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Best Famous Ballad Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Ballad poems. This is a select list of the best famous Ballad poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Ballad poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of ballad poems.

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Ballade: In Favour Of Those Called Decadents And Symbolists Translation of Paul Verlaines Poem: Ballade

for Léon Vanier*

(The texts I use for my translations are from: Yves-Alain Favre, Ed.
Paul Verlaine: Œuvres Poétiques Complètes.
Paris: Robert Laffont,1992, XCIX-939p.
) Some few in all this Paris: We live off pride, yet flat broke we’re Even if with the bottle a bit too free We drink above all fresh water Being very sparing when taken with hunger.
With other fine fare and wines of high-estate Likewise with beauty: sour-tempered never.
We are the writers of good taste.
Phoebé when all the cats gray be Highly sharpened to a point much harsher Our bodies nourrished by glory Hell licks its lips and in ambush does cower And with his dart Phoebus pierces us ever The night cradling us through dreamy waste Strewn with seeds of peach beds over.
We are the writers of good taste.
A good many of the best minds rally Holding high Man’s standard: toffee-nosed scoffer And Lemerre* retains with success poetry’s destiny.
More than one poet then helter-skelter Sought to join the rest through the narrow fissure; But Vanier at the very end made haste The only lucky one to assume the rôle of Fisher*.
We are the writers of good taste.
ENVOI Even if our stock exchange tends to dither Princes hold sway: gentle folk and the divining caste.
Whatever one might say or pours forth the preacher, We are the writers of good taste.
*One of Verlaine’s publishers who first published his near-collected works at 19, quai Saint-Michel, Paris-V.
* Alphonse Lemerre (1838-1912) , one of Verlaine’s publishers at 47, Passage Choiseul, Paris, where from 1866 onwards the Parnassians met regularly.
*Vanier first specialised in articles for fishing as a sport.
© T.
Wignesan – Paris,2013


by Majeed Amjad | |

A Twinkle in Her Eyes

Who can say

Why her eyes,

Those playmates of the hamlet where Beauty dwells,

Why her eyes smile that way ?

 

When notes arising from her soul,

That Temple-Palace of Music,

And traipsing through the land of glad tidings,

Mirthfully smothering the tinkling of their anklets,

Tip toe up, haltingly, secretively,

To the gates of her lips,

Why her gaze sparkles and smiles ?

 

Leaping over islands of silence

And wastelands of sealed lip pining,

When the silhouettes of desire

Come waltzing in

To nestle in an intimate moment’s nest,

Why her gaze sparkles and smiles ?

 

Her soul, that Sprite-Princess,

Neither lifts her veil

Nor voices her song

And when her heart’s ballad

Passes through distant, unexplored worlds

As the faint, lingering sounds of a flute …

Why her gaze sparkles and smiles !


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

THE FAITHLESS BOY.

 THERE was a wooer blithe and gay,

A son of France was he,--
Who in his arms for many a day,

As though his bride were she,
A poor young maiden had caress'd,
And fondly kiss'd, and fondly press'd,

And then at length deserted.
When this was told the nut-brown maid, Her senses straightway fled; She laugh'd and wept, and vow'd and pray'd, And presently was dead.
The hour her soul its farewell took, The boy was sad, with terror shook, Then sprang upon his charger.
He drove his spurs into his side, And scour'd the country round; But wheresoever he might ride, No rest for him was found.
For seven long days and nights he rode, It storm'd, the waters overflow'd, It bluster'd, lighten'd, thunder'd.
On rode he through the tempest's din, Till he a building spied; In search of shelter crept he in, When he his steed had tied.
And as he groped his doubtful way, The ground began to rock and sway,-- He fell a hundred fathoms.
When he recover'd from the blow, He saw three lights pass by; He sought in their pursuit to go, The lights appear'd to fly.
They led his footsteps all astray, Up, down, through many a narrow way Through ruin'd desert cellars.
When lo! he stood within a hall, With hollow eyes.
and grinning all; They bade him taste the fare.
A hundred guests sat there.
He saw his sweetheart 'midst the throng, Wrapp'd up in grave-clothes white and long; She turn'd, and----* 1774.
(* This ballad is introduced in Act II.
of Claudine of Villa Bella, where it is suddenly broken off, as it is here.
)


More great poems below...

