DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Rantin' Dog, The Daddie O'T.
by Robert Burns

I.
O wha my babie-clouts will buy?
O wha will tent me when I cry?
Wha will kiss me where I lie?
The rantin' dog, the daddie o't.
II.
O wha will own he did the fau't?
O wha will buy the groanin' maut?
O wha will tell me how to ca't?
The rantin' dog, the daddie o't.
III.
When I mount the creepie chair,
Wha will sit beside me there?
Gie me Rob, I'll seek nae mair,
The rantin' dog, the daddie o't.
IV.
Wha will crack to me my lane?
Wha will make me fidgin' fain?
Wha will kiss me o'er again?
The rantin' dog, the daddie o't.
The Schoolmaster Abroad With His Son.
by Charles Stuart Calverley

O what harper could worthily harp it,
Mine Edward! this wide-stretching wold
(Look out wold) with its wonderful carpet
Of emerald, purple, and gold!
Look well at it - also look sharp, it
Is getting so cold.
The purple is heather (erica);
The yellow, gorse - call'd sometimes "whin."
Cruel boys on its prickles might spike a
Green beetle as if on a pin.
You may roll in it, if you would like a
Few holes in your skin.
You wouldn't? Then think of how kind you
Should be to the insects who crave
Your compassion - and then, look behind you
At you barley-ears! Don't they look brave
As they undulate - (undulate, mind you,
From unda, a wave).
The noise of those sheep-bells, how faint it
Sounds here - (on account of our height)!
And this hillock itself - who could paint it,
With its changes of shadow and light?
Is it not - (never, Eddy, say "ain't it") -
A marvellous sight?
Then yon desolate eerie morasses,
The haunts of the snipe and the hern -
(I shall question the two upper classes
On aquatiles, when we return) -
Why, I see on them absolute masses
Of filix or fern.
How it interests e'en a beginner
(Or tiro) like dear little Ned!
Is he listening? As I am a sinner
He's asleep - he is wagging his head.
Wake up! I'll go home to my dinner,
And you to your bed.
The boundless ineffable prairie;
The splendour of mountain and lake
With their hues that seem ever to vary;
The mighty pine-forests which shake
In the wind, and in which the unwary
May tread on a snake;
And this wold with its heathery garment -
Are themes undeniably great.
But - although there is not any harm in't -
It's perhaps little good to dilate
On their charms to a dull little varmint
Of seven or eight.
The Sailor's Mother
by Thomas Hardy

"O whence do you come,
Figure in the night-fog that chills me numb?"
"I come to you across from my house up there,
And I don't mind the brine-mist clinging to me
That blows from the quay,
For I heard him in my chamber, and thought you unaware."
"But what did you hear,
That brought you blindly knocking in this middle-watch so drear?"
"My sailor son's voice as 'twere calling at your door,
And I don't mind my bare feet clammy on the stones,
And the blight to my bones,
For he only knows of THIS house I lived in before."
"Nobody's nigh,
Woman like a skeleton, with socket-sunk eye."
"Ah nobody's nigh! And my life is drearisome,
And this is the old home we loved in many a day
Before he went away;
And the salt fog mops me. And nobody's come!"
From "To Please his Wife."
Pan
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

O what are heroes, prophets, men,
But pipes through which the breath of Pan doth blow
A momentary music. Being's tide
Swells hitherward, and myriads of forms
Live, robed with beauty, painted by the sun;
Their dust, pervaded by the nerves of God,
Throbs with an overmastering energy
Knowing and doing. Ebbs the tide, they lie
White hollow shells upon the desert shore,
But not the less the eternal wave rolls on
To animate new millions, and exhale
Races and planets, its enchanted foam.
Geoffrey Keating
by James Stephens

