DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Younger Son
by Robert William Service

If you leave the gloom of London and you seek a glowing land,
Where all except the flag is strange and new,
There's a bronzed and stalwart fellow who will grip you by the hand,
And greet you with a welcome warm and true;
For he's your younger brother, the one you sent away,
Because there wasn't room for him at home;
And now he's quite contented, and he's glad he didn't stay,
And he's building Britain's greatness o'er the foam.
When the giant herd is moving at the rising of the sun,
And the prairie is lit with rose and gold;
And the camp is all a-bustle, and the busy day's begun,
He leaps into the saddle sure and bold.
Through the round of heat and hurry, through the racket and the rout,
He rattles at a pace that nothing mars;
And when the night-winds whisper, and camp-fires flicker out,
He is sleeping like a child beneath the stars.
When the wattle-blooms are drooping in the sombre she-oak glade,
And the breathless land is lying in a swoon,
He leaves his work a moment, leaning lightly on his spade,
And he hears the bell-bird chime the Austral noon.
The parakeets are silent in the gum-tree by the creek;
The ferny grove is sunshine-steeped and still;
But the dew will gem the myrtle in the twilight ere he seek
His little lonely cabin on the hill.
Around the purple, vine-clad slope the argent river dreams;
The roses almost hide the house from view;
A snow-peak of the Winterberg in crimson splendour gleams;
The shadow deepens down on the karroo.
He seeks the lily-scented dusk beneath the orange-tree:
His pipe in silence glows and fades and glows,
And then two little maids come out and climb upon his knee,
And one is like the lily, one the rose.
He sees his white sheep dapple o'er the green New Zealand plain,
And where Vancouver's shaggy ramparts frown,
When the sunlight threads the pine-gloom he is fighting might and main
To clinch the rivets of an Empire down.
You will find him toiling, toiling, in the south or in the west,
A child of nature, fearless, frank and free;
And the warmest heart that beats for you is beating in his breast,
And he sends you loyal greeting o'er the sea.
You've a brother in the Army, you've another in the Church;
One of you is a diplomatic swell;
You've had the pick of everything and left him in the lurch;
And yet I think he's doing very well.
I'm sure his life is happy, and he doesn't envy yours;
I know he loves the land his pluck has won;
And I fancy in the years unborn, while England's fame endures,
She will come to bless with pride - the Younger Son.
Good Luck Not Lasting.
by Robert Herrick

If well the dice run, let's applaud the cast:
The happy fortune will not always last.
The Disagreeable Man.
by William Schwenck Gilbert

If you give me your attention, I will tell you what I am:
I'm a genuine philanthropist all other kinds are sham.
Each little fault of temper and each social defect
In my erring fellow creatures, I endeavor to correct.
To all their little weaknesses I open people's eyes
And little plans to snub the self-sufficient I devise;
I love my fellow creatures I do all the good I can 
Yet everybody say I'm such a disagreeable man!
And I can't think why!
To compliments inflated I've a withering reply;
And vanity I always do my best to mortify;
A charitable action I can skilfully dissect:
And interested motives I'm delighted to detect.
I know everybody's income and what everybody earns,
And I carefully compare it with the income tax returns;
But to benefit humanity, however much I plan,
Yet everybody says I'm such a disagreeable man!
And I can't think why!
I'm sure I'm no ascetic: I'm as pleasant as can be;
You'll always find me ready with a crushing repartee;
I've an irritating chuckle; I've a celebrated sneer;
I've an entertaining snigger; I've a fascinating leer;
To everybody's prejudice I know a thing or two;
I can tell a woman's age in half a minute and I do 
But although I try to make myself as pleasant as I can,
Yet everybody says I'm such a disagreeable man!
And I can't think why!
Apologia
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

If wrath embitter the sweet mouth of song,
And make the sunlight fire before those eyes
That would drink draughts of peace from the unsoiled skies,
The wrongdoing is not ours, but ours the wrong,
Who hear too loud on earth and see too long
The grief that dies not with the groan that dies,
Till the strong bitterness of pity cries
Within us, that our anger should be strong.
For chill is known by heat and heat by chill,
And the desire that hope makes love to still
By the fear flying beside it or above,
A falcon fledged to follow a fledgeling dove,
And by the fume and flame of hate of ill
The exuberant light and burning bloom of love.
If Wealth Is Gone
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

