DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Old English Lullaby
by Eugene Field

Hush, bonnie, dinna greit;
Moder will rocke her sweete,--
Balow, my boy!
When that his toile ben done,
Daddie will come anone,--
Hush thee, my lyttel one;
Balow, my boy!
Gin thou dost sleepe, perchaunce
Fayries will come to daunce,--
Balow, my boy!
Oft hath thy moder seene
Moonlight and mirkland queene
Daunce on thy slumbering een,--
Balow, my boy!
Then droned a bomblebee
Saftly this songe to thee:
"Balow, my boy!"
And a wee heather bell,
Pluckt from a fayry dell,
Chimed thee this rune hersell:
"Balow, my boy!"
Soe, bonnie, dinna greit;
Moder doth rock her sweete,--
Balow, my boy!
Give mee thy lyttel hand,
Moder will hold it and
Lead thee to balow land,--
Balow, my boy!
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCXIX. Jingles.
by Unknown

Hyder iddle diddle dell,
A yard of pudding's not an ell;
Not forgetting tweedle-dye,
A tailor's goose will never fly.
In A Wood
by Dora Sigerson Shorter

Hush, 'tis thy voice!
No, but a bird upon the bough
Romancing to its mate, but where art thou
To bid my heart rejoice?
'Tis thy hand, speak!
No, but the branches striking in the wind
Let loose a withered leaf that falls behind
Blown to my cheek.
Hush, thy footfall!
No, 'tis a streamlet hidden in the fern,
Thus from dawn to dark I wait, I learn
Sorrow is all.
Hush-A-By Baby
by Walter Crane

Hush-a-by baby on the tree-top,
When the wind blows the cradle will rock;
When the bough breaks the cradle will fall--
Down comes baby, cradle and all!
Hush'd Be The Camps To-day
by Walt Whitman

Hush'd be the camps to-day;
And, soldiers, let us drape our war-worn weapons;
And each with musing soul retire, to celebrate,
Our dear commander's death.
No more for him life's stormy conflicts;
Nor victory, nor defeat--no more time's dark events,
Charging like ceaseless clouds across the sky.
But sing, poet, in our name;
Sing of the love we bore him--because you, dweller in camps, know it truly.
As they invault the coffin there;
Sing--as they close the doors of earth upon him--one verse,
For the heavy hearts of soldiers.
Je t'adore ' l''gal de la vo'te nocturne
by Charles Baudelaire

I adore you, the nocturnal vault's likeness,
o vast taciturnity, o vase of sadness:
I love you, my beauty, the more you flee,
grace of my nights, the more you seem,
to multiply distances, ah ironically,
that bar my arms from the blue immensity.
I advance to the attack, climb to the assault
like a swarm of worms attacking a corpse,
and I cherish, o creature cruel, and implacable,
your coldness that makes you, for me, more beautiful!
The Death Of The Pauper Child.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Hush, mourning mother, wan and pale!
No sobs - no grieving now:
No burning tears must thou let fall
Upon that cold still brow;
No look of anguish cast above,
Nor smite thine aching breast,
But clasp thy hands and thank thy God - 
Thy darling is at rest.
Close down those dark-fringed, snowy lids
Over the violet eyes,
Whose liquid light was once as clear
As that of summer skies.
Is it not bliss to know what e'er
Thy future griefs and fears,
They will be never dimmed like thine
By sorrow's scalding tears?
Enfold the tiny fingers fair,
From which life's warmth has fled,
For ever freed from wearing toil - 
The toil for daily bread:
Compose the softly moulded limbs,
The little waxen feet,
Spared wayside journeys long and rough,
Spared many a weary beat.
Draw close around the lifeless form
The shreds of raiment torn,
Her only birthright - just such rags
As thou for years hast worn;
Her earthly dower the bitter crust
She might from pity crave,
Moistened by tears - then, final gift,
A pauper's lowly grave.
Now, raise thy spirit's gaze above!
See'st thou yon angel fair,
With flowing robes and starry crown
Gemming her golden hair?
Changed, glorified in every trait,
Still with that beauty mild;
Oh! mourning mother, thou dost know
Thine own, thy late-lost child.
An heir to heaven's entrancing bliss,
Veiled in its golden glow,
Still thinks she of the lonely heart
Left on this earth below.
Courage! - not long thy weary steps
O'er barren wastes shall roam,
Thy daring prays the Father now
To quickly call thee home!
To The Eastern Shore
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

