DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Commandeering
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

Our hero was a Tommy with a conscience free from care,
And such an open countenance that when he breathed the air
He mopped up all the atmosphere, so little went to spare
You could hardly say he breathed, he "commandeered" it.
For nowadays you'll notice when a man is "on the make",
And other people's property is anxious for to take,
We never use such words as "steal", or "collar", "pinch", or "shake".
No, the fashion is to say we "commandeered" it.
And our simple-minded hero used to grumble at his lot,
Said he, "This commandeerin's just a little bit too hot,
A fellow has to carry every blooming thing he's got;
Whatever he puts down they'll commandeer it."
So after much anxiety our simple-minded elf
He thought he'd do a little commandeering for himself,
And the first thing that he'd noticed was a bottle on a shelf
In a cottage, so he thought he'd commandeer it.
"What ho!" says he, "a bottle, and, by George, it's full of beer,
And no commanding officer to come and interfere.
Here's my own blooming health," says he, "I'm on the commandeer."
And without another word he commandeered it.
On his subsequent proceedings we must draw a little veil,
For the Boers had left some sheep dip in that bottle labeled "Ale";
But the doctor said he's shift it, if all other methods fail,
We must use the stomach pump and commandeer it.
Alpine Glow.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Our lives are Swiss, --
So still, so cool,
Till, some odd afternoon,
The Alps neglect their curtains,
And we look farther on.
Italy stands the other side,
While, like a guard between,
The solemn Alps,
The siren Alps,
Forever intervene!
Our Petty Cares
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Our petty cares wear on us so, -
More cruel than our great despairs,
More rasping than a mighty woe,
Our petty cares.
Less need of strength hath he who bears
Courageously some stinging blow,
Of Fate which takes him unawares.
Not solitary griefs we know
Induce old age and whitening hairs;
But that malicious, endless row -
Our petty cares.
The Nursing Sister
by Rudyard Kipling

Our sister sayeth such and such,
And we must bow to her behests.
Our sister toileth overmuch,
Our little maid that hath no breasts.
A field untilled, a web unwove,
A flower withheld from sun or bee,
An alien in the Courts of Love,
And teacher unto such as we!
We love her, but we laugh the while,
We laugh, but sobs are mixed with laughter;
Our sister hath no time to smile,
She knows not what must follow after.
Wind of the South, arise and blow,
From beds of spice thy locks shake free;
Breathe on her heart that she may know,
Breathe on her eyes that she may see!
Alas! we vex her with our mirth,
And maze her with most tender scorn,
Who stands beside the Gates of Birth,
Herself a child, a child unborn!
Our sister sayeth such and such,
And we must bow to her behest's.
Our sister toileth overmuch,
Our little maid that hath no breasts.
The Port O'Call
by Henry Lawson

Our hull is seldom painted,
Our decks are seldom stoned;
Our sails are patched and cobbled
And chains by rust marooned.
Our rigging is untidy,
And all things in accord:,
We always sail on Friday
With thirteen souls on board.
For all the days save Friday
Were days of dark despair,
The fourteenth died of fever
Whenever he was there.
Our good ship is the Chancit,
Her oldest name of all;
But, in the ports we're blown to,
She's called the 'Port o' Call.'
Our captain old Wot Matters,
Our first mate young Hoo Kares,
Our cook is Wen Yew Wan Tit,
And so the Chancit fares.
The sweethearts, wives, and others,
And all we left behind,
Have many names to go by;
But mine is Never Mind.
We fear no hell hereafter,
We hope for no reward,
We always sail on Friday
With thirteen men on board.
And every wind's a fair wind,
That suits us, one and all,
And every port we're blown to
We call our port-of-call.
I've seen the poor boy striving
For just one chance to rise:
The light of truth and honour
And genius in his eyes.
His school-mates jeered and mocked him,
They mocked him through the town:
And his relatives scarce pitied,
While his parents crushed him down.
I've seen the young man fighting
The present and the past,
Till he triumphed in the city,
And fame was his at last!
And generous, but steadfast,
All for his Country then,
Unspoiled and all unconscious
He stood, a prince of men.
I've seen the husband ruined,
And drunken in the street,
When the World was all before him,
And the ball was at his feet,
Thrust down by fate most bitter,
Most cruel and unjust;
His children taught to loathe him,
And his name dragged in the dust.
.     .     .     .     .
Our hull is never painted,
Our decks are never stoned,
The cabin air is tainted,
The good ship is disowned;
Our rigging is untidy,
And all things in accord,
We always sail on Friday,
With thirteen hands on board.
I've seen strong bushmen slaving,
As men ne'er slaved before,
To win homes from the scrublands
And win their country more.
And I've seen their children scattered
As work-slaves on the soil;
And the old-age-pension begged for
After fifty years of toil!
And the Bush Muse is discarded,
There's a wanton on the track,
And her panderers are sneering
At old soldiers of Out Back
The motor cars go racing
Past the Heroes of Long Years,
And the dust is in their faces
And the laughter in their ears.
We care not where we're bound for,
Nor how the storm might howl;
For every wind's a fair wind,
And every wind a foul.
There's nothing left to sail for
Save that we keep our decks,
And watch for other castaways
On rafts from other wrecks.
The Wonder-Child
by Richard Le Gallienne

