DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Nursery Rhyme. II. Historical
by Unknown

When good king Arthur ruled this land,
He was a goodly king;
He stole three pecks of barley-meal,
To make a bag-pudding.
A bag-pudding the king did make,
And stuff'd it well with plums:
And in it put great lumps of fat,
As big as my two thumbs.
The king and queen did eat thereof,
And noblemen beside;
And what they could not eat that night,
The queen next morning fried.
Sonnets - III. - St. Catherine Of Ledbury
by William Wordsworth

When human touch (as monkish books attest)
Nor was applied nor could be, Ledbury bells
Broke forth in concert flung adown the dells,
And upward, high as Malvern's cloudy crest;
Sweet tones, and caught by a noble Lady blest
To rapture! Mabel listened at the side
Of her loved mistress: soon the music died,
And Catherine said, "Here I set up my rest."
Warned in a dream, the Wanderer long had sought
A home that by such miracle of sound
Must be revealed: she heard it now, or felt
The deep, deep joy of a confiding thought;
And there, a saintly Anchoress, she dwelt
Till she exchanged for heaven that happy ground.
When He, Who Adores Thee.
by Thomas Moore

When he, who adores thee, has left but the name
Of his fault and his sorrows behind,
Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
Of a life that for thee was resigned?
Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
Thy tears shall efface their decree;
For Heaven can witness, tho' guilty to them,
I have been but too faithful to thee.
With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
Every thought of my reason was thine;
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above,
Thy name shall be mingled with mine.
Oh! blest are the lovers and friend who shall live
The days of thy glory to see;
But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give
Is the pride of thus dying for thee.
On Seeing A Tuft Of Snowdrops In A Storm
by William Wordsworth

When haughty expectations prostrate lie,
And grandeur crouches like a guilty thing,
Oft shall the lowly weak, till nature bring
Mature release, in fair society
Survive, and Fortune's utmost anger try;
Like these frail snowdrops that together cling,
And nod their helmets, smitten by the wing
Of many a furious whirl-blast sweeping by.
Observe the faithful flowers! if small to great
May lead the thoughts, thus struggling used to stand
The Emathian phalanx, nobly obstinate;
And so the bright immortal Theban band,
Whom onset, fiercely urged at Jove's command,
Might overwhelm, but could not separate!
The Whole Duty of Kittens
by Oliver Herford

When Human Folk at Table eat,
A Kitten must not mew for meat,
Or jump to grab it from the Dish,
(Unless it happens to be fish).
Lines Written In Dejection
by William Butler Yeats

When have I last looked on
The round green eyes and the long wavering bodies
Of the dark leopards of the moon?
All the wild witches, those most noble ladies,
For all their broom-sticks and their tears,
Their angry tears, are gone.
The holy centaurs of the hills are banished;
I have nothing but the harsh sun;
Heroic mother moon has vanished,
And now that I have come to fifty years
I must endure the timid sun.
His Prayer To Ben Jonson
by Robert Herrick

When I a verse shall make,
Know I have pray'd thee,
For old religion's sake,
Saint Ben to aid me.
Make the way smooth for me,
When I, thy Herrick,
Honouring thee, on my knee
Offer my lyric.
Candles I'll give to thee,
And a new altar,
And thou, Saint Ben, shalt be
Writ in my psalter.
I Shall Not Care
by Sara Teasdale

When I am dead and over me bright April
Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,
Though you should lean above me broken-hearted,
I shall not care.
I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful
When rain bends down the bough,
And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted
Than you are now.
The Best.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

When head and heart are busy, say,
What better can be found?
Who neither loves nor goes astray,
Were better under ground.
The Boss Over The Board
by Henry Lawson

