DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Ballad Of The Cars
by Rudyard Kipling

"Now this is the price of a stirrup-cup,"
The kneeling doctor said.
And syne he bade them take him up,
For he saw that the man was dead.
They took him up, and they laid him down
( And, oh, he did not stir ),
And they had him into the nearest town
To wait the Coroner.
They drew the dead-cloth over the face,
They closed the doors upon,
And the cars that were parked in the market-place
Made talk of it anon.
Then up and spake a Daimler wide,
That carries the slatted tank:
"'Tis we must purge the country-side
And no man will us thank.
"For while they pray at Holy Kirk
The souls should turn from sin,
We cock our bonnets to the work,
And gather the drunken in.
"And if we spare them for the nonce,
Or their comrades jack them free,
They learn more under our dumb-irons
Than they learned at time mother's knee."
Then up and spake an Armstrong bold,
And Siddeley, was his name:
"I saw a man lie stark and cold
By Grantham as I came.
"There was a blind turn by a brook,
A guard-rail and a fail:
But the drunken loon that overtook
He got no hurt at all!
"I ha' trodden the wet road and the dry
But and the shady lane;'
And why the guiltless soul should die,
Good reason find I nane."
Then up and spake the Babe Austin
Had barely room for two
"'Tis time and place that make the sin,
And not the deed they do.
"For when a man drives with his dear,
I ha' seen it come to pass
That an arm too close or a lip too near
Has killed both lad and lass.
"There was a car at eventide
And a sidelings kiss to steal
The God knows how the couple died,
But I mind the inquest weel.
"I have trodden the black tar and the heath
But and the cobble-stone;
And why the young go to their death,
Good reason find I none."
Then spake a Morris from Oxenford,
('Was keen to a Cowley Friar ):
"How shall we judge the ways of the Lord
That are but steel and fire?
"Between the oil-pits under earth
And the levin-spark from the skies,
We but adventure and go forth
As our man shall devise:
"And if he have drunken a hoop too deep,
No kinship can us move
To draw him home in his market-sleep
Or spare his waiting love.
"There is never a lane in all England
Where a mellow man can go,
But he must look on either hand
And back and front also.
"But he must busk him every tide,
At prick of horn, to leap
Either to hide in ditch beside
Or in the bankes steep.
"And whether he walk in drink or muse,
Or for his love be bound,
We have no wit to mark and chuse,
But needs must slay or wound."
- - - - - - - - - - 
They drew the dead-cloth from its face.
The Crowner looked thereon;
And the cars that were parked in the market-place
Went all their ways anon.
Sonnet. Night.
by Thomas Gent

Now when dun Night her shadowy veil has spread,
See want and infamy, as forth they come,
Lead their wan daughter from her branded home,
To woo the stranger for unhallow'd bread.
Poor outcast! o'er thy sickly-tinted cheek
And half-clad form, what havoc want hath made;
And the sweet lustre of thine eye doth fade,
And all thy soul's sad sorrow seems to speak.
O! miserable state! compell'd to wear
The wooing smile, as on thy aching breast
Some wretch reclines, who feeling ne'er possess'd;
Thy poor heart bursting with the stifled tear!
Oh! GOD OF MERCY! bid her woes subside,
And be to her a friend, who hath no friend beside.
Send Round The Hat
by Henry Lawson

Now this is the creed from the Book of the Bush,
Should be simple and plain to a dunce:
"If a man's in a hole you must pass round the hat,
Were he jail-bird or gentleman once."
Nursery Rhyme. CCCLII. Games.
by Unknown

Now we dance looby, looby, looby,
Now we dance looby, looby, light,
Shake your right hand a little
And turn you round about.
Now we dance looby, looby, looby,
Shake your right hand a little,
Shake your left hand a little,
And turn you round about.
Now we dance looby, looby, looby,
Shake your right hand a little,
Shake your left hand a little,
Shake your right foot a little,
And turn you round about.
Now we dance looby, looby, looby,
Shake your right hand a little,
Shake your left hand a little,
Shake your right foot a little,
Shake your left foot a little,
And turn you round about.
Now we dance looby, looby, looby,
Shake your right hand a little,
Shake your left hand a little,
Shake your right foot a little,
Shake your left foot a little,
Shake your head a little,
And turn you round about.
[Children dance round first, then stop and shake the hand, & c. then turn slowly round, and then dance in a ring again.]
The Lover's Invitation
by John Clare

