DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Fox & The Mask
by Walter Crane

A Fox with his foot on a Mask,
Thus took the fair semblance to task;
"You're a real handsome face;
But what part of your case
Are your brains in, good Sir! let me ask?"
Masks Are The Faces Of Shams
St. Patrick Of Ireland, My Dear!
by William Maginn

A fig for St. Denis of France, 
He's a trumpery fellow to brag on;
A fig for St. George and his lance,
Which spitted a heathenish dragon;
And the saints of the Welshman or Scot
Are a couple of pitiful pipers,
Both of whom may just travel to pot,
Compared with that patron of swipers, 
St. Patrick of Ireland, my dear!
He came to the Emerald Isle
On a lump of a paving-stone mounted;
The steamboat he beat by a mile,
Which mighty good sailing was counted.
Says he, "The salt water, I think,
Has made me most bloodily thirsty;
So bring me a flagon of drink
To keep down the mulligrubs, burst ye!
Of drink that is fit for a saint!"
He preached, then, with wonderful force,
The ignorant natives a-teaching;
With a pint he washed down his discourse,
"For," says he, "I detest your dry preaching."
The people, with wonderment struck
At a pastor so pious and civil,
Exclaimed, "We're for you, my old buck!
And we pitch our blind gods to the devil,
Who dwells in hot water below!"
This ended, our worshipful spoon
Went to visit an elegant fellow,
Whose practice, each cool afternoon,
Was to get most delightfully mellow.
That day with a black-jack of beer,
It chanced he was treating a party;
Says the saint, "This good day, do you hear,
I drank nothing to speak of, my hearty!
So give me a pull at the pot!"
The pewter he lifted in sport
(Believe me, I tell you no fable);
A gallon he drank from the quart,
And then placed it full on the table.
"A miracle!" every one said, 
And they all took a haul at the stingo;
They were capital hands at the trade,
And drank till they fell; yet, by jingo,
The pot still frothed over the brim.
Next day, quoth his host, "'Tis a fast,
And I've nought in my larder but mutton;
And on Fridays who'd made such repast,
Except an unchristian-like glutton?"
Says Pat, "Cease your nonsense, I beg, 
What you tell me is nothing but gammon;
Take my compliments down to the leg,
And bid it come hither a salmon!"
And the leg most politely complied.
You've heard, I suppose, long ago,
How the snakes, in a manner most antic,
He marched to the county Mayo,
And trundled them into th' Atlantic.
Hence, not to use water for drink,
The people of Ireland determine, 
With mighty good reason, I think,
Since St. Patrick has filled it with vermin
And vipers, and other such stuff!
Oh, he was an elegant blade
As you'd meet from Fairhead to Kilcrumper;
And though under the sod he is laid,
Yet here goes his health in a bumper!
I wish he was here, that my glass
He might by art magic replenish;
But since he is not, why, alas!
My ditty must come to a finish,
Because all the liquor is out!
By The Annisquam
by Madison Julius Cawein

