DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Hey For A Lass Wi' A Tocher.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Balinamona Ora."
I.
Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms,
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms:
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms,
O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms.
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher,
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher;
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher,
The nice yellow guineas for me.
II.
Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that blows,
And withers the faster, the faster it grows;
But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green knowes,
Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white yowes.
III.
And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest,
The brightest o' beauty may cloy when possest;
But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie imprest,
The langer ye hae them - the mair they're carest.
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher,
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher;
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher,
The nice yellow guineas for me.
Nursery Rhyme. CLXXVIII. Songs.
by Unknown

[Song of a little boy while passing his hour of solitude in a corn-field.]
Awa' birds, away!
Take a little, and leave a little,
And do not come again;
For if you do,
I will shoot you through,
And there is an end of you.
In The City
by Richard Le Gallienne

Away from the silent hills and the talking of upland waters,
The high still stars and the lonely moon in her quarters,
I fly to the city, the streets, the faces, the towers;
And I leave behind me the hush and the dews and the flowers,
The mink that steals by the stream a-shimmer among the rocks,
The hawk o'er the barn-yard sailing, the little cub-bear and the fox,
The woodchuck and his burrow, and the little snake at noon,
And the house of the yellow-jacket, and the cricket's endless tune.
And what shall I find in the city that shall take the place of these?
O I shall find my love there, and fall at her silken knees,
And for the moon her breast, and for the stars her eyes,
And under her shadowed hair the gardens of Paradise.
Longing.
by George MacDonald

Away from the city's herds!
Away from the noisy street!
Away from the storm of words,
Where hateful and hating meet!
Away from the vapour grey,
That like a boding of ill
Is blotting the morning gay,
And gathers and darkens still!
Away from the stupid book!
For, like the fog's weary rest,
With anger dull it fills each nook
Of my aching and misty breast.
Over some shining shore,
There hangeth a space of blue;
A parting 'mid thin clouds hoar
Where the sunlight is falling through.
The glad waves are kissing the shore
Rejoice, and tell it for ever;
The boat glides on, while its oar
Is flashing out of the river.
Oh to be there with thee!
Thou and I only, my love!
The sparkling, sands and the sea!
And the sunshine of God above!
A Song For May Morning.
by H. P. Nichols

Awake! awake! the dusky night
Is fading from the sky;
Awake! and with the early light
To pleasant fields we'll hie.
Come with me, and I will show
Where the fragrant wild-flowers grow;
We will weave a garland gay
For our smiling Queen of May.
The sun peeps up behind the hills,
And hark! the morning song
Of little birds the fresh air fills,
As now we skip along.
By the brook-side cold and wet,
Blooms the pale, white violet;
There's the purple blossom, too,
Nodding with its weight of dew.
The gentle wind just lifts the head
Of many a columbine;
And, taken from their rocky bed,
They in our wreaths shall twine.
Saxifrage, so small and sweet,
Grows in plenty at our feet;
From the grass we gather up,
Golden bright, the buttercup.
Now for the trailing evergreen,
That in the woodland springs,
And we will crown our May-day queen
With buds this fair month brings.
Merriest of all the year
Is the day we welcome here;
We will sing and dance away,
In our glee, this long May-day.
The Complaint
by Mark Akenside

Away! away!
Tempt me no more, insidious Love:
Thy soothing sway
Long did my youthful bosom prove:
At length thy treason is discern'd,
At length some dear-bought caution earn'd:
Away! nor hope my riper age to move.
I know, I see
Her merit. Needs it now be shown,
Alas! to me?
How often, to myself unknown,
The graceful, gentle, virtuous maid
Have I admired! How often said'
What joy to call a heart like hers one's own!
But, flattering god,
O squanderer of content and ease
In thy abode
Will care's rude lesson learn to please?
O say, deceiver, hast thou won
Proud Fortune to attend thy throne,
Or placed thy friends above her stern decrees?
Soa Bonny.
by John Hartley