When he's over a rough and unpopular shed,
With the sins of the bank and the men on his head;
When he musn't look black or indulge in a grin,
And thirty or forty men hate him like Sin,
I am moved to admit, when the total is scored,
That it's just a bit off for the Boss-of -the-board.
I have battled a lot,
But my dream's never soared
To the lonely position of Boss-of-the-board.
'Twas a black-listed shed down the Darling: the Boss
Was a small man to see, though a big man to cross,
We had nought to complain of, except what we thought,
And the Boss didn't boss any more than he ought;
But the Union was booming, and Brotherhood soared,
So we hated like poison the Boss-of-the-board.
We could tolerate 'hands',
We respected the cook;
But the name of a Boss was a blot in our book.
He'd a row with Big Duggan, a rough sort of Jim,
Or, rather, Jim Duggan was 'laying for' him!
His hate of Injustice and Greed was so deep
That his shearing grew rough, and he ill-used the sheep.
And I fancied that Duggan his manliness lower'd
When he took off his shirt to the Boss-of-the-board,
For the Boss was ten stone,
And the shearer full-grown,
And he might have, they said, let the crawler alone.
Though some of us there wished the fight to the strong,
Yet we knew in our hearts that the shearer was wrong.
And the crawler was plucky, it can't be denied,
For he had to fight Freedom and Justice beside,
But he came up so gamely, as often as floored,
That a blackleg stood up for the Boss-of-the-board!
And the fight was a sight,
And we pondered that night,
'It's surprising how some of those blacklegs can fight!'
Next day at the office, when sadly the wreck
Of Jim Duggan came up like a lamb for his cheque,
Said the Boss, 'Don't be childish! It's all past and gone;
'I am short of good shearers. You'd better stay on.'
And we fancied Jim Duggan our dignity lower'd
When he stopped to oblige a damned Boss-of-the-board.
We said nothing to Jim,
For a joke might be grim,
And the subject, we saw, was distasteful to him.
The Boss just went on as he'd done from the first,
And he favoured Big Duggan no more than the worst;
And when we'd cut out and the steamer came down,
With the hawkers and spielers, to take us to town,
And we'd all got aboard, 'twas Jim Duggan, good Lord!
Who yelled for three cheers for the Boss-of-the-board.
'Twas a bit off, no doubt,
And with Freedom about,
But a lot is forgot when a shed is cut out.
With Freedom of Contract maintained in his shed,
And the curse of the Children of Light on his head,
He's apt to long sadly for sweetheart or wife,
And his views be inclined to the dark side of life.
The Truth must be spread and the Cause must be shored,
But it's just a bit rough on the Boss-of-the-board.
I am all for the Right,
But perhaps (out of sight)
As a son or a husband or father he's white.
Hafiz
by Oliver Herford

When Hafiz saw the portrait free,
By Monty Flagg, of him and me,
He made remarks one can't repeat
In any reputable sheet.
Thoughts
by Sara Teasdale

When I am all alone
Envy me most,
Then my thoughts flutter round me
In a glimmering host;
Some dressed in silver,
Some dressed in white,
Each like a taper
Blossoming light;
Most of them merry,
Some of them grave,
Each of them lithe
As willows that wave;
Some bearing violets,
Some bearing bay,
One with a burning rose
Hidden away.
When I am all alone
Envy me then,
For I have better friends
Than women and men.
William Tell. [59]
by Friedrich Schiller

When hostile elements with rage resound,
And fury blindly fans war's lurid flame, 
When in the strife of party quarrel drowned,
The voice of justice no regard can claim, 
When crime is free, and impious hands are found
The sacred to pollute, devoid of shame,
And loose the anchor which the state maintains, 
No subject there we find for joyous strains.
But when a nation, that its flocks still feeds
With calm content, nor other's wealth desires
Throws off the cruel yoke 'neath which it bleeds,
Yet, e'en in wrath, humanity admires, 
And, e'en in triumph, moderation heeds, 
That is immortal, and our song requires.
To show thee such an image now is mine;
Thou knowest it well, for all that's great is thine!
Specula
by Thomas Edward Brown

When He appoints to meet thee, go thou forth,
It matters not
If south or north,
Bleak waste or sunny plot.
Nor think, if haply He thou seek'st be late,
He does thee wrong.
To stile or gate
Lean thou thy head, and long!
It may be that to spy thee He is mounting
Upon a tower,
Or in thy counting
Thou hast mista'en the hour.
But, if He comes not, neither do thou go
Till Vesper chime.
Belike thou then shalt know
He hath been with thee all the time.
Song. Metempsychosis.
by Thomas Runciman

When Grief comes this way by
With her wan lip and drooping eye,
Bid her welcome, woo her boldly;
Soon she'll look on thee less coldly.
Her tears soon cease to flow.
'Tis now not Grief but Joy we know;
From her smiling face the roses
Tell the glad metempsychosis.
To Lady Heathcote, On An Old Ring Found At Tunbridge-Wells.
by Thomas Moore

