DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Sorcerer's Song.
by William Schwenck Gilbert

Oh! my name is John Wellington Wells 
I'm a dealer in magic and spells,
In blessings and curses,
And ever filled purses,
In prophecies, witches and knells!
If you want a proud foe to "make tracks" 
If you'd melt a rich uncle in wax 
You've but to look in
On our resident Djinn,
Number seventy, Simmery Axe.
We've a first class assortment of magic;
And for raising a posthumous shade
With effects that are comic or tragic,
There's no cheaper house in the trade.
Love-philtre we've quantities of it;
And for knowledge if any one burns,
We keep an extremely small prophet, a prophet
Who brings us unbounded returns:
For he can prophesy
With a wink of his eye,
Peep with security
Into futurity,
Sum up your history,
Clear up a mystery,
Humor proclivity
For a nativity.
With mirrors so magical,
Tetrapods tragical,
Bogies spectacular,
Answers oracular,
Facts astronomical,
Solemn or comical,
And, if you want it, he
Makes a reduction on taking a quantity!
Oh!
If any one anything lacks,
He'll find it all ready in stacks,
If he'll only look in
On the resident Djinn,
Number seventy, Simmery Axe!
He can raise you hosts
Of ghosts,
And that without reflectors;
And creepy things
With wings,
And gaunt and grisly spectres!
He can fill you crowds
Of shrouds,
And horrify you vastly;
He can rack your brains
With chains,
And gibberings grim and ghastly.
Then, if you plan it, he
Changes organity,
With an urbanity,
Full of Satanity,
Vexes humanity
With an inanity
Fatal to vanity 
Driving your foes to the verge of insanity!
Barring tautology,
In demonology,
'Lectro biology,
Mystic nosology,
Spirit philology,
High class astrology,
Such is his knowledge, he
Isn't the man to require an apology!
Oh!
My name is John Wellington Wells,
I'm a dealer in magic and spells,
In blessings and curses,
And ever filled purses
In prophecies, witches and knells!
If any one anything lacks,
He'll find it all ready in stacks,
If he'll only look in
On the resident Djinn,
Number seventy, Simmery Axe!
John Wasson
by Edgar Lee Masters

Oh! the dew-wet grass of the meadow in North Carolina
Through which Rebecca followed me wailing, wailing,
One child in her arms, and three that ran along wailing,
Lengthening out the farewell to me off to the war with the British,
And then the long, hard years down to the day of Yorktown.
And then my search for Rebecca,
Finding her at last in Virginia,
Two children dead in the meanwhile.
We went by oxen to Tennessee,
Thence after years to Illinois,
At last to Spoon River.
We cut the buffalo grass,
We felled the forests,
We built the school houses, built the bridges,
Leveled the roads and tilled the fields
Alone with poverty, scourges, death - 
If Harry Wilmans who fought the Filipinos
Is to have a flag on his grave
Take it from mine.
Song
by Thomas Gent

Oh! never will I leave my love,
My captive soul would sigh to stray,
Tho' seraph-songs its truth to prove,
Call it from earth to heaven to away.
For heaven has deign'd on earth to send
As rich a gift as it can give;
Alas! that mortal bliss must end,
For mortal man must cease to live.
Yet transient would my sorrows be
Should Delia first her breath resign;
Sweet Maid! my soul would follow thee,
For never can it part from thine.
Imitated From Catullus. To Anna.
by George Gordon Byron

Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire,
A million scarce would quench desire,
Still would I steep my lips in bliss,
And dwell an age on every kiss;
Nor then my soul should sated be,
Still would I kiss, and cling to thee,
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever.
Still would we kiss, and kiss forever;
E'en though the number did exceed,
The yellow harvest's countless seed,
To part would be a vain endeavour,
Could I desist? - ah! never - never.
The French Revolution As It Appeared To Enthusiasts At Its Commencement
by William Wordsworth