I 's feelin' kin' o' lonesome in my little room to-night,
An' my min 's done los' de minutes an' de miles,
Wile it teks me back a-flyin' to de country of delight,
Whaih de Chesapeake goes grumblin' er wid smiles.
Oh, de ol' plantation 's callin' to me, Come, come back,
Hyeah 's de place fu' you to labouh an' to res',
'Fu my sandy roads is gleamin' w'ile de city ways is black;
Come back, honey, case yo' country home is bes'.
I know de moon is shinin' down erpon de Eastern sho',
An' de bay 's a-sayin' "Howdy" to de lan';
An' de folks is all a-settin' out erroun' de cabin do',
Wid dey feet a-restin' in de silvah san';
An' de ol' plantation 's callin' to me, Come, oh, come,
F'om de life dat 's des' a-waihin' you erway,
F'om de trouble an' de bustle, an' de agernizin' hum
Dat de city keeps ergoin' all de day.
I 's tiahed of de city, tek me back to Sandy Side,
Whaih de po'est ones kin live an' play an' eat;
Whaih we draws a simple livin' f'om de fo'est an' de tide,
An' de days ah faih, an' evah night is sweet.
Fu' de ol' plantation 's callin' to me, Come, oh, come.
An' de Chesapeake 's a-sayin' "Dat's de t'ing,"
W'ile my little cabin beckons, dough his mouf is closed an' dumb,
I 's a-comin, an' my hea't begins to sing.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCXCIII. Lullabies.
by Unknown

Hush-a-bye, a ba lamb,
Hush-a-bye a milk cow,
You shall have a little stick
To beat the naughty bow-wow.
The Lake
by John Collings Squire, Sir

I am a lake, altered by every wind.
The mild South breathes upon me, and I spread
A dance of merry ripples in the sun.
The West comes stormily and I am troubled,
My waves conflict and black depths show between them.
Under the East wind bitter I grow and chill,
Slate-coloured, desolate, hopeless.    But when blows
A steady wind from the North my motion ceases,
I am frozen smooth and hard; my conquered surface
Returns the skies' cold light without a comment.
I make no sound, nor can I; nor can I show
What depth I have, if any depth, below.
Origin Of The Toboggan.
by James McIntyre

I am a hunter by profession,
And when I make this confession,
Of what I saw with mine own eyes,
It may cause you some surprise.
But we at once now you do warn,
That this is not a made up yarn,
It happened in the interior,
Far north of Lake Superior.
When up the hill setting my traps,
I heard on trees peculiar raps,
It made me then attentive hark,
And then I heard pulling off the bark.
It was a bright and pleasant day,
The distance was three miles away,
And it caused me but slight alarm,
When they around bark placed each arm.
And threw the bark o'er their shoulder,
I being a distant beholder
Knew not what end they had in view,
But I must own my wonder grew.
When I saw those men were warm dressed
With good fur robe each one was blessed,
In single file they marched up hill
With strangest thoughts my mind did fill.
When each man in his robe began
With tough bark to make toboggan,
And quick as lightning down they slide,
It seemed to me a dangerous ride.
The spot was covered o'er with hairs,
And it seem'd mixed with blood of bears,
And my two dogs Bull and Daisy,
At sight and scent of it went crazy.
Could none of these been a true man,
Or was I gross deceived by bruin,
It was a long and glassy slide,
Reached far up the mountain side.
They had been first enjoying the fun
Of sliding down on their bare skin,
Until their hide was getting worn,
And their flesh was somewhat torn.
So Bear invented Toboggan,
Which is a blessing to young man,
And the fair maiden by his side,
For both enjoy the pleasant ride.
Lines
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

