DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LII.
by Thomas Moore

[1]
Away, away, ye men of rules,
What have I do with schools?
They'd make me learn, they'd make me think,
But would they make me love and drink?
Teach me this, and let me swim
My soul upon the goblet's brim;
Teach me this, and let me twine
Some fond, responsive heart to mine,
For, age begins to blanch my brow,
I've time for naught but pleasure now.
Fly, and cool, my goblet's glow
At yonder fountain's gelid flow;
I'll quaff, my boy, and calmly sink
This soul to slumber as I drink.
Soon, too soon, my jocund slave,
You'll deck your master's grassy grave;
And there's an end--for ah, you know
They drink but little wine below!
Laughter Holding Both His Sides
by James Whitcomb Riley

Ay, thou varlet! Laugh away!
All the world's a holiday!
Laugh away, and roar and shout
Till thy hoarse tongue lolleth out!
Bloat thy cheeks, and bulge thine eyes
Unto bursting; pelt thy thighs
With thy swollen palms, and roar
As thou never hast before!
Lustier! Wilt thou! Peal on peal!
Stiflest? Squat and grind thy heel -
Wrestle with thy loins, and then
Wheeze thee whiles, and whoop again!
The Philosophy Of The Ditch
by Violet Jacob

Aweel, I'm couped. But wha' could tell
The road wad rin sae sair?
I couldna gang yon pace mysel',
An' I winna try nae mair!
There's them wad coonsel me to stan',
But this is what I say:
When Natur's forces fecht wi' man,
Dod, he maun just give way!
If man's nae framed to lift his fit
Agin' a nat'ral law,
I winna' lift my heid, for it
Wad dae nae guid ava'.
Puir worms are we; the poo'pit rings
Ilk Sawbath wi' the same,
Gin airth's the place for sic-like things,
I'm no sae far frae hame!
Yon's guid plain raes'nin'; an' forby,
This pairish has nae sense,
There's mony traiv'lin wad deny
Natur and Providence;
For loud an' bauld the leears wage
On men like me their war,
Elected saints to thole their rage
Is what they're seekin' for.
But tho' a man wha's drink's his tea
Their malice maun despise,
It's no for naething, div ye see,
That I'm sae sweir to rise!
Sonnet On Stewed Prunes
by William F. Kirk

Ay ant lak pie-plant pie so wery vell;
Ven ay skol eat ice-cream, my yaws du ache;
Ay ant much stuck on dis har yohnnie-cake
Or crackers yust so dry sum peanut shell.
And ven ay eat dried apples, ay skol svell
Until ay tenk my belt skol nearly break;
And dis har breakfast food, ay tenk, ban fake:
Yim Dumps ban boosting it, so it skol sell.
But ay tal yu, ef yu vant someteng fine,
Someteng so sveet lak wery sveetest honey,
Vith yuice dat taste about lak nice port vine,
Only it ant cost hardly any money, - 
Ef yu vant someteng yust lak anyel fude,
Yu try stewed prunes. By yiminy! dey ban gude.
October. - A Sonnet.
by William Cullen Bryant

Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath,
When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf,
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief,
And the year smiles as it draws near its death.
Wind of the sunny south! oh still delay
In the gay woods and in the golden air,
Like to a good old age released from care,
Journeying, in long serenity, away.
In such a bright, late quiet, would that I
Might wear out life like thee, mid bowers and brooks,
And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks,
And music of kind voices ever nigh;
And when my last sand twinkled in the glass,
Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass.
Little Steena Yohnson
by William F. Kirk

