DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Christmas Hymn
by Eugene Field

Sing, Christmas bells!
Say to the earth this is the morn
Whereon our Saviour-King is born;
Sing to all men--the bond, the free,
The rich, the poor, the high, the low--
The little child that sports in glee--
The aged folk that tottering go--
Proclaim the morn
That Christ is born,
That saveth them and saveth me!
Sing, angel host!
Sing of the star that God has placed
Above the manger in the east;
Sing of the glories of the night,
The virgin's sweet humility,
The Babe with kingly robes bedight--
Sing to all men where'er they be
This Christmas morn,
For Christ is born,
That saveth them and saveth me!
Sing, sons of earth!
O ransomed seed of Adam, sing!
God liveth, and we have a King!
The curse is gone, the bond are free--
By Bethlehem's star that brightly beamed,
By all the heavenly signs that be,
We know that Israel is redeemed--
That on this morn
The Christ is born
That saveth you and saveth me!
Sing, O my heart!
Sing thou in rapture this dear morn
Whereon the blessed Prince is born!
And as thy songs shall be of love,
So let my deeds be charity--
By the dear Lord that reigns above,
By Him that died upon the tree,
By this fair morn
Whereon is born
The Christ that saveth all and me!
Upon A Hoarse Singer.
by Robert Herrick

Sing me to death; for till thy voice be clear,
'Twill never please the palate of mine ear.
Out On The Roofs Of Hell
by Henry Lawson

Sing us a song in this cynical age,
Sing us a song, my friend,
While the Flesh and the Devil are all the rage
And Death seems the only end.
Give it the clatter of hoof-clipped bones
And a note like a dingo's yell,
And the long, low sigh when the big mob moans
Out on the roofs of hell.
For Wool, Tallow, and Hides and Co.,
For Wool, Tallow, and Hides,
Over the roofs of hell we go
For Wool, Tallow, and Hides.
We take the route or we take the track,
Hell-doomed by the greed of man,
And we leave our wives in the scrubs out back
To struggle as best they can.
For the credit is short and the flour is low,
And this is the tale we tell,
A check must be made and the stock must go
Over the roofs of hell.
Wake ere the burst of the great white sun
Into the blazing skies,
Our limbs are stiff and the lids are gummed
Over our blighted eyes.
But our souls have perished in dust and heat,
And this is the tale we tell,
Our lives are ever a grim retreat
With Death on the roofs of hell.
They drivel and say how the bushman drinks,
But what do the townsfolk know?
The life is a hell to the man who thinks,
He must drink or his reason go.
Drink and drink, as the bushman knows,
Till he strip to the skin and yell;
Down for a change! for a rest! he goes
Down through the roofs of hell.
For Wool, Tallow, and Hides and Co.,
For Wool, Tallow, and Hides,
Down through the roofs of hell they go
For Wool, Tallow, and Hides.
Sing On.
by John Hartley

Sing on, tha bonny burd, sing on, sing on;
Aw connot sing;
A claad hings ovver me, do what aw con
Fresh troubles spring.
Aw wish aw could, like thee, fly far away,
Aw'd leeav mi cares an be a burd to-day.
Mi heart wor once as full o' joy as thine,
But nah it's sad;
Aw thowt all th' happiness i'th' world wor mine,
Sich faith aw had; - 
But he who promised aw should be his wife
Has robb'd me o' mi ivvery joy i' life.
Sing on! tha cannot cheer me wi' thi song;
Yet, when aw hear
Thi warblin' voice, 'at rings soa sweet an strong,
Aw feel a tear
Roll daan mi cheek, 'at gives mi heart relief,
A gleam o' comfort, but it's varry brief.
This little darlin, cuddled to mi breast,
It little knows,
When snoozlin' soa quietly at rest,
'At all mi woes
Are smothered thear, an mi poor heart ud braik
But just aw live for mi wee laddie's sake.
Sing on; an if tha e'er should chonce to see
That faithless swain,
Whose falsehood has caused all mi misery,
Strike up thy strain,
An if his heart yet answers to thy trill
Fly back to me, an we will love him still.
But if he heeds thee not, then shall aw feel
All hope is o'er,
An he that aw believed an loved soa weel
Be loved noa more;
For that hard heart, bird music cannot move,
Is far too cold a dwellin-place for love.
Ping-Pong.
by Richard Hunter

