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Best Famous Dow Poems

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Written by John Berryman | Create an image from this poem

Dream Song 105: As a kid I believed in democracy: I

 As a kid I believed in democracy: I
'saw no alternative'—teaching at The Big Place I ah
put it in practice:
we'd time for one long novel: to a vote—
Gone with the Wind they voted: I crunched 'No'
and we sat down with War & Peace.

As a man I believed in democracy (nobody 
ever learns anything): only one lazy day
my assistant, called James Dow,
& I were chatting, in a failure of meeting of minds,
and I said curious 'What are your real politics?'
'Oh, I'm a monarchist.'

Finishing his dissertation, in Political Science.
I resign. The universal contempt for Mr Nixon,
whom never I liked but who
alert & gutsy served us years under a dope,
since dynasty K swarmed in. Let's have a King
maybe, before a few mindless votes.


Written by William Shakespeare | Create an image from this poem

Fairy Land iii

 COME unto these yellow sands, 
 And then take hands: 
Court'sied when you have, and kiss'd,-- 
 The wild waves whist,-- 
Foot it featly here and there; 
And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear. 
 Hark, hark! 
 Bow, wow, 
 The watch-dogs bark: 
 Bow, wow. 
 Hark, hark! I hear 
 The strain of strutting chanticleer 
 Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!
Written by David Lehman | Create an image from this poem

Sestina

 for Jim Cummins 

In Iowa, Jim dreamed that Della Street was Anne Sexton's
twin. Dave drew a comic strip called the "Adventures of Whitman," 
about a bearded beer-guzzler in Superman uniform. Donna dressed 
 like Wallace Stevens 
in a seersucker summer suit. To town came Ted Berrigan, 
saying, "My idea of a bad poet is Marvin Bell."
But no one has won as many prizes as Philip Levine. 

At the restaurant, people were talking about Philip Levine's
latest: the Pulitzer. A toast was proposed by Anne Sexton. 
No one saw the stranger, who said his name was Marvin Bell, 
pour something into Donna's drink. "In the Walt Whitman 
Shopping Center, there you feel free," said Ted Berrigan, 
pulling on a Chesterfield. Everyone laughed, except T. S. Eliot. 

I asked for directions. "You turn right on Gertrude Stein,
then bear left. Three streetlights down you hang a Phil Levine 
and you're there," Jim said. When I arrived I saw Ted Berrigan 
with cigarette ash in his beard. Graffiti about Anne Sexton
decorated the men's room walls. Beth had bought a quart of Walt 
 Whitman. 
Donna looked blank. "Walt who?" The name didn't ring a Marvin Bell. 

You laugh, yet there is nothing inherently funny about Marvin Bell. 
You cry, yet there is nothing inherently scary about Robert Lowell. 
You drink a bottle of Samuel Smith's Nut Brown Ale, as thirsty as 
 Walt Whitman. 
You bring in your car for an oil change, thinking, this place has the aura 
 of Philip Levine. 
Then you go home and write: "He kissed her Anne Sexton, and she 
 returned the favor, caressing his Ted Berrigan." 

Donna was candid. "When the spirit of Ted Berrigan 
comes over me, I can't resist," she told Marvin Bell, 
while he stood dejected at the xerox machine. Anne Sexton
came by to circulate the rumor that Robert Duncan 
had flung his drink on a student who had called him Philip Levine. 
The cop read him the riot act. "I don't care," he said, "if you're Walt 
 Whitman." 

Donna told Beth about her affair with Walt Whitman. 
"He was indefatigable, but he wasn't Ted Berrigan."
The Dow Jones industrials finished higher, led by Philip Levine, 
up a point and a half on strong earnings. Marvin Bell 
ended the day unchanged. Analyst Richard Howard
recommended buying May Swenson and selling Anne Sexton.

In the old days, you liked either Walt Whitman or Anne Sexton, 
not both. Ted Berrigan changed that just by going to a ballgame with 
 Marianne Moore.
And one day Philip Levine looked in the mirror and saw Marvin Bell.
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

68. The Holy Fair

 UPON 1 a simmer Sunday morn
 When Nature’s face is fair,
I walked forth to view the corn,
 An’ snuff the caller air.
The rising sun owre Galston muirs
 Wi’ glorious light was glintin;
The hares were hirplin down the furrs,
 The lav’rocks they were chantin
 Fu’ sweet that day.


