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

(Air: 'So Early in the Morning.')
The boss last night in the hut did say'
'We start to muster at break of day;
So be up first thing, and don't be slow;
Saddle your horses and off you go.'
Chorus
So early in the morning, so early in the morning,
So early in the morning, before the break of day.
Such a night in the yard there never was seen
(The horses were fat and the grass was green);
Bursting of girths and slipping of packs
As the stockmen saddled the fastest hacks.
Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
Across the plain we jog along
Over gully, swamp, and billabong;
We drop on a mob pretty lively, too
We round 'em up and give 'em a slue.
Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
Now the scrub grows thick and the cattle are wild,
A regular caution to this 'ere child'
A new chum man on an old chum horse,
Who sails through the scrub as a matter of course.
Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
I was close up stuck in a rotten bog;
I got a buster jumping a log;
I found this scouting rather hot,
So I joined the niggers with the lot we'd got.
Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
A long-haired shepherd we chanced to meet
With a water bag, billy, and dog complete;
He came too close to a knocked up steer,
Who up a sapling made him clear.
Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
Now on every side we faintly hear
The crack of the stockwhip drawing near;
To the camp the cattle soon converge,
As from the thick scrub they emerge.
Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
We hastily comfort the inner man
With the warm contents of the billy can;
The beef and damper are passed about
Before we tackle the cutting out.
Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
We're at it now'that bally calf
Would surely make a sick man laugh;
The silly fool can't take a joke;
I hope some day in the drought he'll croak.
Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
We've 'em now'the cows and calves
(Things here are never done by halves);
Strangers, workers, and milkers, too,
Of scrubbers also not a few.
Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
It's getting late, we'd better push;
'Tis a good long way across the bush,
And the mob to drive are middling hard;
I do not think we'll reach the yard.
Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
The Boy Lives On Our Farm
by James Whitcomb Riley

The boy lives on our Farm, he's not
Afeard o' horses none!
An' he can make 'em lope, er trot,
Er rack, er pace, er run.
Sometimes he drives two horses, when
He comes to town an' brings
A wagon-full o' 'taters nen,
An' roastin'-ears an' things.
Two horses is "a team," he says,
An' when you drive er hitch,
The right-un's a "near-horse," I guess
Er "off" - I don't know which -
The Boy lives on our Farm, he told
Me, too, 'at he can see,
By lookin' at their teeth, how old
A horse is, to a T!
I'd be the gladdest boy alive
Ef I knowed much as that,
An' could stand up like him an' drive,
An' ist push back my hat,
Like he comes skallyhootin' through
Our alley, with one arm
A-wavin' Fare-ye-well! to you -
The Boy lives on our Farm!
To-- ( II )
by Edgar Allan Poe

The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
The wantonest singing birds,
Are lips,and all thy melody
Of lip-begotten words,
Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined
Then desolately fall,
O God! on my funereal mind
Like starlight on a pall,
Thy heart,thy heart!,I wake and sigh,
And sleep to dream till day
Of the truth that gold can never buy,
Of the baubles that it may.
The Brave Roland
by Thomas Campbell

The brave Roland! the brave Roland!
False tidings reached the Rhenish strand
That he had fallen in fight;
And thy faithful bosom swooned with pain,
O loveliest maiden of All'mayne!
For the loss of thine own true knight.
But why so rash has she ta'en the veil,
In yon Nonnenwerder's choisters pale?
For her vow had scarce been sworn,
And the fatal mantle o'er her flung,
When the Drachenfels to a trumpet rung,
'Twas her own dear warrior 's horn!
Woe! woe! each heart shall bleed, shall break!
She would have hung upon his neck,
Had he come but yester-even;
And he had clasped those peerless charms
That shall never, never fill his arms,
Or meet him but in heaven.
Yet Roland the brave, Roland the true,
He could not bid that spot adieu;
It was dear still 'midst his woes;
For he loved to breathe the neighbouring air,
And to think she blessed him in her prayer,
When the Halleluiah rose.
There 's yet one window of that pile,
Which he built above the Nun's green isle;
Thence sad and oft looked he
(When the chant and organ sounded slow)
On the mansion of his love below,
For herself he might not see.
She died! He sought the battle-plain;
Her image filled his dying brain,
When he fell and wished to fall:
And her name was in his latest sigh,
When Roland, the flower of chivalry,
Exired at Roncevall.
The Body.
by Robert Herrick