O woman full of wiliness!
Although for love of me you pine,
Withhold your hand adventurous,
It holdeth nothing holding mine.
Look on my head, how it is grey!
My body's weakness doth appear;
My blood is chill and thin; my day
Is done, and there is nothing here.
Do not call me a foolish man,
Nor lean your lovely cheek to mine
O slender witch, our bodies can
Not mingle now, nor any time.
So take your mouth from mine, your hand
From mine, ah, take your lips away!
Lest heat to will should ripen, and
All this be grave that had been gay.
It is this curl, a silken nest,
And this grey eye bright as the dew,
And this round, lovely, snow-white breast
That draws desire in search of you.
I would do all for you, meseems,
But this, tho' this were happiness!
I shall not mingle in your dreams,
O woman full of wiliness!
Sonet 25
by Michael Drayton

O why should nature nigardly restraine,
The Sotherne Nations relish not our tongue,
Else should my lines glide on the waues of Rhene,
And crowne the Pirens with my liuing song;
But bounded thus to Scotland get you forth:
Thence take you wing vnto the Orcades,
There let my verse get glory in the North,
Making my sighs to thawe the frozen seas,
And let the Bards within the Irish Ile,
To whom my Muse with fiery wings shall passe,
Call backe the stifneckd rebels from exile,
And molifie the slaughtering Galliglasse:
And when my flowing numbers they rehearse,
Let Wolues and Bears be charmed with my verse.
A Sea-Shore Grave. To M. J. L.
by Sidney Lanier

By Sidney and Clifford Lanier.
O wish that's vainer than the plash
Of these wave-whimsies on the shore:
"Give us a pearl to fill the gash -
God, let our dead friend live once more!"
O wish that's stronger than the stroke
Of yelling wave and snapping levin;
"God, lift us o'er the Last Day's smoke,
All white, to Thee and her in Heaven!"
O wish that's swifter than the race
Of wave and wind in sea and sky;
Let's take the grave-cloth from her face
And fall in the grave, and kiss, and die!
Look! High above a glittering calm
Of sea and sky and kingly sun,
She shines and smiles, and waves a palm -
And now we wish - Thy will be done!
Montgomery, Alabama, 1866.
The D'mon Lover
by Frank Sidgwick

