Best Famous Boastful Poems

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

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Written by Ralph Waldo Emerson | Hamatreya Bulkeley, Hunt, Willard, Hosmer, Meriam, Flint, Possessed the land which rendered to their toil Hay, corn, roots, hemp, flax, apples, wool and wood. Each of these landlords walked amidst his farm, Saying, "'Tis mine, my children's and my name's. How sweet the west wind sounds in my own trees! How graceful climb those shadows on my hill! I fancy these pure waters and the flags Know me, as does my dog: we sympathize; And, I affirm, my actions smack of the soil.' Where are these men? Asleep beneath their grounds: And strangers, fond as they, their furrows plough. Earth laughs in flowers, to see her boastful boys Earth-proud, proud of the earth which is not theirs; Who steer the plough, but cannot steer their feet Clear of the grave. They added ridge to valley, brook to pond, And sighed for all that bounded their domain; 'This suits me for a pasture; that's my park; We must have clay, lime, gravel, granite-ledge, And misty lowland, where to go for peat. The land is well,--lies fairly to the south. 'Tis good, when you have crossed the sea and back, To find the sitfast acres where you left them.' Ah! the hot owner sees not Death, who adds Him to his land, a lump of mould the more. Hear what the Earth says:-- Earth-Song 'Mine and yours; Mine, not yours, Earth endures; Stars abide-- Shine down in the old sea; Old are the shores; But where are old men? I who have seen much, Such have I never seen. 'The lawyer's deed Ran sure, In tail, To them, and to their heirs Who shall succeed, Without fail, Forevermore. 'Here is the land, Shaggy with wood, With its old valley, Mound and flood. "But the heritors?-- Fled like the flood's foam. The lawyer, and the laws, And the kingdom, Clean swept herefrom. 'They called me theirs, Who so controlled me; Yet every one Wished to stay, and is gone, How am I theirs, If they cannot hold me, But I hold them?' When I heard the Earth-song, I was no longer brave; My avarice cooled Like lust in the chill of the grave.

Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Hiawathas Wedding-Feast You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis, How the handsome Yenadizze Danced at Hiawatha's wedding; How the gentle Chibiabos, He the sweetest of musicians, Sang his songs of love and longing; How Iagoo, the great boaster, He the marvellous story-teller, Told his tales of strange adventure, That the feast might be more joyous, That the time might pass more gayly, And the guests be more contented. Sumptuous was the feast Nokomis Made at Hiawatha's wedding; All the bowls were made of bass-wood, White and polished very smoothly, All the spoons of horn of bison, Black and polished very smoothly. She had sent through all the village Messengers with wands of willow, As a sign of invitation, As a token of the feasting; And the wedding guests assembled, Clad in all their richest raiment, Robes of fur and belts of wampum, Splendid with their paint and plumage, Beautiful with beads and tassels. First they ate the sturgeon, Nahma, And the pike, the Maskenozha, Caught and cooked by old Nokomis; Then on pemican they feasted, Pemican and buffalo marrow, Haunch of deer and hump of bison, Yellow cakes of the Mondamin, And the wild rice of the river. But the gracious Hiawatha, And the lovely Laughing Water, And the careful old Nokomis, Tasted not the food before them, Only waited on the others Only served their guests in silence. And when all the guests had finished, Old Nokomis, brisk and busy, From an ample pouch of otter, Filled the red-stone pipes for smoking With tobacco from the South-land, Mixed with bark of the red willow, And with herbs and leaves of fragrance. Then she said, "O Pau-Puk-Keewis, Dance for us your merry dances, Dance the Beggar's Dance to please us, That the feast may be more joyous, That the time may pass more gayly, And our guests be more contented!" Then the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis, He the idle Yenadizze, He the merry mischief-maker, Whom the people called the Storm-Fool, Rose among the guests assembled. Skilled was he in sports and pastimes, In the merry dance of snow-shoes, In the play of quoits and ball-play; Skilled was he in games of hazard, In all games of skill and hazard, Pugasaing, the Bowl and Counters, Kuntassoo, the Game of Plum-stones. Though the warriors called him Faint-Heart, Called him coward, Shaugodaya, Idler, gambler, Yenadizze, Little heeded he their jesting, Little cared he for their insults, For the women and the maidens Loved the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis. He was dressed in shirt of doeskin, White and soft, and fringed with ermine, All inwrought with beads of wampum; He was dressed in deer-skin leggings, Fringed with hedgehog quills and ermine, And in moccasins of buck-skin, Thick with quills and beads embroidered. On his head were plumes of swan's down, On his heels were tails of foxes, In one hand a fan of feathers, And a pipe was in the other. Barred with streaks of red and yellow, Streaks of blue and bright vermilion, Shone the face of Pau-Puk-Keewis. From his forehead fell his tresses, Smooth, and parted like a woman's, Shining bright with oil, and plaited, Hung with braids of scented grasses, As among the guests assembled, To the sound of flutes and singing, To the sound of drums and voices, Rose the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis, And began his mystic dances. First he danced a solemn measure, Very slow in step and gesture, In and out among the pine-trees, Through the shadows and the sunshine, Treading softly like a panther. Then more swiftly and still swifter, Whirling, spinning round in circles, Leaping o'er the guests assembled, Eddying round and round the wigwam, Till the leaves went whirling with him, Till the dust and wind together Swept in eddies round about him. Then along the sandy margin Of the lake, the Big-Sea-Water, On he sped with frenzied gestures, Stamped upon the sand, and tossed it Wildly in the air around him; Till the wind became a whirlwind, Till the sand was blown and sifted Like great snowdrifts o'er the landscape, Heaping all the shores with Sand Dunes, Sand Hills of the Nagow Wudjoo! Thus the merry Pau-Puk-Keewis Danced his Beggar's Dance to please them, And, returning, sat down laughing There among the guests assembled, Sat and fanned himself serenely With his fan of turkey-feathers. Then they said to Chibiabos, To the friend of Hiawatha, To the sweetest of all singers, To the best of all musicians, "Sing to us, O Chibiabos! Songs of love and songs of longing, That the feast may be more joyous, That the time may pass more gayly, And our guests be more contented!" And the gentle Chibiabos Sang in accents sweet and tender, Sang in tones of deep emotion, Songs of love and songs of longing; Looking still at Hiawatha, Looking at fair Laughing Water, Sang he softly, sang in this wise: "Onaway! Awake, beloved! Thou the wild-flower of the forest! Thou the wild-bird of the prairie! Thou with eyes so soft and fawn-like! "If thou only lookest at me, I am happy, I am happy, As the lilies of the prairie, When they feel the dew upon them! "Sweet thy breath is as the fragrance Of the wild-flowers in the morning, As their fragrance is at evening, In the Moon when leaves are falling. "Does not all the blood within me Leap to meet thee, leap to meet thee, As the springs to meet the sunshine, In the Moon when nights are brightest? "Onaway! my heart sings to thee, Sings with joy when thou art near me, As the sighing, singing branches In the pleasant Moon of Strawberries! "When thou art not pleased, beloved, Then my heart is sad and darkened, As the shining river darkens When the clouds drop shadows on it! "When thou smilest, my beloved, Then my troubled heart is brightened, As in sunshine gleam the ripples That the cold wind makes in rivers. "Smiles the earth, and smile the waters, Smile the cloudless skies above us, But I lose the way of smiling When thou art no longer near me! "I myself, myself! behold me! Blood of my beating heart, behold me! Oh awake, awake, beloved! Onaway! awake, beloved!" Thus the gentle Chibiabos Sang his song of love and longing; And Iagoo, the great boaster, He the marvellous story-teller, He the friend of old Nokomis, Jealous of the sweet musician, Jealous of the applause they gave him, Saw in all the eyes around him, Saw in all their looks and gestures, That the wedding guests assembled Longed to hear his pleasant stories, His immeasurable falsehoods. Very boastful was Iagoo; Never heard he an adventure But himself had met a greater; Never any deed of daring But himself had done a bolder; Never any marvellous story But himself could tell a stranger. Would you listen to his boasting, Would you only give him credence, No one ever shot an arrow Half so far and high as he had; Ever caught so many fishes, Ever killed so many reindeer, Ever trapped so many beaver! None could run so fast as he could, None could dive so deep as he could, None could swim so far as he could; None had made so many journeys, None had seen so many wonders, As this wonderful Iagoo, As this marvellous story-teller! Thus his name became a by-word And a jest among the people; And whene'er a boastful hunter Praised his own address too highly, Or a warrior, home returning, Talked too much of his achievements, All his hearers cried, "Iagoo! Here's Iagoo come among us!" He it was who carved the cradle Of the little Hiawatha, Carved its framework out of linden, Bound it strong with reindeer sinews; He it was who taught him later How to make his bows and arrows, How to make the bows of ash-tree, And the arrows of the oak-tree. So among the guests assembled At my Hiawatha's wedding Sat Iagoo, old and ugly, Sat the marvellous story-teller. And they said, "O good Iagoo, Tell us now a tale of wonder, Tell us of some strange adventure, That the feast may be more joyous, That the time may pass more gayly, And our guests be more contented!" And Iagoo answered straightway, "You shall hear a tale of wonder, You shall hear the strange adventures Of Osseo, the Magician, From the Evening Star descending."

