10 Best Famous Duds Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Duds poems. This is a select list of the best famous Duds poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Duds poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of duds poems.

• All Famous Duds Poems

 LONG life, my Lord, an’ health be yours,
Unskaithed by hunger’d Highland boors;
Lord grant me nae duddie, desperate beggar,
Wi’ dirk, claymore, and rusty trigger,
May twin auld Scotland o’ a life
She likes—as butchers like a knife.


Faith you and Applecross were right
To keep the Highland hounds in sight:
I doubt na! they wad bid nae better,
Than let them ance out owre the water,
Then up among thae lakes and seas,
They’ll mak what rules and laws they please:
Some daring Hancocke, or a Franklin,
May set their Highland bluid a-ranklin;
Some Washington again may head them,
Or some Montgomery, fearless, lead them,
Till (God knows what may be effected
When by such heads and hearts directed),
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire
May to Patrician rights aspire!
Nae sage North now, nor sager Sackville,
To watch and premier o’er the pack vile,—
An’ whare will ye get Howes and Clintons
To bring them to a right repentance—
To cowe the rebel generation,
An’ save the honour o’ the nation?
They, an’ be d—d! what right hae they
To meat, or sleep, or light o’ day?
Far less—to riches, pow’r, or freedom,
But what your lordship likes to gie them?


But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear!
Your hand’s owre light to them, I fear;
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,
I canna say but they do gaylies;
They lay aside a’ tender mercies,
An’ tirl the hallions to the birses;
Yet while they’re only poind’t and herriet,
They’ll keep their stubborn Highland spirit:
But smash them! crash them a’ to spails,
An’ rot the dyvors i’ the jails!
The young dogs, swinge them to the labour;
Let wark an’ hunger mak them sober!
The hizzies, if they’re aughtlins fawsont,
Let them in Drury-lane be lesson’d!
An’ if the wives an’ dirty brats
Come thiggin at your doors an’ yetts,
Flaffin wi’ duds, an’ grey wi’ beas’,
Frightin away your ducks an’ geese;
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
An’ gar the tatter’d gypsies pack
Wi’ a’ their bastards on their back!
Go on, my Lord! I lang to meet you,
An’ in my house at hame to greet you;
Wi’ common lords ye shanna mingle,
The benmost neuk beside the ingle,
At my right han’ assigned your seat,
’Tween Herod’s hip an’ Polycrate:
Or (if you on your station tarrow),
Between Almagro and Pizarro,
A seat, I’m sure ye’re well deservin’t;
An’ till ye come—your humble servant,BEELZEBUB.June 1st, Anno Mundi 5790.

 When Sam Small retired from the Army 
He'd a pension of ninepence a day,
And seven pounds fourteen and twopence 
He'd saved from his rations and pay.

He knew this 'ere wasn't a fortune, 
But reckoned with prudence and care
He'd find some investment to save him 
From hard work and things like that there.

He thought he'd invest in a race orse, 
As apart from excitement and fun
He'd be able to sit down in comfort
And live on the money he won.

He knew buying 'orses was tricky, 
But that didn't daunt him at all;
He said "They must rise early 't mornin 
As wants to play tricks on Sam Small!"

When he called on the local 'Orse-dealer 
Surprise rooted him to the spot,
For he found 'twere his old Comp'ny Sergeant, 
Whose kindness he'd never forgot.

'Twere a happy reunion on both sides, 
Their pleasure at meeting was great,
For each hoped to diddle the other 
And wipe a few grudges off slate.

The Sergeant brought out his race 'orses, 
For which he asked various sums;
They hadn't a tooth left between them,
But Sam knew their age by their gums.

Sam studied their lines and deportment 
As Sergeant were trotting them round, 
And told him he reckoned their value 
Were fourpence, per race 'orse, per pound. 

Now the Sarg. had a filly called Buster 
As he hadn't said nothing about, 
But when Sam turned his nose up at t'others 
He thought as he'd best trot her out. 

Sam were struck with her youthful appearance,
Though there wasn't much light in the place,
For her teeth were all pearly and even 
And there wasn't a line on her face.

The Sergeant asked Sam twenty guineas, 
But Sam, who were up to his tricks,
Pretended he thought he'd said shillings 
And offered him eighteen and six.

