DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Nursery Rhyme. CLXXV. Songs.
by Unknown

John Cook had a little grey mare; he, haw, hum!
Her back stood up, and her bones they were bare; he, haw, hum!
John Cook was riding up Shuter's bank; he, haw, hum!
And there his nag did kick and prank; he, haw, hum!
John Cook was riding up Shuter's hill; he, haw, hum!
His mare fell down, and she made her will; he, haw, hum!
The bridle and saddle were laid on the shelf; he, haw, hum!
If you want any more you may sing it yourself; he, haw, hum!
Child Ballad
by Charles Kingsley

Jesus, He loves one and all,
Jesus, He loves children small,
Their souls are waiting round His feet
On high, before His mercy-seat.
While He wandered here below
Children small to Him did go,
At His feet they knelt and prayed,
On their heads His hands He laid.
Came a Spirit on them then,
Better than of mighty men,
A Spirit faithful, pure and mild,
A Spirit fit for king and child.
Oh! that Spirit give to me,
Jesu Lord, where'er I be!
1847.
Jesus, The Lamb Of God. (Hymn)
by Jean Ingelow

"Art Thou He that should come?"
Jesus, the Lamb of God, gone forth to heal and bless.
Calm lie the desert pools in a fair wilderness;
Wind-shaken moves the reed, so moves His voice the soul,
Sick folk surprised of joy, wax when they hear it, whole.
Calm all His mastering might, calm smiles the desert waste;
Peace, peace, He shall not cry, nay, He shall not make haste;
Heaven gazes, hell beneath moved for Him, moans and stirs - 
Lo, John lies fast in prison, sick for his messengers.
John, the forerunner, John, the desert's tameless son,
Cast into loath'd thrall, his use and mission done;
John from his darkness sends a cry, but not a plea;
Not, "Hast Thou felt my need?" but only, "Art Thou He?"
Unspoken pines his hope, grown weak in lingering dole;
None know what pang that hour might pierce the Healer's soul;
Silence that faints to Him - but must e'en so be vain;
A word - the fetters fall - He will that word restrain.
Jesus, the Father's son, bound in a mighty plan,
Retired full oft in God, show'd not His mind to man;
Nor their great matters high His human lips confess;
He will His wonders work, and not make plain, but bless.
The bournes of His wide way kept secret from all thought,
Enring'd the outmost waste that evil power had wrought;
His measure none can take, His strife we are not shown,
Nor if He gathered then more sheaves than earth hath grown.
"John, from the Christ of God, an answer for all time,"
The proof of Sonship given in characters sublime;
Sad hope will He make firm, and fainting faith restore,
But yet with mortal eyes will see His face no more.
He bow'd His sacred head to exigence austere,
Unknown to us and dark, first piercings of the spear:
And to each martyr since 'tis even as if He said,
"Verily I am He - I live, and I was dead.
"The All-wise found a way - a dark way - dread, unknown;
I chose it, will'd it Mine, seal'd for My feet alone;
Thou canst not therein walk, yet thou hast part in Me,
I will not break thy bonds, but I am bound with thee.
"With thee and for thee bound, with thee and for thee given,
A mystery seal'd from hell, and wonder'd at in heaven;
I send thee rest at heart to love, and still believe;
But not for thee - nor Me - is found from death reprieve."
Mima
by Walter De La Mare

Jemima is my name,
But oh, I have another;
My father always calls me Meg,
And so do Bob and mother;
Only my sister, jealous of
The strands of my bright hair,
'Jemima - Mima - Mima!'
Calls, mocking, up the stair.
The Old Homestead
by Eugene Field

Jest as atween the awk'ard lines a hand we love has penn'd
Appears a meanin' hid from other eyes,
So, in your simple, homespun art, old honest Yankee friend,
A power o' tearful, sweet seggestion lies.
We see it all--the pictur' that our mem'ries hold so dear--
The homestead in New England far away,
An' the vision is so nat'ral-like we almost seem to hear
The voices that were heshed but yesterday.
Ah, who'd ha' thought the music of that distant childhood time
Would sleep through all the changeful, bitter years
To waken into melodies like Chris'mas bells a-chime
An' to claim the ready tribute of our tears!
Why, the robins in the maples an' the blackbirds round the pond,
The crickets an' the locusts in the leaves,
The brook that chased the trout adown the hillside just beyond,
An' the swallers in their nests beneath the eaves--
They all come troopin' back with you, dear Uncle Josh, to-day,
An' they seem to sing with all the joyous zest
Of the days when we were Yankee boys an' Yankee girls at play,
With nary thought of "livin' way out West"!
God bless ye, Denman Thomps'n, for the good y' do our hearts,
With this music an' these memories o' youth--
God bless ye for the faculty that tops all human arts,
The good ol' Yankee faculty of Truth!
Advice to Jenny.
by John Hartley

