DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Old Mother Hubbard
by Walter Crane

Old Mother Hubbard
Went to the cupboard
To get her poor Dog a bone;
But when she came there
The cupboard was bare,
And so the poor Dog had none.
She went to the baker's
To buy him some bread,
But when she came back,
The poor Dog was dead.
She went to the joiner's
To buy him a coffin,
But when she came back,
The poor Dog was laughing.
She took a clean dish
To get him some tripe,
But when she came back,
He was smoking a pipe.
She went to the ale-house
To get him some beer,
But when she came back,
The Dog sat in a chair.
She went to the tavern
For white wine and red,
But when she came back,
The Dog stood on his head.
She went to the hatter's,
To buy him a hat,
But when she came back,
He was feeding the cat.
She went to the barber's
To buy him a wig,
But when she came back,
He was dancing a jig.
She went to the fruiterer's
To buy him some fruit,
But when she came back,
He was playing the flute.
She went to the tailor's
To buy him a coat,
But when she came back,
He was riding a goat.
She went to the cobbler's
To buy him some shoes,
But when she came back,
He was reading the news.
She went to the sempstress
To buy him some linen,
But when she came back,
The Dog was a-spinning.
She went to the hosier's
To buy him some hose,
But when she came back,
He was drest in his clothes.
The Dame made a curtsey,
The Dog made a bow;
The Dame said, "Your servant,"
The Dog said, "Bow wow!"
This wonderful Dog
Was Dame Hubbard's delight,
He could sing, he could dance.
He could read, he could write.
She gave him rich dainties
Whenever he fed,
And erected a monument
When he was dead.
Old October
by James Whitcomb Riley

Old October's purt' nigh gone,
And the frosts is comin' on
Little heavier every day -
Like our hearts is thataway!
Leaves is changin' overhead
Back from green to gray and red,
Brown and yeller, with their stems
Loosenin' on the oaks and e'ms;
And the balance of the trees
Gittin' balder every breeze -
Like the heads we're scratchin' on!
Old October's purt' nigh gone.
I love Old October so,
I can't bear to see her go -
Seems to me like losin' some
Old-home relative er chum -
'Pears like sorto' settin' by
Some old friend 'at sigh by sigh
Was a-passin' out o' sight
Into everlastin' night!
Hickernuts a feller hears
Rattlin' down is more like tears
Drappin' on the leaves below -
I love Old October so!
Can't tell what it is about
Old October knock me out!
I sleep well enough at night -
And the blamedest appetite
Ever mortal man possessed,
Last thing et, it tastes the best!
Warnuts, butternuts, pawpaws,
'Iles and limbers up my jaws
Fer raal service, sich as new
Pork, spareribs, and sausage, too.
Yit fer all, they's somepin' 'bout
Old October knocks me out!
Meg Merrilies
by John Keats

1.
Old Meg she was a gypsy;
And liv'd upon the moors:
Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
And her house was out of doors.
2.
Her apples were swart blackberries,
Her currants, pods o' broom;
Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,
Her book a church-yard tomb.
3.
Her brothers were the craggy hills,
Her sisters larchen trees;
Alone with her great family
She liv'd as she did please.
4.
No breakfast had she many a morn,
No dinner many a noon,
And 'stead of supper she would stare
Full hard against the moon.
5.
But every morn, of woodbine fresh
She made her garlanding,
And every night the dark glen yew
She wove, and she would sing.
6.
And with her fingers old and brown
She plaited mats o' rushes,
And gave them to the cottagers
She met among the bushes.
7.
Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen,
And tall as Amazon:
An old red blanket cloak she wore,
A chip hat had she on.
God rest her aged bones somewhere
She died full long agone!
King Cole
by Walter Crane