"Tunnebridge est ' la m'me distance de Londres, que Fontainebleau
l'est de Paris. Ce qu'il y a de beau et de galant dans l'un et dans
l'autre sexe s'y rassemble au terns des eaux. La compagnie," etc.
--See Memoires de Grammont, Second Part, chap. iii.
Tunbridge Wells.
When Grammont graced these happy springs,
And Tunbridge saw, upon her Pantiles,
The merriest wight of all the kings
That ever ruled these gay, gallant isles;
Like us, by day, they rode, they walked,
At eve they did as we may do,
And Grammont just like Spencer talked,
And lovely Stewart smiled like you.
The only different trait is this,
That woman then, if man beset her,
Was rather given to saying "yes,"
Because,--as yet, she knew no better.
Each night they held a coterie,
Where, every fear to slumber charmed,
Lovers were all they ought to be,
And husbands not the least alarmed.
Then called they up their school-day pranks,
Nor thought it much their sense beneath
To play at riddles, quips, and cranks,
And lords showed wit, and ladies teeth.
As--"Why are husbands like the mint?"
Because, forsooth, a husband's duty
Is but to set the name and print
That give a currency to beauty.
"Why is a rose in nettles hid
Like a young widow, fresh and fair?"
Because 'tis sighing to be rid
Of weeds, that "have no business there!"
And thus they missed and thus they hit,
And now they struck and now they parried;
And some lay in of full grown wit.
While others of a pun miscarried,
'Twas one of those facetious nights
That Grammont gave this forfeit ring
For breaking grave conundrumrites,
Or punning ill, or--some such thing;--
From whence it can be fairly traced,
Through many a branch and many a bough,
From twig to twig, until it graced
The snowy hand that wears it now.
All this I'll prove, and then, to you
Oh Tunbridge! and your springs ironical,
I swear by Heathcote's eye of blue
To dedicate the important chronicle.
Long may your ancient inmates give
Their mantles to your modern lodgers,
And Charles's loves in Heathcote live,
And Charles's bards revive in Rogers.
Let no pedantic fools be there;
For ever be those fops abolished,
With heads as wooden as thy ware,
And, heaven knows! not half so polished.
But still receive the young, the gay.
The few who know the rare delight
Of reading Grammont every day,
And acting Grammont every night.
The Huntsman And His Hound.
by Thomas Frederick Young

When hill and dale, long years ago,
Lay clad in nature's dress,
And flourish'd the primeval pomp
Of nature's wilderness,
A huntsman and his hound would roam,
Where fed the timid deer,
And where the partridge's drum, or whirr,
Brought music to his ear.
In sooth, he heard all forest sounds
With real sportsman's joy;
And here he always pleasure found,
With little of alloy.
The pigeon's coo, the squirrel's chirp,
The wild-bird's thrilling lay,
Brought freshen'd pleasure to his heart,
At ev'ry op'ning day.
But music sweeter far than aught
In wood or vale around,
Was the loud crackling of the deer,
Or baying of his hound.
Full many a deer his steady aim,
With faithful rifle slew,
But, faithful as his rifle was,
His hound was faithful, too.
With loud, sonorous bay, he ran
Through swamp, or darken'd brake,
Till, from the bush the deer would bound
Far out into the lake.
And then, with ready boat at hand,
The hunter got his game;
For to its struggling, frightened mark,
The well-aim'd bullet came.
And thus they liv'd from day to day,
This hunter and his hound;
With nature's simple joys content,
He felt not life's dull round.
A hunter's life he dearly lov'd,
And still, from day to day,
No other sound he lov'd to hear,
Like his own deer-hound's bay.
But soon that voice must sound no more;
The faithful dog must die;
The man must hunt the deer, without
That well-known, guiding cry.
The hound had chas'd a noble buck
Right down into the lake,
But roll'd the waves so high and strong,
The noble beast did quake
With fear, for now he saw 'twas death,
To leave the solid shore - 
A lesser danger there he saw,
So back he came once more.
He came with fierce, determin'd bounds,
Impell'd by wild despair,
With lower'd head he reach'd the dog,
Who bravely met him there.
But short the fight, the antlers gor'd,
The dog's brave heart, so true
To him who stood upon the shore,
As spell-bound by the view.
The dog's death yell rang o'er the lake,
For him, and for his foe,
As whizzing came the well-aim'd ball,
That laid the slayer low.
The bullet came, but yet too late
To save the gallant hound;
And long the hunter mourn'd his loss,
And miss'd his voice's sound.
When Hopes Ran High
by Henry Lawson