In the end he paid eight guineas for her, 
And when he'd got home with the goods
He reckoned he'd not done so badly, 
For three of the guineas was duds.

But later, when he thought it over, 
A doubt through his mind seemed to creep,
If Buster were all she were painted, 
Why the Sergeant had sold her so cheap.

He very soon found out the answer 
When he looked at her close in her stall,
She'd the marks where her face had been lifted 
And a mouth full of false teeth an' all.

The little walk home had fatigued her 
And the cold air had started her cough;
Sam reckoned he'd best see the Sergeant 
And tell him the bargain was off.

The place were locked up when he got there,
And he realized Sergeant had bunked,
So back he went home in a dudgeon 
And found Buster lying-defunct.

Sam knew if he wanted to sell her 
He mustn't let on she were dead,
So he raffled her down at the Darts Club- 
Forty members at five bob a head.

The raffle were highly successful, 
They all came in every man jack 
And so's winner'd have no cause to grumble
Sam gave him his five shillings back.

 O THOU! whatever title suit thee—
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an’ sootie,
 Clos’d under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
 To scaud poor wretches!


Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An’ let poor damned bodies be;
I’m sure sma’ pleasure it can gie,
 Ev’n to a deil,
To skelp an’ scaud poor dogs like me,
 An’ hear us squeel!


Great is thy pow’r an’ great thy fame;
Far ken’d an’ noted is thy name;
An’ tho’ yon lowin’ heuch’s thy hame,
 Thou travels far;
An’ faith! thou’s neither lag nor lame,
 Nor blate, nor scaur.


Whiles, ranging like a roarin lion,
For prey, a’ holes and corners tryin;
Whiles, on the strong-wind’d tempest flyin,
 Tirlin the kirks;
Whiles, in the human bosom pryin,
 Unseen thou lurks.


I’ve heard my rev’rend graunie say,
In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or where auld ruin’d castles grey
 Nod to the moon,
Ye fright the nightly wand’rer’s way,
 Wi’ eldritch croon.


When twilight did my graunie summon,
To say her pray’rs, douse, honest woman!
Aft’yont the dyke she’s heard you bummin,
 Wi’ eerie drone;
Or, rustlin, thro’ the boortrees comin,
 Wi’ heavy groan.


Ae dreary, windy, winter night,
The stars shot down wi’ sklentin light,
Wi’ you, mysel’ I gat a fright,
 Ayont the lough;
Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight,
 Wi’ wavin’ sough.


The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
Each brist’ld hair stood like a stake,
When wi’ an eldritch, stoor “quaick, quaick,”
 Amang the springs,
Awa ye squatter’d like a drake,
 On whistlin’ wings.


Let warlocks grim, an’ wither’d hags,
Tell how wi’ you, on ragweed nags,
They skim the muirs an’ dizzy crags,
 Wi’ wicked speed;
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues,
 Owre howkit dead.


Thence countra wives, wi’ toil and pain,
May plunge an’ plunge the kirn in vain;
For oh! the yellow treasure’s ta’en
 By witchin’ skill;
An’ dawtit, twal-pint hawkie’s gane
 As yell’s the bill.


Thence mystic knots mak great abuse
On young guidmen, fond, keen an’ crouse,
When the best wark-lume i’ the house,
 By cantrip wit,
Is instant made no worth a louse,
 Just at the bit.


When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,
An’ float the jinglin’ icy boord,
Then water-kelpies haunt the foord,
 By your direction,
And ’nighted trav’llers are allur’d
 To their destruction.


And aft your moss-traversin Spunkies
Decoy the wight that late an’ drunk is:
The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkies
 Delude his eyes,
Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
 Ne’er mair to rise.


When masons’ mystic word an’ grip
In storms an’ tempests raise you up,
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,
 Or, strange to tell!
The youngest brither ye wad whip
 Aff straught to hell.


Lang syne in Eden’s bonie yard,
When youthfu’ lovers first were pair’d,
An’ all the soul of love they shar’d,
 The raptur’d hour,
Sweet on the fragrant flow’ry swaird,
 In shady bower; 1


Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog!
Ye cam to Paradise incog,
An’ play’d on man a cursèd brogue,
 (Black be your fa’!)
An’ gied the infant warld a shog,
 ’Maist rui’d a’.