Jenny, Jenny, dry thi ee,
An' dunnot luk soa sad;
It grieves me varry mich to see
Tha freeats abaat yon lad;
For weel tha knows, withaat a daat,
Whearivver he may be,
Tho fond o' rammellin' abaat,
He's allus true to thee.
Tha'll learn mooar sense, lass, in a while,
For wisdom comes wi' time,
An' if tha lives tha'll leearn to smile
At troubles sich as thine;
A faithful chap is better far,
Altho' he likes to rooam,
Nor one 'at does what isn't reight,
An' sits o'th' hearth at hooam.
Tha needn't think 'at wedded life
Noa disappointment brings;
Tha munnot think to keep a chap
Teed to thi appron strings.
Soa dry thi een, they're varry wet,
An' let thi heart be glad,
For tho' tha's wed a rooamer, yet,
Tha's wed a honest lad.
Ther's mony a lady, rich an' great,
'At's sarvents at her call,
Wod freely change her grand estate
For thine tha thinks soa small:
For riches cannot buy content,
Soa tho' thi joys be few,
Tha's one ther's nowt con stand anent, - 
A heart 'at's kind an' true.
Soa when he comes luk breet an' gay,
An' meet him wi' a kiss,
Tha'll find him mooar inclined to stay
Wi treatment sich as this;
But if thi een luk red like that,
He'll see all's wrang at once,
He'll leet his pipe, an' don his hat,
An' bolt if he's a chonce.
On Opening A Place For Social Prayer.
by William Cowper

Jesus! where'er thy people meet,
There they behold thy mercy seat;
Where'er thy seek thee, thou art found,
And every place is hallow'd ground.
For thou, within no walls confined,
Inhabitest the humble mind;
Such ever bring thee where they come,
And going, take thee to their home.
Dear Shepherd of thy chosen few!
Thy former mercies here renew;
Here to our waiting hearts proclaim
The sweetness of thy saving name.
Here may we prove the power of prayer,
To strengthen faith and sweeten care;
To teach our faint desires to rise,
And bring all heaven before our eyes.
Behold, at thy commanding word
We stretch the curtain and the cord;[1]
Come thou and fill this wider space,
And bless us with a large increase.
Lord, we are few, but thou art near;
Nor short thine arm, nor deaf thine ear;
Oh rend the heavens, come quickly down,
And make a thousand hearts thine own!
Psal. V.
by John Milton

Jehovah to my words give ear
My meditation waigh
The voyce of my complaining hear
My King and God for unto thee I pray.
Jehovah thou my early voyce
Shalt in the morning hear
Ith'morning I to thee with choyce
Will rank my Prayers, and watch till thou appear.
For thou art not a God that takes
In wickedness delight
Evil with thee no biding makes
Fools or mad men stand not within thy sight.
All workers of iniquity
Thou wilt destroy that speak a ly
The bloodi' and guileful man God doth detest.
But I will in thy mercies dear
Thy numerous mercies go
Into thy house; I in thy fear
Will towards thy holy temple worship low.
Lord lead me in thy righteousness
Lead me because of those
That do observe if I transgress,
Set thy wayes right before, where my step goes.
For in his faltring mouth unstable
No word is firm or sooth
Their inside, troubles miserable;
An open grave their throat, their tongue they smooth.
God, find them guilty, let them fall
By their own counsels quell'd;
Push them in their rebellions all
Still on; for against thee they have rebell'd;
Then all who trust in thee shall bring
Their joy, while thou from blame
Defend'st them, they shall ever sing
And shall triumph in thee, who love thy name.
For thou Jehovah wilt be found
To bless the just man still,
As with a shield thou wilt surround
Him with thy lasting favour and good will.
Who Santy-Claus Wuz
by James Whitcomb Riley