Now the wheat is in the ear, and the rose is on the brere,
And bluecaps so divinely blue, with poppies of bright scarlet hue,
Maiden, at the close o' eve, wilt thou, dear, thy cottage leave,
And walk with one that loves thee?
When the even's tiny tears bead upon the grassy spears,
And the spider's lace is wet with its pinhead blebs of dew,
Wilt thou lay thy work aside and walk by brooklets dim descried,
Where I delight to love thee?
While thy footfall lightly press'd tramples by the skylark's nest,
And the cockle's streaky eyes mark the snug place where it lies,
Mary, put thy work away, and walk at dewy close o' day
With me to kiss and love thee.
There's something in the time so sweet, when lovers in the evening meet,
The air so still, the sky so mild, like slumbers of the cradled child,
The moon looks over fields of love, among the ivy sleeps the dove:
To see thee is to love thee.
Peggy.
by Robert Burns

I.
Now westlin winds and slaughtering guns
Bring autumn's pleasant weather;
The moor-cock springs, on whirring wings,
Amang the blooming heather:
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain,
Delights the weary farmer;
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night
To muse upon my charmer.
II.
The partridge loves the fruitful fells;
The plover loves the mountains;
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells;
The soaring hern the fountains;
Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves
The path of man to shun it;
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush,
The spreading thorn the linnet.
III.
Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find,
The savage and the tender;
Some social join, and leagues combine;
Some solitary wander:
Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,
Tyrannic man's dominion;
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry,
The flutt'ring, gory pinion.
IV.
But Peggy, dear, the ev'ning's clear,
Thick flies the skimming swallow;
The sky is blue, the fields in view,
All fading-green and yellow:
Come, let us stray our gladsome way,
And view the charms of nature;
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
And every happy creature.
V.
We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
Till the silent moon shine clearly;
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest,
Swear how I love thee dearly:
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs,
Not autumn to the farmer,
So dear can be as thou to me,
My fair, my lovely charmer!
Looby Light
by Walter Crane

Now we dance looby, looby, looby,
Now we dance looby, looby light;
Now we dance looby, looby, looby,
Now we dance looby as yesternight.
Shake your right hand a little,
Shake your left hand a little,
Shake your head a little,
And turn you round about.
The Tracks That Lie By India
by Henry Lawson

Now this is not a dismal song, like some I've sung of late,
When I've been brooding all day long about my muddled fate;
For though I've had a rocky time I'll never quite forget,
And though I never was so deep in trouble and in debt,
And though I never was so poor nor in a fix so tight,
The tracks that run by India are shining in my sight.
The roads that run by India, and all the ports of call,
I'm going back to London first to raise the wherewithal.
I'll call at Suez and Port Said as I am going past
(I was too worried to take notes when I was that way last),
At Naples and at Genoa, and, if I get the chance,
Who knows but I might run across the pleasant land of France.
The track that runs by India goes up the hot Red Sea,
The other side of Africa is far too dull for me.
(I fear that I have missed a chance I'll never get again
To see the land of chivalry and bide awhile in Spain.)
I'll graft a year in London, and if fortune smiles on me
I'll take the track to India by France and Italy.
'Tis sweet to court some foreign girl with eyes of lustrous glow,
Who does not know my language and whose language I don't know;
To loll on gently-rolling decks beneath the softening skies,
While she sits knitting opposite, and make love with our eyes,
The glance that says far more than words, the old half-mystic smile,
The track that runs by India will wait for me awhile.
The tracks that run by India to China and Japan,
The tracks where all the rovers go, the tracks that call a Man!
I'm wearied of the formal lands of parson and of priest,
Of dollars and of fashions, and I'm drifting towards the East;
I'm tired of cant and cackle, and of sordid jobbery,
The mystery of the East hath cast its glamour over me.
Now Winter Past, The White-Thorn Bower. (Hymn)
by Jean Ingelow

"Thy gentleness hath made me great."
Now winter past, the white-thorn bower
Breaks forth and buds down all the glen;
Now spreads the leaf and grows the flower:
So grows the life of God, in men.
Oh, my child-God, most gentle King,
To me Thy waxing glory show;
Wake in my heart as wakes the spring,
Grow as the leaf and lily grow.
I was a child, when Thou a child
Didst make Thyself again to me;
And holy, harmless, undefiled,
Play'd at Thy mother Mary's knee.
Thou gav'st Thy pure example so,
The copy in my childish breast
Was a child's copy. I did know
God, made in childhood manifest.
Now I am grown, and Thou art grown
The God-man, strong to love, to will,
Who was alone, yet not alone,
Held in His Father's presence still.
Now do I know Thee for my cure,
My peace, the Absolver for me set;
Thy goings pass through deeps obscure,
But Thou with me art gentle yet.
Long-suffering Lord, to man reveal'd
As One that e'en the child doth wait,
Thy full salvation is my shield,
Thy gentleness hath made me great.
Frost Magic
by Duncan Campbell Scott

