Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Bulldog Poems

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

Search and read the best famous Bulldog poems, articles about Bulldog poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Bulldog poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Old Schooldays

 Awake, of Muse, the echoes of a day 
Long past, the ghosts of mem'ries manifold -- 
Youth's memories that once were green and gold 
But now, alas, are grim and ashen grey.
The drowsy schoolboy wakened up from sleep, First stays his system with substantial food, Then off for school with tasks half understood, Alas, alas, that cribs should be so cheap! The journey down to town -- 'twere long to tell The storm and riot of the rabble rout; The wild Walpurgis revel in and out That made the ferry boat a floating hell.
What time the captive locusts fairly roared: And bulldog ants, made stingless with a knife, Climbed up the seats and scared the very life From timid folk, who near jumped overboard.
The hours of lessons -- hours with feet of clay Each hour a day, each day more like a week: While hapless urchins heard with blanched cheek The words of doom "Come in on Saturday".
The master gowned and spectacled, precise, Trying to rule by methods firm and kind But always just a little bit behind The latest villainy, the last device, Born of some smoothfaced urchin's fertile brain To irritate the hapless pedagogue, And first involve him in a mental fog Then "have" him with the same old tale again.
The "bogus" fight that brought the sergeant down To that dark corner by the old brick wall, Where mimic combat and theatric brawl Made noise enough to terrify the town.
But on wet days the fray was genuine, When small boys pushed each other in the mud And fought in silence till thin streams of blood Their dirty faces would incarnadine.
The football match or practice in the park With rampant hoodlums joining in the game Till on one famous holiday there came A gang that seized the football for a lark.
Then raged the combat without rest or pause, Till one, a hero, Hawkins unafraid Regained the ball, and later on displayed His nose knocked sideways in his country's cause.
Before the mind quaint visions rise and fall, Old jokes, old students dead and gone: And some that lead us still, while some toil on As rank and file, but "Grammar" children all.
And he, the pilot, who has laid the course For all to steer by, honest, unafraid -- Truth is his beacon light, so he has made The name of the old School a living force.

Written by Rg Gregory | Create an image from this poem

from crossing the line

 (1) a great man

there was a great man
so great he couldn't be criticised in the light
who died
and for a whole week people turned up their collars over their ears
and wept with great gossiping

houses wore their roofs at a mournful angle
and television announcers carried their eyes around in long drooping bags
there was a hush upon the voice of the land
as soft as the shine on velvet

the whole nation stretched up into the dusty attic for its medals and black ties
 and prayers
and seriously polished its black uncomfortable shoes
and no one dared creak in the wrong places

anybody who thought he was everybody
except those who were nearly dying themselves
wanted to come to the funeral
and in its mourning the nation rejoiced to think
that once again it had cut into the world's time
with its own sick longing for the past

the great man and the great nation
had the same bulldog vision of each other's face
and neither of them had barked convincingly for a very long time

so the nation turned out on a cold bleak day
and attended its own funeral with uncanny reverence
and the other nations put tears over their laughing eyes
v-signs and rude gestures spoke with the same fingers

(2) aden

tourists dream of bombs 
that will not kill them

into the rock
the sand-claws
the winking eye
and harsh shell
of aden

waiting for the pinch

jagged sun
lumps of heat
bumping on the stunned ship
knuckledustered rock
clenched over steamer point

waiting for the sun to stagger
loaded down the hill
before we bunch ashore

eyes within their windows
we walk
(a town must live
must have its acre of normality
let hate sport
its bright shirt in the shadows)
we shop
collect our duty-murdered goods
compare bargains
laugh grieve
at benefit or loss
aden dead-pan
leans against our words
which hand invisible
knows how to print a bomb
ejaculate a knife
does tourist greed embroil us in
or shelter us from guilt

a sailor drunk
gyrates within a wall of adenese
collapses spews
they roll about him
in a dark pool