The body is the soul's poor house or home,
Whose ribs the laths are, and whose flesh the loam.
The Delectable Day
by Charles Kingsley

The boy on the famous gray pony,
Just bidding good-bye at the door,
Plucking up maiden heart for the fences
Where his brother won honour of yore.
The walk to 'the Meet' with fair children,
And women as gentle as gay, - 
Ah! how do we male hogs in armour
Deserve such companions as they?
The afternoon's wander to windward,
To meet the dear boy coming back;
And to catch, down the turns of the valley,
The last weary chime of the pack.
The climb homeward by park and by moorland,
And through the fir forests again,
While the south-west wind roars in the gloaming,
Like an ocean of seething champagne.
And at night the septette of Beethoven,
And the grandmother by in her chair,
And the foot of all feet on the sofa
Beating delicate time to the air.
Ah, God! a poor soul can but thank Thee
For such a delectable day!
Though the fury, the fool, and the swindler,
To-morrow again have their way!
Eversley, 6th November 1872.
The March Nosegay
by John Clare

The bonny March morning is beaming
In mingled crimson and grey,
White clouds are streaking and creaming
The sky till the noon of the day;
The fir deal looks darker and greener,
And grass hills below look the same;
The air all about is serener,
The birds less familiar and tame.
Here's two or three flowers for my fair one,
Wood primroses and celandine too;
I oft look about for a rare one
To put in a posy for you.
The birds look so clean and so neat,
Though there's scarcely a leaf on the grove;
The sun shines about me so sweet,
I cannot help thinking of love.
So where the blue violets are peeping,
By the warm sunny sides of the woods,
And the primrose, 'neath early morn weeping,
Amid a large cluster of buds,
(The morning it was such a rare one,
So dewy, so sunny, and fair,)
I sought the wild flowers for my fair one,
To wreath in her glossy black hair.
The Mole.
by Friedrich Schiller

HUSBAND.
The boy's my very image! See!
Even the scars my small-pox left me!
WIFE.
I can believe it easily
They once of all my senses reft me.
The Blue-Bells On The Lea.
by Juliana Horatia Ewing

FAIRY KING.
"The breeze is on the Blue-bells,
The wind is on the lea;
Stay out! stay out! my little lad,
And chase the wind with me.
If you will give yourself to me,
Within the fairy ring,
At deep midnight,
When stars are bright,
You'll hear the Blue-bells ring--
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
On slender stems they swing.
"The rustling wind, the whistling wind,
We'll chase him to and fro,
We'll chase him up, we'll chase him down
To where the King-cups grow;
And where old Jack-o'-Lantern waits
To light us on our way,
And far behind,
Upon the wind,
The Blue-bells seem to play--
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
Lest we should go astray.
"So gay that fairy music,
So jubilant those bells,
How days and weeks and months go by
No happy listener tells!
The toad-stools are with sweetmeats spread,
The new Moon lends her light,
And ringers small
Wait, one and all,
To ring with all their might--
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
And welcome you to night."
BOY.
"My mother made me promise
To be in time for tea,
'Go home! go home!' the breezes say,
That sigh along the lea.
I dare not give myself away;
For what would Mother do?
I wish I might
Stay out all night
At fairy games with you.
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
And hear the bells of blue.
"But Father sleeps beneath the grass,
And Mother is alone:
And who would fill the pails, and fetch
The wood when I am gone?
And who, when little Sister ails,
Can comfort her, but me?
Her cries and tears
Would reach my ears
Through all the melody--
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
Of Blue-bells on the lea."
The sun was on the Blue-bells,
The lad was on the lea.
"Oh, wondrous bells! Oh, fairy bells!
I pray you ring to me.
I only did as Mother bade,
For tea I did not care,
And winds at night
Give more delight
Than all this noonday glare."
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
No sound of bells was there.
BOY.
"The snow lies o'er the Blue-bells,
A storm is on the lea;
Our hearth is warm, the fire burns bright,
The flames dance merrily.
Oh, Mother dear! I would no more
That on that summer's day,
Within the ring,
The Fairy King
Had stolen me away--
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
To where the Blue-bells play.
"Yet when the storm is loudest,
At deep midnight I dream,
And up and down upon the lea
To chase the wind I seem;
While by my side, in feathered cap,
There runs the Fairy King,
And down below,
Beneath the snow,
We hear the Blue-bells ring--
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
Such happy dreams they bring!"
General John
by William Schwenck Gilbert