I 'm ashamed, - that 's the fact, - it 's a pitiful case, - 
Won't any kind classmate get up in my place?
Just remember how often I've risen before, - 
I blush as I straighten my legs on the floor!
There are stories, once pleasing, too many times told, - 
There are beauties once charming, too fearfully old, - 
There are voices we've heard till we know them so well,
Though they talked for an hour they'd have nothing to tell.
Yet, Classmates! Friends! Brothers! Dear blessed old boys!
Made one by a lifetime of sorrows and joys,
What lips have such sounds as the poorest of these,
Though honeyed, like Plato's, by musical bees?
What voice is so sweet and what greeting so dear
As the simple, warm welcome that waits for us here?
The love of our boyhood still breathes in its tone,
And our hearts throb the answer, "He's one of our own!"
Nay! count not our numbers; some sixty we know,
But these are above, and those under the snow;
And thoughts are still mingled wherever we meet
For those we remember with those that we greet.
We have rolled on life's journey, - how fast and how far!
One round of humanity's many-wheeled car,
But up-hill and down-hill, through rattle and rub,
Old, true Twenty-niners! we've stuck to our hub!
While a brain lives to think, or a bosom to feel,
We will cling to it still like the spokes of a wheel!
And age, as it chills us, shall fasten the tire
That youth fitted round in his circle of fire!
Dolly's Lullaby.
by Juliana Horatia Ewing

Hush-a-by, Baby! Your baby, Mamma,
No one but pussy may go where you are;
Soft-footed pussy alone may pass by,
For, if he wakens, your baby will cry.
Hush-a-by, Dolly! My baby are you,
Yellow-haired Dolly, with eyes of bright blue;
Though I say "Hush!" because Mother does so,
You wouldn't cry like her baby, I know!
Hush-a-by, Baby! Mamma walks about,
Sings to you softly, or rocks you without;
If you slept sounder, then I might walk too,
Sing to my Dolly, and rock her like you!
Hush-a-by Dolly! Sleep sweetly, my pet!
Dear Mamma made you this fine berceaunette,
Muslin and rose-colour, ribbon and lace;
When had a baby a cosier place?
Hush-a-by, Baby! the baby who cries.
Why, dear Mamma, don't you shut baby's eyes?
Pull down his wire, as I do, you see;
Lay him by Dolly, and come out with me.
Hush-a-by, Dolly! Mamma will not speak;
You, my dear baby, would sleep for a week.
Poor Mamma's baby allows her no rest,
Hush-a-by, Dolly, of babies the best!
To Perenna.
by Robert Herrick

I a dirge will pen to thee;
Thou a trentall make for me:
That the monks and friars together,
Here may sing the rest of either:
Next, I'm sure, the nuns will have
Candlemas to grace the grave.
Hypocrisy
by Samuel Butler

Hypocrisy will serve as well
To propagate a church, as zeal;
As persecution and promotion
Do equally advance devotion:
So round white stones will serve, they say,
As well as eggs to make hens lay.
Bottle-O!
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

I ain't the kind of bloke as takes to any steady job;
I drives me bottle cart around the town;
A bloke what keeps 'is eyes about can always make a bob,
I couldn't bear to graft for every brown.
There's lots of handy things about in everybody's yard,
There's cocks and hens a-runnin' to an' fro,
And little dogs what comes and barks, we take 'em off their guard
And we puts 'em with the Empty Bottle-O!
Chorus,
So it's any "Empty bottles! Any empty bottle-O!"
You can hear us round for half a mile or so
And you'll see the women rushing
To take in the Monday's washing
When they 'ear us crying, "Empty Bottle-O!"
I'm driving down by Wexford-street and up a winder goes,
A girl sticks out 'er 'ead and looks at me,
An all-right tart with ginger 'air, and freckles on 'er nose;
I stops the cart and walks across to see.
"There ain't no bottles 'ere," says she, "since father took the pledge,"
"No bottles 'ere," says I, "I'd like to know
What right 'ave you to stick your 'ead outside the winder ledge,
If you 'aven't got no Empty Bottle-O!"
I sometimes gives the 'orse a spell, and then the push and me
We takes a little trip to Chowder Bay.
Oh! ain't it nice the 'ole day long a-gazin' at the sea
And a-hidin' of the tanglefoot away.
But when the booze gits 'old of us, and fellows starts to "scrap",
There's some what likes blue-metal for to throw:
But as for me, I always says for layin' out a "trap"
There's nothing like an Empty Bottle-O!
Nursery Rhyme. CCCLXXX. Lullabies.
by Unknown

