DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
A Dialogue Between An Eminent Lawyer[1] And Dr. Jonathan Swift, D.S.P.D. In Allusion To Horace, Book II, Satire I
by Jonathan Swift

"Sunt quibus in Satir'," etc.
WRITTEN BY MR. LINDSAY, IN 1729
DR. SWIFT
Since there are persons who complain
There's too much satire in my vein;
That I am often found exceeding
The rules of raillery and breeding;
With too much freedom treat my betters,
Not sparing even men of letters:
You, who are skill'd in lawyers' lore,
What's your advice? Shall I give o'er?
Nor ever fools or knaves expose,
Either in verse or humorous prose:
And to avoid all future ill,
In my scrutoire lock up my quill?
LAWYER
Since you are pleased to condescend
To ask the judgment of a friend,
Your case consider'd, I must think
You should withdraw from pen and ink,
Forbear your poetry and jokes,
And live like other Christian folks;
Or if the Muses must inspire
Your fancy with their pleasing fire,
Take subjects safer for your wit
Than those on which you lately writ.
Commend the times, your thoughts correct,
And follow the prevailing sect;
Assert that Hyde,[2] in writing story,
Shows all the malice of a Tory;
While Burnet,[3] in his deathless page,
Discovers freedom without rage.
To Woolston[4] recommend our youth,
For learning, probity, and truth;
That noble genius, who unbinds
The chains which fetter freeborn minds;
Redeems us from the slavish fears
Which lasted near two thousand years;
He can alone the priesthood humble,
Make gilded spires and altars tumble.
DR. SWIFT
Must I commend against my conscience,
Such stupid blasphemy and nonsense;
To such a subject tune my lyre,
And sing like one of Milton's choir,
Where devils to a vale retreat,
And call the laws of Wisdom, Fate;
Lament upon their hapless fall,
That Force free Virtue should enthrall?
Or shall the charms of Wealth and Power
Make me pollute the Muses' bower?
LAWYER
As from the tripod of Apollo,
Hear from my desk the words that follow:
"Some, by philosophers misled,
Must honour you alive and dead;
And such as know what Greece has writ,
Must taste your irony and wit;
While most that are, or would be great,
Must dread your pen, your person hate;
And you on Drapier's hill[5] must lie,
And there without a mitre die."
Human Knowledge.
by Friedrich Schiller

Since thou readest in her what thou thyself hast there written,
And, to gladden the eye, placest her wonders in groups; 
Since o'er her boundless expanses thy cords to extend thou art able,
Thou dost think that thy mind wonderful Nature can grasp.
Thus the astronomer draws his figures over the heavens,
So that he may with more ease traverse the infinite space,
Knitting together e'en suns that by Sirius-distance are parted,
Making them join in the swan and in the horns of the bull.
But because the firmament shows him its glorious surface,
Can he the spheres' mystic dance therefore decipher aright?
Every Thing
by Harold Edward Monro

