DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Fear
by John Frederick Freeman

There was a child that screamed,
And if it was the gathering tingling dark,
Or if it was the tingling silences
Between few words,
Or if the water's drip and quivering drip--
Who knows?
Or if the child half sleeping suddenly dreamed--
Who knows? for she knew not, but was afraid,
And then angry with fear,
And then it seemed afraid of all the voices
Echoing hers.
And then afraid again of that drip, drip
Of water somewhere near.
Yet a man dying would not with such fear
Scream out at hell.
Easier it were to die than to endure,
Unless death brought the instant consciousness
Of all the wrongs of all lost years
Falling like water, drip after trembling drip
Upon the naked anguish of the soul.
But death's stupidity
Is gentle to the lunatic last wits.
Little of terror, little of consciousness,
But stupor, a great ease,
Narrowing silences,
And silence;
And then no more the drip, drip of the years,
No more the strangeness, agonies and fears;
No more the noise, but one imponderable unhaunted
Hush....
I heard the child that cried
Chattering a moment after in the light,
And singing out of such contentment as
Lamps and familiar voices bring.
She needs must sing
Now that sharp, spiny agony thrust no more,
Nor water fell, drip, drip by quivering drip;
Her face was bright,
Unapprehensive as a day in spring.
Heat-Lightning
by James Whitcomb Riley

There was a curious quiet for a space
Directly following: and in the face
Of one rapt listener pulsed the flush and glow
Of the heat-lightning that pent passions throw
Long ere the crash of speech. - He broke the spell - 
The host: - The Traveler's story, told so well,
He said, had wakened there within his breast
A yearning, as it were, to know the rest - 
That all unwritten sequence that the Lord
Of Righteousness must write with flame and sword,
Some awful session of His patient thought - 
Just then it was, his good old mother caught
His blazing eye - so that its fire became
But as an ember - though it burned the same.
It seemed to her, she said, that she had heard
It was the Heavenly Parent never erred,
And not the earthly one that had such grace:
"Therefore, my son," she said, with lifted face
And eyes, "let no one dare anticipate
The Lord's intent. While He waits, we will wait"
And with a gust of reverence genuine
Then Uncle Mart was aptly ringing in - 
"'If the darkened heavens lower,
Wrap thy cloak around thy form;
Though the tempest rise in power,
God is mightier than the storm!'"
Which utterance reached the restive children all
As something humorous. And then a call
For him to tell a story, or to "say
A funny piece." His face fell right away:
He knew no story worthy. Then he must
Declaim for them: In that, he could not trust
His memory. And then a happy thought
Struck some one, who reached in his vest and brought
Some scrappy clippings into light and said
There was a poem of Uncle Mart's he read
Last April in "The Sentinel." He had
It there in print, and knew all would be glad
To hear it rendered by the author.
And,
All reasons for declining at command
Exhausted, the now helpless poet rose
And said: "I am discovered, I suppose.
Though I have taken all precautions not
To sign my name to any verses wrought
By my transcendent genius, yet, you see,
Fame wrests my secret from me bodily;
So I must needs confess I did this deed
Of poetry red-handed, nor can plead
One whit of unintention in my crime - 
My guilt of rhythm and my glut of rhyme. - 
"M'nides rehearsed a tale of arms,
And Naso told of curious metatmurphoses;
Unnumbered pens have pictured woman's charms,
While crazy I've made poetry on purposes!"
In other words, I stand convicted - need
I say - by my own doing, as I read.
Nursery Rhyme. CLXXXIII. Riddles.
by Unknown

[Ann.]
There was a girl in our towne,
Silk an' satin was her gowne,
Silk an' satin, gold an' velvet,
Guess her name, three times I've tell'd it.
Hidden History.
by Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

I.
There was a maiden in a land
Was buried with all honor fine,
For they said she had dared her pulsing life
To save a silent, holy shrine.
The cannon rode by the church's door,
The men's wild faces flashed in the sun;
The woman had guarded with rifle poised,
While the cassocked priests had run.
Ah, no! To save her pulsing life
The woman like a reindeer turned,
While hostile armies rolled by her in clouds,
And miles of sun and metal burned.
But who should know? For she was dead
Before the leathern curtain's wall,
When came her wide-eyed comrades, and found
Her body and her weapon, all.
II.
There was a woman left to die
Who never told her sacrifice,
But trusted for her crown to God,
As to its value and device.
No land was prouder for her heart,
No word has echoed long her deed,
And where she has lain, the angel flower
Looks like a common weed.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCLXXVIII. Love And Matrimony.
by Unknown