Jes' a little bit o' feller - I remember still -
Ust to almost cry fer Christmas, like a youngster will.
Fourth o' July's nothin' to it! - New Year's ain't a smell!
Easter-Sunday - Circus-day - jes' all dead in the shell!
Lawzy, though! at night, you know, to set around an' hear
The old folks work the story off about the sledge an' deer,
An' "Santy" skootin' round the roof, all wrapt in fur an' fuzz -
Long afore
I knowed who
"Santy-Claus" wuz!
Ust to wait, an' set up late, a week er two ahead;
Couldn't hardly keep awake, ner wouldn't go to bed;
Kittle stewin' on the fire, an' Mother settin' here
Darnin' socks, an' rockin' in the skreeky rockin'-cheer;
Pap gap', an' wonder where it wuz the money went,
An' quar'l with his frosted heels, an' spill his liniment;
An' me a-dreamin' sleigh-bells when the clock 'ud whir an' buzz,
Long afore
I knowed who
"Santy-Claus" wuz!
Size the fire-place up an' figger how "Ole Santy" could
Manage to come down the chimbly, like they said he would;
Wisht 'at I could hide an' see him - wunderd what he'd say
Ef he ketched a feller layin' fer him thataway!
But I bet on him, an' liked him, same as ef he had
Turned to pat me on the back an' say, "Look here, my lad,
Here's my pack, - jes' he'p yourse'f, like all good boys does!"
Long afore
I knowed who
"Santy-Claus" wuz!
Wisht that yarn was true about him, as it 'peared to be -
Truth made out o' lies like that-un's good enough fer me! -
Wisht I still wuz so confidin' I could jes' go wild
Over hangin' up my stockin's, like the little child
Climbin' in my lap to-night, an' beggin' me to tell
'Bout them reindeers, and "Old Santy" that she loves so well
I'm half sorry fer this little-girl-sweetheart of his -
Long afore
She knows who
"Santy-Claus" is!
Jap Miller.
by James Whitcomb Riley

Jap Miller down at Martinsville's the blamedest feller yit!
When he starts in a-talkin' other folks is apt to quit! - 
'Pears like that mouth o' his'n wuz n't made fer nuthin' else
But jes' to argify 'em down and gether in their pelts:
He'll talk you down on tariff; er he'll talk you down on tax,
And prove the pore man pays 'em all - and them's about the fac's! - 
Religen, law, er politics, prize-fightin', er base-ball - 
Jes' tetch Jap up a little and he'll post you 'bout 'em all.
And the comicalist feller ever tilted back a cheer
And tuck a chaw tobacker kind o' like he did n't keer. - 
There's where the feller's strength lays, - he's so common-like and plain, - 
They haint no dude about old Jap, you bet you - nary grain!
They 'lected him to Council and it never turned his head,
And did n't make no differunce what anybody said, - 
He didn't dress no finer, ner rag out in fancy clothes;
But his voice in Council-meetin's is a turrer to his foes.
He's fer the pore man ever' time!    And in the last campaign
He stumped old Morgan County, through the sunshine and the rain,
And helt the banner up'ards from a-trailin' in the dust,
And cut loose on monopolies and cuss'd and cuss'd and cuss'd!
He'd tell some funny story ever' now and then, you know,
Tel, blame it! it wuz better 'n a jack-o'-lantern show!
And I'd go furder, yit, to-day, to hear old Jap norate
Than any high-toned orator 'at ever stumped the State!
W'y, that-air blame Jap Miller, with his keen sircastic fun,
Has got more friends than ary candidate 'at ever run!
Do n't matter what his views is, when he states the same to you,
They allus coincide with your'n, the same as two and two:
You can't take issue with him - er, at least, they haint no sense
In startin' in to down him, so you better not commence. - 
The best way's jes' to listen, like your humble servant does,
And jes' concede Jap Miller is the best man ever wuz!
Nursery Rhyme. XXVII. Historical
by Unknown

[The following may possibly allude to King George and the Pretender.]
Jim and George were two great lords,
They fought all in a churn;
And when that Jim got George by the nose,
Then George began to gern.
A Ring Posy
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

Jess and Jill are pretty girls,
Plump and well to do,
In a cloud of windy curls:
Yet I know who
Loves me more than curls or pearls.
I'm not pretty, not a bit - 
Thin and sallow-pale;
When I trudge along the street
I don't need a veil:
Yet I have one fancy hit.
Jess and Jill can trill and sing
With a flute-like voice,
Dance as light as bird on wing,
Laugh for careless joys:
Yet it's I who wear the ring.
Jess and Jill will mate some day,
Surely, surely:
Ripen on to June through May,
While the sun shines make their hay,
Slacken steps demurely:
Yet even there I lead the way.
Spleen Iii
by Charles Baudelaire

