."
When lover's last avowals fail
To melt the maiden's coy suspicions
A lover's sign will oft prevail
To win the way to soft concessions:
Half won she takes the tempting bait;
Smiles on him, draws her lover nearer,
With heart no longer obdurate
She teaches him no more to fear her - 
A pinch, - a kiss, - a kindling eye, - 
Her melting glances, - nothing said. - 
John ceases not his suit to ply
Till his first finger's debt is paid.
A second, third and fourth he gains,
Takes breath, and e'en a fifth maintains.
But who could long such contest wage?
Not I, although of fitting age,
Nor John himself, for here he stopped,
And further effort sudden dropped.
Perrette, whose appetite increased
just as her lover's vigour ceased,
In her fond reckoning defeated,
Considered she was greatly cheated - 
If duty, well discharged, such blame
Deserve; for many a highborn dame
Would be content with such deceit.
But Perrette, as already told,
Out of her count, began to scold
And call poor John an arrant cheat
For promising and not performing.
John calmly listened to her storming,
And well content with work well done,
Thinking his laurels fairly won,
Cooly replied, on taking leave:
"No cause I see to fume and grieve;
"Or for such trifle to dispute;
"To promise and to execute
"Are not the same, be it confessed,
"Suffice it to have done one's best;
"With time I'll yet discharge what's due;
"Meanwhile, my sweet Perrette, adieu!"
Galt And Dunlop.
by James McIntyre

John Galt was the manager of the Canada Company's lands, and he was a Scottish Novelist. Dunlop was at one time an eminent British Journalist, but he finally settled near Goderich. The town of Galt is named after John Galt.
John Galt and Doctor Dunlop witty
They located and planned the city
Of Guelph, and they cut the first tree down,
The stump was the centre of the town.
From thence the streets radiate like fan,
And they projected on this same plan
The towns of Stratford and Goderich,
The last it stands near broad Huron's beach,
Conspicuous on a bluff so grand,
'Neath which doth flow the clear Maitland,
Of glorious view you may partake,
Gazing on Huron's mighty lake.
Sonnet to  ---- .
by W. M. MacKeracher

Journeying through a desert, waste and drear,
Exhausted and disheartened by his way,
So hard and parched, unchanged from day to day,
Saw the lone traveller an oasis near,
In which a tender flower did appear,
Endued with beauty and with fragrance sweet,
Known not to scorching winds nor blighting heat;
And gazing on it, it imparted cheer.
The traveller trod the weary sands of Time,
Entering thy home delightful peace he found;
Radiant with youthful beauty half divine,
On him thine angel face with sunbeams crowned
Smiled, and that artless, beaming smile of thine
Sped to his soul that with new life did bound.
The Cherry-Tree Carol
by Frank Sidgwick

The Text.--As this carol consists of two parts, the first containing the actual story of the cherry-tree, and the second consisting of the angel's song to Joseph, I have taken the first part (stt. 1-12 inclusive) from the version of Sandys (Christmas Carols), and the second (stt. 13-17) from W. H. Husk's Songs of the Nativity.
The Story of the cherry-tree is derived from the Pseudo-Matthew's gospel, and is also to be found in the fifteenth of the Coventry Mysteries. In other languages the fruit chosen is naturally adapted to the country: thus in Proven'al it is an apple; elsewhere (as in the original), dates from the palm-tree; and again, a fig-tree.
The second part is often printed as a separate carol, and might well stand alone. Readers of Westward Ho! will remember how Amyas Leigh trolls it forth on Christmas Day. Traditional versions are still to be heard in Somerset and Devon.
THE CHERRY-TREE CAROL
1.
Joseph was an old man,
And an old man was he,
When he wedded Mary,
In the land of Galilee.
2.
Joseph and Mary walked
Through an orchard good,
Where was cherries and berries,
So red as any blood.
3.
Joseph and Mary walked
Through an orchard green,
Where was berries and cherries,
As thick as might be seen.
4.
O then bespoke Mary,
So meek and so mild:
'Pluck me one cherry, Joseph,
For I am with child.'
5.
O then bespoke Joseph,
With words most unkind:
'Let him pluck thee a cherry
That got thee with child.'
6.
O then bespoke the babe,
Within his mother's womb:
'Bow down then the tallest tree,
For my mother to have some.'
7.
Then bowed down the highest tree
Unto his mother's hand;
Then she cried, 'See, Joseph,
I have cherries at command.'
8.
O then bespake Joseph:
'I have done Mary wrong;
But cheer up, my dearest,
And be not cast down.'
9.
Then Mary plucked a cherry
As red as the blood;
Then Mary went home
With her heavy load.
10.
Then Mary took her babe,
And sat him on her knee,
Saying, 'My dear son, tell me
What this world will be.'
11.
'O I shall be as dead, mother,
As the stones in the wall;
O the stones in the streets, mother,
Shall mourn for me all.
12.
'Upon Easter-day, mother,
My uprising shall be;
O the sun and the moon, mother,
Shall both rise with me.'
*        *        *
13.
As Joseph was a walking,
He heard an angel sing:
'This night shall be born
Our heavenly king.
14.
'He neither shall be born
In housen nor in hall,
Nor in the place of Paradise,
But in an ox's stall.
15.
'He neither shall be clothed
In purple nor in pall,
But all in fair linen,
As wear babies all.
16.
'He neither shall be rocked
In silver nor in gold,
But in a wooden cradle,
That rocks on the mould.
17.
'He neither shall be christened
In white wine nor red,
But with fair spring water,
With which we were christened.'
Written In The Album Of The Lady Of Counsellor D. Pollock.
by Thomas Gent

