DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Mare's Nest
by Rudyard Kipling

Jane Austen Beecher Stowe de Rouse
Was good beyond all earthly need;
But, on the other hand, her spouse
Was very, very bad indeed.
He smoked cigars, called churches slow,
And raced, but this she did not know.
For Belial Machiavelli kept
The little fact a secret, and,
Though o'er his minor sins she wept,
Jane Austen did not understand
That Lilly, thirteen-two and bay
Absorbed one-half her husband's pay.
She was so good, she made hime worse;
(Some women are like this, I think;)
He taught her parrot how to curse,
Her Assam monkey how to drink.
He vexed her righteous soul until
She went up, and he went down hill.
Then came the crisis, strange to say,
Which turned a good wife to a better.
A telegraphic peon, one day,
Brought her, now, had it been a letter
For Belial Machiavelli, I
Know Jane would just have let it lie.
But 'twas a telegram instead,
Marked "urgent," and her duty plain
To open it. Jane Austen read:
"Your Lilly's got a cough again.
Can't understand why she is kept
At your expense." Jane Austen wept.
It was a misdirected wire.
Her husband was at Shaitanpore.
She spread her anger, hot as fire,
Through six thin foreign sheets or more.
Sent off that letter, wrote another
To her solicitor, and mother.
Then Belial Machiavelli saw
Her error and, I trust, his own,
Wired to the minion of the Law,
And traveled wifeward, not alone.
For Lilly, thirteen-two and bay,
Came in a horse-box all the way.
There was a scene, a weep or two,
With many kisses. Austen Jane
Rode Lilly all the season through,
And never opened wires again.
She races now with Belial. This
Is very sad, but so it is.
Nursery Rhyme. DLXXI. Natural History.
by Unknown

Jack Sprat
Had a cat,
It had but one ear;
It went to buy butter,
When butter was dear.
Janet.
by Jean Blewett

Janet, she was trim and small,
Swift her feet could go;
Sandy, he was great and tall,
Sandy, he was slow.
Dark the curls on Janet's heid,
Dark her een, and true;
Sandy's hair was straicht an' reid,
Sandy's een were blue.
Sandy had been coortin' lang,
Sandy wasna bold,
Blushed when Janet trilled the sang,
Sweet as it is old:
"Gin a body meet a body
Comin' through the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need a body cry?"
Janet's lips were reid and ripe,
Full o' sic delichts;
Longing for them spoiled the pipe
Sandy smoked o' nichts.
Janet laughed when he would sigh,
Janet wasna kin'.
Spite o' a' as days went by
Janet filled his min'.
When in kirk he sat and heard
Sermons deep and lang,
Every fluttering bird ootside
Seemed piping Janet's sang.
Through the psalm, and through the prayer,
Thought went wanderin' wide - 
O what were toil, what were care,
Wi' Janet by his side?
Janet, wi' the waist sae sma',
Janet, dear indeed;
Sermon, psalm, and prayer, and a',
Sandy didna heed - 
Going hame at sober pace
Made confession - sae:
"Hearken, Lord! hide no Thy face
Though I go astray.
"Help me juist tae do my pairt - 
Win her if I can - 
Sae I plead wi' a' my hairt,
Help a sinfu' mon!"
Surely faith was in that prayer.
Ere an hour went by
Janet cam' wi' lichtsome air
Through the fields o' rye.
Sandy, tak' ye hairt o' grace - 
Surely 'tisna wrang - 
Here's the lass wi' saucy face,
How runs Janet's sang?
"Gin a body meet a body
Comin' through the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body
Need a body cry?"
Nursery Rhyme. DCLV. Relics.
by Unknown

Jacky, come give me thy fiddle
If ever thou mean to thrive;
Nay, I'll not give my fiddle,
To any man alive.
If I should give my fiddle,
They'll think that I'm gone mad,
For many a joyful day
My fiddle and I have had.
Thick-headed Thoughts
by Adam Lindsay Gordon

