Best Famous Dead Of Night Poems

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• All Famous Dead Of Night Poems

Written by Raymond Carver | Fear Fear of seeing a police car pull into the drive. Fear of falling asleep at night. Fear of not falling asleep. Fear of the past rising up. Fear of the present taking flight. Fear of the telephone that rings in the dead of night. Fear of electrical storms. Fear of the cleaning woman who has a spot on her cheek! Fear of dogs I've been told won't bite. Fear of anxiety! Fear of having to identify the body of a dead friend. Fear of running out of money. Fear of having too much, though people will not believe this. Fear of psychological profiles. Fear of being late and fear of arriving before anyone else. Fear of my children's handwriting on envelopes. Fear they'll die before I do, and I'll feel guilty. Fear of having to live with my mother in her old age, and mine. Fear of confusion. Fear this day will end on an unhappy note. Fear of waking up to find you gone. Fear of not loving and fear of not loving enough. Fear that what I love will prove lethal to those I love. Fear of death. Fear of living too long. Fear of death. I've said that.

Written by José Martí | A Sincere Man Am I A sincere man am I From the land where palm trees grow, And I want before I die My soul's verses to bestow. I'm a traveler to all parts, And a newcomer to none: I am art among the arts, With the mountains I am one. I know how to name and class All the strange flowers that grow; I know every blade of grass, Fatal lie and sublime woe. I have seen through dead of night Upon my head softly fall, Rays formed of the purest light From beauty celestial. I have seen wings that were surging From beautiful women's shoulders, And seen butterflies emerging From the refuse heap that moulders. I have known a man to live With a dagger at his side, And never once the name give Of she by whose hand he died. Twice, for an instant, did I My soul's reflection espy: Twice: when my poor father died And when she bade me good-bye. I trembled once, when I flung The vineyard gate, and to my dread, The wicked hornet had stung My little girl on the forehead. I rejoiced once and felt lucky The day that my jailer came To read the death warrant to me That bore his tears and my name. I hear a sigh across the earth, I hear a sigh over the deep: It is no sign reaching my hearth, But my son waking from sleep. If they say I have obtained The pick of the jeweller's trove, A good friend is what I've gained And I have put aside love. I have seen across the skies A wounded eagle still flying; I know the cubby where lies The snake of its venom dying. I know that the world is weak And must soon fall to the ground, Then the gentle brook will speak Above the quiet profound. While trembling with joy and dread, I have touched with hand so bold A once-bright star that fell dead From heaven at my threshold. On my brave heart is engraved The sorrow hidden from all eyes: The son of a land enslaved, Lives for it, suffers and dies. All is beautiful and right, All is as music and reason; And all, like diamonds, is light That was coal before its season. I know when fools are laid to rest Honor and tears will abound, And that of all fruits, the best Is left to rot in holy ground. Without a word, the pompous muse I've set aside, and understood: From a withered branch, I choose To hang my doctoral hood.

Written by Charlotte Bronte | Pilates Wifes Dream I've quenched my lamp, I struck it in that start Which every limb convulsed, I heard it fall­ The crash blent with my sleep, I saw depart Its light, even as I woke, on yonder wall; Over against my bed, there shone a gleam Strange, faint, and mingling also with my dream. It sunk, and I am wrapt in utter gloom; How far is night advanced, and when will day Retinge the dusk and livid air with bloom, And fill this void with warm, creative ray ? Would I could sleep again till, clear and red, Morning shall on the mountain-tops be spread! I'd call my women, but to break their sleep, Because my own is broken, were unjust; They've wrought all day, and well-earned slumbers steep Their labours in forgetfulness, I trust; Let me my feverish watch with patience bear, Thankful that none with me its sufferings share. Yet, Oh, for light ! one ray would tranquilise My nerves, my pulses, more than effort can; I'll draw my curtain and consult the skies: These trembling stars at dead of night look wan, Wild, restless, strange, yet cannot be more drear Than this my couch, shared by a nameless fear. All black­one great cloud, drawn from east to west, Conceals the heavens, but there are lights below; Torches burn in Jerusalem, and cast On yonder stony mount a lurid glow. I see men stationed there, and gleaming spears; A sound, too, from afar, invades my ears. Dull, measured, strokes of axe and hammer ring From street to street, not loud, but through the night Distinctly heard­and some strange spectral thing Is now upreared­and, fixed against the light Of the pale lamps; defined upon that sky, It stands up like a column, straight and high. I see it all­I know the dusky sign­ A cross on Calvary, which Jews uprear While