Ay ban tenking lots of yu,
Little Steena Yohnson,
Ay ban sure yu love me true,
Little Steena Yohnson.
Oder geezers lak to play
In yure yard, but yu skol say,
"Ay don't lak yu fallers, nay!"
Little Steena Yohnson.
Some day yu skol be my vife,
Little Steena Yohnson:
Ay ban glad, yu bet yure life,
Little Steena Yohnson.
Ay ban vork lak nigger, tu,
Yumping 'round vith treshing crew;
Ay skol building home for yu,
Little Steena Yohnson.
Maybe ve skol saving dough,
Little Steena Yohnson;
Back to Norvay ve skol go,
Little Steena Yohnson - 
Back var dis har midnight sun
Shining lak a son of a gun;
Ant yu tenk dis har ban fun,
Little Steena Yohnson?
How The Favourite Beat Us
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

"Aye," said the boozer, "I tell you it's true, sir,
I once was a punter with plenty of pelf,
But gone is my glory, I'll tell you the story
How I stiffened my horse and got stiffened myself.
"'Twas a mare called the Cracker, I came down to back her,
But found she was favourite all of a rush,
The folk just did pour on to lay six to four on,
And several bookies were killed in the crush.
"It seems old Tomato was stiff, though a starter;
They reckoned him fit for the Caulfield to keep.
The Bloke and the Donah were scratched by their owner,
He only was offered three-fourths of the sweep.
"We knew Salamander was slow as a gander,
The mare could have beat him the length of the straight,
And old Manumission was out of condition,
And most of the others were running off weight.
"No doubt someone 'blew it', for everyone knew it,
The bets were all gone, and I muttered in spite,
'If I can't get a copper, by Jingo, I'll stop her,
Let the public fall in, it will serve the brutes right.'
"I said to the jockey, 'Now, listen, my cocky,
You watch as you're cantering down by the stand,
I'll wait where that toff is and give you the office,
You're only to win if I lift up my hand.'
"I then tried to back her, 'What price is the Cracker?'
'Our books are all full, sir,' each bookie did swear;
My mind, then, I made up, my fortune I played up
I bet every shilling against my own mare.
"I strolled to the gateway, the mare, in the straight way
Was shifting and dancing, and pawing the ground,
The boy saw me enter and wheeled for his canter,
When a darned great mosquito came buzzing around.
"They breed 'em at Hexham, it's risky to vex 'em,
They suck a man dry at a sitting, no doubt,
But just as the mare passed, he fluttered my hair past,
I lifted my hand, and I flattened him out.
"I was stunned when they started, the mare simply darted
Away to the front when the flag was let fall,
For none there could match her, and none tried to catch her,
She finished a furlong in front of them all.
"You bet that I went for the boy, whom I sent for
The moment he weighed and came out of the stand,
"Who paid you to win it? Come, own up this minute."
"Lord love yer," said he, "why, you lifted your hand."
`'Twas true, by St Peter, that cursed 'muskeeter'
Had broke me so broke that I hadn't a brown,
And you'll find the best course is when dealing with horses
To win when you're able, and keep your hands down."
In Memoriam. - Mr. George Beach,
by Lydia Howard Sigourney

Died at Hartford, May 4th, 1860.
Aye, robe yourselves in black, light messengers
Whose letter'd faces to the people tell
The pulse and pressure of the passing hour.
'Tis fitting ye should sympathize with them,
And tint your tablets with a sable hue
Who bring them tidings of a loss so great.
What have they lost?
An upright man, who scorn'd
All subterfuge, who faithful to his trust
Guarded the interests they so highly prized,
With power and zeal unchang'd, from youth to age.
Yet there's a sadder sound of bursting tears
From woe-worn helpless ones, from widow'd forms
O'er whom he threw a shelter, for his name
Long mingled with their prayers, both night and morn.
The Missionary toward the setting sun
Will miss his liberal hand that threw so wide
Its secret alms. The sons of want will miss
His noble presence moving thro' our streets
Intent on generous deeds; and in the Church
He loved so well, a silence and a chasm
Are where the fervent and responsive voice,
And kingly beauty of the hoary head
So long maintained their place.
Sudden he sank,
Though not unwarn'd.
A chosen band had kept
Watch through the night, and earnest love took note
Of every breath. But when approaching dawn
Kindled the east, and from the trees that bowered
His beautiful abode, awakening birds
Sent up their earliest carol, he went forth
To meet the glories of the unsetting sun,
And hear with unseal'd ear the song of heaven.
--So they who truest loved and deepest mourn'd,
Had highest call to praise, for best they knew
The soul that had gone home unto its God.
Lamentin' An Repentin'.
by John Hartley

