DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
A Sweet Lullaby
by Nicholas Breton

Come, little babe, come, silly soul,
Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief,
Born as I doubt to all our dole,
And to thyself unhappy chief:
Sing lullaby and lap it warm,
Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.
Thou little thinkst, and less dost know
The cause of this thy mother's moan;
Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe,
And I myself am all alone;
Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail,
And know'st not yet what thou dost ail?
Come, little wretch! Ah! silly heart,
Mine only joy, what can I more?
If there be any wrong thy smart,
That may the destinies implore,
'Twas I, I say, against my will - 
I wail the time, but be thou still.
And dost thou smile? O thy sweet face!
Would God Himself He might thee see!
No doubt thou wouldst soon purchase grace,
I know right well, for thee and me,
But come to mother, babe, and play,
For father false is fled away.
Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance
Thy father home again to send,
If Death do strike me with his lance
Yet may'st thou me to him commend:
If any ask thy mother's name,
Tell how by love she purchased blame.
Then will his gentle heart soon yield:
I know him of a noble mind:
Although a lion in the field,
A lamb in town[1] thou shalt him find:
Ask blessing, babe, be not afraid!
His sugar'd words hath me betray'd.
Then may'st thou joy and be right glad,
Although in woe I seem to moan;
Thy father is no rascal lad:
A noble youth of blood and bone,
His glancing looks, if he once smile,
Right honest women may beguile.
Come, little boy, and rock a-sleep!
Sing lullaby, and be thou still!
I, that can do naught else but weep,
Will sit by thee and wail my fill:
God bless my babe, and lullaby,
From this thy father's quality.
[Note 1: 'lown' in the original]
The Old Dreamer
by Madison Julius Cawein

Come, let's climb into our attic,
In our house that's old and gray!
Life, you're old and I'm rheumatic,
And it's close of day.
Lay aside your rags and tatters,
Shirt and shoes so soiled with clay!
They're no use now. Nothing matters
It is close of day.
Let's to bed. It's cold. No fire.
And no lamp to make a ray.
Where's our servant, young Desire?
Gone at close of day.
Oft she served us with fine glances,
Helped us out at work and play:
She is gone now; better chances;
And it's close of day.
Where is Hope, who flaunted scarlet?
Hope, who led us oft astray?
Has she proved herself a harlot
At the close of day?
What's become of Dream and Vision?
Friends we thought were here to stay?
Has life clapped the two in prison
At the close of day?
They are gone; and how we miss them!
They who made our garret gay.
How we used to hug and kiss them!
But 'tis close of day.
Where's friend Love now? Who supposes?
Has he flung himself away?
Left us for a wreath of roses
At the close of day?
And where's Song? the soul elected
Has he quit us too for aye?
Was it poverty he suspected
Near the close of day?
How our attic rang their laughter!
How it echoed laugh and lay!
None may take their place hereafter?
It is close of day.
We have done the best we could do.
Let us kneel awhile and pray.
Now, no matter what we would do,
It is close of day.
Let's to bed then! It's December.
Long enough since it was May!
Let's forget it, and remember
Now 'tis close of day.
The Magic Mirror.
by Thomas Moore

"Come, if thy magic Glass have power
"To call up forms we sigh to see;
"Show me my, love, in that, rosy bower,
"Where last she pledged her truth to me."
The Wizard showed him his Lady bright,
Where lone and pale in her bower she lay;
"True-hearted maid," said the happy Knight,
"She's thinking of one, who is far away."
But, lo! a page, with looks of joy,
Brings tidings to the Lady's ear;
"'Tis," said the Knight, "the same bright boy,
"Who used to guide me to my dear."
The Lady now, from her favorite tree,
Hath, smiling, plucked a rosy flower:
"Such," he exclaimed, "was the gift that she
"Each morning sent me from that bower!"
She gives her page the blooming rose,
With looks that say, "Like lightning, fly!"
"Thus," thought the Knight, "she soothes her woes,
"By fancying, still, her true-love nigh."
But the page returns, and--oh, what a sight,
For trusting lover's eyes to see!--
Leads to that bower another Knight,
As young and, alas, as loved as he!
"Such," quoth the Youth, "is Woman's love!"
Then, darting forth, with furious bound,
Dashed at the Mirror his iron glove,
And strewed it all in fragments round.
MORAL.
Such ills would never have come to pass,
Had he ne'er sought that fatal view;
The Wizard would still have kept his Glass,
And the Knight still thought his Lady true.
The Contract
by R. C. Lehmann