Oh! pleasant exercise of hope and joy!
For mighty were the auxiliars which then stood
Upon our side, we who were strong in love!
Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,
But to be young was very heaven! Oh! times,
In which the meagre, stale, forbidding ways
Of custom, law, and statute, took at once
The attraction of a country in romance!
When Reason seemed the most to assert her rights,
When most intent on making of herself
A prime Enchantress to assist the work
Which then was going forward in her name!
Not favoured spots alone, but the whole earth,
The beauty wore of promise, that which sets
(As at some moment might not be unfelt
Among the bowers of paradise itself )
The budding rose above the rose full blown.
What temper at the prospect did not wake
To happiness unthought of? The inert
Were roused, and lively natures rapt away!
They who had fed their childhood upon dreams,
The playfellows of fancy, who had made
All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and strength
Their ministers, who in lordly wise had stirred
Among the grandest objects of the sense,
And dealt with whatsoever they found there
As if they had within some lurking right
To wield it; they, too, who, of gentle mood,
Had watched all gentle motions, and to these
Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers more wild,
And in the region of their peaceful selves; 
Now was it that both found, the meek and lofty
Did both find, helpers to their heart's desire,
And stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish;
Wcre called upon to exercise their skill,
Not in Utopia, subterranean fields,
Or some secreted island, Heaven knows where!
But in the very world, which is the world
Of all of us, the place where in the end
We find our happiness, or not at all!
French Revolution
by William Wordsworth

As It Appeared To Enthusiasts At Its Commencement. Reprinted From "The Friend"
Oh! pleasant exercise of hope and joy!
For mighty were the auxiliars which then stood
Upon our side, we who were strong in love!
Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,
But to be young was very heaven! Oh! times,
In which the meagre, stale, forbidding ways
Of custom, law, and statute, took at once
The attraction of a country in romance!
When Reason seemed the most to assert her rights,
When most intent on making of herself
A prime Enchantress, to assist the work,
Which then was going forward in her name!
Not favoured spots alone, but the whole earth,
The beauty wore of promise, that which sets
(As at some moment might not be unfelt
Among the bowers of paradise itself)
The budding rose above the rose full blown.
What temper at the prospect did not wake
To happiness unthought of? The inert
Were roused, and lively natures rapt away!
They who had fed their childhood upon dreams,
The playfellows of fancy, who had made
All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and strength
Their ministers, who in lordly wise had stirred
Among the grandest objects of the sense,
And dealt with whatsoever they found there
As if they had within some lurking right
To wield it; they, too, who, of gentle mood,
Had watched all gentle motions, and to these
Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers more mild,
And in the region of their peaceful selves;
Now was it that both found, the meek and lofty
Did both find, helpers to their heart's desire,
And stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish;
Were called upon to exercise their skill,
Not in Utopia, subterranean fields,
Or some secreted island, Heaven knows where!
But in the very world, which is the world
Of all of us, the place where in the end
We find our happiness, or not at all!
Oh! the Sickening Sensation!
by W. M. MacKeracher

Oh! the sickening sensation!
Oh! the burning agitation
In my soul!
Oh! the awful desolation
Of my soul!
And my breast is sore with sighing.
Comfort to myself denying
Comfort and relief denying to my soul distrest and sore;
While that worst of all diseases
With a pain that naught appeases
Ever burns
While a pain that grimly pleases
Alway burns,
Kindled by thy bright eye's beaming,
By thy brilliant, blue eye's beaming,
When I saw thee, saw and loved thee on that fatal eve of yore;
And anon it has been living,
And a blissful sadness giving
While with thee,
Mingled bliss and sadness giving
While with thee;
But, ah! now its woful waging,
Laying waste with cruel raging
This my heart, as with a vulture gnawing at its very core!
Would kind angels waft me to thee!
Waft me for one moment to thee!
Let me gaze one moment on thee!
But one blissful moment on thee!
Satisfy this languid longing for the one whom I adore!
Oh! to quench this lethal longing for the one whom I adore!
A Wish.
by Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny)

Oh! that I were a fairy sprite, to wander
In forest paths, o'erarched with oak and beech;
Where the sun's yellow light, in slanting rays,
Sleeps on the dewy moss: what time the breath
Of early morn stirs the white hawthorn boughs,
And fills the air with showers of snowy blossoms.
Or lie at sunset 'mid the purple heather,
Listening the silver music that rings out
From the pale mountain bells, swayed by the wind.
Or sit in rocky clefts above the sea,
While one by one the evening stars shine forth
Among the gathering clouds, that strew the heavens
Like floating purple wreaths of mournful nightshade!
The Old Bullock Dray
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