Old King Cole was a merry old soul,
And a merry old soul was he;
He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl,
And he called for his fiddlers three.
Ev'ry fiddler had a fiddle,
And a very fine fiddle had he.
Tweedle dee, tweedle dee, tweedle dee, tweedle dee,
Tweedle dee, tweedle dee, went the fiddlers three,
O there's none so rare as can compare
With King Cole and his fiddlers three.
Poets And Their Bibliographies
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Old poets foster'd under friendlier skies,
Old Virgil who would write ten lines, they say,
At dawn, and lavish all the golden day
To make them wealthier in his readers' eyes;
And you, old popular Horace, you the wise
Adviser of the nine-years-ponder'd lay,
And you, that wear a wreath of sweeter bay,
Catullus, whose dead songster never dies;
If, glancing downward on the kindly sphere
That once had roll'd you round and round the sun,
You see your Art still shrined in human shelves,
You should be jubilant that you flourish'd here
Before the Love of Letters, overdone,
Had swampt the sacred poets with themselves.
Old Man Rain
by Madison Julius Cawein

Old Man Rain at the windowpane
Knocks and fumbles and knocks again:
His long-nailed fingers slip and strain:
Old Man Rain at the windowpane
Knocks all night but knocks in vain.
Old Man Rain.
Old Man Rain at the windowpane
Reels and shambles along the lane:
His old gray whiskers drip and drain:
Old Man Rain with fuddled brain
Reels and staggers like one insane.
Old Man Rain.
Old Man Rain is back again,
With old Mis' Wind at the windowpane,
Dancing there with her tattered train:
Her old shawl flaps as she whirls again
In the wildman dance and is torn in twain.
Old Mis' Wind and Old Man Rain.
Nursery Rhyme. CCLIX. Gaffers And Gammers.
by Unknown

Old Mother Niddity Nod swore by the pudding-bag,
She would go to Stoken Church fair;
And then old Father Peter said he would meet her
Before she got half-way there.
Mr. Philosopher
by Robert von Ranke Graves

Old Mr. Philosopher
Comes for Ben and Claire,
An ugly man, a tall man,
With bright-red hair.
The books that he's written
No one can read.
"In fifty years they'll understand:
Now there's no need.
"All that matters now
Is getting the fun.
Come along, Ben and Claire;
Plenty to be done."
Then old Philosopher,
Wisest man alive,
Plays at Lions and Tigers
Down along the drive, 
Gambolling fiercely
Through bushes and grass,
Making monstrous mouths,
Braying like an ass,
Twisting buttercups
In his orange hair,
Hopping like a kangaroo,
Growling like a bear.
Right up to tea-time
They frolic there.
"My legs are wingle,"
Says Ben to Claire.
Old Indiany. Intended For A Dinner Of The Indiana Society Of Chicago
by James Whitcomb Riley

Old Indiany, 'course we know
Is first, and best, and most, also,
Of all the States' whole forty-four: -
She's first in ever'thing, that's shore! -
And best in ever'way as yet
Made known to man; and you kin bet
She's most, because she won't confess
She ever was, or will be, less!
And yet, fer all her proud array
Of sons, how many gits away! -
No doubt about her bein' great,
But, fellers, she's a leaky State!
And them that boasts the most about
Her, them's the ones that's dribbled out.
Law! jes' to think of all you boys
'Way over here in Illinoise
A-celebratin', like ye air,
Old Indiany, 'way back there
In the dark ages, so to speak,
A-prayin' for ye once a week
And wonderin' what's a-keepin' you
From comin', like you ort to do.
You're all a-lookin' well, and like
You wasn't "sidin' up the pike,"
As the tramp-shoemaker said
When "he sacked the boss and shed
The blame town, to hunt fer one
Where they didn't work fer fun!"
Lookin' extry well, I'd say,
Your old home so fur away. -
Maybe, though, like the old jour.,
Fun hain't all yer workin' fer.
So you've found a job that pays
Better than in them old days
You was on The Weekly Press,
Heppin' run things, more er less;
Er a-learnin' telegraph-
Operatin', with a half-
Notion of the tinner's trade,
Er the dusty man's that laid
Out designs on marble and
Hacked out little lambs by hand,
And chewed finecut as he wrought,
"Shapin' from his bitter thought"
Some squshed mutterings to say, -
"Yes, hard work, and porer pay!"
Er you'd kind o' thought the far-
Gazin' kuss that owned a car
And took pictures in it, had
Jes' the snap you wanted - bad!
And you even wondered why
He kep' foolin' with his sky-
Light the same on shiny days
As when rainin'. ('T leaked always.)
Wondered what strange things was hid
In there when he shet the door
And smelt like a burnt drug store
Next some orchard-trees, i swan!
With whole roasted apples on!
That's why Ade is, here of late,
Buyin' in the dear old state, -
So's to cut it up in plots
Of both town and country lots.
Letter II. The Sparrow's Reply. (The Bird And Insects' Post-Office.)
by Robert Bloomfield