"Come, Peggy, put your toys away; you needn't shake your head,
Your bear's been working overtime; he's panting for his bed.
He's turned a thousand somersaults, and now his head must ache;
It's cruelty to animals to keep the bear awake."
At this she stamped in mutiny, and then she urged her plea,
Her wonted plea, "A little time, a minute more, for me."
"Be off, you little rogue of rogues," I sternly made reply;
"It's wicked to be sitting up with sand in either eye.
"To bed, to bed, you sleepy head; and then, and then - who knows? - 
Some day you'll be a grown-up girl, and lovely as a rose.
And some day some one else will come, a gallant youth and gay,
To harry me and marry you and carry you away."
At this the storm broke out afresh: - "You know I hate the boys;
They're only good at taking things, and breaking things, and noise.
So, Daddy, please remember this, because - I - want - you - to: - 
I'll never marry any boy; I'll only marry you."
"Agreed," I cried - the imp, of course, had won the bout of wits;
Had gained her point and got her time and beaten me to fits - 
"Agreed, agreed," - she danced for joy - "we'll leave no room for doubt,
But bind ourselves with pen and ink, and write the contract out:-"
This is a contract, firm and clear
Made, as doth from these presents appear,
Between Peggy, being now in her sixth year,
A child of laughter,
A sort of funny actress,
Referred to hereinafter
As the said contractress - 
Between the said contractress, that is to say,
And a person with whom she is often good enough to play;
Who happens to have been something of a factor
In bringing her into the world, who, in short, is her father,
And is hereinafter spoken of as the said contractor.
Now the said contractress declares she would rather
Marry the said contractor than any other.
At the same time she affirms with the utmost steadiness
Her perfect readiness
To take any other fellow on as a brother.
Still, she means to marry her father, and to be his wife,
And to live happily with him all the rest of her life.
This contract is made without consideration,
And is subject to later ratification.
The said contractress had it read through
to see that nothing was missed,
And she took her pen, and she held it tight
in a chubby and cramped-up fist,
And she made her mark with a blotted cross,
instead of signing her name;
And the said contractor he signed in full,
and they mean to observe the same.
"Now give me, Peg, that old brown shoe, that battered shoe of yours,
I'll stow the contract in its toe, and, if the shoe endures,
When sixteen years or so are gone, I'll hunt for it myself
And take it gently from its drawer, or get it from its shelf.
"And when, mid clouds of scattered rice, through all the wedding whirl
A laughing fellow hurries out a certain graceless girl,
Unless my hand have lost its strength, unless my eye be dim,
I'll lift the shoe, the contract too, and fling the lot at him."
Song of the Troubadour.
by George Pope Morris

In Imitation of the Lays of the Olden Time.
"Come, list to the lay of the olden time,"
A troubadour sang on a moonlit stream:
"The scene is laid in a foreign clime,
"A century back--and love is the theme."
Love was the theme of the troubadour's rhyme,
Of lady and lord of the olden time
"At an iron-barred turret, a lady fair
"Knelt at the close of the vesper-chime:
"Her beads she numbered in silent prayer
"For one far away, whom to love was her crime.
"Love," sang the troubadour, "love was a crime,
"When fathers were stern, in the olden time.
"The warder had spurned from the castle gate
"The minstrel who wooed her in flowing rhyme--
"He came back from battle in regal estate--
"The bard was a prince of the olden time.
"Love," sand the troubadour, "listened to rhyme,
"And welcomed the bard of the olden time.
"The prince in disguise had the lady sought;
"To chapel they hied in their rosy prime:
"Thus worth won a jewel that wealth never bought,
"A fair lady's heart of the olden time.
"The moral," the troubadour sang, "of my rhyme,
"Was well understood in the olden time."
A Sad Mishap.
by John Hartley

"Come, John lad, tell me what's to do,
Tha luks soa glum an sad;
Is it becoss tha'rt short o' brass?
Or are ta poorly, lad?
Has sombdy been findin fault,
Wi' owt tha's sed or done?
Or are ta bothered wi' thi loom,
Wi' th' warp tha's just begun?
Whativver 'tis, lad, let me know, - 
Aw'll help thi if aw can;
Sometimes a woman's ready wit
Is useful to a man.
Tha allus let me share thi joys, - 
Let's share when grief prevails;
Tha knows tha sed aw should, John,
I'th' front o'th' alter rails.
We've just been wed a year, lad,
Come Sundy next but three;
But if tha sulks an willn't spaik,
Aw'st think tha'rt stawld o' me.
Aw've done mi best aw'm sewer, John,
To be a wife to thee;
Come tell me what's to do, John,
Wol aw caar o' thi knee."
-    -    -    -    - 
"Aw've brass enuff to pay mi way, - 
Aw'm hearty as needs be; - 
Ther's noabdy been findin fault,
An aw'm nooan stawl'd o' thee.
But aw'm soa mad aw connot bide, - 
For commin hooam to-neet,
Mi pipe slipt throo between mi teeth,
An smashed to bits i'th' street.
Aw cant think what aw could be doin,
To let the blam'd thing drop!
An a'a! it wor a beauty,
An colored reight to th' top."
The Cat
by Charles Baudelaire