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

THE KING OF THULE.*

 (* This ballad is also introduced in Faust, 
where it is sung by Margaret.
) IN Thule lived a monarch, Still faithful to the grave, To whom his dying mistress A golden goblet gave.
Beyond all price he deem'd it, He quaff'd it at each feast; And, when he drain'd that goblet, His tears to flow ne'er ceas'd.
And when he felt death near him, His cities o'er he told, And to his heir left all things, But not that cup of gold.
A regal banquet held he In his ancestral ball, In yonder sea-wash'd castle, 'Mongst his great nobles all.
There stood the aged reveller, And drank his last life's-glow,-- Then hurl'd the holy goblet Into the flood below.
He saw it falling, filling, And sinking 'neath the main, His eyes then closed for ever, He never drank again.
1774.


by Ezra Pound | |

Masks

 These tales of old disguisings, are they not
Strange myths of souls that found themselves among
Unwonted folk that spake an hostile tongue,
Some soul from all the rest who'd not forgot
The star-span acres of a former lot
Where boundless mid the clouds his course he swung,
Or carnate with his elder brothers sung
Ere ballad-makers lisped of Camelot?

Old singers half-forgetful of their tunes,
Old painters color-blind come back once more,
Old poets skill-less in the wind-heart runes,
Old wizards lacking in their wonder-lore:

All they that with strange sadness in their eyes
Ponder in silence o'er earth's queynt devyse?


by Ezra Pound | |

Ballad for Gloom

 For God, our God is a gallant foe 
That playeth behind the veil.
I have loved my God as a child at heart That seeketh deep bosoms for rest, I have loved my God as a maid to man— But lo, this thing is best: To love your God as a gallant foe that plays behind the veil; To meet your God as the night winds meet beyond Arcturus' pale.
I have played with God for a woman, I have staked with my God for truth, I have lost to my God as a man, clear-eyed— His dice be not of ruth.
For I am made as a naked blade, But hear ye this thing in sooth: Who loseth to God as man to man Shall win at the turn of the game.
I have drawn my blade where the lightnings meet But the ending is the same: Who loseth to God as the sword blades lose Shall win at the end of the game.
For God, our God is a gallant foe that playeth behind the veil.
Whom God deigns not to overthrow hath need of triple mail.


by Ezra Pound | |

Historion

 No man hath dared to write this thing as yet, 
And yet I know, how that the souls of all men great 
At times pass athrough us, 
And we are melted into them, and are not 
Save reflexions of their souls.
Thus am I Dante for a space and am One Francois Villon, ballad-lord and thief, Or am such holy ones I may not write Lest blasphemy be writ against my name; This for an instant and the flame is gone.
'Tis as in midmost us there glows a sphere Translucent, molten gold, that is the "I" And into this some form projects itself: Christus, or John, or eke the Florentine; And as the clear space is not if a form's Imposed thereon, So cease we from all being for the time, And these, the Masters of the Soul, live on.


by Oscar Wilde | |

Silentium Amoris

 As often-times the too resplendent sun
Hurries the pallid and reluctant moon
Back to her sombre cave, ere she hath won
A single ballad from the nightingale,
So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail,
And all my sweetest singing out of tune.
And as at dawn across the level mead On wings impetuous some wind will come, And with its too harsh kisses break the reed Which was its only instrument of song, So my too stormy passions work me wrong, And for excess of Love my Love is dumb.
But surely unto Thee mine eyes did show Why I am silent, and my lute unstrung; Else it were better we should part, and go, Thou to some lips of sweeter melody, And I to nurse the barren memory Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.


by Robert William Service | |

The Bread-Knife Ballad

 A little child was sitting Up on her mother's knee
And down down her cheeks the bitter tears did flow.
And as I sadly listened I heard this tender plea, 'Twas uttered in a voice so soft and low.
"Not guilty" said the Jury And the Judge said "Set her free, But remember it must not occur again.
And next time you must listen to you little daughter's plea," Then all the Court did join in this refrain.
Chorus: "Please Mother don't stab Father with the BREAD-KNIFE, Remember 'twas a gift when you were wed.
But if you must stab Father with the BREAD-KNIFE, Please Mother use another for the BREAD.
"


by Robert William Service | |

Facility

 So easy 'tis to make a rhyme,
That did the world but know it,
Your coachman might Parnassus climb,
Your butler be a poet.
Then, oh, how charming it would be If, when in haste hysteric You called the page, you learned that he Was grappling with a lyric.
Or else what rapture it would yield, When cook sent up the salad, To find within its depths concealed A touching little ballad.
Or if for tea and toast you yearned, What joy to find upon it The chambermaid had coyly laid A palpitating sonnet.
Your baker could the fashion set; Your butcher might respond well; With every tart a triolet, With every chop a rondel.
Your tailor's bill .
.
.
well, I'll be blowed! Dear chap! I never knowed him .
.
.
He's gone and written me an ode, Instead of what I owed him.
So easy 'tis to rhyme .
.
.
yet stay! Oh, terrible misgiving! Please do not give the game away .
.
.
I've got to make my living.


