DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Twa Jocks
by Robert William Service

Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska tae Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye:
"That's whit I hate maist aboot fechtin' - it makes ye sae deevilish dry;
Noo jist hae a keek at yon ferm-hoose them Gairmans are poundin' sae fine,
Weel, think o' it, doon in the dunnie there's bottles and bottles o' wine.
A' hell's fairly belchin' oot yonner, but oh, lad, I'm ettlin' tae try. . . ."
"If it's poose she'll be with ye whateffer," says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye.
Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska: "Whit price fur a funeral wreath?
We're dodgin' a' kinds o' destruction, an' jist by the skin o' oor teeth.
Here, spread yersel oot on yer belly, and slither along in the glaur;
Confoond ye, ye big Hielan' deevil! Ye don't realize there's a war.
Ye think that ye're back in Dunvegan, and herdin' the wee bits o' kye."
"She'll neffer trink wine in Dunfegan," says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye.
Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska: "Thank goodness! the ferm-hoose at last;
There's no muckle left but the cellar, an' even that's vanishin' fast.
Look oot, there's the corpse o' a wumman, sair mangelt and deid by her lane.
Quick! Strike a match. . . . Whit did I tell ye! A hale bonny box o' shampane;
Jist knock the heid aff o' a bottle. . . . Haud on, mon, I'm hearing a cry. . . ."
"She'll think it's a wean that wass greetin'," says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye.
Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska: "Ma conscience! I'm hanged but yer richt.
It's yin o' thae waifs of the war-field, a' sobbin' and shakin' wi' fricht.
Wheesht noo, dear, we're no gaun tae hurt ye. We're takin' ye hame, my wee doo!
We've got tae get back wi' her, Hecky. Whit mercy we didna get fou!
We'll no touch a drap o' that likker -    that's hard, man, ye canna deny. . . ."
"It's the last thing she'll think o' denyin'," says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye.
Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska: "If I should get struck frae the rear,
Ye'll tak' and ye'll shield the wee lassie, and rin for the lines like a deer.
God! Wis that the breenge o' a bullet? I'm thinkin' it's cracket ma spine.
I'm doon on ma knees in the glabber; I'm fearin', auld man, I've got mine.
Here, quick! Pit yer erms roon the lassie. Noo, rin, lad! good luck and good-by. . . .
"Hoots, mon! it's ye baith she'll be takin'," says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye.
Says Corporal Muckle frae Rannoch: "Is that no' a picture tae frame?
Twa sair woundit Jocks wi' a lassie jist like ma wee Jeannie at hame.
We're prood o' ye baith, ma brave heroes. We'll gie ye a medal, I think."
Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska: "I'd raither ye gied me a drink.
I'll no speak for Private MacCrimmon, but oh, mon, I'm perishin' dry. . . ."
"She'll wush that Loch Lefen wass whuskey," says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye.
The Teacher.
by Thomas Frederick Young