Awst be better when spring comes, aw think,
But aw feel varry sickly an waik,
Awve noa relish for mait nor for drink,
An awm ommost too weary to laik.
What's to come on us all aw can't tell,
For we havn't a shillin put by;
Ther's nowt left to pop nor to sell,
An aw cannot get trust if aw try.
My wife has to turn aght to wark,
An th' little uns all do a share;
An they're tewin throo dayleet to dark,
To keep me sittin here i' mi chair.
It doesn't luk long sin that day
When Bessy wor stood bi mi side;
An shoo promised to love an obey,
An me to protect an provide.
Shoo wor th' bonniest lass i' all th' taan,
An fowk sed as they saw us that day,
When we coom aght o' th' church, arm i' arm,
Shoo wor throwin' hersen reight away.
But shoo smiled i' mi face as we went,
An her arm clung moor tightly to mine;
"Aw feel happy," shoo sed, "an content
To know at tha'rt mine an awm thine."
Aw wor praad ov her bonny breet een, - 
Aw wor praad ov her little white hand, - 
An aw thowt shoo wor fit for a queen,
For ther wornt a grander ith' land.
We gat on varry weel for a bit,
An aw stuck to mi wark like a man,
An enjoying mi hooam, thear awd sit,
As a chap at works hard nobbut can.
We hadn't been wed quite a year,
When they showed me a grand little lad,
An th' old wimmen sed, "Sithee! luk here!
He's th' image exact ov his dad."
But mi mates nivver let me alooan,
Till aw joined i' ther frolics and spree,
An tho' Bessy went short, or had nooan,
Shoo wor kinder nor ivver to me.
Sometimes when shoo's ventur'd to say,
"Come hooam an stop in lad, to-neet."
Awve felt shamed an awve hurried away,
For her een have been glist'nin wi weet.
An awve sed to misen 'at awd mend,
For it's wrang to be gooin on soa;
But at neet back to th' aleus awd wend,
Wi th' furst swillgut at ax'd me to goa.
Two childer wor added to th' stock,
But aw drank, an mi wark went to th' bad;
An awve known em be rooarin for jock,
Wol awve druffen what they should ha had.
Aw seldom went hooam but to sleep,
Tho Bessy ne'er offered to chide;
But grief 'at is silent is deep,
An sorrow's net easy to hide.
If th' childer wod nobbut complain,
Or Bessy get peevish an tart,
Aw could put up wi th' anguish or pain,
But ther kindness is braikin mi heart.
Little Emma, poor child, ov a neet
Does th' neighbours odd jobs nah and then,
An shoo runs hersen off ov her feet,
For a hawpny, they think for hersen.
An shoo saved em until shoo gat three,
But this mornin away shoo went aght,
An spent em o' bacca for me,
'Coss shoo thowt aw luk'd looansum withaat.
It's a lesson awst nivver forget,
An awve bid a gooid-bye to strong drink;
An theyst hev ther reward yo can bet; - 
Awst be better when spring comes aw think.
An if spendin what's left o' mi life
For ther sakes can mak up for lost time,
Ther shan't be a happier wife,
Nor three better loved childer nor mine.
Aw can't help mi een runnin o'er,
For mi heart does mi conduct condemn;
But awl promise to do soa noa moor,
If God spares me to Bessy and them.
Awst Nivver Be Jaylus.
by John Hartley