Come, my fine cat, to my amorous heart;
Please let your claws be concealed.
And let me plunge into your beautiful eyes,
Coalescence of agate and steel.
When my leisurely fingers are stroking your head
And your body's elasticity,
And my hand becomes drunk with the pleasure it finds
In the feel of electricity,
My woman comes into my mind. Her regard
Like your own, my agreeable beast,
Is deep and is cold, and it splits like a spear,
And, from her head to her feet,
A subtle and dangerous air of perfume
Floats always around her brown skin.
Nursery Rhyme. DCXXVIII. Relics.
by Unknown

Come, let's to bed,
Says Sleepy-head;
Tarry a while, says Slow:
Put on the pot,
Says Greedy-gut,
Let's sup before we go.
The Shut-Eye Train
by Eugene Field

Come, my little one, with me!
There are wondrous sights to see
As the evening shadows fall;
In your pretty cap and gown,
Don't detain
The Shut-Eye train -
"Ting-a-ling!" the bell it goeth,
"Toot-toot!" the whistle bloweth,
And we hear the warning call:
"All aboard for Shut-Eye Town!"
Over hill and over plain
Soon will speed the Shut-Eye train!
Through the blue where bloom the stars
And the Mother Moon looks down
We'll away
To land of Fay -
Oh, the sights that we shall see there!
Come, my little one, with me there -
'T is a goodly train of cars -
All aboard for Shut-Eye Town!
Swifter than a wild bird's flight,
Through the realms of fleecy light
We shall speed and speed away!
Let the Night in envy frown -
What care we
How wroth she be!
To the Balow-land above us,
To the Balow-folk who love us,
Let us hasten while we may -
All aboard for Shut-Eye Town!
Shut-Eye Town is passing fair -
Golden dreams await us there;
We shall dream those dreams, my dear,
Till the Mother Moon goes down -
See unfold
Delights untold!
And in those mysterious places
We shall see beloved faces
And beloved voices hear
In the grace of Shut-Eye Town.
Heavy are your eyes, my sweet,
Weary are your little feet -
Nestle closer up to me
In your pretty cap and gown;
Don't detain
The Shut-Eye train!
"Ting-a-ling!" the bell it goeth,
"Toot-toot!" the whistle bloweth
Oh, the sights that we shall see!
All aboard for Shut-Eye Town!
Drinking Song - Inscription For An Antique Pitcher
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Come, old friend! sit down and listen!
From the pitcher, placed between us,
How the waters laugh and glisten
In the head of old Silenus!
Old Silenus, bloated, drunken,
Led by his inebriate Satyrs;
On his breast his head is sunken,
Vacantly he leers and chatters.
Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow;
Ivy crowns that brow supernal
As the forehead of Apollo,
And possessing youth eternal.
Round about him, fair Bacchantes,
Bearing cymbals, flutes, and thyrses,
Wild from Naxian groves, or Zante's
Vineyards, sing delirious verses.
Thus he won, through all the nations,
Bloodless victories, and the farmer
Bore, as trophies and oblations,
Vines for banners, ploughs for armor.
Judged by no o'erzealous rigor,
Much this mystic throng expresses:
Bacchus was the type of vigor,
And Silenus of excesses.
These are ancient ethnic revels,
Of a faith long since forsaken;
Now the Satyrs, changed to devils,
Frighten mortals wine-o'ertaken.
Now to rivulets from the mountains
Point the rods of fortune-tellers;
Youth perpetual dwells in fountains,--
Not in flasks, and casks, and cellars.
Claudius, though he sang of flagons
And huge tankards filled with Rhenish,
From that fiery blood of dragons
Never would his own replenish.
Even Redi, though he chaunted
Bacchus in the Tuscan valleys,
Never drank the wine he vaunted
In his dithyrambic sallies.
Then with water fill the pitcher
Wreathed about with classic fables;
Ne'er Falernian threw a richer
Light upon Lucullus' tables.
Come, old friend, sit down and listen
As it passes thus between us,
How its wavelets laugh and glisten
In the head of old Silenus!
Verses Addressed To A Country Clergyman, Complaining Of The Disagreeableness Of The Day Annually Appointed For Receiving The Dues At The Parsonage
by William Cowper