Say, sadden'd mortal, thou who goest along
With look so weary, and with step so slow,
Why trillest thou no blithe and cheerful song,
Why whistlest thou that tune, so sad and low?
What trouble weighs thee down, what sorrow sore
Lies heavy on thy yet so youthful breast?
Sure fortune yet holds wide for thee her door;
Sure fame and joy yet wait thy earnest quest.
Why, know'st thou not the birds for thee do sing,
The flow'rs for thee with perfum'd beauty grow,
With melody for thee the wild birds sing,
With rippling laugh, the cheerful streamlets flow?
Then why, my friend, once more I ask of thee,
Why shows thy face so much unrest and pain?
What painful phase of life dost thou still see?
What sad, sad woe, doth in thy heart remain?
Bright flash'd the teacher's languid eye,
Flushed his pale cheek, with bright, tho' fleeting flame;
Leap'd forth his voice with energetic cry,
And thus, to me express'd, his thoughts they came.
"Inquirer, cease, thy words stir up the fire,
That erst did fill my live and vig'rous brain;
Thy words stir up the seeds of healthy ire,
That still, with latent pow'r and force, remain.
"'Tis strange, thou think'st, that darkly on my brow
The shadow of a careworn spirit stays;
My youth, with springless step, doth make thee bow
Thy head, in kindly wonder, and amaze.
"Thou would'st not look with such a puzzl'd air,
Upon my weary pace, and heavy eye,
If thou didst know the cause of my despair,
The stem, substantial, solid reason why.
"Didst ever know, my friend, what I endure,
In slavish, plodding work, from day to day,
Which work should be in its own nature pure,
And lifted high, from gross and heavy clay.
"Examinations, cram and pressure high,
Are daily kept before my anxious mind;
What tho' for higher aims I daily sigh,
This is my work, and this my daily grind.
"I work, you say, on minds, and hearts, and souls,
Alas, 'tis true, but what can e'er atone
For dry, mechanic thought, and lifeless coals,
Which light not up, but turn the intellect to stone?
"Work on! ye faithful, grinding and hair-splitting band,
Work on, in slavish fear, and penitential pain,
But daily pray, that thro' this young and prosp'rous land,
A system, higher, purer, freer, yet shall reign.
"Yours shall not be the blame, the people must it bear,
For, while they look for quick results, for hot-bed flow'rs,
Amongst them, they the various ills must surely share,
Of hasty fev'rish work, compell'd by outside pow'rs."
Thus spoke the man, and closed his lips became,
The fire forsook his lately flashing eye,
His nerves relax'd, and o'er his brow, the same
Dark cloud of bitter woe, could I descry.
The Fourth Epistle Of The First Book Of Horace.[128]
by Alexander Pope

Say, St John, who alone peruse
With candid eye the mimic Muse,
What schemes of politics, or laws,
In Gallic lands the patriot draws!
Is then a greater work in hand,
Than all the tomes of Haines's band?
'Or shoots he folly as it flies?
Or catches manners as they rise?'
Or urged by unquench'd native heat,
Does St John Greenwich sports repeat?
Where (emulous of Chartres' fame)
E'en Chartres' self is scarce a name.
To you (the all-envied gift of heaven)
The indulgent gods, unask'd, have given
A form complete in every part,
And, to enjoy that gift, the art.
What could a tender mother's care
Wish better, to her favourite heir,
Than wit, and fame, and lucky hours,
A stock of health, and golden showers,
And graceful fluency of speech,
Precepts before unknown to teach?
Amidst thy various ebbs of fear,
And gleaming hope, and black despair,
Yet let thy friend this truth impart,
A truth I tell with bleeding heart,
(In justice for your labours past)
That every day shall be your last;
That every hour you life renew
Is to your injured country due.
In spite of fears, of mercy spite,
My genius still must rail, and write.
Haste to thy Twickenham's safe retreat,
And mingle with the grumbling great;
There, half-devoured by spleen, you'll find
The rhyming bubbler of mankind;
There (objects of our mutual hate)
We'll ridicule both church and state.
To Rosa.
by Thomas Moore

Say, why should the girl of my soul be in tears
At a meeting of rapture like this,
When the glooms of the past and the sorrow of years
Have been paid by one moment of bliss?
Are they shed for that moment of blissful delight,
Which dwells on her memory yet?
Do they flow, like the dews of the love-breathing night,
From the warmth of the sun that has set?
Oh! sweet is the tear on that languishing smile,
That smile, which is loveliest then;
And if such are the drops that delight can beguile,
Thou shalt weep them again and again.
Elegy For An Enemy
by Stephen Vincent Benet