"Awst nivver be jaylus, net aw!"
Sed Nancy to th' love ov her heart,
"Aw couldn't, lad, if awd to try,
For aw know varry weel what tha art.
Aw could trust thee to th' world's farthest point,
Noa matter what wimmen wor thear,
They'd nooan put mi nooas aght o'th joint,
Tha'd come back to thi lass tha left here.
Though tha did walk Leweezy to th' church,
An fowk wink'd an dropt monny a hint,
Aw knew tha'd nooan leav me i'th lurch,
For a dowdy like her wi a squint.
An Ellen at lives at th' yard end,
May simper an innocent look,
But aw think shoo'll ha' farther to fend,
Befoor shoo's a fish to her hook.
Nay, jaylussy's aght o' my line,
Or else that young widdy next door,
Wod ha heeard some opinions o' mine,
At wodn't quite suit her awm sewer.
What tha can see in her caps me,
For awm sewer shoo's as faal as old Flue,
An aw think when shoo's tawkin to thee,
Shoo mud find surnmat better to do.
'Shoo's a varry nice lass,' does ta say?
'An luks looansum tha thinks?' oh! that's it!
Tha'd better set off reight away,
An try to console her a bit.
Shoo's a two-faced deceitful young freet!
Aw wish shoo wor teed raand thi neck!
But goa to her an tell her to-neet,
At Nancy has given thi th' seck.
Awm nooan jaylus! aw ammot that fond!
Aw think far too mich o' mysen
To care for sich a poucement as yond,
At hankers for other fowk's men!
Aw tell thi aw'll net hold mi tongue!
Awm nooan jaylus tha madlin! it's thee!*
An aw allus shall trust thee as long
As tha nooatices nubdy but me."
Lucy Gray
by William F. Kirk

Ay s'pose yu know 'bout Lucy Gray
Who used to play on moor,
And having qvite gude time all day
Beside her fader's door.
Dis Maester Vordsvorth write it down,
Gude many years ago,
How Lucy start to valk to town
In gude big drifts of snow.
"Lucy," her fader say, "yust tak
Dis lantern from the shelf."
Say Lucy, "Ay have kick to mak;
Vy don't yu go yureself?"
But Lucy's dad ant stand no talk,
And say, "Yu have to go!"
So Lucy Gray tak little valk
To town in dis har snow.
Miss Lucy ant come back dat night,
And ant come back next day;
And den her parents get gude fright.
"Our kid ban lost!" dey say.
Dey look for tracks vich Lucy mak,
And find some tracks dat go
Up to a bridge on little lake,
And den ban lost in snow.
And so dey tenk Miss Gray ban lost,
And feeling purty bum.
The funeral saxty dollars cost,
And all the neighbors com.
But Lucy ant ban lost at all.
She met a travelling man.
He ban a bird. His name ban Hall,
And off for town dey ran.
And Maester Hall and Lucy Gray
Ban married in St. Yo,
And dey ban keeping house to-day
In Kansas City, Mo.
In a Lecture Room
by Arthur Hugh Clough

Away, haunt thou me not,
Thou vain Philosophy!
Little hast thou bestead,
Save to perplex the head,
And leave the spirit dead.
Unto thy broken cisterns wherefore go,
While from the secret treasure-depths below,
Fed by the skyey shower,
And clouds that sink and rest on hilltops high,
Wisdom at once, and Power,
Are welling, bubbling forth, unseen, incessantly?
Why labor at the dull mechanic oar,
When the fresh breeze is blowing,
And the strong current flowing,
Right onward to the Eternal Shore?
Last Days.
by Madison Julius Cawein

Aye! heartbreak of the tattered hills,
And mourning of the raining sky!
Heartbreak and mourning, since God wills,
Are mine, and God knows why!
The brutal wind that herds the storm
In hail-big clouds that freeze along,
As this gray heart are doubly warm
With thrice the joy of song.
I held one dearer than each day
Of life God sets in limpid gold
What thief hath stole that gem away
To leave me poor and old!
The heartbreak of the hills be mine,
Of trampled twig and mired leaf,
Of rain that sobs through thorn and pine
An unavailing grief!
The sorrow of the childless skies'
Good-nights, long said, yet never said,
As when I kissed my child's blue eyes
And lips ice-dumb and dead.
Triumph Of Bigotry.
by Thomas Moore