Oh! the shearing is all over,
And the wool is coming down,
And I mean to get a wife, boys,
When I go up to town.
Everything that has two legs
Represents itself in view,
From the little paddy-melon
To the bucking kangaroo.
CHORUS
So it's roll up your blankets,
And let's make a push,
I'll take you up the country,
And show you the bush.
I'll be bound you won't get
Such a chance another day,
So come and take possession
Of my old bullock dray.
Now, I've saved up a good cheque,
I mean to buy a team,
And when I get a wife, boys,
I'll be all-serene
For calling at the dep't.
They say there's no delay
To get an off-sider
For the old bullock dray.
Oh! we'll live like fighting cocks,
For good living, I'm your man.
We'll have leather jacks, johnny cakes,
And fritters in the pan;
Or if you'd like some fish
I'll catch you some soon,
For we'll bob for barramundies
Round the banks of a lagoon.
Oh! yes, of beef and damper
I take care we have enough,
And we'll boil in the bucket
Such a whopper of a duff,
And our friends will dance
To the honour of the day,
To the music of the bells,
Around the old bullock dray.
Oh! we'll have plenty girls,
We must mind that.
There'll be flash little Maggie,
And buckjumping Pat.
There'll be Stringy bark Joe,
And Green-hide Mike.
Yes, my Colonials, just
As many as you like.
Now we'll stop all immigration,
We won't need it any more;
We'll be having young natives,
Twins by the score.
And I wonder what the devil
Jack Robertson would say
If he saw us promenading
Round the old bullock dray.
Oh! it's time I had an answer,
If there's one to be had,
I wouldn't treat that steer
In the body half as bad;
But he takes as much notice
Of me, upon my soul,
As that old blue stag
Off-side in the pole.
Oh! to tell a lot of lies,
You know, it is a sin,
But I'll go up country
And marry a black gin.
Oh! 'Baal gammon white feller,'
This is what she'll say,
'Budgery you
And your old bullock dray.'
The Old Swimmin'-Hole
by James Whitcomb Riley

"Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still and deep
Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep,
And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below
Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to know
Before we could remember anything but the eyes
Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise;
But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle,
And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole."
"Oh! the old swimmin'-hole!    In the happy days of yore,
When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore,
Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide
That gazed back at me so gay and glorified,
It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress
My shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness.
But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his toll
From the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole.
"Oh! the old swimmin'-hole!    In the long, lazy days
When the humdrum of school made so many "run-a-ways,"
How pleasant was the jurney down the old dusty lane,
Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane
You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole
They was lots o' fun on hands at the old swimmin'-hole.
But the lost joys is past!    Let your tears in sorrow roll
Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'-hole.
"Thare the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall,
And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all;
And it mottled the worter with amber and gold
Till the glad lilies rocked in the ripples that rolled;
And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered by
Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky,
Or a wownded apple-blossom in the breeze's controle
As it cut acrost some orchurd to'rds the old swimmin'-hole.
"Oh! the old swimmin'-hole!    When I last saw the place,
The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face;
The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot
Whare the old divin'-log lays sunk and fergot.
And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be--
But never again will theyr shade shelter me!
And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul,
And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'-hole."
Tar And Feathers
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

Oh! the circus swooped down
On the Narrabri town,
For the Narrabri populace moneyed are;
And the showman he smiled
At the folk he beguiled
To come all the distance from Gunnedah.
But a juvenile smart,
Who objected to "part",
Went in on the nod, and to do it he
Crawled in through a crack
In the tent at the back,
For the boy had no slight ingenuity.
And says he with a grin,
"That's the way to get in;
But I reckon I'd better be quiet or
They'll spiflicate me,"
And he chuckled, for he
Had the loan of the circus proprietor.
But the showman astute
On that wily galoot
Soon dropped, you'll be thinking he leathered him,
Not he; with a grim
Sort of humourous whim,
He took him and tarred him and feathered him.
Says he, "You can go
Round the world with a show,
And knock every Injun and Arab wry;
With your name and your trade
On the posters displayed,
The feathered what-is-it from Narrabri.
Next day for his freak
By a Narrabri Beak,
He was jawed with a deal of verbosity;
For his only appeal
Was "professional zeal",
He wanted another monstrosity.
Said his Worship, "Begob!
You are fined forty bob,
And six shillin's costs to the clerk!" he says.
And the Narrabri joy,
Half bird and half boy.
Has a "down" on himself and on circuses.
Oh! Think Not My Spirits Are Always As Light.
by Thomas Moore