by Robert William Service | |

The Ballad Of The Northern Lights

 One of the Down and Out--that's me.
Stare at me well, ay, stare! Stare and shrink--say! you wouldn't think that I was a millionaire.
Look at my face, it's crimped and gouged--one of them death-mask things; Don't seem the sort of man, do I, as might be the pal of kings? Slouching along in smelly rags, a bleary-eyed, no-good bum; A knight of the hollow needle, pard, spewed from the sodden slum.
Look me all over from head to foot; how much would you think I was worth? A dollar? a dime? a nickel? Why, I'm the wealthest man on earth.
No, don't you think that I'm off my base.
You'll sing a different tune If only you'll let me spin my yarn.
Come over to this saloon; Wet my throat--it's as dry as chalk, and seeing as how it's you, I'll tell the tale of a Northern trail, and so help me God, it's true.
I'll tell of the howling wilderness and the haggard Arctic heights, Of a reckless vow that I made, and how I staked the Northern Lights.


by Robert William Service | |

Prelude

 To smite Apollo's lyre I am unable;
Of loveliness, alas! I cannot sing.
My lot it i, across the tavern table, To start a chorus to the strumming string.
I have no gift to touch your heart to pity; I have no power to ring the note of pain: All I can do is pipe a pot-house ditty, Or roar a Rabelaisian refrain.
Behold yon minstrel of the empty belly, Who seeks to please the bored and waiting throng, Outside the Opera with ukulele, And raucous strains of syncopated song.
His rag-time mocks their eager hearts a-hunger For golden voices, melody divine: Yet .
.
.
throw a penny to the ballad-monger; Yet .
.
.
listen idly to this song of mine.
For with a humble heart I clank rhyme's fetters, And bare my buttocks to the critic knout; A graceless hobo in the Land of Letters, Piping my ditties of the down-and-out.
A bar-room bard .
.
.
so if a coin you're flinging, Pay me a pot, and let me dream and booze; To stars of scorn my dour defiance ringing, With battered banjo and a strumpet Muse.


by Francois Villon | |

The Ballad Of The Proverbs

 So rough the goat will scratch, it cannot sleep.
So often goes the pot to the well that it breaks.
So long you heat iron, it will glow; so heavily you hammer it, it shatters.
So good is the man as his praise; so far he will go, and he's forgotten; so bad he behaves, and he's despised.
So loud you cry Christmas, it comes.
So glib you talk, you end up in contradictions.
So good is your credit as the favors you got.
So much you promise that you will back out.
So doggedly you beg that your wish is granted; so high climbs the price when you want a thing; so much you want it that you pay the price; so familiar it gets to you, you want it no more.
So loud you cry Christmas, it comes.
So, you love a dog.
Then feed it! So long a song will run that people learn it.
So long you keep the fruit, it will rot.
So hot the struggle for a spot that it is won; so cool you keep your act that your spirit freezes; so hurriedly you act that you run into bad luck; so tight you embrace that your catch slips away.
So loud you cry Christmas, it comes.
So you scoff and laugh, and the fun is gone.
So you crave and spend, and lose your shirt.
So candid you are, no blow can be too low.
So good as a gift should a promise be.
So, if you love God, you obey the Church.
So, when you give much, you borrow much.
So, shifting winds turn to storm.
So loud you cry Christmas, it comes.
Prince, so long as a fool persists, he grows wiser; so, round the world he goes, but return he will, so humbled and beaten back into servility.
So loud you cry Christmas, it is here.


by Francois Villon | |

The Ballad Of The Hanged Men

 Men my brothers who after us live,
have your hearts against us not hardened.
For—if of poor us you take pity, God of you sooner will show mercy.
You see us here, attached.
As for the flesh we too well have fed, long since it's been devoured or has rotted.
And we the bones are becoming ash and dust.
Of our pain let nobody laugh, but pray God would us all absolve.
If you my brothers I call, do not scoff at us in disdain, though killed we were by justice.
Yet þþ you know all men are not of good sound sense.
Plead our behalf since we are dead naked with the Son of Mary the Virgin that His grace be not for us dried up preserving us from hell's fulminations.
We're dead after all.
Let no soul revile us, but pray God would us all absolve.
Rain has washed us, laundered us, and the sun has dried us black.
Worse—ravens plucked our eyes hollow and picked our beards and brows.
Never ever have we sat down, but this way, and that way, at the wind's good pleasure ceaselessly we swing 'n swivel, more nibbled at than sewing thimbles.
Therefore, think not of joining our guild, but pray God would us all absolve.
Prince Jesus, who over all has lordship, care that hell not gain of us dominion.
With it we have no business, fast or loose.
People, here be no mocking, but pray God would us all absolve.


