Best Famous Collie Poems

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

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12
Written by Elizabeth Bishop | Create an image from this poem

The Moose

 From narrow provinces
of fish and bread and tea,
home of the long tides
where the bay leaves the sea
twice a day and takes
the herrings long rides,

where if the river
enters or retreats 
in a wall of brown foam
depends on if it meets
the bay coming in,
the bay not at home;

where, silted red,
sometimes the sun sets
facing a red sea,
and others, veins the flats'
lavender, rich mud
in burning rivulets;

on red, gravelly roads,
down rows of sugar maples,
past clapboard farmhouses
and neat, clapboard churches,
bleached, ridged as clamshells,
past twin silver birches,

through late afternoon
a bus journeys west,
the windshield flashing pink,
pink glancing off of metal,
brushing the dented flank
of blue, beat-up enamel;

down hollows, up rises,
and waits, patient, while
a lone traveller gives
kisses and embraces
to seven relatives
and a collie supervises.
Goodbye to the elms, to the farm, to the dog.
The bus starts.
The light grows richer; the fog, shifting, salty, thin, comes closing in.
Its cold, round crystals form and slide and settle in the white hens' feathers, in gray glazed cabbages, on the cabbage roses and lupins like apostles; the sweet peas cling to their wet white string on the whitewashed fences; bumblebees creep inside the foxgloves, and evening commences.
One stop at Bass River.
Then the Economies Lower, Middle, Upper; Five Islands, Five Houses, where a woman shakes a tablecloth out after supper.
A pale flickering.
Gone.
The Tantramar marshes and the smell of salt hay.
An iron bridge trembles and a loose plank rattles but doesn't give way.
On the left, a red light swims through the dark: a ship's port lantern.
Two rubber boots show, illuminated, solemn.
A dog gives one bark.
A woman climbs in with two market bags, brisk, freckled, elderly.
"A grand night.
Yes, sir, all the way to Boston.
" She regards us amicably.
Moonlight as we enter the New Brunswick woods, hairy, scratchy, splintery; moonlight and mist caught in them like lamb's wool on bushes in a pasture.
The passengers lie back.
Snores.
Some long sighs.
A dreamy divagation begins in the night, a gentle, auditory, slow hallucination.
.
.
.
In the creakings and noises, an old conversation --not concerning us, but recognizable, somewhere, back in the bus: Grandparents' voices uninterruptedly talking, in Eternity: names being mentioned, things cleared up finally; what he said, what she said, who got pensioned; deaths, deaths and sicknesses; the year he remarried; the year (something) happened.
She died in childbirth.
That was the son lost when the schooner foundered.
He took to drink.
Yes.
She went to the bad.
When Amos began to pray even in the store and finally the family had to put him away.
"Yes .
.
.
" that peculiar affirmative.
"Yes .
.
.
" A sharp, indrawn breath, half groan, half acceptance, that means "Life's like that.
We know it (also death).
" Talking the way they talked in the old featherbed, peacefully, on and on, dim lamplight in the hall, down in the kitchen, the dog tucked in her shawl.
Now, it's all right now even to fall asleep just as on all those nights.
--Suddenly the bus driver stops with a jolt, turns off his lights.
A moose has come out of the impenetrable wood and stands there, looms, rather, in the middle of the road.
It approaches; it sniffs at the bus's hot hood.
Towering, antlerless, high as a church, homely as a house (or, safe as houses).
A man's voice assures us "Perfectly harmless.
.
.
.
" Some of the passengers exclaim in whispers, childishly, softly, "Sure are big creatures.
" "It's awful plain.
" "Look! It's a she!" Taking her time, she looks the bus over, grand, otherworldly.
Why, why do we feel (we all feel) this sweet sensation of joy? "Curious creatures," says our quiet driver, rolling his r's.
"Look at that, would you.
" Then he shifts gears.
For a moment longer, by craning backward, the moose can be seen on the moonlit macadam; then there's a dim smell of moose, an acrid smell of gasoline.
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