D’ye mind that day when in a bizz
Wi’ reekit duds, an’ reestit gizz,
Ye did present your smoutie phiz
 ’Mang better folk,
An’ sklented on the man of Uzz
 Your spitefu’ joke?


An’ how ye gat him i’ your thrall,
An’ brak him out o’ house an hal’,
While scabs and botches did him gall,
 Wi’ bitter claw;
An’ lows’d his ill-tongu’d wicked scaul’,
 Was warst ava?


But a’ your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an’ fechtin fierce,
Sin’ that day Michael 2 did you pierce,
 Down to this time,
Wad ding a Lallan tounge, or Erse,
 In prose or rhyme.


An’ now, auld Cloots, I ken ye’re thinkin,
A certain bardie’s rantin, drinkin,
Some luckless hour will send him linkin
 To your black pit;
But faith! he’ll turn a corner jinkin,
 An’ cheat you yet.


But fare-you-weel, auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak a thought an’ men’!
Ye aiblins might-I dinna ken—
 Stil hae a stake
I’m wae to think up’ yon den,
 Ev’n for your sake!


 Note 1. The verse originally ran:
“Lang syne, in Eden’s happy scene
When strappin Adam’s days were green,
And Eve was like my bonie Jean,
 My dearest part,
A dancin, sweet, young handsome quean,
 O’ guileless heart.”
 [back]
Note 2. Vide Milton, Book vi.—R. B. [back]

 In Mike Maloney's Nugget bar the hooch was flowin' free,
An' One-eyed Mike was shakin' dice wi' Montreal Maree,
An roarin' rageful warning when the boys got overwild,
When peekin' through the double door he spied a tiny child.
Then Mike Maloney muttered: "Hell! Now ain't that jest too bad;
It's Dud McClusky's orphen Nell a-lookin' for her dad.
An' him in back, a-lushin' wine wi' Violet de Vere-
Three times I've told the lousy swine to keep away from here."
"Pore leetle sing! He leaves her lone, so he go on ze spree:
I feex her yet, zat Violet," said Montreal Maree. 
Now I'm accommodatin' when it comes to scented sin
But when I saw that innocent step in our drunken din,
I felt that I would like to crawl an' hide my head in shame.
An' judgin' by their features all them sourdoughs felt the same.
For there they stood like chunks o' wood, forgettin' how to swear,
An' every glass o' likker was suspended in the air.
For with her hair of sunny silk, and big, blue pansy eyes
She looked jest like an angel child stepped outa paradise.
So then Big Mike, paternal like, took her upon his knee.
"Ze pauv' petite! She ees so sweet," said Montreal Maree. 

The kid was mighty scared, we saw, an' peaked an' pale an' sad;
She nestled up to One-eyed Mike jest like he was her dad.
Then he got strokin' of her hair an' she began to sob,
An' there was anger in the air of all that plastered mob,
When in a hush so stark an' strained it seemed to stab the ear,
We heard the lush, plunk-parlour laugh o' Violet de Vere.
Then Montreal Maree arose an' vanished from our sight,
An' soon we heard the sound o' blows suggestin' female fight.
An' when she joined the gang again dishevelly was she:
"Jeezecrize! I fix zat Violet," said Montreal Maree. 

Then Barman Bill cam forward with what seemed a glass o' milk:
"It's jest an egg-nog Missy, but it's slick an' smooth as silk."
An' as the kiddy slowly sipped wi' gaze o' glad surprise,
Them fifty sozzled sourdoughs uttered fifty happy sighs.
Then Ragtime Joe swung on his stool an' soft began to play
A liltin' tune that made ye think o' daffydills in May;
An' Gumboot Jones in solemn tones said: "You should hear her sing;
They've got the cabin next to mine, an like a bird in Spring,
She fills that tumble-down old shack wi' simple melodee."
"Maybe she sing a song for us," said Montreal Maree. 