by Andrei Voznesensky | |

A BALLAD (THESIS FOR A DOCTORS DEGREE)

 My doc announced yesterday : 
 "You may have talent, though it's hidden, 
 your beak, however, is frost-bitten, 
 so stick at home on a cold day".
The nose, eh? As irretrievable as time, conforming to the laws of medicine, your nose, like that of any person, keep growing steadily, with triumph! The noses of celebrities, of guards and ministers of ours grow, snoring restlessly like owls at night, along with plants and trees.
They're cool and crooked, resembling bills, they're squeezed in doors, get hurt by boxers, however, our neighbour's noses screw into keyholes, just like drills! (Great Gogol felt by intuition the role they play in man's ambition.
) My friend Bukashkin who was boozy dreamed of a nose that grew like crazy: above him, coming like a bore, upsetting pans and chandeliers, a nose was piercing the ceilings and threading floor upon the floor! "What's that? -- he thought, when out of bed.
"A sign of Judgement Day -- I said -- And the inspection of the debtors!" He was imprisoned on the 30th.
Perpetual motion of the nose! It's long, while life is getting shorter.
At night on faces, pale as blotter, like a black hawk, or pumping hose, the nose absorbs us, I suppose.
They say, the Northern Eskimos kiss one another with the nose It hasn't caught on here, of course.
© Copyright Alec Vagapov's translation


by Andrei Voznesensky | |

THE PARABOLIC BALLAD

  My life, like a rocket, makes a parabola 
 flying in darkness, -- no rainbow for traveler.
There once lived an artist, red-haired Gauguin, he was a bohemian, a former tradesman.
To get to the Louvre from the lanes of Montmartre he circled around as far as Sumatra! He had to abandon the madness of money, the filth of the scholars, the snarl of his honey.
The man overcame the terrestrial gravity, The priests, drinking beer, would laugh at his "vanity": "A straight line is short, but it is much too simple, He'd better depict beds of roses for people.
" And yet, like a rocket, he flew off with ease through winds penetrating his coat and his ears.
He didn't fetch up to the Louvre through the door but, like a parabola, pierced the floor! Each gets to the truth with his own parameter a worm finds a crack, man makes a parabola.
There once lived a girl in the neighboring house.
We studied together, through books we would browse.
Why did I leave, moved by devilish powers amidst the equivocal Georgian stars! I'm sorry for making that silly parabola, The shivering shoulders in darkness, why trouble her?.
.
.
Your rings in the dark Universe were dramatic, and like an antenna, straight and elastic.
Meanwhile I'm flying to land here because I hear your earthly and shivering calls.
It doesn't come easy with a parabola!.
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For wiping prediction, tradition, preamble off Art, History, Love and ?esthetics Prefer to take parabolical paths, as it were! He leaves for Siberia now, on a visit.
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It isn't so long as parabola, is it? © Copyright Alec Vagapov's translation


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

Repeat That Repeat

 Repeat that, repeat,
Cuckoo, bird, and open ear wells, heart-springs, delightfully sweet,
With a ballad, with a ballad, a rebound 
Off trundled timber and scoops of the hillside ground, hollow hollow hollow ground:
The whole landscape flushes on a sudden at a sound.