Sing a song of Ping-pong,
Fast away he ran:
"Come along," said Ping-pong,
"Catch me if you can!"
Sing a song of Ping-pong,
Racquet and a ball:
"Come along," said Ping-pong,
"You can't run at all!"
Lines To The Tune Of "Oh! Lady Fair! Where Art Thou Going?"
by John Carr (Sir)

Sing, bird of grief! still eve descending,
And soothe a mind with sorrow rending;
Ne'er may I see the blush of morrow,
But close this night the sigh of sorrow;
Then, if some wand'rer here directed
Shall find my mossy grave neglected,
May he replace the weed that's growing
With the nearest flow'r that's blowing!
Request (To E. M.)
by Virna Sheard

Sing me a song - a song to ease old sorrows,
And dull the edge of care - 
A song of Hope to ring through all the morrows
That be my share.
Unlock the doors where joy hath been in hiding,
Though barred they be and strong,
And send black grief far down the wind a-riding - 
Sing me a song.
Sing thou thy sky-lark song of sweetest daring,
And April ecstasy,
That I may follow it and go a-faring
To Arcady.
Charm sleep from out the shadows with thy singing,
And when the light turns grey,
Leave me bright dreams until the dawn comes bringing
The rose-edged day.
The wind of March taught thee his springtime madness,
And then in undertone
Whispered the wonder-secret of his gladness
To thee alone.
And thou hast learned from little brook and river
Their tender melody - 
The notes that set the thrush's throat a-quiver
Are known to thee.
Sing me a song - a song to ease old sorrows,
And dull the edge of care - 
A song of Hope, to ring through all the morrows
That be my share.
On The Birth Of Albert Edward, Prince Of Wales
by Nora Pembroke (Margaret Moran Dixon McDougall)

Sing and rejoice,
With heart and voice,
An heir is born to the British Crown,
A royal son,
A princely one,
One born to glory and renown.
A nation's mirth
Rose at his birth,
On every side great joy prevails,
The nation's joy,
The royal boy,
Our dear Queen's infant, Prince of Wales,
With gladness we
Rejoiced to see
A virgin wear Britannia's crown,
Then hailed the bride,
By Albert's side,
And saw her look benignly down.
And now with joy
We hail thee boy,
Heir of thy royal mother's fame,
And see our Isle
With rapture smile,
Resounding Albert Edward's name
Edward, a name
Of deathless fame,
A name each British bosom hails,
That name we see
Revived in thee,
Another Edward Prince of Wales.
O blessings rest
With kisses prest,
On that sweet infant bud that grows,
An early flower,
One born to power,
A scion of the royal rose.
Our bosoms burn,
To thee we turn,
In willing homage bend the knee;
Hope of our Isle,
We see thee smile,
Edward the hero hail in thee.
We pray for thee,
Our king to be,
The greatest prince the world e'er saw.
May the great King
His blessings bring,
And be His Book of life thy law.
May God above,
In boundless love,
Guard thee and keep thee as his own,
And bless thee so,
That thou mayest grow
Up to support thy mother's throne.
May glory shine,
And grace combine,
Pure as thy father's life be thine.
Mayest thou be strong
Against all wrong,
And be a Prince by Right Divine.
May future days
Record the praise
Of our Victoria's royal son.
May all the earth
Hear of his worth,
And of the greatness he has won.
Innocent babe,
In cradle laid,
Unconscious cause of all this joy,
Each Briton's prayer,
For Britain's heir,
Is "Angels guard thee, royal boy."
GRACE HILL, NOV., 1840.
Your Country And Mine
by Helen Leah Reed