Romans watch; and when the dawn shall shine Pilate, to judge the victim will appear, Pass sentence­yield him up to crucify; And on that cross the spotless Christ must die. Dreams, then, are true­for thus my vision ran; Surely some oracle has been with me, The gods have chosen me to reveal their plan, To warn an unjust judge of destiny: I, slumbering, heard and saw; awake I know, Christ's coming death, and Pilate's life of woe. I do not weep for Pilate­who could prove Regret for him whose cold and crushing sway No prayer can soften, no appeal can move; Who tramples hearts as others trample clay, Yet with a faltering, an uncertain tread, That might stir up reprisal in the dead. Forced to sit by his side and see his deeds; Forced to behold that visage, hour by hour, In whose gaunt lines, the abhorrent gazer reads A triple lust of gold, and blood, and power; A soul whom motives, fierce, yet abject, urge Rome's servile slave, and Judah's tyrant scourge. How can I love, or mourn, or pity him ? I, who so long my fettered hands have wrung; I, who for grief have wept my eye-sight dim; Because, while life for me was bright and young, He robbed my youth­he quenched my life's fair ray­ He crushed my mind, and did my freedom slay. And at this hour­although I be his wife­ He has no more of tenderness from me Than any other wretch of guilty life; Less, for I know his household privacy­ I see him as he is­without a screen; And, by the gods, my soul abhors his mien ! Has he not sought my presence, dyed in blood­ Innocent, righteous blood, shed shamelessly ? And have I not his red salute withstood ? Aye,­when, as erst, he plunged all Galilee In dark bereavement­in affliction sore, Mingling their very offerings with their gore. Then came he­in his eyes a serpent-smile, Upon his lips some false, endearing word, And, through the streets of Salem, clanged the while, His slaughtering, hacking, sacrilegious sword­ And I, to see a man cause men such woe, Trembled with ire­I did not fear to show. And now, the envious Jewish priests have brought Jesus­whom they in mockery call their king­ To have, by this grim power, their vengeance wrought; By this mean reptile, innocence to sting. Oh ! could I but the purposed doom avert, And shield the blameless head from cruel hurt! Accessible is Pilate's heart to fear, Omens will shake his soul, like autumn leaf; Could he this night's appalling vision hear, This just man's bonds were loosed, his life were safe, Unless that bitter priesthood should prevail, And make even terror to their malice quail. Yet if I tell the dream­but let me pause. What dream ? Erewhile the characters were clear, Graved on my brain­at once some unknown cause Has dimmed and rased the thoughts, which now appear, Like a vague remnant of some by-past scene;­ Not what will be, but what, long since, has been. I suffered many things, I heard foretold A dreadful doom for Pilate,­lingering woes, In far, barbarian climes, where mountains cold Built up a solitude of trackless snows, There, he and grisly wolves prowled side by side, There he lived famished­there methought he died; But not of hunger, nor by malady; I saw the snow around him, stained with gore; I said I had no tears for such as he, And, lo ! my cheek is wet­mine eyes run o'er; I weep for mortal suffering, mortal guilt, I weep the impious deed­the blood self-spilt. More I recall not, yet the vision spread Into a world remote, an age to come­ And still the illumined name of Jesus shed A light, a clearness, through the enfolding gloom­ And still I saw that sign, which now I see, That cross on yonder brow of Calvary. What is this Hebrew Christ ? To me unknown, His lineage­doctrine­mission­yet how clear, Is God-like goodness, in his actions shewn ! How straight and stainless is his life's career ! The ray of Deity that rests on him, In my eyes makes Olympian glory dim. The world advances, Greek, or Roman rite Suffices not the inquiring mind to stay; The searching soul demands a purer light To guide it on its upward, onward way; Ashamed of sculptured gods­Religion turns To where the unseen Jehovah's altar burns. Our faith is rotten­all our rites defiled, Our temples sullied, and methinks, this man, With his new ordinance, so wise and mild, Is come, even as he says, the chaff to fan And sever from the wheat; but will his faith Survive the terrors of to-morrow's death ? * * * * * I feel a firmer trust­a higher hope Rise in my soul­it dawns with dawning day; Lo ! on the Temple's roof­on Moriah's slope Appears at length that clear, and crimson ray, Which I so wished for when shut in by night; Oh, opening skies, I hail, I bless your light ! Part, clouds and shadows ! glorious Sun appear ! Part, mental gloom ! Come insight from on high ! Dusk dawn in heaven still strives with daylight clear, The longing soul, doth still uncertain sigh. Oh ! to behold the truth­that sun divine, How doth my bosom pant, my spirit pine ! This day, time travails with a mighty birth, This day, Truth stoops from heaven and visits earth, Ere night descends, I shall more surely know What guide to follow, in what path to go; I wait in hope­I wait in solemn fear, The oracle of God­the sole­true God­to hear.