There was a little maid, and she was afraid,
That her sweetheart would come unto her;
So she went to bed, and cover'd up her head
And fasten'd the door with a skewer.
Little Ballads Of Timely Warning; III: On Laziness And Its Resultant Ills
by Ellis Parker Butler

There was a man in New York City
(His name was George Adolphus Knight)
So soft of heart he wept with pity
To see our language and its plight.
He mourned to see it sorely goaded
With silent letters left and right;
These from his own name he unloaded
And wrote it Georg Adolfus Nit.
Six other men in that same city
Who longed to see a Spelling Heaven
Formed of themselves a strong committee
And asked Georg Nit to make it seven.
He joined the other six with pleasure,
Proud such important men to know,
Agreeing that their first great measure
Should be to shorten the word though.
But G. Adolfus Nit was lazy;
He dilly-dallied every day;
His life was dreamy, slow and hazy,
And indolent in every way.
On Monday morn at nine precisely
The six reformers (Nit not there)
Prepared to simplify though nicely,
And each was eager for his share.
Smith bit the h off short and ate it;
Griggs from the thoug chewed off the g;
Brown snapped off u to masticate it,
And tho alone was left for three.
Delancy's teeth broke o off quickly;
From th Billings took his t,
And then the h, albeit prickly,
Was shortly swallowed by McGee.
This done, the six lay back in plenty,
Well fed, they picked their teeth and smiled,
And lazy Nit, about 10:20,
Strolled in, as careless as a child.
'Well, boys,' he said, 'where's the collation?
I'm hungry, let us eat some though.'
'All gone!' they said, and then Starvation,
(Who is not lazy) laid Nit low.
Nit trembled, gasped, and, as the phrase is,
Cashed in his checks, gave up his breath,
And turned his toes up to the daisies
His laziness had caused his death!
Warning
Spelling reformers should make haste.
If each reformer wants a taste.
The Little Woman And The Pedlar
by Walter Crane

There was a little woman, as I've heard say,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol;
She went to market, her eggs for to sell,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol.
She went to market all on a market day,
And she fell asleep upon the king's highway;
Fol de rol de lol lol lol lol lol,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol.]
2 And there came a pedlar whose name was Stout,
Fol, lol, &c.,
He cut her petticoats all round about,
Fol, lol, &c.,
He cut her petticoats up to her knees,
Which made the little woman to shiver and freeze,
Fol de rol, &c.
3 When the little woman began to awake,
Fol, lol, &c.,
She began to shiver, and she began to shake,
Fol, lol, &c.,
She began to shake, and she began to cry,
Lawk-a-mercy on me! this is none of I,
Fol de rol, &c.
4 If it be I, as I suppose it be,
Fol lol, &c.,
I've a little dog at home, and he knows me;
Fol, lol, &c.,
If it be I, he will wag his little tail,
If it be not I, he will bark and rail,
Fol de rol, &c.
5 And when the little woman went home in the dark,
Fol, lol, &c.,
Her little dog he did begin to bark,
Fol, lol, &c.,
He began to bark, and she began to cry,
Lawk-a-mercy on me! this is none of I,
Fol de rol, &c.
The Girl That Lost Things
by George MacDonald

There was a girl that lost things--
Nor only from her hand;
She lost, indeed--why, most things,
As if they had been sand!
She said, "But I must use them,
And can't look after all!
Indeed I did not lose them,
I only let them fall!"
That's how she lost her thimble,
It fell upon the floor:
Her eyes were very nimble
But she never saw it more.
And then she lost her dolly,
Her very doll of all!
That loss was far from jolly,
But worse things did befall.
She lost a ring of pearls
With a ruby in them set;
But the dearest girl of girls
Cried only, did not fret.
And then she lost her robin;
Ah, that was sorrow dire!
He hopped along, and--bob in--
Hopped bob into the fire!
And once she lost a kiss
As she came down the stair;
But that she did not miss,
For sure it was somewhere!
Just then she lost her heart too,
But did so well without it
She took that in good part too,
And said--not much about it.
But when she lost her health
She did feel rather poor,
Till in came loads of wealth
By quite another door!
And soon she lost a dimple
That was upon her cheek,
But that was very simple--
She was so thin and weak!
And then she lost her mother,
And thought that she was dead;
Sure there was not another
On whom to lay her head!
And then she lost her self--
But that she threw away;
And God upon his shelf
It carefully did lay.
And then she lost her sight,
And lost all hope to find it;
But a fountain-well of light
Came flashing up behind it.
At last she lost the world:
In a black and stormy wind
Away from her it whirled--
But the loss how could she mind?
For with it she lost her losses,
Her aching and her weeping,
Her pains and griefs and crosses,
And all things not worth keeping;
It left her with the lost things
Her heart had still been craving;
'Mong them she found--why, most things,
And all things worth the saving.
She found her precious mother,
Who not the least had died;
And then she found that other
Whose heart had hers inside.
And next she found the kiss
She lost upon the stair;
'Twas sweeter far, I guess,
For ripening in that air.
She found her self, all mended,
New-drest, and strong, and white;
She found her health, new-blended
With a radiant delight.
She found her little robin:
He made his wings go flap,
Came fluttering, and went bob in,
Went bob into her lap.
So, girls that cannot keep things,
Be patient till to-morrow;
And mind you don't beweep things
That are not worth such sorrow;
For the Father great of fathers,
Of mothers, girls, and boys,
In his arms his children gathers,
And sees to all their toys.
Homunculus Et Puellula.
by Jacob Bigelow