Oh! think not my spirits are always as light,
And as free from a pang as they seem to you now;
Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night
Will return with to morrow to brighten my brow.
No!--life is a waste of wearisome hours,
Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns;
And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers,
Is always the first to be touched by the thorns.
But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile--
May we never meet worse, in our pilgrimage here,
Than the tear that enjoyment may gild with a smile,
And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear.
The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows!
If it were not with friendship and love intertwined:
And I care not how soon I may sink to repose,
When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my mind.
But they who have loved the fondest, the purest.
Too often have wept o'er the dream they believed;
And the heart that has slumbered in friendship, securest,
Is happy indeed if 'twas never deceived.
But send round the bowl; while a relic of truth
Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall be mine,--
That the sunshine of love may illumine our youth,
And the moonlight of friendship console our decline.
Stanzas To A Hindoo Air.[605]
by George Gordon Byron

1.
Oh! my lonely - lonely - lonely - Pillow!
Where is my lover? where is my lover?
Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover?
Far - far away! and alone along the billow?
2.
Oh! my lonely - lonely - lonely - Pillow!
Why must my head ache where his gentle brow lay?
How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly,
And my head droops over thee like the willow!
3.
Oh! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow!
Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from breaking,
In return for the tears I shed upon thee waking;
Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow.
4.
Then if thou wilt - no more my lonely Pillow,
In one embrace let these arms again enfold him,
And then expire of the joy - but to behold him!
Oh! my lone bosom! - oh! my lonely Pillow!
[First published, Works of Lord Byron, 1832, xiv. 357.]
On Mozart.
by William Lisle Bowles

Oh! still, as with a seraph's voice, prolong
The harmonies of that enchanting song,
Till, listening, we might almost think we hear,
Beyond this cloudy world, in the pure sphere
Of light, acclaiming hosts the throne surrounding,
The long hosannahs evermore resounding,
Soft voices interposed in pure accord,
Breathing a holier charm. Oh! every word
Falls like a drop of silver, as the strain,
In winding sweetness, swells and sinks again.
Sing ever thus, beguiling life's long way,
As here, poor pilgrims of the earth, we stray;
And, lady, when thy pilgrimage shall end,
And late the shades of the long night descend,
May sister seraphs welcome with a song,
And gently say, Why have you stayed so long?
Imitated From Catullus. [1] To Ellen.
by George Gordon Byron

Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire,
A million scarce would quench desire;
Still would I steep my lips in bliss,
And dwell an age on every kiss;
Nor then my soul should sated be,
Still would I kiss and cling to thee:
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever,
Still would we kiss and kiss for ever;
E'en though the numbers did exceed 
The yellow harvest's countless seed;
To part would be a vain endeavour:
Could I desist? - ah! never - never.
The Highland Girl's Lament.
by Mary Gardiner Horsford

The ancient Highlanders believed the spirits of their departed friends continually present, and that their imagined appearances and voices communicated warnings of approaching death.
Oh! set the bridal feast aside,
And bear the harp away;
The coronach must sound instead,
From solemn kirk-yard gray.
I heard last eve, at set of sun,
The death-bell on the gale.
It was no earthly melody:--
The eglantine grew pale;
And leaf and blossom seemed to thrill
With an unuttered prayer,
As, fraught with desolateness wild,
The strange notes stirred the air.
And on the rugged mountain height,
Where snow and sunbeam meet,
That never yet in storm or shine
Was trod by human feet,
A weird and spectral presence came
Between me and the light;
The waving of a shadowy hand
That faded into night.
I felt it was the first who left
Our little household band,--
The child, with waving locks of gold,
Now in the silent land.
And when the mist at morn arose
From Katrine's silvery wave,
A form of aspect ominous,
With pensive look and grave,
Moved from the waters towards the glen
Where stands the holly-tree;
'T was the brother who is sleeping low
Beneath the stormy sea.
And while to-night the curfew bell
Rang out with solemn chime,
As soundeth o'er the buried year,
The organ peal of time,
And, near the fragrant jessamine,
I mused in garden glade,
A phantom form appeared to me
Beneath the hawthorn shade.
The dews had wept their silent tears,
The moon was up on high,
And every star was sphered with calm,
Like an archangel's eye;
And melancholy music swept
With cadence low and sweet,
Such as ascends when spirit-wings
Around a death-bed meet.
O was it not a mother's heart
That gave that warning sign;
The loving heart that used to thrill
To every grief of mine?
I oft have deemed, in sunny hours,
When life with love was fraught,
The nearness of the dead to us
A fantasy of thought.
But, standing on the barrier
I used to view with pain,
I feel the chains of severed love
Are linking close again.
Another hand must smooth and bless
My father's silver hair;
Another voice must read to him
At morn and evening prayer.
The flowers that I have trained will bloom,
But at another's side;
And he I love will seek perchance,
A gentler, fairer bride.
And soon another shade will haunt
The echo and the gloom,
With pining heart of restless love,
And omens of the tomb.
Then set the festal board aside,
And bear the harp away;
The coronach must sound instead
From solemn kirk-yard gray.
A Pastoral.
by Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