Aw've travell'd o'er land, an aw've travell'd o'er sea,
An aw've seen th' grandest lasses 'at ivver can be;
But aw've nivver met one 'at could mak mi heart glad,
Like her, - for oh! shoo wor bonny mi lad.
Shoo wornt too gooid, for her temper wor hot,
An when her tongue started, shoo wag'd it a lot;
An it worn't all pleasant, an some on it bad,
But oh! shoo wor bonny! - soa bonny mi lad.
Consaited and cocky, an full o' what's nowt,
An shoo'd say nasty things withaat ivver a thowt;
An shood try ivvery way, just to mak me get mad; - -
For shoo knew shoo wor bonny, - soa bonny mi lad.
Fowk called me a fooil to keep hingin araand,
But whear shoo'd once stept aw could worship the graand;
For th' seet ov her face cheer'd mi heart when 'twor sad,
For shoo wor soa bonny, - soa bonny mi lad.
But shoo wor like th' rest, - false, - false in her heart;
Shoo made me to love her, - an Cupid's sharp dart
Wor nobbut her fun, - wi' decait it wor clad; - 
But then, shoo wor bonny; - soa bonny mi lad.
Shoo sooin wed another, - noa better nor me,
An aw hooap shoo'll be happy, though my life is dree;
An aw'll try to submit, though shoo treated me bad,
But oh! mi poor heart is nigh brokken mi lad.
Ther may come a time when her passion has cooiled,
Shoo may think ov a chap shoo unfeelingly fooiled;
Shoo may seek me agean; - if shoo does, - well, by gad!
Aw'll welcome her back. Shoo's soa bonny mi lad.
On The Photograph Of A Corps Commander
by Herman Melville

Ay, man is manly. Here you see
The warrior-carriage of the head,
And brave dilation of the frame;
And lighting all, the soul that led
In Spottsylvania's charge to victory,
Which justifies his fame.
A cheering picture. It is good
To look upon a Chief like this,
In whom the spirit moulds the form.
Here favoring Nature, oft remiss,
With eagle mien expressive has endued
A man to kindle strains that warm.
Trace back his lineage, and his sires,
Yeoman or noble, you shall find
Enrolled with men of Agincourt,
Heroes who shared great Harry's mind.
Down to us come the knightly Norman fires,
And front the Templars bore.
Nothing can lift the heart of man
Like manhood in a fellow-man.
The thought of heaven's great King afar
But humbles us--too weak to scan;
But manly greatness men can span,
And feel the bonds that draw.
Lines On The Entry Of The Austrians Into Naples, 1821.
by Thomas Moore

carbone notati.
Ay--down to the dust with them, slaves as they are,
From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins,
That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war,
Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.
On, on like a cloud, thro' their beautiful vales,
Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er--
Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sails
From each slave-mart of Europe and shadow their shore!
Let their fate be a mock-word--let men of all lands
Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles,
When each sword that the cowards let fall from their hands
Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls.
And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven,
Base slaves! let the whet of their agony be,
To think--as the Doomed often think of that heaven
They had once within reach--that they might have been free.
Oh shame! when there was not a bosom whose heat
Ever rose 'bove the zero of Castlereagh's heart.
That did not, like echo, your war-hymn repeat,
And send all its prayers with your Liberty's start;
When the world stood in hope--when a spirit that breathed
The fresh air of the olden time whispered about;
And the swords of all Italy, halfway unsheathed,
But waited one conquering cry to flash out!
When around you the shades of your Mighty in fame,
FILICAJAS and PETRARCHS, seemed bursting to view,
And their words and their warnings, like tongues of bright flame
Over Freedom's apostles, fell kindling on you!
Oh shame! that in such a proud moment of life
Worth the history of ages, when, had you but hurled
One bolt at your tyrant invader, that strife
Between freemen and tyrants had spread thro' the world--
That then--oh! disgrace upon manhood--even then,
You should falter, should cling to your pitiful breath;
Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men,
And prefer the slave's life of prostration to death.
It is strange, it is dreadful:--shout, Tyranny, shout
Thro' your dungeons and palaces, "Freedom is o'er;"--
If there lingers one spark of her light, tread it out,
And return to your empire of darkness once more.
For if such are the braggarts that claim to be free,
Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss;
Far nobler to live the brute bondman of thee,
Than to sully even chains by a struggle like this!
In A Lecture Room
by Arthur Hugh Clough

Away, haunt thou me not,
Thou vain Philosophy!
Little hast thou bestead,
Save to perplex the head,
And leave the spirit dead.
Unto thy broken cisterns wherefore go,
While from the secret treasure-depths below,
Fed by the skyey shower,
And clouds that sink and rest on hilltops high,
Wisdom at once, and Power,
Are welling, bubbling forth, unseen, incessantly?
Why labor at the dull mechanic oar,
When the fresh breeze is blowing,
And the strong current flowing,
Right onward to the Eternal Shore?
Old Moorcock.
by John Hartley