'Our little babe,' each said, 'shall be
Like unto thee' - 'Like unto thee!'
'Her mother's' - 'Nay, his father's' - 'eyes,'
'Dear curls like thine' - but each replies,
'As thine, all thine, and nought of me.'
What sweet solemnity to see
The little life upon thy knee,
And whisper as so soft it lies, -
'Our little babe!'
For, whether it be he or she,
A David or a Dorothy,
'As mother fair,' or 'father wise,'
Both when it's 'good,' and when it cries,
One thing is certain, - it will be
Our little babe.
King Frederik The Seventh (1863)
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

(See Note 21)
Our King is bereft of a trusty friend!
And in dismay
We lower our banners and sad attend
On his burial day.
But Denmark, in sorrow most deep thou waitest,
For fallen the life that was warmest, greatest,
And fallen the tower
Of mightiest power.
Bewailing the death of their kingly chief,
Men voice their grief.
For Denmark's salvation the man was born
Who now is dead.
When banished in youth from the court in scorn,
To his people he fled.
There throve he right well, there grew he together
With peasants and sailors in foul and fair weather,
While fullness of living
Its schooling was giving;
When ready for Denmark was laid the snare,
Then he was there!
Now soon it was plain, he was peasant-skulled
For their tricks; and hence
The traitors' shrewd schemings were all annulled
By his bit of sense.
He knew but one thing; - what his people thought them,
And therefore in danger he freedom brought them.
The whole was his vision,
He would no scission;
His words were but few, and of these the key:
"It shall not be!"
He stood by the helm like a sailor good,
In no storm remiss;
Of praise the tribute he never would,
But he shall have this!
The ship to the North he unswerving directed, - 
In storm or in fog, exposed or protected; - 
And fear allaying,
All folk were saying:
"He isn't so stupid as people tell,
For all goes well!"
"On deck every man!" was his last command,
"There's storm again!"
When answered the cry from the mast-head: "Land!"
Oh, then, just then,
Were loosed from the helm the true hands that were steering,
In death he sank down, while the ship began veering - 
No, never veering!
To the course adhering!
Now, Denmark, united, with all thy force
Hold straight his course!
He made it his honor, in line to stand,
No rank to know;
But shoulder to shoulder to lend a hand,
And pride forego.
They gather now fruit of his faithful training:
Well drilled, every man at his post is straining.
The course is steady,
For tried and ready
Is many a helmsman, and all their will
Is "Northward still!"
Naught else can they do now, but with good cheer
Hold out they must,
Stand guard in the darkness and have no fear,
In God their trust.
It is sultry and silent, and yearning in sorrow
All breathless they listen and wait for the morrow, - 
'T is time for waiting,
Till, night abating,
The eastern sky reddens and bright dawn speeds
The day of deeds!
Kipper, Tea And Oranges
by Paul Cameron Brown

Our lives evaporating as we talk,
flypaper from cosmic ceiling - 
We gather stardust,
mnemonics, perhaps,
re-arrangers of mystic twigs
into a pattern.
Look to the sky,
les nuages, l'ombre
les arbres alla primavera
"magnificio", said I
with real relish &
snap of ring-encrusted fingers,
distant God, not quite Himself,
behind a podium exiting the band shell.
The Journey.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Our journey had advanced;
Our feet were almost come
To that odd fork in Being's road,
Eternity by term.
Our pace took sudden awe,
Our feet reluctant led.
Before were cities, but between,
The forest of the dead.
Retreat was out of hope, --
Behind, a sealed route,
Eternity's white flag before,
And God at every gate.
"Our Share Of Night To Bear"
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Our share of night to bear,
Our share of morning,
Our blank in bliss to fill,
Our blank in scorning.
Here a star, and there a star,
Some lose their way.
Here a mist, and there a mist,
Afterwards -- day!
Epitaph
by Alan L. Strang