When hopes ran high the world was young,
We thought that we would never die,
And glorious were the songs we sung
In those grand days when hopes ran high.
When hopes ran high the world was true
We thought that friends could never lie,
There have been bitter truths for you
And me, since days when hopes ran high.
Haunted.
by Madison Julius Cawein

When grave the twilight settles o'er my roof,
And from the haggard oaks unto my door
The rain comes, wild as one who rides before
His enemies that follow, hoof to hoof;
And in each window's gusty curtain-woof
The rain-wind sighs, like one who mutters o'er
Some tale of love and crime; and, on the floor,
The sunset spreads red stains as bloody proof;
From hall to hall and stealthy stair to stair,
Through all the house, a dread that drags me toward
The ancient dusk of that avoided room,
Wherein she sits with ghostly golden hair,
And eyes that gaze beyond her soul's sad doom,
Bending above an unreal harpsichord.
Song
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.
Till I Wake
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

When I am dying, lean over me tenderly, softly,
Stoop, as the yellow roses droop in the wind from the South.
So I may, when I wake, if there be an Awakening,
Keep, what lulled me to sleep, the touch of your lips on my mouth.
The American War. - A Fragment.
by Robert Burns

I.
When Guildford good our pilot stood,
And did our hellim thraw, man,
Ae night, at tea, began a plea,
Within America, man:
Then up they gat the maskin-pat,
And in the sea did jaw, man;
An' did nae less in full Congress,
Than quite refuse our law, man.
II.
Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes,
I wat he was na slaw, man;
Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn,
And Carleton did ca', man;
But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec,
Montgomery-like did fa', man,
Wi' sword in hand, before his band,
Amang his en'mies a', man.
III.
Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage,
Was kept at Boston ha', man;
Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe
For Philadelphia, man;
Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin
Guid Christian blood to draw, man:
But at New York, wi' knife an' fork,
Sir-loin he hacked sma', man.
IV.
Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip,
Till Fraser brave did fa', man,
Then lost his way, ae misty day,
In Saratoga shaw, man.
Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought,
An' did the buckskins claw, man;
But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save,
He hung it to the wa', man.
V.
Then Montague, an' Guilford, too,
Began to fear a fa', man;
And Sackville dour, wha stood the stoure,
The German Chief to thraw, man;
For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk,
Nae mercy had at a', man;
An' Charlie Fox threw by the box,
An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man.
VI.
Then Rockingham took up the game,
Till death did on him ca', man;
When Shelburne meek held up his cheek,
Conform to gospel law, man;
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise,
They did his measures thraw, man,
For North an' Fox united stocks,
An' bore him to the wa', man.
VII.
Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's cartes,
He swept the stakes awa', man,
Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race,
Led him a sair faux pas, man;
The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads,
On Chatham's boy did ca', man;
An' Scotland drew her pipe, an' blew,
"Up, Willie, waur them a', man!"
VIII.
Behind the throne then Grenville's gone,
A secret word or twa, man;
While slee Dundas arous'd the class,
Be-north the Roman wa', man:
An' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith,
(Inspired Bardies saw, man)
Wi' kindling eyes cry'd "Willie, rise!
Would I hae fear'd them a', man?"
IX.
But, word an' blow, North, Fox, and Co.,
Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man,
Till Suthron raise, and coost their claise
Behind him in a raw, man;
An' Caledon threw by the drone,
An' did her whittle draw, man;
An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' blood
To make it guid in law, man.
The Chimney-Sweeps Of Cheltenham
by Alfred Noyes