The bravest names for fire and flames,
And all that mortal durst,
Were General John and Private James,
Of the Sixty-seventy-first.
General John was a soldier tried,
A chief of warlike dons;
A haughty stride and a withering pride
Were Major-General John's.
A sneer would play on his martial phiz,
Superior birth to show;
"Pish!" was a favorite word of his,
And he often said "Ho! ho!"
Full-Private James described might be,
As a man of a mournful mind;
No characteristic trait had he
Of any distinctive kind.
From the ranks, one day, cried Private James
"Oh! Major-General John,
I've doubts of our respective names,
My mournful mind upon.
"A glimmering thought occurs to me,
(Its source I can't unearth)
But I've a kind of notion we
Were cruelly changed at birth.
"I've a strange idea, each other's names
That we have each got on,
Such things have been," said Private James.
"They have!" sneered General John.
"My General John, I swear upon
My oath I think 'tis so" 
"Pish!" proudly sneered his General John,
And he also said "Ho! ho!"
"My General John! my General John!
My General John!" quoth he,
"This aristocratical sneer upon
Your face I blush to see!
"No truly great or generous cove
Deserving of them names
Would sneer at a fixed idea that's drove
In the mind of a Private James!"
Said General John, "Upon your claims
No need your breath to waste;
If this is a joke, Full-Private James,
It's a joke of doubtful taste.
"But being a man of doubtless worth,
If you feel certain quite
That we were probably changed at birth,
I'll venture to say you're right."
So General John as Private James
Fell in, parade upon;
And Private James, by change of names,
Was Major-General John.
The Marine - Folk Song
by Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