Awm havin a smook bi misel,
Net a soul here to spaik a word to,
Awve noa gossip to hear nor to tell,
An ther's nowt aw feel anxious to do.
Awve noa noashun o' writin a line,
Tho' awve just dipt mi pen into th' ink,
Towards warkin aw dooant mich incline,
An awm ommost too lazy to think.
Awve noa riches to mak me feel vain,
An yet awve as mich as aw need;
Awve noa sickness to cause me a pain,
An noa troubles to mak mi heart bleed.
Awr Dolly's crept off to her bed,
An aw hear shoo's beginnin to snoor;
(That upset me when furst we wor wed,
But nah it disturbs me noa moor.)
Like me, shoo taks things as they come,
Makkin th' best o' what falls to her lot,
Shoo's content wi her own humble hooam,
For her world's i' this snug little cot.
We know at we're booath growin old,
But Time's traces we hardly can see;
An tho' fifty years o'er us have roll'd,
Shoo's still th' same young Dolly to me.
Her face may be wrinkled an grey,
An her een may be losin ther shine,
But her heart's just as leetsome to-day
As it wor when aw furst made her mine.
Awve mi hobbies to keep me i' toit,
Awve noa whistle nor bell to obey,
Awve mi wark when aw like to goa to it,
An mi time's all mi own, neet an day.
An tho' some pass me by wi a sneer,
An some pity mi lowly estate,
Aw think awve a deeal less to fear
Nor them at's soa wealthy an great.
When th' sky stretches aght blue an breet,
An th' heather's i' blossom all round,
Makkin th' mornin's cooil breezes smell sweet,
As they rustle along ovver th' graand.
When aw listen to th' lark as he sings
Far aboon, ommost lost to mi view,
Aw lang for a pair ov his wings,
To fly wi him, an sing like him, too.
When aw sit under th' shade of a tree,
Wi mi book, or mi pipe, or mi pen,
Aw think them at's sooary for me
Had far better pity thersen.
When wintry storms howl ovver th' moor,
An snow covers all, far an wide,
Aw carefully festen mi door,
An creep cloise up to th' fire inside.
A basin o' porridge may be,
To some a despisable dish,
But it allus comes welcome to me,
If awve nobbut as mich as aw wish.
Mi cloas are old-fashioned, they say,
An aw havn't a daat but it's true;
Yet they answer ther purpose to-day
Just as weel as if th' fashion wor new.
Let them at think joys nobbut dwell
Wheear riches are piled up i' stoor,
Try to get a gooid share for thersel'
But leave me mi snug cot up o'th' moor.
Mi bacca's all done, soa aw'll creep
Off to bed, just as quite as a maase,
For if Dolly's disturbed ov her sleep,
Ther'll be a fine racket i'th' haase.
Aw mun keep th' band i'th' nick if aw can,
For if shoo gets her temper once crost,
All comforts an joys aw may plan
Is just soa mich labour at's lost.
Sonnet To ----.
by William Cullen Bryant

Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine
Too brightly to shine long; another Spring
Shall deck her for men's eyes, but not for thine,
Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening.
The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf,
And the vexed ore no mineral of power;
And they who love thee wait in anxious grief
Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour.
Glide softly to thy rest then; Death should come
Gently, to one of gentle mould like thee,
As light winds wandering through groves of bloom
Detach the delicate blossom from the tree.
Close thy sweet eyes, calmly, and without pain;
And we will trust in God to see thee yet again.
Latter Wit.
by John Hartley

Awm sittin o' that old stooan seeat,
Wheear last aw set wi' thee;
It seems long years sin' last we met,
Awm sure it must be three.
Awm wond'rin what aw sed or did,
Or what aw left undone:
'At made thi hook it, an' get wed,
To one tha used to shun.
Aw dooant say awm a handsom chap,
Becoss aw know awm net;
But if aw wor 'ith' mind to change,
He isn't th' chap, aw'll bet.
Awm net a scoller, but aw know
A long chawk moor ner him;
It couldn't be his knowledge box
'At made thi change thi whim.
He doesn't haddle as mich brass
As aw do ivery wick:
An' if he gets a gradely shop,
It's seldom he can stick.
An' then agean, - he goes on th' rant;
Nah, that aw niver do; - 
Aw allus mark misen content,
Wi' an odd pint or two.
His brother is a lazy lout, - 
His sister's nooan too gooid, - 
Ther's net a daycent 'en ith' bunch, - 
Vice seems to run ith' blooid.
An yet th'art happy, - soa they say,
That caps me moor ner owt!
Tha taks a deal less suitin, lass,
Nor iver awst ha' thowt.
Aw saw yo walkin aat one neet,
Befoor yo'd getten wed;
Aw guess'd what he wor tawkin, tho
Aw dooant know what he sed.
But he'd his arm araand thi waist,
An tho' thi face wor hid,
Aw'll swear aw saw him kuss thi: - 
That's what aw niver did.
Aw thowt tha'd order him away,
An' mak a fearful row,
But tha niver tuk noa nooatice,
Just as if tha didn't know.
Awm hawf inclined to think sometimes,
Aw've been a trifle soft,
Aw happen should a' dun't misen?
Aw've lang'd to do it oft.
Thar't lost to me, but if a chonce
Should turn up by-an-by,
If aw get seck'd aw'll bet me booits,
That isn't t'reason why.
Possibilities
by Rudyard Kipling