87. The Twa Dogs

 ’TWAS 1 in that place o’ Scotland’s isle,
That bears the name o’ auld King Coil,
Upon a bonie day in June,
When wearin’ thro’ the afternoon,
Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame,
Forgather’d ance upon a time.
The first I’ll name, they ca’d him Caesar, Was keepit for His Honor’s pleasure: His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, Shew’d he was nane o’ Scotland’s dogs; But whalpit some place far abroad, Whare sailors gang to fish for cod.
His locked, letter’d, braw brass collar Shew’d him the gentleman an’ scholar; But though he was o’ high degree, The fient a pride, nae pride had he; But wad hae spent an hour caressin, Ev’n wi’ al tinkler-gipsy’s messin: At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, tho’ e’er sae duddie, But he wad stan’t, as glad to see him, An’ stroan’t on stanes an’ hillocks wi’ him.
The tither was a ploughman’s collie— A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, Wha for his friend an’ comrade had him, And in freak had Luath ca’d him, After some dog in Highland Sang, 2 Was made lang syne,—Lord knows how lang.
He was a gash an’ faithfu’ tyke, As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.
His honest, sonsie, baws’nt face Aye gat him friends in ilka place; His breast was white, his touzie back Weel clad wi’ coat o’ glossy black; His gawsie tail, wi’ upward curl, Hung owre his hurdie’s wi’ a swirl.
Nae doubt but they were fain o’ ither, And unco pack an’ thick thegither; Wi’ social nose whiles snuff’d an’ snowkit; Whiles mice an’ moudieworts they howkit; Whiles scour’d awa’ in lang excursion, An’ worry’d ither in diversion; Until wi’ daffin’ weary grown Upon a knowe they set them down.
An’ there began a lang digression.
About the “lords o’ the creation.
” CÆSAR I’ve aften wonder’d, honest Luath, What sort o’ life poor dogs like you have; An’ when the gentry’s life I saw, What way poor bodies liv’d ava.
Our laird gets in his racked rents, His coals, his kane, an’ a’ his stents: He rises when he likes himsel’; His flunkies answer at the bell; He ca’s his coach; he ca’s his horse; He draws a bonie silken purse, As lang’s my tail, where, thro’ the steeks, The yellow letter’d Geordie keeks.
Frae morn to e’en, it’s nought but toiling At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; An’ tho’ the gentry first are stechin, Yet ev’n the ha’ folk fill their pechan Wi’ sauce, ragouts, an’ sic like trashtrie, That’s little short o’ downright wastrie.
Our whipper-in, wee, blasted wonner, Poor, worthless elf, it eats a dinner, Better than ony tenant-man His Honour has in a’ the lan’: An’ what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, I own it’s past my comprehension.
LUATH Trowth, C&æsar, whiles they’re fash’t eneugh: A cottar howkin in a sheugh, Wi’ dirty stanes biggin a dyke, Baring a quarry, an’ sic like; Himsel’, a wife, he thus sustains, A smytrie o’ wee duddie weans, An’ nought but his han’-daurk, to keep Them right an’ tight in thack an’ rape.
An’ when they meet wi’ sair disasters, Like loss o’ health or want o’ masters, Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, An’ they maun starve o’ cauld an’ hunger: But how it comes, I never kent yet, They’re maistly wonderfu’ contented; An’ buirdly chiels, an’ clever hizzies, Are bred in sic a way as this is.
CÆSAR But then to see how ye’re negleckit, How huff’d, an’ cuff’d, an’ disrespeckit! Lord man, our gentry care as little For delvers, ditchers, an’ sic cattle; They gang as saucy by poor folk, As I wad by a stinkin brock.
I’ve notic’d, on our laird’s court-day,— An’ mony a time my heart’s been wae,— Poor tenant bodies, scant o’cash, How they maun thole a factor’s snash; He’ll stamp an’ threaten, curse an’ swear He’ll apprehend them, poind their gear; While they maun stan’, wi’ aspect humble, An’ hear it a’, an’ fear an’ tremble! I see how folk live that hae riches; But surely poor-folk maun be wretches! LUATH They’re no sae wretched’s ane wad think.
Tho’ constantly on poortith’s brink, They’re sae accustom’d wi’ the sight, The view o’t gives them little fright.
Then chance and fortune are sae guided, They’re aye in less or mair provided: An’ tho’ fatigued wi’ close employment, A blink o’ rest’s a sweet enjoyment.
The dearest comfort o’ their lives, Their grushie weans an’ faithfu’ wives; The prattling things are just their pride, That sweetens a’ their fire-side.
An’ whiles twalpennie worth o’ nappy Can mak the bodies unco happy: They lay aside their private cares, To mind the Kirk and State affairs; They’ll talk o’ patronage an’ priests, Wi’ kindling fury i’ their breasts, Or tell what new taxation’s comin, An’ ferlie at the folk in Lon’on.
