DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
When I Was Twenty.
by Bliss Carman (William)

It was June, and I was twenty.
All my wisdom, poor but plenty,
Never learned Festina lente.
Youth is gone, but whither went he?
Madeline came down the orchard
With a mischief in her eye,
Half demure and half inviting,
Melting, wayward, wistful, shy.
Four bright eyes that found life lovely,
And forgot to wonder why;
Four warm lips at one love-lesson,
Learned by heart so easily.
We gained something of that knowledge
No man ever yet put by,
But his after days of sorrow
Left him nothing but to die.
Madeline went up the orchard,
Down the hurrying world went I;
Now I know love has no morrow,
Happiness no by-and-by.
Youth is gone, but whither went he?
All my wisdom, poor but plenty,
Never learned Festina lente.
It was June, and I was twenty.
Macfadden And Macfee.
by David Rorie M.D.

[This ballad is of great interest, and, as far as we know, has not hitherto appeared in print. It is certainly not in Child's Collection. It was taken down from the singing of an aged man of 105 years, in Glen Kennaquhair. Internal evidence would tend to show that the incidents recorded in the ballad occurred in the seventeenth century, and that Sir Walter Scott had heard at least one verse of it. The aged singer-now, alas! no more-sang it to the air of "Barbara Allen."]
It was an' aboot the Lammas time,
In sixteen forty-three, sirs,
That there fell oot the awfu' fecht
'Twixt Macfadden an' Macfee, sirs.
Macfadden, wha was gaun to kirk
Upon the morn's morn,
Had washed his kilt an' cleaned his dirk
An' combed his Sabbath sporran.
An' bein' for the time o' year
Remarkably fine weather,
These articles o' dress were laid
To air upon the heather.
Waes me! Macfee, while dandrin' owre
The bonnie braes o' Lorne,
Maun gang an' pit his muckle fit
Upon Macfadden's sporran.
A piece o' carelessness like this
The brichtest heart would sadden,
An' when he saw the caitiff deed
It fair gaed owre Macfadden.
For he was shavin' at the time,
An' when the sicht he saw, sir,
Wi' rage he shook an' nearly took
His neb aff wi' his raazor.
A while he swore and staunched the gore
An' ere Macfee got ae lick,
Macfadden cursed him heid an' heels
In comprehensive Gaelic.
Syne when his breath was a' but gane,
An' when he couldna say more,
He lat a muckle Heelant yell
An' at him wi' his claymore.
What sweeter sound could warrior hear
Unless it was the daddin'
That echoed oot when'er Macfee
Got hame upon Macfadden?
Nae sweeter soond I weel could ween,
Exceppin' it micht be, sirs,
The soond that hurtled oot when'er
Macfadden hit Macfee, sirs.
An awfu' fecht it was to see,
A fecht baith fell an' dour, sirs,
For ere the tuilzie weel began
The glen was fu' o' stour, sirs.
An awfu' fecht, again I say't,
And on each auld clay biggin',
The freends o' baith, like hoodie craws,
Were roostin' on the riggin'.
And aye they buckled till't wi' birr;
In combat sair an' grievous,
They glanced like lightnin' up Strathyre
An' thundered doon Ben Nevis.
Wha won the fecht, or whilk ane lost,
Was hid frae mortal e'e, sirs,
Nane saw the fearsome end o' baith
Macfadden an' Macfee, sirs.
But still they say, at break o' day,
Upon the braes o' Lorne,
Ye'll hear the ghaistly rustlin' o'
Macfadden's Sabbath sporran.
The Mad Hatter's Song
by Lewis Carroll

"it was at the great concert given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing
`Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!
How I wonder what you're at!'You know the song, perhaps?" "I've heard something like it," said Alice. "It goes on, you know," the Hatter continued,
"in this way:
`Up above the world you fly,
Like a teatray in the sky.
Twinkle, twinkle '"
Notes
The lyrical form of this poem is aabb.
The Kirk Beside The Sands
by Violet Jacob

