DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Mary Jane.
by John Hartley

One Easter Mundy, for a spree,
To Bradforth, Mary Jane an me,
Decided we wod tak a jaunt,
An have a dinner wi mi hont;
For Mary Jane, aw'd have yo know,
Had promised me, some time ago,
To be mi wife, - an soa aw thowt
Aw'd introduce her, as aw owt.
Mi hont wor pleeased to see us booath, - 
To mak fowk welcome nivver looath, - 
An th' table grooaned wi richest fare,
An one an all wor pressed to share,
Mi sweetheart made noa moor to do.
Shoo buckled on an sooin gate throe;
Mi hont sed, as shoo filled her glass, - 
"Well, God bless thi belly, lass!"
Mi Mary Jane is quite genteel,
Shoo's fair an slim, an dresses weel;
Shoo luks soa delicate an fair,
Yo'd fancy shoo could live on air.
But thear yo'd find yor judgment missed,
For shoo's a mooast uncommon twist;
Whear once shoo's called to get a snack,
It's seldom at they've axt her back.
To a cookshop we went one neet,
An th' stuff at vanished aght o'th' seet,
Made th' chap at sarved us gape an grin,
But shoo went on an tuckt it in;
An when aw axt ha mich we'd had,
He sed, "It's worth five shillin, lad."
Aw sighed as aw put daan mi brass, - 
"Well, God bless thi belly lass!"
But when a lass's een shine bright,
Yo ne'er think ov her appetite;
Her love wor what aw lang'd to gain,
Nor did mi efforts prove in vain,
For we wor wed on Leeds Fair Day,
An started life on little pay.
But aw've noa reason to regret,
Her appetite shoo keeps up yet.
Eight years have passed sin shoo wor mine,
An nah awr family numbers nine.
A chap when wedded life begins,
Seldom expects a brace o' twins;
But Mary Jane's browt that for me, - 
Shoo's nursin th' last pair on her knee;
An as aw th' bowls o' porrige pass,
Aw say, "God bless thi belly lass!"
We have noa wealth i' gold or lands,
But cheerful hearts, an willin hands;
Altho soa monny maaths to fill,
We live i' hooaps an labor still.
Ther little limbs when stronger grown,
Will be a fortun we shall own.
We're in a mooild thro morn to neet,
But rest comes to us doubly sweet,
An fowk learn patience, yo can bet,
When they've to care for sich a set.
But we can honestly declare,
Ther isn't one at we can spare.
Ther little tricks cause monny a smile,
An help to leeten days o' toil.
An joyfully aw say, "Bith' mass!
Well, God bless thi childer, lass."
On Himself.
by Robert Herrick

One ear tingles; some there be
That are snarling now at me:
Be they those that Homer bit,
I will give them thanks for it.
Death's Ramble.[1]
by Thomas Hood

One day the dreary old King of Death
Inclined for some sport with the carnal,
So he tied a pack of darts on his back,
And quietly stole from his charnel.
His head was bald of flesh and of hair,
His body was lean and lank,
His joints at each stir made a crack, and the cur
Took a gnaw, by the way, at his shank.
And what did he do with his deadly darts,
This goblin of grisly bone?
He dabbled and spill'd man's blood, and he kill'd
Like a butcher that kills his own.
The first he slaughter'd, it made him laugh,
(For the man was a coffin-maker,)
To think how the mutes, and men in black suits,
Would mourn for an undertaker.
Death saw two Quakers sitting at church,
Quoth he, "We shall not differ."
And he let them alone, like figures of stone,
For he could not make them stiffer.
He saw two duellists going to fight,
In fear they could not smother;
And he shot one through at once - for he knew
They never would shoot each other.
He saw a watchman fast in his box,
And he gave a snore infernal;
Said Death, "He may keep his breath, for his sleep
Can never be more eternal."
He met a coachman driving his coach
So slow, that his fare grew sick;
But he let him stray on his tedious way,
For Death only wars on the quick.
Death saw a toll-man taking a toll,
In the spirit of his fraternity;
But he knew that sort of man would extort,
Though summon'd to all eternity.
He found an author writing his life,
But he let him write no further;
For Death, who strikes whenever he likes,
Is jealous of all self-murther!
Death saw a patient that pull'd out his purse,
And a doctor that took the sum;
But he let them be - for he knew that the "fee"
Was a prelude to "faw" and "fum."
He met a dustman ringing a bell,
And he gave him a mortal thrust;
For himself, by law, since Adam's flaw,
Is contractor for all our dust.
He saw a sailor mixing his grog,
And he marked him out for slaughter;
For on water he scarcely had cared for Death,
And never on rum-and-water.
Death saw two players playing at cards,
But the game wasn't worth a dump,
For he quickly laid them flat with a spade,
To wait for the final trump!
George Menzies' Poems, 1883.
by James McIntyre