There was a little man,
And he wooed a little maid,
And he said, Little maid, will you wed wed wed?
I have little more to say,
Then will you ay or nay,
For the least said is soonest mended ded ded.
Homunculus eximius puellulam amavit,
Quam ut nubendam duceret sic ore compellavit:
Quid verbis opus pluribus? Dic _volo_, dicve _nolo_,
Sat verbum sapientibus: responde sine dolo.
Then the little maid replied,
'Should I be your little bride,
Pray, what shall we have for to eat eat eat?
Will the flame that you are rich in
Make a fire in the kitchen,
Or the little god of love turn the spit spit spit?'
Responsum dat puellula,--Si flectar ad nubendum
Dic, qu'so, quid cibarii habebimus edendum?
Amorem credis ignem in culin' servaturum,
Aut parvulum Cupidinem jam veru versaturum?
Then the little man replied,
And, they say, a little sighed,
For his little heart was big with sorrow sorrow sorrow,
'My offers are but small,
But you have my little all;
And what we haven't got we must borrow borrow borrow.'
Replicuit homunculus suspiriis convulsus,
Ingenti 'gritudine cor parvulum perculsus,
Non multa quidem profero, sed omnia relinquo;
Et quicquid nobis deerit petemus a propinquo.
The little man thus spoke;
His heart was almost broke;
And all for the sake of her charms charms charms.
So the little maid relented,
And softened she consented
The little man to take to her arms arms arms.
Sic fatur ille lacrymans ex corde desolato,
Et propter pulchritudinem ad mortem vulnerato.
Mollitur tum puellula, amorem et agnovit,
Beatumque homunculum amplexu suo fovit.
The Betrothal
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

There was a little pause between the dances;
Without, somewhere, a tinkling fountain played.
The dusky path was lit by ardent glances
As forth they fared, a lover and a maid.
He chose a nook, from curious eyes well hidden - 
All redolent with sweet midsummer charm,
And by the great primeval instinct bidden,
He drew her in the shelter of his arm.
The words that long deep in his heart had trembled
Found sudden utterance; she at first dissembled,
Refused her lips, and half withdrew her hand,
Then murmured "Yes," and yielded, woman fashion,
Her virgin mouth to young love's kiss of passion.
A Cameo
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

There was a graven image of Desire
Painted with red blood on a ground of gold
Passing between the young men and the old,
And by him Pain, whose body shone like fire,
And Pleasure with gaunt hands that grasped their hire.
Of his left wrist, with fingers clenched and cold,
The insatiable Satiety kept hold,
Walking with feet unshod that pashed the mire.
The senses and the sorrows and the sins,
And the strange loves that suck the breasts of Hate
Till lips and teeth bite in their sharp indenture,
Followed like beasts with flap of wings and fins.
Death stood aloof behind a gaping grate,
Upon whose lock was written Peradventure.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCLXXIII. Paradoxes.
by Unknown

There was a little Guinea-pig,
Who, being little, was not big;
He always walked upon his feet,
And never fasted when he eat.
When from a place he ran away,
He never at that place did stay;
And while he ran, as I am told,
He ne'er stood still for young or old.
He often squeak'd and sometimes vi'lent,
And when he squeak'd he ne'er was silent;
Though ne'er instructed by a cat,
He knew a mouse was not a rat.
One day, as I am certified,
He took a whim and fairly died;
And, as I'm told by men of sense,
He never has been living since.
Nursery Rhyme. LIV. Tales.
by Unknown