It was faur-ye-weel, my dear, that the gulls were cryin'
At the kirk beside the sands,
Whaur the saumon-nets lay oot on the bents for dryin',
Wi' the tar upon their strands;
A roofless kirk i' the bield o' the cliff-fit bidin',
And the deid laid near the wa';
A wheen auld coupit stanes i' the sea-grass hidin',
Wi' the sea-sound ower them a'.
But it's mair nor daith that's here on the hauchs o' Flanders,
And the deid lie closer in;
It's no the gull, but the hoodit craw that wanders
When the lang, lang nichts begin.
It's ill to dee, but there's waur things yet nor deein';
And the warst o' a's disgrace;
For there's nae grave deep eneuch 'mang the graves in bein'
To cover a coward's face.
Syne, a' is weel, though my banes lie here for iver,
An' hame is no for me,
Till the reid tide brak's like the spate in a roarin' river
O'er the micht o' Gairmanie.
Sae gang you back, my dear, whaur the gulls are cryin',
Gie thanks by kirk an' grave,
That yer man keeps faith wi' the land whaur his he'rt is lyin',
An' the Lord will keep the lave.
The Day Of Sunshine (From Arne)
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

It was such a lovely sunshine-day,
The house and the yard couldn't hold me;
I roved to the woods, on my back I lay,
In cradle of fancy rolled me;
But there were ants, and gnats that bite,
The horse-fly was keen, the wasp showed fight.
"Dear me, don't you want to be out in this fine weather?" - said mother, who sat on the steps and sang.
It was such a lovely sunshine-day,
The house and the yard couldn't hold me;
A meadow I found, on my back I lay,
And sang what my spirit told me;
Then snakes came crawling, a fathom long,
To bask in the sun, - I fled with my song.
"In such blessed weather we can go barefoot," - said mother, as she pulled off her stockings.
It was such a lovely sunshine-day,
The house and the yard couldn't hold me;
I loosened a boat, on my back I lay,
While blithely the current bowled me;
But hot grew the sun, and peeled my nose;
Enough was enough, and to land I chose.
"Now these are just the days to make hay in," - said mother, as she stuck the rake in it.
It was such a lovely sunshine-day,
The house and the yard couldn't hold me;
I climbed up a tree, oh, what bliss to play,
As cooling the breeze consoled me;
But worms soon fell on my neck, by chance,
And jumping, I cried: "'T is the Devil's own dance!"
"Yes, if the cows aren't sleek and shiny to-day, they'll never be so," - said mother, gazing up the hillside.
It was such a lovely sunshine-day,
The house and the yard couldn't hold me;
I dashed to the waterfall's endless play,
There only could peace enfold me.
The shining sun saw me drown and die, - 
If you made this ditty, 't was surely not I.
"Three more such sunshine-days, and everything will be in," - said mother, and went to make my bed.
Knight Aagen And Maiden Else. Translated From The Danish.
by William Morris