Our loved ones lay them down to sleep
And leave us here to grieve and mourn,
While we, our silent watches keep,
O'er their low graves whence they are bourne.
Some heroes are in battle slain,
Their names are honored far and near,
While others die on beds of pain
And no sad mourner sheds a tear.
This day we honor each and all
Whose soul has left its temporal case;
And be he great, or be he small,
We'll reverence his resting place.
Our Hired Girl
by James Whitcomb Riley

Our hired girl, she's 'Lizabuth Ann;
An' she can cook best things to eat!
She ist puts dough in our pie-pan,
An' pours in somepin' 'at's good and sweet,
An' nen she salts it all on top
With cinnamon; an' nen she'll stop
An' stoop an' slide it, ist as slow,
In th' old cook-stove, so's 'twon't slop
An' git all spilled; nen bakes it, so
It's custard pie, first thing you know!
An' nen she'll say:
"Clear out o' my way!
They's time fer work, an' time fer play! -
Take yer dough, an' run, Child; run!
Er I cain't git no cookin' done!"
When our hired girl 'tends like she's mad,
An' says folks got to walk the chalk
When she's around, er wisht they had,
I play out on our porch an' talk
To th' Raggedy Man 'at mows our lawn;
An' he says "Whew!" an' nen leans on
His old crook-scythe, and blinks his eyes
An' sniffs all around an' says, - "I swawn!
Ef my old nose don't tell me lies,
It 'pears like I smell custard-pies!"
An' nen he'll say, -
"'Clear out' o' my way!
They's time fer work an' time fer play!
Take yer dough, an' run, Child; run!
Er she cain't git no cookin' done!'"
Wunst our hired girl, one time when she
Got the supper, an' we all et,
An' it was night, an' Ma an' me
An' Pa went wher' the "Social" met, -
An' nen when we come home, an' see
A light in the kitchen-door, an' we
Heerd a maccordeum, Pa says "Lan' -
O'Gracious! who can her beau be?"
An' I marched in, an' 'Lizabuth Ann
Wuz parchin' corn fer the Raggedy Man!
Better say
"Clear out o' the way!
They's time fer work, an' time fer play!
Take the hint, an' run, Child; run!
Er we cain't git no courtin' done!'"
A Carol
by Rudyard Kipling

Our Lord Who did the Ox command
To kneel to Judah's King,
He binds His frost upon the land
To ripen it for Spring,
To ripen it for Spring, good sirs,
According to His Word.
Which well must be as ye can see,
And who shall judge the Lord?
When we poor fenmen skate the ice
Or shiver on the wold,
We hear the cry of a single tree
That breaks her heart in the cold,
That breaks her heart in the cold, good sirs,
And rendeth by the board.
Which well must be as ye can see,
And who shall judge the Lord?
Her wood is crazed and little worth
Excepting as to burn,
That we may warm and make our mirth
Until the Spring return,
Until the Spring return, good sirs,
When Christians walk abroad;
When well must be as ye can see,
And who shall judge the Lord?
God bless the master of this house,
And all who sleep therein!
And guard the fens from pirate folk,
And keep us all from sin,
To walk in honesty, good sirs,
Of thought and deed and word!
Which shall befriend our latter end....
And who shall judge the Lord?
Mary Magdalene And The Other Mary.
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

A SONG FOR ALL MARIES.
Our Master lies asleep and is at rest;
His Heart has ceased to bleed, His Eye to weep.
The sun ashamed has dropt down in the west;
Our Master lies asleep.
Now we are they who weep, and trembling keep
Vigil, with wrung heart in a sighing breast,
While slow time creeps, and slow the shadows creep.
Renew Thy youth, as eagle from the nest;
O Master, who hast sown, arise to reap:
No cock-crow yet, no flush on eastern crest;
Our Master lies asleep.
Tears.
by Robert Herrick

Our present tears here, not our present laughter,
Are but the handsels of our joys hereafter.
Sonnet: - VII.
by Charles Sangster

Our life is like a forest, where the sun
Glints down upon us through the throbbing leaves;
The full light rarely finds us. One by one,
Deep rooted in our souls, there springeth up
Dark groves of human passion, rich in gloom,
At first no bigger than an acorn-cup.
Hope threads the tangled labyrinth, but grieves
Till all our sins have rotted in their tomb,
And made the rich loam of each yearning heart
To bring forth fruits and flowers to new life.
We feel the dew from heaven, and there start
From some deep fountain little rills whose strife
Is drowned in music. Thus in light and shade
We live, and move, and die, through all this earthly glade.
A Prologue, Billet To A Company Of Players Sent With The Prologue
by Jonathan Swift