Hushy baby, my doll, I pray you don't cry,
And I'll give you some bread and some milk by and bye;
Or, perhaps you like custard, or may-be a tart, - 
Then to either you're welcome, with all my whole heart.
Nursery Rhyme. DLXXXVI. Natural History.
by Unknown

Hussy, hussy, where's your horse?
Hussy, hussy, gone to grass!
Hussy, hussy, fetch him home,
Hussy, hussy, let him alone.
When Sam'L Sings
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Hyeah dat singin' in de medders
Whaih de folks is mekin' hay?
Wo'k is pretty middlin' heavy
Fu' a man to be so gay.
You kin tell dey 's somep'n special
F'om de canter o' de song;
Somep'n sholy pleasin' Sam'l,
W'en he singin' all day long.
Hyeahd him wa'blin' 'way dis mo'nin'
'Fo' 't was light enough to see.
Seem lak music in de evenin'
Allus good enough fu' me.
But dat man commenced to hollah
'Fo' he 'd even washed his face;
Would you b'lieve, de scan'lous rascal
Woke de birds erroun' de place?
Sam'l took a trip a-Sad'day;
Dressed hisse'f in all he had,
Tuk a cane an' went a-strollin',
Lookin' mighty pleased an' glad.
Some folks don' know whut de mattah,
But I do, you bet yo' life;
Sam'l smilin' an' a-singin'
'Case he been to see his wife.
She live on de fu' plantation,
Twenty miles erway er so;
But huh man is mighty happy
Wen he git de chanst to go.
Walkin' allus ain' de nices'--
Mo'nin' fin's him on de way--
But he allus comes back smilin',
Lak his pleasure was his pay.
Den he do a heap o' talkin',
Do' he mos'ly kin' o' still,
But de wo'ds, dey gits to runnin'
Lak de watah fu' a mill.
"Whut 's de use o' havin' trouble,
Whut 's de use o' havin' strife?"
Dat 's de way dis Sam'l preaches
W'en he been to see his wife.
An' I reckon I git jealous,
Fu' I laff an' joke an' sco'n,
An' I say, "Oh, go on, Sam'l,
Des go on, an' blow yo' ho'n."
But I know dis comin' Sad'day,
Dey 'll be brighter days in life;
An' I 'll be ez glad ez Sam'l
W'en I go to see my wife.
A First Confession
by William Butler Yeats

I admit the briar
Entangled in my hair
Did not injure me;
My blenching and trembling,
Nothing but dissembling,
Nothing but coquetry.
I long for truth, and yet
I cannot stay from that
My better self disowns,
For a man's attention
Brings such satisfaction
To the craving in my bones.
Brightness that I pull back
From the Zodiac,
Why those questioning eyes
That are fixed upon me?
What can they do but shun me
If empty night replies?
Seein' Things
by Eugene Field