by Ellis Parker Butler | |

The Ballad Of A Bachelor

 Listen, ladies, while I sing
The ballad of John Henry King.
John Henry was a bachelor, His age was thirty-three or four.
Two maids for his affection vied, And each desired to be his bride, And bravely did they strive to bring Unto their feet John Henry King.
John Henry liked them both so well, To save his life he could not tell Which he most wished to be his bride, Nor was he able to decide.
Fair Kate was jolly, bright, and gay, And sunny as a summer day; Marie was kind, sedate, and sweet, With gentle ways and manners neat.
Each was so dear that John confessed He could not tell which he liked best.
He studied them for quite a year, And still found no solution near, And might have studied two years more Had he not, walking on the shore, Conceived a very simple way Of ending his prolonged delay-- A way in which he might decide Which of the maids should be his bride.
He said, "I'll toss into the air A dollar, and I'll toss it fair; If heads come up, I'll wed Marie; If tails, fair Kate my bride shall be.
" Then from his leather pocket-book A dollar bright and new he took; He kissed one side for fair Marie, The other side for Kate kissed he.
Then in a manner free and fair He tossed the dollar in the air.
"Ye fates," he cried, "pray let this be A lucky throw indeed for me!" The dollar rose, the dollar fell; He watched its whirling transit well, And off some twenty yards or more The dollar fell upon the shore.
John Henry ran to where it struck To see which maiden was in luck.
But, oh, the irony of fate! Upon its edge the coin stood straight! And there, embedded in the sand, John Henry let the dollar stand! And he will tempt his fate no more, But live and die a bachelor.
Thus, ladies, you have heard me sing The ballad of John Henry King.


by G K Chesterton | |

A Ballad Of Suicide

 The gallows in my garden, people say,

Is new and neat and adequately tall; 
I tie the noose on in a knowing way

As one that knots his necktie for a ball;
But just as all the neighbours—on the wall— 
Are drawing a long breath to shout "Hurray!"

The strangest whim has seized me.
.
.
.
After all I think I will not hang myself to-day.
To-morrow is the time I get my pay— My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall— I see a little cloud all pink and grey— Perhaps the rector's mother will not call— I fancy that I heard from Mr.
Gall That mushrooms could be cooked another way— I never read the works of Juvenal— I think I will not hang myself to-day.
The world will have another washing-day; The decadents decay; the pedants pall; And H.
G.
Wells has found that children play, And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall, Rationalists are growing rational— And through thick woods one finds a stream astray So secret that the very sky seems small— I think I will not hang myself to-day.
ENVOI Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal, The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way; Even to-day your royal head may fall, I think I will not hang myself to-day


by G K Chesterton | |

The Ballad of the Anti-Puritan

 They spoke of Progress spiring round, 
Of light and Mrs Humphrey Ward-- 
It is not true to say I frowned, 
Or ran about the room and roared; 
I might have simply sat and snored-- 
I rose politely in the club 
And said, `I feel a little bored; 
Will someone take me to a pub?' 

The new world's wisest did surround 
Me; and it pains me to record 
I did not think their views profound, 
Or their conclusions well assured; 
The simple life I can't afford, 
Besides, I do not like the grub-- 
I want a mash and sausage, `scored'-- 
Will someone take me to a pub? 

I know where Men can still be found, 
Anger and clamorous accord, 
And virtues growing from the ground, 
And fellowship of beer and board, 
And song, that is a sturdy cord, 
And hope, that is a hardy shrub, 
And goodness, that is God's last word-- 
Will someone take me to a pub? 

Envoi 
Prince, Bayard would have smashed his sword 
To see the sort of knights you dub-- 
Is that the last of them--O Lord 
Will someone take me to a pub?


by Andrew Barton Paterson | |

The Ballad of M. T. Nutt and His Dog

 The Honourable M.
T.
Nutt About the bush did jog.
Till, passing by a settler's hut, He stopped and bought a dog.
Then started homewards full of hope, Alas, that hopes should fail! The dog pulled back and took the rope Beneath the horse's tail.
The Horse remarked, "I would be soft Such liberties to stand!" "Oh dog," he said, "Go up aloft, Young man, go on the land!"


by Andrew Barton Paterson | |

The Ballad of the Carpet Bag

 Ho! Darkies, don't you hear dose voters cryin' 
Pack dat carpet bag! 
You must get to de Poll, you must get there flyin'; 
Pack dat carpet bag! 
You must travel by de road, you must travel by de train, 
And the things what you've done you will have to explain, 
And the things what you've promised, you must promise 'em again.
Pack dat carpet bag! Hear dem voters callin! Pack de clean boiled rag.
For there's grass in the west, and the rain am fallin'.
Pack dat carpet bag! You must pack up a volume of Coghlan's Figures, Pack dat carpet bag! And a lot o' little jokes to amuse those niggers.
Pack dat carpet bag! You must wheedle all de gals with a twinkle of your eye, You must bob down your head when de eggs begin to fly.
Oh! those eggs what they're saving, and they'll throw 'em by and by.
Pack dat carpet bag! Hear dem voters callin'! Pack de clean boiled rag.
For there's grass in the west, and the rain am fallin'.
Pack dat carpet bag! You must get upon a stump, you must practise speakin', Pack dat carpet bag! You must follow Georgie Reid or Alfred Deakin.
Pack dat carpet bag! You must come to de scratch, or you're bound to fail, For it ain't any time to be sittin' on de rail, Or de votes that you'll get -- they won't keep you out o' jail.
Pack dat carpet bag! Hear dem voters callin'! Pack de clean boiled rag.
For there's grass in the west, and the rain am fallin'.
Pack dat carpet bag! And supposin' that you're beat, and you feel like cryin', Pack dat carpet bag! You must hustle back to work -- just to keep from dyin'.
Pack dat carpet bag! You must travel second-class when you travel by de train, For you haven't got a pass on de end of your chain, While the other fellow's packing for de great campaign.
Pack dat carpet bag! Hear dem voters callin'! Pack de clean boiled rag.
For there's grass in the west, and the rain am fallin'.
Pack dat carpet bag!