It was the fair knight Aagen
To an isle he went his way,
And plighted troth to Else,
Who was so fair a may.
He plighted troth to Else
All with the ruddy gold,
But or ere that day's moon came again
Low he lay in the black, black mould.
It was the maiden Else,
She was fulfilled of woe
When she heard how the fair knight Aagen
In the black mould lay alow.
Uprose the fair knight Aagen,
Coffin on back took he,
And he's away to her bower,
Sore hard as the work might be.
With that same chest on door he smote,
For the lack of flesh and skin;
"O hearken, maiden Else,
And let thy true-love in!"
Then answered maiden Else,
"Never open I my door,
But and if thou namest Jesu's name
As thou hadst might before."
"O hearken, maiden Else,
And open thou thy door,
For Jesu's name I well may name
As I had might before!"
Then uprose maiden Else,
O'er her cheek the salt tears ran,
Nor spared she into her very bower
To welcome that dead man.
O, she's taken up her comb of gold
And combed adown her hair,
And for every hair she combed adown
There fell a weary tear.
"Hearken thou, knight Aagen,
Hearken, true-love, and tell,
If down-adown in the black, black earth
Thou farest ever well?"
"O whenso thou art joyous,
And the heart is glad in thee,
Then fares it with my coffin
That red roses are with me.
"But whenso thou art sorrowful
And weary is thy mood,
Then all within my coffin
Is it dreadful with dark blood.
"Now is the red cock a-crowing,
To the earth adown must I;
Down to the earth wend all dead folk,
And I wend in company.
"Now is the black cock a-crowing,
To the earth must I adown,
For the gates of Heaven are opening now,
Thereto must I begone."
Uprose the fair knight Aagen,
Coffin on back took he,
And he's away to the churchyard now,
Sore hard as the work might be.
But so wrought maiden Else,
Because of her weary mood,
That she followed after own true love
All through the mirk wild wood.
But when the wood was well passed through,
And in the churchyard they were,
Then was the fair knight Aagen
Waxen wan of his golden hair.
And when therefrom they wended
And were the church within,
Then was the fair knight Aagen
Waxen wan of cheek and chin.
"Hearken thou, maiden Else,
Hearken, true-love, to me,
Weep no more for thine own troth-plight,
However it shall be!
"Look thou up to the heavens aloft,
To the little stars and bright,
And thou shalt see how sweetly
It fareth with the night!"
She looked up to the heavens aloft,
To the little stars bright above
The dead man sank into his grave,
Ne'er again she saw her love.
Home then went maiden Else,
Mid sorrow manifold,
And ere that night's moon came again
She lay alow in the mould.
Felix Schmidt
by Edgar Lee Masters

It was only a little house of two rooms - 
Almost like a child's play-house - 
With scarce five acres of ground around it;
And I had so many children to feed
And school and clothe, and a wife who was sick
From bearing children.
One day lawyer Whitney came along
And proved to me that Christian Dallman,
Who owned three thousand acres of land,
Had bought the eighty that adjoined me
In eighteen hundred and seventy-one
For eleven dollars, at a sale for taxes,
While my father lay in his mortal illness.
So the quarrel arose and I went to law.
But when we came to the proof,
A survey of the land showed clear as day
That Dallman's tax deed covered my ground
And my little house of two rooms.
It served me right for stirring him up.
I lost my case and lost my place.
I left the court room and went to work
As Christian Dallman's tenant.
Annabel Lee
by Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me,
Yes!, that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we,
Of many far wiser than we,
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
The Two Devines
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

It was shearing time at the Myall Lake,
And then rose the sound through the livelong day
Of the constant clash that the shear-blades make
When the fastest shearers are making play;
But there wasn't a man in the shearers' lines
That could shear a sheep with the two Devines.
They had rung the sheds of the east and west,
Had beaten the cracks of the Walgett side,
And the Cooma shearers had given them best,
When they saw them shear, they were satisfied.
From the southern slopes to the western pines
They were noted men, were the two Devines.
'Twas a wether flock that had come to hand,
Great struggling brutes, that shearers shirk,
For the fleece was filled with the grass and sand,
And seventy sheep was a big day's work.
"At a pound a hundred it's dashed hard lines
To shear such sheep," said the two Devines.
But the shearers knew that they's make a cheque
When they came to deal with the station ewes;
They were bare of belly and bare of neck
With a fleece as light as a kangaroo's.
"We will show the boss how a shear-blade shines
When we reach those ewes," said the two Devines.
But it chanced next day, when the stunted pines
Were swayed and stirred by the dawn-wind's breath,
That a message came for the two Devines
That their father lay at the point of death.
So away at speed through the whispering pines
Down the bridle-track rode the two Devines.
It was fifty miles to their father's hut,
And the dawn was bright when they rode away;
At the fall of night, when the shed was shut
And the men had rest from the toilsome day,
To the shed once more through the darkening pines
On their weary steeds came the two Devines.
"Well, you're back right sudden,"the super said;
"Is the old man dead and the funeral done?"
"Well, no sir, he ain't not exactly dead,
But as good as dead," said the eldest son,
"And we couldn't bear such a chance to lose,
So we came straight back to tackle the ewes."
*             *             *             *             *
They are shearing ewes at the Myall Lake,
And the shed is merry the livelong day
With the clashing sound that the shear-blades make
When the fastest shearers are making play;
And a couple of "hundred and ninety-nines"
Are the tallies made by the two Devines.
The Pixy People
by James Whitcomb Riley