As bleak-fac’d Hallowmass returns, They get the jovial, rantin kirns, When rural life, of ev’ry station, Unite in common recreation; Love blinks, Wit slaps, an’ social Mirth Forgets there’s Care upo’ the earth.
That merry day the year begins, They bar the door on frosty win’s; The nappy reeks wi’ mantling ream, An’ sheds a heart-inspiring steam; The luntin pipe, an’ sneeshin mill, Are handed round wi’ right guid will; The cantie auld folks crackin crouse, The young anes rantin thro’ the house— My heart has been sae fain to see them, That I for joy hae barkit wi’ them.
Still it’s owre true that ye hae said, Sic game is now owre aften play’d; There’s mony a creditable stock O’ decent, honest, fawsont folk, Are riven out baith root an’ branch, Some rascal’s pridefu’ greed to quench, Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster In favour wi’ some gentle master, Wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin, For Britain’s guid his saul indentin— CÆSAR Haith, lad, ye little ken about it: For Britain’s guid! guid faith! I doubt it.
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him: An’ saying ay or no’s they bid him: At operas an’ plays parading, Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading: Or maybe, in a frolic daft, To Hague or Calais takes a waft, To mak a tour an’ tak a whirl, To learn bon ton, an’ see the worl’.
There, at Vienna, or Versailles, He rives his father’s auld entails; Or by Madrid he takes the rout, To thrum guitars an’ fecht wi’ nowt; Or down Italian vista startles, Wh-re-hunting amang groves o’ myrtles: Then bowses drumlie German-water, To mak himsel look fair an’ fatter, An’ clear the consequential sorrows, Love-gifts of Carnival signoras.
For Britain’s guid! for her destruction! Wi’ dissipation, feud, an’ faction.
LUATH Hech, man! dear sirs! is that the gate They waste sae mony a braw estate! Are we sae foughten an’ harass’d For gear to gang that gate at last? O would they stay aback frae courts, An’ please themsels wi’ country sports, It wad for ev’ry ane be better, The laird, the tenant, an’ the cotter! For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, Feint haet o’ them’s ill-hearted fellows; Except for breakin o’ their timmer, Or speakin lightly o’ their limmer, Or shootin of a hare or moor-cock, The ne’er-a-bit they’re ill to poor folk, But will ye tell me, Master C&æsar, Sure great folk’s life’s a life o’ pleasure? Nae cauld nor hunger e’er can steer them, The very thought o’t need na fear them.
CÆSAR L—d, man, were ye but whiles whare I am, The gentles, ye wad ne’er envy them! It’s true, they need na starve or sweat, Thro’ winter’s cauld, or simmer’s heat: They’ve nae sair wark to craze their banes, An’ fill auld age wi’ grips an’ granes: But human bodies are sic fools, For a’ their colleges an’ schools, That when nae real ills perplex them, They mak enow themsel’s to vex them; An’ aye the less they hae to sturt them, In like proportion, less will hurt them.
A country fellow at the pleugh, His acre’s till’d, he’s right eneugh; A country girl at her wheel, Her dizzen’s dune, she’s unco weel; But gentlemen, an’ ladies warst, Wi’ ev’n-down want o’ wark are curst.
They loiter, lounging, lank an’ lazy; Tho’ deil-haet ails them, yet uneasy; Their days insipid, dull, an’ tasteless; Their nights unquiet, lang, an’ restless.
An’ev’n their sports, their balls an’ races, Their galloping through public places, There’s sic parade, sic pomp, an’ art, The joy can scarcely reach the heart.
The men cast out in party-matches, Then sowther a’ in deep debauches.
Ae night they’re mad wi’ drink an’ whoring, Niest day their life is past enduring.
The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, As great an’ gracious a’ as sisters; But hear their absent thoughts o’ ither, They’re a’ run-deils an’ jads thegither.
Whiles, owre the wee bit cup an’ platie, They sip the scandal-potion pretty; Or lee-lang nights, wi’ crabbit leuks Pore owre the devil’s pictur’d beuks; Stake on a chance a farmer’s stackyard, An’ cheat like ony unhanged blackguard.
There’s some exceptions, man an’ woman; But this is gentry’s life in common.
By this, the sun was out of sight, An’ darker gloamin brought the night; The bum-clock humm’d wi’ lazy drone; The kye stood rowtin i’ the loan; When up they gat an’ shook their lugs, Rejoic’d they werena men but dogs; An’ each took aff his several way, Resolv’d to meet some ither day.
Note 1.
Luath was Burns’ own dog.
[back] Note 2.
Cuchullin’s dog in Ossian’s “Fingal.
”—R.
B.
[back]
Written by Edward Taylor | Create an image from this poem