As lightsomely I glowr’d abroad,
 To see a scene sae gay,
Three hizzies, early at the road,
 Cam skelpin up the way.
Twa had manteeles o” dolefu’ black,
 But ane wi’ lyart lining;
The third, that gaed a wee a-back,
 Was in the fashion shining
 Fu’ gay that day.


The twa appear’d like sisters twin,
 In feature, form, an’ claes;
Their visage wither’d, lang an’ thin,
 An’ sour as only slaes:
The third cam up, hap-stap-an’-lowp,
 As light as ony lambie,
An’ wi’a curchie low did stoop,
 As soon as e’er she saw me,
 Fu’ kind that day.


Wi’ bonnet aff, quoth I, “Sweet lass,
 I think ye seem to ken me;
I’m sure I’ve seen that bonie face
 But yet I canna name ye.”
Quo’ she, an’ laughin as she spak,
 An’ taks me by the han’s,
“Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feck
 Of a’ the ten comman’s
 A screed some day.”


“My name is Fun—your cronie dear,
 The nearest friend ye hae;
An’ this is Superstitution here,
 An’ that’s Hypocrisy.
I’m gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair,
 To spend an hour in daffin:
Gin ye’ll go there, yon runkl’d pair,
 We will get famous laughin
 At them this day.”


Quoth I, “Wi’ a’ my heart, I’ll do’t;
 I’ll get my Sunday’s sark on,
An’ meet you on the holy spot;
 Faith, we’se hae fine remarkin!”
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time,
 An’ soon I made me ready;
For roads were clad, frae side to side,
 Wi’ mony a weary body
 In droves that day.


Here farmers gash, in ridin graith,
 Gaed hoddin by their cotters;
There swankies young, in braw braid-claith,
 Are springing owre the gutters.
The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,
 In silks an’ scarlets glitter;
Wi’ sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang,
 An’ farls, bak’d wi’ butter,
 Fu’ crump that day.


When by the plate we set our nose,
 Weel heaped up wi’ ha’pence,
A greedy glowr black-bonnet throws,
 An’ we maun draw our tippence.
Then in we go to see the show:
 On ev’ry side they’re gath’rin;
Some carrying dails, some chairs an’ stools,
 An’ some are busy bleth’rin
 Right loud that day.


Here stands a shed to fend the show’rs,
 An’ screen our countra gentry;
There “Racer Jess, 2 an’ twa-three whores,
 Are blinkin at the entry.
Here sits a raw o’ tittlin jads,
 Wi’ heaving breast an’ bare neck;
An’ there a batch o’ wabster lads,
 Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock,
 For fun this day.


Here, some are thinkin on their sins,
 An’ some upo’ their claes;
Ane curses feet that fyl’d his shins,
 Anither sighs an’ prays:
On this hand sits a chosen swatch,
 Wi’ screwed-up, grace-proud faces;
On that a set o’ chaps, at watch,
 Thrang winkin on the lasses
 To chairs that day.


O happy is that man, an’ blest!
 Nae wonder that it pride him!
Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best,
 Comes clinkin down beside him!
Wi’ arms repos’d on the chair back,
 He sweetly does compose him;
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck,
 An’s loof upon her bosom,
 Unkend that day.


Now a’ the congregation o’er
 Is silent expectation;
For Moodie 3 speels the holy door,
 Wi’ tidings o’ damnation:
Should Hornie, as in ancient days,
 ’Mang sons o’ God present him,
The vera sight o’ Moodie’s face,
 To ’s ain het hame had sent him
 Wi’ fright that day.


Hear how he clears the point o’ faith
 Wi’ rattlin and wi’ thumpin!
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,
 He’s stampin, an’ he’s jumpin!
His lengthen’d chin, his turned-up snout,
 His eldritch squeel an’ gestures,
O how they fire the heart devout,
 Like cantharidian plaisters
 On sic a day!


