Best Famous Brown Nose Poems

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

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Written by William Butler Yeats | Create an image from this poem

The Ballad Of The Foxhunter

 'Lay me in a cushioned chair;
Carry me, ye four,
With cushions here and cushions there,
To see the world once more.
'To stable and to kennel go; Bring what is there to bring; Lead my Lollard to and fro, Or gently in a ring.
'Put the chair upon the grass: Bring Rody and his hounds, That I may contented pass From these earthly bounds.
' His eyelids droop, his head falls low, His old eyes cloud with dreams; The sun upon all things that grow Falls in sleepy streams.
Brown Lollard treads upon the lawn, And to the armchair goes, And now the old man's dreams are gone, He smooths the long brown nose.
And now moves many a pleasant tongue Upon his wasted hands, For leading aged hounds and young The huntsman near him stands.
'Huntsmam Rody, blow the horn, Make the hills reply.
' The huntsman loosens on the morn A gay wandering cry.
Fire is in the old man's eyes, His fingers move and sway, And when the wandering music dies They hear him feebly say, 'Huntsman Rody, blow the horn, Make the hills reply.
' 'I cannot blow upon my horn, I can but weep and sigh.
' Servants round his cushioned place Are with new sorrow wrung; Hounds are gazing on his face, Aged hounds and young.
One blind hound only lies apart On the sun-smitten grass; He holds deep commune with his heart: The moments pass and pass: The blind hound with a mournful din Lifts slow his wintry head; The servants bear the body in; The hounds wail for the dead.
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

224. Epistle to Hugh Parker

 IN this strange land, this uncouth clime,
A land unknown to prose or rhyme;
Where words ne’er cross’t the Muse’s heckles,
Nor limpit in poetic shackles:
A land that Prose did never view it,
Except when drunk he stacher’t thro’ it;
Here, ambush’d by the chimla cheek,
Hid in an atmosphere of reek,
I hear a wheel thrum i’ the neuk,
I hear it—for in vain I leuk.
The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel, Enhuskèd by a fog infernal: Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures, I sit and count my sins by chapters; For life and spunk like ither Christians, I’m dwindled down to mere existence, Wi’ nae converse but Gallowa’ bodies, Wi’ nae kenn’d face but Jenny Geddes, Jenny, my Pegasean pride! Dowie she saunters down Nithside, And aye a westlin leuk she throws, While tears hap o’er her auld brown nose! Was it for this, wi’ cannie care, Thou bure the Bard through many a shire? At howes, or hillocks never stumbled, And late or early never grumbled?— O had I power like inclination, I’d heeze thee up a constellation, To canter with the Sagitarre, Or loup the ecliptic like a bar; Or turn the pole like any arrow; Or, when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow, Down the zodiac urge the race, And cast dirt on his godship’s face; For I could lay my bread and kail He’d ne’er cast saut upo’ thy tail.
— Wi’ a’ this care and a’ this grief, And sma’, sma’ prospect of relief, And nought but peat reek i’ my head, How can I write what ye can read?— Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o’ June, Ye’ll find me in a better tune; But till we meet and weet our whistle, Tak this excuse for nae epistle.
ROBERT BURNS.