OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# At the Bars of Memory and Other Poems/At the Bars of Memory

AT THE BARS OF MEMORY
By Andrew Francis Lockhart
I love the daytime's beauties, an' its far-flung, smilin' skies, An' all those other glories that are seen through mortal eyes: But the evenin' with its solemn hush an' myriad glintin' stars Just seems to bring me like the kine right up to memory's bars; An' I live the old joys over, an' the tears o'long ago, When I claimed the wealth o' life's rewards o' mirth an' youth and woe, An' across the mists o' fleetin' years from days that used to be, I can catch the lilt o' low-sung songs my mother sang to me.
An' once again a truant from the humble little school, I go splashin' in the waters of the Fair Grounds swimmin' pool; An' old Tub an Jack an' Toop an' all the members of the clique Are grinnin' at me where the vines are gnarled an' black an' thick; An' once more I follow fancies of a youngster free from care. An' I'm diggin' caves an' dugouts; catchin' gophers, with a snare; An' once more I am playin' "show," with a face all greasy black To a crowd o' sunburned urchins in a tent o' gunny sack.
An' in the sweep o' fancy 'cross the spaces of the past, I view the golden harvest of the grains my hands have cast; An' the old familiar campus I knew just a while ago Calls me back to shady spots where friendly trees are bendin' low, An' all the same old fellows pass along the same old ways I used to love to follow in those other radiant days; An' I pause in retrospection to gaze through crowdin' tears At the haunts an' scenes that glorified the dreams o' yester years.
An' through the gatherin' mists my truant, fancies once more trace The loveliness an' virtue of a sweet girl's hauntin' face, An' across the span o' whit'nin' years between the Then an' Now I press a tender kiss upon my sweetheart's yieldin' brow, An' once again we wander in the twilight's purplin' haze, An' I dream the old dreams over as we did in other days. Dear girl, the stars o ' countless nights have watch'd o'er you asleep, While I have walk'd the lonely road 'mongst shadows dark an' deep.
Oh, I love the daytime's beauties; its far-flung, smilin' skies, An' all those other glories that are seen through mortal eyes; But the evenin' with its solemn hush an' myriad glintin' stars Just seems to bring me like the kine right up to memory's bars; An' across the spreadin' spaces with their sacred scenes an' plots I catch the deathless fragrance o' Time's blue forget-me-nots; An' in my achin' heart o ' hearts I thank God for the night, E'en though my dreams must vanish with the mornln's streakin' light!
# At the Bars of Memory and Other Poems/Old Sleepy Town

OLD SLEEPY TOWN
Little Curly Head is sleepy, an' his tried little eyes Are heavy an' most as blinky as the stars up up in the skies; He's tryin' to keep them open, but the lids keep pullin' down, An his little feet are headed for the streets o' Sleepy Town!
Old Sleepy Town's a quiet place us old folks used to know— Perhaps you have forgotten, for it was long, long ago— When we used to seek its portals when the candle's yellow light Was snuffed, an' mother whispered low: "Goodnight, my child, goodnight!"
Old Sleepy Town is border'd by the emerald Sea o' Dreams, An' the streets are pav'd with lollypops an' nuts an' choc'late creams, An' on each corner there's a stand, an' lemonade is free, An' sugar-plums are hangin' from the maple-frostin' tree!
An' in the public fountain in the center o ' the town. The big bowl's overflowin' an' sweet nectar's runnin' down, An' little naked kewpies on a great big caramel sled Are coastin' right down mountains made o' cake an' ginger bread!
Old Sleepy Town's a dear old place … W e lov'd it long ago, Long afore our heads were whitened with Time's never-failin' snow; An' just as we once lov'd it in the hallowed days now dead, It is near an' dear to baby … to our little Curly Head!
# At the Bars of Memory and Other Poems/Little Blue Eyes

LITTLE BLUE EYES
Little blue eyes blinking at me So sleepily, so sleepily; You are tir'd, I know, you want to sail Away up where the moon-beams pale; Little blue eyes blinking at me.
Little blue eyes blinking at me So sleepily, so sleepily; Sandman must have been 'round this way, And caught my little one at play; Little blue eyes blinking at me.
Little blue eyes are closed in sleep, Silent and deep, silent and deep, And 'way up there in pearl-scarr'd skies, Two little stars like baby's eyes Are winking and blinking at me!
# At the Bars of Memory and Other Poems/Contentment