OLD MAG (I won't say Neighbour),
I was hopping along the top ridge of the house when I received your insolent and conceited epistle, which does you no credit, but is very much in your usual style. "Little Jabberer" indeed! and pray, what is your letter of advice? Nothing but jabber from beginning to end. You sing, you say. I have heard you often enough; but if yours is singing, then I must be allowed to be no judge of the matter. You say you are afraid of the gamekeeper; this, perhaps, allows some sense in you, for he is paid for killing all kinds of vermin.
And so you come down to our farm when you think you can steal something! Thus, if I did not hide my eggs and my young ones, in a hole too small for you to enter, I can see pretty plainly how I should come off with your thieving and your advice.
Be advised in your turn; keep away from our yard, for my master has a gun too; and your chattering, which I suppose you call singing, he abominably hates. You will be in danger of catching what the gamekeeper threatens, and then where is the great difference between your station and mine?
From my lodging under the thatch of the stable, I am, as you may happen to behave yourself,
Yours, at a convenient distance,
& c. & c.
A New Version.
by Edwin C. Ranck

Old Mother Hubbard
She went to the cupboard,
To find a nice bone for her dog.
But when she got there
The cupboard was bare,
And now they are both on the hog.
Old Sis Snow
by Madison Julius Cawein

Old Sis Snow, with hair ablow,
Down the road now see her go!
Her old gown pulled back and pinned
Round her legs by Wild-boy Wind
Ough n't he to just be skinned?
Hear her shriek, now high, now low,
Tangled in her hair! my oh!
Is n't she a crazy show?
Old Sis Snow!
Old Sis Snow now to and fro
Ramps and wrestles and hollos "Whoa!"
Sticks her long white fingers through
Every crack and cranny too,
Reaching after me and you:
Cold! and look how fast they grow!
Ghostly in the lamplight's glow,
Threatening you from head to toe!
Old Sis Snow!
Old Sis Snow! now you go slow!
You'll get tired enough, I know:
Wild-boy Wind will drag you down;
Round your ears will tear your gown;
Strew its rags through field and town.
Now he's at it, blow on blow,
Hitting hard as any hoe.
Hear them how they knock and throw!
Wild-boy Wind and Old Sis Snow!
The Old Man And Jim
by James Whitcomb Riley