For G. H.
Say, does that stupid earth
Where they have laid her,
Bind still her sullen mirth,
Mirth which betrayed her?
Do the lush grasses hold,
Greenly and glad,
That brittle-perfect gold
She alone had?
Smugly the common crew,
Over their knitting,
Mourn her -- as butchers do
Sheep-throats they're slitting!
She was my enemy,
One of the best of them.
Would she come back to me,
God damn the rest of them!
Damn them, the flabby, fat,
Sleek little darlings!
We gave them tit for tat,
Snarlings for snarlings!
Squashy pomposities,
Shocked at our violence,
Let not one tactful hiss
Break her new silence!
Maids of antiquity,
Look well upon her;
Ice was her chastity,
Spotless her honor.
Neighbors, with breasts of snow,
Dames of much virtue,
How she could flame and glow!
Lord, how she hurt you!
She was a woman, and
Tender -- at times!
(Delicate was her hand)
One of her crimes!
Hair that strayed elfinly,
Lips red as haws,
You, with the ready lie,
Was that the cause?
Rest you, my enemy,
Slain without fault,
Life smacks but tastelessly
Lacking your salt!
Stuck in a bog whence naught
May catapult me,
Come from the grave, long-sought,
Come and insult me!
WE knew that sugared stuff
Poisoned the other;
Rough as the wind is rough,
Sister and brother!
Breathing the ether clear
Others forlorn have found --
Oh, for that peace austere
She and her scorn have found!
The Two MP's
by Richard Harris Barham

(MAGAZINE PUBLISHER AND MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT)
BEING A TRUE AND PARTICULAR ACCOUNT OF THE GRAND MILLING MATCH THAT DIDN'T TAKE PLACE
SAYS Tom D' to F'r
T'other morning, 'I say, Sir,
You've call'd me a Rou', a Dicer, and Racer,
Now I'd have you to know, Sir,
Such names are "No Go," Sir;
By Jove, Sir, I never knew anything grosser.
'And then Madame,
Extremely distrest is
At your calling her Lais, she's more like Thalestris,
As you'll find, my fine joker,
If once you provoke her,
She's a d'l if once she gets hold of a poker.
'For myself, to be candid,
And not underhanded,
I write thus to say I'll be hang'd if I stand it.
So give up the name
Of the man or the dame
Who has made this infernal attack on my fame,
And recall what you've said of
A man you're afraid of,
Or turn out, my Trump, and let's see what you're made of.
'I have "barkers" by Nock, Sir,
With percussion locks, Sir,
Will give you your gruel, hang me if I box, Sir,
And I've sent my old Pal in,
My "noble friend Allen,"
To give you this here, and to stop your caballing!'
Then says F'r, says he,
'What a spoon you must be,
Tommy D', to send this here message to me:
Why if I was to fight about
What my friends write about,
My life I should be in continual fright about!
'As to telling you, who
Wrote that thing about you,
One word's worth a thousand, Blow me if I do!
If you will be so gay, Sir,
The people will say, Sir,
That you are a Rou', and I'm
The Elephant.
by William Hayley