But hark! the tent has chang’d its voice,
 There’s peace an’ rest nae langer;
For a’ the real judges rise,
 They canna sit for anger,
Smith 4 opens out his cauld harangues,
 On practice and on morals;
An’ aff the godly pour in thrangs,
 To gie the jars an’ barrels
 A lift that day.


What signifies his barren shine,
 Of moral powers an’ reason?
His English style, an’ gesture fine
 Are a’ clean out o’ season.
Like Socrates or Antonine,
 Or some auld pagan heathen,
The moral man he does define,
 But ne’er a word o’ faith in
 That’s right that day.


In guid time comes an antidote
 Against sic poison’d nostrum;
For Peebles, 5 frae the water-fit,
 Ascends the holy rostrum:
See, up he’s got, the word o’ God,
 An’ meek an’ mim has view’d it,
While Common-sense has taen the road,
 An’ aff, an’ up the Cowgate 6
 Fast, fast that day.


Wee Miller 7 neist the guard relieves,
 An’ Orthodoxy raibles,
Tho’ in his heart he weel believes,
 An’ thinks it auld wives’ fables:
But faith! the birkie wants a manse,
 So, cannilie he hums them;
Altho’ his carnal wit an’ sense
 Like hafflins-wise o’ercomes him
 At times that day.


Now, butt an’ ben, the change-house fills,
 Wi’ yill-caup commentators;
Here ’s cryin out for bakes and gills,
 An’ there the pint-stowp clatters;
While thick an’ thrang, an’ loud an’ lang,
 Wi’ logic an’ wi’ scripture,
They raise a din, that in the end
 Is like to breed a rupture
 O’ wrath that day.


Leeze me on drink! it gies us mair
 Than either school or college;
It kindles wit, it waukens lear,
 It pangs us fou o’ knowledge:
Be’t whisky-gill or penny wheep,
 Or ony stronger potion,
It never fails, or drinkin deep,
 To kittle up our notion,
 By night or day.


The lads an’ lasses, blythely bent
 To mind baith saul an’ body,
Sit round the table, weel content,
 An’ steer about the toddy:
On this ane’s dress, an’ that ane’s leuk,
 They’re makin observations;
While some are cozie i’ the neuk,
 An’ forming assignations
 To meet some day.


But now the L—’s ain trumpet touts,
 Till a’ the hills are rairin,
And echoes back return the shouts;
 Black Russell is na sparin:
His piercin words, like Highlan’ swords,
 Divide the joints an’ marrow;
His talk o’ Hell, whare devils dwell,
 Our vera “sauls does harrow”
 Wi’ fright that day!


A vast, unbottom’d, boundless pit,
 Fill’d fou o’ lowin brunstane,
Whase raging flame, an’ scorching heat,
 Wad melt the hardest whun-stane!
The half-asleep start up wi’ fear,
 An’ think they hear it roarin;
When presently it does appear,
 ’Twas but some neibor snorin
 Asleep that day.


’Twad be owre lang a tale to tell,
 How mony stories past;
An’ how they crouded to the yill,
 When they were a’ dismist;
How drink gaed round, in cogs an’ caups,
 Amang the furms an’ benches;
An’ cheese an’ bread, frae women’s laps,
 Was dealt about in lunches
 An’ dawds that day.


In comes a gawsie, gash guidwife,
 An’ sits down by the fire,
Syne draws her kebbuck an’ her knife;
 The lasses they are shyer:
The auld guidmen, about the grace
 Frae side to side they bother;
Till some ane by his bonnet lays,
 An’ gies them’t like a tether,
 Fu’ lang that day.


Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,
 Or lasses that hae naething!
Sma’ need has he to say a grace,
 Or melvie his braw claithing!
O wives, be mindfu’ ance yoursel’
 How bonie lads ye wanted;
An’ dinna for a kebbuck-heel
 Let lasses be affronted
 On sic a day!


Now Clinkumbell, wi’ rattlin tow,
 Begins to jow an’ croon;
Some swagger hame the best they dow,
 Some wait the afternoon.
At slaps the billies halt a blink,
 Till lasses strip their shoon:
Wi’ faith an’ hope, an’ love an’ drink,
 They’re a’ in famous tune
 For crack that day.