(Poitevin)
The bold Marine comes back from war,
So kind:
The bold Marine comes back from war,
So kind:
With a raggety coat and a worn-out shoe.
"Now, poor Marine, say, whence come you,
All so kind?"
I travel back from the war, madame,
So kind:
I travel back from the war, madame,
So kind:
For a glass of wine and a bowl of whey,
'Tis I will sing you a ballad gay,
All so kind.
The bold Marine he sips his whey,
So kind:
He sips and he sings his ballad gay,
So kind:
But the dame she turns toward the wall,
To wipe her tears that fall and fall,
All so kind.
What aileth you at my song, madame,
So kind?
I hope that I sing no wrong, madame,
So kind?
Or grieves it you a beggar should dine
On a bowl of whey and the good white wine,
All so kind?
It ails me not at your ballad gay,
So kind:
It ails me not for the wine and whey,
So kind:
But it ails me sore for the voice and eyes
Of a good man long in Paradise.--
Ah, so kind!
You have fair children five, madame,
So kind:
You have fair children five, madame,
So kind:
Your good man left you children three;
Whence came these twain for company,
All so kind?
"A letter came from the war, Marine,
So kind:
A letter came from the war, Marine,
So kind:
A while I wept for the good man dead,
But another good man in a while I wed,
All so kind."
The bold Marine he drained his glass,
So kind:
The bold Marine he drained his glass,
So kind.
He said not a word, though the tears they flowed,
But back to his regiment took the road,
All so kind.
The Foolish Elm
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The bold young Autumn came riding along
One day where an elm-tree grew.
"You are fair," he said, as she bent down her head,
"Too fair for your robe's dull hue.
You are far too young for a garb so old;
Your beauty needs colour and sheen.
Oh, I would clothe you in scarlet and gold
Befitting the grace of a queen.
"For one little kiss on your lips, sweet elm,
For one little kiss, no more,
I would give you, I swear, a robe more fair
Than ever a princess wore.
One little kiss on those lips, my pet,
And lo! you shall stand, I say,
Queen of the forest, and, better yet,
Queen of my heart alway."
She tossed her head, but he took the kiss - 
'Tis the way of lovers bold - 
And a gorgeous dress for that sweet caress
He gave ere the morning was old.
For a week and a day she ruled a queen
In beauty and splendid attire;
For a week and a day she was loved, I ween,
With the love that is born of desire.
Then bold-eyed Autumn went on his way
In search of a tree more fair;
And mob-winds tattered her garments and scattered
Her finery here and there.
Poor and faded and ragged and cold
She rocked in her wild distress,
And longed for the dull green gown she had sold
For her fickle lover's caress.
And the days went by and Winter came,
And his tyrannous tempests beat
On the shivering tree, whose robes of flame
He had trampled under his feet.
I saw her reach up to the mocking skies
Her poor arms, bare and thin;
Ah, well-a-day! it is ever the way
With a woman who trades with sin.
The Highland Laddie.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "If thou'lt play me fair play."
I.
The bonniest lad that e'er I saw,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie,
Wore a plaid, and was fu' braw,
Bonnie Highland laddie.
On his head a bonnet blue,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie;
His royal heart was firm and true,
Bonnie Highland laddie.
II.
Trumpets sound, and cannons roar,
Bonnie lassie; Lowland lassie;
And a' the hills wi' echoes roar,
Bonnie Lowland lassie.
Glory, honour, now invite,
Bonnie lassie, Lowland lassie,
For freedom and my king to fight,
Bonnie Lowland lassie.
III.
The sun a backward course shall take,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie,
Ere aught thy manly courage shake,
Bonnie Highland laddie.
Go, for yourself procure renown,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie;
And for your lawful king, his crown,
Bonnie Highland laddie.
The Imported Servant
by Henry Lawson

The Blue Sky arches o'er mountain and valley,
The scene is as fair as a scene can be,
But I'm breaking my heart for a London alley,
And fogs that shall never come back to me.
I choke with tears when the day is dying,
The sunsets grand and the stars are bright;
But it's O! for the smell of the fried fish frying
By the flaring stalls on a Saturday night.
And this, oh, this is the lonely sequel
Of all I pictured would come to pass!
They are treating me here as a friend and equal,
But they'd say in London that they're no class.
When I think of their kindness my tears flow faster,
The girls are free and the chaps are grand:
It's 'the boss' and 'the missus' for mistress and master,
And they may be right, But I don't understand.
I see the air in its warm pulsation
On sandstone cliffs where the ocean dips,
But I'm miles and miles from the railway station
Where trains run down to the wharves and ships.
Those streets are dingy and dark and narrow,
The soot comes down with the rain and sleet;
But, O! for the sight of a coster's barrow,
And Sunday morning in Chapel Street!
To Young E. Allison - Bookman
by James Whitcomb Riley