the sun moves off
as we do

streets squashed with shops
criss-cross of customers
a rush of people nightwards
a white woman
striding like a cliff
dirt - goats in the gutter
crunched beggars
a small to breed a fungus
cafes with open mouths
men like broken teeth
or way back in the dark
like tonsils

an air of shapeless threat
fluffs in our pulse
a boundary crossed
the rules are not the same
brushed by eyes
the touch is silent
silence breeds
we feel the breath of fury
(soon to roar)
retreat within our skins
return to broader streets

bazaars glower
almost at candlelight
we clutch our goods
a dim delusion of festivity
a christ neurotic
dying to explode

how much of this is aden
how much our masterpiece
all atmospheres are inbuilt

an armoured car looms by

the ship like mother
brooding in the sea
receives us with a sigh
aden winks and ogles in the dark
the sport of hate released

slowly away at midnight
rumours of bombs and riots
in the long wake
a disappointed sleep

nothing to write home about
except the heat

(3) crossing the line (xii)

  give me not england
in its glory dead nightmared with rotting seed
palmerston's perverted gunboat up the
yangtse's **** - lloyd george and winston churchill
rubbing men like salt into surly wounds
(we won those wars and neatly fucked ourselves)
eden at suez a jacked-up piece of wool
macmillan sprinkling cliches where the black
blood boils (the ashes of his kind) - home
as wan as godot (shagged by birth) wilson
for whom the wind blew sharply once or twice
sailing eastwards in the giant's stetson hat
saving jims from the red long john
   give me
not england but the world with england in it
with people as promiscuous as planes (the colours
 don't ask for wars to end or men
to have their deaths wrapped up as christmas gifts
expect myself to die a coward - proclaim no lives
as kisses - offer no roses to the blind
no sanctions to the damned - will not shake hands 
with him who rapes my wife or chokes my daughter
only when drunk or mad will think myself
the master of my purse - will lust for ease
seek to assuage my griefs in others' tears
will make more chaos than i put to rights

but in my fracture i shall strive to stand
a ruined arch whose limbs stretch half
towards a point that drew me upwards - that
ungot intercourse in space that prickless star
is what i ache for (what i want in man
and thus i give him)
  the image of that cross
is grit within him - the arch reflects in
microscopic waves through fleshly aeons
beaming messages to nerves and typing fingers

both ends of me are broken - in frantic storms
hanging over cliffs i fight to mend them
the job cannot be done - i die though
if i stop
 how cynical i may be (how apt
with metaphor or joke to thrust my fate
grotesquely into print) the fact is that
i live until i stop - i can't sit down then
crying let me die or death is good
(the freedom from myself my bones are seeking)

i must go on - tread every road that comes
risk every plague because i must believe
the end is bright (however filled with vomit
every brook) - if not for me then for
those who clamber on my bones
   my hope
is what i owe them - they owe their life to me
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Investigating Flora