Old man never had much to say -
'Ceptin' to Jim, -
And Jim was the wildest boy he had -
And the old man jes' wrapped up in him!
Never heerd him speak but once
Er twice in my life, - and first time was
When the army broke out, and Jim he went,
The old man backin' him, fer three months;
And all 'at I heerd the old man say
Was, jes' as we turned to start away, -
"Well, good-by, Jim:
Take keer o' yourse'f!"
'Peared-like, he was more satisfied
Jes' lookin' at Jim
And likin' him all to hisse'f-like, see? -
'Cause he was jes' wrapped up in him!
And over and over I mind the day
The old man come and stood round in the way
While we was drillin', a-watchin' Jim -
And down at the deepo a-heerin' him say,
"Well, good-by, Jim:
Take keer of yourse'f!"
Never was nothin' about the farm
Disting'ished Jim;
Neighbors all ust to wonder why
The old man 'peared wrapped up in him;
But when Cap. Biggler he writ back
'At Jim was the bravest boy we had
In the whole dern rigiment, white er black,
And his fightin' good as his farmin' bad -
'At he had led, with a bullet clean
Bored through his thigh, and carried the flag
Through the bloodiest battle you ever seen, -
The old man wound up a letter to him
'At Cap. read to us, 'at said: "Tell Jim
Good-by,
And take keer of hisse'f."
Jim come home jes' long enough
To take the whim
'At he'd like to go back in the calvery -
And the old man jes' wrapped up in him!
Jim 'lowed 'at he'd had sich luck afore,
Guessed he'd tackle her three years more.
And the old man give him a colt he'd raised,
And follered him over to Camp Ben Wade,
And laid around fer a week er so,
Watchin' Jim on dress-parade -
Tel finally he rid away,
And last he heerd was the old man say, -
"Well, good-by, Jim:
Take keer of yourse'f!"
Tuk the papers, the old man did,
A-watchin' fer Jim -
Fully believin' he'd make his mark
Some way - jes' wrapped up in him! -
And many a time the word 'u'd come
'At stirred him up like the tap of a drum -
At Petersburg, fer instunce, where
Jim rid right into their cannons there,
And tuk 'em, and p'inted 'em t'other way,
And socked it home to the boys in gray
As they scooted fer timber, and on and on -
Jim a lieutenant, and one arm gone,
And the old man's words in his mind all day, -
"Well, good-by, Jim:
Take keer of yourse'f!"
Think of a private, now, perhaps,
We'll say like Jim,
'At's dumb clean up to the shoulder-straps -
And the old man jes' wrapped up in him!
Think of him - with the war plum' through,
And the glorious old Red-White-and-Blue
A-laughin' the news down over Jim,
And the old man, bendin' over him -
The surgeon turnin' away with tears
'At hadn't leaked fer years and years,
As the hand of the dyin' boy clung to
His father's, the old voice in his ears, -
"Well, good-by, Jim:
Take keer of yourse'f!"
Nursery Rhyme. DCLIII. Relics.
by Unknown

Old Sir Simon the king,
And young Sir Simon the 'squire,
And old Mrs. Hickabout
Kicked Mrs. Kickabout
Round about our coal fire!
Old John Henry
by James Whitcomb Riley

Old John's jes' made o' the commonest stuff -
Old John Henry -
He's tough, I reckon, - but none too tough -
Too tough though's better than not enough!
Says old John Henry.
He does his best, and when his best's bad,
He don't fret none, ner he don't git sad -
He simply 'lows it's the best he had:
Old John Henry!
His doctern's jes' o' the plainest brand -
Old John Henry -
A smilin' face and a hearty hand
'S religen 'at all folks understand,
Says old John Henry.
He's stove up some with the rhumatiz,
And they hain't no shine on them shoes o' his,
And his hair hain't cut - but his eye-teeth is:
Old John Henry!
He feeds hisse'f when the stock's all fed -
Old John Henry -
And sleeps like a babe when he goes to bed -
And dreams o' Heaven and home-made bread,
Says old John Henry.
He hain't refined as he'd ort to be
To fit the statutes o' poetry,
Ner his clothes don't fit him - but he fits me:
Old John Henry!
Upon Parson Beanes
by Robert Herrick

Old Parson Beanes hunts six days of the week,
And on the seventh, he has his notes to seek.
Six days he hollows so much breath away
That on the seventh he can nor preach or pray.
In An Annisquam Garden
by Madison Julius Cawein

Old phantoms haunt it of the long ago;
Old ghosts of old-time lovers and of dreams:
Within the quiet sunlight there, meseems,
I see them walking where those lilies blow.
The hardy phlox sways to some garment's flow;
The salvia there with sudden scarlet streams,
Caught from some ribbon of some throat that gleams,
Petunia-fair, in flounce and furbelow.
I seem to hear their whispers in each wind
That wanders mid the flowers. There they stand!
Among the shadows of that apple-tree!
They are not dead, whom still it keeps in mind,
This garden, planted by some lovely hand
That keeps it fragrant with its memory.
Old Man Whiskery-Whee-Kum-Wheeze
by James Whitcomb Riley