CONTENTMENT
A touch of rose and a glint of gold; A crystal star in the sea of pearl; What matters it if the world grows cold When the folds of night unfurl?
A friend or two for the living day; And love for the worldly things worth while; What matters it if the skies grow gray? There is no chill in a soul-born smile!
An hour for joy; a moment for tears; And golden beams to breast the gloom; What matters it if the surging years Are beating against an eternal tomb?
For life is real, and so much joy Pervades each hour of the living day, That sorrow is only the mild alloy Which strengthens the fabric of mortal clay!
# At the Bars of Memory and Other Poems/Let Me Live a While

LET ME LIVE A WHILE
Oh, let me live a little while; A fleeting, changeful day; And teach me how to laugh and smile When skies grow cold and gray!
Oh, let me learn the lessons hard, The tasks of life's long school, And let me soothe the hands deep scarr'd Of those who broke some rule!
Oh, let me say a word of cheer To those who struggle by, And let me dry another's tear When sorrow's train is nigh!
Oh, let me ease some troubled heart With a kind word or two, And let me cool the ache and smart Of wrongs some others do!
Oh, let me bear the heavy cross Borne by some falt'ring man, And let his gain become my loss In life's fine sifting pan!
Oh, let me live a little while; A fleeting, changeful day; And may the heavens glow and smile When I am laid away!
# At the Bars of Memory and Other Poems/To a Vagrant

TO A VAGRANT
Preacher? No, I ain't no preacher! But as O saw you standin' there, I thought I could trace O'er a boy's happy face A ringlet o' wind-toss'd hair. An' I thought I could picture a mother With a face like the heaven's dawn. As she heard her child's pray'rs, By his bedside upstairs When the curtains at evenin' were drawn.
Preacher? No, I ain't no preacher! But when I saw the glint in your eyes, Wondered I if she knew What had happened to you, An' if you ever thought o' her sighs. An' I wondered if you ever wrote her— Yes, I know folks call you a bum— But she's prayin' tonight By the lamp's yellow light For the boy, her boy, who don't come.
Preacher? No, I ain't no preacher! But as I heard you laugh just now, I thought I could trace In the lines o' your face The kisses she pressed on your brow; An' I thought I could hear the babble Of a wee, little chap in his glee, As he galloped the course On a white wooden horse No higher'n his gran'daddy's knee.
Preacher? No, I ain't no preacher! But I just couldn't help but see How sweet-like you looked Afore you went and booked For the ports that can never be. An' I just couldn't keep from wonderin' If you weren't hungry tonight To hear mother say: "Dear Father, I pray"— Back home in the yellow light.
Preacher? No, I ain't no preacher! But I'm askin' you just the same, As a mere passin' friend Who has noticed your trend Though he don't even know your name. To go back to the woman who's waitin' An' fill her old heart with joy— An' kiss her wrinkled brow: For though you're a man now, In her eyes—you're only a boy!
# At the Bars of Memory and Other Poems/To a Friend o' Mine

TO A FRIEND O' MINE
He's got a care-free swagger when he trails along the street, An' I reckon most folks would say he's as shiftless as can be; An' his arms are always swingin' to the swingin' o' his feet. An' he always keeps a-whistlin' an' just take it now from me He's got a world o' sunshine in his dirty, freckled face, An' his torn an' patched-up overalls an' shirt an' other things Just cover up a body that is full o' tender grace An' I'd pay him honest homage when I'd grudge the same to kings!
He's got a face-free swagger an' his arms are long an' thin An' I reckon God Almighty put the fire into his eyes Just about the self-same time He put the sunshine in his grin, An' filled his hair with sunbeams pluck'd from out the summer skies. An' where he got his laughter, well say, I don't know where But I've heard it in the meadow where the brook goes idlin' by; An' I've heard it in the willows 'round the old creek over there Where I used to watch the shiners snappin' at a dragon-fly.
Tricky? Well, I guess he is, an' he will keep you guessin', too, An' you couldn't get him mad or sore for all you'd try an' plan; He's full o ' pep an' ginger, but I know he wouldn't do A mean trick to the meanest chap you'd call a low-down man. An' he's always there an' willin' to lend a helpin' hand, An' he just loves to have you kinda notice him, an' say— He'd make you like him, love him, an' he'd help you understand The glory o' the night an' all the glories o' the day!
He's just a little shaver an' I don't suppose that you Would ever stop to mark him if you'd meet him in a crowd; But b'lieve me—he's the chap I'll doff my old sombrero to, 'Cause he's a friend o' mine an' honest Injun I am proud To have him come an' greet me with his happy, boyish yell: I'm glad to have him holler when he sees me passin' by, An' all his songs an whistled tunes just seem to weave a spell That takes me back across the years, an' … durn that leaky eye!
He's got a care-free swagger when he trails along the street, An' I reckon most folks would say he's as shiftless as can be; An' his arms are always swingin' to the swingin' o' his feet, An' he always keeps a'whistlin' an' just take it now from me— He's got a world o' sunshine in his dirty, freckled face, An' his torn an' patched-up overalls an' shirt an' other things Just cover up a body that is full o' tender grace An' I'd pay him honest homage when I'd grudge the same to kings!
# At the Bars of Memory and Other Poems/The Hunger