Sing of America, sing of our Country!
Land of two oceans, of palm-tree and pine!
Firm as the rock of her towering mountains,
Free as her rivers from Heaven-born fountains,
Unafraid as her eagle, - as true to the line;
Sing of our Country, - your Country and mine!
Sing of America, - self-governed Country!
Dear Land, thou to tyranny never wilt bow;
Ever with thee the oppressed have had haven;
While Freedom droops, thy true sons are not craven;
Look! They are fighting to honor thee now,
With Victory and Peace to bejewel thy brow.
Sing of America, - loving humanity!
"Avenge ye the slaughtered!" Heed ye her decree;
Ye who have reaped of the father's brave sowing,
High hold your flag when the war winds are blowing!
Safe for all men keep the path of the sea;
Secure in their rights help small Nations to be.
Fight for America, noble America!
Liberty, Justice, and Truth - the divine, - 
Carrying onward, - her lamp proudly burning - 
Craving no empire, intrigue ever spurning,
Over the Earth shall her beacon-light shine!
Fight for our Country, your Country and mine!
Sing--Sing--Music Was Given.
by Thomas Moore

Sing--sing--Music was given,
To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;
Souls here, like planets in Heaven,
By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.
Beauty may boast of her eyes and her cheeks,
But Love from the lips his true archery wings;
And she, who but feathers the dart when she speaks,
At once sends it home to the heart when she sings.
Then sing--sing--Music was given,
To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;
Souls here, like planets in Heaven,
By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.
When Love, rocked by his mother,
Lay sleeping as calm as slumber could make him,
"Hush, hush," said Venus, "no other
"Sweet voice but his own is worthy to wake him."
Dreaming of music he slumbered the while
Till faint from his lip a soft melody broke,
And Venus, enchanted, looked on with a smile,
While Love to his own sweet singing awoke.
Then sing--sing--Music was given,
To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;
Souls here, like planets in Heaven,
By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.
The Ballad-Singer
by Thomas Hardy

Sing, Ballad-singer, raise a hearty tune;
Make me forget that there was ever a one
I walked with in the meek light of the moon
When the day's work was done.
Rhyme, Ballad-rhymer, start a country song;
Make me forget that she whom I loved well
Swore she would love me dearly, love me long,
Then - what I cannot tell!
Sing, Ballad-singer, from your little book;
Make me forget those heart-breaks, achings, fears;
Make me forget her name, her sweet sweet look -
Make me forget her tears.
Sing Not Of Beauty.
by Freeman Edwin Miller

Sing not of beauty's grace to me;
Its very name a story tells
Of doubly dark inconstancy,
Love falser than a hundred hells.
Its face is often but a screen
To hide a devil's heart of guile,
Of thoughts and deeds of shameful mien,
By winning looks of heartless wile.
Its laughing smile is but the gleam
That springs from dross of foulest make;
It stirs a sweet but idle dream,
Then leaves the trusting heart to break.
Sing not of beauty's grace to me;
I can not bear to hear the name;
For, oh! Too oft in it I see
A soul of falsehood and of shame!
Raptures
by William Henry Davies

Sing for the sun your lyric, lark,
Of twice ten thousand notes;
Sing for the moon, you nightingales,
Whose light shall kiss your throats;
Sing, sparrows, for the soft warm rain,
To wet your feathers through;
And when a rainbow's in the sky,
Sing you, cuckoo - Cuckoo!
Sing for your five blue eggs, fond thrush,
By many a leaf concealed;
You starlings, wrens, and blackbirds, sing
In every wood and field:
While I, who fail to give my love
Long raptures twice as fine,
Will for her beauty breathe this one -
A sigh, that's more divine.
Christmas Hymn
by Eugene Field