The Text is from Kinloch's MSS., 'from the recitation of T. Kinnear, Stonehaven.' Child remarks of it that 'probably by the fortunate accident of being a fragment' it 'leaves us to put our own construction upon the weird seaman; and, though it retains the homely ship-carpenter, is on the whole the most satisfactory of all the versions.'
The Story is told more elaborately in a broadside, and resembles Enoch Arden in a certain degree. James Harris, a seaman, plighted to Jane Reynolds, was captured by a press-gang, taken overseas, and, after three years, reported dead and buried in a foreign land. After a respectable interval, a ship-carpenter came to Jane Reynolds, and eventually wedded her, and the loving couple had three pretty children. One night, however, the ship-carpenter being on a three days' journey, a spirit came to the window, and said that his name was James Harris, and that he had come to take her away as his wife. She explains that she is married, and would not have her husband know of this visit for five hundred pounds. James Harris, however, said he had seven ships upon the sea; and when she heard these 'fair tales,' she succumbed, went away with him, and 'was never seen no more.' The ship-carpenter on his return hanged himself.
Scott's ballad in the Minstrelsy spoils its own effect by converting the spirit into the devil. An American version of 1858 tells the tale of a 'house-carpenter' and his wife, and alters 'the banks of Italy' to 'the banks of old Tennessee.'
THE D'MON LOVER
1.
'O whare hae ye been, my dearest dear,
These seven lang years and more?'
'O I am come to seek my former vows,
That ye promis'd me before.'
2.
'Awa wi' your former vows,' she says,
'Or else ye will breed strife;
Awa wi' your former vows,' she says,
'For I'm become a wife.
3.
'I am married to a ship-carpenter,
A ship-carpenter he's bound;
I wadna he ken'd my mind this nicht
For twice five hundred pound'
***     ***     ***
4.
She has put her foot on gude ship-board,
And on ship-board she's gane,
And the veil that hung oure her face
Was a' wi' gowd begane.
5.
She had na sailed a league, a league,
A league but barely twa,
Till she did mind on the husband she left,
And her wee young son alsua.
6.
'O haud your tongue, my dearest dear,
Let all your follies abee;
I'll show whare the white lillies grow,
On the banks of Italie.'
7.
She had na sailed a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
Till grim, grim grew his countenance,
And gurly grew the sea.
8.
'O haud your tongue, my dearest dear,
Let all your follies abee;
I'll show whare the white lillies grow,
In the bottom of the sea.'
9.
He's tane her by the milk-white hand,
And he's thrown her in the main;
And full five-and-twenty hundred ships
Perish'd all on the coast of Spain.
When Will It End?
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Written during the Civil War in the United States.
O when will it end, this appalling strife,
With its reckless waste of human life,
Its riving of highest, holiest ties,
Its tears of anguish and harrowing sighs,
Its ruined homes from which hope has fled,
Its broken hearts and its countless dead?
In fair Virginia the new-made graves
Lie crowded thick as old ocean's caves;
Whether sword or sickness dealt the blow,
What matters it? - They lie cold and low;
And Maryland's heights are crimsoned o'er,
And its green vales stained, with human gore.
The stalwart man in the prime of life,
Sole stay of frail children and helpless wife;
The bright-eyed, ardent, and beardless boy,
Of some mother's fond breast the pride and joy,
And the soldier-love, the idol rare
Of maiden and matron, gentle and fair.
The men of the North so dauntless and free,
The flower of the Southland chivalry,
The best and the bravest on either side,
Their citizen soldier, the nation's pride,
Carelessly cast in each narrow, dank bed,
And fruitlessly numbered among the dead.
Are you nearer the end than when Sumter's gun
Answered the summons of Charleston,
And the nation plunged in this deadly strife,
That has wrecked its happiness, wealth and life, - 
Say what is your answer to foe or friend?
"'Tis a strife of which none can guess the end."
Oh! keep your young strength for some stranger foe,
Let not brother's rash hand lay brother low;
Remember one soil your childhood nursed,
In the past together your bonds you burst;
Together for freedom you learned to strike,
And brave Washington honored you both alike.
You have proved to the nations your mutual might;
You have proved you can suffer, struggle and fight;
By hundreds and thousands lie heaped your slain,
Your life-blood crimsons hill, stream and plain;
Prove of nobler struggle you are able yet,
And your mutual wrongs forgive and forget.
Oh, Father of mercies! stay now each hand,
Put back in its sheath the blood stained brand,
Whisper sage counsel to rulers proud,
Calm the wrath of the people, fierce and loud,
So that their hates and their strife may cease,
And their land know once more the boon of peace.
O Wind Of God.
by George MacDonald

O wind of God, that blowest in the mind,
Blow, blow and wake the gentle spring in me;
Blow, swifter blow, a strong warm summer wind,
Till all the flowers with eyes come out to see;
Blow till the fruit hangs red on every tree,
And our high-soaring song-larks meet thy dove--
High the imperfect soars, descends the perfect love!
Blow not the less though winter cometh then;
Blow, wind of God, blow hither changes keen;
Let the spring creep into the ground again,
The flowers close all their eyes and not be seen:
All lives in thee that ever once hath been!
Blow, fill my upper air with icy storms;
Breathe cold, O wind of God, and kill my cankerworms.
Tristitiae
by Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde

[Greek text which cannot be reproduced]
O well for him who lives at ease
With garnered gold in wide domain,
Nor heeds the splashing of the rain,
The crashing down of forest trees.
O well for him who ne'er hath known
The travail of the hungry years,
A father grey with grief and tears,
A mother weeping all alone.
But well for him whose foot hath trod
The weary road of toil and strife,
Yet from the sorrows of his life.
Builds ladders to be nearer God.
To Winter
by William Blake

O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors:
The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark
Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs,
Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.'
He hears me not, but o'er the yawning deep
Rides heavy; his storms are unchain'd, sheath'd
In ribb'd steel; I dare not lift mine eyes,
For he hath rear'd his sceptre o'er the world.
Lo! now the direful monster, whose 1000 skin clings
To his strong bones, strides o'er the groaning rocks:
He withers all in silence, and in his hand
Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life.
He takes his seat upon the cliffs,--the mariner
Cries in vain. Poor little wretch, that deal'st
With storms!--till heaven smiles, and the monster
Is driv'n yelling to his caves beneath mount Hecla.
The Bloody Son
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