Joy to thee, Lady! many years of joy
To thee--and thine--that springtide of the heart,
The bliss of virtuous love, without alloy.
And all that health and gladsome life impart.
How gracefully hast thou thy task perform'd,
The watchful tender mother, matchless wife;
All woman boasts--thou hast indeed adorn'd--
Thine the high merit of an useful life.
For ever cheerful, though the Tragic Muse[1]
May call thee Sister, both in form and mind;
Thou do'st to all those envied charms transfuse,
Which shine so highly temper'd and refined.
Lady revered--the sunbeam and the rose
Are poor in beauty to sweet woman's smiles:
'Tis the bright sunset of life's awful close,
The Poet's deathless wreath! a spell all grief beguiles!
Epitaph Of La Fontaine - Made By Himself
by Jean de La Fontaine

JOHN, as he came, so went away,
Consuming capital and pay,
Holding superfluous riches cheap;
The trick of spending time he knew,
Dividing it in portions two,
For idling one, and one for sleep.
Upon Jone And Jane.
by Robert Herrick

Jone is a wench that's painted;
Jone is a girl that's tainted;
Yet Jone she goes
Like one of those
Whom purity had sainted.
Jane is a girl that's pretty;
Jane is a wench that's witty;
Yet who would think,
Her breath does stink,
As so it doth? that's pity.
True Johnny.
by Robert von Ranke Graves

Johnny, sweetheart, can you be true
To all those famous vows you've made,
Will you love me as I love you
Until we both in earth are laid?
Or shall the old wives nod and say
His love was only for a day:
The mood goes by,
His fancies fly,
And Mary's left to sigh.
Mary, alas, you've hit the truth,
And I with grief can but admit
Hot-blooded haste controls my youth,
My idle fancies veer and flit
From flower to flower, from tree to tree,
And when the moment catches me,
Oh, love goes by
Away I fly
And leave my girl to sigh.
Could you but now foretell the day,
Johnny, when this sad thing must be,
When light and gay you'll turn away
And laugh and break the heart in me?
For like a nut for true love's sake
My empty heart shall crack and break,
When fancies fly
And love goes by
And Mary's left to die.
When the sun turns against the clock,
When Avon waters upward flow,
When eggs are laid by barn-door cock,
When dusty hens do strut and crow,
When up is down, when left is right,
Oh, then I'll break the troth I plight,
With careless eye
Away I'll fly
And Mary here shall die.
Johnnie Courteau
by William Henry Drummond