Sing, Christmas bells!
Say to the earth this is the morn
Whereon our Savior-King is born;
Sing to all men,--the bond, the free,
The rich, the poor, the high, the low,
The little child that sports in glee,
The aged folk that tottering go,--
Proclaim the morn
That Christ is born,
That saveth them and saveth me!
Sing, angel host!
Sing of the star that God has placed
Above the manger in the East;
Sing of the glories of the night,
The virgin's sweet humility,
The Babe with kingly robes bedight,--
Sing to all men where'er they be
This Christmas morn;
For Christ is born,
That saveth them and saveth me!
Sing, sons of earth!
O ransomed seed of Adam, sing!
God liveth, and we have a king!
The curse is gone, the bond are free--
By Bethlehem's star that brightly beamed,
By all the heavenly signs that be,
We know that Israel is redeemed;
That on this morn
The Christ is born
That saveth you and saveth me!
Sing, O my heart!
Sing thou in rapture this dear morn
Whereon the blessed Prince is born!
And as thy songs shall be of love,
So let my deeds be charity
By the dear Lord that reigns above,
By Him that died upon the tree,
By this fair morn
Whereon is born
The Christ that saveth all and me!
Ode 8
by Michael Drayton

Singe wee the Rose
Then which no flower there growes
Is sweeter:
And aptly her compare
With what in that is rare
A parallel none meeter.
Or made poses,
Of this that incloses
Suche blisses,
That naturally flusheth
As she blusheth
When she is robd of kisses.
Or if strew'd
When with the morning dew'd
Or stilling,
Or howe to sense expos'd
All which in her inclos'd,
Ech place with sweetnes filling.
That most renown'd
By Nature richly crownd
With yellow,
Of that delitious layre
And as pure, her hayre
Vnto the same the fellowe,
Fearing of harme
Nature that flower doth arme
From danger,
The touch giues her offence
But with reuerence
Vnto her selfe a stranger.
That redde, or white,
Or mixt, the sence delyte
Behoulding,
In her complexion
All which perfection
Such harmony infouldinge.
That deuyded
Ere it was descided
Which most pure,
Began the greeuous war
Of York and Lancaster,
That did many yeeres indure.
Conflicts as greate
As were in all that heate
I sustaine:
By her, as many harts
As men on either parts
That with her eies hath slaine.
The Primrose flower
The first of Flora's bower
Is placed,
Soo is shee first as best
Though excellent the rest,
All gracing, by none graced.
Song Of The Golden Sea.
by Jean Blewett

Sing, ye ripening fields of wheat,
Sing to the breezes passing by,
Sing your jubilant song and sweet,
Sing to the earth, the air, the sky!
Earth that held thee and skies that kissed
Morning and noon and night for long,
Sun and rain and dew and mist,
All that has made you glad and strong
The harvest fields of the far, far west
Stretch out a shimmering sea of gold!
Every ripple upon its breast
Sings peace, and plenty, and wealth untold!
Far as the eye can reach it goes,
Farther yet, 'till there seems no end,
Under a sky where blue and rose
With the gold and turquoise softly blend.
Here, where sweep the prairies lone,
Broad and beautiful in God's eyes,
Here in this young land, all our own,
The garner-house of the old world lies.
Sing, Sweet Harp.
by Thomas Moore