 'Twas in scientific circles 
That the great Professor Brown 
Had a world-wide reputation 
As a writer of renown.
He had striven finer feelings In our natures to implant By his Treatise on the Morals Of the Red-eyed Bulldog Ant.
He had hoisted an opponent Who had trodden unawares On his "Reasons for Bare Patches On the Female Native Bears".
So they gave him an appointment As instructor to a band Of the most attractive females To be gathered in the land.
'Twas a "Ladies' Science Circle" -- Just the latest social fad For the Nicest People only, And to make their rivals mad.
They were fond of "science rambles" To the country from the town -- A parade of female beauty In the leadership of Brown.
They would pick a place for luncheon And catch beetles on their rugs; The Professor called 'em "optera" -- They calld 'em "nasty bugs".
Well, the thing was bound to perish For no lovely woman can Feel the slightest interest In a club without a Man -- The Professor hardly counted He was crazy as a loon, With a countenance suggestive Of an elderly baboon.
But the breath of Fate blew on it With a sharp and sudden blast, And the "Ladies' Science Circle" Is a memory of the past.
There were two-and-twenty members, Mostly young and mostly fair, Who had made a great excursion To a place called Dontknowwhere, At the crossing of Lost River, On the road to No Man's Land.
There they met an old selector, With a stockwhip in his hand, And the sight of so much beauty Sent him slightly "off his nut"; So he asked them, smiling blandly, "Would they come down to the hut?" "I am come," said the Professor, In his thin and reedy voice, "To investigate your flora, Which I feel is very choice.
" The selector stared dumbfounded, Till at last he found his tongue: "To investigate my Flora! Oh, you howlin' Brigham Young! Why, you've two-and-twenty wimmen -- Reg'lar slap-up wimmen, too! And you're after little Flora! And a crawlin' thing like you! Oh, you Mormonite gorilla! Well, I've heard it from the first That you wizened little fellers Is a hundred times the worst! But a dried-up ape like you are, To be marchin' through the land With a pack of lovely wimmen -- Well, I cannot understand!" "You mistake," said the Professor, In a most indignant tone -- While the ladies shrieked and jabbered In a fashion of their own -- "You mistake about these ladies, I'm a lecturer of theirs; I am Brown, who wrote the Treatise On the Female Native Bears! When I said we wanted flora, What I meant was native flowers.
" "Well, you said you wanted Flora, And I'll swear you don't get ours! But here's Flora's self a-comin', And it's time for you to skip, Or I'll write a treatise on you, And I'll write it with the whip! Now I want no explanations; Just you hook it out of sight, Or you'll charm the poor girl some'ow!" The Professor looked in fright: She was six feet high and freckled, And her hair was turkey-red.
The Professor gave a whimper, And threw down his bag and fled, And the Ladies' Science Circle, With a simultaneous rush, Travelled after its Professor, And went screaming through the bush! At the crossing of Lost River, On the road to No Man's Land, Where the grim and ghostly gumtrees Block the view on every hand, There they weep and wail and wander, Always seeking for the track, For the hapless old Professor Hasn't sense to guide 'em back; And they clutch at one another, And they yell and scream in fright As they see the gruesome creatures Of the grim Australian night; And they hear the mopoke's hooting, And the dingo's howl so dread, And the flying foxes jabber From the gum trees overhead; While the weird and wary wombats, In their subterranean caves, Are a-digging, always digging, At those wretched people's graves; And the pike-horned Queensland bullock, From his shelter in the scrub, Has his eye on the proceedings Of the Ladies' Science Club.
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

The Children

 The children are all crying in their pens
and the surf carries their cries away.
They are old men who have seen too much, their mouths are full of dirty clothes, the tongues poverty, tears like puss.
The surf pushes their cries back.
They are bewitched.
They are writing down their life on the wings of an elf who then dissolves.
They are writing down their life on a century fallen to ruin.
They are writing down their life on the bomb of an alien God.
I am too.
We must get help.
The children are dying in their pens.
Their bodies are crumbling.
Their tongues are twisting backwards.
There is a certain ritual to it.
There is a dance they do in their pens.
Their mouths are immense.
They are swallowing monster hearts.
So is my mouth.
We must all stop dying in the little ways, in the craters of hate, in the potholes of indifference-- a murder in the temple.
The place I live in is a maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
Yet if I could listen to the bulldog courage of those children and turn inward into the plague of my soul with more eyes than the stars I could melt the darkness-- as suddenly as that time when an awful headache goes away or someone puts out the fire-- and stop the darkness and its amputations and find the real McCoy in the private holiness of my hands.
Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Create an image from this poem

Willie Metcalf

 I was Willie Metcalf.
They used to call me "Doctor Meyers" Because, they said, I looked like him.
And he was my father, according to Jack McGuire.
I lived in the livery stable, Sleeping on the floor Side by side with Roger Baughman's bulldog, Or sometimes in a stall.
I could crawl between the legs of the wildest horses Without getting kicked -- we knew each other.
On spring days I tramped through the country To get the feeling, which I sometimes lost, That I was not a separate thing from the earth.
I used to lose myself, as if in sleep, By lying with eyes half-open in the woods.
Sometimes I taIked with animals -- even toads and snakes -- Anything that had an eye to look into.
Once I saw a stone in the sunshine Trying to turn into jelly.
In April days in this cemetery The dead people gathered all about me, And grew still, like a congregation in silent prayer.
I never knew whether I was a part of the earth With flowers growing in me, or whether I walked -- Now I know.

Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Law Of The Yukon

 This is the law of the Yukon, and ever she makes it plain:
"Send not your foolish and feeble; send me your strong and your sane --
Strong for the red rage of battle; sane for I harry them sore;
Send me men girt for the combat, men who are grit to the core;
Swift as the panther in triumph, fierce as the bear in defeat,
Sired of a bulldog parent, steeled in the furnace heat.
Send me the best of your breeding, lend me your chosen ones; Them will I take to my bosom, them will I call my sons; Them will I gild with my treasure, them will I glut with my meat; But the others -- the misfits, the failures -- I trample under my feet.
Dissolute, damned and despairful, crippled and palsied and slain, Ye would send me the spawn of your gutters -- Go! take back your spawn again.
"Wild and wide are my borders, stern as death is my sway; From my ruthless throne I have ruled alone for a million years and a day; Hugging my mighty treasure, waiting for man to come, Till he swept like a turbid torrent, and after him swept -- the scum.
The pallid pimp of the dead-line, the enervate of the pen, One by one I weeded them out, for all that I sought was -- Men.
One by one I dismayed them, frighting them sore with my glooms; One by one I betrayed them unto my manifold dooms.
Drowned them like rats in my rivers, starved them like curs on my plains, Rotted the flesh that was left them, poisoned the blood in their veins; Burst with my winter upon them, searing forever their sight, Lashed them with fungus-white faces, whimpering wild in the night; "Staggering blind through the storm-whirl, stumbling mad through the snow, Frozen stiff in the ice-pack, brittle and bent like a bow; Featureless, formless, forsaken, scented by wolves in their flight, Left for the wind to make music through ribs that are glittering white; Gnawing the black crust of failure, searching the pit of despair, Crooking the toe in the trigger, trying to patter a prayer; Going outside with an escort, raving with lips all afoam, Writing a cheque for a million, driveling feebly of home; Lost like a louse in the burning .
or else in the tented town Seeking a drunkard's solace, sinking and sinking down; Steeped in the slime at the bottom, dead to a decent world, Lost 'mid the human flotsam, far on the frontier hurled; In the camp at the bend of the river, with its dozen saloons aglare, Its gambling dens ariot, its gramophones all ablare; Crimped with the crimes of a city, sin-ridden and bridled with lies, In the hush of my mountained vastness, in the flush of my midnight skies.
Plague-spots, yet tools of my purpose, so natheless I suffer them thrive, Crushing my Weak in their clutches, that only my Strong may survive.
"But the others, the men of my mettle, the men who would 'stablish my fame Unto its ultimate issue, winning me honor, not shame; Searching my uttermost valleys, fighting each step as they go, Shooting the wrath of my rapids, scaling my ramparts of snow; Ripping the guts of my mountains, looting the beds of my creeks, Them will I take to my bosom, and speak as a mother speaks.
I am the land that listens, I am the land that broods; Steeped in eternal beauty, crystalline waters and woods.
Long have I waited lonely, shunned as a thing accurst, Monstrous, moody, pathetic, the last of the lands and the first; Visioning camp-fires at twilight, sad with a longing forlorn, Feeling my womb o'er-pregnant with the seed of cities unborn.
Wild and wide are my borders, stern as death is my sway, And I wait for the men who will win me -- and I will not be won in a day; And I will not be won by weaklings, subtle, suave and mild, But by men with the hearts of vikings, and the simple faith of a child; Desperate, strong and resistless, unthrottled by fear or defeat, Them will I gild with my treasure, them will I glut with my meat.
"Lofty I stand from each sister land, patient and wearily wise, With the weight of a world of sadness in my quiet, passionless eyes; Dreaming alone of a people, dreaming alone of a day, When men shall not rape my riches, and curse me and go away; Making a bawd of my bounty, fouling the hand that gave -- Till I rise in my wrath and I sweep on their path and I stamp them into a grave.
Dreaming of men who will bless me, of women esteeming me good, Of children born in my borders of radiant motherhood, Of cities leaping to stature, of fame like a flag unfurled, As I pour the tide of my riches in the eager lap of the world.
" This is the Law of the Yukon, that only the Strong shall thrive; That surely the Weak shall perish, and only the Fit survive.
Dissolute, damned and despairful, crippled and palsied and slain, This is the Will of the Yukon, -- Lo, how she makes it plain!
Written by John Clare | Create an image from this poem