How mony hearts this day converts
 O’ sinners and o’ lasses!
Their hearts o’ stane, gin night, are gane
 As saft as ony flesh is:
There’s some are fou o’ love divine;
 There’s some are fou o’ brandy;
An’ mony jobs that day begin,
 May end in houghmagandie
 Some ither day.


 Note 1. “Holy Fair” is a common phrase in the west of Scotland for a sacramental occasion.—R. B. [back]
Note 2. Racer Jess (d. 1813) was a half-witted daughter of Poosie Nansie. She was a great pedestrian. [back]
Note 3. Rev. Alexander Moodie of Riccarton. [back]
Note 4. Rev. George Smith of Galston. [back]
Note 5. Rev. Wm. Peebles of Newton-upon-Ayr. [back]
Note 6. A street so called which faces the tent in Mauchline.—R. B. [back]
Note 7. Rev. Alex. Miller, afterward of Kilmaurs. [back]
Written by Anonymous | Create an image from this poem

The Dead Robin

All through the win-ter, long and cold,
  Dear Minnie ev-ery morn-ing fed
The little spar-rows, pert and bold,
  And ro-bins, with their breasts so red.

She lov-ed to see the lit-tle birds
  Come flut-ter-ing to the win-dow pane,
In answer to the gen-tle words
  With which she scat-ter-ed crumbs and grain.

One ro-bin, bol-der than the rest,
  Would perch up-on her fin-ger fair,
And this of all she lov-ed the best,
  And daily fed with ten-der-est care.

But one sad morn, when Minnie came,
  Her pre-ci-ous lit-tle pet she found,
Not hop-ping, when she call-ed his name,
  But ly-ing dead up-on the ground.


Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

86. The Auld Farmer's New-Year-Morning Salutation to his Auld Mare Maggie

 A GUID New-year I wish thee, Maggie!
Hae, there’s a ripp to thy auld baggie:
Tho’ thou’s howe-backit now, an’ knaggie,
 I’ve seen the day
Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie,
 Out-owre the lay.


Tho’ now thou’s dowie, stiff, an’ crazy,
An’ thy auld hide as white’s a daisie,
I’ve seen thee dappl’t, sleek an’ glaizie,
 A bonie gray:
He should been tight that daur’t to raize thee,
 Ance in a day.


Thou ance was i’ the foremost rank,
A filly buirdly, steeve, an’ swank;
An’ set weel down a shapely shank,
 As e’er tread yird;
An’ could hae flown out-owre a stank,
 Like ony bird.


It’s now some nine-an’-twenty year,
Sin’ thou was my guid-father’s mear;
He gied me thee, o’ tocher clear,
 An’ fifty mark;
Tho’ it was sma’, ’twas weel-won gear,
 An’ thou was stark.


When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,
Ye then was trotting wi’ your minnie:
Tho’ ye was trickie, slee, an’ funnie,
 Ye ne’er was donsie;
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an’ cannie,
 An’ unco sonsie.


That day, ye pranc’d wi’ muckle pride,
When ye bure hame my bonie bride:
An’ sweet an’ gracefu’ she did ride,
 Wi’ maiden air!
Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide
 For sic a pair.


Tho’ now ye dow but hoyte and hobble,
An’ wintle like a saumont coble,
That day, ye was a jinker noble,
 For heels an’ win’!
An’ ran them till they a’ did wauble,
 Far, far, behin’!


When thou an’ I were young an’ skeigh,
An’ stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,
How thou wad prance, and snore, an’ skreigh
 An’ tak the road!
Town’s-bodies ran, an’ stood abeigh,
 An’ ca’t thee mad.


When thou was corn’t, an’ I was mellow,
We took the road aye like a swallow:
At brooses thou had ne’er a fellow,
 For pith an’ speed;
But ev’ry tail thou pay’t them hollow,
 Whare’er thou gaed.


The sma’, droop-rumpl’t, hunter cattle
Might aiblins waur’t thee for a brattle;
But sax Scotch mile, thou try’t their mettle,
 An’ gar’t them whaizle:
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle
 O’ saugh or hazel.


Thou was a noble fittie-lan’,
As e’er in tug or tow was drawn!
Aft thee an’ I, in aught hours’ gaun,
 In guid March-weather,
Hae turn’d sax rood beside our han’,
 For days thegither.