Je suis comme le roi d'un pays pluvieux, 
Riche, mais impuissant, jeune et pourtant tr's-vieux,
Qui, de ses pr'cepteurs m'prisant les courbettes,
S'ennuie avec ses chiens comme avec d'autres b'tes.
Rien ne peut l''gayer, ni gibier, ni faucon,
Ni son peuple mourant en face du balcon.
Du bouffon favori la grotesque ballade
Ne distrait plus le front de ce cruel malade;
Son lit fleurdelis' se transforme en tombeau,
Et les dames d'atour, pour qui tout prince est beau,
Ne savent plus trouver d'impudique toilette
Pour tirer un souris de ce jeune squelette.
Le savant qui lui fait de l'or n'a jamais pu
De son 'tre extirper l''l'ment corrompu,
Et dans ces bains de sang qui des Romains nous viennent,
Et dont sur leurs vieux jours les puissants se souviennent,
Il n'a su r'chauffer ce cadavre h'b't'
O' coule au lieu de sang l'eau verte du L'th'.
Goalkeeper Joe
by Marriott Edgar

Joe Dunn were a bobby for football
He gave all his time to that sport,
He played for the West Wigan Whippets,
On days when they turned out one short.
He'd been member of club for three seasons
And had grumbled again and again,
Cos he found only time that they'd used him,
Were when it were pouring with rain!
He felt as his talents were wasted
When each week his job seemed to be
No but minding the clothes for the others
And chucking clods at referee!
So next time selection committee
Came round to ask him for his sub
He told them if they didn't play him,
He'd transfer to some other club.
Committee they coaxed and cudgelled him
But found he'd have none of their shifts
So they promised to play him next weekend
In match against Todmorden Swifts.
This match were the plum of the season
An annual fixture it stood,
'T were reckoned as good as a cup tie
By them as liked plenty of blood!
The day of the match dawned in splendour
A beautiful morning it were
With a fog drifting up from the brick fields
And a drizzle of rain in the air.
The Whippets made Joe their goalkeeper
A thing as weren't wanted at all
For they knew once battle had started
They'd have no time to mess with the ball!
Joe stood by the goal posts and shivered
While the fog round his legs seemed to creep
'Til feeling neglected and lonely
He leant back and went fast asleep.
He dreamt he were playing at Wembley
And t'roar of a thundering cheer
He were kicking a goal for the Whippets
When he woke with a clout in his ear!
He found 'twere the ball that had struck him
And inside the net there it lay
But as no one had seen this 'ere 'appen
He punted it back into play!
'Twere the first ball he'd punted in anger
His feelings he couldn't restrain
Forgetting as he were goalkeeper
He ran out and kicked it again!
Then after the ball like a rabbit
He rushed down the field full of pride
He reckoned if nobody stopped him
Then 'appen he'd score for his side.
'Alf way down he bumped into his captain
Who weren't going to let him go by
But Joe, like Horatio Nelson
Put a fist to the Captain's blind eye!
On he went 'til the goal lay before him
Then stopping to get himself set
He steadied the ball, and then kicked it
And landed it right in the net!
The fog seemed to lift at that moment
And all eyes were turned on the lad
The Whippets seemed kind of dumbfounded
While the Swifts started cheering like mad!
'Twere his own goal as he'd kicked the ball through
He'd scored for his foes 'gainst his friends
For he'd slept through the referee's whistle
And at half time he hadn't changed ends!
Joe was transferred from the West Wigan Whippets
To the Todmorden Swifts, where you'll see
Still minding the clothes for the others
And chucking clods at referee!
Joe Ramsbottom
by Marriott Edgar

Joe Ramshottom rented a bit of a farm
From its owner, Squire Goslett his name;
And the Gosletts came over with William the First,
And found Ramsbottoms here when they came.
One day Joe were ploughing his three-acre field
When the front of his plough hit a rock,
And on closer inspection o' t' damage he found
As the coulter had snapped wi' the shock.
He'd got a spare coulter at home in his shed,
But that were some distance away,
And he reckoned by t' time he had been there and back
He'd have wasted best part of the day.
The accident 'appened not far from the place
Where the Squire had his sumptuous abode;
He thought he might borrow a coulter from him,
And save going back all that road.
He were going to ask... but he suddenly stopped,
And he said " Nay-I'd better not call;
He might think it cheek I borrowed from him,
I'd best get my own after all."
He were going off back when he turned to himself
And said "That's a gormless idea;
The land you were ploughing belongs to the Squire,
It were 'is rock as caused all this 'ere!"
This 'eartened Joe up, so he set off again,
But he very soon stopped as before,
And he said 'Happen Squire'II have comp'ny to tea,
Nay I'd, better go round to t' back.
Then he answered himself in a manner quite stern
And said "Here's a nice how-de-do!
You can manage without him when all's said and done,
And where would he be without you?"
Joe knew this were right and he knew it were just,
But he didn't seem happy somehow,
So he said "Well, there's no harm in paying a call,
And I needn't say owt about plough."
This suggestion that he were afraid of the Squire
Were most deeply resented by Joe;
He said "Right! I'll show you... I'll go up at once,
At the worst he can only say 'No.''
Then he said "After all as I've done in the past
He would have a nerve to decline;
He ought to be thankful to give me his plough,
Seein'' damage his rock did to mine.
Then he said "Who is he To be puffed up wi' pride,
And behave as if he were King Dick
He's only a farmer the same as myself,
As I'll tell him an' all- Jolly quick."
Then he turned round and looked himself straight in the face,
And he said "What you're scared of beats me;
Ramsbottoms was landlords when Gosletts was nowt,
And it's him should be working for thee!"
Then he said "I'm surprised at myself, so I am,
To think I should so condescend
As to come hat in hand to a feller like 'im
And ask if he's owt he can lend."
This argument brought him to Squire's front door,
It were open and Squire stood inside;
He said "Hello, Joe... What brings thee right up here?"
"You'll know in a tick," Joe replied.
He said "P'raps you think yourself better than me,
Well, I'm telling you straight that you're not
And I don't want your coulter... your plough or your farm,
You can do what you like with the lot."
John Anderson.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "John Anderson, my jo."
I.
"John Anderson, my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.
II.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And mony a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go;
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.
Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820 - IX. - Hymn - For The Boatmen, As They Approach The Rapids Under The Castle Of Heidelberg
by William Wordsworth