If wealth is gone then something is gone!
Quick, make up thy mind,
And fresh wealth find.
If honour is gone then much is gone!
Seek glory to find,
And people then will alter their mind.
If courage is gone then all is gone!
'Twere better that thou hadst never been born.
Extempore Pinned On A Lady's Couch.
by Robert Burns

If you rattle along like your mistress's tongue,
Your speed will outrival the dart:
But, a fly for your load, you'll break down on the road
If your stuff has the rot, like her heart.
Longing
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

If you could sit with me beside the sea to-day,
And whisper with me sweetest dreamings o'er and o'er;
I think I should not find the clouds so dim and gray,
And not so loud the waves complaining at the shore.
If you could sit with me upon the shore to-day,
And hold my hand in yours as in the days of old,
I think I should not mind the chill baptismal spray,
Nor find my hand and heart and all the world so cold.
If you could walk with me upon the strand to-day,
And tell me that my longing love had won your own,
I think all my sad thoughts would then be put away,
And I could give back laughter for the Ocean's moan!
White Witchcraft
by Robert Browning

If you and I could change to beasts, what beast should either be?
Shall you and I play Jove for once? Turn fox then, I decree!
Shy wild sweet stealer of the grapes! Now do your worst on me!
And thus you think to spite your friend, turned loathsome? What, a toad?
So, all men shrink and shun me! Dear men, pursue your road!
Leave but my crevice in the stone, a reptile's fit abode
Now say your worst, Canidia! 'He's loathsome, I allow:
There may or may not lurk a pearl beneath his puckered brow:
But see his eyes that follow mine, love lasts there, anyhow.'
If You Had a Friend
by Robert William Service

If you had a friend strong, simple, true,
Who knew your faults and who understood;
Who believed in the very best of you,
And who cared for you as a father would;
Who would stick by you to the very end,
Who would smile however the world might frown:
I'm sure you would try to please your friend,
You never would think to throw him down.
And supposing your friend was high and great,
And he lived in a palace rich and tall,
And sat like a King in shining state,
And his praise was loud on the lips of all;
Well then, when he turned to you alone,
And he singled you out from all the crowd,
And he called you up to his golden throne,
Oh, wouldn't you just be jolly proud?
If you had a friend like this, I say,
So sweet and tender, so strong and true,
You'd try to please him in every way,
You'd live at your bravest - now, wouldn't you?
His worth would shine in the words you penned;
You'd shout his praises . . . yet now it's odd!
You tell me you haven't got such a friend;
You haven't? I wonder . . . What of God?
Dante
by Oliver Herford

If you should ask me, whether Dante
Drank Benedictine or Chianti,
I should reply, "I cannot say,
But I can draw him either way."
Contrasts.
by John Hartley

If yo've a fancy for a spree,
Goa up to Lundun, same as me,
Yo'll find ther's lots o' things to see,
To pleeas yo weel.
If seem isn't quite enuff,
Yo needn't tew an waste yor puff,
To find some awkard sooarts o' stuff
At yo can feel.
Yo'll nobbut need to set yor shoe
On some poleeceman's tender toa, - 
A varry simple thing to do, - 
An wi a crack
Enuff to mak a deead man jump,
Daan comes his staff, an leeaves a lump,
An then he'll fling yo wi a bump,
Flat o' yor back.
If signs o' riches suit yo best,
Yer een can easily be blest;
Or if yo seek for fowk distrest,
They're easy fun,
Wi faces ommost worn to nowt,
An clooas at arn't worth a thowt,
Yet show ha long wi want they've fowt,
Till fairly done.
Like a big ball it rolls along,
A nivver ending, changing throng,
Mixt up together, waik an strong, - 
An gooid an bad.
Virtues an vices side bi side, - 
Poverty slinkin after pride, - 
Wealth's waste, an want at's hard to bide,
Some gay, some sad.
It ommost maks one have a daat,
(To see some strut, some crawl abaat,
One in a robe, one in a claat,)
If all's just square.
It may be better soa to be,
But to a simpleton like me,
It's hard to mak sich things agree;
It isn't fair.
Little Red Riding-Hood.
by Clara Doty Bates