(FINNISH.)
'O where have ye been the morn sae late,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
O where have ye been the morn sae late?
And I wot I hae but anither.'
'By the water-gate, by the water-gate,
O dear mither.'
'And whatten kin' o' wark had ye there to make,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
And whatten kin' o' wark had ye there to make?
And I wot I hae but anither.'
'I watered my steeds with water frae the lake,
O dear mither.'
'Why is your coat sae fouled the day,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
Why is your coat sae fouled the day?
And I wot I hae but anither.'
'The steeds were stamping sair by the weary banks of clay,
O dear mither.'
'And where gat ye thae sleeves of red,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
And where gat ye thae sleeves of red?
And I wot I hae but anither.'
'I have slain my ae brither by the weary water-head,
O dear mither.'
'And where will ye gang to mak your mend,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
And where will ye gang to mak your mend?
And I wot I hae not anither.'
'The warldis way, to the warldis end,
O dear mither.'
'And what will ye leave your father dear,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
And what will ye leave your father dear?
And I wot I hae not anither.'
'The wood to fell and the logs to bear,
For he'll never see my body mair,
O dear mither.'
'And what will ye leave your mither dear,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
And what will ye leave your mither dear?
And I wot I hae not anither.'
'The wool to card and the wool to wear,
For ye'll never see my body mair,
O dear mither.'
'And what will ye leave for your wife to take,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
And what will ye leave for your wife to take?
And I wot I hae not anither.'
'A goodly gown and a fair new make,
For she'll do nae mair for my body's sake,
O dear mither.'
'And what will ye leave your young son fair,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
And what will ye leave your young son fair?
And I wot ye hae not anither.'
'A twiggen school-rod for his body to bear,
Though it garred him greet he'll get nae mair,
O dear mither.'
'And what will ye leave your little daughter sweet,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
And what will ye leave your little daughter sweet?
And I wot ye hae not anither.'
'Wild mulberries for her mouth to eat,
She'll get nae mair though it garred her greet,
O dear mither.'
'And when will ye come back frae roamin',
My merry son, come tell me hither?
And when will ye come back frae roamin'?
And I wot I hae not anither.'
'When the sunrise out of the north is comen,
O dear mither.'
'When shall the sunrise on the north side be,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
When shall the sunrise on the north side be?
And I wot I hae not anither.'
'When chuckie-stanes shall swim in the sea,
O dear mither.'
'When shall stanes in the sea swim,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
When shall stanes in the sea swim?
And I wot I hae not anither.'
'When birdies' feathers are as lead therein,
O dear mither.'
'When shall feathers be as lead,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
When shall feathers be as lead?
And I wot I hae not anither.'
'When God shall judge between the quick and dead,
O dear mither.'
O Wholesome Death.
by George Parsons Lathrop

O Wholesome Death, thy sombre funeral-car
Looms ever dimly on the lengthening way
Of life; while, lengthening still, in sad array,
My deeds in long procession go, that are
As mourners of the man they helped to mar.
I see it all in dreams, such as waylay
The wandering fancy when the solid day
Has fallen in smoldering ruins, and night's star,
Aloft there, with its steady point of light
Mastering the eye, has wrapped the brain in sleep.
Ah, when I die, and planets take their flight
Above my grave, still let my spirit keep
Sometimes its vigil of divine remorse,
'Midst pity, praise, or blame heaped o'er my corse!
Come Down The Back Stairs.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad."
Chorus.
O whistle, and I'll come
To you, my lad;
O whistle, and I'll come
To you, my lad:
Tho' father and mither
Should baith gae mad,
O whistle, and I'll come
To you, my lad.
Come down the back stairs
When ye come to court me;
Come down the back stairs
When ye come to court me;
Come down the back stairs,
And let naebody see,
And come as ye were na
Coming to me.
A Faded Letter.
by George W. Doneghy