Say, nature, on whose wond'rous reign
Delighted fancy dwells,
Of all thy numerous brutal train
What animal excells?
What quadruped most nobly vies
In virtue with mankind,
Like man deliberately wise,
And resolutely kind?
Beneath a form vast and uncouth
Such excellence is found:
Sagacious Elephant! thy truth,
Thy kindness is renown'd.
More mild than sanguinary man,
Whose servant thou hast prov'd,
Oft in his frantic battle's van
Thy bulk has stood unmoved:
There oft thy spirit griev'd, to see
His murd'rous rage encrease,
'Till mad himself, he madden'd thee.
Thou nobler friend to peace!
Acts of thy courage might occur
To grace heroic song;
But I thy gentle deeds prefer,
Thou strongest of the strong!
Where India serves the British throne,
In scenes no longer wild,
A menial Elephant was known,
Most singularly mild!
It was his custom, fresh and gay
By his attendant led,
Walking to water, every day,
To pass a gard'ner's shed,
This gard'ner, of good natured fame,
Admir'd the noble beast;
And gave him, whensoe'er he came,
A vegetable feast.
Some dainty, from his stall bestow'd,
So made the beast his friend;
'Twas joy to see, at this abode,
His blythe proboscis bend.
Not coarsely eager for his food,
He seem'd his love to court,
And oft delighted, as he stood.
To yield his children sport.
As if to thank them for each gift,
With tender, touching care,
The boys he to his back would lift,
And still caress them there.
In short his placid gambols seem'd
Affection so profound,
His friendship for this man was deem'd
A wonder all around.
But O! can humour's giddy range
Mislead the brutal mind?
Can elephants their friendship change,
As fickle as mankind?
See now the hero of my song,
That theme of every tongue!
Alone, and fierce, he stalks along,
As if with frenzy stung:
See! to the gard'ner's well-known shed
Impetuous he flies;
Seizes his friend in silent dread,
And lifts him to the skies.
High as his trunk the man can bear,
Th' astonish'd man he bore,
Who vainly struggled in the air,
And trembled more and more.
So wild, so swift, the monster past,
All deem'd him mad and fled.--
Thro' a high window gently cast,
With terror almost dead,
The astounded gard'ner view'd with awe
The savage speed away;
But soon with gratitude he saw
The source of his dismay:
Unthought of source! for now inflam'd
A ravenous tyger sprung,
And at the window vainly aim'd
To which he trembling clung.
And now with joy his heart strings swell,
And blest he deems his lot;
For the foil'd tyger as he fell,
A latent marksman shot.
The Elephant returns:--O Heaven!
How tender was his air,
Seeing the friend, whose life was given
To his preserving care!
For, conscious of the danger, he,
Most providently kind,
From unseen ill to set him free,
Such rescue had designed.
Ye, whom a friend's dark perils pain,
When terrors most unnerve him,
Learn from this Elephant to strain
Your sinews to preserve him.
From Theocritus.
by Charles Stuart Calverley

IDYLL. VII.
Scarce midway were we yet, nor yet descried
The stone that hides what once was Brasidas:
When there drew near a wayfarer from Crete,
Young Lycidas, the Muses' votary.
The horned herd was his care: a glance might tell
So much: for every inch a herdsman he.
Slung o'er his shoulder was a ruddy hide
Torn from a he-goat, shaggy, tangle-haired,
That reeked of rennet yet: a broad belt clasped
A patched cloak round his breast, and for a staff
A gnarled wild-olive bough his right hand bore.
Soon with a quiet smile he spoke - his eye
Twinkled, and laughter sat upon his lip:
"And whither ploddest thou thy weary way
Beneath the noontide sun, Simichides?
For now the lizard sleeps upon the wall,
The crested lark hath closed his wandering wing.
Speed'st thou, a bidd'n guest, to some reveller's board?
Or townwards, to the treading of the grape?
For lo! recoiling from thy hurrying feet
The pavement-stones ring out right merrily."
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part II. - XXXVII - English Reformers In Exile
by William Wordsworth

Scattering, like birds escaped the fowler's net,
Some seek with timely flight a foreign strand;
Most happy, re-assembled in a land
By dauntless Luther freed, could they forget
Their Country's woes. But scarcely have they met,
Partners in faith, and brothers in distress,
Free to pour forth their common thankfulness,
Ere hope declines: their union is beset
With speculative notions rashly sown,
Whence thickly-sprouting growth of poisonous weeds;
Their forms are broken staves; their passions, steeds
That master them. How enviably blest
Is he who can, by help of grace, enthrone
The peace of God within his single breast!
Lines To Delia, On Her Wearing A Muslin Veil.
by John Carr (Sir)

Say, Delia, why, in muslin shade,
Ah! say, dost thou conceal those eyes?
Such little stars were never made,
I'm sure, to shine thro' misty skies.
Say, are they wrapt in so much shade,
That they may more successful rise,
Starting from such soft ambuscade,
To catch and kill us by surprise?
Or, of their various pow'rs afraid,
Is it in mercy to our sighs,
Lest love, o'er many a heart betray'd,
Should sob "a faithful vot'ry dies"?
Then, oh! remove the envious shade;
Let others wear, who want, disguise:
We all had sooner die, sweet maid,
To see, than live without, those eyes.
Invocation.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