Days of Pie and Coffee

 A motorist once said to me, 
and this was in the country, 
on a county lane, a motorist 
slowed his vehicle as I was 
walking my dear old collie,
Sithney, by the side of the road, 
and the motorist came to a halt 
mildly alarming both Sithney and myself, 
not yet accustomed to automobiles, 
and this particular motorist 
sent a little spasm of fright up our spines, 
which in turn panicked the driver a bit 
and it seemed as if we were off to a bad start, 
and that's when Sithney began to bark 
and the man could not be heard, that is, 
if he was speaking or trying to speak 
because I was commanding Sithnewy to be silent, 
though, indeed I was sympathetic 
to his emotional excitement.
It was, as I recall, a day of prodigious beauty.
April 21, 1932--clouds like the inside of your head explained.
Bluebirds, too numerous to mention.
The clover calling you by name.
And fields oozing green.
And this motorist from nowhere moving his lips like the wings of a butterfly and nothing coming out, and Sithney silent now.
He was no longer looking at us, but straight ahead where his election was in doubt.
"That's a fine dog," he said.
"Collies are made in heaven.
" Well, if I were a voting man I'd vote for you, I said.
"A bedoozling day to be lost in the country, I say.
Leastways, I am a misplaced individual.
" We introduced ourselves and swapped a few stories.
He was a veteran and a salesmen who didn't believe in his product-- I've forgotten what it was--hair restorer, parrot feed--and he enjoyed nothing more then a a day spent meandering the back roads in his jalopy.
I gave him directions to the Denton farm, but I doubt that he followed them, he didn't seem to be listening, and it was getting late and Sithney had an idea of his own and I don't know why I am remembering this now, just that he summed himself up by saying "I've missed too many boats" and all these years later I keep thinking that was a man who loved to miss boats, but he didn't miss them that much.
Written by James Tate | Create an image from this poem

Days of Pie and Coffee

 A motorist once said to me, 
and this was in the country, 
on a county lane, a motorist 
slowed his vehicle as I was 
walking my dear old collie,
Sithney, by the side of the road, 
and the motorist came to a halt 
mildly alarming both Sithney and myself, 
not yet accustomed to automobiles, 
and this particular motorist 
sent a little spasm of fright up our spines, 
which in turn panicked the driver a bit 
and it seemed as if we were off to a bad start, 
and that's when Sithney began to bark 
and the man could not be heard, that is, 
if he was speaking or trying to speak 
because I was commanding Sithnewy to be silent, 
though, indeed I was sympathetic 
to his emotional excitement.
It was, as I recall, a day of prodigious beauty.
April 21, 1932--clouds like the inside of your head explained.
Bluebirds, too numerous to mention.
The clover calling you by name.
And fields oozing green.
And this motorist from nowhere moving his lips like the wings of a butterfly and nothing coming out, and Sithney silent now.
He was no longer looking at us, but straight ahead where his election was in doubt.
"That's a fine dog," he said.
"Collies are made in heaven.
" Well, if I were a voting man I'd vote for you, I said.
"A bedoozling day to be lost in the country, I say.
Leastways, I am a misplaced individual.
" We introduced ourselves and swapped a few stories.
He was a veteran and a salesmen who didn't believe in his product-- I've forgotten what it was--hair restorer, parrot feed--and he enjoyed nothing more then a a day spent meandering the back roads in his jalopy.
I gave him directions to the Denton farm, but I doubt that he followed them, he didn't seem to be listening, and it was getting late and Sithney had an idea of his own and I don't know why I am remembering this now, just that he summed himself up by saying "I've missed too many boats" and all these years later I keep thinking that was a man who loved to miss boats, but he didn't miss them that much.
Written by Alden Nowlan | Create an image from this poem