Oh! tell me ye shepherds, tell me I pray,
Have you seen the fair Jessie pass by this way?
You ne'er could forget her, if once you had seen,
She's fair as the morning, she moves like a Queen.
My sheep are neglected, my crook's thrown aside,
In pursuit of dear Jessie, sweet Jessie, my bride;
I hear nothing of her, no tidings can glean,
To see is to know her, she moves like a Queen.
Say, have you seen her? oh, pity my grief!
Speak quick, and impart me the needful relief;
You cannot forget her, if once you have seen,
She's lovely as Venus, she moves like a Queen.
Have you not seen her? - then listen I pray,
Oh! listen to what a poor shepherd can say
In the praise of one ne'er so lovely was seen;
She's youthful as Hebe, she moves like a Queen.
She's fair as the Spring in the mild month of May,
She's brilliant as June decked in flowerets so gay;
You ne'er could forget her if once you had seen,
She's charming as Flora, she moves like a Queen.
Oh! tell me not Damon, that yours can compare
To Jessie, sweet Jessie, with beauty so rare;
With a face of such sweetness, so modest a mien,
She's like morn in its freshness, she moves like a Queen.
You tell me your Sylvia is beautiful quite;
She may be, when Jessie is kept out of sight;
She is not to be mentioned with Jessie, I ween,
Her voice is sweet music, she moves like a Queen.
Then name not your Sylvia with Jessie I pray,
'Tis comparing dark night with the fair light of day;
Sylvia's movements are clumsy, and awkwardly seen,
But Jessie is graceful, she moves like a Queen.
Menalaus' fair wife, for beauty far famed,
By the side of my Jessie is not to be named;
Paris ne'er had woo'd Helen, if Jessie he'd seen,
She's chaste as Diana, she moves like a Queen.
Oh! aid me, do aid me, ye shepherds, I pray!
The time is fast flying, no longer I'll stay;
You cannot mistake her, there's none like her seen,
She's lovely as Venus, she moves like a Queen.
Do help me to find her, I'm wild with affright,
The day passes swiftly, it soon will be night;
There's none to compare with her, none like her seen,
More lovely than Venus, she moves like a Queen.
Recognition In Heaven.
by Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Oh! say, shall those ties, now so sacred and dear,
That with rainbow hues tint all our wanderings here,
Be regarded no more in that heavenly sphere
Whose portal's the grave?
When, "washed and forgiven," our spirits ascend
To the home of the blest where all sorrowings end,
O, will not a parent, a sister, a friend,
Haste to welcome us there?
Shall we see no loved form we have gazed on before,
To commune with of times that are faded and o'er?
Will the "dear chosen few" be remembered no more
In that haven of bliss?
O my heart must believe, 'mid ethereal chimes
A gloom would steal over my spirit sometimes,
If the friends I have loved, in these heavenly climes,
Seemed to know me no more.
But hope fondly whispers it shall not be so;
Each purified spirit my bosom shall know,
And all unremembered the 'plaining of woe,
We'll joy in the Lord.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCLXXXI. Love And Matrimony.
by Unknown

Oh! mother, I shall be married to Mr. Punchinello.
To Mr. Punch,
To Mr. Joe,
To Mr. Nell,
To Mr. Lo.
Mr. Punch, Mr. Joe,
Mr. Nell, Mr. Lo,
To Mr. Punchinello.