I
Now, in the moonrise, from a wintry sky,
The frost has come to charm with elfin might
This quiet room; to draw with symbols bright
Faces and forms in fairest charactery
Upon the casement; all the thoughts that lie
Deep hidden in my heart's core he would tell,
How the red shoots of fancy strike and swell,
How they are watered, what soil nourished by.
With eerie power he piles his atomies,
Incrusted gems, star-glances overborne
With lids of sleep pulled from the moth's bright eyes,
And forests of frail ferns, blanched and forlorn,
Where Oberon of unimagined size
Might in the silver silence wind his horn.
II
With these alone he draws in magic lines,
Faces that people dreams, and chiefly one
Happy and brilliant as the northern sun,
And by its darling side there gleams and shines
One of God's children with the laughing signs
Of dimples, and glad accents, and sweet cries,
That angels are and heaven's memories:
The wizard thus my soul's estate divines;
All it holds dear he sets alone apart,
Etches the past in likeness of dim groves
Silvered in quiet rime and with rare art,
In crystal spoils and fairy treasure-troves,
He draws the picture of the happy heart,
By those who love it most, whom most it loves.
A Riverina Road
by Thomas William Heney

Now while so many turn with love and longing
To wan lands lying in the grey North Sea,
To thee we turn, hearts, mem'ries, all belonging,
Dear land of ours, to thee.
West, ever west, with the strong sunshine marching
Beyond the mountains, far from this soft coast,
Until we almost see the great plains arching,
In endless mirage lost.
A land of camps where seldom is sojourning,
Where men like the dim fathers of our race
Halt for a time, and next day, unreturning,
Fare ever on apace.
Last night how many a leaping blaze affrighted
The wailing birds of passage in their file:
And dawn sees ashes dead and embers whited
Where men had dwelt awhile.
The sun may burn, the mirage shift and vanish
And fade and glare by turns along the sky;
The haze of heat may all the distance banish
To the uncaring eye.
By speech or tongue of bird or brute unbroken
Silence may brood upon the lifeless plain,
Nor any sign, far off or near, betoken
Man in this vast domain.
Though tender grace the landscape lacks, too spacious,
Impassive, silent, lonely, to be fair,
Their kindness swiftly comes more soft and gracious,
Who live or tarry there.
All that he has, in camp or homestead, proffers,
To stranger guest at once a stranger host,
Proudest to see accepted what he offers,
Given without a boast.
Pass, if you can, the drover's cattle stringing
Along the miles of the wide travelled road,
Without a challenge through the hot dust ringing,
Kind though abrupt the mode.
A cloud of dust where polish'd wheels are flashing
Passes along, and in it rolls the mail.
Comes from the box, as on the coach goes dashing,
The lonely driver's hail.
Or in the track a station youngster mounted
Sits in his saddle smoking for a 'spell,'
Rides a while onward; then, his news recounted,
Parts with a brief farewell.
To-day these plains may seem a face defiant,
Turn'd to a mortal foe, yet scorning fear;
As when, with heaven at war, an Earth-born giant
Saw the Olympian near.
Come yet again! No child's fair face is sweeter
With young delight than this cool blooming land,
Silent no more, for songs than wings are fleeter,
No blaze, but sunshine bland.
Thus in her likeness that strange nature moulding
Makes man as moody, sad and savage too;
Yet in his heart, like her, a passion holding,
Unselfish, kind and true.
Therefore, while many turn with love and longing
To wan lands lying on the grey North Sea,
To-day, possessed by other mem'ries thronging,
We turn, wild West to thee!
The World Of Dream
by Walter De La Mare

Now, through the dusk
With muffled bell
The Dustman comes
The World to tell,
Night's elfin lanterns
Burn and gleam
In the twilight, wonderful
World of Dream.
Hollow and dim
Sleep's boat doth ride,
Heavily still
At the waterside.
Patter, patter,
The children come,
Yawning and sleepy,
Out of the gloom.
Like droning bees
In a garden green,
Over the thwarts
They clamber in.
And lovely Sleep
With long-drawn oar
Turns away
From the whispering shore.
Over the water
Like roses glide
Her hundreds of passengers
Packed inside,
To where in her garden
Tremble and gleam
The harps and lamps
Of the World of Dream.
The Dwarf
by Walter De La Mare