The enclosed prologue is formed upon the story of the secretary's not allowing you to act, unless you would pay him '300 per annum; upon which you got a license from the Lord Mayor to act as strollers.
The prologue supposes, that upon your being forbidden to act, a company of country strollers came and hired the playhouse, and your clothes, etc. to act in.
Our set of strollers, wandering up and down,
Hearing the house was empty, came to town;
And, with a license from our good lord mayor,
Went to one Griffith, formerly a player:
Him we persuaded, with a moderate bribe,
To speak to Elrington[1] and all the tribe,
To let our company supply their places,
And hire us out their scenes, and clothes, and faces.
Is not the truth the truth? Look full on me;
I am not Elrington, nor Griffith he.
When we perform, look sharp among our crew,
There's not a creature here you ever knew.
The former folks were servants to the king;
We, humble strollers, always on the wing.
Now, for my part, I think, upon the whole,
Rather than starve, a better man would stroll.
Stay! let me see - Three hundred pounds a-year,
For leave to act in town! - 'Tis plaguy dear.
Now, here's a warrant; gallants, please to mark,
For three thirteens, and sixpence to the clerk.
Three hundred pounds! Were I the price to fix,
The public should bestow the actors six;
A score of guineas given underhand,
For a good word or so, we understand.
To help an honest lad that's out of place,
May cost a crown or so; a common case:
And, in a crew, 'tis no injustice thought
To ship a rogue, and pay him not a groat.
But, in the chronicles of former ages,
Who ever heard of servants paying wages?
I pity Elrington with all my heart;
Would he were here this night to act my part!
I told him what it was to be a stroller;
How free we acted, and had no comptroller:
In every town we wait on Mr. Mayor,
First get a license, then produce our ware;
We sound a trumpet, or we beat a drum:
Huzza! (the schoolboys roar) the players are come;
And then we cry, to spur the bumpkins on,
Gallants, by Tuesday next we must be gone.
I told him in the smoothest way I could,
All this, and more, yet it would do no good.
But Elrington, tears falling from his cheeks,
He that has shone with Betterton and Wilks,[2]
To whom our country has been always dear,
Who chose to leave his dearest pledges here,
Owns all your favours, here intends to stay,
And, as a stroller, act in every play:
And the whole crew this resolution takes,
To live and die all strollers, for your sakes;
Not frighted with an ignominious name,
For your displeasure is their only shame.
A pox on Elrington's majestic tone!
Now to a word of business in our own.
Gallants, next Thursday night will be our last:
Then without fail we pack up for Belfast.
Lose not your time, nor our diversion miss,
The next we act shall be as good as this.
At The Entering Of The New Year
by Thomas Hardy

I (OLD STYLE)
Our songs went up and out the chimney,
And roused the home-gone husbandmen;
Our allemands, our heys, poussettings,
Our hands-across and back again,
Sent rhythmic throbbings through the casements
On to the white highway,
Where nighted farers paused and muttered,
"Keep it up well, do they!"
The contrabasso's measured booming
Sped at each bar to the parish bounds,
To shepherds at their midnight lambings,
To stealthy poachers on their rounds;
And everybody caught full duly
The notes of our delight,
As Time unrobed the Youth of Promise
Hailed by our sanguine sight.
II (NEW STYLE)
We stand in the dusk of a pine-tree limb,
As if to give ear to the muffled peal,
Brought or withheld at the breeze's whim;
But our truest heed is to words that steal
From the mantled ghost that looms in the gray,
And seems, so far as our sense can see,
To feature bereaved Humanity,
As it sighs to the imminent year its say:-
"O stay without, O stay without,
Calm comely Youth, untasked, untired;
Though stars irradiate thee about
Thy entrance here is undesired.
Open the gate not, mystic one;
Must we avow what we would close confine?
WITH THEE, GOOD FRIEND, WE WOULD HAVE CONVERSE NONE,
Albeit the fault may not be thine."
December 31. During the War.
Peter, A Pekinese Puppy
by R. C. Lehmann

