DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
On The Irish Club. [1]
by Jonathan Swift

Ye paltry underlings of state,
Ye senators who love to prate;
Ye rascals of inferior note,
Who, for a dinner, sell a vote;
Ye pack of pensionary peers,
Whose fingers itch for poets' ears;
Ye bishops, far removed from saints,
Why all this rage? Why these complaints?
Why against printers all this noise?
This summoning of blackguard boys?
Why so sagacious in your guesses?
Your effs, and tees, and arrs, and esses!
Take my advice; to make you safe,
I know a shorter way by half.
The point is plain; remove the cause;
Defend your liberties and laws.
Be sometimes to your country true,
Have once the public good in view:
Bravely despise champagne at court,
And choose to dine at home with port:
Let prelates, by their good behaviour,
Convince us they believe a Saviour;
Nor sell what they so dearly bought,
This country, now their own, for nought.
Ne'er did a true satiric muse
Virtue or innocence abuse;
And 'tis against poetic rules
To rail at men by nature fools:
But        *        *        *
*            *        *        *
The Doubters And The Lovers.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Ye love, and sonnets write! Fate's strange behest!
The heart, its hidden meaning to declare,
Must seek for rhymes, uniting pair with pair:
Learn, children, that the will is weak, at best.
Scarcely with freedom the o'erflowing breast
As yet can speak, and well may it beware;
Tempestuous passions sweep each chord that's there,
Then once more sink to night and gentle rest.
Why vex yourselves and us, the heavy stone
Up the steep path but step by step to roll?
It falls again, and ye ne'er cease to strive.
THE LOVERS.
But we are on the proper road alone!
If gladly is to thaw the frozen soul,
The fire of love must aye be kept alive.
Bamborough Castle
by William Lisle Bowles

Ye holy Towers that shade the wave-worn steep,
Long may ye rear your aged brows sublime,
Though, hurrying silent by, relentless Time
Assail you, and the winds of winter sweep
Round your dark battlements; for far from halls
Of Pride, here Charity hath fixed her seat,
Oft listening, tearful, when the tempests beat
With hollow bodings round your ancient walls;
And Pity, at the dark and stormy hour
Of midnight, when the moon is hid on high,
Keeps her lone watch upon the topmost tower,
And turns her ear to each expiring cry;
Blessed if her aid some fainting wretch may save,
And snatch him cold and speechless from the wave.
To the Pines.
by Alfred Castner King

Ye sad musicians of the wood,
Whose dirges fill the solitude,
Whose minor strains and melodies
Are wafted on the whispering breeze,
Whose plaintive chants and listless sighs,
Ascend as incense to the skies;
Do solemn tones afford relief,
With you, as men, a vent for grief?
Helpstone Green.
by John Clare

Ye injur'd fields, ye once were gay,
When nature's hand display'd
Long waving rows of willows grey,
And clumps of hawthorn shade;
But now, alas! your hawthorn bowers
All desolate we see,
The spoilers' axe their shade devours,
And cuts down every tree.
Not trees alone have own'd their force,
Whole woods beneath them bow'd;
They turn'd the winding rivulet's course,
And all thy pastures plough'd;
To shrub or tree throughout thy fields
They no compassion show;
The uplifted axe no mercy yields,
But strikes a fatal blow.
Whene'er I muse along the plain,
And mark where once they grew,
Remembrance wakes her busy train
And brings past scenes to view:
The well-known brook, the favourite tree,
In fancy's eye appear,
And next, that pleasant green I see,
That green for ever dear.
O'er its green hills I've often stray'd
In childhood's happy hour,
Oft sought the nest along the shade
And gather'd many a flower;
And there, with playmates often join'd
In fresher sports to plan;
But now increasing years have coin'd
Those children into man.
The green s gone too--ah, lovely scene!
No more the kingcup gay
Shall shine in yellow o'er the green,
And shed its golden ray;
No more the herdsman's early call
Shall bring the cows to feed,
No more the milkmaid's evening bawl
In "Come mull" tones succeed.
Both milkmaid's shouts and herdsman's call
Have vanish'd with the green,
The kingcups yellow, shades and all,
Shall never more be seen;
But the thick-cultur'd tribes that grow
1 Will so efface the scene,
That after-times will hardly know
It ever was a green.
Farewel, thou favourite spot, farewel!
Since every effort's vain,
All 1 can do is still to tell
Of thy delightful plain;
But that joy's short;--increasing years,
That did my youth presage,
Will now, as each new day appears,
Bring on declining age.
Reflection pierces deadly keen,
While I the moral scan,--
As are the change of the green
So is the life of man:
Youth brings age with faltering tongue,
That does the exit crave;
There's one short scene presents the throng,
Another shows the grave.
Of The Death Of The Right Hon. ***
by Oliver Goldsmith