I ain't afeard uv snakes, or toads, or bugs, or worms, or mice,
An' things 'at girls are skeered uv I think are awful nice!
I'm pretty brave, I guess; an' yet I hate to go to bed,
For, when I'm tucked up warm an' snug an' when my prayers are said,
Mother tells me "Happy dreams!" and takes away the light,
An' leaves me lyin' all alone an' seein' things at night!
Sometimes they're in the corner, sometimes they're by the door,
Sometimes they're all a-standin' in the middle uv the floor;
Sometimes they are a-sittin' down, sometimes they're walkin' round
So softly an' so creepylike they never make a sound!
Sometimes they are as black as ink, an' other times they're white -
But the color ain't no difference when you see things at night!
Once, when I licked a feller 'at had just moved on our street,
An' father sent me up to bed without a bite to eat,
I woke up in the dark an' saw things standin' in a row,
A-lookin' at me cross-eyed an' p'intin' at me - so!
Oh, my! I wuz so skeered that time I never slep' a mite -
It's almost alluz when I'm bad I see things at night!
Lucky thing I ain't a girl, or I'd be skeered to death!
Bein' I'm a boy, I duck my head an' hold my breath;
An' I am, oh! so sorry I'm a naughty boy, an' then
I promise to be better an' I say my prayers again!
Gran'ma tells me that's the only way to make it right
When a feller has been wicked an' sees things at night!
An' so, when other naughty boys would coax me into sin,
I try to skwush the Tempter's voice 'at urges me within;
An' when they's pie for supper, or cakes 'at 's big an' nice,
I want to - but I do not pass my plate f'r them things twice!
No, ruther let Starvation wipe me slowly out o' sight
Than I should keep a-livin' on an' seein' things at night!
An Evening Prayer
by George MacDonald

I am a bubble
Upon thy ever-moving, resting sea:
Oh, rest me now from tossing, trespass, trouble!
Take me down into thee.
Give me thy peace.
My heart is aching with unquietness:
Oh, make its inharmonious beating cease!
Thy hand upon it press.
My Night! my Day!
Swift night and day betwixt, my world doth reel:
Potter, take not thy hand from off the clay
That whirls upon thy wheel.
O Heart, I cry
For love and life, pardon and hope and strength!
O Father, I am thine; I shall not die,
But I shall sleep at length!
Fed Up
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

I ain't a timid man at all, I'm just as brave as most,
I'll take my chance in open fight and die beside my post;
But riding round the 'ole day long as target for a Krupp,
A-drawing fire from Koppies, well, I'm fair fed up.
It's wonderful how few get hit, it's luck that pulls us through;
Their rifle fire's no class at all, it misses me and you;
But when they sprinkle shells around like water from a cup
From that there blooming pom-pom gun, well, I'm fed up.
We never get a chance to charge, to do a thrust and cut,
I'll have to chuck the Cavalry and join the Mounted Fut.
But after all, What's Mounted Fut? I saw them t'other day,
They occupied a koppie when the Boers had run away.
The Cavalry went riding on and seen a score of fights,
But there they kept them Mounted Fut three solid days and nights,
Three solid starving days and nights with scarce a bite or sup.
Well! after that on Mounted Fut I'm fair fed up.
And tramping with the Footies ain't as easy as it looks,
They scarcely ever see a Boer except in picture books.
They do a march of twenty mile that leaves 'em nearly dead,
And then they find the bloomin' Boers is twenty miles ahead.
Each Footy is as full of fight as any bulldog pup,
But walking forty miles to fight, well, I'm fed up.
So after all I think that when I leave the Cavalry
I'll either join the ambulance or else the A.S.C.;
They've always tucker in the plate and coffee in the cup,
But bully beef and biscuits, well! I'm fair fed up!
Sonnet LXIV.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Io amai sempre, ed amo forte ancora.
HE LOVES, AND WILL ALWAYS LOVE, THE SPOT AND THE HOUR IN WHICH HE FIRST BECAME ENAMOURED OF LAURA.
I always loved, I love sincerely yet,
And to love more from day to day shall learn,
The charming spot where oft in grief I turn
When Love's severities my bosom fret:
My mind to love the time and hour is set
Which taught it each low care aside to spurn;
She too, of loveliest face, for whom I burn
Bids me her fair life love and sin forget.
Who ever thought to see in friendship join'd,
On all sides with my suffering heart to cope,
The gentle enemies I love so well?
Love now is paramount my heart to bind,
And, save that with desire increases hope,
Dead should I lie alive where I would dwell.
MACGREGOR.
Kisses Loathsome.
by Robert Herrick

I abhor the slimy kiss,
Which to me most loathsome is.
Those lips please me which are placed
Close, but not too strictly laced:
Yielding I would have them; yet
Not a wimbling tongue admit:
What should poking-sticks make there,
When the ruffe is set elswhere?
To J. Rankine.
by Robert Burns