Old Man Whiskery-Whee-Kum-Wheeze
Lives 'way up in the leaves o' trees.
An' wunst I slipped up-stairs to play
In Aunty's room, while she 'uz away;
An' I clumbed up in her cushion-chair
An' ist peeked out o' the winder there;
An' there I saw - wite out in the trees - 
Old Man Whiskery-Whee-Kum-Wheeze!
An' Old Man Whiskery-Whee-Kum-Wheeze
Would bow an' bow, with the leaves in the breeze,
An' waggle his whiskers an' raggledy hair,
An' bow to me in the winder there!
An' I 'd peek out, an' he'd peek in
An' waggle his whiskers an' bow ag'in,
Ist like the leaves'u'd wave in the breeze - 
Old Man Whiskery-Whee-Kum-Wheeze!
An' Old Man Whiskery-Whee-Kum-Wheeze,
Seem-like, says to me: "See my bees
A-bringin' my dinner? An' see my cup
O' locus'-blossoms they've plum' filled up?"
An' "Um-yum, honey!" wuz last he said,
An' waggled his whiskers an' bowed his head;
An' I yells, "Gimme some, won't you, please,
Old Man Whiskery-Whee-Kum-Wheeze?"
To An Old Mate
by Henry Lawson

Old Mate! In the gusty old weather,
When our hopes and our troubles were new,
In the years spent in wearing out leather,
I found you unselfish and true,
I have gathered these verses together
For the sake of our friendship and you.
You may think for awhile, and with reason,
Though still with a kindly regret,
That I've left it full late in the season
To prove I remember you yet;
But you'll never judge me by their treason
Who profit by friends, and forget.
I remember, Old Man, I remember,
The tracks that we followed are clear,
The jovial last nights of December,
The solemn first days of the year,
Long tramps through the clearings and timber,
Short partings on platform and pier.
I can still feel the spirit that bore us,
And often the old stars will shine,
I remember the last spree in chorus
For the sake of that other Lang Syne,
When the tracks lay divided before us,
Your path through the future and mine.
Through the frost-wind that cut like whip-lashes,
Through the ever-blind haze of the drought,
And in fancy at times by the flashes
Of light in the darkness of doubt,
I have followed the tent poles and ashes
Of camps that we moved further out.
You will find in these pages a trace of
That side of our past which was bright,
And recognise sometimes the face of
A friend who has dropped out of sight,
I send them along in the place of
The letters I promised to write.
Palestine
by Lola Ridge

Old plant of Asia - 
Mutilated vine
Holding earth's leaping sap
In every stem and shoot
That lopped off, sprouts again - 
Why should you seek a plateau walled about,
Whose garden is the world?
Picture Of An Old Man
by William Lisle Bowles

Old man, I saw thee in thy garden chair
Sitting in silence 'mid the shrubs and trees
Of thy small cottage-croft, whilst murmuring bees
Went by, and almost touched thy temples bare,
Edged with a few flakes of the whitest hair.
And, soothed by the faint hum of ebbing seas,
And song of birds, and breath of the young breeze,
Thus didst thou sit, feeling the summer air
Blow gently; with a sad still decadence,
Sinking to earth in hope, but all alone.
Oh! hast thou wept to feel the lonely sense
Of earthly loss, musing on voices gone!
Hush the vain murmur, that, without offence,
Thy head may rest in peace beneath the churchyard stone.
The Retort.
by George Pope Morris