Ay, lay him 'neath the Simla pine,
A fortnight fully to be missed,
Behold, we lose our fourth at whist,
A chair is vacant where we dine.
His place forgets him; other men
Have bought his ponies, guns, and traps.
His fortune is the Great Perhaps
And that cool rest-house down the glen,
Whence he shall hear, as spirits may,
Our mundance revel on the height,
Shall watch each flashing 'rickshaw-light
Sweep on to dinner, dance, and play.
Benmore shall woo him to the ball
With lighted rooms and braying band;
And he shall hear and understand
"Dream Faces" better than us all.
For, think you, as the vapours flee
Across Sanjaolie after rain,
His soul may climb the hill again
To each of field of victory.
Unseen, who women held so dear,
The strong man's yearning to his kind
Shall shake at most the window-blind,
Or dull awhile the card-room's cheer.
In his own place of power unkown,
His Light o' Love another's flame,
And he and alien and alone!
Yet may he meet with many a friend,
Shrewd shadows, lingering long unseen
Among us when "God save the Queen"
Shows even "extras" have an end.
And, when we leave the heated room,
And, when at four the lights expire,
The crew shall gather round the fire
And mock our laughter in the gloom;
Talk as we talked, and they ere death,
Flirt wanly, dance in ghostly-wise,
With ghosts of tunes for melodies,
And vanish at the morning's breath.
Song Of Margaret.
by Jean Ingelow

Ay, I saw her, we have met, - 
Married eyes how sweet they be, - 
Are you happier, Margaret,
Than you might have been with me?
Silence! make no more ado!
Did she think I should forget?
Matters nothing, though I knew,
Margaret, Margaret.
Once those eyes, full sweet, full shy,
Told a certain thing to mine;
What they told me I put by,
O, so careless of the sign.
Such an easy thing to take,
And I did not want it then;
Fool! I wish my heart would break,
Scorn is hard on hearts of men.
Scorn of self is bitter work, - 
Each of us has felt it now:
Bluest skies she counted mirk,
Self-betrayed of eyes and brow;
As for me, I went my way,
And a better man drew nigh,
Fain to earn, with long essay,
What the winner's hand threw by.
Matters not in deserts old,
What was born, and waxed, and yearned,
Year to year its meaning told,
I am come, - its deeps are learned, - 
Come, but there is naught to say, - 
Married eyes with mine have met.
Silence! O, I had my day,
Margaret, Margaret.
To Mistress Amy Potter.
by Robert Herrick

Ay me! I love; give him your hand to kiss
Who both your wooer and your poet is.
Nature has precompos'd us both to love:
Your part's to grant; my scene must be to move.
Dear, can you like, and liking love your poet?
If you say "Aye," blush-guiltiness will show it.
Mine eyes must woo you, though I sigh the while:
True love is tongueless as a crocodile.
And you may find in love these different parts--
Wooers have tongues of ice, but burning hearts.
It's Up To You
by William F. Kirk

Ay s'pose yu tenk life ban hard game.
Ay guess yu lak to qvit, perhaps.
Ay hear yu say, "It ban a shame
To see so many lucky chaps."
Yu say, "Dese guys ban mostly yaps:
Ay vish ay had some money, tu,
And not get all dese gude hard raps."
Val, Maester, it ban op to yu.
Sometimes ay s'pose yu vork long hours,
And ant get wery fancy pay;
Den yu can't buying stacks of flowers
And feed yure girl in gude caf',
And drenk yin rickies and frapp'.
Oh, yes! dis mak yu purty blue.
Yu lak to have more fun, yu say?
Val, Maester, it ban op to yu.
Dis vorld ant got much room to spare
For men vich make dis hard-luck cry, - 
'Bout von square foot vile dey ban har,
And six feet after dey skol die.
Time "fugit," - high-school vord for "fly";
And purty sune yure chance ban tru.
So, ef yu lak to stack chips high,
Val, Maester, it ban op to yu.
Atalanta In Camden - Town
by Lewis Carroll