No. I
I've something of the bull-dog in my breed,
The spaniel is developed somewhat less;
While life is in me I can fight and bleed,
But never the chastising hand caress.
You say the stroke was well intended. 'True.'
You mention 'It was meant to do me good.'
'That may be.' 'You deserve it.' 'Granted, too.'
'Then take it kindly.' 'No, I never could.'
-    -    -    -    -    -
How many a resolution to amend
Is made, and broken, as the years run round!
And how can others on your word depend,
When faithless to ourselves we're often found?
I've often swore, 'Henceforward I'll reform,
And bid my vices, follies, all take wing.'
To keep my promise, 'mid temptation's storm,
I've always found was quite another thing.
-    -    -    -    -    -
I saw a donkey going down the road
The other day; a boy was on his back,
Who on the long-eared quadruped bestowed,
With a stout cudgel, many a hearty thwack;
But lazier and lazier grew the beast,
Until he dwindled to a step so slow
That I felt sure 'twould take him, at the least,
Full half-an-hour one blessed mile to go.
Soliloquising on this state of things,
'That moke's like me,' I muttered, with a sigh;
'He might go faster if he'd got some wings,
But Nature's made him better off than I;
For though I've all his obstinacy, aye! all,
His sullen spirit, and his dogged ways,
I've not one particle, however small,
Of that praiseworthy patience he displays.'
No. II
A man is independent of the world,
And little recks of strife or angry brawl,
If 'gainst a host his banner be unfurled,
Be his heart stout, it matters not at all.
With woman 'tis not so; for she seems hurled
From hand to hand, as is a tennis ball.
How queer that such a difference should be
Between a human he and human she.
No. III
'Tis a wicked world we live in;
Wrong in reason, wrong in rhyme;
But no matter: we'll not give in
While we still can come to time.
Strength's a shadow; Hope is madness,
Love, delusion; Friendship, sham;
Pleasure fades away to sadness,
None of these are worth a d--n.
There is naught on earth to please us;
All things at the crisis fail.
Friends desert us, bailiffs tease us,
(To such foes we give leg-bail).
But a stout heart still maintaining,
Quells the ills we all must meet,
And a spirit fear disdaining
Lays our troubles at our feet.
So we'll ne'er surrender tamely
To the ills that throng us fast.
If we must die, let's die gamely;
Luck may take a turn at last.
Nursery Rhyme. DXLV. Natural History.
by Unknown

Jack Sprat's pig,
He was not very little,
Nor yet very big;
He was not very lean,
He was not very fat;
He'll do well for a grunt,
Says little Jack Sprat.
The Lunger
by Robert William Service

Jack would laugh an' joke all day;
Never saw a lad so gay;
Singin' like a medder lark,
Loaded to the Plimsoll mark
With God's sunshine was that boy;
Had a strangle-holt on Joy.
Held his head 'way up in air,
Left no callin' cards on Care;
Breezy, buoyant, brave and true;
Sent his sunshine out to you;
Cheerfulest when clouds was black -
Happy Jack! Oh, Happy Jack!
Sittin' in my shack alone
I could hear him in his own,
Singin' far into the night,
Till it didn't seem just right
One man should corral the fun,
Live his life so in the sun;
Didn't seem quite natural
Not to have a grouch at all;
Not a trouble, not a lack -
Happy Jack! Oh, Happy Jack!
He was plumbful of good cheer
Till he struck that low-down year;
Got so thin, so little to him,
You could most see day-light through him.
Never was his eye so bright,
Never was his cheek so white.
Seemed as if somethin' was wrong,
Sort o' quaver in his song.
Same old smile, same hearty voice:
"Bless you, boys! let's all rejoice!"
But old Doctor shook his head:
"Half a lung," was all he said.
Yet that half was surely right,
For I heard him every night,
Singin', singin' in his shack -
Happy Jack! Oh, Happy Jack!
Then one day a letter came
Endin' with a female name;
Seemed to get him in the neck,
Sort o' pile-driver effect;
Paled his lip and plucked his breath,
Left him starin' still as death.
Somethin' had gone awful wrong,
Yet that night he sang his song.
Oh, but it was good to hear!
For there clutched my heart a fear,
So that I quaked listenin'
Every night to hear him sing.
But each day he laughed with me,
An' his smile was full of glee.
Nothin' seemed to set him back -
Happy Jack! Oh, Happy Jack!
Then one night the singin' stopped . . .
Seemed as if my heart just flopped;
For I'd learned to love the boy
With his gilt-edged line of joy,
With his glorious gift of bluff,
With his splendid fightin' stuff.
Sing on, lad, and play the game!
O dear God! . . . no singin' came,
But there surged to me instead -
Silence, silence, deep and dread;
Till I shuddered, tried to pray,
Said: "He's maybe gone away."
Oh, yes, he had gone away,
Gone forever and a day.
But he'd left behind him there,
In his cabin, pinched and bare,
His poor body, skin and bone,
His sharp face, cold as a stone.
An' his stiffened fingers pressed
Somethin' bright upon his breast:
Locket with a silken curl,
Poor, sweet portrait of a girl.
Yet I reckon at the last
How defiant-like he passed;
For there sat upon his lips
Smile that death could not eclipse;
An' within his eyes lived still
Joy that dyin' could not kill.
An' now when the nights are long,
How I miss his cheery song!
How I sigh an' wish him back!
Happy Jack! Oh, Happy Jack!
Her Letter
by Bret Harte (Francis)