Johnnie Courteau of de mountain
Johnnie Courteau of de hill
Dat was de boy can shoot de gun
Dat was de boy can jomp an' run
An'it's not very often you ketch heem still
Johnnie Courteau !
Ax dem along de reever
Ax dem along de shore
Who was de mos'bes'fightin'man
From Managance to Shaw-in-I-gan?
De place we're de great beeg rapide roar,
Johnnie Courteau !
Sam't'ng on ev'ry shaintee
Up on de Mekinac
Who was the man man walk de log,
W'en w'ole of de reever she's black wit'fog
An'carry de beeges'load on hees back?
Johnnie Courteau !
On de rapide you want to see heem
If de raf'she 's swingin'roun'
An'he 's yellin' "Hooray Bateese! good
man!"
W'y de oar come double on hees han'
W'en he's makin' dat raf'go flyin'down
Johnnie Courteau !
An' T'te de Boule chief can tole you
De feller w'at save hees life
W'en beeg moose on de head, sapree!
An'den run off wit' hees Injun wife?
Johnnie Courteau !
An' he only have pike pole wit'heem
On Lac a la Tortue
W'en he meet de bear comin' down the hill
But de bear very soon is get hees fill!
An' he sole dat skin for ten dollar too,
Johnnie Courteau !
Oh he never was scare for not'ing
Lak de ole coureurs de bois,
But w'en he's getting'hees winter pay
De bes't'ing sure is kip out de way
For he's goin'right off on de Hip Hooraw!
Johnnie Courteau !
Den pullin'hees sash aroun'heem
He dance on hees botte sauvage
An'shout    "All aboar' if you want to fight!"
Wall! You never can see de finer sight
W'en he go lak dat on de w'ole village!
Johnnie Courteau !
But Johnnie Courteau    get marry
On Philomene Beaurepaire
She's nice leetle girl was run de school
On w'at you call Parish of Sainte Ursule
An' he see her off on de pique-nique dere
Johnnie Courteau !
Den somet'ing come over Johnnie
W'en he marry on Philomene
For he stay on de farm de w'ole year roun'
He chop de wood an' he plough de ground'
An' he's quieter feller was never seen,
Johnnie Courteau !
An'ev'ry wan feel astonish
From La Tuque to Shaw-in-i-gan
W'en dey hear de news was goin' aroun'
Along on de reever up an' down
How wan leetle woman boss dat beeg man
Johnnie Courteau !
He never come out on de evening
No matter de hard we try
'Cos he stay on de kitchen an' sing hees song
"A la claire fontaine
M'en allant promener
J'ai trouv' l'eau si belle
Que je m'y suis baigner
Lui y'a longtemps que je t'aime
Jamais je ne t'oublierai."
Rockin' de cradle de w'ole night long
Till baby's asleep on de sweet bimeby
Johnnie Courteau !
An'de house, wall!    I wish you see it
De place she's so nice an' clean
Mus'wipe your foot on de outside door,
You're dead man sure if    you spit on de floor,
An' he never    say not'ing on Philomene
Johnnie Courteau !
An' Philomene watch de monee
An' put it all safe away
On very good place; I dunno w'ere
But anyhow nobody see it dere
So she's buyin' new farm de noder day
MADAME Courteau !
A Pastoral
by Ellis Parker Butler

Just as the sun was setting
Back of the Western hills
Grandfather stood by the window
Eating the last of his pills.
And Grandmother, by the cupboard,
Knitting, heard him say:
'I ought to have went to the village
To fetch some more pills today.'
Then Grandmother snuffled a teardrop
And said. 'It is jest like I suz
T' th' parson'Grandfather's liver
Ain't what it used to was:
'It's gittin' torpid and dormant,
It don't function like of old,
And even them pills he swallers
Don't seem no more t' catch hold;
'They used to grab it and shake it
And joggle it up and down
And turn dear Grandfather yaller
Except when they turned him brown;
'I remember when we was married
His liver was lively and gay,
A kickin' an' rippin' an' givin'
Dear Ezry new pains ev'ry day;
'It used to turn clear over backwards
An' palpitate wuss'n a pump
An' give him the janders and yallers
An' bounce around thumpty-thump;
'But now it is torpid and dormant
And painless and quiet and cold;
Ah, me! all's so peaceful an' quiet
Since Grandfather's liver 's grown old!
Then Grandmother wiped a new teardrop
And sighed: 'It is just like I suz
T' th' parson: Grandfather's liver
Ain't what it used to was.'
Wamberal
by Henry Kendall