Since man has been articulate,
Mechanical, improvidently wise,
(Servant of Fate),
He has not understood the little cries
And foreign conversations of the small
Delightful creatures that have followed him
Not far behind;
Has failed to hear the sympathetic call
Of Crockery and Cutlery, those kind
Reposeful Teraphim
Of his domestic happiness; the Stool
He sat on, or the Door he entered through:
He has not thanked them, overbearing fool!
What is he coming to?
But you should listen to the talk of these.
Honest they are, and patient they have kept,
Served him without his 'Thank you' or his 'Please'.
I often heard
The gentle Bed, a sigh between each word,
Murmuring, before I slept.
The Candle, as I blew it, cried aloud,
Then bowed,
And in a smoky argument
Into the darkness went.
The Kettle puffed a tentacle of breath: -
'Pooh! I have boiled his water, I don't know
Why; and he always says I boil too slow.
He never calls me "Sukie, dear," and oh,
I wonder why I squander my desire
Sitting submissive on his kitchen fire.'
Now the old Copper Basin suddenly
Rattled and tumbled from the shelf,
Bumping and crying: 'I can fall by myself;
Without a woman's hand
To patronize and coax and flatter me,
I understand
The lean and poise of gravitable land.'
It gave a raucous and tumultuous shout,
Twisted itself convulsively about,
Rested upon the floor, and, while I stare,
It stares and grins at me.
The old impetuous Gas above my head
Begins irascibly to flare and fret,
Wheezing into its epileptic jet,
Reminding me I ought to go to bed.
The Rafters creak; an Empty-Cupboard door
Swings open; now a wild Plank of the floor
Breaks from its joist, and leaps behind my foot.
Down from the chimney half a pound of Soot
Tumbles, and lies, and shakes itself again.
The Putty cracks against the window-pane.
A piece of Paper in the basket shoves
Another piece, and toward the bottom moves.
My independent Pencil, while I write,
Breaks at the point: the ruminating Clock
Stirs all its body and begins to rock,
Warning the waiting presence of the Night,
Strikes the dead hour, and tumbles to the plain
Ticking of ordinary work again.
You do well to remind me, and I praise
Your strangely individual foreign ways.
You call me from myself to recognize
Companionship in your unselfish eyes.
I want your dear acquaintances, although
I pass you arrogantly over, throw
Your lovely sounds, and squander them along
My busy days. I'll do you no more wrong.
Purr for me, Sukie, like a faithful cat.
You, my well trampled Boots, and you, my Hat,
Remain my friends: I feel, though I don't speak,
Your touch grow kindlier from week to week.
It well becomes our mutual happiness
To go toward the same end more or less.
There is not much dissimilarity,
Not much to choose, I know it well, in fine,
Between the purposes of you and me,
And your eventual Rubbish Heap, and mine.
Hymn.
by William Hayley

Since the Evening of Life will soon close,
While I live, may I justly incline
To diffuse peace of heart among those,
Whose lives may be guided by mine!
To Christ may I lead them to own
The charms of his tender controul,
And with gratitude gaze on His throne.
Whom to serve is the joy of the soul!
Sonnets: Idea LXI
by Michael Drayton

Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part,
Nay I have done, you get no more of me;
And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart,
That thus so cleanly I myself can free;
Shakes hands for ever, cancel all our vows,
And when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows
That we one jot of former love retain.
Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath,
When his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies,
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And Innocence is closing up his eyes:
Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,
From death to life thou might'st him yet recover!
To Sir Walter Scott. -
by William Lisle Bowles

Since last I saw that countenance so mild,
Slow-stealing age, and a faint line of care,
Had gently touched, methought, some features there;
Yet looked the man as placid as a child,
And the same voice, whilst mingled with the throng,
Unknowing, and unknown, we passed along,
That voice, a share of the brief time beguiled!
That voice I ne'er may hear again, I sighed
At parting, wheresoe'er our various way,
In this great world, but from the banks of Tweed,
As slowly sink the shades of eventide,
Oh! I shall hear the music of his reed,
Far off, and thinking of that voice, shall say,
A blessing rest upon thy locks of gray!
The Truth
by William Henry Davies

Since I have seen a bird one day,
His head pecked more than half away;
That hopped about, with but one eye,
Ready to fight again, and die, 
Ofttimes since then their private lives
Have spoilt that joy their music gives.
So when I see this robin now,
Like a red apple on the bough,
And question why he sings so strong,
For love, or for the love of song;
Or sings, maybe, for that sweet rill
Whose silver tongue is never still, 
Ah, now there comes this thought unkind,
Born of the knowledge in my mind:
He sings in triumph that last night
He killed his father in a fight;
And now he'll take his mother's blood, 
The last strong rival for his food.
Sing A Song Of Sixpence
by Walter Crane

Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of rye,
Four and twenty black-birds,
Baked in a pie
When the pie was open'd
The birds began to sing
Was'nt that a dainty dish
To set before the King?
The King was in his counting-house,
Counting out his money.
The Queen was in the parlour,
Eating bread and honey.
The maid was in the garden,
Hanging out the clothes;
There came a little blackbird,
And nipp'd off her nose.
Yet
by Owen Seaman

(AFTER F. E. W.)
Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!
Sing by the sunset's glow;
Now while the shadows are long, darling;
Now while the lights are low;
Something so chaste and so coy, darling!
Something that melts the chest;
Milder than even Molloy, darling!
Better than Bingham's best.
Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!
Sing as you sang of yore,
Lisping of love that is strong, darling!
Strong as a big barn-door;
Let the true knight be bold, darling!
Let him arrive too late;
Stick in a bower of gold, darling!
Stick in a golden gate.
Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!
Bear on the angels' wings
Children that know no wrong, darling!
Little cherubic things!
Sing of their sunny hair, darling!
Get them to die in June;
Wake, if you can, on the stair, darling!
Echoes of tiny shoon.
Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!
Sentiment may be false,
Yet it will worry along, darling!
Set to a tum-tum valse;
See that the verses are few, darling!
Keep to the rule of three;
That will be better for you, darling!
Certainly better for me.
The Nuts Of Knowledge
by George William Russell

'Sinend daughter of Lodan Lucharglan, son of Lir, out of the
Land of Promise went to Connlas' Well which is under the
sea, to behold it. That is a well at which are the hazels of
wisdom and inspiration that is, the hazels of the science of
poetry; and in the same hour their fruit and their blossom &
their foliage break forth, and then fall upon the well in
the same shower, which raises upon the water a royal surge
of purple.'
Tray
by Robert Browning

Sing me a hero! Quench my thirst
Of soul, ye bards!
Quoth Bard the first:
"Sir Olaf, the good knight, did don
His helm, and eke his habergeon ..."
Sir Olaf and his bard--!
"That sin-scathed brow" (quoth Bard the second),
"That eye wide ope as tho' Fate beckoned
My hero to some steep, beneath
Which precipice smiled tempting Death ..."
You too without your host have reckoned!
"A beggar-child" (let's hear this third!)
"Sat on a quay's edge: like a bird
Sang to herself at careless play,
And fell into the stream. 'Dismay!
Help, you the standers-by!' None stirred.
"Bystanders reason, think of wives
And children ere they risk their lives.
Over the balustrade has bounced
A mere instinctive dog, and pounced
Plumb on the prize. 'How well he dives!
"'Up he comes with the child, see, tight
In mouth, alive too, clutched from quite
A depth of ten feet, twelve, I bet!
Good dog! What, off again? There's yet
Another child to save? All right!
"'How strange we saw no other fall!
It's instinct in the animal.
Good dog! But he's a long while under:
If he got drowned I should not wonder,
Strong current, that against the wall!
"'Here lie comes, holds in mouth this time
What may the thing be? Well, that's prime!
Now, did you ever? Reason reigns
In man alone, since all Tray's pains
Have fished, the child's doll from the slime!'
"And so, amid the laughter gay,
Trotted my hero off, old Tray,
Till somebody, prerogatived
With reason, reasoned: 'Why he dived,
His brain would show us, I should say.
"'John, go and catch, or, if needs be,
Purchase that animal for me!
By vivisection, at expense
Of half-an-hour and eighteen pence,
How brain secretes dog's soul, we'll see!'"
Nursery Rhyme. CXXXVIII. Songs.
by Unknown