I'm sitting alone by the fire,
Dressed just as I came from the dance,
In a robe even you would admire,
It cost a cool thousand in France;
I'm be-diamonded out of all reason,
My hair is done up in a cue:
In short, sir, 'the belle of the season'
Is wasting an hour upon you.
A dozen engagements I've broken;
I left in the midst of a set;
Likewise a proposal, half spoken,
That waits on the stairs for me yet.
They say he'll be rich, when he grows up,
And then he adores me indeed;
And you, sir, are turning your nose up,
Three thousand miles off as you read.
'And how do I like my position?'
'And what do I think of New York?'
'And now, in my higher ambition,
With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?'
'And isn't it nice to have riches,
And diamonds and silks, and all that?'
'And aren't they a change to the ditches
And tunnels of Poverty Flat?'
Well, yes, if you saw us out driving
Each day in the Park, four-in-hand,
If you saw poor dear mamma contriving
To look supernaturally grand,
If you saw papa's picture, as taken
By Brady, and tinted at that,
You'd never suspect he sold bacon
And flour at Poverty Flat.
And yet, just this moment, when sitting
In the glare of the grand chandelier,
In the bustle and glitter befitting
The 'finest soiree of the year,'
In the mists of a gaze de Chambery,
And the hum of the smallest of talk,
Somehow, Joe, I thought of the 'Ferry,'
And the dance that we had on 'The Fork;'
Of Harrison's barn, with its muster
Of flags festooned over the wall;
Of the candles that shed their soft lustre
And tallow on head-dress and shawl;
Of the steps that we took to one fiddle,
Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis;
And how I once went down the middle
With the man that shot Sandy McGee;
Of the moon that was quietly sleeping
On the hill, when the time came to go;
Of the few baby peaks that were peeping
From under their bedclothes of snow;
Of that ride that to me was the rarest;
Of the something you said at the gate.
Ah! Joe, then I wasn't an heiress
To 'the best-paying lead in the State.'
Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny
To think, as I stood in the glare
Of fashion and beauty and money,
That I should be thinking, right there,
Of some one who breasted high water,
And swam the North Fork, and all that,
Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter,
The Lily of Poverty Flat.
But goodness! what nonsense I'm writing!
(Mamma says my taste still is low),
Instead of my triumphs reciting,
I'm spooning on Joseph, heigh-ho!
And I'm to be 'finished' by travel,
Whatever's the meaning of that.
Oh, why did papa strike pay gravel
In drifting on Poverty Flat?
Good-night! here's the end of my paper;
Good-night! if the longitude please,
For maybe, while wasting my taper,
Your sun's climbing over the trees.
But know, if you haven't got riches,
And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that,
That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches,
And you've struck it, on Poverty Flat.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCLXXXV. Love And Matrimony.
by Unknown