by Andrew Barton Paterson | |

The Ballad of That P.N.

 The shades of night had fallen at last, 
When through the house a shadow passed, 
That once had been the Genial Dan, 
But now become a desperate man, 
At question time he waited near, 
And on the Premier's startled ear 
A voice fell like half a brick -- 
"Did ye, or did ye not, pay Crick 
Did ye?" 
By land and sea the Premier sped, 
But found his foe where'er he fled, 
The sailors swore -- with whitened lip -- 
That Neptune swam behind the ship: 
When to the stern the Premier ran, 
Behold, 'twas no one else but Dan, 
And through the roaring of the gale 
That clarion voice took up the tale, 
"Ahot there! Answer, straight and slick! 
Did not the Ministry pay Crick 
Did they?" 

In railway trains he sought retreat, 
But soon, from underneath the seat, 
With blazing eye and bristling beard, 
His ancient enemy appeared, 
And like a boiling torrent ran 
The accents of the angry Dan -- 
"Tell me, John See, and tell me quick 
Did not ye pay your shares to Crick 
Did ye?"


by Andrew Barton Paterson | |

The Ballad of Cockatoo Dock

 Of all the docks upon the blue 
There was no dockyard, old or new, 
To touch the dock at Cockatoo.
Of all the ministerial clan There was no nicer, worthier man Than Admiral O'Sullivan.
Of course, we mean E.
W.
O'Sullivan, the hero who Controlled the dock at Cockatoo.
To workmen he explained his views -- "You need not toil unless you choose, Your only work is drawing screws.
" And sometimes to their great surprise When votes of censure filled the skies He used to give them all a rise.
"What odds about a pound or two?" Exclaimed the great E.
W.
O'Sullivan at Cockatoo.
The dockyard superintendent, he Was not at all what he should be -- He sneered at all this sympathy.
So when he gave a man the sack O'Sullivan got on his track And straightway went and fetched him back.
And with a sympathetic tear He'd say, "How dare you interfere, You most misguided engineer? "Your sordid manners please amend -- No man can possibly offend Who has a Member for a friend.
"With euchre, or a friendly rub, And whisky, from the nearest 'pub', We'll make the dockyard like a club.
"Heave ho, my hearties, play away, We'll do no weary work today.
What odds -- the public has to pay! "And if the public should complain I'll go to Broken Hill by train To watch McCarthy making rain.
" And there, with nothing else to do No doubt the great E.
W.
Will straightway raise McCarthy's screw.


by Andrew Barton Paterson | |

The Ballad of G. R. Dibbs

 This is the story of G.
R.
D.
, Who went on a mission across the sea To borrow some money for you and me.
This G.
R.
Dibbs was a stalwart man Who was built on a most extensive plan, And a regular staunch Republican.
But he fell in the hands of the Tory crew Who said, "It's a shame that a man like you Should teach Australia this nasty view.
"From her mother's side she should ne'er be gone, And she ought to be glad to be smiled upon, And proud to be known as our hanger-on.
" And G.
R.
Dibbs, he went off his peg At the swells who came for his smiles to beg And the Prince of Wales -- who was pulling his leg And he told them all when the wine had flown, "The Australian has got no land of his own, His home is England, and there alone.
" So he strutted along with the titled band And he sold the pride of his native land For a bow and a smile and a shake of the hand.
And the Tory drummers they sit and call: "Send over your leaders great and small; For the price is low, and we'll buy them all "With a tinsel title, a tawdry star Of a lower grade than our titles are, And a puff at a prince's big cigar.
" And the Tories laugh till they crack their ribs When they think how they purchased G.
R.
Dibbs.