It was just a very
Merry fairy dream! -
All the woods were airy
With the gloom and gleam;
Crickets in the clover
Clattered clear and strong,
And the bees droned over
Their old honey-song.
In the mossy passes,
Saucy grasshoppers
Leapt about the grasses
And the thistle-burs;
And the whispered chuckle
Of the katydid
Shook the honeysuckle
Blossoms where he hid.
Through the breezy mazes
Of the lazy June,
Drowsy with the hazes
Of the dreamy noon,
Little Pixy people
Winged above the walk,
Pouring from the steeple
Of a mullein-stalk.
One - a gallant fellow -
Evidently King, -
Wore a plume of yellow
In a jewelled ring
On a pansy bonnet,
Gold and white and blue,
With the dew still on it,
And the fragrance, too.
One - a dainty lady, -
Evidently Queen, -
Wore a gown of shady
Moonshine and green,
With a lace of gleaming
Starlight that sent
All the dewdrops dreaming
Everywhere she went.
One wore a waistcoat
Of roseleaves, out and in,
And one wore a faced-coat
Of tiger-lily-skin;
And one wore a neat coat
Of palest galingale;
And one a tiny street-coat,
And one a swallow-tail.
And Ho! sang the King of them,
And Hey! sang the Queen;
And round and round the ring of them
Went dancing o'er the green;
And Hey! sang the Queen of them,
And Ho! sang the King -
And all that I had seen of them
- Wasn't anything!
It was just a very
Merry fairy dream! -
All the woods were airy
With the gloom and gleam;
Crickets in the clover
Clattered clear and strong,
And the bees droned over
Their old honey-song!
Three Counsellors
by George William Russell

It was the fairy of the place,
Moving within a little light,
Who touched with dim and shadowy grace
The conflict at its fever height.
It seemed to whisper 'Quietness,'
Then quietly itself was gone:
Yet echoes of its mute caress
Were with me as the years went on.
It was the warrior within
Who called 'Awake, prepare for fight:
Yet lose not memory in the din:
Make of thy gentleness thy might:
'Make of thy silence words to shake
The long-enthroned kings of earth:
Make of thy will the force to break
Their towers of wantonness and mirth.'
It was the wise all-seeing soul
Who counselled neither war nor peace:
'Only be thou thyself that goal
In which the wars of time shall cease.'
The Patriot
by Robert Browning

AN OLD STORY.
I.
It was roses, roses, all the way,
With myrtle mixed in my path like mad:
The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway,
The church-spires flamed, such flags they had,
A year ago on this very day.
II.
The air broke into a mist with bells,
The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.
Had I said, 'Good folk, mere noise repels
But give me your sun from yonder skies!'
They had answered, 'And afterward, what else?'
III.
Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun
To give it my loving friends to keep.
Nought man could do, have I left undone:
And you see my harvest, what I reap
This very day, now a year is run.
IV.
There's nobody on the house-tops now
Just a palsied few at the windows set
For the best of the sight is, all allow,
At the Shambles' Gate, or, better yet,
By the very scaffold's foot, I trow.
V.
I go in the rain, and, more than needs,
A rope cuts both my wrists behind;
And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,
For they fling, whoever has a mind,
Stones at me for my year's misdeeds.
VI.
Thus I entered Brescia, and thus I go!
In such triumphs, people have dropped down dead.
'Paid by the World, what dost thou owe
Me?' God might question: but now instead,
'Tis God shall requite! I am safer so.
The Geebung Polo Club
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

