DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Ford o' Kabul River
by Rudyard Kipling

Kabul town's by Kabul river,
Blow the trumpet, draw the sword,
There I lef' my mate for ever,
Wet an' drippin' by the ford.
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
There's the river up and brimmin', an' there's 'arf a squadron swimmin'
'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.
Kabul town's a blasted place,
Blow the trumpet, draw the sword,
'Strewth I shan't forget 'is face
Wet an' drippin' by the ford!
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
Keep the crossing-stakes beside you, an' they will surely guide you
'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.
Kabul town is sun and dust,
Blow the trumpet, draw the sword,
I'd ha' sooner drownded fust
'Stead of 'im beside the ford.
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
You can 'ear the 'orses threshin', you can 'ear the men a-splashin',
'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.
Kabul town was ours to take,
Blow the trumpet, draw the sword,
I'd ha' left it for 'is sake,
'Im that left me by the ford.
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
It's none so bloomin' dry there; ain't you never comin' nigh there,
'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark?
Kabul town'll go to hell,
Blow the trumpet, draw the sword,
'Fore I see him 'live an' well,
'Im the best beside the ford.
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
Gawd 'elp 'em if they blunder, for their boots'll pull 'em under,
By the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.
Turn your 'orse from Kabul town,
Blow the trumpet, draw the sword,
'Im an' 'arf my troop is down,
Down an' drownded by the ford.
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
There's the river low an' fallin', but it ain't no use o' callin'
'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.
The Bibliomaniac's Prayer
by Eugene Field

Keep me, I pray, in wisdom's way
That I may truths eternal seek;
I need protecting care to-day,--
My purse is light, my flesh is weak.
So banish from my erring heart
All baleful appetites and hints
Of Satan's fascinating art,
Of first editions, and of prints.
Direct me in some godly walk
Which leads away from bookish strife,
That I with pious deed and talk
May extra-illustrate my life.
But if, O Lord, it pleaseth Thee
To keep me in temptation's way,
I humbly ask that I may be
Most notably beset to-day;
Let my temptation be a book,
Which I shall purchase, hold, and keep,
Whereon when other men shall look,
They'll wail to know I got it cheap.
Oh, let it such a volume be
As in rare copperplates abounds,
Large paper, clean, and fair to see,
Uncut, unique, unknown to Lowndes.
Lines On Mrs. Kemble.
by Robert Burns

Kemble, thou cur'st my unbelief
Of Moses and his rod;
At Yarico's sweet notes of grief
The rock with tears had flow'd.
Cavalier Tunes - I. - Marching Along.
by Robert Browning

I.
Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King,
Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing:
And, pressing a troop unable to stoop
And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop,
Marched them along, fifty score strong,
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.
II.
God for King Charles! Pym and such carles
To the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles!
Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup,
Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup
Till you're (Chorus) Marching along, fifty-score strong,
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.
III.
Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell.
Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well!
England, good cheer! Rupert is near!
Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here
(Chorus) Marching along, fifty-score strong,
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song?
IV.
Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarls
To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles!
Hold by the right, you double your might;
So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight,
(Chorus) March we along, fifty-score strong,
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song!
Lambkin Mine (From Arne)
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

Kille, kille, lambkin mine,
Though it often be hard to climb
Over the rocks upswinging,
Follow thy bell's sweet ringing!
Kille, kille, lambkin mine,
Take good care of that fleece-coat thine!
Sewed to one and another,
Warm it shall keep my mother.
Kille, kille, lambkin mine,
Feed and fatten thy flesh so fine!
Know, you dear little sinner,
Mother will have it for dinner!
The Swagman
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

Kind friends, pray give attention
To this, my little song.
Some rum things I will mention,
And I'll not detain you long.
Up and down this country
I travel, don't you see,
I'm a swagman on the wallaby,
Oh! don't you pity me.
I'm a swagman on the wallaby,
Oh! don't you pity me.
At first I started shearing,
And I bought a pair of shears.
On my first sheep appearing,
Why, I cut off both its ears.
Then I nearly skinned the brute,
As clean as clean could he.
So I was kicked out of the shed,
Oh! don't you pity me, &c.
I started station loafing,
Short stages and took my ease;
So all day long till sundown
I'd camp beneath the trees.
Then I'd walk up to the station,
The manager to see.
'Boss, I'm hard up and I want a job,
Oh! don't you pity me,' &c.
Says the overseer: 'Go to the hut.
In the morning I'll tell you
If I've any work about
I can find for you to do.'
But at breakfast I cuts off enough
For dinner, don't you see.
And then my name is Walker.
Oh! don't you pity me.
I'm a swagman, &c.
And now, my friends, I'll say good-bye,
For I must go and camp.
For if the Sergeant sees me
He may take me for a tramp;
But if there's any covey here
What's got a cheque, d'ye see,
I'll stop and help him smash it.
Oh! don't you pity me.
I'm a swagman on the wallaby,
Oh! don't you pity me.
Sonnet IX: Keen, Fitful Gusts Are
by John Keats

Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there
Among the bushes half leafless, and dry;
The stars look very cold about the sky,
And I have many miles on foot to fare.
Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,
Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,
Or of those silver lamps that burn on high,
Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair:
For I am brimfull of the friendliness
That in a little cottage I have found;
Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress,
And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd;
Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,
And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd.
The Knight-Errant
by Virna Sheard

Keen in his blood ran the old mad desire
To right the world's wrongs and champion truth;
Deep in his eyes shone a heaven-lit fire,
And royal and radiant day-dreams of youth!
Gracious was he to both beggar and stranger,
And for a rose tossed from fair finger-tips
He would have ridden hard-pressed through all danger,
The rose on his heart and a song on his lips!
All the king's foes he counted his foemen;
His not to say that a cause could be lost;
Spirits like his faced the enemies' bowmen
On long vanished fields - nor counted the cost.
Wide was his out-look and far was his vision;
Soul-fretting trifles he sent down the wind;
Small griefs gained only his cheerful derision, - 
God's weather always was fair to his mind.
But he would comfort a child who was crying,
Knightly his deed to all such in distress;
Never a beast by the road-side lay dying
He did not stoop to with gentle caress.
And by the old, and the sad, and the broken,
Often he lingered, a well-beloved guest;
Dear was his voice, whatever the word spoken,
Sweetening their day with a song or a jest.
In the far times of brave ballad and story,
Men of his make kept the gates of the sea,
Wrought mighty deeds of power and glory,
Scattered their tyrants, and set the land free!
*    *    *    *    *
In the far times when perchance hearts were stronger,
When for a faith men could face death alone,
And it would seem that love lasted longer,
Such a white soul would have come to its own.
Down in the city the people but noted
One who was silent when things went awry,
Toiled at dull tasks, and was strangely devoted
To small deeds of kindness that others passed by.
Down in the city the people but noted
One who thought little of wealth and its ways;
One whose true words were full often misquoted,
One who laughed lightly at blame or at praise.
Deniehy's Dream
by Henry Kendall

Just when the western light
Flickered out dim,
Flushing the mountain-side,
Summit and rim,
A last, low, lingering gleam
Fell on a yellow stream,
And then there came a dream
Shining to him.
Splendours miraculous
Mixed with his pain
All like a vision of
Radiance and rain!
He faced the sea, the skies,
Old star-like thoughts did rise;
But tears were in his eyes,
Stifled in vain.
Infinite tokens of
Sorrows set free
Came in the dreaming wind
Far from the sea!
Past years about him trooped,
Fair phantoms round him stooped,
Sweet faces o'er him drooped
Sad as could be!
'This is our brother now:
Sisters, deplore
Man without purpose, like
Ship without shore!
He tracks false fire,' one said,
'But weep you he must tread
Whereto he may be led
Lost evermore.'
'Look,' said another,
'Summit and slope
Burn, in the mountain-land
Basement and cope!
Till daylight, dying dim,
Faints on the world's red rim,
We'll tint this Dream for him
Even with hope!'
Statio Secunda
by Thomas Edward Brown

Just listen to the blackbird, what a note
The creature has! God bless his happy throat!
He is so absolutely glad
I fear he will go mad.
Look here! this very grit
I crush beneath my boot
His little foot
Trod crisp that day, That's it! that's it
O, what is there to say?
The little foot so warm and pink!
O, what is there to think?
His mother kissed it every night
When she put out the light, And where?
What is it now? a fascicle
Of crumbling bones
J ammed in with earth and stones.
You say that this is old,
A tale twice-told, Say what you will:
Old, new, I swear
That it is horrible,
Horrible, blackbird, howsoe'er
The Spring rejoice you with its budding bloom,
Yes, horrible, most horrible!
Though you should carol to the crack of doom,
Poor blackbird! being so absolutely glad,
I hope he won't go mad.
Christ's Suffering.
by Robert Herrick

Justly our dearest Saviour may abhor us,
Who hath more suffered by us far, than for us.
Sheila
by Theodosia Garrison