A Far bell tinkles in the hollow,
And heart and soul are fain to follow:
Gone is the rose and gone the swallow:
Autumn is here.
The wild geese draw at dusk their harrow
Above the 'Squam the ebb leaves narrow:
The sea-winds chill you to the marrow:
Sad goes the year.
Among the woods the crows are calling:
The acorns and the leaves are falling:
At sea the fishing-boats are trawling:
Autumn is here.
The jay among the rocks is screaming,
And every way with crimson streaming:
Far up the shore the foam is creaming:
Sleep fills the Year.
The chipmunk on the stones is barking;
The red leaf every path is marking,
Where hills lean to the ocean harking:
Autumn is here.
The fields are starry with the aster,
Where Beauty dreams and dim Disaster
Draws near through mists that gather faster:
Farewell, sweet Year.
Beside the coves driftwood is burning,
And far at sea white sails are turning:
Each day seems filled with deeper yearning:
Autumn is here.
"Good-bye! good-bye!" the Summer's saying:
"Brief was my day as songs of Maying:
The time is come for psalms and praying:
Good-bye, sweet Year."
Brown bend the ferns by rock and boulder;
The shore seems greyer; ocean older:
The days are misty; nights are colder:
Autumn is here.
The cricket in the grass is crying,
And sad winds in the old woods sighing;
They seem to say, "Sweet Summer's dying:
Weep for the Year.
"She's wreathed her hair with bay and berry,
And o'er dark pools, the wild-fowl ferry,
Leans dreaming 'neath the wilding cherry:
Autumn is here.
"Good-bye! good-bye to Summer's gladness:
To all her beauty, mirth and madness:
Come sit with us and dream in sadness:
So ends the Year."
The Fox, The Flies, And The Hedgehog.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
A fox, old, subtle, vigilant, and sly, - 
By hunters wounded, fallen in the mud, - 
Attracted, by the traces of his blood,
That buzzing parasite, the fly.
He blamed the gods, and wonder'd why
The Fates so cruelly should wish
To feast the fly on such a costly dish.
'What! light on me! make me its food!
Me, me, the nimblest of the wood!
How long has fox-meat been so good?
What serves my tail? Is it a useless weight?
Go, - Heaven confound thee, greedy reprobate! - 
And suck thy fill from some more vulgar veins!'
A hedgehog, witnessing his pains,
(This fretful personage
Here graces first my page,)
Desired to set him free
From such cupidity.
'My neighbour fox,' said he,
My quills these rascals shall empale,
And ease thy torments without fail.'
'Not for the world, my friend!' the fox replied.
'Pray let them finish their repast.
These flies are full. Should they be set aside,
New hungrier swarms would finish me at last.'
Consumers are too common here below,
In court and camp, in church and state, we know.
Old Aristotle's penetration
Remark'd our fable's application;
It might more clearly in our nation.
The fuller certain men are fed,
The less the public will be bled.
The Fox, The Wolf, And The Horse.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
A fox, though young, by no means raw,
Had seen a horse, the first he ever saw:
'Ho! neighbour wolf,' said he to one quite green,
'A creature in our meadow I have seen, - 
Sleek, grand! I seem to see him yet, - 
The finest beast I ever met.'
'Is he a stouter one than we?'
The wolf demanded, eagerly;
'Some picture of him let me see.'
'If I could paint,' said fox, 'I should delight
T' anticipate your pleasure at the sight;
But come; who knows? perhaps it is a prey
By fortune offer'd in our way.'
They went. The horse, turn'd loose to graze,
Not liking much their looks or ways,
Was just about to gallop off.
'Sir,' said the fox, 'your humble servants, we
Make bold to ask you what your name may be.'
The horse, an animal with brains enough,
Replied, 'Sirs, you yourselves may read my name;
My shoer round my heel hath writ the same.'
The fox excus'd himself for want of knowledge:
'Me, sir, my parents did not educate, - 
So poor, a hole was their entire estate.
My friend, the wolf, however, taught at college,
Could read it were it even Greek.'
The wolf, to flattery weak,
Approach'd to verify the boast;
For which four teeth he lost.
The high raised hoof came down with such a blow,
As laid him bleeding on the ground full low.
'My brother,' said the fox, 'this shows how just
What once was taught me by a fox of wit, - 
Which on thy jaws this animal hath writ, - 
"All unknown things the wise mistrust."'
The Fool And The Sage.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
A fool pursued, with club and stone,
A sage, who said, 'My friend, well done!
Receive this guinea for your pains;
They well deserve far higher gains.
The workman's worthy of his hire,
'Tis said. There comes a wealthy squire,
Who hath wherewith thy works to pay;
To him direct thy gifts, and they
Shall gain their proper recompense.'
Urged by the hope of gain,
Upon the wealthy citizen
The fool repeated the offence.
His pay this time was not in gold.
Upon the witless man
A score of ready footmen ran,
And on his back, in full, his wages told.
In courts, such fools afflict the wise;
They raise the laugh at your expense.
To check their babble, were it sense
Their folly meetly to chastise?
Perhaps 'twill take a stronger man.
Then make them worry one who can.
The Fool who Sold Wisdom.
by Jean de La Fontaine