Jack and Jill went up the hill,
To fetch a pail of water;
Jack fell down, and broke his crown,
And Jill came tumbling after.
The Little Slit In The Tail
by Henry Lawson

I'm glad that the Bushmen can't see me now
A-doing it tall in the town;
I've an inch-brimmed hat on my sun-burnt brow,
And my collar jumps up and down.
I'm wearing a vest that would charm a snake,
And a tie like a lost soul's wail;
And I'm dressed in a coat of the latest make,
With a little slit in the tail:
With a little slit in the tail of it,
With a little slit in the tail.
My pants alone are a thing of joy,
And they're built to show my bends,
With a crease behind and a crease before,
And a little curl in the ends.
I carry my nose-rag in my cuff,
And the lot should get me gaol,
I paid five guineas for my rig-out,
And one for the slit in the tail:
For the little slit in the tail of it,
For the little slit in the tail.
Jamie, Come Try Me.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Jamy, come try me."
Chorus.
Jamie, come try me,
Jamie, come try me;
If thou would win my love,
Jamie, come try me.
I.
If thou should ask my love,
Could I deny thee?
If thou would win my love,
Jamie, come try me.
II.
If thou should kiss me, love,
Wha could espy thee?
If thou wad be my love,
Jamie, come try me.
Jamie, come try me,
Jamie, come try me;
If thou would win my love,
Jamie, come try me.
Time's Revenges
by Robert Browning

I've a Friend, over the sea;
I like him, but he loves me;
It all grew out of the books I write;
They find such favour in his sight
That he slaughters you with savage looks
Because you don't admire my books:
He does himself though, and if some vein
Were to snap to-night in this heavy brain,
To-morrow month, if I lived to try,
Round should I just turn quietly,
Or out of the bedclothes stretch my hand
Till I found him, come from his foreign land
To be my nurse in this poor place,
And make my broth and wash my face,
And light my fire and, all the while,
Bear with his old good-humoured smile
That I told him 'Better have kept away
'Than come and kill me, night and day,
'With, worse than fever throbs and shoots,
'The creaking of his clumsy boots.'
I am as sure that this he would do
As that Saint Paul's is striking two:
And I think I rather . . . woe is me!
Yes, rather see him than not see,
If lifting a hand could seat him there
Before me in the empty chair
To-night, when my head aches indeed,
And I can neither think nor read
Nor make these purple fingers hold
The pen; this garret's freezing cold!
And I've a Lady, There he wakes,
The laughing fiend and prince of snakes
Within me, at her name, to pray
Fate send some creature in the way
Of my love for her, to be down-torn,
Upthrust and outward borne,
So I might prove myself that sea
Of passion which I needs must be!
Call my thoughts false and my fancies quaint,
And my style infirm and its figures faint,
All the critics say, and more blame yet,
And not one angry word you get!
But, please you, wonder I would put
My cheek beneath that Lady's foot
Rather than trample under mine
The laurels of the Florentine,
And you shall see how the devil spends
A fire God gave for other ends!
I tell you, I stride up and down
This garret, crowned with love's best crown,
And feasted with love's perfect feast,
To think I kill for her, at least,
Body and soul and peace and fame,
Alike youth's end and manhood's aim,
So is my spirit, as flesh with sin,
Filled full, eaten out and in
With the face of her, the eyes of her,
The lips, the little chin, the stir
Of shadow round her month; and she
I'll tell you, calmly would decree
That I should roast at a slow fire,
If that would compass her desire
And make her one whom they invite
To the famous ball to-morrow night.
There may be Heaven; there must be Hell;
Meantime, there is our Earth here, well!
When Beauty Is Bald
by Edward Dyson

I've sung of Honor's golden hair
And Hero's auburn tresses,
Of Bella's back abundance, where
The sun throws his caresses;
I've sung of curl, and coil, and braid;
On meshes I've dilated,
Until at last I'm sore afraid
There's nothing re the hair of maid
That I have left unstated.
'Twill much relieve the constant strain
Of rhyming to extol her
When on the roof of Sophie's brain
Appears a bright cupola.
The poet's verse will freshly run,
Effects will come much faster,
If he may tell the darling one
Her skull is glowing like the sun
And smooth as alabaster.
New stimulus the singer nerves,
When beauty, scorning switches,
Adds to her many swelling curves
A baldness that bewitches.
We've sung too many wigs, I swear,
And now the poet mocks myths,
For Juliet in her head of air
Outshines the moon, and everywhere,
Love really laughs at locksmiths.
You Know What I Mean
by John Milton Hayes