Written by Don Paterson | Poetry In the same way that the mindless diamond keeps one spark of the planet's early fires trapped forever in its net of ice, it's not love's later heat that poetry holds, but the atom of the love that drew it forth from the silence: so if the bright coal of his love begins to smoulder, the poet hears his voice suddenly forced, like a bar-room singer's -- boastful with his own huge feeling, or drowned by violins; but if it yields a steadier light, he knows the pure verse, when it finally comes, will sound like a mountain spring, anonymous and serene. Beneath the blue oblivious sky, the water sings of nothing, not your name, not mine.

Written by Constantine P Cavafy | Aemilianus Monae Alexandrian 628 - 655 A.D With words, with countenance, and with manners I shall build an excellent panoply; and in this way I shall face evil men without having any fear or weakness. They will want to harm me. But of those who approach me none will know where my wounds are, my vulnerable parts, under all the lies that will cover me. -- Boastful words of Aemilianus Monae. Did he ever build this panoply? In any case, he did not wear it much. He died in Sicily, at the age of twenty-seven.

Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Why the Jackass Laughs The Boastful Crow and the Laughing Jack Were telling tales of the outer back: "I've just been travelling far and wide, At the back of Bourke and the Queensland side; There isn't a bird in the bush can go As far as me," said the old black crow. "There isn't a bird in the bush can fly A course as straight or a course as high. Higher than human eyesight goes. There's sometimes clouds -- but there's always crows, Drifting along for a scent of blood Or a smell of smoke or a sign of flood. For never a bird or a beast has been With a sight as strong or a scent as keen. At fires and floods I'm the first about, For then the lizards and mice run out: And I make my swoop -- and that's all they know -- I'm a whale on mice," said the Boastful Crow. The Bee-birds over the homestead flew And told each other the long day through "The cold has come, we must take the track." "Now, I'll make you a bet," said the Laughing Jack, "Of a hundred mice, that you dare not go With the little Bee-birds, by Boastful Crow." Said the Boastful Crow, "I could take my ease And fly with little green birds like these. If they went flat out and they did their best I could have a smoke and could take a rest." And he asked of the Bee-birds circling round: "Now, where do you spike-tails think you're bound?" "We leave tonight, and out present plan is to go straight on till we reach Japan. "Every year, on the self-same day, We call our children and start away, Twittering, travelling day and night, Over the ocean we take our flight; And we rest a day on some lonely isles Or we beg a ride for a hundred miles On a steamer's deck,* and away we go: We hope you'll come with us, Mister Crow." But the old black crow was extremely sad. Said he: "I reckon you're raving mad To talk of travelling night and day, And how in the world do you find your way?" And the Bee-birds answered him, "If you please, That's one of our own great mysteries". Now these things chanced in the long ago And explain the fact, which no doubt you know, That every jackass high and low Will always laugh when he sees a crow.