Versified by Mrs. Clara Doty Bates.
If you listen, children, I will tell
The story of little Red Riding-hood:
Such wonderful, wonderful things befell
Her and her grandmother, old and good
(So old she was never very well),
Who lived in a cottage in a wood.
Little Red Riding-hood, every day,
Whatever the weather, shine or storm,
To see her grandmother tripped away,
With a scarlet hood to keep her warm,
And a little mantle, soft and gay,
And a basket of goodies on her arm.
A pat of butter, and cakes of cheese,
Were stored in the napkin, nice and neat;
As she danced along beneath the trees,
As light as a shadow were her feet;
And she hummed such tunes as the bumble-bees
Hum when the clover-tops are sweet.
But an ugly wolf by chance espied
The child, and marked her for his prize.
"What are you carrying there?" he cried;
"Is it some fresh-baked cakes and pies?"
And he walked along close by her side,
And sniffed and rolled his hungry eyes.
"A basket of things for granny, it is,"
She answered brightly, without fear.
"Oh, I know her very well, sweet miss!
Two roads branch towards her cottage here;
You go that way, and I'll go this.
See which will get there first, my dear!"
He fled to the cottage, swift and sly;
Rapped softly, with a dreadful grin.
"Who's there?" asked granny. "Only I!"
Piping his voice up high and thin.
"Pull the string, and the latch will fly!"
Old granny said; and he went in.
He glared her over from foot to head;
In a second more the thing was done!
He gobbled her up, and merely said,
"She wasn't a very tender one!"
And then he jumped into the bed,
And put her sack and night-cap on.
And he heard soft footsteps presently,
And then on the door a timid rap;
He knew Red Riding-hood was shy,
So he answered faintly to the tap:
"Pull the string and the latch will fly!"
She did: and granny, in her night-cap,
Lay covered almost up to her nose.
"Oh, granny dear!" she cried, "are you worse?"
"I'm all of a shiver, even to my toes!
Please won't you be my little nurse,
And snug up tight here under the clothes?"
Red Riding-hood answered, "Yes," of course.
Her innocent head on the pillow laid,
She spied great pricked-up, hairy ears,
And a fierce great mouth, wide open spread,
And green eyes, filled with wicked leers;
And all of a sudden she grew afraid;
Yet she softly asked, in spite of her fears:
"Oh, granny! what makes your ears so big?"
"To hear you with! to hear you with!"
"Oh, granny! what make your eyes so big?"
"To see you with! to see you with!"
"Oh, granny! what makes your teeth so big?"
"To eat you with! to eat you with!"
And he sprang to swallow her up alive;
But it chanced a woodman from the wood,
Hearing her shriek, rushed, with his knife,
And drenched the wolf in his own blood.
And in that way he saved the life
Of pretty little Red Riding-hood.
Hark, hark
The dogs do bark
Beggars are coming to town;
Some in jags,
Some in rags,
And some in velvet gowns.
A Song. If Wine And Music Have The Power
by Matthew Prior

If wine and music have the power
To ease the sickness of the soul,
Let Phoebis every string explore,
And Bacchus fill the sprightly bowl:
Let them their friendly aid employ
To make my Cloe's absense light,
And seek for pleasure to destroy
The sorrows of this live-long night.
But she to-morrow will return:
Venus, be thou to-morrow great;
Thy myrtles strow, thy odours burn,
And meet thy favourite nymph in state,
Kind goddess, to no other powers
Let us to-morrow's blessings own,
Thy darling Loves shall guide the hours,
And all the day be thine alone.
To A Sick Child During The Siege Of Paris.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

("Si vous continuez toute p'le.")
[November, 1870.]
If you continue thus so wan and white;
If I, one day, behold
You pass from out our dull air to the light,
You, infant - I, so old:
If I the thread of our two lives must see
Thus blent to human view,
I who would fain know death was near to me,
And far away for you;
If your small hands remain such fragile things;
If, in your cradle stirred,
You have the mien of waiting there for wings,
Like to some new-fledged bird;
Not rooted to our earth you seem to be.
If still, beneath the skies,
You turn, O Jeanne, on our mystery
Soft, discontented eyes!
If I behold you, gay and strong no more;
If you mope sadly thus;
If you behind you have not shut the door,
Through which you came to us;
If you no more like some fair dame I see
Laugh, walk, be well and gay;
If like a little soul you seem to me
That fain would fly away - 
I'll deem that to this world, where oft are blent
The pall and swaddling-band,
You came but to depart - an angel sent
To bear me from the land.
LUCY H. HOOPER.
Song - A Beautiful Mistress.
by Thomas Carew

If when the sun at noon displays
His brighter rays,
Thou but appear,
He then, all pale with shame and fear,
Quencheth his light,
Hides his dark brow, flies from thy sight,
And grows more dim,
Compared to thee, than stars to him.
If thou but show thy face again,
When darkness doth at midnight reign,
The darkness flies, and light is hurl'd
Round about the silent world:
So as alike thou driv'st away
Both light and darkness, night and day.
Mrs. Merdle Discourseth Of Wishes And Her Sufferings.
by Horatio Alger, Jr.