[The first line of this nursery rhyme is quoted in Beaumont and Fletcher's Bonduca, Act v, sc. 2. It is probable also that Sir Toby alludes to this song in Twelfth Night, Act ii, sc. 2, when he says, "Come on; there is sixpence for you; let's have a song." In Epulario, or the Italian banquet, 1589, is a receipt "to make pies so that the birds may be alive in them and flie out when it is cut up," a mere device, live birds being introduced after the pie is made. This may be the original subject of the following song.]
Sing a song of sixpence,
A bag full of rye;
Four and twenty blackbirds
Baked in a pie;
When the pie was open'd,
The birds began to sing;
Was not that a dainty dish,
To set before the king?
The king was in his counting-house
Counting out his money;
The queen was in the parlour
Eating bread and honey;
The maid was in the garden
Hanging out the clothes,
There came a little blackbird,
And snapt off her nose.
Jenny was so mad,
She didn't know what to do;
She put her finger in her ear,
And crackt it right in two.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCXIV. Jingles.
by Unknown

Sing jigmijole, the pudding-bowl,
The table and the frame;
My master he did cudgel me
For speaking of my dame.
Sing For The Garish Eye
by William Schwenck Gilbert

Sing for the garish eye,
When moonless brandlings cling!
Let the froddering crooner cry,
And the braddled sapster sing.
For never, and never again,
Will the tottering beechlings play,
For bratticed wrackers are singing aloud,
And the throngers croon in May!
The wracking globe unstrung,
Unstrung in the frittering light
Of a moon that knows no day,
Of a day that knows no night!
Diving away in the crowd
Of sparkling frets in spray,
The bratticed wrackers are singing aloud,
And the throngers croon in May!
Hasten, O hapful blue,
Blue, of the shimmering brow,
Hasten the deed to do
That shall roddle the welkin now!
For never again shall a cloud
Out-thribble the babbling day,
When bratticed wrackers are singing aloud,
And the throngers croon in May!
Ye Song Of Sixpence
by Walter Crane

1.
Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket fall of rye;
Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie;
When the pie was open the birds began to sing,
Wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the king?
2.
The king was in his counting-house counting out his money;
The queen was in the parlour eating bread and honey;
The maid was in the garden hanging out her clothes,
When up came a blackbird and pecked off her nose.
Baloo Loo For Jenny.
by Robert von Ranke Graves

Sing baloo loo for Jenny
And where is she gone?
Away to spy her mother's land,
Riding all alone.
To the rich towns of Scotland,
The woods and the streams,
High upon a Spanish horse
Saddled for her dreams.
By Oxford and by Chester,
To Berwick-on-the-Tweed,
Then once across the borderland
She shall find no need.
A loaf for her at Stirling,
A scone at Carlisle,
Honeyed cakes at Edinbro', 
That shall make her smile.
At Aberdeen clear cider,
Mead for her at Nairn,
A cup of wine at John o' Groats, 
That shall please my bairn.
Sing baloo loo for Jenny,
Mother will be fain
To see her little truant child
Riding home again.
The O'Rahilly
by William Butler Yeats

Sing of the O'Rahilly,
Do not deny his right;
Sing a "the' before his name;
Allow that he, despite
All those learned historians,
Established it for good;
He wrote out that word himself,
He christened himself with blood.
i(How goes the weather?)
Sing of the O'Rahilly
That had such little sense
He told Pearse and Connolly
He'd gone to great expense
Keeping all the Kerry men
Out of that crazy fight;
That he might be there himself
Had travelled half the night.
i(How goes the weather?)
"Am I such a craven that
I should not get the word
But for what some travelling man
Had heard I had not heard?"
Then on pearse and Connolly
He fixed a bitter look:
"Because I helped to wind the clock
I come to hear it strike."
i(How goes the weather?)
What remains to sing about
But of the death he met
Stretched under a doorway
Somewhere off Henry Street;
They that found him found upon
The door above his head
"Here died the O'Rahilly.
R.I.P." writ in blood.
i(How goes the weather.?)
The Future of Australia
by Mary Hannay Foott