[V, vi., August, 1832.]
Say, Lord! for Thou alone canst tell
Where lurks the good invisible
Amid the depths of discord's sea - 
That seem, alas! so dark to me!
Oppressive to a mighty state,
Contentions, feuds, the people's hate - 
But who dare question that which fate
Has ordered to have been?
Haply the earthquake may unfold
The resting-place of purest gold,
And haply surges up have rolled
The pearls that were unseen!
G.W.M. REYNOLDS.
The New Year's Resolve.
by John Hartley

Says Dick, "ther's a nooation sprung up i' mi yed,
For th' furst time i'th' whole coorse o' mi life,
An aw've takken a fancy aw'st like to be wed,
If aw knew who to get for a wife.
Aw dooant want a woman wi' beauty, nor brass,
For aw've nawther to booast on misel;
What aw want is a warm-hearted, hard-workin lass,
An ther's lots to be fun, aw've heeard tell.
To be single is all weel enuff nah an then,
But it's awk'ard when th' weshin day comes;
For aw nivver think sooapsuds agree weel wi' men;
They turn all mi ten fingers to thumbs.
An aw'm sure it's a fact, long afoor aw get done,
Aw'm slopt throo mi waist to mi fit;
An th' floor's in a pond, as if th' peggy-tub run,
An mi back warks as if it 'ud split.
Aw fancied aw'st manage at breead-bakin best;
Soa one day aw bethowt me to try,
But aw gate soa flustered, aw ne'er thowt o'th' yeast,
Soa aw mud as weel offered to fly.
Aw did mak a dumplin, but a'a! dear a me!
Abaght that lot aw hardly dar think;
Aw ne'er fan th' mistak till aw missed th' sooap, yo see,
An saw th' suet i'th' sooap-box o'th' sink.
But a new-year's just startin, an soa aw declare
Aw'll be wed if a wife's to be had;
For mi clooas is soa ragg'd woll aw'm ommost hauf bare,
An thease mullucks, they're drivin me mad.
Soa, if yo should know, or should chonce to hear tell,
Ov a lass 'at to wed is inclined,
Talegraft me at once, an aw'll see her misel,
Afoor shoo can alter her mind."
To Luigi Del Riccio, After The Death Of Cecchino Bracci.
by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

A pena prima.
Scarce had I seen for the first time his eyes
Which to your living eyes were life and light,
When closed at last in death's injurious night
He opened them on God in Paradise.
I know it and I weep, too late made wise:
Yet was the fault not mine; for death's fell spite
Robbed my desire of that supreme delight,
Which in your better memory never dies.
Therefore, Luigi, if the task be mine
To make unique Cecchino smile in stone
For ever, now that earth hath made him dim,
If the beloved within the lover shine,
Since art without him cannot work alone,
You must I carve to tell the world of him.
Lines Written Upon A Watch-String, Made And Presented To The Author By Miss  ---- .
by John Carr (Sir)

Say, lovely Charlotte! will you let me prove
What diff'rent thoughts thy taste and beauty move?
This woven chain, which graceful skill displays,
Leads me to think of time, and heave a sigh;
But when on thee and on thy charms I gaze,
Time unremember'd moves, or seems to die.
Invitation to Eternity
by John Clare

Say, wilt thou go with me, sweet maid,
Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me
Through the valley-depths of shade,
Of bright and dark obscurity;
Where the path has lost its way,
Where the sun forgets the day,
Where there's nor light nor life to see,
Sweet maiden, wilt thou go with me?
Where stones will turn to flooding streams,
Where plains will rise like ocean's waves,
Where life will fade like visioned dreams
And darkness darken into caves,
Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me
Through this sad non-identity
Where parents live and are forgot,
And sisters live and know us not?
Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me
In this strange death of life to be,
To live in death and be the same,
Without this life or home or name,
At once to be and not to be--
That was and is not--yet to see
Things pass like shadows, and the sky
Above, below, around us lie?
The land of shadows wilt thou trace,
Nor look nor know each other's face;
The present marred with reason gone,
And past and present both as one?
Say, maiden, can thy life be led
To join the living and the dead?
Then trace thy footsteps on with me:
We are wed to one eternity.
On The Sight Of A Manse In The South Of Scotland
by William Wordsworth