Jesu! bless our slender Boat,
By the current swept along;
Loud its threatenings, let them not
Drown the music of a song
Breathed thy mercy to implore,
Where these troubled waters roar!
Saviour, for our warning, seen
Bleeding on that precious Rood;
If, while through the meadows green
Gently wound the peaceful flood,
We forgot Thee, do not Thou
Disregard thy Suppliants now!
Hither, like yon ancient Tower
Watching o'er the River's bed,
Fling the shadow of thy power,
Else we sleep among the dead;
Thou who trod'st the billowy sea,
Shield us in our jeopardy!
Guide our Bark among the waves;
Through the rocks our passage smooth;
Where the whirlpool frets and raves
Let thy love its anger soothe:
All our hope is placed in Thee;
'Miserere Domine!'
Dely
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Jes' lak toddy wahms you thoo'
Sets yo' haid a reelin',
Meks you ovah good and new,
Dat 's de way I 's feelin'.
Seems to me hit 's summah time,
Dough hit 's wintah reely,
I 's a feelin' jes' dat prime--
An' huh name is Dely.
Dis hyeah love 's a cu'rus thing,
Changes 'roun' de season,
Meks you sad or meks you sing,
'Dout no urfly reason.
Sometimes I go mopin' 'roun',
Den agin I 's leapin';
Sperits allus up an' down
Even when I 's sleepin'.
Fu' de dreams comes to me den,
An' dey keeps me pitchin',
Lak de apple dumplin's w'en
Bilin' in de kitchen.
Some one sot to do me hahm,
Tryin' to ovahcome me,
Ketchin' Dely by de ahm
So 's to tek huh f'om me.
Mon, you bettah b'lieve I fights
(Dough hit's on'y seemin');
I's a hittin' fu' my rights
Even w'en I 's dreamin'.
But I 'd let you have 'em all,
Give 'em to you freely,
Good an' bad ones, great an' small,
So 's you leave me Dely.
Dely got dem meltin' eyes,
Big an' black an' tendah.
Dely jes' a lady-size,
Delikit an' slendah.
Dely brown ez brown kin be
An' huh haih is curly;
Oh, she look so sweet to me,--
Bless de precious girlie!
Dely brown ez brown kin be,
She ain' no mullatter;
She pure cullud,--don' you see
Dat 's jes' whut 's de mattah?
Dat 's de why I love huh so,
D' ain't no mix about huh,
Soon 's you see huh face you know
D' ain't no chanst to doubt huh.
Folks dey go to chu'ch an' pray
So 's to git a blessin'.
Oomph, dey bettah come my way,
Dey could lu'n a lesson.
Sabbaf day I don' go fu',
Jes' to see my pigeon;
I jes' sets an' looks at huh,
Dat's enuff 'uligion.
Translations. - A Song Of Praise For Easter. (Luther's Song-Book.)
by George MacDonald

Jesus Christ, our Saviour true
He who Death overthrew,
Is up arisen,
And sin hath put in prison.
Kyrieeleison.
Born whom Mary sinless hath,
Bore he for us God's wrath,
Hath reconciled us:
Favour God doth now yield us.
Kyrieeleison.
Death and sin, and life and grace,
All to his hands we trace:
He can deliver
All who seek the life-giver.
Kyrieeleison.