About one third of a century ago there flourished in Canada three Scottish editors, all of whom were poets, McQueen of the Huron Signal, Goderich, who wrote a grand song on "Our Broad Lake," and McGeorge of the Streetsville Review. The following lines are on George Menzies who was a Woodstock editor.
One day while passing 'long the road
On a small book we almost trod,
Its leaves were scattered o'er the ground,
We picked them up and when we found
The author's name, it did inspire
Us with a very strong desire
To read the little volume through,
For most of it to us was new.
He doth sing of land of heather
And Canadian scenes together,
He did adore Niagara's roar
Where mighty flood o'er fall doth pour.
But poets lives are often brief
And he had his full share of grief,
Which to his life did gloom impart,
But he bore up with his brave heart.
The 'Ole In The Ark
by Marriott Edgar

One evening at dusk as Noah stood on his Ark,
Putting green oil in starboard side lamp,
His wife came along and said, 'Noah, summat's wrong,
Our cabin is getting quite damp.
Noah said, 'Is that so?' Then he went down below,
And found it were right what she'd said,
For there on the floor quite a puddle he saw,
It was slopping around under t' bed.
Said he, 'There's an 'ole in the bottom somewhere,
We must find it before we retire.'
Then he thowt for a bit, and he said 'Aye, that's it,
A bloodhound is what we require.'
Se he went and fetched bloodhound from place where it lay,
'Tween the skunk and the polecat it were,
And as things there below, were a trifle so-so,
It were glad of a breath of fresh air.
They followed the sound as it went sniffing round,
'Til at last they located the leak,
'Twere a small hole in the side, about two inches wide,
Where a swordfish had poked in its beak.
And by gum! how the wet squirted in through that hole,
Well, young Shem who at sums was expert,
Worked it out on his slate that it came at the rate,
Of per gallon, per second, per squirt.
The bloodhound tried hard to keep water in check,
By lapping it up with his tongue,
But it came in so fast through that hole, that at last,
He shoved in his nose for a bung.
The poor faithful hound, he were very near drowned,
They dragged him away none too soon,
For the stream as it rose, pushed its way up his nose,
And blew him up like a balloon.
And then Mrs Noah shoved her elbow in t'hole,
And said,' Eh! it's stopped I believe,'
But they found very soon as she'd altered her tune,
For the water had got up her sleeve.
When she saw as her elbow weren't doing much good,
She said to Noah, 'I've an idea,
You sit on the leak and by t'end of the week,
There's no knowing, the weather may clear.'
Noah didn't think much to this notion, at all,
But reckoned he'd give it a try,
On the 'ole down he flopped, and the leaking all stopped,
And all... except him, was quite dry.
They took him his breakfast and dinner and tea,
As day after day there he sat,
'Til the rain was all passed and they landed at last,
On top side of Mount Ararat.
And that is how Noah got them all safe ashore,
But ever since then, strange to tell,
Them as helped save the Ark has all carried a mark,
Aye, and all their descendants as well.
That's why dog has a cold nose, and ladies cold elbows,
You'll also find if you enquire,
That's why a man takes his coat tails in hand,
And stands with his back to the fire.
Accepted And Will Appear
by Parmenas Mix

One evening while reclining
In my easy-chair, repining
O'er the lack of true religion, and the dearth of common sense,
A solemn visaged lady,
Who was surely on the shady
Side of thirty, entered proudly, and to crush me did commence:
"I sent a poem here, sir,"
Said the lady, growing fiercer,
"And the subject which I'd chosen, you remember, sir, was 'Spring';
But, although I've scanned your paper,
Sir, by sunlight, gas, and taper,
I've discovered of that poem not a solitary thing."
She was muscular and wiry,
And her temper sure was fiery,
And I knew to pacify her I would have to, fib like fun.
So I told her ere her verses,
Which were great, had come to, bless us,
We'd received just sixty-one on "Spring," of which we'd printed one.
And I added, "We've decided
That they'd better be divided
Among the years that follow, one to each succeeding Spring.
So your work, I'm pleased to mention,
Will receive our best attention
In the year of nineteen-forty, when the birds begin to sing."
Jupiter And The Thunderbolts (Prose Fable)
by Jean de La Fontaine