Ye Muses, pour the pitying tear
For Pollio snatch'd away;
O! had he liv'd another year! 
'He had not died to-day'.
O! were he born to bless mankind,
In virtuous times of yore,
Heroes themselves had fallen behind! 
'Whene'er he went before'.
How sad the groves and plains appear,
And sympathetic sheep;
Even pitying hills would drop a tear! 
'If hills could learn to weep'.
His bounty in exalted strain
Each bard might well display;
Since none implor'd relief in vain! 
'That went reliev'd away'.
And hark! I hear the tuneful throng
His obsequies forbid,
He still shall live, shall live as long! 
'As ever dead man did'.
Heather Bells.
by John Hartley

Ye little flowrets, wild an free,
Yo're welcome, aye as onny!
Ther's but few seets 'at meet mi ee
'At ivver seem as bonny.
Th' furst gift 'at Lizzie gave to me,
Wor a bunch o' bloomin heather,
Shoo pluckt it off o'th' edge o'th' lea,
Whear we'd been set together.
An when shoo put it i' mi hand,
A silent tear wor wellin
Within her ee; - it fell to th' graand,
A doleful stooary tellin.
"It is a little gift," shoo sed,
"An sooin will fade an wither,
Yet, still, befooar its bloom is shed,
We two mun pairt for ivver."
I tried to cheer her trubbled mind,
Wi' tender words endearin;
An raand her neck mi arms entwined,
But grief her breast wor tearin.
"Why should mi parents sell for gold,
Ther dowter's life-long pleasure?
Noa charm 'at riches can unfold,
Can match a true love's treasure."
"But still, aw mun obey ther will, - 
It isn't reight to thwart it;
But mi heart's love clings to thee still,
An nowt but deeath can part it,
Forgie me if aw cause a pang, - 
Aw'll love thee as a brother, - 
Mi heart is thine, an oh! its wrang,
Mi hand to give another."
"Think on me when theas fields grow bare,
An cold winds kill the flowers,
Ov bitterness they have a share;
Their lot is like to awrs.
An if aw'm doomed to pine away,
Wi' pleasure's cup untasted,
Just drop a tear aboon the clay,
'At hides a young life wasted."
"Why should awr lot soa bitter be,
Theas burds 'at sing together,
When storms are commin off they flee,
To lands ov sunny wreather?
An nah, when trubbles threaten thee
What should prevent thee gooin,
An linkin on thi fate wi' me,
Withaat thi parents knowin?"
"Tha knows my love is soa sincere,
Noa risk can mak it falter,
Soa put aside all daat an fear,
An goa wi' me to th' altar
I' one month's time my wife tha'll be, - 
Or less if tha'll but shorten it."
"Well then," says Lizzy, "aw'll agree,
Tha'st have me in a fortnit."
Shoo laft an cried, - aw laft as weel,
Aw feear'd shoo did'nt meean it;
But Lizzie proved as true as steel, - 
Her fowk sed nowt ageean it.
An who that wealthy chap could be,
Aw nivver shall detarmin,
For if aw ax shoo glints wi' glee.
An says, "Thee mind thi farmin."
An soa aw till mi bit o' graand,
An oft when aght together,
I'th' cooil o'th' day we saunter raand
An pluck a sprig o' heather.
Soa sweethearts nooat theas simple facts,
An trust i' one another;
A lass i' love ne'er stops to ax,
Her fayther or her mother.
Epitaph On William Nicol.
by Robert Burns

Ye maggots, feast on Nicol's brain,
For few sic feasts ye've gotten;
And fix your claws in Nicol's heart,
For deil a bit o't's rotten.
Sonnet, On Taking A Favourite Walk, After Recovery From Sickness
by Thomas Oldham

Ye scenes beloved! O welcome once again!
Forbidden long to my desiring sight,
Now, now! triumphant o'er disease and pain,
I visit ye with fresh, increased delight.
Vine-mantled Hills, whose heights I joy'd to climb,
The Morn's sweet infant breathings to inhale;
River! whose banks I roved in trance sublime,
While fancy-whispering Eve spread soft her veil;
And thou, O Wood, in whose moon-checkered shade
The nightly songstress oft has charm'd my ear
Till Morning told me I so long had stay'd:
Hail all ye objects to my memory dear!
Once more, to feel the transports ye impart,
Health wakes my every sense and tunes my heart.
Ye Mariners Of England
by Thomas Campbell