Thou never braing’t, an’ fetch’t, an’ fliskit;
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,
An’ spread abreed thy weel-fill’d brisket,
 Wi’ pith an’ power;
Till sprittie knowes wad rair’t an’ riskit
 An’ slypet owre.


When frosts lay lang, an’ snaws were deep,
An’ threaten’d labour back to keep,
I gied thy cog a wee bit heap
 Aboon the timmer:
I ken’d my Maggie wad na sleep,
 For that, or simmer.


In cart or car thou never reestit;
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac’t it;
Thou never lap, an’ sten’t, and breastit,
 Then stood to blaw;
But just thy step a wee thing hastit,
 Thou snoov’t awa.


My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a’,
Four gallant brutes as e’er did draw;
Forbye sax mae I’ve sell’t awa,
 That thou hast nurst:
They drew me thretteen pund an’ twa,
 The vera warst.


Mony a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,
An’ wi’ the weary warl’ fought!
An’ mony an anxious day, I thought
 We wad be beat!
Yet here to crazy age we’re brought,
 Wi’ something yet.


An’ think na’, my auld trusty servan’,
That now perhaps thou’s less deservin,
An’ thy auld days may end in starvin;
 For my last fow,
A heapit stimpart, I’ll reserve ane
 Laid by for you.


We’ve worn to crazy years thegither;
We’ll toyte about wi’ ane anither;
Wi’ tentie care I’ll flit thy tether
 To some hain’d rig,
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,
 Wi’ sma’ fatigue.
Written by Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

The Dance At The Phoenix

 To Jenny came a gentle youth 
 From inland leazes lone; 
His love was fresh as apple-blooth 
 By Parrett, Yeo, or Tone. 
And duly he entreated her 
To be his tender minister, 
 And call him aye her own. 

Fair Jenny's life had hardly been 
 A life of modesty; 
At Casterbridge experience keen 
 Of many loves had she 
From scarcely sixteen years above: 
Among them sundry troopers of 
 The King's-Own Cavalry. 

But each with charger, sword, and gun, 
 Had bluffed the Biscay wave; 
And Jenny prized her gentle one 
 For all the love he gave. 
She vowed to be, if they were wed, 
His honest wife in heart and head 
 From bride-ale hour to grave. 

Wedded they were. Her husband's trust 
 In Jenny knew no bound, 
And Jenny kept her pure and just, 
 Till even malice found 
No sin or sign of ill to be 
In one who walked so decently 
 The duteous helpmate's round. 

Two sons were born, and bloomed to men, 
 And roamed, and were as not: 
Alone was Jenny left again 
 As ere her mind had sought 
A solace in domestic joys, 
And ere the vanished pair of boys 
 Were sent to sun her cot. 

She numbered near on sixty years, 
 And passed as elderly, 
When, in the street, with flush of fears, 
 On day discovered she, 
From shine of swords and thump of drum, 
Her early loves from war had come, 
 The King's Own Cavalry. 

She turned aside, and bowed her head 
 Anigh Saint Peter's door; 
"Alas for chastened thoughts!" she said; 
 "I'm faded now, and hoar, 
And yet those notes--they thrill me through, 
And those gay forms move me anew 
 As in the years of yore!"... 

--'Twas Christmas, and the Phoenix Inn 
 Was lit with tapers tall, 
For thirty of the trooper men 
 Had vowed to give a ball 
As "Theirs" had done (fame handed down) 
When lying in the self-same town 
 Ere Buonaparté's fall. 

That night the throbbing "Soldier's Joy," 
 The measured tread and sway 
Of "Fancy-Lad" and "Maiden Coy," 
 Reached Jenny as she lay 
Beside her spouse; till springtide blood 
Seemed scouring through her like a flood 
 That whisked the years away. 

She rose, and rayed, and decked her head 
 To hide her ringlets thin; 
Upon her cap two bows of red 
 She fixed with hasty pin; 
Unheard descending to the street, 
She trod the flags with tune-led feet, 
 And stood before the Inn. 