One day, as Jupiter seated on high looked down upon the world, he was incensed at the faults committed by mankind. "Let us," he said, "have some other occupants in the regions of the universe in place of these present inhabitants who importune and weary me. Go you to Hades, Mercury, and bring hither the cruellest of the furies. This time, O race that I have too tenderly nurtured, you shall perish."
After this outburst the temper of the god began to cool.
O ye sovereigns of this world, to whom it has been given to be the arbiters of our destinies, let a night intervene between your wrath and the storm which follow!
Mercury, light of wing and sweet of tongue, descended to the abode of the dread sisters Tisiphone, Meg'ra, and Alecto, and his choice fell upon the latter, the pitiless one. She, feeling proud of the preference, grew so arrogant as to swear by Pluto that the whole of the human brood should soon people his domains. But Jupiter did not approve of the vow this member of the Eumenides had sworn, and he sent her back to Hades. At the same time he launched a thunderbolt upon one particularly perfidious race of men. This, however, being hurled by a father's arm, mercifully fell in a desert, causing less ruin than alarm. What followed from this was simply that the wicked brood took heart at such indulgence and did not trouble to mend their ways. Then all the gods in Olympus complained, until he who controls the clouds swore by the Styx that further storms should be sent and that they should not fail as the other had.
The Olympians only smiled at this. They told Jupiter that as he was the father it would be better if he left in other hands the making of thunderbolts. Vulcan undertook the task. Soon his furnaces glowed with bolts of two kinds; one that hits its mark with a deadly unerring - and that is the sort which any of the Olympian gods will hurl; whilst the other sort was that which becomes scattered on its course and does damage only to the mountain tops, or perchance is even lost on the way. It is this kind of thunderbolt that Jupiter sends. His fatherly heart permits him to use no other.
One Hour To Madness And Joy
by Walt Whitman

One hour to madness and joy!
O furious! O confine me not!
(What is this that frees me so in storms?
What do my shouts amid lightnings and raging winds mean?)
O to drink the mystic deliria deeper than any other man!
O savage and tender achings!
(I bequeath them to you, my children, I tell them to you, for reasons, O bridegroom and bride.)
O to be yielded to you, whoever you are, and you to be yielded to me,
in defiance of the world!
O to return to Paradise! O bashful and feminine!
O to draw you to me - to plant on you for the first time the lips of a determin'd man!
O the puzzle - the thrice-tied knot - the deep and dark pool! O all untied and illumin'd!
O to speed where there is space enough and air enough at last!
O to be absolv'd from previous ties and conventions - I from mine, and you from yours!
O to find a new unthought-of nonchalance with the best of nature!
O to have the gag remov'd from one's mouth!
O to have the feeling, to-day or any day, I am sufficient as I am!
O something unprov'd! something in a trance!
O madness amorous! O trembling!
O to escape utterly from others' anchors and holds!
To drive free! to love free! to dash reckless and dangerous!
To court destruction with taunts - with invitations!
To ascend - to leap to the heavens of the love indicated to me!
To rise thither with my inebriate Soul!
To be lost, if it must be so!
To feed the remainder of life with one hour of fulness and freedom!
With one brief hour of madness and joy.
"One Dignity Delays For All,"
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

One dignity delays for all,
One mitred afternoon.
None can avoid this purple,
None evade this crown.
Coach it insures, and footmen,
Chamber and state and throng;
Bells, also, in the village,
As we ride grand along.
What dignified attendants,
What service when we pause!
How loyally at parting
Their hundred hats they raise!
How pomp surpassing ermine,
When simple you and I
Present our meek escutcheon,
And claim the rank to die!
The Roads That Meet.
by Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

ART.
One is so fair, I turn to go,
As others go, its beckoning length;
Such paths can never lead to woe,
I say in eager, early strength.
What is the goal?
Visions of heaven, wake;
But the wind's whispers round me roll:
"For you, mistake!"
LOVE.
One leads beneath high oaks, and birds
Choose there their joyous revelry;
The sunbeams glint in golden herds,
The river mirrors silently.
Under these trees
My heart would bound or break;
Tell me what goal, resonant breeze?
"For you, mistake!"
CHARITY.
What is there left? The arid way,
The chilling height, whence all the world
Looks little, and each radiant day,
Like the soul's banner, flies unfurled.
May I stand here;
In this rare ether slake
My reverential lips, and fear
No last mistake?
Some spirits wander till they die,
With shattered thoughts and trembling hands;
What jarred their natures hopelessly
No living wight yet understands.
There is no goal,
Whatever end they make;
Though prayers each trusting step control,
They win mistake.
This is so true, we dare not learn
Its force until our hopes are old,
And, skyward, God's star-beacons burn
The brighter as our hearts grow cold.
If all we miss,
In the great plans that shake
The world, still God has need of this, - 
Even our mistake.
Song
by John Clare