Written by Thomas Campbell | Hohenlinden 1 On Linden, when the sun was low, 2 All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, 3 And dark as winter was the flow 4 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 5 But Linden saw another sight 6 When the drum beat at dead of night, 7 Commanding fires of death to light 8 The darkness of her scenery. 9 By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, 10 Each horseman drew his battle blade, 11 And furious every charger neighed 12 To join the dreadful revelry. 13 Then shook the hills with thunder riven, 14 Then rushed the steed to battle driven, 15 And louder than the bolts of heaven 16 Far flashed the red artillery. 17 But redder yet that light shall glow 18 On Linden's hills of stainèd snow, 19 And bloodier yet the torrent flow 20 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 21 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun 22 Can pierce the war clouds, rolling dun, 23 Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 24 Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 25 The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 26 Who rush to glory, or the grave! 27 Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, 28 And charge with all thy chivalry! 29 Few, few shall part where many meet! 30 The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 31 And every turf beneath their feet 32 Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS L'eternite est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sans cesse ces deux mots seulement dans le silence des tombeaux: "Toujours! jamais! Jamais! toujours!"--JACQUES BRIDAINE. Somewhat back from the village street Stands the old-fashioned country-seat. Across its antique portico Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw; And from its station in the hall An ancient timepiece says to all,-- "Forever--never! Never--forever!" Half-way up the stairs it stands, And points and beckons with its hands From its case of massive oak, Like a monk, who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! With sorrowful voice to all who pass,-- "Forever--never! Never--forever!" By day its voice is low and light; But in the silent dead of night, Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, It echoes along the vacant hall, Along the ceiling, along the floor, And seems to say, at each chamber-door,-- "Forever--never! Never--forever!" Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Through days of death and days of birth, Through every swift vicissitude Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, And as if, like God, it all things saw, It calmly repeats those words of awe,-- "Forever--never! Never--forever!" In that mansion used to be Free-hearted Hospitality; His great fires up the chimney roared; The stranger feasted at his board; But, like the skeleton at the feast, That warning timepiece never ceased,-- "Forever--never! Never--forever!" There groups of merry children played, There youths and maidens dreaming strayed; O precious hours! O golden prime, And affluence of love and time! Even as a Miser counts his gold, Those hours the ancient timepiece told,-- "Forever--never! Never--forever!" From that chamber, clothed in white, The bride came forth on her wedding night; There, in that silent room below, The dead lay in his shroud of snow; And in the hush that followed the prayer, Was heard the old clock on the stair,-- "Forever--never! Never--forever!" All are scattered now and fled, Some are married, some are dead; And when I ask, with throbs of pain. "Ah! when shall they all meet again?" As in the days long since gone by, The ancient timepiece makes reply,-- "Forever--never! Never--forever! Never here, forever there, Where all parting, pain, and care, And death, and time shall disappear,-- Forever there, but never here! The horologe of Eternity Sayeth this incessantly,-- "Forever--never! Never--forever!"