Old Nick, who taught the village-school,
Wedded a maid of homespun habit;
He was as stubborn as a mule,
She was as playful as a rabbit.
Poor Jane had scarce become a wife,
Before her husband sought to make her
The pink of country-polished life,
And prim and formal as a Quaker.
One day the tutor went abroad,
And simple Jenny sadly missed him;
When he returned, behind her lord
She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him!
The husband's anger rose!--and red
And white his face alternate grew!
"Less freedom, ma'am!"--Jane sighed and said,
"OH, DEAR!    I DIDN'T KNOW 'TWAS YOU!"
The Council Held By The Rats
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
Old Rodilard,[2] a certain cat,
Such havoc of the rats had made,
'Twas difficult to find a rat
With nature's debt unpaid.
The few that did remain,
To leave their holes afraid,
From usual food abstain,
Not eating half their fill.
And wonder no one will
That one who made of rats his revel,
With rats pass'd not for cat, but devil.
Now, on a day, this dread rat-eater,
Who had a wife, went out to meet her;
And while he held his caterwauling,
The unkill'd rats, their chapter calling,
Discuss'd the point, in grave debate,
How they might shun impending fate.
Their dean, a prudent rat,
Thought best, and better soon than late,
To bell the fatal cat;
That, when he took his hunting round,
The rats, well caution'd by the sound,
Might hide in safety under ground;
Indeed he knew no other means.
And all the rest
At once confess'd
Their minds were with the dean's.
No better plan, they all believed,
Could possibly have been conceived,
No doubt the thing would work right well,
If any one would hang the bell.
But, one by one, said every rat,
'I'm not so big a fool as that.'
The plan, knock'd up in this respect,
The council closed without effect.
And many a council I have seen,
Or reverend chapter with its dean,
That, thus resolving wisely,
Fell through like this precisely.
To argue or refute
Wise counsellors abound;
The man to execute
Is harder to be found.
To An Hour-Glass.
by John Clare

Old-fashioned uncouth measurer of the day,
I love to watch thy filtering burthen pass;
Though some there are that live would bid thee stay;
But these view reasons through a different glass
From him, Time's meter, who addresses thee.
The world has joys which they may deem as such;
The world has wealth to season vanity,
And wealth is theirs to make their vainness much:
But small to do with joys and Fortune's fee
Hath he, Time's chronicler, who welcomes thee.
So jog thou on, through hours of doom'd distress;
So haste thou on the glimpse of hopes to come;
As every sand-grain counts a trouble less,
As every drain'd glass leaves me nearer home.
Old Trees
by Abram Joseph Ryan

Old trees, old trees! in your mystic gloom
There's many a warrior laid,
And many a nameless and lonely tomb
Is sheltered beneath your shade.
Old trees, old trees! without pomp or prayer
We buried the brave and the true,
We fired a volley and left them there
To rest, old trees, with you.
Old trees, old trees! keep watch and ward
Over each grass-grown bed;
'Tis a glory, old trees, to stand as guard
Over the Southern dead;
Old trees, old trees! we shall pass away
Like the leaves you yearly shed,
But ye, lone sentinels, still must stay,
Old trees, to guard "our dead".
Landing Schemes
by Paul Cameron Brown

Omens are the cloth of dreams
scissors used to open sky -
the future riding birds
en route to ariel docking piles.
Leonardo was of the opinion creativity might be
enhanced a notch should aspiring artists nota bene
principalities, bile, their rhumes as tiles
then perceive them piecemeal as stratagem, not snuff or
random blotch, the heads of diseased pigs
but conjuror-sextants toward the stars.
A Pastoral of Phyllis and Corydon
by Nicholas Breton

On a hill there grows a flower,
Fair befall the dainty sweet!
By that flower there is a bower,
Where the heavenly Muses meet.
In that bower there is a chair,
Fring'd all about with gold,
Where doth sit the fairest fair
That did ever eye behold.
It is Phyllis, fair and bright,
She that is the shepherds' joy,
She that Venus did despite,
And did blind her little boy.
This is she, the wise, the rich,
That the world desires to see:
This is ipsa qu', the which
There is none but only she.
Who would not this face admire?
Who would not this saint adore?
Who would not this sight desire,
Though he thought to see no more?
O, fair eyes, yet let me see,
One good look, and I am gone:
Look on me, for I am he,
Thy poor silly Corydon.
Thou that art the shepherds' queen,
Look upon thy silly swain;
By thy comfort have been seen
Dead men brought to life again.