I.
O what memories sweet entwine
Around each word and faded line!
Yellow and dim with the touch of years,
And soiled with the marks of tears--
A sacred treasure of the heart
Which death alone can from him part--
A letter--cherished as no other--
And ending with the name of--Mother!
II.
Writ it was to a wayward boy,
When life to him seemed full of joy--
Pleading with him so to live
That he her heart no grief would give--
That after years might ne'er be fraught
With sorrow that himself had wrought:--
"May guardian angels 'round you hover,"
She wrote--and signed the name of--Mother!
III.
The paper has the taint of must--
The hand that traced the lines is dust,
And silvery hair is on the head
Of that same boy since first he read
This missive from the sainted one
That bore her love to an erring son--
More fondly prized than any other--
'Twas written by the hand of--Mother!
A Calendar Of Sonnets - January
by Helen Hunt Jackson

O winter! frozen pulse and heart of fire,
What loss is theirs who from thy kingdom turn
Dismayed, and think thy snow a sculptured urn
Of death! Far sooner in midsummer tire
The streams than under ice. June could not hire
Her roses to forego the strength they learn
In sleeping on thy breast. No fires can burn
The bridges thou dost lay where men desire
In vain to build.
O Heart, when Love's sun goes
To northward, and the sounds of singing cease,
Keep warm by inner fires, and rest in peace.
Sleep on content, as sleeps the patient rose.
Walk boldly on the white untrodden snows,
The winter is the winter's own release.
The Lament Of The Border Cattle Thief
by Rudyard Kipling

O woe is me for the merry life
I led beyond the Bar,
And a treble woe for my winsome wife
That weeps at Shalimar.
They have taken away my long jezail,
My shield and sabre fine,
And heaved me into the Central jail
For lifting of the kine.
The steer may low within the byre,
The Jat may tend his grain,
But there'll be neither loot nor fire
Till I come back again.
And God have mercy on the Jat
When once my fetters fall,
And Heaven defend the farmer's hut
When I am loosed from thrall.
It's woe to bend the stubborn back
Above the grinching quern,
It's woe to hear the leg-bar clack
And jingle when I turn!
But for the sorrow and the shame,
The brand on me and mine,
I'll pay you back in leaping flame
And loss of the butchered kine.
For every cow I spared before
In charity set free,
If I may reach my hold once more
I'll reive an honest three.
For every time I raised the low
That scared the dusty plain,
By sword and cord, by torch and tow
I'll light the land with twain!
Ride hard, ride hard to Abazai,
Young Sahib with the yellow hair,
Lie close, lie close as khuttucks lie,
Fat herds below Bonair!
The one I'll shoot at twilight-tide,
At dawn I'll drive the other;
The black shall mourn for hoof and hide,
The white man for his brother.
'Tis war, red war, I'll give you then,
War till my sinews fail;
For the wrong you have done to a chief of men,
And a thief of the Zukka Kheyl.
And if I fall to your hand afresh
I give you leave for the sin,
That you cram my throat with the foul pig's flesh,
And swing me in the skin!
The Fause Knight Upon The Road
by Frank Sidgwick

The Text is taken from the Introduction to Motherwell's Minstrelsy, p. lxxiv.
The Story appears to be a conversation between a wee boy and the devil, the latter under the guise of a knight. The boy will be carried off unless he can 'have the last word,' a charm of great power against all evil spirits.
A very similar ballad, of repartees between an old crone and a wee boy, was found at the Lappfiord, Finland.
THE FAUSE KNIGHT UPON THE ROAD
1.
'O whare are ye gaun?'
Quo the fause knicht upon the road:
'I'm gaun to the scule,'
Quo' the wee boy, and still he stude.
2.
'What is that upon your back?'
'Atweel it is my bukes.'
3.
'What's that ye've got in your arm?'
'Atweel it is my peit.'
4.
'Wha's aucht they sheep?'
'They're mine and my mither's.'
5.
'How monie o' them are mine?'
'A' they that hae blue tails.'
6.
'I wiss ye were on yon tree:'
'And a gude ladder under me.'
7.
'And the ladder for to break:'
'And you for to fa' down.'
8.
'I wiss ye were in yon sie:'
'And a gude bottom under me.'
9.
'And the bottom for to break:'
'And ye to be drowned.'