Written by William Topaz McGonagall | The Battle of Corunna 'Twas in the year of 1808, and in the autumn of the year, Napoleon resolved to crush Spain and Portugal without fear; So with a mighty army three hundred thousand strong Through the passes of the Pyrenees into spain he passed along. But Sir John Moore concentrated his troops in the north, And into the west corner of Spain he boldly marched forth; To cut off Napoleon's communications with France He considered it to be advisable and his only chance. And when Napoleon heard of Moore's coming, his march he did begin, Declaring that he was the only General that could oppose him; And in the month of December, when the hills were clad with snow, Napoleon's army marched over the Guadiana Hills with their hearts full of woe. And with fifty thousand cavalry, infantry, and artillery, Napoleon marched on, facing obstacles most dismal to see; And performed one of the most rapid marches recorded in history, Leaving the command of his army to Generals Soult and Ney. And on the 5th of January Soult made his attack, But in a very short time the French were driven back; With the Guards and the 50th Regiment and the 42d conjoint, They were driven from the village of Elnina at the bayonet's point. Oh! It was a most gorgeous and inspiring sight To see Sir John Moore in the thickest of the fight, And crying aloud to the 42d with all his might, "Forward, my lads, and charge them with your bayonets left and right. " Then the 42d charged them with might and main, And the French were repulsed again and again; And although they poured into the British ranks a withering fire, The British at the charge of the bayonet soon made them retire. Oh! That battlefield was a fearful sight to behold, 'Twas enough to make one's blood run cold To hear the crack, crack of the musketry and the cannon's roar, Whilst the dead and the dying lay weltering in their gore. But O Heaven! It was a heartrending sight, When Sir John Moore was shot dead in the thickest of the fight; And as the soldiers bore him from the field they looked woebegone, And the hero's last words were "Let me see how the battle goes on. " Then he breathed his last with a gurgling sound, And for the loss of the great hero the soldier's sorrow was profound, Because he was always kind and served them well, And as they thought of him tears down their cheeks trickling fell. Oh! it was a weird and pathetic sight As they buried him in the Citadel of Corunna at the dead of night, While his staff and the men shed many tears For the noble hero who had commanded them for many years. Success to the British Army wherever they go, For seldom they have failed to conquer the foe; Long may the highlanders be able to make the foe reel, By giving them an inch or two of cold steel.

Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | The Army Mules Oh the airman's game is a showman's game, for we all of us watch him go With his roaring soaring aeroplane and his bombs for the blokes below, Over the railways and over the dumps, over the Hun and the Turk, You'll hear him mutter, "What ho, she bumps," when the Archies get to work. But not of him is the song I sing, though he follow the eagle's flight, And with shrapnel holes in his splintered wing comes home to his roost at night. He may silver his wings on the shining stars, he may look from the throne on high, He may follow the flight of the wheeling kite in the blue Egyptian sky, But he's only a hero built to plan, turned out by the Army schools, And I sing of the rankless, thankless man who hustles the Army mules. Now where he comes from and where he lives is a mystery dark and dim, And it's rarely indeed that the General gives a D. S. O. to him. The stolid infantry digs its way like a mole in a ruined wall; The cavalry lends a tone, they say, to what were else but a brawl; The Brigadier of the Mounted Fut like a cavalry Colonel swanks When he goeth abroad like a gilded nut to receive the General's thanks; The Ordnance man is a son of a gun and his lists are a standing joke; You order, "Choke arti Jerusalem one" for Jerusalem artichoke. The Medicals shine with a number nine, and the men of the great R. E. , Their Colonels are Methodist, married or mad, and some of them all the three; In all these units the road to fame is taught by the Army schools, But a man has got to be born to the game when he tackles the Army mules. For if you go where the depots are as the dawn is breaking grey, By the waning light of the morning star as the dust cloud clears away, You'll see a vision among the dust like a man and a mule combined -- It's the kind of thing you must take on trust for its outlines aren't defined, A thing that whirls like a spinning top and props like a three legged stool, And you find its a long-legged Queensland boy convincing an Army mule. And the rider sticks to the hybrid's hide like paper sticks to a wall, For a "magnoon" Waler is next to ride with every chance of a fall, It's a rough-house game and a thankless game, and it isn't a game for a fool, For an army's fate and a nation's fame may turn on an Army mule. And if you go to the front-line camp where the sleepless outposts lie, At the dead of night you can hear the tramp of the mule train toiling by. The rattle and clink of a leading-chain, the creak of the lurching load, As the patient, plodding creatures strain at their task in the shell-torn road, Through the dark and the dust you may watch them go till the dawn is grey in the sky, And only the watchful pickets know when the "All-night Corps" goes by. And far away as the silence falls when the last of the train has gone, A weary voice through the darkness: "Get on there, men, get on!" It isn't a hero, built to plan, turned out by the modern schools, It's only the Army Service man a-driving his Army mules.