The Bull Moose

 Down from the purple mist of trees on the mountain, 
lurching through forests of white spruce and cedar, 
stumbling through tamarack swamps,
came the bull moose
to be stopped at last by a pole-fenced pasture.
Too tired to turn or, perhaps, aware there was no place left to go, he stood with the cattle.
They, scenting the musk of death, seeing his great head like the ritual mask of a blood god, moved to the other end of the field, and waited.
The neighbours heard of it, and by afternoon cars lined the road.
The children teased him with alder switches and he gazed at them like an old, tolerant collie.
The woman asked if he could have escaped from a Fair.
The oldest man in the parish remembered seeing a gelded moose yoked with an ox for plowing.
The young men snickered and tried to pour beer down his throat, while their girl friends took their pictures.
And the bull moose let them stroke his tick-ravaged flanks, let them pry open his jaws with bottles, let a giggling girl plant a little purple cap of thistles on his head.
When the wardens came, everyone agreed it was a shame to shoot anything so shaggy and cuddlesome.
He looked like the kind of pet women put to bed with their sons.
So they held their fire.
But just as the sun dropped in the river the bull moose gathered his strength like a scaffolded king, straightened and lifted his horns so that even the wardens backed away as they raised their rifles.
When he roared, people ran to their cars.
All the young men leaned on their automobile horns as he toppled.
Written by James Dickey | Create an image from this poem