I've noticed this happen, when everything is black,
When I'm down below zero and cannot get back,
When I feel like a sort of a National Debt,
That will go on for ages and never be met,
When my will is all bagged at the knees and dead beat,
It is then, don't you know, that., I'm certain to meet
With some prodigal lifeless dejected old bean,
Who is worse off than I you know what I mean.
Someone or other who's entered the race,
With a sense of intention but can't stay the pace,
He tells all his troubles and heaven knows what,
Talks about Fate and all that sort of rot,
And it makes all my own little troubles look small,
Till I find I've no cause to be worried at all,
And it doesn't seem cricket to grouse when I've seen,
That he's worse off than I you know what I mean.
No matter how hard one may fall down the hill,
There's always a somebody lower down still,
And it makes you feel well, it seems mean to repeat,
All your own little troubles to people you meet.
One learns in the end, that self pity's a curse,
And to talk of your cares only makes them seem worse.
It takes courage to stand where it's easy to lean,
But it makes you feel better you know what I mean.
The chap we all like is the chap who can smile,
Though his heart may be breaking with sorrow the while,
He just keeps them all secretly locked in his breast,
Keep's the worm to himself, gives the world of his best.
He has losses like we have, yet never gives in,
But goes silently back to his task with a grin.
And the lesson we learn from this priceless old being,
Is to smile all the while with some laughs in between.
Though you're empty and broke, meet your fate with a joke,
For the sake of the folk who can't see what you mean
And it may be in turn even they will yet learn,
And they'll smile all the while when they see what you mean.
Do you get me? Ah well that's what I mean.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCLXIV. Love And Matrimony.
by Unknown

Jack Sprat could eat no fat,
His wife could eat no lean;
And so, betwixt them both, you see,
They lick'd the platter clean.
Sprattus Et Uxor.
by Jacob Bigelow

Jack Spratt could eat no fat,
His wife could eat no lean,
And so between them both
They licked the platter clean.
Sprattus horrescens adipem recusat,
Uxor et non vult tolerare macrum:
Conjuges digni! potu're sic de-
tergere lancem.
Je n'ai pas oubli', voisine de la ville
by Charles Baudelaire

I've not forgotten, near to the town,
our white house, small but alone:
its Pomona of plaster, its Venus of old
hiding nude limbs in the meagre grove,
and the sun, superb, at evening, streaming,
behind the glass, where its sheaves were bursting,
a huge eye in a curious heaven, present
to gaze at our meal, lengthy and silent,
spreading its beautiful candle glimmer
on the frugal cloth and the rough curtain.
Jane's Marriage
by Rudyard Kipling

Jane went to Paradise:
That was only fair.
Good Sir Walter followed her,
And armed her up the stair.
Henry and Tobias,
And Miguel of Spain,
Stood with Shakespeare at the top
To welcome Jane 
Then the Three Archangels
Offered out of hand
Anything in Heaven's gift
That she might command.
Azrael's eyes upon her,
Raphael's wings above,
Michael's sword against her heart,
Jane said: "Love."
Instantly the under-
Standing Seraphim
Laid their fingers on their lips
And went to look for him.
Stole across the Zodiac,
Harnessed Charles's Wain,
And whispered round the Nebulae
"Who loved Jane?"
In a private limbo
Where none had thought to look,
Sat a Hampshire gentleman 
Reading of a book.
It was called Persuasion
And it told the plain
Story of the love between
Him and Jane.
He heard the question,
Circle Heaven through 
Closed the book and answered:
"I did    and do!"
Quietly but speedily
(As Captain Wentworth moved)
Entered into Paradise
The man Jane loved!
Jane lies in Winchester, blessed be her shade!
Praise the Lord for making her, and her for all she made.
And while the stones of Winchester or Milson Street remain,
Glory, Love, and Honour unto England's Jane!
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCLVII. Love And Matrimony.
by Unknown