The bookman he's a humming-bird -
His feasts are honey-fine, -
(With hi! hilloo!
And clover-dew
And roses lush and rare!)
Hiss roses are the phrase and word
Of olden tomes divine;
(With hi! and ho!
And pinks ablow
And posies everywhere!)
The Bookman he's a humming-bird, -
He steals from song to song -
He scents the ripest-blooming rhyme,
And takes his heart along
And sacks all sweets of bursting verse
And ballads, throng on throng.
(With ho! and hey!
And brook and brae,
And brinks of shade and shine!)
A humming-bird the Bookman is -
Though cumbrous, gray and grim, -
(With hi! hilloo!
And honey-dew
And odors musty-rare!)
He bends him o'er that page of his
As o'er the rose's rim.
(With hi! and ho!
And pinks aglow
And roses everywhere!)
Ay, he's the featest humming-bird,
On airiest of wings
He poises pendent o'er the poem
That blossoms as it sings -
God friend him as he dips his beak
In such delicious things!
(With ho! and hey!
And world away
And only dreams for him!)
O friends of mine, whose kindly words come to me
Voiced only in lost lisps of ink and pen,
If I had power to tell the good you do me,
And how the blood you warm goes laughing through me,
My tongue would babble baby-talk again.
And I would toddle round the world to meet you -
Fall at your feet, and clamber to your knees
And with glad, happy hands would reach and greet you,
And twine my arms about you, and entreat you
For leave to weave a thousand rhymes like these -
A thousand rhymes enwrought of nought but presses
Of cherry-lip and apple-cheek and chin,
And pats of honeyed palms, and rare caresses,
And all the sweets of which as Fancy guesses
She folds away her wings and swoons therein.
Highly Desireable
by Edward Dyson

The boarder in the bar-room rose,
A pale gaunt man who lodged with Hann,
'I bear,' he said, 'the worst of woes,
And suffer torments no one knows,
For do my best I never can
Have sleep like any other man.
'I have insomnia,' said he.
'At times it drives me mad outright.
Whate'er I do, where'er I be,
Its just the same, so sleep for me.
You won't believe for three years quite
I haven't slept two hours a night.'
Boss-cocky Billson softly swore,
And turning from his chestnut cob.
'What's that?' he questioned from the door.
'You say that you don't sleep no more
Than two hours? I pay thirty bob.
Now, mister, do you want a job?'
The Bone That Has No Marrow;
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

The bone that has no marrow;
What ultimate for that?
It is not fit for table,
For beggar, or for cat.
A bone has obligations,
A being has the same;
A marrowless assembly
Is culpabler than shame.
But how shall finished creatures
A function fresh obtain? --
Old Nicodemus' phantom
Confronting us again!
The Soul Is The Salt.
by Robert Herrick

The body's salt the soul is; which when gone,
The flesh soon sucks in putrefaction.
Sonnet LV.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

I begli occhi, ond' i' fui percosso in guisa.
HE IS NEVER WEARY OF PRAISING THE EYES OF LAURA.
The bright eyes which so struck my fenceless side
That they alone which harm'd can heal the smart
Beyond or power of herbs or magic art,
Or stone which oceans from our shores divide,
The chance of other love have so denied
That one sweet thought alone contents my heart,
From following which if ne'er my tongue depart,
Pity the guided though you blame the guide.
These are the bright eyes which, in every land
But most in its own shrine, my heart, adored,
Have spread the triumphs of my conquering lord;
These are the same bright eyes which ever stand
Burning within me, e'en as vestal fires,
In singing which my fancy never tires.
MACGREGOR.
Not all the spells of the magician's art,
Not potent herbs, nor travel o'er the main,
But those sweet eyes alone can soothe my pain,
And they which struck the blow must heal the smart;
Those eyes from meaner love have kept my heart,
Content one single image to retain,
And censure but the medium wild and vain,
If ill my words their honey'd sense impart;
These are those beauteous eyes which never fail
To prove Love's conquest, wheresoe'er they shine,
Although my breast hath oftenest felt their fire;
These are those beauteous eyes which still assail
And penetrate my soul with sparks divine,
So that of singing them I cannot tire.
WROTTESLEY.
Memorabilia Of Last Week.
by Thomas Moore