When hawthorn buds are creaming white,
And the red foolscap all stuck with may,
Then lasses walk with eyes alight,
And it's chimney-sweepers' dancing day.
For the chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham town,
Sooty of face as a swallow of wing,
Come whistling, singing, dancing down
With white teeth flashing as they sing.
And Jack-in-the green, by a clown in blue,
Walks like a two-legged bush of may,
With the little wee lads that wriggled up the flue
Ere Cheltenham town cried "dancing day."
For brooms were short and the chimneys tall,
And the gipsies caught 'em these blackbirds cheap,
So Cheltenham bought them, spry and small,
And shoved them up in the dark to sweep.
For Cheltenham town was cruel of old,
But she has been gathering garlands gay,
And the little wee lads are in green and gold,
For it's chimney-sweepers' dancing day.
And red as a rose, and blue as the sky,
With teeth as white as their faces are black,
The master-sweeps go dancing by,
With a gridiron painted on every back.
But when they are ranged in the market-place,
The clown's wife comes with an iron spoon,
And cozens a penny for her sweet face
To keep their golden throats in tune.
Then, hushing the riot of that mad throng,
And sweet as the voice of a long-dead May,
A wandering pedlar lifts 'em a song,
Of chimney-sweepers' dancing day;
And the sooty faces, they try to recall....
As they gather around in their spell-struck rings....
But nobody knows that singer at all
Or the curious old-time air he sings:--
Why are you dancing, O chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham,
And where did you win you these may-coats so fine;
For some are red as roses, and some are gold as daffodils,
But who, ah, who remembers, now, a little lad of mine?
Lady, we are dancing, as we danced in old England
When the may was more than may, very long ago:
As for our may-coats, it was your white hands, lady,
Filled our sooty hearts and minds with blossom, white as snow.
It was a beautiful face we saw, wandering through Cheltenham.
It was a beautiful song we heard, very far away,
Weeping for a little lad stolen by the gipsies,
Broke our hearts and filled 'em with the glory of the may.
Many a little lad had we, chirruping in the chimney-tops,
Twirling out a sooty broom, a blot against the blue.
Ah, but when we called to him, and when he saw and ran to her,
All our winter ended, and our world was made anew.
Then she gave us may-coats of gold and green and crimson,
Then, with a long garland, she led our hearts away,
Whispering, "Remember, though the boughs forget the hawthorn,
Yet shall I return to you, that was your lady May."--
But why are you dancing now, O chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham,
And why are you singing of a May that is fled?--
O, there's music to be born, though we pluck the old fiddle-strings,
And a world's May awaking where the fields lay dead.
And we dance, dance, dreaming of a lady most beautiful
That shall walk the green valleys of this dark earth one day,
And call to us gently, "O chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham,
I am looking for my children. Awake, and come away."
Wrinkles
by Walter Savage Landor

When Helen first saw wrinkles in her face
('T was when some fifty long had settled there
And intermarried and branch'd off awide)
She threw herself upon her couch and wept:
On this side hung her head, and over that                
Listlessly she let fall the faithless brass
That made the men as faithless.
But when you
Found them, or fancied them, and would not hear
That they were only vestiges of smiles,                
Or the impression of some amorous hair
Astray from cloister'd curls and roseate band,
Which had been lying there all night perhaps
Upon a skin so soft, 'No, no,' you said,
'Sure, they are coming, yes, are come, are here:                
Well, and what matters it, while thou art too!'
No Man Knoweth His Sepulchre.
by William Cullen Bryant

When he, who, from the scourge of wrong,
Aroused the Hebrew tribes to fly,
Saw the fair region, promised long,
And bowed him on the hills to die;
God made his grave, to men unknown,
Where Moab's rocks a vale infold,
And laid the aged seer alone
To slumber while the world grows old.
Thus still, whene'er the good and just
Close the dim eye on life and pain,
Heaven watches o'er their sleeping dust
Till the pure spirit comes again.
Though nameless, trampled, and forgot,
His servant's humble ashes lie,
Yet God has marked and sealed the spot,
To call its inmate to the sky.
Kitten's Night Thought
by Oliver Herford

When Human Folk put out the light,
And think they've made it dark as night,
A Pussy Cat sees every bit
As well as when the lights are lit.
When Human Folk have gone upstairs,
And shed their skins and said their prayers,
And there is no one to annoy,
Then Pussy may her life enjoy.
No Human hands to pinch or slap,
Or rub her fur against the nap,
Or throw cold water from a pail,
Or make a handle of her tail.
And so you will not think it wrong
When she can play the whole night long,
With no one to disturb her play,
That Pussy goes to bed by day.
Peace, Peace To Him That's Gone!
by Thomas Moore

When I am dead.
Then lay my head
In some lone, distant dell,
Where voices ne'er
Shall stir the air,
Or break its silent spell.
If any sound
Be heard around,
Let the sweet bird alone,
That weeps in song,
Sing all night long,
"Peace, peace, to him that's gone!"
Yet, oh, were mine
One sigh of thine,
One pitying word from thee,
Like gleams of heaven,
To sinners given,
Would be that word to me.
Howe'er unblest,
My shade would rest
While listening to that tone;--
Enough 'twould be
To hear from thee,
"Peace, peace, to him that gone."