A fool, in town, did wisdom cry;
The people, eager, flock'd to buy.
Each for his money got,
Paid promptly on the spot,
Besides a box upon the head,
Two fathoms' length of thread.
The most were vex'd - but quite in vain,
The public only mock'd their pain.
The wiser they who nothing said,
But pocketed the box and thread.
To search the meaning of the thing
Would only laughs and hisses bring.
Hath reason ever guaranteed
The wit of fools in speech or deed?
'Tis said of brainless heads in France,
The cause of what they do is chance.
One dupe, however, needs must know
What meant the thread, and what the blow
So ask'd a sage, to make it sure.
"They're both hieroglyphics pure,"
The sage replied without delay;
"All people well advised will stay
From fools this fibre's length away,
Or get - I hold it sure as fate - 
The other symbol on the pate.
So far from cheating you of gold,
The fool this wisdom fairly sold."
The Fox And The Grapes.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
A fox, almost with hunger dying,
Some grapes upon a trellis spying,
To all appearance ripe, clad in
Their tempting russet skin,
Most gladly would have eat them;
But since he could not get them,
So far above his reach the vine - 
'They're sour,' he said; 'such grapes as these,
The dogs may eat them if they please!'
Did he not better than to whine?
The Night Bird:  A Myth
by Charles Kingsley

A floating, a floating
Across the sleeping sea,
All night I heard a singing bird
Upon the topmost tree.
'Oh came you off the isles of Greece,
Or off the banks of Seine;
Or off some tree in forests free,
Which fringe the western main?'
'I came not off the old world
Nor yet from off the new - 
But I am one of the birds of God
Which sing the whole night through.'
'Oh sing, and wake the dawning - 
Oh whistle for the wind;
The night is long, the current strong,
My boat it lags behind.'
'The current sweeps the old world,
The current sweeps the new;
The wind will blow, the dawn will glow
Ere thou hast sailed them through.'
Eversley, 1848.
The Wolf And The Fox (Prose Fable)
by Jean de La Fontaine

A fox once remarked to a wolf, "Dear friend, do you know that the utmost I can get for my meals is a tough old cock or perchance a lean hen or two. It is a diet of which I am thoroughly weary. You, on the other hand, feed much better than that, and with far less danger. My foraging takes me close up to houses; but you keep far away. I beg of you, comrade, to teach me your trade. Let me be the first of my race to furnish my pot with a plump sheep, and you will not find me ungrateful."
"Very well," replied the obliging wolf. "I have a brother recently dead, suppose you go and get his skin and wear it." This the fox accordingly did and the wolf commenced to give him lessons. "You must do this and act so, when you wish to separate the dogs from the flocks." At first Reynard was a little awkward, but he rapidly improved, and with a little practice he reached at last the perfection of wolfish strategy. Just as he had learned all that there was to know a flock approached. The sham wolf ran after it spreading terror all around, even as Patroclus wearing[1] the armour of Achilles spread alarm throughout camp and city, when mothers, wives, and old men hastened to the temples for protection. "In this case, the bleating army made sure there must be quite fifty wolves after them, and fled, dog and shepherd with them, to the neighbouring village, leaving only one sheep as a hostage.
This remaining sheep our thief instantly seized and was making off with it. But he had not gone more than a few steps when a cock crew near by. At this signal, which habit of life had led him to regard as a warning of dawn and danger, he dropped his disguising wolf-skin and, forgetting his sheep, his lesson, and his master, scampered off with a will.
Of what use is such shamming? It is an illusion to suppose that one is really changed by making the pretence. One resume's one's first nature upon the earliest occasion for hiding it.
The Roaring Frost
by Alice Christiana Gertrude Thompson Meynell

A flock of winds came winging from the North,
Strong birds with fighting pinions driving forth
With a resounding call!
Where will they close their wings and cease their cries -
Between what warming seas and conquering skies -
And fold, and fall?
Twilight
by Alfred Lichtenstein

A fat young man plays with a pond.
The wind has caught itself in a tree.
The pale sky seems to be rumpled,
As though it had run out of makeup.
On long crutches, bent nearly in half
And chatting, two cripples creep across the field.
A blond poet perhaps goes mad.
A little horse stumbles over a lady.
A fat man is stuck to a window.
A boy wants to visit a soft woman.
A gray clown puts on his boots.
A baby carriage shrieks and dogs curse.
The Dying Fox.
by John Gay