The Sharks Parlor

 Memory: I can take my head and strike it on a wall on Cumberland Island 
Where the night tide came crawling under the stairs came up the first 
Two or three steps and the cottage stood on poles all night 
With the sea sprawled under it as we dreamed of the great fin circling 
Under the bedroom floor.
In daylight there was my first brassy taste of beer And Payton Ford and I came back from the Glynn County slaughterhouse With a bucket of entrails and blood.
We tied one end of a hawser To a spindling porch-pillar and rowed straight out of the house Three hundred yards into the vast front yard of windless blue water The rope out slithering its coil the two-gallon jug stoppered and sealed With wax and a ten-foot chain leader a drop-forged shark-hook nestling.
We cast our blood on the waters the land blood easily passing For sea blood and we sat in it for a moment with the stain spreading Out from the boat sat in a new radiance in the pond of blood in the sea Waiting for fins waiting to spill our guts also in the glowing water.
We dumped the bucket, and baited the hook with a run-over collie pup.
The jug Bobbed, trying to shake off the sun as a dog would shake off the sea.
We rowed to the house feeling the same water lift the boat a new way, All the time seeing where we lived rise and dip with the oars.
We tied up and sat down in rocking chairs, one eye on the other responding To the blue-eye wink of the jug.
Payton got us a beer and we sat All morning sat there with blood on our minds the red mark out In the harbor slowly failing us then the house groaned the rope Sprang out of the water splinters flew we leapt from our chairs And grabbed the rope hauled did nothing the house coming subtly Apart all around us underfoot boards beginning to sparkle like sand Pulling out the tarred poles we slept propped-up on leaning to sea As in land-wind crabs scuttling from under the floor as we took runs about Two more porch-pillars and looked out and saw something a fish-flash An almighty fin in trouble a moiling of secret forces a false start Of water a round wave growing in the whole of Cumberland Sound the one ripple.
Payton took off without a word I could not hold him either But clung to the rope anyway it was the whole house bending Its nails that held whatever it was coming in a little and like a fool I took up the slack on my wrist.
The rope drew gently jerked I lifted Clean off the porch and hit the water the same water it was in I felt in blue blazing terror at the bottom of the stairs and scrambled Back up looking desperately into the human house as deeply as I could Stopping my gaze before it went out the wire screen of the back door Stopped it on the thistled rattan the rugs I lay on and read On my mother's sewing basket with next winter's socks spilling from it The flimsy vacation furniture a bucktoothed picture of myself.
Payton came back with three men from a filling station and glanced at me Dripping water inexplicable then we all grabbed hold like a tug-of-war.
We were gaining a little from us a cry went up from everywhere People came running.
Behind us the house filled with men and boys.
On the third step from the sea I took my place looking down the rope Going into the ocean, humming and shaking off drops.
A houseful Of people put their backs into it going up the steps from me Into the living room through the kitchen down the back stairs Up and over a hill of sand across a dust road and onto a raised field Of dunes we were gaining the rope in my hands began to be wet With deeper water all other haulers retreated through the house But Payton and I on the stairs drawing hand over hand on our blood Drawing into existence by the nose a huge body becoming A hammerhead rolling in beery shallows and I began to let up But the rope strained behind me the town had gone Pulling-mad in our house far away in a field of sand they struggled They had turned their backs on the sea bent double some on their knees The rope over their shoulders like a bag of gold they strove for the ideal Esso station across the scorched meadow with the distant fish coming up The front stairs the sagging boards still coming in up taking Another step toward the empty house where the rope stood straining By itself through the rooms in the middle of the air.
"Pass the word," Payton said, and I screamed it "Let up, good God, let up!" to no one there.
The shark flopped on the porch, grating with salt-sand driving back in The nails he had pulled out coughing chunks of his formless blood.
The screen door banged and tore off he scrambled on his tail slid Curved did a thing from another world and was out of his element and in Our vacation paradise cutting all four legs from under the dinner table With one deep-water move he unwove the rugs in a moment throwing pints Of blood over everything we owned knocked the buckteeth out of my picture His odd head full of crashed jelly-glass splinters and radio tubes thrashing Among the pages of fan magazines all the movie stars drenched in sea-blood Each time we thought he was dead he struggled back and smashed One more thing in all coming back to die three or four more times after death.
At last we got him out logrolling him greasing his sandpaper skin With lard to slide him pulling on his chained lips as the tide came, Tumbled him down the steps as the first night wave went under the floor.
He drifted off head back belly white as the moon.
What could I do but buy That house for the one black mark still there against death a forehead- toucher in the room he circles beneath and has been invited to wreck? Blood hard as iron on the wall black with time still bloodlike Can be touched whenever the brow is drunk enough.
All changes.
Memory: Something like three-dimensional dancing in the limbs with age Feeling more in two worlds than one in all worlds the growing encounters.
Copyright © James Dickey 1965 Online Source - http://www.
oceanstar.
com/shark/dickey.
htm
Written by Julie Hill Alger | Create an image from this poem

Death in the Family

 They call it stroke.
Two we loved were stunned by that same blow of cudgel or axe to the brow.
Lost on the earth they left our circle broken.
One spent five months falling from our grasp mute, her grace, wit, beauty erased.
Her green eyes gazed at us as if asking, as if aware, as if hers.
One night she slipped away; machinery of mercy brought her back to die more slowly.
At long last she escaped.
Our collie dog fared better.
A lesser creature, she had to spend only one day drifting and reeling, her brown eyes beseeching.
Then she was tenderly lifted, laid on a table, praised, petted and set free.
-Julie Alger
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