Ay, 'twas here, on this spot,
In that summer of yore,
Atalanta did not
Vote my presence a bore,
Nor reply to my tenderest talk "She had
heard all that nonsense before."
She'd the brooch I had bought
And the necklace and sash on,
And her heart, as I thought,
Was alive to my passion;
And she'd done up her hair in the style that
the Empress had brought into fashion.
I had been to the play
With my pearl of a Peri,
But, for all I could say,
She declared she was weary,
That "the place was so crowded and hot, 
and she couldn't abide that Dundreary."
Then I thought "Lucky boy!
'Tis for you that she whimpers!"
And I noted with joy
Those sensational simpers:
And I said "This is scrumptious!"
a phrase I had learned from the Devonshire shrimpers.
And I vowed "'Twill be said
I'm a fortunate fellow,
When the breakfast is spread,
When the topers are mellow,
When the foam of the bride-cake is white,
and the fierce orange-blossoms are yellow!"
O that languishing yawn!
O those eloquent eyes!
I was drunk with the dawn
Of a splendid surmise,
I was stung by a look, I was slain by a tear,
by a tempest of sighs.
Then I whispered "I see
The sweet secret thou keepest.
And the yearning for me
That thou wistfully weepest!
And the question is 'License or Banns?',
though undoubtedly Banns are the cheapest."
"Be my Hero," said I,
"And let me be Leander!"
But I lost her reply,
Something ending with "gander",
For the omnibus rattled so loud that no
mortal could quite understand her.
Not Yet A Poet
by Edward Smyth Jones

Aye! many a rhyme my pen has flown,
In oblivion, all unknown;
Still many more, perchance, I say,
Float on in one unbroken lay - 
But ask me naught of where or when,
Long as they ring in hearts of men!
Dear friend, I say these words to you,
Which through the ages will be true:
Though I have power to combine
These subtle rhymes of each sweet line - 
Yet, I shall never live to see,
The title "POET" given me!
Lachin Y Gair. [1]
by George Gordon Byron

1.
Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses!
In you let the minions of luxury rove:
Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love:
Yet, Caledonia, belov'd are thy mountains,
Round their white summits though elements war:
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.
2.
Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy, wander'd:
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid; [2]
On chieftains, long perish'd, my memory ponder'd,
As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade;
I sought not my home, till the day's dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;
For fancy was cheer'd, by traditional story,
Disclos'd by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.
3.
"Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?"
Surely, the soul of the hero rejoices,
And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale!
Round Loch na Garr, while the stormy mist gathers,
Winter presides in his cold icy car:
Clouds, there, encircle the forms of my Fathers;
They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr.
4.
"Ill starr'd, [3] though brave, did no visions foreboding
Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?"
Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden, [4]
Victory crown'd not your fall with applause:
Still were you happy, in death's earthy slumber,
You rest with your clan, in the caves of Braemar; [5]
The Pibroch [6] resounds, to the piper's loud number,
Your deeds, on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.
5.
Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you,
Years must elapse, ere I tread you again:
Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you,
Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain:
England! thy beauties are tame and domestic,
To one who has rov'd on the mountains afar:
Oh! for the crags that are wild and majestic,
The steep, frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr. [7]
The Skies.
by William Cullen Bryant

Ay! gloriously thou standest there,
Beautiful, boundles firmament!
That, swelling wide o'er earth and air,
And round the horizon bent,
With thy bright vault, and sapphire wall,
Dost overhang and circle all.
Far, far below thee, tall old trees
Arise, and piles built up of old,
And hills, whose ancient summits freeze
In the fierce light and cold.
The eagle soars his utmost height,
Yet far thou stretchest o'er his flight.
Thou hast thy frowns, with thee on high
The storm has made his airy seat,
Beyond that soft blue curtain lie
His stores of hail and sleet.
Thence the consuming lightnings break,
There the strong hurricanes awake.
Yet art thou prodigal of smiles,
Smiles, sweeter than thy frowns are stern:
Earth sends, from all her thousand isles,
A shout at thy return.
The glory that comes down from thee,
Bathes, in deep joy, the land and sea.
The sun, the gorgeous sun is thine,
The pomp that brings and shuts the day,
The clouds that round him change and shine,
The airs that fan his way.
Thence look the thoughtful stars, and there
The meek moon walks the silent air.
The sunny Italy may boast
The beauteous tints that flush her skies,
And lovely, round the Grecian coast,
May thy blue pillars rise.
I only know how fair they stand
Around my own beloved land.
And they are fair, a charm is theirs,
That earth, the proud green earth, has not,
With all the forms, and hues, and airs,
That haunt her sweetest spot.
We gaze upon thy calm pure sphere,
And read of Heaven's eternal year.
Oh, when, amid the throng of men,
The heart grows sick of hollow mirth,
How willingly we turn us then
Away from this cold earth,
And look into thy azure breast,
For seats of innocence and rest!