THE HUNGER
Sometimes when the curtains are lowered, an' the world is shut away, An' the embers glow in the fire-grate like the burnin' steps o' day, From the bounds o' the land o' spirits I feel you drawin' near An' above the tickin' o' my clock I hear you whisper, "Dear!"
An' sometimes when I linger in the old, old garden spot I seem to trace your tender face in a fair forget-me-not; An' the gnawin' hunger o ' my soul is lost for a little while In the sacred recollection o' your sweet an' deathless smile.
An' sometimes in the star-lit night when the earth is hush'd an' still, An' the silver moon is pinion'd to a star above the hill, My dream ships go a-sailin' o'er the Seas o' Yesterday An' your fairy voice comes singin' like the birds across the way.
An' sometimes I seem to catch a glint o ' sunny, golden hair As the sunlight throws a shadow 'cross the room an' over there Where you used to sit an' watch me bendin' o'er a yieldin' page; But my pen is still'd an' rustin' … an' the time seems such an age!
The dreams I built in olden days are lost in the dark o' grief, An' like a wind-swept tree that craves for a single, clingin' leaf, My soul is hungry for the touch of a soft, caressin' hand; For the tender eyes of a lost one … who knew … an' could understand!
# At the Bars of Memory and Other Poems/A Prayer

A PRAYER
O give me the strength, dear God of heaven, When the mighty test of courage comes— Perchance in the rattle of steel and bronze, And the roar and rumble of martial drums; If Thou, O Creator, shouldst deem it meet That I face the onward charging line— Pray give me the strength to die like a man. When they shall pierce this heart of mine!
O give me the strength, dear God of heaven, When the great test shall come to me In the solemn hush of the star-lit night And where no mortal eyes can see; O give me the strength to meet the test— The courage of Thy heart divine, To baffle the arts of the unseen powers Seeking to rule this soul of mine!
# At the Bars of Memory and Other Poems/His Master's Voice

HIS MASTER'S VOICE
When he swells up his chest and raises his chin, And talks with a gusto that sounds like sin; And boasts of his valor and strength and all Save his yellow streak and his store of gall: You may think he's a hero of countless affrays, And a gallant knight of chivalric days, Who has humbled a million men, bold and bad, But it's only whisky that's talking, m'lad!
When he recites a wierd tale of conquests made, Of tests of arms and the cold, steel blade; Of escapades that make you shiver and shake As your spine grows as cold as a coiling snake: You may think he's a hero of some bloody war Where men were butchered and slaughtered galore; Where human life was a mere tinsel toy— But it's only whisky that's talking, m'boy!
For whisky talks above the din of the crowd In tones that are husky or falsetto loud: A hero it makes of the cowardly knave, And a creeping toad of the strong and brave; And the man of wealth is poor when he's drunk While the pauper counts bullion by the chunk: And virtue and goodness are lost in the bad— When whisky starts talking—and boasting—m'lad!
# At the Bars of Memory and Other Poems/Give Me the Love of a Child

GIVE ME THE LOVE OF A CHILD
Oh, give me the love of a little child, An' grant me the right to claim The fond, soft pats o' his chubby hands As he seeks to lisp my name!
Oh, give me the love of a little child, An' grant me the pow'r to say A prayer for him in the quiet night When his toys are laid away!
Oh, give me the love of a little child, When my eyes grow weak an' dim, An' the golden sun o' life sinks down O'er Eternity's purple rim!
Oh, give me the love of a little child, An' I'll prize it evermore When my lonely ship goes a-sailin' on For a far an' misty shore!
# At the Bars of Memory and Other Poems/In Parting