Written by Badger Clark | The Legend Of Boastful Bill At a roundup on the Gily, One sweet mornin' long ago, Ten of us was throwed right freely By a hawse from Idaho. And we thought he'd go-a-beggin' For a man to break his pride Till, a-hitchin' up one leggin, Boastful Bill cut loose and cried-- "_I'm a on'ry proposition for to hurt;_ _I fulfil my earthly mission with a quirt;_ _I kin ride the highest liver_ _'Tween the Gulf and Powder River,_ _And I'll break this thing as easy as I'd flirt._" So Bill climbed the Northern Fury And they mangled up the air Till a native of Missouri Would have owned his brag was fair. Though the plunges kep' him reelin' And the wind it flapped his shirt, Loud above the hawse's squealin' We could hear our friend assert "_I'm the one to take such rakin's as a joke._ _Some one hand me up the makin's of a smoke!_ _If you think my fame needs bright'nin'_ _W'y, I'll rope a streak of lightnin'_ _And I'll cinch 'im up and spur 'im till he's broke._" Then one caper of repulsion Broke that hawse's back in two. Cinches snapped in the convulsion; Skyward man and saddle flew. Up he mounted, never laggin', While we watched him through our tears, And his last thin bit of braggin' Came a-droppin' to our ears. "_If you'd ever watched my habits very close_ _You would know I've broke such rabbits by the gross._ _I have kep' my talent hidin';_ _I'm too good for earthly ridin'_ _And I'm off to bust the lightnin's,--Adios!_" Years have gone since that ascension. Boastful Bill ain't never lit, So we reckon that he's wrenchin' Some celestial outlaw's bit. When the night rain beats our slickers And the wind is swift and stout And the lightnin' flares and flickers, We kin sometimes hear him shout-- "_I'm a bronco-twistin' wonder on the fly;_ _I'm the ridin' son-of-thunder of the sky._ _Hi! you earthlin's, shut your winders_ _While we're rippin' clouds to flinders._ _If this blue-eyed darlin' kicks at you, you die!_" Stardust on his chaps and saddle, Scornful still of jar and jolt, He'll come back some day, astraddle Of a bald-faced thunderbolt. And the thin-skinned generation Of that dim and distant day Sure will stare with admiration When they hear old Boastful say-- "_I was first, as old rawhiders all confessed._ _Now I'm last of all rough riders, and the best._ _Huh! you soft and dainty floaters,_ _With your a'roplanes and motors--_ _Huh! are you the great grandchildren of the West!_"

Written by Robert William Service | Gypsy Jill They're hanging Bill at eight o' clock, And millions will applaud. He killed, and so they have to kill, Such is the will of God. His brother Tom is on my bed To keep me comforted. I see his bleary, blotchy face, I hear his sodden snore. He plans that he can take Bill's place; I felt worse than a whore As in his arms I cried all night, Thinking of poor Bill's plight. I keep my eyes upon the clock; It nears the stroke of eight. I think how bravely Bill will walk To meet his gallows fate . . . His loaded gun is in the tent,-- I know now what he meant. Though Tom is boastful he will wed With me, no more to part, I'll put a bullet through his head, Another through my heart: At eight, stone-dead we three will be, --Bill, Tom and me.

Written by Friedrich von Schiller | The Power Of Woman Mighty art thou, because of the peaceful charms of thy presence; That which the silent does not, never the boastful can do. Vigor in man I expect, the law in its honors maintaining, But, through the graces alone, woman e'er rules or should rule. Many, indeed, have ruled through the might of the spirit and action, But then thou noblest of crowns, they were deficient in thee. No real queen exists but the womanly beauty of woman; Where it appears, it must rule; ruling because it appears!