Save for the dancers', not a sound 
 Disturbed the icy air; 
No watchman on his midnight round 
 Or traveller was there; 
But over All-Saints', high and bright, 
Pulsed to the music Sirius white, 
 The Wain by Bullstake Square. 

She knocked, but found her further stride 
 Checked by a sergeant tall: 
"Gay Granny, whence come you?" he cried; 
 "This is a private ball." 
--"No one has more right here than me! 
Ere you were born, man," answered she, 
 "I knew the regiment all!" 

"Take not the lady's visit ill!" 
 Upspoke the steward free; 
"We lack sufficient partners still, 
 So, prithee let her be!" 
They seized and whirled her 'mid the maze, 
And Jenny felt as in the days 
 Of her immodesty. 

Hour chased each hour, and night advanced; 
 She sped as shod with wings; 
Each time and every time she danced-- 
 Reels, jigs, poussettes, and flings: 
They cheered her as she soared and swooped 
(She'd learnt ere art in dancing drooped 
 From hops to slothful swings). 

The favorite Quick-step "Speed the Plough"-- 
 (Cross hands, cast off, and wheel)-- 
"The Triumph," "Sylph," "The Row-dow dow," 
 Famed "Major Malley's Reel," 
"The Duke of York's," "The Fairy Dance," 
"The Bridge of Lodi" (brought from France), 
 She beat out, toe and heel. 

The "Fall of Paris" clanged its close, 
 And Peter's chime told four, 
When Jenny, bosom-beating, rose 
 To seek her silent door. 
They tiptoed in escorting her, 
Lest stroke of heel or chink of spur 
 Should break her goodman's snore. 

The fire that late had burnt fell slack 
 When lone at last stood she; 
Her nine-and-fifty years came back; 
 She sank upon her knee 
Beside the durn, and like a dart 
A something arrowed through her heart 
 In shoots of agony. 

Their footsteps died as she leant there, 
 Lit by the morning star 
Hanging above the moorland, where 
 The aged elm-rows are; 
And, as o'ernight, from Pummery Ridge 
To Maembury Ring and Standfast Bridge 
 No life stirred, near or far. 

Though inner mischief worked amain, 
 She reached her husband's side; 
Where, toil-weary, as he had lain 
 Beneath the patchwork pied 
When yestereve she'd forthward crept, 
And as unwitting, still he slept 
 Who did in her confide. 

A tear sprang as she turned and viewed 
 His features free from guile; 
She kissed him long, as when, just wooed. 
 She chose his domicile. 
Death menaced now; yet less for life 
She wished than that she were the wife 
 That she had been erstwhile. 

Time wore to six. Her husband rose 
 And struck the steel and stone; 
He glanced at Jenny, whose repose 
 Seemed deeper than his own. 
With dumb dismay, on closer sight, 
He gathered sense that in the night, 
 Or morn, her soul had flown. 

When told that some too mighty strain 
 For one so many-yeared 
Had burst her bosom's master-vein, 
 His doubts remained unstirred. 
His Jenny had not left his side 
Betwixt the eve and morning-tide: 
 --The King's said not a word. 

Well! times are not as times were then, 
 Nor fair ones half so free; 
And truly they were martial men, 
 The King's-Own Cavalry. 
And when they went from Casterbridge 
And vanished over Mellstock Ridge, 
 'Twas saddest morn to see.
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

41. Epistle to John Rankine

 O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine,
The wale o’ cocks for fun an’ drinkin!
There’s mony godly folks are thinkin,
 Your dreams and tricks
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin
 Straught to auld Nick’s.


Ye hae saw mony cracks an’ cants,
And in your wicked, drucken rants,
Ye mak a devil o’ the saunts,
 An’ fill them fou;
And then their failings, flaws, an’ wants,
 Are a’ seen thro’.


Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!
That holy robe, O dinna tear it!
Spare’t for their sakes, wha aften wear it—
 The lads in black;
But your curst wit, when it comes near it,
 Rives’t aff their back.


Think, wicked Sinner, wha ye’re skaithing:
It’s just the Blue-gown badge an’ claithing
O’ saunts; tak that, ye lea’e them naething
 To ken them by
Frae ony unregenerate heathen,
 Like you or I.