IN PARTING
When time draws nigh to say goodbye To those I prize and hold, And the soul of me puts out to sea, And earth grows dark and cold; God grant me pow'r in that last hour To wave a fond adieu To those who grieve because I leave From out the soundless blue.
And may they know as I must go Across death's borderland, I liv'd my days on life's highways Seeking to understand; Seeking to give to those who live The flowers they have won Ere they have found the plot of ground— Sacred spot in the sun.
To those who weep for me asleep. May God bring comfort there; And may He bless with His caress The heart that feels despair: For I will wait within the gate Where angel faces smile To meet them when we meet again In just a little while!
# At the Bars of Memory and Other Poems/Growing Old

GROWING OLD
A little nearer the setting sun; A little nearer to God and man; More ready to help the falt'ring one Who struggles behind life's caravan.
A little more used to changing fate; A little more tender of heart toward those Who once were wont to condemn and hate. Who once paid the kindest act with blows.
Loving to live and let others live; A little nearer the golden rule; More apt to refuse—more willing to give A hand to the strugglers in life's hard school.
More willing to count the many joys That are mine in this sun-blest day; More ready to leave the strife and noise To watch little children at their play.
Growing old! But if it please God As the changing seasons onward roll. Let me follow the trail so many have trod With Youth and Hope and Love in my soul!
# At the Bars of Memory and Other Poems/The Victor

THE VICTOR
When you stand alone on the field once more, And your face is bruis'd and red with gore, And a sickening feeling fills your breast As the fires of day die out in the west; Oh, can you look back with pride at your fight, As the twilight glow filters into the night? Was it worth the pain, and the heart-aches and all. Was it worth the deep dregs of bitter gall?
Was it worth the hard test you had to meet? Was the vict'ry gain'd, satisfaction complete? Did you wage a fight on a worth while plan? And what have you won in the eyes of man? Was it worth the shedding of precious blood? Was it worth the loss'ning of sorrow's flood? Was the effort worth while? Can time erase The deep scars you have cut in your heart and face?
O victor alone on your battle field, With your blunted sword and deep dented shield. Look back o'er the past and count your gain And tell me your conquests were not in vain; Tell me the vict'ry your valor has won Has earned you the right to a spot in the sun; Tell me the sum of your spoils blood-wet Is something more than a cross of regret!
# At the Bars of Memory and Other Poems/Life

LIFE
Just a little night-time. An' then—the fadin' stars. A golden sheen An' blue between The crimson mornin' bars!
Just an hour o' sunshine, An' just an hour o' gloom. Just a few tears Then fleetin' years, An' then—the narrow room!
Just a little sadness, A moment o' regret; An' then comes peace— Our labors cease— The sun of day has set!
Thus give our measur'd moments Essence o' joy an' pain; An' may we feel Come woe or weal, Life is ne'er liv'd in vain!
# At the Bars of Memory and Other Poems/His Reasons

HIS REASONS
I 'spose you kind o' wonder why your daddy's always blue, An' why he loves the comp'ny of a little tot like you; Why he loves to run his fingers through your curly, golden hair Afore he says goodnight when you have lisp'd your evenin' pray'r. An' I spose most folks are thinkin' that I'm just a wee bit queer, 'Cause I love to sit alone sometimes an' smoke my pipe out here Where the hollyhocks are swayin' in the gently whisperin' breeze That seems to sob a requiem in the branches of the trees.
But listen, little dearie, just afore you close your eyes, There's reason for my loneliness an' reason for my sighs; There's reason why I love to pat your curly little head An' listen to your baby pray'rs beside your trundle bed. A long, long time ago a woman held you to her breast, When your dream ships went a-sailin' in the harbor of the west; She held you close an' watched the stars a-twinklin' in the skies, An' you, babe, were the theme o' all her low-sung lullabis.
No, I guess you can't recall to mind that sweet an' kindly face, An' time has still'd the melodies that bless'd this old home place: But just as though I might forget her tender eyes o' blue, God left the depths o' heaven in the little eyes o' you; An' He took a bit o' sunlight from His gardens over there An' left it as a halo for your mother's golden hair. An' He pluck'd the roses from her lips an' gave them all to yours, As sweet an' fresh an' fragrant as the dew that drapes the moors.
An' I love to sit an' smoke an' dream o' days that are to be, When you will bring the presence o' your mother back to me; When you will bring the sunshine o' her sweet an' tender face From out the halls o' heaven to this quiet, sacred place; An' baby dear I'll keep you here until that final day When she will call me to her from the place across the way; An' that's why your daddy's lonely; that's why he's always blue— An' that's why he loves the comp'ny of a little tot like you!
# At the Bars of Memory and Other Poems/You Didn't Mean to Be Bad