Come, ponder well, for 'tis no jest,
To laugh it would be wrong,
The troubles of a worthy priest,
The burden of my song.
This priest he merry is and blithe
Three quarters of a year:
But oh! it cuts him like a scythe,
When tithing time draws near.
He then is full of fright and fears,
As one at point to die,
And long before the day appears,
He heaves up many a sigh.
For then the farmers come jog, jog,
Along the miry road,
Each heart as heavy as a log,
To make their payments good.
In sooth the sorrow of such days
Is not to be express'd,
When he that takes and he that pays
Are both alike distress'd.
Now all unwelcome at his gates
The clumsy swains alight,
With rueful faces and bald pates'
He trembles at the sight.
And well he may, for well he knows
Each bumpkin of the clan,
Instead of paying what he owes,
Will cheat him if he can.
So in they come'each makes his leg,
And flings his head before,
And looks as if he came to beg,
And not to quit a score.
'And how does miss and madam do,
The little boy and all?'
'All tight and well. And how do you,
Good Mr. What-d'ye-call?'
The dinner comes, and down they sit;
Were e'er such hungry folk?
There's little talking, and no wit;
It is no time to joke.
One wipes his nose upon his sleeve,
One spits upon the floor,
Yet, not to give offence or grieve,
Holds up the cloth before.
The punch goes round, and they are dull
And lumpish still as ever;
Like barrels with their bellies full,
They only weigh the heavier.
At length the busy time begins,
'Come, neighbours, we must wag''
The money chinks, down drop their chins,
Each lugging out his bag.
One talks of mildew and of frost,
And one of storms of hail,
And one of pigs that he has lost
By maggots at the tail.
Quoth one, 'A rarer man than you
In pulpit none shall hear:
But yet, methinks, to tell you true,
You sell it plaguy dear.'
O why are farmers made so coarse,
Or clergy made so fine?
A kick, that scarce would move a horse,
May kill a sound divine.
Then let the boobies stay at home;
'Twould cost him, I dare say,
Less trouble taking twice the sum
Without the clowns that pay.
The Voice Of The California Dove
by Joaquin Miller

Come, listen O love, to the voice of the dove,
Come, hearken and hear him say,
"There are many Tomorrows, my love, my love,
There is only one Today."
And all day long you can hear him say,
This day in purple is rolled,
And the baby stars of the milky way
They are cradled in cradles of gold.
Now what is thy secret, serene gray dove,
Of singing so sweetly alway?
"There are many Tomorrows, my love, my love,
There is only one Today."
Song To Celia (2)
by Ben Jonson

Come, my Celia, let us prove
While we may the sports of love;
Time will not be ours forever,
He at length our good will sever.
Spend not then his gifts in vain;
Suns that set may rise again,
But if once we lose this light,
'Tis with us perpetual night.
Why should we defer our joys?
Fame and rumour are but toys.
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poor household spies?
Or his easier ears beguile,
So removed by our wile?
'Tis no sin love's fruits to steal;
But the sweet theft to reveal,
To be taken, to be seen,
These have crimes accounted been.
Ode To Peace.
by William Cowper

Come, peace of mind, delightful guest!
Return, and make thy downy nest
Once more in this sad heart:
Nor riches I nor power pursue,
Nor hold forbidden joys in view;
We therefore need not part.
Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me,
From avarice and ambition free,
And pleasure's fatal wiles?
For whom, alas! dost thou prepare
The sweets that I was wont to share,
The banquet of thy smiles?
The great, the gay, shall they partake
The heaven that thou alone canst make?
And wilt thou quit the stream
That murmurs through the dewy mead,
The grove and the sequester'd shed,
To be a guest with them?
For thee I panted, thee I prized,
For thee I gladly sacrificed
Whate'er I loved before;
And shall I see thee start away,
And helpless, hopeless, hear thee say'
Farewell! we meet no more?
Upon Himself.
by Robert Herrick

Come, leave this loathed country life, and then
Grow up to be a Roman citizen.
Those mites of time, which yet remain unspent,
Waste thou in that most civil government.
Get their comportment and the gliding tongue
Of those mild men thou art to live among;
Then, being seated in that smoother sphere,
Decree thy everlasting topic there;
And to the farm-house ne'er return at all:
Though granges do not love thee, cities shall.
Come, Let Me Take Thee.
by Robert Burns