There was a little man,
And he had a little gun,
And he went to the brook,
And he shot a little rook;
And he took it home
To his old wife Joan,
And told her to make up a fire,
While he went back,
To fetch the little drake;
But when he got there,
The drake was fled for fear,
And like an old novice,
He turn'd back again.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCLXIV. Paradoxes.
by Unknown

There was a man of Newington,
And he was wond'rous wise,
He jump'd into a quickset hedge,
And scratch'd out both his eyes:
But when he saw his eyes were out,
With all his might and main,
He jump'd into another hedge,
And scratch'd 'em in again.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCLXXVI. Paradoxes.
by Unknown

There was a man and he was mad,
And he jump'd into a pea-swad;[A]
The pea-swad was over-full,
So he jump'd into a roaring bull;
The roaring bull was over-fat,
So he jump'd into a gentleman's hat;
The gentleman's hat was over-fine,
So he jump'd into a bottle of wine;
The bottle of wine was over-dear,
So he jump'd into a bottle of beer;
The bottle of beer was over-thick,
So he jump'd into a club-stick;
The club-stick was over-narrow,
So he jump'd into a wheel-barrow;
The wheel-barrow began to crack,
So he jump'd on to a hay-stack;
The hay-stack began to blaze,
So he did nothing but cough and sneeze!
[Footnote A: The pod or shell of a pea.]
The Dedication To A Book Of Stories
by William Butler Yeats

There was a green branch hung with many a bell
When her own people ruled this tragic Eire;
And from its murmuring greenness, calm of Faery,
A Druid kindness, on all hearers fell.
It charmed away the merchant from his guile,
And turned the farmer's memory from his cattle,
And hushed in sleep the roaring ranks of battle:
And all grew friendly for a little while.
Ah, Exiles wandering over lands and seas,
And planning, plotting always that some morrow
May set a stone upon ancestral Sorrow!
I also bear a bell-branch full of ease.
I tore it from green boughs winds tore and tossed
Until the sap of summer had grown weary!
I tore it from the barren boughs of Eire,
That country where a man can be so crossed;
Can be so battered, badgered and destroyed
That he's a loveless man: gay bells bring laughter
That shakes a mouldering cobweb from the rafter;
And yet the saddest chimes are best enjoyed.
Gay bells or sad, they bring you memories
Of half-forgotten innocent old places:
We and our bitterness have left no traces
On Munster grass and Connemara skies.
The Coachman.
by Richard Hunter

There was a grand coachman,
Who drove the Lord Mayor;
And never drove less than
A carriage and pair.
He wore a red waistcoat,
He carried a whip,
And when the boys saw him,
They shouted "Hip! hip!"
The Singing Girl
by Alfred Joyce Kilmer (Joyce)

(For the Rev. Edward F. Garesche, S. J.)
There was a little maiden
In blue and silver drest,
She sang to God in Heaven
And God within her breast.
It flooded me with pleasure,
It pierced me like a sword,
When this young maiden sang:    "My soul
Doth magnify the Lord."
The stars sing all together
And hear the angels sing,
But they said they had never heard
So beautiful a thing.
Saint Mary and Saint Joseph,
And Saint Elizabeth,
Pray for us poets now
And at the hour of death.
Robin.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Daintie Davie."
I.
There was a lad was born in Kyle,
But whatna day o' whatna style
I doubt it's hardly worth the while
To be sae nice wi' Robin.
Robin was a rovin' boy,
Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin';
Robin was a rovin' boy,
Rantin' rovin' Robin!
II.
Our monarch's hindmost year but ane
Was five-and-twenty days begun,
Twas then a blast o' Janwar win'
Blew hansel in on Robin.
III.
The gossip keekit in his loof,
Quo' she, wha lives will see the proof.
This waly boy will be nae coof,
I think we'll ca' him Robin
IV.
He'll hae misfortunes great and sma',
But ay a heart aboon them a';
He'll be a credit to us a',
We'll a' be proud o' Robin.
V.
But sure as three times three mak nine,
I see by ilka score and line,
This chap will dearly like our kin',
So leeze me on thee, Robin.
VI.
Guid faith, quo' she, I doubt you gar,
The bonnie lasses lie aspar,
But twenty fauts ye may hae waur,
So blessin's on thee, Robin!
Robin was a rovin' boy,
Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin';
Robin was a rovin' boy,
Rantin' rovin' Robin!
The Broomfield Hill
by Frank Sidgwick