Ye Mariners of England
That guard our native seas,
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze,
Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe!
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow,
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave.
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow,
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
Britannia needs no bulwarks,
No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak
She quells the floods below,
As they roar on the shore
When the stormy winds do blow,
When the battle rages loud and long
And the stormy winds do blow.
The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn,
Till danger's troubled night depart
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow,
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.
Answered
by Nancy Rebecca Campbell Glass

Ye realms of beauty from afar,
What speak ye to the saddened soul?
What is the message of each star
As ever ceaselessly ye roll?
Thus do ye answer: "We declare
God's glory; and to you 'tis given
To cast on him your every care,
For he hath wound the clock of heaven."
Ye hoary hills which have looked down
On all the centuries of time,
Have felt their touch without a frown,
And with indifference sublime,
What would ye speak, if understood,
Of life with all its woes and ills?
'Tis this: to all they work for good
Who love the maker of the hills.
Sonnet.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Ye hasten to the grave! What seek ye there,
Ye restless thoughts and busy purposes
Of the idle brain, which the world's livery wear?
O thou quick heart, which pantest to possess
All that pale Expectation feigneth fair!
Thou vainly curious mind which wouldest guess
Whence thou didst come, and whither thou must go,
And all that never yet was known would know -
Oh, whither hasten ye, that thus ye press,
With such swift feet life's green and pleasant path,
Seeking, alike from happiness and woe,
A refuge in the cavern of gray death?
O heart, and mind, and thoughts! what thing do you
Hope to inherit in the grave below?
Advice To The Grub-Street Verse-Writers
by Jonathan Swift

Ye poets ragged and forlorn,
Down from your garrets haste;
Ye rhymers, dead as soon as born,
Not yet consign'd to paste;
I know a trick to make you thrive;
O, 'tis a quaint device:
Your still-born poems shall revive,
And scorn to wrap up spice.
Get all your verses printed fair,
Then let them well be dried;
And Curll[1] must have a special care
To leave the margin wide.
Lend these to paper-sparing[2] Pope;
And when he sets to write,
No letter with an envelope
Could give him more delight.
When Pope has fill'd the margins round,
Why then recall your loan;
Sell them to Curll for fifty pound,
And swear they are your own.
Chorus Of Athenians
by Alexander Pope

Strophe I
Ye shades, where sacred truth is sought;
Groves, where immortal Sages taught;
Where heav'nly visions of Plato fir'd,
And Epicurus lay inspir'd!
In vain your guiltless laurels stood
Unspotted long with human blood.
War, horrid war, your thoughtful walks invades,
And steel now glitters in the Muses' shades.
Antistrophe I
Oh heav'n-born sisters! source of art!
Who charm the sense, or mend the heart;
Who lead fair Virtue's train along,
Moral Truth, and mystic Song!
To what new clime, what distant sky,
Forsaken, friendless, shall ye fly?
Say, will you bless the bleak Atlantic shore?
Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?
Strophe II
When Athens sinks by fates unjust,
When wild Barbarians spurn her dust;
Perhaps ev'n Britain's utmost shore,
Shall cease to blush with strager's gore.
See Arts her savage sons control,
And Athens rising near the pole!
'Till some new Tyrant lifts his purple hand,
And civil madness tears them from this land.
Antistrophe II
Ye Gods! what justice rules the ball?
Freedom and Arts together fall;
Fools grant whate'er Ambition craves,
And men, once ignorant, are slaves.
Oh curs'd effects of civil hate,
In ev'ry age, in ev'ry state!
Still, when the lust of tyrant power succeeds,
Some Athens perishes, some Tully bleeds.
On A Distant View Of The Village And School Of Harrow On The Hill, 1806.
by George Gordon Byron

Oh! mihi pr'teritos referat si Jupiter annos.[1]
- Virgil.
1.
Ye scenes of my childhood, whose lov'd recollection
Embitters the present, compar'd with the past;
Where science first dawn'd on the powers of reflection,
And friendships were form'd, too romantic to last; [2]
2.
Where fancy, yet, joys to retrace the resemblance
Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied; [3]
How welcome to me your ne'er fading remembrance,
Which rests in the bosom, though hope is deny'd!
3.
Again I revisit the hills where we sported,
The streams where we swam, and the fields where we fought; [4]
The school where, loud warn'd by the bell, we resorted,
To pore o'er the precepts by Pedagogues taught.
4.
Again I behold where for hours I have ponder'd,
As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone [5] I lay;
Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander'd,
To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray.
5.
I once more view the room, with spectators surrounded,
Where, as Zanga, [6] I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown;
While, to swell my young pride, such applauses resounded,
I fancied that Mossop [7] himself was outshone.
6.
Or, as Lear, I pour'd forth the deep imprecation,
By my daughters, of kingdom and reason depriv'd;
Till, fir'd by loud plaudits and self-adulation,
I regarded myself as a Garrick reviv'd.
7.
Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you!
Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast;
Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you:
Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest.
8.
To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me,
While Fate shall the shades of the future unroll!
Since Darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me,
More dear is the beam of the past to my soul!
9.
But if, through the course of the years which await me,
Some new scene of pleasure should open to view,
I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me,
"Oh! such were the days which my infancy knew." [8]
On The Death Of Elizabeth Fry And Sir T. F. Buxton.
by Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