"Now, Jinnie, my dear, to the dwarf be off,
That lives in Barberry Wood,
And fetch me some honey, but be sure you don't laugh, - 
He hates little girls that are rude, are rude,
He hates little girls that are rude."
Jane tapped at the door of the house in the wood,
And the dwarf looked over the wall,
He eyed her so queer, 'twas as much as she could
To keep from laughing at all, at all,
To keep from laughing at all.
His shoes down the passage came clod, clod, clod,
And when he opened the door,
He croaked so harsh, 'twas as much as she could
To keep from laughing the more, the more,
To keep from laughing the more.
As there, with his bushy red beard, he stood,
Pricked out to double its size,
He squinted so cross, 'twas as much as she could
To keep the tears out of her eyes, her eyes,
To keep the tears out of her eyes.
He slammed the door, and went clod, clod, clod,
But while in the porch she bides,
He squealed so fierce, 'twas as much as she could
To keep from cracking her sides, her sides,
To keep from cracking her sides.
He threw a pumpkin over the wall,
And melons and apples beside,
So thick in the air that to see them all fall,
She laughed, and laughed, till she cried, cried, cried;
Jane laughed and laughed till she cried.
Down fell her teardrops a-pit-a-pat-pat,
And red as a rose she grew; - 
"Kah! kah," said the dwarf, "is it crying you're at?
It's the very worst thing you could do, do, do,
It's the very worst thing you could do."
He slipped like a monkey up into a tree,
He shook her down cherries like rain;
"See now," says he, cheeping, "a blackbird I be,
Laugh, laugh, little Jinnie, again - gain - gain,
Laugh, laugh, little Jinnie, again."
Ah me! what a strange, what a gladsome duet
From a house in the deeps of a wood!
Such shrill and such harsh voices never met yet
A-laughing as loud as they could, could, could,
A-laughing as loud as they could.
Come Jinnie, come dwarf, cocksparrow, and bee,
There's a ring gaudy-green in the dell,
Sing, sing, ye sweet cherubs, that flit in the tree;
La! who can draw tears from a well, well, well,
Who ever drew tears from a well!
The County Mayo
by James Stephens

Now with the coming in of the spring the days will stretch a bit,
And after the Feast of Brigid I shall hoist my flag and go,
For since the thought got into my head I can neither stand nor sit
Until I find myself in the middle of the County of Mayo.
In Claremorris I would stop a night and sleep with decent men,
And then go on to Balla just beyond and drink galore,
And next to Kiltimagh for a visit of about a month, and then
I would only be a couple of miles away from Ballymore.
I say and swear my heart lifts up like the lifting of a tide,
Rising up like the rising wind till fog or mist must go,
When I remember Carra and Gallen close beside,
And the Gap of the Two Bushes, and the wide plains of Mayo.
To Killaden then, to the place where everything grows that is best,
There are raspberries there and strawberries there and all that is good for men;
And if I were only there in the middle of my folk my heart could rest,
For age itself would leave me there and I'd be young again.
Now, O Now, In This Brown Land
by James Joyce

Now, O now, in this brown land
Where Love did so sweet music make
We two shall wander, hand in hand,
Forbearing for old friendship' sake,
Nor grieve because our love was gay
Which now is ended in this way.
A rogue in red and yellow dress
Is knocking, knocking at the tree;
And all around our loneliness
The wind is whistling merrily.
The leaves, they do not sigh at all
When the year takes them in the fall.
Now, O now, we hear no more
The vilanelle and roundelay!
Yet will we kiss, sweetheart, before
We take sad leave at close of day.
Grieve not, sweetheart, for anything,
The year, the year is gathering.
Hawking
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