 When midnight comes a host of dogs and men
Go out and track the badger to his den,
And put a sack within the hole, and lie
Till the old grunting badger passes by.
He comes an hears - they let the strongest loose.
The old fox gears the noise and drops the goose.
The poacher shoots and hurries from the cry, And the old hare half wounded buzzes by.
They get a forked stick to bear him down And clap the dogs and take him to the town, And bait him all the day with many dogs, And laugh and shout and fright the scampering hogs.
He runs along and bites at all he meets: They shout and hollo down the noisy streets.
He turns about to face the loud uproar And drives the rebels to their very door.
The frequent stone is hurled where'er they go; When badgers fight, then everyone's a foe.
The dogs are clapped and urged to join the fray' The badger turns and drives them all away.
Though scarcely half as big, demure and small, He fights with dogs for hours and beats them all.
The heavy mastiff, savage in the fray, Lies down and licks his feet and turns away.
The bulldog knows his match and waxes cold, The badger grins and never leaves his hold.
He drives the crowd and follows at their heels And bites them through—the drunkard swears and reels The frighted women take the boys away, The blackguard laughs and hurries on the fray.
He tries to reach the woods, and awkward race, But sticks and cudgels quickly stop the chase.
He turns again and drives the noisy crowd And beats the many dogs in noises loud.
He drives away and beats them every one, And then they loose them all and set them on.
He falls as dead and kicked by boys and men, Then starts and grins and drives the crowd again; Till kicked and torn and beaten out he lies And leaves his hold and crackles, groans, and dies.
Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem


 ("Toujours lui! lui partout!") 
 {XL., December, 1828.} 

 Above all others, everywhere I see 
 His image cold or burning! 
 My brain it thrills, and oftentime sets free 
 The thoughts within me yearning. 
 My quivering lips pour forth the words 
 That cluster in his name of glory— 
 The star gigantic with its rays of swords 
 Whose gleams irradiate all modern story. 
 I see his finger pointing where the shell 
 Should fall to slay most rabble, 
 And save foul regicides; or strike the knell 
 Of weaklings 'mid the tribunes' babble. 
 A Consul then, o'er young but proud, 
 With midnight poring thinned, and sallow, 
 But dreams of Empire pierce the transient cloud, 
 And round pale face and lank locks form the halo. 
 And soon the Caesar, with an eye a-flame 
 Whole nations' contact urging 
 To gain his soldiers gold and fame 
 Oh, Sun on high emerging, 
 Whose dazzling lustre fired the hells 
 Embosomed in grim bronze, which, free, arose 
 To change five hundred thousand base-born Tells, 
 Into his host of half-a-million heroes! 
 What! next a captive? Yea, and caged apart. 
 No weight of arms enfolded 
 Can crush the turmoil in that seething heart 
 Which Nature—not her journeymen—self-moulded. 
 Let sordid jailers vex their prize; 
 But only bends that brow to lightning, 
 As gazing from the seaward rock, his sighs 
 Cleave through the storm and haste where France looms bright'ning. 
 Alone, but greater! Broke the sceptre, true! 
 Yet lingers still some power— 
 In tears of woe man's metal may renew 
 The temper of high hour; 
 For, bating breath, e'er list the kings 
 The pinions clipped may grow! the Eagle 
 May burst, in frantic thirst for home, the rings 
 And rend the Bulldog, Fox, and Bear, and Beagle! 
 And, lastly, grandest! 'tween dark sea and here 
 Eternal brightness coming! 
 The eye so weary's freshened with a tear 
 As rises distant drumming, 
 And wailing cheer—they pass the pale 
 His army mourns though still's the end hid; 
 And from his war-stained cloak, he answers "Hail!" 
 And spurns the bed of gloom for throne aye-splendid! 


Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Uncle Bill

 My Uncle Bill! My Uncle Bill! 
How doth my heart with anguish thrill! 
For he, our chief, our Robin Hood, 
Has gone to jail for stealing wood! 
With tears and sobs my voice I raise 
To celebrate my uncle's praise; 
With all my strength, with all my skill, 
I'll sing the song of Uncle Bill.
" Convivial to the last degree, An open-hearted sportsman he.
Did midnight howls our slumbers rob, We said, "It's uncle 'on the job'.
" When sounds of fight rang sharply out, Then Bill was bound to be about, The foremost figure in "the scrap", A terror to the local "trap".
To drink, or fight, or maim, or kill, Came all alike to Uncle Bill.
And when he faced the music's squeak At Central Court before the beak, How carefully we sought our fob To pay his fine of forty bob! Recall the happy days of yore When Uncle Bill went forth to war! When all the street with strife was filled And both the traps got nearly killed.
When the lone cabman on the stand was "stoushed" by Bill's unaided hand, And William mounted, filled with rum, And drove the cab to kingdom come.
Remember, too, that famous fray When the "Black-reds", who hold their sway O'er Surry Hills and Shepherd's Bush, Descended on the "Liver Push".
Who cheered both parties long and loud? Who heaved blue metal at the crowd! And sooled his bulldog, Fighting Bet, To bite, haphazard, all she met? And when the mob were lodged in gaol Who telegraphed to me for bail? And -- here I think he showed his sense -- Who calmly turned Queen's evidence?" Enough! I now must end my song, My needless anguish, why prolong? From what I've said, you'll own, I'm sure, That Uncle Bill was pretty "pure", So, rowdies all, your glasses fill, And -- drink it standing -- "Uncle Bill".
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

The Lost Leichardt

 Another search for Leichhardt's tomb, 
Though fifty years have fled 
Since Leichhardt vanished in the gloom, 
Our one Illustrious Dead! 
But daring men from Britain's shore, 
The fearless bulldog breed, 
Renew the fearful task once more, 
Determined to succeed.
Rash men, that know not what they seek, Will find their courage tried.
For things have changed on Cooper's Creek Since Ludwig Leichhardt died.
Along where Leichhardt journeyed slow And toiled and starved in vain; These rash excursionists must go Per Queensland railway train.
Out on those deserts lone and drear The fierce Australian black Will say -- "You show it pint o' beer, It show you Leichhardt track!" And loud from every squatter's door Each pioneering swell Will hear the wild pianos roar The strains of "Daisy Bell".
The watchers in those forests vast Will see, at fall of night, Commercial travellers bounding past And darting out of sight.
About their path a fearful fate Will hover always near.
A dreadful scourge that lies in wait -- The Longreach Horehound Beer! And then, to crown this tale of guilt, They'll find some scurvy knave, Regardless of their quest, has built A pub on Leichhardt's grave! Ah, yes! Those British pioneers Had best at home abide, For things have changed in fifty years Since Ludwig Leichhardt died.