Katie had the grand eyes and Delia had a way with her,
And Mary had the Saints' face and Maggie's waist was neat,
But Sheila had the merry heart that travelled all the day with her,
That put the laughing on her lips and dancing in her feet.
I've met with martyrs in my time, and Faith! they make the best of it,
But 'tis the uncomplaining ones that wear a sorrow long,
'Twas Sheila had the better way and that's to make a jest of it,
To call her trouble out to dance and step it with a song.
Eh, but Sheila had the laugh the like of drink to weary ones,
(I've never heard the beat of it for all I've wandered wide.)
And out of all the girls I knew the tender ones--the dreary ones,--
'Twas only Sheila of the laugh that broke her heart and died.
Jack Roy
by Herman Melville

Kept up by relays of generations young
Never dies at halyards the blithe chorus sung;
While in sands, sounds, and seas where the storm-petrels cry,
Dropped mute around the globe, these halyard singers lie.
Short-lived the clippers for racing-cups that run,
And speeds in life's career many a lavish mother's-son.
But thou, manly king o' the old Splendid's crew,
The ribbons o' thy hat still a-fluttering, should fly--
A challenge, and forever, nor the bravery should rue.
Only in a tussle for the starry flag high,
When 'tis piety to do, and privilege to die.
Then, only then, would heaven think to lop
Such a cedar as the captain o' the Splendid's main-top:
A belted sea-gentleman; a gallant, off-hand
Mercutio indifferent in life's gay command.
Magnanimous in humor; when the splintering shot fell,
"Tooth-picks a-plenty, lads; thank 'em with a shell!"
Sang Larry o' the Cannakin, smuggler o' the wine,
At mess between guns, lad in jovial recline:
"In Limbo our Jack he would chirrup up a cheer,
The martinet there find a chaffing mutineer;
From a thousand fathoms down under hatches o' your Hades,
He'd ascend in love-ditty, kissing fingers to your ladies!"
Never relishing the knave, though allowing for the menial,
Nor overmuch the king, Jack, nor prodigally genial.
Ashore on liberty he flashed in escapade,
Vaulting over life in its levelness of grade,
Like the dolphin off Africa in rainbow a-sweeping--
Arch iridescent shot from seas languid sleeping.
Larking with thy life, if a joy but a toy,
Heroic in thy levity wert thou, Jack Roy.
Kate-A-Whimsies, John-A-Dreams
by William Ernest Henley

Kate-a-Whimsies, John-a-Dreams,
Still debating, still delay,
And the world's a ghost that gleams -
Wavers - vanishes away!
We must live while live we can;
We should love while love we may.
Dread in women, doubt in man . . .
So the Infinite runs away.
1876
Hate Not, Fear Not.
by Robert von Ranke Graves

Kill if you must, but never hate:
Man is but grass and hate is blight,
The sun will scorch you soon or late,
Die wholesome then, since you must fight.
Hate is a fear, and fear is rot
That cankers root and fruit alike,
Fight cleanly then, hate not, fear not,
Strike with no madness when you strike.
Fever and fear distract the world,
But calm be you though madmen shout,
Through blazing fires of battle hurled,
Hate not, strike, fear not, stare Death out!
Black Kate
by Henry Kendall

Kate, they say, is seventeen
Do not count her sweet, you know.
Arms of her are rather lean
Ditto, calves and feet, you know.
Features of Hellenic type
Are not patent here, you see.
Katie loves a black clay pipe
Doesn't hate her beer, you see.
Spartan Helen used to wear
Tresses in a plait, perhaps:
Kate has ochre in her hair
Nose is rather flat, perhaps.
Rose Lorraine's surpassing dress
Glitters at the ball, you see:
Daughter of the wilderness
Has no dress at all, you see.
Laura's lovers every day
In sweet verse embody her:
Katie's have a different way,
Being frank, they 'waddy' her.
Amy by her suitor kissed,
Every nightfall looks for him:
Kitty's sweetheart isn't missed
Kitty 'humps' and cooks for him.
Smith, and Brown, and Jenkins, bring
Roses to the fair, you know.
Darkies at their Katie fling
Hunks of native bear, you know.
English girls examine well
All the food they take, you twig:
Kate is hardly keen of smell
Kate will eat a snake, you twig.
Yonder lady's sitting room
Clean and cool and dark it is:
Kitty's chamber needs no broom
Just a sheet of bark it is.
You may find a pipe or two
If you poke and grope about:
Not a bit of starch or blue
Not a sign of soap about.
Girl I know reads Lalla Rookh
Poem of the 'heady' sort:
Kate is better as a cook
Of the rough and ready sort.
Byron's verse on Waterloo,
Makes my darling glad, you see:
Kate prefers a kangaroo
Which is very sad, you see.
Other ladies wear a hat
Fit to write a sonnet on:
Kitty has the naughty cat
Neither hat nor bonnet on!
Fifty silks has Madame Tate
She who loves to spank it on:
All her clothes are worn by Kate
When she has her blanket on.
Let her rip! the Phrygian boy
Bolted with a brighter one;
And the girl who ruined Troy
Was a rather whiter one.
Katie's mouth is hardly Greek
Hardly like a rose it is:
Katie's nose is not antique
Not the classic nose it is.
Dryad in the grand old day,
Though she walked the woods about,
Didn't smoke a penny clay
Didn't 'hump' her goods about.
Daphne by the fairy lake,
Far away from din and all,
Never ate a yard of snake,
Head and tail and skin and all.
Written In A Wrapper, Enclosing A Letter To Captain Grose.
by Robert Burns

Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose?
Igo and ago,
If he's amang his friends or foes?
Iram, coram, dago.
Is he south or is he north?
Igo and ago,
Or drowned in the river Forth?
Iram, coram, dago.
Is he slain by Highlan' bodies?
Igo and ago,
And eaten like a wether-haggis?
Iram, coram, dago.
Is he to Abram's bosom gane?
Igo and ago,
Or haudin' Sarah by the wame?
Iram, coram, dago.
Where'er he be, the L--d be near him!
Igo and ago,
As for the deil, he daur na steer him!
Iram, coram, dago.
But please transmit the enclosed letter,
Igo and ago,
Which will oblige your humble debtor,
Iram, coram, dago.
So may he hae auld stanes in store,
Igo and ago,
The very stanes that Adam bore,
Iram, coram, dago.
So may ye get in glad possession,
Igo and ago,
The coins o' Satan's coronation!
Iram, coram, dago.
Love's Castle
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Key and bar, key and bar,
Iron bolt and chain!
And what will you do when the King comes
To enter his domain?
Turn key and lift bar,
Loose, oh, bolt and chain!
Open the door and let him in,
And then lock up again.
But, oh, heart, and woe, heart,
Why do you ache so sore?
Never a moment's peace have you
Since Love hath passed the door.
Turn key and lift bar,
And loose bolt and chain;
But Love took in his esquire, Grief,
And there they both remain.
To My Husband.
by Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

Just two-and-forty years have passed[5]
Since we, a youthful pair,
Together at the altar stood,
And mutual vows pledged there.
Our lives have been a checkered scene,
Since that midsummer's eve;
Much good received our hearts to cheer,
And much those hearts to grieve.
Children confided to our care,
Hath God in kindness given,
Of whom five still on earth remain,
And two, we trust, in heaven.
How many friends of early days,
Have fallen by our side;
Shook by some blast, like autumn leaves
They withered, drooped, and died.
But still permitted, hand in hand
Our journey we pursue;
And when we're weary, cheered by glimpse
Of "better land" in view.
We may not hope in this low world,
Much longer to remain,
But oh! there's rapture in the thought,
That we may meet again.
[5] July 14, 1853.
A Discouraging Model
by James Whitcomb Riley

Just the airiest, fairiest slip of a thing,
With a Gainsborough hat, like a butterfly's wing,
Tilted up at one side with the jauntiest air,
And a knot of red roses sown in under there
Where the shadows are lost in her hair.
Then a cameo face, carven in on a ground
Of that shadowy hair where the roses are wound;
And the gleam of a smile, O as fair and as faint
And as sweet as the master of old used to paint
Round the lips of their favorite saint!
And that lace at her throat - and fluttering hands
Snowing there, with a grace that no art understands,
The flakes of their touches - first fluttering at
The bow - then the roses - the hair and then that
Little tilt of the Gainsborough hat.
Ah, what artist on earth with a model like this,
Holding not on his palette the tint of a kiss,
Nor a pigment to hint of the hue of her hair
Nor the gold of her smile - O what artist could dare
To expect a result half so fair?
Shock-headed Peter
by Heinrich Hoffmann

Just look at him! there he stands,
With his nasty hair and hands.
See! his nails are never cut;
They are grimed as black as soot;
And the sloven, I declare,
Never once has combed his hair;
Anything to me is sweeter
Than to see Shock-headed Peter.
Verses
by Edward Young