(Air: 'Bow, Wow, Wow.')
Now, shut your mouths, you loafers all,
You vex me with your twaddle,
You own a nag or big or small,
A bridle and a saddle;
I you advise at once be wise
And waste no time in talking,
Procure some bags of damaged rags
And make your fortune hawking.
Chorus
Hawk, hawk, hawk.
Our bread to win, we'll all begin
To hawk, hawk, hawk.
The stockmen and the bushmen and
The shepherds leave the station,
And the hardy bullock-punchers throw
Aside their occupation;
While some have horses, some have drays,
And some on foot are stalking;
We surely must conclude it pays
When all are going hawking.
Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.
A life it is so full of bliss
'Twould suit the very niggers,
And lads I know a-hawking go
Who scarce can make the figures
But penmanship's no requisite,
Keep matters square by chalking
With pencil or with ruddle, that's
Exact enough for hawking.
Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.
The hawker's gay for half the day,
While others work he's spelling,
Though he may stay upon the way,
His purse is always swelling;
With work his back is never bent
His hardest toil is talking;
Three hundred is the rate per cent.
Of profit when a-hawking.
Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.
Since pedlaring yields more delight
Than ever digging gold did,
And since to fortune's envied height
The path I have unfolded,
We'll fling our moleskins to the dogs
And don tweeds without joking,
And honest men as well as rogues
We'll scour the country hawking.
Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.
The Usher's Charge.
by William Schwenck Gilbert

Now, Jurymen, hear my advice 
All kinds of vulgar prejudice
I pray you set aside:
With stern judicial frame of mind,
From bias free of every kind,
This trial must be tried!
Oh, listen to the plaintiff's case:
Observe the features of her face 
The broken-hearted bride!
Condole with her distress of mind:
From bias free of every kind,
This trial must be tried!
And when amid the plaintiff's shrieks,
The ruffianly defendant speaks 
Upon the other side;
What he may say you needn't mind 
From bias free of every kind,
This trial must be tried!
Winter Nights Enlarge
by Thomas Campion

Now winter nights enlarge
The number of their hours,
And clouds their storms discharge
Upon the airy towers.
Let now the chimneys blaze,
And cups o'erflow with wine;
Let well-tuned words amaze
With harmony divine.
Now yellow waxen lights
Shall wait on honey love,
While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights
Sleep's leaden spells remove.
This time doth well dispense
With lovers' long discourse;
Much speech hath some defence,
Though beauty no remorse.
All do not all things well;
Some measures comely tread,
Some knotted riddles tell,
Some poems smoothly read.
The summer hath his joys
And winter his delights;
Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,
They shorten tedious nights.
New Year's Night
by D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

Now you are mine, to-night at last I say it;
You're a dove I have bought for sacrifice,
And to-night I slay it.
Here in my arms my naked sacrifice!
Death, do you hear, in my arms I am bringing
My offering, bought at great price.
She's a silvery dove worth more than all I've got.
Now I offer her up to the ancient, inexorable God,
Who knows me not.
Look, she's a wonderful dove, without blemish or spot!
I sacrifice all in her, my last of the world,
Pride, strength, all the lot.
All, all on the altar! And death swooping down
Like a falcon. 'Tis God has taken the victim;
I have won my renown.
A Song Of The White Men
by Rudyard Kipling

Now, this is the cup the White Men drink
When they go to right a wrong,
And that is the cup of the old world's hate, 
Cruel and strained and strong.
We have drunk that cup, and a bitter, bitter cup, 
And tossed the dregs away.
But well for the world when the White Men drink
To the dawn of the White Man's day!
Now, this is the road that the White Men tread
When they go to clean a land, 
Iron underfoot and levin overhead
And the deep on either hand.
We have trod that road, and a wet and windy road, 
Our chosen star for guide.
Oh, well for the world when the White Men tread
Their highway side by side!
Now, this is the faith that the White Men hold, 
When they build their homes afar, 
"Freedom for ourselves and freedom for our sons
And, failing freedom, War."
We have proved our faith, bear witness to our faith,
Dear souls of freemen slain!
Oh, well for the world when the White Men join
To prove their faith again!
Peace
by Rupert Brooke

Now, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour,
And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping,
With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,
To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,
Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary,
Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,
And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,
And all the little emptiness of love!
Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,
Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,
Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;
Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there
But only agony, and that has ending;
And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.
Amour 15
by Michael Drayton

Now, Loue, if thou wilt proue a Conqueror,
Subdue thys Tyrant euer martyring mee;
And but appoint me for her Tormentor,
Then for a Monarch will I honour thee.
My hart shall be the prison for my fayre;
Ile fetter her in chaines of purest loue,
My sighs shall stop the passage of the ayre:
This punishment the pittilesse may moue.
With teares out of the Channels of mine eyes
She'st quench her thirst as duly as they fall:
Kinde words vnkindest meate I can deuise,
My sweet, my faire, my good, my best of all.
Ile binde her then with my torne-tressed haire,
And racke her with a thousand holy wishes;
Then, on a place prepared for her there,
Ile execute her with a thousand kisses.
Thus will I crucifie, my cruell shee;
Thus Ile plague her which hath so plagued mee.