Sing, sweet Harp, oh sing to me
Some song of ancient days,
Whose sounds, in this sad memory,
Long buried dreams shall raise;--
Some lay that tells of vanished fame,
Whose light once round us shone;
Of noble pride, now turned to shame,
And hopes for ever gone.--
Sing, sad Harp, thus sing to me;
Alike our doom is cast,
Both lost to all but memory,
We live but in the past.
How mournfully the midnight air
Among thy chords doth sigh,
As if it sought some echo there
Of voices long gone by;--
Of Chieftains, now forgot, who seemed
The foremost then in fame;
Of Bards who, once immortal deemed,
Now sleep without a name.--
In vain, sad Harp, the midnight air
Among thy chords doth sigh;
In vain it seeks an echo there
Of voices long gone by.
Couldst thou but call those spirits round.
Who once, in bower and hall,
Sat listening to thy magic sound,
Now mute and mouldering all;--
But, no; they would but wake to weep
Their children's slavery;
Then leave them in their dreamless sleep,
The dead, at least, are free!--
Hush, hush, sad Harp, that dreary tone,
That knell of Freedom's day;
Or, listening to its death-like moan,
Let me, too, die away.
Written Out
by Henry Lawson

Sing the song of the reckless, who care not what they do;
Sing the song of a sinner and the song of a writer, too,
Down in a pub in the alleys, in a dark and dirty hole,
With every soul a drunkard and the boss with never a soul.
Uncollared, unkempt, unshaven, sat the writer whose fame was fair,
And the girls of the streets were round him, and the bullies and bludgers there;
He was one of themselves and they told him the things that they had to tell,
He was studying human nature with his brothers and sisters in hell.
He was neither poor nor lonely, for a place in the world he'd won,
And up in the heights of the city he'd a thousand friends or none;
But he knew that his chums could wait awhile, that he'd reckon with foes at last,
For he lived far into a future that he knew because of the past.
They remembered the man he had been, they remembered the songs he wrote,
And some of them came to pity and some of them came to gloat:
Some of them shouted exulting, some whispered with bated breath
That down in a den in the alleys he was drinking himself to death.
Thus said the voice of the hypocrites, and the true hearts sighed with pain,
'Oh! he never will write as he used to write! He never will write again;'
A poet had written his epitaph in numbers of sad regret,
And the passing-notice was pigeon-holed, and the last review was set.
But the strength was in him to rise again to a greater height, he knew,
For the sake of the friends who were true to him and the work that he had to do;
He was sounding the depths that he had to know, he was gathering truths for his craft,
And he heard the chatter of little men, and he turned to his beer and laughed.
A Song For Yule
by Madison Julius Cawein

I
Sing, Hey, when the time rolls round this way,
And the bells peal out, 'Tis Christmas Day;
The world is better then by half,
For joy, for joy;
In a little while you will see it laugh--
For a song's to sing and a glass to quaff,
My boy, my boy.
So here's to the man who never says nay!--
Sing, Hey, a song of Christmas-Day!
II
Sing, Ho, when roofs are white with snow,
And homes are hung with mistletoe;
Old Earth is not half bad, I wis--
What cheer! what cheer!
How it ever seemed sad the wonder is--
With a gift to give and a girl to kiss,
My dear, my dear.
So here's to the girl who never says no!
Sing, Ho, a song of the mistletoe!
III
No thing in the world to the heart seems wrong
When the soul of a man walks out with song;
Wherever they go, glad hand in hand,
And glove in glove,
The round of the land is rainbow-spanned,
And the meaning of life they understand
Is love, is love.
Let the heart be open, the soul be strong,
And life will be glad as a Christmas song.
The Australian Marseillaise or, A Song For The Sydney Poor
by Henry Lawson