Jack in the pulpit, out and in;
Sold his wife for a minikin pin.
Down The River
by Henry Lawson

I've done with joys an' misery,
An' why should I repine?
There's no one knows the past but me
An' that ol' dog o' mine.
We camp an' walk an' camp an' walk,
An' find it fairly good;
He can do anything but talk,
An' he wouldn't if he could.
We sits an' thinks beside the fire,
With all the stars a-shine,
An' no one knows our thoughts but me
An' that there dog o' mine.
We has our Johnny-cake an' 'scrag,'
An' finds 'em fairly good;
He can do anything but talk,
An' he wouldn't if he could.
He gets a 'possum now an' then,
I cooks it on the fire;
He has his water, me my tea,
What more could we desire?
He gets a rabbit when he likes,
We finds it pretty good;
He can do anything but talk,
An' he wouldn't if he could.
I has me smoke, he has his rest,
When sunset's gettin' dim;
An' if I do get drunk at times,
It's all the same to him.
So long's he's got me swag to mind,
He thinks that times is good;
He can do anything but talk,
An' he wouldn't if he could.
He gets his tucker from the cook,
For cook is good to him,
An' when I sobers up a bit,
He goes an' has a swim.
He likes the rivers where I fish,
An' all the world is good;
He can do anything but talk,
An' he wouldn't if he could.
Stop-And-See
by Edward Dyson

I'm stewing in a brick-built town;
My coat is quite a stylish cut,
And, morn and even, up and down,
I travel in a common rut;
But as the city sounds recede,
In dreamy moods I sometimes see
A vision of a busy lead,
And hear its voices calling me.
My flaccid muscles seem to tweak
To feel the windlass pall and strain,
To shake the cradle by the creek,
And puddle at the 'tom' again.
I'd gladly sling this musty shop
To see the sluicing waters flow 
A pile of tucker, dirt on top,
And simply Lord knows what below.
'Twas lightly left, 'tis lately mourned,
The tent life up at Stop-and-See,
When shirts with yellow clay adorned
Were badges of nobility,
When Sunday's best was Monday's wear,
And Bennett gave us verse and book 
Poor Dick! a crude philosopher,
But, bless his heart, a clever cook.
An easy life we lived and free;
The wash was only ten-weight stuff,
The 'bottom' dry and soft at knee 
With Hope to help us 'twas enough.
Then none could say us ay or nay
Did we agree to slave or smoke;
The pan was ready with the pay
E'en though the graft was half in joke.
'Twas good when 'spell-oh!' had been said,
To watch the white smoke curl and cling
Against the gravel roof o'erhead,
The candles dimly flickering
And circled with a yellow glow 
To sprawl upon the broken reef,
And pensively to pull and blow
The fragrant incense from the leaf.
And where the creek ran by our tent,
Or lingered through embowered ponds,
In dusky nooks that held a scent
Of musk amid the drooping fronds,
It was a pleasant task to lay
The dish within the stream, and there
To puddle off the pug and clay,
And pan the gleaming prospect bare.
Oft in the strange deceit of dreams,
I swirl the old tin-dish again,
And Wondee's rippling water seems
To cool my weary limbs as then;
And down the hill-side bare and dry
A digger's chorus faintly comes,
And mingles with the lullaby
Of locusts in the drowsy gums.
The barrels rattle on their stands,
And in the shaft the nail-kegs swing.
The short, sharp strokes of practised hands
Are making pick and anvil ring.
I hear the splitter's measured blow,
The distant knocker rise and drop,
The cheery cry, 'Look up, below!'
The muffled call of 'Heave, on top!'
No piles were made at Stop-and-See,
No nuggets found of giant size,
But, looking back, it seems to me
That all who laboured there were wise.
For there was freedom void of pride,
There hate of forms and shallow arts,
And there were friendships all too wide
For narrow streets and narrow hearts.