College.--We announced, in our last that Lefroy and Shaw were returned. They were chaired yesterday; the Students of the College determined, it would seem, to imitate the mob in all things, harnessing themselves to the car, and the Masters of Arts bearing Orange flags and bludgeons before, beside, and behind the car."
Dublin Evening Post, Dec. 20, 1832.
Ay, yoke ye to the bigots' car,
Ye chosen of Alma Mater's scions;-
Fleet chargers drew the God of War,
Great Cybele was drawn by lions,
And Sylvan Pan, as Poet's dream,
Drove four young panthers in his team.
Thus classical Lefroy, for once, is,
Thus, studious of a like turn-out,
He harnesses young sucking dunces,
To draw him as their Chief about,
And let the world a picture see
Of Dulness yoked to Bigotry:
Showing us how young College hacks
Can pace with bigots at their backs,
As tho' the cubs were born to draw
Such luggage as Lefroy and Shaw,
Oh! shade of Goldsmith, shade of Swift,
Bright spirits whom, in days of yore,
This Queen of Dulness sent adrift,
As aliens to her foggy shore;---
Shade of our glorious Grattan, too,
Whose very name her shame recalls;
Whose effigy her bigot crew
Reversed upon their monkish walls,[1]--
Bear witness (lest the world should doubt)
To your mute Mother's dull renown,
Then famous but for Wit turned out,
And Eloquence turned upside down;
But now ordained new wreaths to win,
Beyond all fame of former days,
By breaking thus young donkies in
To draw M.P.s amid the brays
Alike of donkies and M.A.s;--
Defying Oxford to surpass 'em
In this new "Gradus ad Parnassum."
Yasin Khan
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

Ay, thou has found thy kingdom, Yasin Khan,
Thy fathers' pomp and power are thine, at last.
No more the rugged roads of Khorasan,
The scanty food and tentage of the past!
Wouldst thou make war? thy followers know no fear.
Where shouldst thou lead them but to victory?
Wouldst thou have love? thy soft-eyed slaves draw near,
Eager to drain thy strength away from thee.
My thoughts drag backwards to forgotten days,
To scenes etched deeply on my heart by pain;
The thirsty marches, ambuscades, and frays,
The hostile hills, the burnt and barren plain.
Hast thou forgotten how one night was spent,
Crouched in a camel's carcase by the road,
Along which Akbar's soldiers, scouting, went,
And he himself, all unsuspecting, rode?
Did we not waken one despairing dawn,
Attacked in front, cut off in rear, by snow,
Till, like a tiger leaping on a fawn,
Half of the hill crashed down upon the foe?
Once, as thou mournd'st thy lifeless brother's fate,
The red tears falling from thy shattered wrist,
A spent Waziri, forceful still, in hate,
Covered they heart, ten paces off, - and missed!
Ahi, men thrust a worn and dinted sword
Into a velvet-scabbarded repose;
The gilded pageants that salute thee Lord
Cover one sorrow-rusted heart, God knows.
Ah, to exchange this wealth of idle days
For one cold reckless night of Khorasan!
To crouch once more before the camp-fire blaze
That lit the lonely eyes of Yasin Khan.
To watch the starlight glitter on the snows,
The plain stretched round us like a waveless sea,
Waiting until thy weary lids should close
To slip my furs and spread them over thee.
How the wind howled about the lonely pass,
While the faint snow-shine of that plateaued space
Lit, where it lay upon the frozen grass,
The mournful, tragic beauty of thy face.
Thou hast enough caressed the scented hair
Of these soft-breasted girls who waste thee so.
Hast thou not sons for every adult year?
Let us arise, O Yasin Khan, and go!
Let us escape from these prison bars
To gain the freedom of an open sky,
Thy soul and mine, alone beneath the stars,
Intriguing danger, as in days gone by.
Nay; there is no returning, Yasin Khan.
The white peaks ward the passes, as of yore,
The wind sweeps o'er the wastes of Khorasan; - 
But thou and I go thitherward no more.
Close, ah, too close, the bitter knowledge clings,
We may not follow where my fancies yearn.
The years go hence, and wild and lovely things,
Their own, go with them, never to return.
The Two Friends
by Jean de La Fontaine