I am a keeper of the law
In some sma' points, altho' not a';
Some people tell me gin I fa'
Ae way or ither.
The breaking of ae point, though sma',
Breaks a' thegither
I hae been in for't once or twice,
And winna say o'er far for thrice,
Yet never met with that surprise
That broke my rest,
But now a rumour's like to rise,
A whaup's i' the nest.
Madeline
by Edgar Lee Masters

I almost heard your little heart
Begin to beat, and since that hour
Your life has grown apace and blossomed,
Fed by the same miraculous power,
That moved the rivulet of your life,
And made your heart begin to beat.
Now all day your steps are a-patter.
Oh, what swift and musical feet!
You sleep. I wait to see you wake,
With wonder-eyes and hands that reach.
I laugh to hear your thoughts that gather
Too fast on your budding lips for speech.
Your sunny hair is cut as if
'Twere trimmed around a yellow crock.
How gay the ribbon, and oh, how cunning
The flaring skirt of the little frock!
You build and play and search and pry,
And hunt for dolls and forgotten toys.
Why do you never tire of playing,
Or cease from mischief, or cease from noise?
You will not sleep? You are tired of the house?
You are just as naughty as you can be.
Madeline, Madeline, come to the garden,
And play with Marcia under the tree!
Nursery Rhyme. CCCXCIV. Lullabies.
by Unknown

Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree top,
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock,
When the bough bends, the cradle will fall,
Down will come baby, bough, cradle, and all.
The Confession.
by Horatio Alger, Jr.

I am glad that you have come,
Arthur, from the dusty town;
You must throw aside your cares,
And relax your legal frown.
Coke and Littleton, avaunt!
You have ruled him through the day;
In this quiet, sylvan haunt,
Be content to yield your sway.
It is pleasant, is it not,
Sitting here beneath the trees,
While the restless wind above
Ripples over leafy seas?
Often, when the twilight falls,
In the shadow, quite alone,
I have sat till starlight came,
Listening to its monotone.
Yet not always quite alone,--
Brother, let me take the place
Just behind you now the moon
Shines no longer in my face.
It is near two months ago
Since I met him, as I think,
By God's mercy, when my horse
Trembled on the river's brink.
I had fallen, but his arm
Firmly seized the bridle-rein,
And, with one decided grasp,
Drew me back to life again.
I was grateful and essayed
Fitting words my thanks to speak.
Arthur, when the heart feels most,
Words, I think, are oftenest weak.
So I stammered and I fear,
What I said had little grace
But I knew he understood,
By the smile upon his face.
There are faces--his was such--
That are sealed when in repose;
Only when a smile floods out,
All the soul in beauty glows.
With that smile I grew content,
And my heart grew strangely calm,
As with trustful step I walked,
My arm resting on his arm.
Brother, turn your face away,
So, dear, I can tell you best
All that followed; but be sure
You are looking to the west.
Arthur, I have seen him since,
Nearly every day, until
If I lose him, all my life
Would grow wan, and dark, and chill.
Brother, this my love impute
Not to me for maiden-shame;
He has sought me for his wife,
He would crown me with his name.
Only yesterday he said
That my love his life would bless:
Would I grant it? Arthur, dear,
Was I wrong in saying "Yes"?
The Song of the Summer Cloud.
by W. M. MacKeracher

I am arrayed in light and shade,
A free-born spirit of air;
A fanciful theme like a twilight dream,
Or a maiden young and fair.
And now I float like a phantom boat
With a vague and varying hue,
Fading from sight in the beams of light
On an ocean clear and blue.
And now I am wooed by the wind so rude,
As he rushes in fury past,
Who his bride doth crown with a darkening frown
As I ride in the car of the blast.
And down I pour 'mid the thunder's roar
While the lightnings gleam and glare,
Till the floods resound as they burst their bound
And laugh at what man can dare.
And now he is flown and has left me alone
To brood in bereavement and woe,
And I hang like a pall while the rain-drops fall
Like tear-drops steady and slow.
But again he returns when my gloom he discerns,
And subdues his dark spirit of storms;
And the shower descends while the rainbow blends
And the sunshine brightens and warms.