Now I don't hold wi' mushy stuff, tear-jerkin' ain't my line,
Yet somehow that kid's singin' sent the shivers down my spine;
An' all them salted sourdoughs sighed, an' every eye was dim
For what she sang upon the bar was just a simple hymn;
Somethin' about "Abide with me, fast falls the eventide,"
My Mother used to sing it - say, I listened bleary-eyed.
That childish treble was so sweet, so clear, so tender true,
It seemed to grip you by the heart an' did ***** things to you.
It made me think o' childhood days from sin an' sorrow free:
"Zat child, she make me want to cry," said Montreal Maree. 

Then up spoke One-eyed Mike: "What can't with us let her abide;
For her dear Mother's sake we gotta send that kid outside.
Ye know this camp's a den o' sin, ye know that Dud's no dice -
Let's stake her to a convent school, an' have her brought up nice."
An' so them bearded sourdoughs crowded round an' on an' all,
Dug down an' flung upon the bar their nuggets great and small.
"I guess we got a thousand bucks," exulted One-eyed Mike;
"You bastards are a credit to the camp of Lucky Strike."
"You see zis leetle silver cross my mozzaire give to me -
Look, boys, I hang it on zee gosse," said Montreal Maree. 

Time marches on; that little Nell is now a famous star,
An' yet she got her singin' start on Mike Maloney's bar.
Aye it was back in ninety-eight she made her first dayboo,
An' of that audience to-day are left but only two.
For all them bibulous sourdoughs have bravely passed away.
An' Lucky Strike is jest another ghost town to-day.
But Nell now sings in opera, we saw her in Boheem;
'Twas at a high-toned matinay, an' say! she was a dream.
So also thought the white-haired dame a-sittin' down by me -
My lovin' spouse that once was known as Montreal Maree.

 “O CAM ye here the fight to shun,
 Or herd the sheep wi’ me, man?
Or were ye at the Sherra-moor,
 Or did the battle see, man?”
I saw the battle, sair and teugh,
And reekin-red ran mony a sheugh;
My heart, for fear, gaed sough for sough,
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds
O’ clans frae woods, in tartan duds,
 Wha glaum’d at kingdoms three, man.
 La, la, la, la, &c.


The red-coat lads, wi’ black cockauds,
 To meet them were na slaw, man;
They rush’d and push’d, and blude outgush’d
 And mony a bouk did fa’, man:
The great Argyle led on his files,
I wat they glanced twenty miles;
They hough’d the clans like nine-pin kyles,
They hack’d and hash’d, while braid-swords, clash’d,
And thro’ they dash’d, and hew’d and smash’d,
 Till fey men died awa, man.
 La, la, la, la, &c.


But had ye seen the philibegs,
 And skyrin tartan trews, man;
When in the teeth they dar’d our Whigs,
 And covenant True-blues, man:
In lines extended lang and large,
When baiginets o’erpower’d the targe,
And thousands hasten’d to the charge;
Wi’ Highland wrath they frae the sheath
Drew blades o’ death, till, out o’ breath,
 They fled like frighted dows, man!
 La, la, la, la, &c.


“O how deil, Tam, can that be true?
 The chase gaed frae the north, man;
I saw mysel, they did pursue,
 The horsemen back to Forth, man;
And at Dunblane, in my ain sight,
They took the brig wi’ a’ their might,
And straught to Stirling wing’d their flight;
But, cursed lot! the gates were shut;
And mony a huntit poor red-coat,
 For fear amaist did swarf, man!”
 La, la, la, la, &c.


My sister Kate cam up the gate
 Wi’ crowdie unto me, man;
She swoor she saw some rebels run
 To Perth unto Dundee, man;
Their left-hand general had nae skill;
The Angus lads had nae gude will
That day their neibors’ blude to spill;
For fear, for foes, that they should lose
Their cogs o’ brose; they scar’d at blows,
 And hameward fast did flee, man.
 La, la, la, la, &c.


They’ve lost some gallant gentlemen,
 Amang the Highland clans, man!
I fear my Lord Panmure is slain,
 Or fallen in Whiggish hands, man,
Now wad ye sing this double fight,
Some fell for wrang, and some for right;
But mony bade the world gude-night;
Say, pell and mell, wi’ muskets’ knell
How Tories fell, and Whigs to hell
 Flew off in frighted bands, man!
 La, la, la, la, &c.