Sing us the Land of the Southern Sea,
The land we have called our own;
Tell us what harvest there shall be
From the seed that we have sown.
We love the legends of olden days,
The songs of the wind and wave;
And border ballads and minstrel lays,
And the poems Shakespeare gave,
The fireside carols and battle rhymes,
And romaunt of the knightly ring;
And the chant with hint of cathedral chimes,
Of him 'made blind to sing.'
The tears they tell of our brethren wept,
Their praise is our fathers' fame;
They sing of the seas our navies swept,
Of the shrines that lent us flame.
But the Past is past, with all its pride,
And its ways are not our ways.
We watch the flow of a fresher tide
And the dawn of newer days.
Sing us the Isle of the Southern Sea,
The land we have called our own;
Tell us what harvest there shall be
From the seed that we have sown.
I see the Child we are tending now
To a queenly stature grown;
The jewels of empire on her brow,
And the purple round her thrown.
She feeds her household plenteously
From the granaries we have filled;
Her vintage is gathered in with glee
From the fields our toil has tilled.
The Old World's outcast starvelings feast,
Ungrudged, on her corn and wine;
The gleaners are welcome, from west and east,
Where her autumn sickles shine.
She clothes her people in silk and wool,
Whose warp and whose woof we spun;
And sons and daughters are hers to rule;
And of slaves, she has not one!
There are herds of hers on a thousand hills!
There are fleecy flocks untold?
No foreign conquest her coffer fills,
She has streams whose sands are gold!
She shall not scramble for falling crowns,
No theft her soul shall soil,
So rich in rivers, so dowered with downs,
She shall have no need of spoil!
But if, wronged or menaced, she shall stand
Where the battle-surges swell,
Be a sword from Heaven in her swarthy hand
Like the sword of La Pucelle!
If there be ever so base a foe
As to speak of a time-cleansed stain,
To say, 'She was cradled long ago,
'Mid clank of the convict's chain.'
Ask, as the taunt in his teeth is hurled,
'What lineage sprang SHE from
Who was Empress, once, of the Pagan World
And the Queen of Christendom?'
When the toilsome years of her youth are o'er,
And her children round her throng;
They shall learn from her of the sage's lore,
And her lips shall teach them song.
Then of those in the dust who dwell,
May there kindly mention be,
When the birds that build in the branches tell
Of the planting of the tree.
The Birds' Lullaby
by Emily Pauline Johnson

I
Sing to us, cedars; the twilight is creeping
With shadowy garments, the wilderness through;
All day we have carolled, and now would be sleeping,
So echo the anthems we warbled to you;
While we swing, swing,
And your branches sing,
And we drowse to your dreamy whispering.
II
Sing to us, cedars; the night-wind is sighing,
Is wooing, is pleading, to hear you reply;
And here in your arms we are restfully lying,
And longing to dream to your soft lullaby;
While we swing, swing,
And your branches sing,
And we drowse to your dreamy whispering.
III
Sing to us, cedars; your voice is so lowly,
Your breathing so fragrant, your branches so strong;
Our little nest-cradles are swaying so slowly,
While zephyrs are breathing their slumberous song.
And we swing, swing,
While your branches sing,
And we drowse to your dreamy whispering.
Love's Victory.
by Thomas Moore

Sing to Love--for, oh, 'twas he
Who won the glorious day;
Strew the wreaths of victory
Along the conqueror's way.
Yoke the Muses to his car,
Let them sing each trophy won;
While his mother's joyous star
Shall light the triumph on.
Hail to Love, to mighty Love,
Let spirits sing around;
While the hill, the dale, and grove,
With "mighty Love" resound;
Or, should a sigh of sorrow steal
Amid the sounds thus echoed o'er,
'Twill but teach the god to feel
His victories the more.
See his wings, like amethyst
Of sunny Ind their hue;
Bright as when, by Psyche kist,
They trembled thro' and thro'.
Flowers spring beneath his feet;
Angel forms beside him run;
While unnumbered lips repeat
"Love's victory is won!"
Hail to Love, to mighty Love,
etc,
Sonnet, Written On The Twenty-Fifth Of January, 1793, The Birthday Of The Author, On Hearing A Thrush Sing In A Morning Walk.
by Robert Burns