Say, ye far-traveled clouds, far-seeing hills
Among the happiest-looking homes of men
Scattered all Britain over, through deep glen,
On airy upland, and by forest rills,
And o'er wide plains cheered by the lark that trills
His sky-born warblings, does aught meet your ken
More fit to animate the Poet's pen,
Aught that more surely by its aspect fills
Pure minds with sinless envy, than the Abode
Of the good Priest: who, faithful through all hours
To his high charge, and truly serving God,
Has yet a heart and hand for trees and flowers,
Enjoys the walks his predecessors trod,
Nor covets lineal rights in lands and towers.
Religion And Trade.
by Thomas Moore

"Sir Robert Peel believed it was necessary to originate all respecting religion and trade in a Committee of the House."
--Church Extension, May 22, 1830.
Say, who was the wag, indecorously witty,
Who first in a statute this libel conveyed;
And thus slyly referred to the selfsame committee,
As matters congenial, Religion and Trade?
Oh surely, my Phillpotts, 'twas thou didst the deed;
For none but thyself or some pluralist brother,
Accustomed to mix up the craft with the creed,
Could bring such a pair thus to twin with each other.
And yet, when one thinks of times present and gone,
One is forced to confess on maturer reflection
That 'tisn't in the eyes of committees alone
That the shrine and the shop seem to have some connection.
Not to mention those monarchs of Asia's fair land,
Whose civil list all is in "god-money" paid;
And where the whole people, by royal command,
Buy their gods at the government mart, ready made;[1]--
There was also (as mentioned, in rhyme and in prose, is)
Gold heaped throughout Egypt on every shrine,
To make rings for right reverend crocodiles' noses--
Just such as, my Phillpotts, would look well in thine.
But one needn't fly off in this erudite mood;
And 'tis clear without going to regions so sunny
That priests love to do the least possible good
For the largest most possible quantum of money.
"Of him," saith the text, "unto whom much is given,
"Of him much, in turn, will be also required:"--
"By me," quoth the sleek and obese man of heaven--
"Give as much as you will--more will still be desired."
More money! more churches!--oh Nimrod, hadst thou
'Stead of Tower-extension, some shorter way gone--
Hadst thou known by what methods we mount to heaven now,
And tried Church-extension, the feat had been done!
Poems From "A Shropshire Lad" - XXIV
by Alfred Edward Housman

Say, lad, have you things to do?
Quick then, while your day's at prime.
Quick, and if 'tis work for two,
Here am I, man: now's your time.
Send me now, and I shall go;
Call me, I shall hear you call;
Use me ere they lay me low
Where a man's no use at all;
Ere the wholesome flesh decay,
And the willing nerve be numb,
And the lips lack breath to say,
"No, my lad, I cannot come."
The Shield.
by Thomas Moore

Say, did you not hear a voice of death!
And did you not mark the paly form
Which rode on the silvery mist of the heath,
And sung a ghostly dirge in the storm?
Was it the wailing bird of the gloom,
That shrieks on the house of woe all night?
Or a shivering fiend that flew to a tomb,
To howl and to feed till the glance of light?
'Twas not the death-bird's cry from the wood,
Nor shivering fiend that hung on the blast;
'Twas the shade of Helderic--man of blood--
It screams for the guilt of days that are past.
See, how the red, red lightning strays,
And scares the gliding ghosts of the heath!
Now on the leafless yew it plays,
Where hangs the shield of this son of death.
That shield is blushing with murderous stains;
Long has it hung from the cold yew's spray;
It is blown by storms and washed by rains,
But neither can take the blood away!
Oft by that yew, on the blasted field,
Demons dance to the red moon's light;
While the damp boughs creak, and the swinging shield
Sings to the raving spirit of night!
On Miss Jessy Lewars.
by Robert Burns

Say, sages, what's the charm on earth
Can turn Death's dart aside?
It is not purity and worth,
Else Jessy had not died.
R. B.