Written by Thomas Chatterton | The Death of Nicou On Tiber's banks, Tiber, whose waters glide In slow meanders down to Gaigra's side; And circling all the horrid mountain round, Rushes impetuous to the deep profound; Rolls o'er the ragged rocks with hideous yell; Collects its waves beneath the earth's vast shell; There for a while in loud confusion hurl'd, It crumbles mountains down and shakes the world. Till borne upon the pinions of the air, Through the rent earth the bursting waves appear; Fiercely propell'd the whiten'd billows rise, Break from the cavern, and ascend the skies; Then lost and conquered by superior force, Through hot Arabia holds its rapid coursel On Tiber's banks where scarlet jas'mines bloom, And purple aloes shed a rich perfume; Where, when the sun is melting in his heat, The reeking tygers find a cool retreat; Bask in the sedges, lose the sultry beam, And wanton with their shadows in the stream; On Tiber's banks, by sacred priests rever'd, Where in the days of old a god appear'd; 'Twas in the dead of night, at Chalma's feast, The tribe of Alra slept around the priest. He spoke; as evening thunders bursting near, His horrid accents broke upon the ear; Attend, Alraddas, with your sacred priest! This day the sun is rising in the east; The sun, which shall illumine all the earth, Now, now is rising, in a mortal birth. He vanish'd like a vapour of the night, And sunk away in a faint blaze of light. Swift from the branches of the holy oak, Horror, confusion, fear, and torment brake; And still when midnight trims her mazy lamp, They take their way through Tiber's wat'ry swamp. On Tiber's banks, close ranked, a warring train, Stretch'd to the distant edge of Galca's plain; So when arrived at Gaigra's highest steep, We view the wide expansion of the deep; See in the gilding of her wat'ry robe, The quick declension of the circling globe; From the blue sea a chain of mountains rise, Blended at once with water and with skies; Beyond our sight in vast extension curl'd, The check of waves, the guardians of the world. Strong were the warriors, as the ghost of Cawn, Who threw the Hill-of-archers to the lawn; When the soft earth at his appearance fled; And rising billows play'd around his head; When a strong tempest rising from the main, Dashed the full clouds, unbroken on the plain. Nicou, immortal in the sacred song, Held the red sword of war, and led the strong; From his own tribe the sable warriors came, Well try'd in battle, and well known in fame. Nicou, descended from the god of war, Who lived coeval with the morning star; Narada was his name; who cannot tell How all the world through great Narada fell! Vichon, the god who ruled above the skies, Look'd, on Narada, but with envious eyes; The warrior dared him, ridiculed his might, Bent his white bow, and summon'd him to fight. Vichon, disdainful, bade his lightnings fly, And scatter'd burning arrows in the sky; Threw down a star the armour of his feet, To burn the air with supernat'ral heat; Bid a loud tempes roar beneath the ground; Lifted him up, and bore him thro' the sea. The waters still ascending fierce and high, He tower'd into the chambers of the sky; There Vichon sat, his armour on his bed, He thought Narada with the mighty dead. Before his seat the heavenly warrior stands, The lightning quiv'ring in his yellow hands. The god astonish'd dropt; hurl'd from the shore, He dropt to torments, and to rise no more. Head-long he falls; 'tis his own arms compel. Condemn'd in ever-burning fires to dwell. From this Narada, mighty Nicou sprung; The mighty Nicou, furious, wild and young. Who led th'embattled archers to the field, And more a thunderbolt upon his shield; That shield his glorious father died to gain, When the white warriors fled along the plain, When the full sails could not provoke the flood, Till Nicou came and swell'd the seas with blood. Slow at the end of his robust array, The mighty warrior pensive took his way; Against the son of Nair, the young Rorest, Once the companion of his youthful breast. Strong were the passions of the son of Nair, Strong, as the tempest of the evening air. Insatiate in desire; fierce as the boar; Firm in resolve as Cannie's rocky shore. Long had the gods endeavour'd to destroy, All Nicou's friendship, happiness, and joy: They sought in vain, 'till Vicat, Vichon's son, Never in feats of wickedness outdone, Saw Nica, sister to the Mountain king, Drest beautiful, with all the flow'rs of spring; He saw, and scatter'd poison in her eyes; From limb to limb in varied forms he flies; Dwelt on her crimson lip, and added grace To every glossy feature of her face. Rorest was fir'd with passion at the sight. Friendship and honor, sunk to Vicat's right; He saw, he lov'd, and burning with desire, Bore the soft maid from brother, sister, sire. Pining with sorrow, Nica faded, died, Like a fair alow, in its morning pride. This brought the warrior to the bloody mead, And sent to young Rorest the threat'ning reed. He drew his army forth: Oh, need I tell! That Nicou conquer'd, and the lover fell; His breathless army mantled all the plain; And Death sat smiling on the heaps of slain. The battle ended, with his reeking dart, The pensive Nicou pierc'd his beating heart; And to his mourning valiant warriors cry'd, I, and my sister's ghost are satisfy'd.