MONDAY, MARCH 13, 1826.
The Budget--quite charming and witty--no hearing,
For plaudits and laughs, the good things that were in it;--
Great comfort to find, tho' the speech isn't cheering,
That all its gay auditors were every minute.
What, still more prosperity!--mercy upon us,
"This boy'll be the death of me"--oft as, already,
Such smooth Budgeteers have genteelly undone us,
For Ruin made easy there's no one like Freddy.
TUESDAY.
Much grave apprehension exprest by the Peers,
Lest--calling to life the old Peachums and Lockitts--
The large stock of gold we're to have in three years,
Should all find its way into highwaymen's pockets![1]
WEDNESDAY.
Little doing--for sacred, oh Wednesday, thou art
To the seven-o'-clock joys of full many a table--
When the Members all meet, to make much of that part,
With which they so rashly fell out in the Fable.
It appeared, tho', to-night, that--as church-wardens yearly,
Eat up a small baby--those cormorant sinners.
The Bankrupt Commissioners, bolt very nearly
A moderate-sized bankrupt, tout chaud, for their dinners![2]
Nota bene--a rumor to-day, in the city,
"Mr. Robinson just has resigned"--what a pity!
The Bulls and the Bears all fell a sobbing,
When they heard of the fate of poor Cock Robin:
While thus, to the nursery tune, so pretty,
A murmuring Stock-dove breathed her ditty:--
Alas, poor Robin, he crowed as long
And as sweet as a prosperous Cock could crow;
But his note was small and the gold-finch's song
Was a pitch too high for Robin to go.
Who'll make his shroud?
"I," said the Bank, "tho' he played me a prank,
"While I have a rag, poor Rob shall be rolled in't,
"With many a pound I'll paper him round,
"Like a plump rouleau--without the gold in it."
Souvenirs Of Democracy
by Walt Whitman

The business man, the acquirer vast,
After assiduous years, surveying results, preparing for departure,
Devises houses and lands to his children bequeaths stocks, goods funds for a school or hospital,
Leaves money to certain companions to buy tokens, souvenirs of gems and gold;
Parceling out with care And then, to prevent all cavil,
His name to his testament formally signs.
But I, my life surveying,
With nothing to show, to devise, from its idle years,
Nor houses, nor lands nor tokens of gems or gold for my friends,
Only these Souvenirs of Democracy In them in all my songs behind me leaving,
To You, who ever you are, (bathing, leavening this leaf especially with my breath pressing on it a moment with my own hands;
Here! feel how the pulse beats in my wrists! how my heart's-blood is swelling, contracting!)
I will You, in all, Myself, with promise to never desert you,
To which I sign my name.
The Days When We went Swimming
by Henry Lawson

The breezes waved the silver grass,
Waist-high along the siding,
And to the creek we ne'er could pass
Three boys on bare-back riding;
Beneath the sheoaks in the bend
The waterhole was brimming,
Do you remember yet, old friend,
The times we 'went in swimming?'
The days we 'played the wag' from school,
Joys shared, and paid for singly,
The air was hot, the water cool,
And naked boys are kingly!
With mud for soap the sun to dry,
A well planned lie to stay us,
And dust well rubbed on neck and face
Lest cleanliness betray us.
And you'll remember farmer Kutz,
Though scarcely for his bounty,
He leased a forty-acre block,
And thought he owned the county;
A farmer of the old world school,
That men grew hard and grim in,
He drew his water from the pool
That we preferred to swim in.
And do you mind when down the creek
His angry way he wended,
A green-hide cartwhip in his hand
For our young backs intended?
Three naked boys upon the sand,
Half buried and half sunnin',
Three startled boys without their clothes
Across the paddocks running.
We've had some scares, but we looked blank
When, resting there and chumming,
One glanced by chance along the bank
And saw the farmer coming!
And home impressions linger yet
Of cups of sorrow brimming;
I hardly think that we'll forget
The last day we went swimming.