My Ancestors

 A barefoot boy I went to school
 To save a cobbler's fee,
For though the porridge pot was full
 A frugal folk were we;
We baked our bannocks, spun our wool,
 And counted each bawbee.
We reft our living from the soil, And I was shieling bred; My father's hands were warped with toil, And crooked with grace he said.
My mother made the kettle boil As spinning wheel she fed.
My granny smoked a pipe of clay, And yammered of her youth; The hairs upon her chin were grey, She had a single tooth; Her mutch was grimed, I grieve to say, For I would speak the truth.
You of your ancestry may boast,-- Well, here I brag of mine; For if there is a heaven host I hope they'll be in line: My dad with collie at his heel In plaid of tartan stripe; My mammie with her spinning wheel, My granny with her pipe.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

A Song Of Sixty-Five

 Brave Thackeray has trolled of days when he was twenty-one,
And bounded up five flights of stairs, a gallant garreteer;
And yet again in mellow vein when youth was gaily run,
Has dipped his nose in Gascon wine, and told of Forty Year.
But if I worthy were to sing a richer, rarer time, I'd tune my pipes before the fire and merrily I'd strive To praise that age when prose again has given way to rhyme, The Indian Summer days of life when I'll be Sixty-five; For then my work will all be done, my voyaging be past, And I'll have earned the right to rest where folding hills are green; So in some glassy anchorage I'll make my cable fast, -- Oh, let the seas show all their teeth, I'll sit and smile serene.
The storm may bellow round the roof, I'll bide beside the fire, And many a scene of sail and trail within the flame I'll see; For I'll have worn away the spur of passion and desire.
.
.
.
Oh yes, when I am Sixty-five, what peace will come to me.
I'll take my breakfast in my bed, I'll rise at half-past ten, When all the world is nicely groomed and full of golden song; I'll smoke a bit and joke a bit, and read the news, and then I'll potter round my peach-trees till I hear the luncheon gong.
And after that I think I'll doze an hour, well, maybe two, And then I'll show some kindred soul how well my roses thrive; I'll do the things I never yet have found the time to do.
.
.
.
Oh, won't I be the busy man when I am Sixty-five.
I'll revel in my library; I'll read De Morgan's books; I'll grow so garrulous I fear you'll write me down a bore; I'll watch the ways of ants and bees in quiet sunny nooks, I'll understand Creation as I never did before.
When gossips round the tea-cups talk I'll listen to it all; On smiling days some kindly friend will take me for a drive: I'll own a shaggy collie dog that dashes to my call: I'll celebrate my second youth when I am Sixty-five.
Ah, though I've twenty years to go, I see myself quite plain, A wrinkling, twinkling, rosy-cheeked, benevolent old chap; I think I'll wear a tartan shawl and lean upon a cane.
I hope that I'll have silver hair beneath a velvet cap.
I see my little grandchildren a-romping round my knee; So gay the scene, I almost wish 'twould hasten to arrive.
Let others sing of Youth and Spring, still will it seem to me The golden time's the olden time, some time round Sixty-five.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Shearing at Castlereagh

 The bell is set a-ringing, and the engine gives a toot, 
There's five-and-thirty shearers here a-shearing for the loot, 
So stir yourselves, you penners-up, and shove the sheep along -- 
The musterers are fetching them a hundred thousand strong -- 
And make your collie dogs speak up; what would the buyers say 
In London if the wool was late this year from Castlereagh? 
The man that "rung" the Tubbo shed is not the ringer here, 
That stripling from the Cooma-side can teach him how to shear.
They trim away the ragged locks, and rip the cutter goes, And leaves a track of snowy fleece from brisket to the nose; It's lovely how they peel it off with never stop nor stay, They're racing for the ringer's place this year at Castlereagh.
The man that keeps the cutters sharp is growling in his cage, He's always in a hurry; and he's always in a rage -- "You clumsy-fisted mutton-heads, you'd turn a fellow sick, You pass yourselves as shearers, you were born to swing a pick.
Another broken cutter here, that's two you've broke today, It's awful how such crawlers come to shear at Castlereagh.
" The youngsters picking up the fleece enjoy the merry din, They throw the classer up the fleece, he throws it to the bin; The pressers standing by the rack are watching for the wool, There's room for just a couple more, the press is nearly full; Now jump upon the lever, lads, and heave and heave away, Another bale of golden fleece is branded "Castlereagh".
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