A fox was dying, and he lay
In all the weakness of decay.
A numerous progeny, with groans,
Attended to his feeble tones:
"My crimes lie heavy on my soul;
My sons, my sons, your raids control!
Ah, how the shrieks of murdered fowl
Environ me with stunning howl!"
The hungry foxes in a ring
Looked round, but saw there no such thing:
"This is an ecstasy of brain:
We fast, dear sir, and wish in vain."
"Gluttons! restrain such wish," replied
The dying fox; "be such defied;
Inordinate desires deplore;
The more you win, you grieve the more.
Do not the dogs betray our pace,
And gins and guns destroy our race?
Old age - which few of us attain - 
Now puts a period to my pain.
Would you the good name lost redeem?
Live, then, in credit and esteem."
"Good counsel, marry!" said a fox;
"And quit our mountain-dens and rocks!
But if we quit our native place,
We bear the name that marks our race;
And what our ancestry have done
Descends to us from sire to son.
Though we should feed like harmless lambs,
We should regarded be as shams;
The change would never be believed;
A name lost cannot be retrieved."
The Sire replied: "Too true; but then - 
Hark! that's the cackle of a hen.
Go, but be moderate, spare the brood:
One chicken, one, might do me good."
The Wedding.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

A Feast was in a village spread, 
It was a wedding-day, they said.
The parlour of the inn I found,
And saw the couples whirling round,
Each lass attended by her lad,
And all seem'd loving, blithe, and glad;
But on my asking for the bride,
A fellow with a stare, replied:
"'Tis not the place that point to raise!
We're only dancing in her honour;
We now have danced three nights and days,
And not bestowed one thought upon her."
*     *     *     *
Whoe'er in life employs his eyes
Such cases oft will recognise.
The Bluebell
by Anne Bronte

A fine and subtle spirit dwells
In every little flower,
Each one its own sweet feeling breathes
With more or less of power.
There is a silent eloquence
In every wild bluebell
That fills my softened heart with bliss
That words could never tell.
Yet I recall not long ago
A bright and sunny day,
'Twas when I led a toilsome life
So many leagues away;
That day along a sunny road
All carelessly I strayed,
Between two banks where smiling flowers
Their varied hues displayed.
Before me rose a lofty hill,
Behind me lay the sea,
My heart was not so heavy then
As it was wont to be.
Less harassed than at other times
I saw the scene was fair,
And spoke and laughed to those around,
As if I knew no care.
But when I looked upon the bank
My wandering glances fell
Upon a little trembling flower,
A single sweet bluebell.
Whence came that rising in my throat,
That dimness in my eye?
Why did those burning drops distil,
Those bitter feelings rise?
O, that lone flower recalled to me
My happy childhood's hours
When bluebells seemed like fairy gifts
A prize among the flowers,
Those sunny days of merriment
When heart and soul were free,
And when I dwelt with kindred hearts
That loved and cared for me.
I had not then mid heartless crowds
To spend a thankless life
In seeking after others' weal
With anxious toil and strife.
'Sad wanderer, weep those blissful times
That never may return!'
The lovely floweret seemed to say,
And thus it made me mourn.
The Dog And His Image.
by Jean de La Fontaine

A foolish Dog, who carried in his jaw
A juicy bone,
Looked down into a stream, and there he saw
Another one,
Splash! In he plunged.. The image disappeared - 
The meat he had was gone.
Indeed, he nearly sank,
And barely reached the bank.
The Absurd ABC
by Walter Crane