Just a shell, to which the seaweed glittering yet with greenness clings,
Like the song that once I loved so, softly of the old time sings
Softly of the old time speaketh bringing ever back to me
Sights of far-off lordly forelands glimpses of the sounding sea!
Now the cliffs are all before me now, indeed, do I behold
Shining growths on wild wet hillheads, quiet pools of green and gold.
And, across the gleaming beaches, lo! the mighty flow and fall
Of the great ingathering waters thundering under Wamberal!
Back there are the pondering mountains; there the dim, dumb ranges loom
Ghostly shapes in dead grey vapour half-seen peaks august with gloom.
There the voice of troubled torrents, hidden in unfathomed deeps,
Known to moss and faint green sunlight, wanders down the oozy steeps.
There the lake of many runnels nestles in a windless wild
Far amongst thick-folded forests, like a radiant human child.
And beyond surf-smitten uplands high above the highest spur
Lo! the clouds like tents of tempest on the crags of Kincumber!
Wamberal, the home of echoes! Hard against a streaming strand,
Sits the hill of blind black caverns, at the limits of the land.
Here the haughty water marches here the flights of straitened sea
Make a noise like that of trumpets, breaking wide across the lea!
But behold, in yonder crescent that a ring of island locks
Are the gold and emerald cisterns shining moonlike in the rocks!
Clear, bright cisterns, zoned by mosses, where the faint wet blossoms dwell
With the leaf of many colours down beside the starry shell.
Friend of mine beyond the mountains, here and here the perished days
Come like sad reproachful phantoms, in the deep grey evening haze
Come like ghosts, and sit beside me when the noise of day is still,
And the rain is on the window, and the wind is on the hill.
Then they linger, but they speak not, while my memory roams and roams
Over scenes by death made sacred other lands and other homes!
Places sanctified by sorrow sweetened by the face of yore
Face that you and I may look on (friend and brother) nevermore!
Seasons come with tender solace time lacks neither light nor rest;
But the old thoughts were such dear ones, and the old days seem the best.
And to those who've loved and suffered, every pulse of wind or rain
Every song with sadness in it, brings the peopled Past again.
Therefore, just this shell yet dripping, with this weed of green and grey,
Sets me thinking sets me dreaming of the places far away;
Dreaming of the golden rockpools of the foreland and the fall;
And the home behind the mountains looming over Wamberal.
The Lost Leader
by Robert Browning

I.
Just for a handful of silver he left us,
Just for a riband to stick in his coat
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,
Lost all the others she lets us devote;
They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,
So much was theirs who so little allowed:
How all our copper had gone for his service!
Rags were they purple, his heart had been proud!
We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him,
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,
Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,
Made him our pattern to live and to die!
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,
Burns, Shelley, were with us, they watch from their graves!
He alone breaks from the van and the free-men,
He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!
II.
We shall march prospering, not thro' his presence;
Songs may inspirit us, not from his lyre;
Deeds will be done, while he boasts his quiescence,
Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire:
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,
One task more declined, one more foot-path untrod,
One more triumph for devils, and sorrow for angels,
One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!
Life's night begins: let him never come back to us!
There would be doubt, hesitation and pain,
Forced praise on our part the glimmer of twilight,
Never glad confident morning again!
Best fight on well, for we taught him strike gallantly,
Aim at our heart ere we pierce through his own;
Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us,
Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!
Another Way Of Love
by Robert Browning

I.
June was not over
Though past the fall,
And the best of her roses
Had yet to blow,
When a man I know
(But shall not discover,
Since ears are dull,
And time discloses)
Turned him and said with a man's true air,
Half sighing a smile in a yawn, as 'twere,
'If I tire of your June, will she greatly care?'
II.
Well, dear, in-doors with you!
True, serene deadness
Tries a man's temper.
What's in the blossom
June wears on her bosom?
Can it clear scores with you?
Sweetness and redness.
Eadem semper!
Go, let me care for it greatly or slightly!
If June mends her bowers now, your hand left unsightly
By plucking the roses, my June will do rightly.
III.
And after, for pastime,
If June be refulgent
With flowers in completeness,
All petals, no prickles,
Delicious as trickles
Of wine poured at mass-time,
And choose One indulgent
To redness and sweetness:
Or if, with experience of man and of spider,
June use my June-lightning, the strong insect-ridder,
And stop the fresh spinning, why, June will consider.
Jubal And Tubal Cain
by Rudyard Kipling