The Text is taken from Scott's Minstrelsy (1803). It would be of great interest if we could be sure that the reference to 'Hive Hill' in 8.1 was from genuine Scots tradition. In Wager's comedy The Longer thou Lived the more Fool thou art (about 1568) Moros sings a burden:--
'Brome, brome on hill,
The gentle brome on hill, hill,
Brome, brome on Hive hill,
The gentle brome on Hive hill,
The brome stands on Hive hill a.'
Before this date 'Brume, brume on hil' is mentioned in The Complaynt of Scotlande, 1549; and a similar song was among Captain Cox's 'ballets and songs, all auncient.'
The Story, of a youth challenging a maid, and losing his wager by being laid asleep with witchcraft, is popular and widespread. In the Gesta Romanorum is a story of which this theme is one main incident, the other being the well-known forfeit of a pound of flesh, as in the Merchant of Venice. Ser Giovanni (Pecorone, IV. 1) tells a similar tale, and other variations are found in narrative or ballad form in Iceland, Sweden, Denmark, Italy, and Germany.
Grimm notes the German superstition that the rosenschwamm (gall on the wild rose), if laid beneath a man's pillow, causes him to sleep until it be taken away.
THE BROOMFIELD HILL
1.
There was a knight and a lady bright,
Had a true tryste at the broom;
The ane gaed early in the morning,
The other in the afternoon.
2.
And ay she sat in her mother's bower door,
And ay she made her mane:
'O whether should I gang to the Broomfield Hill,
Or should I stay at hame?
3.
'For if I gang to the Broomfield Hill,
My maidenhead is gone;
And if I chance to stay at hame,
My love will ca' me mansworn.'
4.
Up then spake a witch-woman,
Ay from the room aboon:
'O ye may gang to the Broomfield Hill,
And yet come maiden hame.
5.
'For when ye gang to the Broomfield Hill,
Ye'll find your love asleep,
With a silver belt about his head,
And a broom-cow at his feet.
6.
'Take ye the blossom of the broom,
The blossom it smells sweet,
And strew it at your true-love's head,
And likewise at his feet.
7.
'Take ye the rings off your fingers,
Put them on his right hand,
To let him know, when he doth awake,
His love was at his command.'
8.
She pu'd the broom flower on Hive Hill,
And strew'd on's white hals-bane,
And that was to be wittering true
That maiden she had gane.
9.
'O where were ye, my milk-white steed,
That I hae coft sae dear,
That wadna watch and waken me
When there was maiden here?'
10.
'I stamped wi' my foot, master,
And gard my bridle ring,
But na kin thing wald waken ye,
Till she was past and gane.'
11.
'And wae betide ye, my gay goss-hawk,
That I did love sae dear,
That wadna watch and waken me
When there was maiden here.'
12.
'I clapped wi' my wings, master,
And aye my bells I rang,
And aye cry'd, Waken, waken, master,
Before the lady gang.'
13.
'But haste and haste, my gude white steed.
To come the maiden till,
Or a' the birds of gude green wood
Of your flesh shall have their fill.'
14.
'Ye need na burst your gude white steed
Wi' racing o'er the howm;
Nae bird flies faster through the wood,
Than she fled through the broom.'
Nursery Rhyme. DLXIV. Natural History.
by Unknown

There was a little boy went into a barn,
And lay down on some hay;
An owl came out and flew about,
And the little boy ran away.
Nursery Rhyme. CCVII. Riddles.
by Unknown

[The man had one eye, and the tree two apples upon it.]
There was a man who had no eyes,
He went abroad to view the skies;
He saw a tree with apples on it,
He took no apples off, yet left no apples on it.
An Episode
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
There was a man rode into town one day,
Barefooted, hatless, and without a coat.
It was the dead of winter. Round his throat
Were marks of violence: bits and wisps of hay
Bristled his beard and hair. From far away
We saw him coming: desolate and remote
And wild his gaze, that of no man took note,
Or seeming note; and nothing would he say.
But when he'd had a drink, then drunk some more,
He told us he had sold tobacco; see?
And all was lost. At that he caught his breath.
Last night a knock came at his cabin-door.
His son, who answered, was shot dead. And he
Was caught and chok'd and almost beat to death.
II.
They said he'd sold tobacco; and he knew
They ought to kill him, burn his house and barn,
And would unless he gave them (this with scorn)
The money he'd received. What could he do?
He had a little money, it was true,
Hid in an old pot underneath the corn
There in the crib, he told them. 'Twas a yarn
To get away. They were a desperate crew.
They set to work upon the crib; and he
Got loose and on a horse and took to flight:
They shot at him. Whatever might occur
He did not care now; they had burned, you see,
His home: for miles its glare lit up the night.
His wife and daughters? God knows where they were.