 Oh how I'd be gay and glad
If a little house I had,
Snuggled in a shady lot,
With behind a garden plot;
Simple grub, old duds to wear,
A book, a pipe, a rocking-chair . . .
You would never hear me grouse
If I had a little house.

Oh if I had just enough
Dough to buy the needful stuff;
Milk and porridge, toast and tea,
How contented I would be!
You could have your cake and wine,
I on cabbage soup would dine,
Joking to the journey's end -
Had I just enough to spend.

Oh had I no boss to please
I'd give thanks on bended knees;
Could I to myself belong,
I would fill the day with song.
Freedom's crust is sweeter far
Than control and caviar;
How my ragged hat I'd toss
If I didn't have a boss.

So you may see my point of view,
But there's nothing I can do;
Oh the weariness of work,
Duties that I may not shirk.
Though simplicity I crave
I must go down to my grave,
Bossed by bullion, crossed by care -
Just a poor damn millionaire.

 All day long they come and go--
Pittypat and Tippytoe;
Footprints up and down the hall,
Playthings scattered on the floor,
Finger-marks along the wall,
Tell-tale smudges on the door--
By these presents you shall know
Pittypat and Tippytoe.
How they riot at their play!
And a dozen times a day
In they troop, demanding bread--
Only buttered bread will do,
And the butter must be spread
Inches thick with sugar too!
And I never can say "No,
Pittypat and Tippytoe!"
Sometimes there are griefs to soothe,
Sometimes ruffled brows to smooth;
For (I much regret to say)
Tippytoe and Pittypat
Sometimes interrupt their play
With an internecine spat;
Fie, for shame! to quarrel so--
Pittypat and Tippytoe!
Oh the thousand worrying things
Every day recurrent brings!
Hands to scrub and hair to brush,
Search for playthings gone amiss,
Many a wee complaint to hush,
Many a little bump to kiss;
Life seems one vain, fleeting show
To Pittypat and Tippytoe!
And when day is at an end,
There are little duds to mend;
Little frocks are strangely torn,
Little shows great holes reveal,
Little hose, but one day worn,
Rudely yawn at toe and heel!
Who but you could work such woe,
Pittypat and Tippytoe!
On the floor and down the hall,
Rudely smutched upon the wall,
There are proofs in every kind
Of the havoc they have wrought,
And upon my heart you'd find
Just such trade-marks, if you sought;
Oh, how glad I am 'tis so,
Pittypat and Tippytoe!

 I often wonder how
 Life clicks because
They don't make women now
 Like Mammy was.
When broods of two or three
 Content most men,
How wonderful was she
 With children ten!

Though sixty years have gone,
 As I look back,
I see her rise at dawn,
 Our boots to black;
Pull us from drowsy bed,
 Wet sponge to pass,
And speed us porridge fed
 To morning class.

Our duds to make and mend,
 Far into night,
O'er needle she would spend
 By bleary light.
Yet as her head drooped low,
 With withered hair,
It seemed the candle glow
 Made halo there.

And so with silvered pow
 I sigh because
They don't make women now
 Like Mammy was.

 She sweeps with many-colored Brooms --
And leaves the Shreds behind --
Oh Housewife in the Evening West --
Come back, and dust the Pond!

You dropped a Purple Ravelling in --
You dropped an Amber thread --
And how you've littered all the East
With duds of Emerald!

And still, she plies her spotted Brooms,
And still the Aprons fly,
Till Brooms fade softly into stars --
And then I come away --

 Deprived of his enemy, shrugged to a standstill
horrible Henry, foaming. Fan their way
toward him who will
in the high wood: the officers, their rest,
with p. a. echoing: his girl comes, say,
conned in to test

if he's still human, see,
therefore she get on the Sheriff's mike & howl
'Come down, come down'.
Therefore he un-budge, furious. He'd flee
but only Heaven hangs over him foul.
At the crossways, downtown,

he dreams the folks are buying parsnips & suds
and paying rent to foes. He slipt & fell.
It's golden here in the snow.
A mild crack: a far rifle. Bogart's duds
truck back to Wardrobe. Fancy the brain from hell
held out so long. Let go.