One gloomy eve I roamed about
Neath Oxey's hazel bowers,
While timid hares were darting out,
To crop the dewy flowers;
And soothing was the scene to me,
Right pleased was my soul,
My breast was calm as summer's sea
When waves forget to roll.
But short was even's placid smile,
My startled soul to charm,
When Nelly lightly skipt the stile,
With milk-pail on her arm:
One careless look on me she flung,
As bright as parting day;
And like a hawk from covert sprung,
It pounced my peace away.
The Heron.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
One day, - no matter when or where, - 
A long-legg'd heron chanced to fare
By a certain river's brink,
With his long, sharp beak
Helved on his slender neck;
'Twas a fish-spear, you might think.
The water was clear and still,
The carp and the pike there at will
Pursued their silent fun,
Turning up, ever and anon,
A golden side to the sun.
With ease might the heron have made
Great profits in his fishing trade.
So near came the scaly fry,
They might be caught by the passer-by.
But he thought he better might
Wait for a better appetite - 
For he lived by rule, and could not eat,
Except at his hours, the best of meat.
Anon his appetite return'd once more;
So, approaching again the shore,
He saw some tench taking their leaps,
Now and then, from their lowest deeps.
With as dainty a taste as Horace's rat,
He turn'd away from such food as that.
'What, tench for a heron! poh!
I scorn the thought, and let them go.'
The tench refused, there came a gudgeon;
'For all that,' said the bird, 'I budge on.
I'll ne'er open my beak, if the gods please,
For such mean little fishes as these.'
He did it for less;
For it came to pass,
That not another fish could he see;
And, at last, so hungry was he,
That he thought it of some avail
To find on the bank a single snail.
Such is the sure result
Of being too difficult.
Would you be strong and great,
Learn to accommodate.
Get what you can, and trust for the rest;
The whole is oft lost by seeking the best.
Above all things beware of disdain;
Where, at most, you have little to gain.
The people are many that make
Every day this sad mistake.
'Tis not for the herons I put this case,
Ye featherless people, of human race.
- List to another tale as true,
And you'll hear the lesson brought home to you.[2]
Soracte. - Translations From Horace.
by Charles Stuart Calverley

OD. i. 9.
One dazzling mass of solid snow
Soracte stands; the bent woods fret
Beneath their load; and, sharpest-set
With frost, the streams have ceased to flow.
Pile on great faggots and break up
The ice: let influence more benign
Enter with four-years-treasured wine,
Fetched in the ponderous Sabine cup:
Leave to the Gods all else. When they
Have once bid rest the winds that war
Over the passionate seas, no more
Grey ash and cypress rock and sway.
Ask not what future suns shall bring,
Count to-day gain, whate'er it chance
To be: nor, young man, scorn the dance,
Nor deem sweet Love an idle thing,
Ere Time thy April youth hath changed
To sourness. Park and public walk
Attract thee now, and whispered talk
At twilight meetings pre-arranged;
Hear now the pretty laugh that tells
In what dim corner lurks thy love;
And snatch a bracelet or a glove
From wrist or hand that scarce rebels.
The Song Of The Sons
by Rudyard Kipling

One from the ends of the earth, gifts at an open door,
Treason has much, but we, Mother, thy sons have more!
From the whine of a dying man, from the snarl of a wolf-pack freed,
Turn, and the world is thine. Mother, be proud of thy seed!
Count, are we feeble or few? Hear, is our speech so rude?
Look, are we poor in the land? Judge, are we men of The Blood?
Those that have stayed at thy knees, Mother, go call them in,
We that were bred overseas wait and would speak with our kin.
Not in the dark do we fight, haggle and flout and gibe;
Selling our love for a price, loaning our hearts for a bribe.
Gifts have we only to-day, Love without promise or fee,
Hear, for thy children speak, from the uttermost parts of the sea!
Albert And His Savings
by Marriott Edgar