I’ve sent you here some rhyming ware,
A’ that I bargain’d for, an’ mair;
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare,
 I will expect,
Yon sang ye’ll sen’t, wi’ cannie care,
 And no neglect.


Tho’ faith, sma’ heart hae I to sing!
My muse dow scarcely spread her wing;
I’ve play’d mysel a bonie spring,
 An’ danc’d my fill!
I’d better gaen an’ sair’t the king,
 At Bunker’s Hill.


’Twas ae night lately, in my fun,
I gaed a rovin’ wi’ the gun,
An’ brought a paitrick to the grun’—
 A bonie hen;
And, as the twilight was begun,
 Thought nane wad ken.


The poor, wee thing was little hurt;
I straikit it a wee for sport,
Ne’er thinkin they wad fash me for’t;
 But, Deil-ma-care!
Somebody tells the poacher-court
 The hale affair.


Some auld, us’d hands had taen a note,
That sic a hen had got a shot;
I was suspected for the plot;
 I scorn’d to lie;
So gat the whissle o’ my groat,
 An’ pay’t the fee.


But by my gun, o’ guns the wale,
An’ by my pouther an’ my hail,
An’ by my hen, an’ by her tail,
 I vow an’ swear!
The game shall pay, o’er muir an’ dale,
 For this, niest year.


As soon’s the clockin-time is by,
An’ the wee pouts begun to cry,
Lord, I’se hae sporting by an’ by
 For my gowd guinea,
Tho’ I should herd the buckskin kye
 For’t in Virginia.


Trowth, they had muckle for to blame!
’Twas neither broken wing nor limb,
But twa-three draps about the wame,
 Scarce thro’ the feathers;
An’ baith a yellow George to claim,
 An’ thole their blethers!


It pits me aye as mad’s a hare;
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair;
But pennyworths again is fair,
 When time’s expedient:
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir,
 Your most obedient.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

Route Marchin

 We're marchin' on relief over Injia's sunny plains,
A little front o' Christmas-time an' just be'ind the Rains;
Ho! get away you bullock-man, you've 'eard the bugle blowed,
There's a regiment a-comin' down the Grand Trunk Road;
 With its best foot first
 And the road a-sliding past,
 An' every bloomin' campin'-ground exactly like the last;
 While the Big Drum says,
 With 'is "rowdy-dowdy-dow!" --
 "Kiko kissywarsti don't you hamsher argy jow?"*

* Why don't you get on?

Oh, there's them Injian temples to admire when you see,
There's the peacock round the corner an' the monkey up the tree,
An' there's that rummy silver grass a-wavin' in the wind,
An' the old Grand Trunk a-trailin' like a rifle-sling be'ind.
 While it's best foot first, . . .

At half-past five's Revelly, an' our tents they down must come,
Like a lot of button mushrooms when you pick 'em up at 'ome.
But it's over in a minute, an' at six the column starts,
While the women and the kiddies sit an' shiver in the carts.
 An' it's best foot first, . . .

Oh, then it's open order, an' we lights our pipes an' sings,
An' we talks about our rations an' a lot of other things,
An' we thinks o' friends in England, an' we wonders what they're at,
An' 'ow they would admire for to hear us sling the bat.*
 An' it's best foot first, . . .


* Language. Thomas's first and firmest conviction is that he is a profound Orientalist and a fluent speaker of Hindustani. As a matter of fact, he depends largely on the sign-language.

It's none so bad o' Sunday, when you're lyin' at your ease,
To watch the kites a-wheelin' round them feather-'eaded trees,
For although there ain't no women, yet there ain't no barrick-yards,
So the orficers goes shootin' an' the men they plays at cards.
 Till it's best foot first, . . .

So 'ark an' 'eed, you rookies, which is always grumblin' sore,
There's worser things than marchin' from Umballa to Cawnpore;
An' if your 'eels are blistered an' they feels to 'urt like 'ell,
You drop some tallow in your socks an' that will make 'em well.
 For it's best foot first, . . .