Sent by Lord Melcombe to Dr. Young, Not Long Before His Lordship's    Death.(68)
Kind companion of my youth,
Lov'd for genius, worth, and truth!
Take what friendship can impart,
Tribute of a feeling heart;
Take the muse's latest spark,(69)
Ere we drop into the dark.
He, who parts and virtue gave,
Bad thee look beyond the grave
Genius soars, and virtue guides;
Above, the love of God presides.
There's a gulf 'twixt us and God;
Let the gloomy path be trod:
Why stand shivering on the shore?
Why not boldly venture o'er?
Where unerring virtue guides,
Let us have the winds and tides:
Safe, through seas of doubts and fears,
Rides the bark which virtue steers.
The Little Clock.
by Hattie Howard

Kind friend, you do not know how much
I prize this time-ly treasure,
So dainty, diligent, and such
A constant source of pleasure.
The man of brains who could invent
So true a chrono-meter
Has set a charming precedent,
And made a good repeater.
It speaks with clear, commanding clicks,
Suggestive of the donor;
And 'tends to business - never sick
A bit more than the owner.
It goes when I do; when I stop
(As by the dial showing)
It never lets a second drop,
But simply keeps on going.
It tells me when I am to eat,
Which isn't necessary;
When food with me is obsolete,
I'll be a reliquary.
It tells me early when to rise,
And bother with dejeuner;
To sally forth and exercise,
And fill up my porte-monnaie.
I hear it talking in the night,
As if it were in clover:
You've never lost your appetite,
You've never been run over.
It makes me wish that I might live
More faithful unto duty,
And unto others something give
Like this bijou of beauty.
It holds its hands before its face,
So very modest is it;
So like the people in the place
Where I delight to visit.
Sometimes I wonder if it cries
The course I am pursuing;
Because it has so many I-s
And must know what I'm doing.
Sometimes I fear it makes me cry - 
No matter, and no pity - 
Afraid at last I'll have to die
In some far, foreign city.
It travels with me everywhere
And chirrups like a cricket;
As if it said with anxious air,
"Don't lose your tick-tick-ticket!"
Companion of my loneliness
Along my journey westward,
It never leaves me comfortless,
But has the last and best word.
I would not spoil its lovely face,
And so I go behind it,
And hold it like a china vase,
So careful when I wind it.
A clock is always excellent
That has its label on,
And proves a fine advertisement
For Waterbury, Conn.
Those Yankees - ah! they never shun
A chance to make a dime,
And counterfeit the very sun
In keeping "Standard Time."
Ah, well! the little clock has proved
The best of all bonanzas;
And thus my happy heart is moved
To these effusive stanzas.
Called Back.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Just lost when I was saved!
Just felt the world go by!
Just girt me for the onset with eternity,
When breath blew back,
And on the other side
I heard recede the disappointed tide!
Therefore, as one returned, I feel,
Odd secrets of the line to tell!
Some sailor, skirting foreign shores,
Some pale reporter from the awful doors
Before the seal!
Next time, to stay!
Next time, the things to see
By ear unheard,
Unscrutinized by eye.
Next time, to tarry,
While the ages steal, --
Slow tramp the centuries,
And the cycles wheel.
The Skeleton In The Cupboard
by Dora Sigerson Shorter

Just this one day in all the year
Let all be one, let all be dear;
Wife, husband, child in fond embrace,
And thrust the phantom from its place.
No bitter words, no frowning brow,
Disturb the Christmas festal, now
The skeleton's behind the door.
Nor let the child, with looks askance,
Find out its sad inheritance
From souls that held no happiness,
Of home, where love is seldom guest;
But in his coming years retain
This one sweet night that had no pain;
The skeleton's behind the door.
In vain you raise the wassail bowl,
And pledge your passion, soul to soul.
You hear the sweet bells ring in rhyme,
You wreath the room for Christmas time
In vain.    The solemn silence falls,
The death watch ticks within the walls;
The skeleton taps on the door.
Then let him back into his place,
Let us sit out the old disgrace;
Nor seek the phantom now to lay,
That haunted us through every day;
For plainer is the ghost; useless
Is this pretence of happiness;
The skeleton taps on the door.
Autumn Violets
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

(Macmillan's Magazine, November 1868.)
Keep love for youth, and violets for the spring:
Of if these bloom when worn-out autumn grieves,
Let them lie hid in double shade of leaves,
Their own, and others dropped down withering;
For violets suit when home birds build and sing,
Not when the outbound bird a passage cleaves;
Not with dry stubble of mown harvest sheaves,
But when the green world buds to blossoming.
Keep violets for the spring, and love for youth,
Love that should dwell with beauty, mirth, and hope:
Or if a later sadder love be born,
Let this not look for grace beyond its scope,
But give itself, nor plead for answering truth - 
A grateful Ruth tho' gleaning scanty corn.