Written by Walt Whitman | Drum-Taps 1 FIRST, O songs, for a prelude, Lightly strike on the stretch’d tympanum, pride and joy in my city, How she led the rest to arms—how she gave the cue, How at once with lithe limbs, unwaiting a moment, she sprang; (O superb! O Manhattan, my own, my peerless! O strongest you in the hour of danger, in crisis! O truer than steel!) How you sprang! how you threw off the costumes of peace with indifferent hand; How your soft opera-music changed, and the drum and fife were heard in their stead; How you led to the war, (that shall serve for our prelude, songs of soldiers,) How Manhattan drum-taps led. 2 Forty years had I in my city seen soldiers parading; Forty years as a pageant—till unawares, the Lady of this teeming and turbulent city, Sleepless amid her ships, her houses, her incalculable wealth, With her million children around her—suddenly, At dead of night, at news from the south, Incens’d, struck with clench’d hand the pavement. A shock electric—the night sustain’d it; Till with ominous hum, our hive at day-break pour’d out its myriads. From the houses then, and the workshops, and through all the doorways, Leapt they tumultuous—and lo! Manhattan arming. 3 To the drum-taps prompt, The young men falling in and arming; The mechanics arming, (the trowel, the jack-plane, the blacksmith’s hammer, tost aside with precipitation;) The lawyer leaving his office, and arming—the judge leaving the court; The driver deserting his wagon in the street, jumping down, throwing the reins abruptly down on the horses’ backs; The salesman leaving the store—the boss, book-keeper, porter, all leaving; Squads gather everywhere by common consent, and arm; The new recruits, even boys—the old men show them how to wear their accoutrements—they buckle the straps carefully; Outdoors arming—indoors arming—the flash of the musket-barrels; The white tents cluster in camps—the arm’d sentries around—the sunrise cannon, and again at sunset; Arm’d regiments arrive every day, pass through the city, and embark from the wharves; (How good they look, as they tramp down to the river, sweaty, with their guns on their shoulders! How I love them! how I could hug them, with their brown faces, and their clothes and knapsacks cover’d with dust!) The blood of the city up—arm’d! arm’d! the cry everywhere; The flags flung out from the steeples of churches, and from all the public buildings and stores; The tearful parting—the mother kisses her son—the son kisses his mother; (Loth is the mother to part—yet not a word does she speak to detain him;) The tumultuous escort—the ranks of policemen preceding, clearing the way; The unpent enthusiasm—the wild cheers of the crowd for their favorites; The artillery—the silent cannons, bright as gold, drawn along, rumble lightly over the stones; (Silent cannons—soon to cease your silence! Soon, unlimber’d, to begin the red business;) All the mutter of preparation—all the determin’d arming; The hospital service—the lint, bandages, and medicines; The women volunteering for nurses—the work begun for, in earnest—no mere parade now; War! an arm’d race is advancing!—the welcome for battle—no turning away; War! be it weeks, months, or years—an arm’d race is advancing to welcome it. 4 Mannahatta a-march!—and it’s O to sing it well! It’s O for a manly life in the camp! And the sturdy artillery! The guns, bright as gold—the work for giants—to serve well the guns: Unlimber them! no more, as the past forty years, for salutes for courtesies merely; Put in something else now besides powder and wadding. 5 And you, Lady of Ships! you Mannahatta! Old matron of this proud, friendly, turbulent city! Often in peace and wealth you were pensive, or covertly frown’d amid all your children; But now you smile with joy, exulting old Mannahatta!

Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Conroys Gap This was the way of it, don't you know -- Ryan was "wanted" for stealing sheep, And never a trooper, high or low, Could find him -- catch a weasel asleep! Till Trooper Scott, from the Stockman's Ford -- A bushman, too, as I've heard them tell -- Chanced to find him drunk as a lord Round at the Shadow of Death Hotel. D'you know the place? It's a wayside inn, A low grog-shanty -- a bushman trap, Hiding away in its shame and sin Under the shelter of Conroy's Gap -- Under the shade of that frowning range The roughest crowd that ever drew breath -- Thieves and rowdies, uncouth and strange, Were mustered round at the "Shadow of Death". The trooper knew that his man would slide Like a dingo pup, if he saw the chance; And with half a start on the mountain side Ryan would lead him a merry dance. Drunk as he was when the trooper came, to him that did not matter a rap -- Drunk or sober, he was the same, The boldest rider in Conroy's Gap. "I want you, Ryan," the trooper said, "And listen to me, if you dare resist, So help me heaven, I'll shoot you dead!" He snapped the steel on his prisoner's wrist, And Ryan, hearing the handcuffs click, Recovered his wits as they turned to go, For fright will sober a man as quick As all the drugs that the doctors know. There was a girl in that shanty bar Went by the name of Kate Carew, Quiet and shy as the bush girls are, But ready-witted and plucky, too. She loved this Ryan, or so they say, And passing by, while her eyes were dim With tears, she said in a careless way, "The Swagman's round in the stable, Jim. " Spoken too low for the trooper's ear, Why should she care if he heard or not? Plenty of swagmen far and near -- And yet to Ryan it meant a lot. That was the name of the grandest horse In all the district from east to west; In every show ring, on every course, They always counted The Swagman best. He was a wonder, a raking bay -- One of the grand old Snowdon strain -- One of the sort that could race and stay With his mighty limbs and his length of rein. Born and bred on the mountain side, He could race through scrub like a kangaroo; The girl herself on his back might ride, And The Swagman would carry her safely through. He would travel gaily from daylight's flush Till after the stars hung out their lamps; There was never his like in the open bush, And never his match on the cattle-camps. For faster horses might well be found On racing tracks, or a plain's extent, But few, if any, on broken ground Could see the way that The Swagman went. When this girl's father, old Jim Carew, Was droving out on the Castlereagh With Conroy's cattle, a wire came through To say that his wife couldn't live the day. And he was a hundred miles from home, As flies the crow, with never a track Through plains as pathless as ocean's foam; He mounted straight on The Swagman's back. He left the camp by the sundown light, And the settlers out on the Marthaguy Awoke and heard, in the dead of night, A single horseman hurrying by. He crossed the Bogan at Dandaloo, And many a mile of the silent plain That lonely rider behind him threw Before they settled to sleep again. He rode all noght, and he steered his course By the shining stars with a bushman's skill, And every time that he pressed his horse The Swagman answered him gamely still. He neared his home as the east was bright. The doctor met him outside the town "Carew! How far did you come last night?" "A hundred miles since the sun went down. " And his wife got round, and an oath he passed, So long as he or one of his breed Could raise a coin, though it took their last, The Swagman never should want a feed. And Kate Carew, when her father died, She kept the horse and she kept him well; The pride of the district far and wide, He lived in style at the bush hotel. Such wasThe Swagman; and Ryan knew Nothing about could pace the crack; Little he'd care for the man in blue If once he got on The Swagman's back. But how to do it? A word let fall Gave him the hint as the girl passed by; Nothing but "Swagman -- stable wall; Go to the stable and mind your eye. " He caught her meaning, and quickly turned To the trooper: "Reckon you'll gain a stripe By arresting me, and it's easily earned; Let's go to the stable and get my pipe, The Swagman has it. " So off they went, And as soon as ever they turned their backs The girl slipped down, on some errand bent Behind the stable and seized an axe. The trooper stood at the stable door While Ryan went in quite cool and slow, And then (the trick had been played before) The girl outside gave the wall a blow. Three slabs fell out of the stable wall -- 'Twas done 'fore ever the trooper knew -- And Ryan, as soon as he saw them fall, Mounted The Swagman and rushed him through. The trooper heard the hoof-beats ring In the stable yard, and he jammed the gate, But The Swagman rose with a mighty spring At the fence, and the trooper fired too late As they raced away, and his shots flew wide, And Ryan no longer need care a rap, For never a horse that was lapped in hide Could catch The Swagman in Conroy's Gap. And that's the story. You want to know If Ryan came back to his Kate Carew; Of course he should have, as stories go, But the worst of it is this story's true: And in real life it's a certain rule, Whatever poets and authors say Of high-toned robbers and all their school, These horsethief fellows aren't built that way. Come back! Don't hope it -- the slinking hound, He sloped across to the Queensland side, And sold The Swagman for fifty pound, And stole the money, and more beside. And took to drink, and by some good chance Was killed -- thrown out of a stolen trap. And that was the end of this small romance, The end of the story of Conroy's Gap.