Ye have met, ye have met, disencumbered of pain,
Of sorrow, and sickness, and care;
And the slave and the prisoner, now freed from their chain,
Have rejoicingly welcomed you there.
The true light now shines and the darkness is past,
For that which is perfect is come,
And your pure loving spirits are gathered at last,
In their only congenial home.
May the balm of your memory steal through the soul,
Like a gale from Arabia the blest,
Exert o'er the feelings a sacred control,
And hush every murmur to rest!
In the world we shall seek your resemblance in vain,
Your places shall know you no more;
Yet who by a wish would recall you again?
For the days of your mourning are o'er.
The King in His beauty your eyes now behold,
He has sweetly dispelled all your fears;
To the well-spring of waters the Lamb leads His fold,
And God wipes away all their tears.
Great grace was upon you, and oh! unto us
May a manifold portion be given,
That through pardoning love we may mingle above.
A circle unbroken in Heaven!
The Flowers.
by Friedrich Schiller

Ye offspring of the morning sun,
Ye flowers that deck the smiling plain,
Your lives, in joy and bliss begun,
In Nature's love unchanged remain.
With hues of bright and godlike splendor
Sweet Flora graced your forms so tender,
And clothed ye in a garb of light;
Spring's lovely children weep forever,
For living souls she gave ye never,
And ye must dwell in endless night?
The nightingale and lark still sing
In your tranced ears the bliss of love;
The toying sylphs, on airy wing,
Around your fragrant bosoms rove,
Of yore, Dione's daughter [6] twining
In garlands sweet your cup-so shining,
A pillow formed where love might rest!
Spring's gentle children, mourn forever,
The joys of love she gave ye never,
Ne'er let ye know that feeling blest!
But when ye're gathered by my hand,
A token of my love to be,
Now that her mother's harsh command
From Nanny's [7] sight has banished me
E'en from that passing touch ye borrow
Those heralds mute of pleasing sorrow,
Life, language, hearts and souls divine;
And to your silent leaves 'tis given,
By Him who mightiest is in heaven,
His glorious Godhead to enshrine.
Palinodia
by Charles Kingsley

Ye mountains, on whose torrent-furrowed slopes,
And bare and silent brows uplift to heaven,
I envied oft the soul which fills your wastes
Of pure and stern sublime, and still expanse
Unbroken by the petty incidents
Of noisy life:    Oh hear me once again!
Winds, upon whose racked eddies, far aloft,
Above the murmur of the uneasy world,
My thoughts in exultation held their way:
Whose tremulous whispers through the rustling glade
Were once to me unearthly tones of love,
Joy without object, wordless music, stealing
Through all my soul, until my pulse beat fast
With aimless hope, and unexpressed desire--
Thou sea, who wast to me a prophet deep
Through all thy restless waves, and wasting shores,
Of silent labour, and eternal change;
First teacher of the dense immensity
Of ever-stirring life, in thy strange forms
Of fish, and shell, and worm, and oozy weed:
To me alike thy frenzy and thy sleep
Have been a deep and breathless joy:    Oh hear!
Mountains, and winds, and waves, take back your child!
Upon thy balmy bosom, Mother Nature,
Where my young spirit dreamt its years away,
Give me once more to nestle:    I have strayed
Far through another world, which is not thine.
Through sunless cities, and the weary haunts
Of smoke-grimed labour, and foul revelry
My flagging wing has swept.    A mateless bird's
My pilgrimage has been; through sin, and doubt,
And darkness, seeking love.    Oh hear me, Nature!
Receive me once again:    but not alone;
No more alone, Great Mother!    I have brought
One who has wandered, yet not sinned, like me.
Upon thy lap, twin children, let us lie;
And in the light of thine immortal eyes
Let our souls mingle, till The Father calls
To some eternal home the charge He gives thee.
Cambridge, 1841.
Ye Patriot Sons Of Canada.
by Thomas Frederick Young