AXIOCHUS, a handsome youth of old,
And Alcibiades, (both gay and bold,)
So well agreed, they kept a beauteous belle,
With whom by turns they equally would dwell.
IT happened, one of them so nicely played,
The fav'rite lass produced a little maid,
Which both extolled, and each his own believed,
Though doubtless one or t'other was deceived.
BUT when to riper years the bantling grew,
And sought her mother's foot-steps to pursue,
Each friend desired to be her chosen swain,
And neither would a parent's name retain.
SAID one, why brother, she's your very shade;
The features are the same-:-your looks pervade.
Oh no, the other cried, it cannot be
Her chin, mouth, nose, and eyes, with your's agree;
But that as 'twill, let me her favours win,
And for the pleasure I will risk the sin.
The Local Preacher
by Frederic William Moorman

Ay, I'm a ranter, so at least fowks say;
Happen they'd tell t' same tale o' t' postle Paul.
I've ranted fifty yeer, coom first o' May,
An' niver changed my gospil through 'em all.
There's nowt like t' Blooid o' t' Lamb an' t' Fire o' Hell
To bring a hardened taistril(1) to his knees;
If fowks want more nor that, then thou can tell
'Em straight, I've got no cure for their disease.
I willent thole this New Theology
That blends up Hell wi' Heaven, sinners wi' saints
For black was black when I turned Methody,
An' white was white, i' souls as weel as paints.
That's awlus t' warp an' t' weft o' my discourse,
An' awlus will be, lang as I can teach;
If fowks won't harken tul it, then, of course,
They go to church and hear t' owd parson preach.
His sarmon's like his baccy, sweet an' mild;
Fowk's ommost hauf asleep at t' second word.
By t' Mass! they're wick as lops,(2) ay, man an' child,
When I stan' up an' wrastle wi' the Lord.
Nay, I'm not blamin' parson, I'll awant(3);
Preachin's his trade, same way as millin's mine.
I' trade you've got to gie fowks what they want,
An' that is mostly sawcum(4) meshed reet fine.
Tak squire theer; he don't want no talk o' Hell,
He likes to hark to t' parable o' t' teares ;
He reckons church is wheat that's gooid to sell,
But chapil's nobbut kexes,(5) thorns, an' brears.
Squire's lasses, they can't do wi' t' Blooid o' t' Lamb
They're all for t' blooid o' t' foxes, like our Bob.
The Lord Hissen will have to save or damn
Church fowks wid out me mellin' on(6) His job.
But gie me chapil lasses gone astray,
Or lads that cooms home druffen of a neet,
An' I'll raise Cain afore I go away,
If I don't gie 'em t' glent o' t' Gospil leet.
I'll mak 'em sit on t' penitential stooils,
An' roar as loud as t' buzzer down at t' mill;
I'll mak 'em own that they've bin despert fooils,
Wi' all their pride o' life a bitter pill.
I've mony texts, but all to one point keep,
Same as all t' becks flow down to one saut sea:
Damnation an' salvation, goats an' sheep--
That's t' Bible gospil that thou'll get thro' me.
Old Ironsides
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;
Beneath it rung the battle shout,
And burst the cannon's roar; - 
The meteor of the ocean air
Shall sweep the clouds no more.
Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquered knee; - 
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!
Oh better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning and the gale!