Air - "Cauld Kail."
I.
Come, let me take thee to my breast,
And pledge we ne'er shall sunder;
And I shall spurn as vilest dust
The warld's wealth and grandeur:
And do I hear my Jeanie own
That equal transports move her?
I ask for dearest life alone,
That I may live to love her.
II.
Thus in my arms, wi' a' thy charms,
I clasp my countless treasure;
I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share,
Than sic a moment's pleasure:
And by thy een, sae bonnie blue,
I swear I'm thine for ever!
And on thy lips I seal my vow,
And break it shall I never.
Summer Evening At Home
by William Lisle Bowles

Come, lovely Evening! with thy smile of peace
Visit my humble dwelling; welcomed in,
Not with loud shouts, and the thronged city's din,
But with such sounds as bid all tumult cease
Of the sick heart; the grasshopper's faint pipe
Beneath the blades of dewy grass unripe,
The bleat of the lone lamb, the carol rude
Heard indistinctly from the village green,
The bird's last twitter, from the hedge-row seen,
Where, just before, the scattered crumbs I strewed,
To pay him for his farewell song; all these
Touch soothingly the troubled ear, and please
The stilly-stirring fancies. Though my hours
(For I have drooped beneath life's early showers)
Pass lonely oft, and oft my heart is sad,
Yet I can leave the world, and feel most glad
To meet thee, Evening, here; here my own hand
Has decked with trees and shrubs the slopes around,
And whilst the leaves by dying airs are fanned,
Sweet to my spirit comes the farewell sound,
That seems to say: Forget the transient tear
Thy pale youth shed--Repose and Peace are here.
The East Indian.
by Thomas Moore

Come, May, with all thy flowers,
Thy sweetly-scented thorn,
Thy cooling evening showers,
The fragrant breath at morn:
When, May-flies haunt the willow,
When May-buds tempt the bee,
Then o'er the shining billow
My love will come to me.
From Eastern Isles she's winging
Thro' watery wilds her way,
And on her cheek is bringing
The bright sun's orient ray:
Oh, come and court her hither,
Ye breezes mild and warm--
One winter's gale would wither
So soft, so pure a form.
The fields where she was straying
Are blest with endless light,
With zephyrs always playing
Thro' gardens always bright.
Then now, sweet May! be sweeter
Than e'er, thou'st been before;
Let sighs from roses meet her
When she comes near our shore.
Come, My Celia
by Ben Jonson

Come, my Celia, let us prove
While we may, the sports of love;
Time will not be ours forever;
He at length our good will sever.
Spend not then his gifts in vain.
Suns that set may rise again;
But if once we lose this light,
'Tis with us perpetual night.
Why should we defer our joys?
Fame and rumor are but toys.
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poor household spies,
Or his easier ears beguile,
So removed by our wile?
'Tis no sin love's fruit to steal;
But the sweet theft to reveal.
To be taken, to be seen,
These have crimes accounted been.
The Fancy Fair.
by Thomas Moore

Come, maids and youths, for here we sell
All wondrous things of earth and air;
Whatever wild romancers tell,
Or poets sing, or lovers swear,
You'll find at this our Fancy Fair.
Here eyes are made like stars to shine,
And kept for years in such repair,
That even when turned of thirty-nine,
They'll hardly look the worse for wear,
If bought at this our Fancy Fair.
We've lots of tears for bards to shower,
And hearts that such ill usage bear,
That, tho' they're broken every hour,
They'll still in rhyme fresh breaking bear,
If purchased at our Fancy Fair.
As fashions change in every thing,
We've goods to suit each season's air,
Eternal friendships for the spring,
And endless loves for summer wear,--
All sold at this our Fancy Fair.
We've reputations white as snow,
That long will last if used with care,
Nay, safe thro' all life's journey go,
If packed and marked as "brittle ware,"--
Just purchased at the Fancy Fair.
Gravis Dulcis Immutabilis
by James Elroy Flecker

Come, let me kiss your wistful face
Where Sorrow curves her bow of pain,
And live sweet days and bitter days
With you, or wanting you again.
I dread your perishable gold:
Come near me now; the years are few.
Alas, when you and I are old
I shall not want to look at you:
And yet come in. I shall not dare
To gaze upon your countenance,
But I shall huddle in my chair,
Turn to the fire my fireless glance,
And listen, while that slow and grave
Immutable sweet voice of yours
Rises and falls, as falls a wave
In summer on forgotten shores.
Mrs. Merdle Ordereth The Second Course.
by Horatio Alger, Jr.

Come, John, Jane, and Susan, the soup take away,
And bring in the turbot, the sheep's head and bass;
And have you got lobster and salad to-day?
And see that the celery's all right in the glass.
Now fish--Colonel Dinewell, which fish will you try?
And how shall I dress it to suit your nice taste?
For sauce to the fish is as love to the sigh,
Imperfect, it's worthless, and both prove a waste.