It was somewhere up the country, in a land of rock and scrub,
That they formed an institution called the Geebung Polo Club.
There were long and wiry natives from the rugged mountain side,
And the horse was never saddled that the Geebungs couldn't ride;
But their style of playing polo was irregular and rash,
They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash:
And they played on mountain ponies that were muscular and strong,
Though their coats were quite unpolished, and their manes and tales were long.
And they used to train those ponies wheeling cattle in the scrub;
They were demons, were the members of the Geebung Polo Club.
It was somewhere down the country, in a city's smoke and steam,
That a polo club existed, called the "Cuff and Collar Team".
As a social institution 'twas a marvelous success,
For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress.
They had natty little ponies that were nice, and smooth, and sleek,
For their cultivated owners only rode 'em once a week.
So they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame,
For they meant to show the Geebungs how they ought to play the game;
And they took their valets with them, just to give their boots a rub
Ere they started operations on the Geebung Polo Club.
Now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed,
When the Geebung boys got going it was time to clear the road;
And the game was so terrific that ere half the time was gone
A spectator's leg was broken, just from merely looking on.
For they waddied one another till the plain was strewn with dead,
While the score was kept so even that they neither got ahead.
And the Cuff and Collar Captain, when he tumbled off to die
Was the last surviving player, so the game was called a tie.
Then the Captain of the Geebungs raised him slowly from the ground,
Though his wounds were mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around;
There was no one to oppose him, all the rest were in a trance,
So he scrambled on his pony for his last expiring chance,
For he meant to make an effort to get victory to his side;
So he struck at goal, and missed it, then he tumbled off and died.
*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *
By the old Campaspe River, where the breezes shake the grass,
There's a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pass,
For they bear a rude inscription saying, "Stranger, drop a tear,
For the Cuff and Collar players and the Geebung boys lie here."
And on misty moonlit evenings, while the dingoes howl around,
You can see their shadows flitting down that phantom polo ground;
You can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet,
And the rattle of the mallets, and the rush of ponies' feet,
Till the terrified spectator rides like blazes to the pub,
He's been haunted by the spectres of the Geebung Polo Club.
"Shouting" For A Camel
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

It was over at Coolgardie that a mining speculator,
Who was going down the township just to make a bit o' chink,
Went off to hire a camel from a camel propagator,
And the Afghan said he'd lend it if he'd stand the beast a drink.
Yes, the only price he asked him was to stand the beast a drink.
He was cheap, very cheap, as the dromedaries go.
So the mining speculator made the bargain, proudly thinking
He had bested old Mahomet, he had done him in the eye.
Then he clambered on the camel, and the while the beast was drinking
He explained with satisfaction to the miners standing by
That 'twas cheap, very cheap, as the dromedaries go.
But the camel kept on drinking and he filled his hold with water,
And the more he had inside him yet the more he seemed to need;
For he drank it by the gallon, and his girths grew taut and tauter,
And the miners muttered softly, "Yes he's very dry indeed!
But he's cheap, very cheap, as dromedaries go."
So he drank up twenty buckets, it was weird to watch him suck it,
(And the market price for water was per bucket half-a-crown)
Till the speculator stopped him, saying, "Not another busket,
If I give him any more there'll be a famine in the town.
Take him back to old Mahomet, and I'll tramp it through the town."
He was cheap, very cheap, as the speculators go.
There's a moral to this story, in your hat you ought to paste it,
Be careful whom you shout for when a camel is about,
And there's plenty human camels who, before they'll see you waste it,
Will drink up all you pay for if you're fool enough to shout;
If you chance to strike a camel when you're fool enough to shout,
You'll be cheap, very cheap, as the speculators go.
The Rout Of The White Hussars
by Rudyard Kipling

It was not in the open fight
We threw away the sword,
But in the lonely watching
In the darkness by the ford.
The waters lapped, the night-wind blew,
Full-armed the Fear was born and grew,
And we were flying ere we knew
From panic in the night.