Sing the strong, proud song of Labour,
Toss the ringing music high;
Liberty's a nearer neighbour
Than she was in days gone by.
Workmen's weary wives and daughters
Sing the songs of liberty;
Men hail men across the waters,
Men reply across the sea.
We are marching on and onward
To the silver-streak of dawn,
To the dynasty of mankind
We are marching on.
Long the rich have been protected
By the walls that can't endure;
By the walls that they erected
To divide them from the poor.
Crumbling now, they should not trust them,
For their end is drawing near;
Walls of Cant and walls of Custom,
Walls of Ignorance and Fear.
Tyrants, grip your weapons firmer,
Grip them firmly by the helves;
For the poor begin to murmur
Loudly now among themselves.
Hear us dare to say that Heaven
Gave us equal rights with you,
Dare to say the world was given
Unto all and not the few.
Tell us that the law has risen,
Make us bend beneath its sway,
Throw our leaders into prison,
Wrong us in the light of day.
Drive us to our dens, forgetting
All our woe as greed forgets,
While our weapons we are whetting
On your levelled bayonets.
Treat us like the beasts you'd make us,
Pen us close in wretched sties.
'Til our patience shall forsake us,
And like wolves we will arise.
Louder still for this shall rattle
Rifle shots, and sword blades ring
On the blood-wet fields of battle
In the days of reckoning.
We shall rise to prove us human,
Worthy of a human life,
When our starved and maddened women
Lead our armies on to strife.
When our war hymns wake the valleys,
And the rushing missiles shriek
From your barricaded alleys,
'Til your cannon cease to speak.
Then when Mammon Castle crashes
To the earth and trampled lies,
Then from out the blood and ashes
True Republics shall arise.
Then the world shall rest a season
(First since first the world began)
In the reign of right and reason
And the dynasty of man.
Coogee
by Henry Kendall

Sing the song of wave-worn Coogee, Coogee in the distance white,
With its jags and points disrupted, gaps and fractures fringed with light;
Haunt of gledes, and restless plovers of the melancholy wail
Ever lending deeper pathos to the melancholy gale.
There, my brothers, down the fissures, chasms deep and wan and wild,
Grows the sea-bloom, one that blushes like a shrinking, fair, blind child;
And amongst the oozing forelands many a glad, green rock-vine runs,
Getting ease on earthy ledges, sheltered from December suns.
Often, when a gusty morning, rising cold and grey and strange,
Lifts its face from watery spaces, vistas full with cloudy change,
Bearing up a gloomy burden which anon begins to wane,
Fading in the sudden shadow of a dark, determined rain,
Do I seek an eastern window, so to watch the breakers beat
Round the steadfast crags of Coogee, dim with drifts of driving sleet:
Hearing hollow mournful noises sweeping down a solemn shore,
While the grim sea-caves are tideless, and the storm strives at their core.
Often when the floating vapours fill the silent autumn leas,
Dreaming mem'ries fall like moonlight over silver sleeping seas.
Youth and I and Love together! Other times and other themes
Come to me unsung, unwept for, through the faded evening gleams:
Come to me and touch me mutely I that looked and longed so well,
Shall I look and yet forget them? who may know or who foretell?
Though the southern wind roams, shadowed with its immemorial grief,
Where the frosty wings of Winter leave their whiteness on the leaf.
Friend of mine beyond the waters, here and here these perished days
Haunt me with their sweet dead faces and their old divided ways.
You that helped and you that loved me, take this song, and when you read,
Let the lost things come about you, set your thoughts and hear and heed.
Time has laid his burden on us    we who wear our manhood now,
We would be the boys we have been, free of heart and bright of brow
Be the boys for just an hour, with the splendour and the speech
Of thy lights and thunders, Coogee, flying up thy gleaming beach.
Heart's desire and heart's division! who would come and say to me,
With the eyes of far-off friendship, 'You are as you used to be'?
Something glad and good has left me here with sickening discontent,
Tired of looking, neither knowing what it was or where it went.
So it is this sight of Coogee, shining in the morning dew,
Sets me stumbling through dim summers once on fire with youth and you
Summers pale as southern evenings when the year has lost its power
And the wasted face of April weeps above the withered flower.
Not that seasons bring no solace, not that time lacks light and rest;
But the old things were the dearest and the old loves seem the best.
We that start at songs familiar, we that tremble at a tone
Floating down the ways of music, like a sigh of sweetness flown,
We can never feel the freshness, never find again the mood
Left among fair-featured places, brightened of our brotherhood.
This and this we have to think of when the night is over all,
And the woods begin to perish and the rains begin to fall.