One day, little Albert Ramsbottom
To see 'ow much money 'e'd got
Stuck a knife in 'is money-box slot 'ole
And fiddled and fished out the lot.
It amounted to fifteen and fourpence
Which 'e found by a few simple sums
Were ninety two tuppenny ices
Or twice that in penn'orths of gums.
The sound of the chinkin' of money
Soon brought father's 'ead round the door
He said, "Whats that there, on the table?"
Albert said it were, "Fifteen and four."
"You're not going to spend all that money..."
Said Pa, in an admonitory tone
"On toffee an' things for your stomach."
Said Mother, "Why not?... it's his own."
Said Pa, "Nay, with that fifteen shillings,
We'll buy National Savings and then...
In five years we'll have seventeen and six
And one pound and sixpence, in ten!"
Young Albert weren't what you'd call eager
He saw his sweet dreams fade away,
Ma said, "Let 'im 'ave the odd fourpence."
Pa lovingly answered, "Nay... nay!"
"It's our duty in crisis... what's 'appened
For every child, woman and man
To strain every muscle and sinew
To raise every penny we can!"
He said, "Even this little fourpence...
Might help us, the Germans to drub!"
Then 'e dropped the four coins in 'is pocket
And made for the neighboring pub.
These words stirred the 'eart of young Albert
He made up 'is mind then and there
To take up 'is part in the straining
And sell everything 'e could spare.
So off 'e went down to the junk shop
With some toys and a flashlamp, he'd got.
And the stick with the 'orses 'ead 'andle
He received half a crown for the lot.
He went off to the Post Office counter
Where National Savings was bought
But found that they cost fifteen shillings
Which meant he were twelve and six short.
The little lad wasn't down 'earted
He went off without wastin' words
And sold 'is dad's smoking companion
And 'is Mother's glass case of stuffed birds.
At the Post Office counter they gave 'im
A certificate all crisp and clean
Then back 'e went 'ome, to his parents
To say what a good boy he'd been.
They didn't 'alf shout, when he told 'em
By Gumm... but 'e were in the wars
But at finish, they 'ad to forgive 'im
It were all done in such a grand cause.
There's a moral, of course; to this story
That's pointing to you and to me...
Let's all be young Alberts and tend
To defend the right to be free.
Fum And Hum, The Two Birds Of Royalty.
by Thomas Moore

One day the Chinese Bird of Royalty, FUM,
Thus accosted our own Bird of Royalty, HUM,
In that Palace or China-shop (Brighton, which is it?)
Where FUM had just come to pay HUM a short visit.--
Near akin are these Birds, tho' they differ in nation
(The breed of the HUMS is as old as creation);
Both, full-crawed Legitimates--both, birds of prey,
Both, cackling and ravenous creatures, half way
'Twixt the goose and the vulture, like Lord Castlereagh.
While FUM deals in Mandarins Bonzes, Bohea,
Peers, Bishops and Punch, HUM.--are sacred to thee
So congenial their tastes, that, when FUM first did light on
The floor of that grand China-warehouse at Brighton,
The lanterns and dragons and things round the dome
Where so like what he left, "Gad," says FUM, "I'm at home,"--
And when, turning, he saw Bishop L--GE, "Zooks, it is."
Quoth the Bird, "Yes--I know him--a Bonze, by his phiz-
"And that jolly old idol he kneels to so low
"Can be none but our round-about god-head, fat Fo!"
It chanced at this moment, the Episcopal Prig
Was imploring the Prince to dispense with his wig,[1]
Which the Bird, overhearing, flew high o'er his head,
And some TOBIT-like marks of his patronage shed,
Which so dimmed the poor Dandy's idolatrous eye,
That, while FUM cried "Oh Fo!" all the court cried "Oh fie!"
But a truce to digression;--these Birds of a feather
Thus talkt, t'other night, on State matters together;
(The PRINCE just in bed, or about to depart for't,
His legs full of gout, and his arms full of HARTFORD,)
"I say, HUM," says FUM--FUM, of course, spoke Chinese,
But, bless you! that's nothing--at Brighton one sees
Foreign lingoes and Bishops translated with ease--
"I say, HUM, how fares it with Royalty now?
"Is it up? is it prime? is it spooney-or how?"
(The Bird had just taken a flash-man's degree
Under BARRYMORE, YARMOUTH, and young Master L--E,)
"As for us in Pekin"--here, a devil of a din
From the bed-chamber came, where that long Mandarin,
Castlereagh (whom FUM calls the Confucius of Prose),
Was rehearsing a speech upon Europe's repose
To the deep, double bass of the fat Idol's nose.
(Nota bene--his Lordship and LIVERPOOL come,
In collateral lines, from the old Mother HUM,
CASTLEREAGH a HUM-bug--LIVERPOOL a HUM-drum,)
The Speech being finisht, out rusht CASTLEREAGH.
Saddled HUM in a hurry, and, whip, spur, away!
Thro' the regions of air, like a Snip on his hobby,
Ne'er paused till he lighted in St. Stephen's lobby.