'If wishes were horses'--I've heard when a girl--
'If wishes were horses, the beggars would ride'--
If wishes were pheasants, I'd wish with a skirl
Till cooked ones came flying and sat by my side.
A fig, then, for doctors, their tinctures and drugs;
Good eating would cure me, with plenty of game;
And as for pill boxes, and bottles, and jugs,
I wouldn't know one, when I saw it, by name.
Oh, dear! such a load now my stomach oppresses,
While eating these trifles, attempting to dine--
I'm sure 'taint the turkey--it must be my dresses--
And if so 't will ease them to sip sherry wine.
'Tis sad, though, to be such a sad invalid--
Dear me, Colonel Dinewell, you've done eating meat--
Your doctor, like mine, I hope hasn't forbid,
That you shouldn't have, as I do, so little to eat.
Ah! well then, I see, though I've hardly begun,
The meats and the solids must go right away;
So bring in the pudding, if Susan's got one,
Which will for a while one's appetite stay.
Mary's Son
by Rudyard Kipling

If you stop to find out what your wages will be
And how they will clothe and feed you,
Willie, my son, don't you go on the Sea.
For the Sea will never need you.
If you ask for the reason of every command,
And argue with people about you,
Willie, my son, don't you go on the Land,
For the Land will do better without you.
If you stop to consider the work you have done
And to boast what your labour is worth, dear,
Angels may come for you, Willie, my son,
But you'll never be wanted on Farth, dear!
Nursery Rhyme. LXXXII. Proverbs.
by Unknown

If wishes were horses,
Beggars would ride;
If turnips were watches,
I would wear one by my side.
Diet.
by Robert Herrick

If wholesome diet can recure a man,
What need of physic or physician?
Nursery Rhyme. CCXXXVIII. Charms.
by Unknown

[Said to pips placed in the fire; a species of divination practised by children.]
If you love me, pop and fly;
If you hate me, lay and die.
A Prouder Man Than You
by Henry Lawson

If you fancy that your people came of better stock than mine,
If you hint of higher breeding by a word or by a sign,
If you're proud because of fortune or the clever things you do, 
Then I'll play no second fiddle: I'm a prouder man than you!
If you think that your profession has the more gentility,
And that you are condescending to be seen along with me;
If you notice that I'm shabby while your clothes are spruce and new, 
You have only got to hint it: I'm a prouder man than you!
If you have a swell companion when you see me on the street,
And you think that I'm too common for your toney friend to meet,
So that I, in passing closely, fail to come within your view, 
Then be blind to me for ever: I'm a prouder man than you!
If your character be blameless, if your outward past be clean,
While 'tis known my antecedents are not what they should have been,
Do not risk contamination, save your name whate'er you do, 
`Birds o' feather fly together': I'm a prouder bird than you!
Keep your patronage for others! Gold and station cannot hide
Friendship that can laugh at fortune, friendship that can conquer pride!
Offer this as to an equal, let me see that you are true,
And my wall of pride is shattered: I am not so proud as you!
Fire And Love
by Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)

If you do not want your heart
Burnt at a small flame
Like a spitted sheep,
Fly the love of women.
Fire burns what it touches,
But love burns from afar.
Folk Song of Manchuria.
The Fairies
by Robert Herrick

If ye will with Mab find grace,
Set each platter in his place;
Rake the fire up, and get
Water in, ere sun be set.
Wash your pails and cleanse your dairies,
Sluts are loathsome to the fairies;
Sweep your house; Who doth not so,
Mab will pinch her by the toe.
To A Shade
by William Butler Yeats

If you have revisited the town, thin Shade,
Whether to look upon your monument
(I wonder if the builder has been paid)
Or happier thoughted when the day is spent
To drink of that salt breath out of the sea
When grey gulls flit about instead of men,
And the gaunt houses put on majesty:
Let these content you and be gone again;
For they are at their old tricks yet.
A man
Of your own passionate serving kind who had brought
In his full hands what, had they only known,
Had given their children's children loftier thought,
Sweeter emotion, working in their veins
Like gentle blood, has been driven from the place,
And insult heaped upon him for his pains
And for his open-handedness, disgrace;
An old foul mouth that slandered you had set
The pack upon him.
Go, unquiet wanderer
And gather the Glasnevin coverlet
About your head till the dust stops your ear,
The time for you to taste of that salt breath
And listen at the corners has not come;
You had enough of sorrow before death,
Away, away! You are safer in the tomb.
Composed At Rydal On May Morning
by William Wordsworth