We're marchin' on relief over Injia's coral strand,
Eight 'undred fightin' Englishmen, the Colonel, and the Band;
Ho! get away you bullock-man, you've 'eard the bugle blowed,
There's a regiment a-comin' down the Grand Trunk Road;
 With its best foot first
 And the road a-sliding past,
 An' every bloomin' campin'-ground exactly like the last;
 While the Big Drum says,
 With 'is "rowdy-dowdy-dow!" --
 "Kiko kissywarsti don't you amsher argy jow?"
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

61. Second Epistle to J. Lapraik

 WHILE new-ca’d kye rowte at the stake
An’ pownies reek in pleugh or braik,
This hour on e’enin’s edge I take,
 To own I’m debtor
To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik,
 For his kind letter.


Forjesket sair, with weary legs,
Rattlin the corn out-owre the rigs,
Or dealing thro’ amang the naigs
 Their ten-hours’ bite,
My awkart Muse sair pleads and begs
 I would na write.


The tapetless, ramfeezl’d hizzie,
She’s saft at best an’ something lazy:
Quo’ she, “Ye ken we’ve been sae busy
 This month an’ mair,
That trowth, my head is grown right dizzie,
 An’ something sair.”


Her dowff excuses pat me mad;
“Conscience,” says I, “ye thowless jade!
I’ll write, an’ that a hearty blaud,
 This vera night;
So dinna ye affront your trade,
 But rhyme it right.


“Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o’ hearts,
Tho’ mankind were a pack o’ cartes,
Roose you sae weel for your deserts,
 In terms sae friendly;
Yet ye’ll neglect to shaw your parts
 An’ thank him kindly?”


Sae I gat paper in a blink,
An’ down gaed stumpie in the ink:
Quoth I, “Before I sleep a wink,
 I vow I’ll close it;
An’ if ye winna mak it clink,
 By Jove, I’ll prose it!”


Sae I’ve begun to scrawl, but whether
In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither;
Or some hotch-potch that’s rightly neither,
 Let time mak proof;
But I shall scribble down some blether
 Just clean aff-loof.


My worthy friend, ne’er grudge an’ carp,
Tho’ fortune use you hard an’ sharp;
Come, kittle up your moorland harp
 Wi’ gleesome touch!
Ne’er mind how Fortune waft and warp;
 She’s but a *****.


She ’s gien me mony a jirt an’ fleg,
Sin’ I could striddle owre a rig;
But, by the L—d, tho’ I should beg
 Wi’ lyart pow,
I’ll laugh an’ sing, an’ shake my leg,
 As lang’s I dow!


Now comes the sax-an’-twentieth simmer
I’ve seen the bud upon the timmer,
Still persecuted by the limmer
 Frae year to year;
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer,
 I, Rob, am here.


Do ye envy the city gent,
Behint a kist to lie an’ sklent;
Or pursue-proud, big wi’ cent. per cent.
 An’ muckle wame,
In some bit brugh to represent
 A bailie’s name?


Or is’t the paughty, feudal thane,
Wi’ ruffl’d sark an’ glancing cane,
Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane,
 But lordly stalks;
While caps and bonnets aff are taen,
 As by he walks?


“O Thou wha gies us each guid gift!
Gie me o’ wit an’ sense a lift,
Then turn me, if thou please, adrift,
 Thro’ Scotland wide;
Wi’ cits nor lairds I wadna shift,
 In a’ their pride!”


Were this the charter of our state,
“On pain o’ hell be rich an’ great,”
Damnation then would be our fate,
 Beyond remead;
But, thanks to heaven, that’s no the gate
 We learn our creed.


For thus the royal mandate ran,
When first the human race began;
“The social, friendly, honest man,
 Whate’er he be—
’Tis he fulfils great Nature’s plan,
 And none but he.”


O mandate glorious and divine!
The ragged followers o’ the Nine,
Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shine
 In glorious light,
While sordid sons o’ Mammon’s line
 Are dark as night!


Tho’ here they scrape, an’ squeeze, an’ growl,
Their worthless nievefu’ of a soul
May in some future carcase howl,
 The forest’s fright;
Or in some day-detesting owl
 May shun the light.


Then may Lapraik and Burns arise,
To reach their native, kindred skies,
And sing their pleasures, hopes an’ joys,
 In some mild sphere;
Still closer knit in friendship’s ties,
 Each passing year!

Book: Reflection on the Important Things