A for the APPLE
or Alphabet pie,
Which all get a slice of.
Come taste it & try.
B is the BABY
who gave Mr Bunting
Full many a long day's
rabbit skin hunting.
C for the CAT
that played on the fiddle,
When cows jumped higher than
'Heigh Diddle Diddle!'
D for the DAME
with her pig at the stile,
'Tis said they got over,
but not yet a while.
E for the Englishman,
ready to make fast
The giant who wanted to
have him for breakfast.
F for the Frog in the story
you know,
Begun with a wooing but
ending in woe.
G for Goosey Gander
who wandered upstairs,
And met the old man
who objected to prayers.
H for poor Humpty who
after his fall,
Felt obliged to resign his
seat on the wall.
I for the Inn where they
wouldn't give beer,
To one with too much
and no money, I fear.
J does for poor Jack and
also for Jill,
Who had so disastrous
a tumble down hill.
K for calm Kitty, at dinner
who sat,
While all the good folks
watched the dog & the cat.
L for Little man, gun and
bullets complete,
Who shot the poor duck, and
was proud of the feat.
M for Miss Muffet, with
that horrid spider,
Just dropped into tea and
a chat beside her.
N for the Numerous children
they who
Were often too much for
their mother in Shoe.
O the Old person that
cobwebs did spy,
And went up to sweep 'em
Oh ever so high!
P for the Pie made of
blackbirds to sing,
A song fit for supper
a dish for a king.
Q for Queen Anne
who sat in the sun
Till she, more than the lily
resembled the bun
R stands for Richard &
Robert, those men
Who didn't get up one
fine morning till ten!
S for the Snail that showed
wonderful fight,
Putting no less than twenty-four
tailors to flight!
T stands for Tom, the son of
the piper,
May his principles change
as his years grow riper.
U for the Unicorn, keeping
his eye on
The coveted crown, and
'ts counsel the Lion.
V for the Victuals, including
the drink,
The old woman lived on
surprising to think!
W for the WOMAN
who not over nice,
Made very short work
of the three blind mice.
X is the X
that is found upon buns,
Which, daughters not liking,
may come in for sons.
Y for Yankee Doodle
of ancient renown,
Both he & his pony
that took him to town.
Z for the Zany
who looked like a fool,
For when he was young
he neglected his school.
To Sleep
by William Wordsworth

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by,
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;
I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie
Sleepless! and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees;
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
So do not let me wear to-night away:
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
Come, blessed barrier between day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
To Originals.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

A fellow says: "I own no school or college;
No master lives whom I acknowledge;
And pray don't entertain the thought
That from the dead I e'er learnt aught."
This, if I rightly understand,
Means: "I'm a blockhead at first hand."
The Vampire
by Rudyard Kipling

A fool there was and he made his prayer
(Even as you and I!)
To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair
(We called her the woman who did not care),
But the fool he called her his lady fair
(Even as you and I!)
Oh the years we waste and the tears we waste
And the work of our head and hand,
Belong to the woman who did not know
(And now we know that she never could know)
And did not understand.
A fool there was and his goods he spent
(Even as you and I!)
Honor and faith and a sure intent
But a fool must follow his natural bent
(And it wasn't the least what the lady meant),
(Even as you and I!)
Oh the toil we lost and the spoil we lost
And the excellent things we planned,
Belong to the woman who didn't know why
(And now we know she never knew why)
And did not understand.
The fool we stripped to his foolish hide
(Even as you and I!)
Which she might have seen when she threw him aside,
(But it isn't on record the lady tried)
So some of him lived but the most of him died,
(Even as you and I!)
And it isn't the shame and it isn't the blame
That stings like a white hot brand.
It's coming to know that she never knew why
(Seeing at last she could never know why)
And never could understand.
Puns
by Unknown

A father once said to his son,
"The next time you make up a pun,
Go out in the yard
And kick yourself hard,
And I will begin when you've done."
The "Slugging"-Match.
by William McKendree Carleton

"A first-class professional fight!"
I'm really doing the town!
There were thousands on thousands to-night
To see a man knock a man down.
Two dollars I willingly (?) paid
To view all this muscle and brawn;
'Twas rather too much, I'm afraid,
Or seemed so, the minute 'twas gone.
*             *             *             *             *
And yet 'tis a study to see
The rage gladiatorial of Rome
And grim Spanish bull-baiting glee
Adopt an American home!
That blood-thirsty, murderous spite
Men loudly condemn - and possess!
Besieged New York City last night,
With first-class financial success!
*             *             *             *             *
Hands gloved - to comply with the law;
Gloves hard - to comply with the crowd;
Fists savage as murder could draw;
Cheers heavy and fervent and loud.
Stern hisses, and shoutings of "Woman!"
When either too tender they found;
Tremendous applause when a foeman
Dropped, more than half dead, on the ground.
*             *             *             *             *
'Twas the soul's blackest hell-woven fibre,
All thrilling intensely and fast;
The curse of the Tagus and Tiber
Arrived in New York Bay at last!
And victor and vanquished, I learn,
Came off with more glittering spoil
Than teacher or preacher could earn
In years of the hardest of toil.
*             *             *             *             *
A spectacle pleasing and bright,
Full many good people delighting - 
So many good men love a fight,
When somebody else does the fighting!
And "'tis shameful!" we mildly agree,
And shout our complainings afar;
But the facts are no worse than are we:
They show to us just what we are!