Ye patriot sons of Canada,
Whate'er your race or creed,
Arise, your country claims you now,
In this, her hour of need.
Arise, with right and valor girt,
To battle with the foe,
Which threatens to defy our laws,
And lay our country low.
Arise, for black rebellion's flag,
Again may 'mongst us wave,
And traitors in our country's camp,
May dig our country's grave.
The law was righteously enforc'd,
Riel did fairly die,
And why should we give way to those,
Who raise the rebel's cry?
In spite of priest's or statesman's voice,
Quebec, forsooth, must rage,
And, with her wrongful acts and words,
Insult experience and age.
And demagogues, with purpose vile,
Must lead the trait'rous cause,
And hound unthinking masses on,
To wreck our country's laws.
Then rise, each patriotic son,
And guard your country's flag,
Both for your own and country's sake,
Oh, never let it drag.
By vote, and action, if there's need,
Assert your country's claim,
To brandish high stern Justice' sword,
O'er any race or name.
Arise then, sons of Canada,
In purpose strong and bright,
Fear not the foe, nor doubt results,
For God defends the right.
Lines Written On A Window.
by Robert Burns

Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering
'Gainst poor Excisemen? give the cause a hearing;
What are you, landlords' rent-rolls? teasing ledgers:
What premiers, what? even monarchs' mighty gaugers:
Nay, what are priests, those seeming godly wise men?
What are they, pray, but spiritual Excisemen?
On The Death Of Mrs. (Afterwards Lady) Throckmorton's Bullfinch.
by William Cowper

Ye nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red
With tears o'er hapless favourites shed,
O share Maria's grief!
Her favourite, even in his cage,
(What will not hunger's cruel rage?)
Assassin'd by a thief.
Where Rhenus strays his vines among,
The egg was laid from which he sprung;
And, though by nature mute,
Or only with a whistle blest,
Well taught he all the sounds express'd
Of flageolet or flute.
The honours of his ebon poll
Were brighter than the sleekest mole,
His bosom of the hue
With which Aurora decks the skies,
When piping winds shall soon arise,
To sweep away the dew.
Above, below, in all the house,
Dire foe alike of bird and mouse,
No cat had leave to dwell;
And Bully's cage supported stood
On props of smoothest shaven wood,
Large-built and latticed well.
Well latticed-but the grate, alas!
Not rough with wire of steel or brass,
For Bully's plumage sake,
But smooth with wands from Ouse's side,
With which, when neatly peel'd and dried,
The swains their baskets make,.
Night veil'd the pole: all seem'd secure:
When, led by instinct sharp and sure,
Subsistence to provide,
A beast forth sallied on the scout,
Long back'd, long tail'd, with whisker'd snout,
And badger-colour'd hide.
He, entering at the study door,
Its ample area 'gan explore;
And something in the wind
Conjectured, sniffling round and round,
Better than all the books he found,
Food chiefly for the mind.
Just then, by adverse fate impress'd,
A dream disturb'd poor Bully's rest;
In sleep he seem'd to view
A rat fast clinging to the cage,
And, screaming at the sad presage,
Awoke and found it true.
For, aided both by ear and scent,
Right to his mark the monster went
Ah, muse! forbear to speak
Minute the horrors that ensued;
His teeth were strong, the cage was wood
He left poor Bully's beak.
O had he made that too his prey;
That beak, whence issued many a lay
Of such mellifluous tone,
Might have repaid him well, I wot,
For silencing so sweet a throat,
Fast stuck within his own.
Maria weeps-the Muses mourn
So when, by Bacchanalians torn,
On Thracian Hebrus' side
The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell,
His head alone remain'd to tell
The cruel death he died.
Ye Jacobites By Name.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Ye Jacobites by name."
I.
Ye Jacobites by name, give and ear, give an ear;
Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear;
Ye Jacobites by name,
Your fautes I will proclaim,
Your doctrines I maun blame
You shall hear.
II.
What is right, and what is wrang, by the law, by the law?
What is right and what is wrang, by the law?
What is right and what is wrang?
A short sword, and a lang,
A weak arm, and a strang
For to draw.
III.
What makes heroic strife, fam'd afar, fam'd afar?
What makes heroic strife, fam'd afar?
What makes heroic strife?
To whet th' assassin's knife,
Or hunt a parent's life
Wi' bluidie war.
IV.
Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in the state;
Then let your schemes alone in the state;
Then let your schemes alone,
Adore the rising sun,
And leave a man undone
To his fate.