Our Peter, who's famed as an eater of things,
Is a miniature dragon without any wings.
He can gallop or trot, he can amble or jog,
But he flies like a flash when he's after his prog;
And the slaves who adore him, whatever his mood,
Say that nothing is fleeter
Than Peter the eater,
Than Peter pursuing his food.
He considers the garden his absolute own:
It's the place where a digger can bury a bone.
Then he tests his pin-teeth on a pansy or rose,
Spreading ruin and petals wherever he goes;
And his mistress declares, when he's nibbled for hours,
That nothing is sweeter
Than Peter the eater,
The resolute eater of flowers.
Having finished his dinner he wheedles the cook,
Picks a coal from the scuttle or tackles a book,
Or devotes all his strength to a slipper or mat,
To the gnawing of this and the tearing of that;
Faute de mieux takes a dress; and his mistress asserts
That there's nothing to beat her
Like Peter the eater
Attached by his teeth to her skirts.
But at last he has supped, and the moment is come
When, his stretchable turn being tight as a drum,
He is meek and submissive, who once was so proud,
And he creeps to his basket and slumbers aloud.
And his mistress proclaims, as she tucks up his shawl,
That nothing is neater
Than Peter the eater,
Than Peter curled up in a ball,
Asleep and digesting it all.
Sing Me The Old Songs, Mother.
by Freeman Edwin Miller

Our souls are the deserts of sorrow,
Our hearts are the ashes of hope,
And madly from gladness we borrow
The brightness where sadness may grope;
My raptures in wretchedness vanish,
My bosom is weeping with wrongs;
Then sing me the old songs, mother,
Then sing me the dear old songs.
My joys are in memory lying,
Still ardently happy with youth,
When smiles in ambition were dying,
And life was the vision of youth;
My brow for your gentle caresses
And kisses of tenderness longs;
Then sing me the old songs, mother,
Then sing me the dear old songs.
Sweet murmurs in mystical measures
Come soothingly over my soul,
Where voices of babyish pleasures
And echoes of lullabies roll;
The struggles of all my endeavor
Are bound in the darkest of thongs;
Then sing me the old songs, mother,
Then sing me the dear old songs.
I fain would return in my dreaming
To years that proclaimed me a boy,
When gladness was happily beaming
And life was a musical toy;
My sorrow has never Nepenthe,
My woe in its bitterness throngs;
Then sing me the old songs, mother,
Then sing me the dear old songs.
Sonnets on English Dramatic Poets (1590-1650): Epilogue
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Our mother, which wast twice, as history saith,
Found first among the nations: once, when she
Who bore thine ensign saw the God in thee
Smite Spain, and bring forth Shakespeare: once, when death
Shrank, and Rome's bloodhounds cowered, at Milton's breath:
More than thy place, then first among the free,
More than that sovereign lordship of the sea
Bequeathed to Cromwell from Elizabeth,
More than thy fiery guiding- star, which Drake
Hailed, and the deep saw lit again for Blake,
More than all deeds wrought of thy strong right hand,
This praise keeps most thy fame's memorial strong,
That thou wast head of all these streams of song,
And time bows down to thee as Shakespeare's land.
The Red Sea
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

Our souls shall be Leviathans
In purple seas of wine
When drunkenness is dead with death,
And drink is all divine;
Learning in those immortal vats
What mortal vineyards mean;
For only in heaven we shall know
How happy we have been.
Like clouds that wallow in the wind
Be free to drift and drink;
Tower without insolence when we rise,
Without surrender sink:
Dreams dizzy and crazy we shall know
And have no need to write
Our blameless blasphemies of praise,
Our nightmares of delight.
For so in such misshapen shape
The vision came to me,
Where such titanian dolphins dark
Roll in a sunset sea:
Dark with dense colours, strange and strong
As terrible true love,
Haloed like fish in phospher light
The holy monsters move.
Measure is here and law, to learn,
When honour rules it so,
To lift the glass and lay it down
Or break the glass and go.
But when the world's New Deluge boils
From the New Noah's vine,
Our souls shall be Leviathans
In sanguine seas of wine.
Indiana
by James Whitcomb Riley

Our Land - our Home - the common home indeed
Of soil-born children and adopted ones -
The stately daughters and the stalwart sons
Of Industry: All greeting and godspeed!
O home to proudly live for, and if need
Be proudly die for, with the roar of guns
Blent with our latest prayer. So died men once...
Lo Peace...! As we look on the land They freed -
Its harvests all in ocean-over flow
Poured round autumnal coasts in billowy gold -
Its corn and wine and balmed fruits and flow'rs,
We know the exaltation that they know
Who now, steadfast inheritors, behold
The Land Elysian, marvelling "This is ours?"