Jubal sang of the Wrath of God 
And the curse of thistle and thorn, 
But Tubal got him a pointed rod, 
And scrabbled the earth for corn. 
Old, old as that early mould, 
Young as the sprouting grain, 
Yearly green is the strife between Jubal and Tubal Cain! 
Jubal sang of the new-found sea, 
And the love that its waves divide, 
But Tubal hollowed a fallen tree 
And passed to the further side. 
Black-black as the hurricane-wrack, 
Salt as the under-main, 
Bitter and cold is the hate they hold, Jubal and Tubal Cain! 
Jubal sang of the golden years 
When wars and wounds shall cease, 
But Tubal fashioned the hand-flung spears 
And showed his neighbours peace. 
New, new as Nine-point-Two, 
Older than Lamech's slain, 
Roaring and loud is the feud avowed Twix' Jubal and Tubal Cain! 
Jubal sang of the cliffs that bar 
And the peaks that none may crown, 
But Tubal clambered by jut and scar 
And there he builded a town. 
High-high as the snowsheds lie, 
Low as the culverts drain, 
Wherever they be they can never agree, Jubal and Tubal Cain!
Chrysaor
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Just above yon sandy bar,
As the day grows fainter and dimmer,
Lonely and lovely, a single star
Lights the air with a dusky glimmer
Into the ocean faint and far
Falls the trail of its golden splendor,
And the gleam of that single star
Is ever refulgent, soft, and tender.
Chrysaor, rising out of the sea,
Showed thus glorious and thus emulous,
Leaving the arms of Callirrhoe,
Forever tender, soft, and tremulous.
Thus o'er the ocean faint and far
Trailed the gleam of his falchion brightly;
Is it a God, or is it a star
That, entranced, I gaze on nightly!
To Miss Atkinson, On The Extreme Diffidence Which She Displays To Strangers.
by John Carr (Sir)

Just as a fawn, in forest shade,
Trembling to meet th' admiring eye,
I've seen thee try to hide, sweet maid!
Thy charms behind thy modesty.
Thus too I've seen at midnight steal
A fleecy cloud before the wind,
And veil, tho' it could not conceal,
The brilliant light that shone behind.
A Song
by Michael Earls

(For John McCormack)
June of the trees in glory,
June of the meadows gay!
O, and it works a story
To tell an October day.
Blooms of the apple and cherry
Toil for the far-off hours;
Never is idleness merry,
In song of the garden bowers.
Brooks to the sea from mountains,
Yea, and from field and vine:
Rain and the sun are fountains
That gather for wheat and wine.
Cellar and loft shall glory,
Table and hearth shall praise,
Hearing October's story
Of June and the merry days.
Written In An Album.
by Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Judge we of coming, by the by-past, years,
And still can Hope, the siren, soothe our fears?
Cheated, deceived, our cherished day-dreams o'er,
We cling the closer, and we trust the more.
Oh, who can say there's bliss in the review
Of hours, when Hope with fairy fingers drew
A magic sketch of "rapture yet to be,"
A rainbow horizon, a life of glee!
The world all bright before us vivid scene
Of cloudless sunshine and of fadeless green;
A treacherous picture of our coming years,
Bright in prospective welcomed but with tears.
How false the view, a backward glance will tell!
A tale of visions wrecked, of broken spell,
Of valued hearts estranged or careless grown,
Affection's links dissevered or unknown;
Of joys, deemed fadeless, gone to swift decay,
And love's broad circle dwindled half away;
Of early graves of friends who, one by one,
Leave us at last to journey on alone.
Turn to the home of childhood hallowed spot,
Through life's vicissitudes still unforgot;
The sacred hearth deserted now is found,
Or unloved stranger-forms are circling round.
In the dear hall, whose sounds were all our own,
Are other voices, other accents known;
And where our early friends? A starting tear
And the rude headstone promptly answer, "Here."
Thus will compare Hope's sketch of bliss to be
With the undreamed of, sad reality;
Yet this and more the afflicted heart may bear,
If Faith, celestial visitant, be there,
Whispering of greener shores, of purer skies,
Of flowers unfading, love that never dies,
A glimpse of joy to come in mercy given,
The eternal sunshine of approving Heaven.
Verses: Faiz Ulla
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

Just in the hush before dawn
A little wistful wind is born.
A little chilly errant breeze,
That thrills the grasses, stirs the trees.
And, as it wanders on its way,
While yet the night is cool and dark,
The first carol of the lark, - 
Its plaintive murmurs seem to say
"I wait the sorrows of the day."