YOU DIDN'T MEAN TO BE BAD
No, you didn't mean to be bad, little chap, When you uttered that cross little word; It was only a slip from an ill-guarded lip, Yet somebody was iistenin', and' heard. It hurt her a heap, 'cause I saw her tears fall She was cryin' for you, little lad; An' her poor heart was achin' an' almost breakin' Though you didn't mean to be bad.
No, you didn't mean to be bad, little chap. When you rushed off an' wouldn't be kissed; You were hustlin' to play with the gang 'cross the way, But laddie, your lips were sore missed. It hurt her a heap when you dashed through the door, An' her patient blue eyes grew so sad; She wanted to press that mother's caress— But you didn 't mean to be bad.
Oh, none o' us want to be bad, my boy. But we do an' say so many things Without thinkin' the rose a careless hand throws May be bristlin' with briars an' stings. An' many's the arrow we hurt with our might Without aim—yet long after, my lad. We find that our dart has pierced a heart— An' we didn't mean to be bad!
# At the Bars of Memory and Other Poems/Now I'm Old

NOW I'M OLD
I used to like to argue 'Bout tariff schedules an' planks; Cost o' home production An' the ideas o' cranks; Used to roast the durn free-traders When our wheat an' corn was sold At near starvation prices — But now I'm old!
I used to like to campaign For the grand old G. O. P.; Headed torch-light processions Since eighteen eighty-three; Smoked cigars that smelt like rubber An' drove in the rain an' cold To 'tend some rousin' rally— But now I'm old!
I've walked an' talked a heap lot For candidates galore; I've fit for Lincoln's party Ever since the Civil War; Never got a job for workin' Nor a bit o' minted gold— Just a million broken promises An' now—I'm old!
# At the Bars of Memory and Other Poems/The Wee, Wee Little Chap

THE WEE, WEE LITTLE CHAP
He was just a wee, wee, little chap, But he meant, Oh, so much to me! An' since he went away the home don't seem At all like it used to be. I can't get used to the quiet room That once seemed so chuck full o' joy An' a lump keeps formin' in my throat 'Cause I want my boy!
His hands an' face were always soiled, But it wa'n't because he was mean, 'Cause I knew that beneath the dirt an' grime Both his little heart an' soul were clean. His hair was always mussed an' snarl'd, Like as though it never knew a comb, But that curly head was the sunshine Of our little home.
An' now when I sit in the quiet room I seem to feel him near, an' somehow I can trace his arms about my neck As his phantom kisses brush my brow; An' then—I just can't help listenin' For the crash of a fumbled toy. But the wind outside just sobs an' sighs— For my little boy!
Lonely? Yes, an' I just nigh starved For the glow of a little face; For the grimy hands an' tangled hair That once blessed this old home place. An' I want to hear the patter Of bare little feet on the stair An' hear again his "Hel-lo Dad— Me's comin' over there!"
He was just a wee, wee, little chap, But he meant, Oh, so much to me! An' since he went away the home don't seem At all like it used to be. I can't get used to the quiet room That once seemed so chuck full o' joy An' a lump keeps formin' in my throat 'Cause I want my boy!
# At the Bars of Memory and Other Poems/Since the Boys Went Away

SINCE THE BOYS WENT AWAY
I've been sittin' around all day, I have, Just noddin' an' nappin' an' wonderin' when The boys will be comin' back home again, An' I have been wishin' they was here, I have.
Ain't no use tryin' to forget, it ain't, 'Cause they's gone an' let mother an' me— An' we just can't help wonderin' where they be 'Cause they never write back to us, they don't.
There was curly-haired Jim, our pet, he was— An' mother planned an' planned on him Stayin' right here—little curly-haired Jim— But he's gone to the front to fight, he has.
An' Sam, he always used to say, he did, That he'd never leave us old folks alone 'Til our names was cut in a slab o' stone— But he answered the call an' rode away, he did.
An' Billy—well, he was kind o' wild, he was. An' he always wanted to rove an' roam; He wa'n't contented in the old farm home— But we cried when he went away, we did.
No. it ain't that we's selfish, no it ain't. But it's lonesome out here on the old home place. An' mother's growin' haggard in her eyes an' face 'Cause the boys don't never write, they don't.
I've been sittin' around all day, I have, Just noddin' an' nappin' an' wonderin' when The boys will be comin' back home again, An' I have been wishin' they was here, I have.