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain:
See, aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign,
At thy blythe carol clears his furrow'd brow.
So, in lone Poverty's dominion drear,
Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart,
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.
I thank Thee, Author of this opening day!
Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies!
Riches denied, Thy boon was purer joys,
What wealth could never give nor take away.
Yet come, thou child of poverty and care,
The mite high Heaven bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share.
Julie-Jane
by Thomas Hardy

Sing; how 'a would sing!
How 'a would raise the tune
When we rode in the waggon from harvesting
By the light o' the moon!
Dance; how 'a would dance!
If a fiddlestring did but sound
She would hold out her coats, give a slanting glance,
And go round and round.
Laugh; how 'a would laugh!
Her peony lips would part
As if none such a place for a lover to quaff
At the deeps of a heart.
Julie, O girl of joy,
Soon, soon that lover he came.
Ah, yes; and gave thee a baby-boy,
But never his name . . .
- Tolling for her, as you guess;
And the baby too . . . 'Tis well.
You knew her in maidhood likewise? - Yes,
That's her burial bell.
"I suppose," with a laugh, she said,
"I should blush that I'm not a wife;
But how can it matter, so soon to be dead,
What one does in life!"
When we sat making the mourning
By her death-bed side, said she,
"Dears, how can you keep from your lovers, adorning
In honour of me!"
Bubbling and brightsome eyed!
But now - O never again.
She chose her bearers before she died
From her fancy-men.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCXI. Jingles.
by Unknown

Sing, sing, what shall I sing?
The cat has eat the pudding-string;
Do, do, what shall I do?
The cat has bit it quite in two.
A Song Of Singing
by James Whitcomb Riley

Sing! gangling lad, along the brink
Of wild brook-ways of shoal and deep,
Where killdees dip, and cattle drink,
And glinting little minnows leap!
Sing! slimpsy lass who trips above
And sets the foot-log quivering!
Sing! bittern, bumble-bee, and dove - 
Sing! Sing! Sing!
Sing as you will, O singers all
Who sing because you want to sing!
Sing! peacock on the orchard wall,
Or tree-toad by the trickling spring!
Sing! every bird on every bough - 
Sing! every living, loving thing - 
Sing any song, and anyhow,
But Sing! Sing! Sing!
Drunkards
by Unknown

Sing a song of sick gents,
Pockets full of rye,
Four and twenty highballs,
We wish that we might die.
To Julia
by Thomas Oldham

Sing, lovely Girl! to hear Thee sing
Hush'd is the listening air;
My spirit trembles on the wing,
And no delay can bear.
Those down-cast eyes, that smile supprest,
Thy conscious power betray;
Yet, Siren! grant the bold request;
Come, steal my heart away.
See, see, those ruby lips divide;
An ivory shrine appears;
There Harmony and Love reside,
To ravish mortal ears.
And hark! they from that sweet recess
Breathe their celestial lays;
The enchanting sounds my thought possess
With rapture and amaze.
Still pressing on with strong control
I feel the lavish strain,
Till drunk with bliss, my wilder'd soul
Reels on the brink of pain.
Ah! how could I so rashly dare
Contend with Powers divine?
The pride of victory forbear;
My heart is wholly thine.
Caelia - Sonnet - 5
by William Browne

Sing soft, ye pretty birds, while C'lia sleeps,
And gentle gales play gently with the leaves;
Learn of the neighbour brooks, whose silent deeps
Would teach him fear, that her soft sleep bereaves
Mine oaten reed, devoted to her praise,
(A theme that would befit the Delphian lyre)
Give way, that I in silence may admire.
Is not her sleep like that of innocents,
Sweet as herself; and is she not more fair,
Almost in death, than are the ornaments
Of fruitful trees, which newly budding are?
She is, and tell it, Truth, when she shall lie
And sleep for ever, for she cannot die.