If with old love of you, dear Hills! I share
New love of many a rival image brought
From far, forgive the wanderings of my thought:
Nor art thou wronged, sweet May! when I compare
Thy present birth-morn with thy last, so fair,
So rich to me in favours. For my lot
Then was, within the famed Egerian Grot
To sit and muse, fanned by its dewy air
Mingling with thy soft breath! That morning too,
Warblers I heard their joy unbosoming
Amid the sunny, shadowy, Coliseum;
Heard them, unchecked by aught of saddening hue,
For victories there won by flower-crowned Spring,
Chant in full choir their innocent Te Deum.
The Plough
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

If you listen you will hear, from east to west,
Growing sounds of discontent and deep unrest.
It is just the progress-driven plough of God,
Tearing up the well-worn custom-bounded sod;
Shaping out each old tradition-trodden track
Into furrows, fertile furrows, rich and black.
Oh, what harvests they will yield
When they widen to a field.
They will widen, they will broaden, day by day,
As the Progress-driven plough keeps on its way.
It will riddle all the ancient roads that lead
Into palaces of selfishness and greed;
It will tear away the almshouse and the slum
That the little homes and garden plots may come.
Yes, the gardens green and sweet
Shall replace the stony street.
Let the wise man hear the menace that is blent
In this ever-growing sound of discontent.
Let him hear the rising clamour of the race
That the few shall yield the many larger space.
For the crucial hour is coming when the soil
Must be given to, or taken back by Toil
Oh, that mighty plough of God;
Hear it breaking through the sod!
Nursery Rhyme. XCI. Proverbs.
by Unknown

If you sneeze on Monday, you sneeze for danger;
Sneeze on a Tuesday, kiss a stranger;
Sneeze on a Wednesday, sneeze for a letter;
Sneeze on a Thursday, something better;
Sneeze on a Friday, sneeze for sorrow;
Sneeze on a Saturday, see your sweetheart to-morrow.
The Ill-Married.
by Jean de La Fontaine

If worth, were not a thing more rare
Than beauty in this planet fair,
There would be then less need of care
About the contracts Hymen closes.
But beauty often is the bait
To love that only ends in hate;
And many hence repent too late
Of wedding thorns from wooing roses.[1]
My tale makes one of these poor fellows,
Who sought relief from marriage vows,
Send back again his tedious spouse,
Contentious, covetous, and jealous,
With nothing pleased or satisfied,
This restless, comfort-killing bride
Some fault in every one descried.
Her good man went to bed too soon,
Or lay in bed till almost noon.
Too cold, too hot, - too black, too white, - 
Were on her tongue from morn till night.
The servants mad and madder grew;
The husband knew not what to do.
'Twas, 'Dear, you never think or care;'
And, 'Dear, that price we cannot bear;'
And, 'Dear, you never stay at home;'
And, 'Dear, I wish you would just come;'
Till, finally, such ceaseless dearing
Upon her husband's patience wearing,
Back to her sire's he sent his wife,
To taste the sweets of country life,
To dance at will the country jigs,
And feed the turkeys, geese, and pigs.
In course of time, he hoped his bride
Might have her temper mollified;
Which hope he duly put to test.
His wife recall'd, said he,
'How went with you your rural rest,
From vexing cares and fashions free?
Its peace and quiet did you gain, - 
Its innocence without a stain?'
'Enough of all,' said she; 'but then
To see those idle, worthless men
Neglect the flocks, it gave me pain.
I told them, plainly, what I thought,
And thus their hatred quickly bought;
For which I do not care - not I.'
'Ah, madam,' did her spouse reply,
'If still your temper's so morose,
And tongue so virulent, that those
Who only see you morn and night
Are quite grown weary of the sight,
What, then, must be your servants' case,
Who needs must see you face to face,
Throughout the day?
And what must be the harder lot
Of him, I pray,
Whose days and nights
With you must be by marriage rights?
Return you to your father's cot.
If I recall you in my life,
Or even wish for such a wife,
Let Heaven, in my hereafter, send
Two such, to tease me without end!'