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Best Famous Grouse Poems

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

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


 Ten little brown chicks scattered and scuffled,
Under the blue-berries hiding in fear;
Mother-grouse cackling, feathers all ruffled,
Dashed to defend them as we drew near.
Heart of a heroine, how I admired her! Of such devotion great poets have sung; Homes have been blest by the love that inspired her, Risking her life for the sake of her young.
Ten little chicks on her valour reliant, Peered with bright eyes from the bilberry spray; Fiercely she faced us, dismayed but defiant, Rushed at us bravely to scare us away.
Then my companion, a crazy young devil (After, he told me he'd done it for fun) Pretended to tremble, and raised his arm level, And ere I could check him he blazed with his gun.
Headless she lay, from her neck the blood spouted, And dappled her plumage, the poor, pretty thing! Ten little chicks - oh, I know for I counted, Came out and they tried to creep under her wing.
Sickened I said: "Here's an end to my killing; I swear, nevermore bird or beast will I slay; Starving I may be, but no more blood-spilling .
" That oath I have kept, and I keep it to-day.

Written by Christopher Smart | Create an image from this poem

The Pig

 In ev'ry age, and each profession, 
Men err the most by prepossession; 
But when the thing is clearly shown, 
And fairly stated, fully known, 
We soon applaud what we deride, 
And penitence succeeds to pride.
-- A certain Baron on a day Having a mind to show away, Invited all the wits and wags, Foot, Massey, Shuter, Yates, and Skeggs, And built a large commodious stage, For the Choice Spirits of the age; But above all, among the rest, There came a Genius who profess'd To have a curious trick in store, Which never was perform'd before.
Thro' all the town this soon got air, And the whole house was like a fair; But soon his entry as he made, Without a prompter, or parade, 'Twas all expectance, all suspense, And silence gagg'd the audience.
He hid his head behind his wig, With with such truth took off* a Pig, [imitated] All swore 'twas serious, and no joke, For doubtless underneath his cloak, He had conceal'd some grunting elf, Or was a real hog himself.
A search was made, no pig was found-- With thund'ring claps the seats resound, And pit and box and galleries roar, With--"O rare! bravo!" and "Encore!" Old Roger Grouse, a country clown, Who yet knew something of the town, Beheld the mimic and his whim, And on the morrow challeng'd him.
Declaring to each beau and bunter That he'd out-grunt th'egregious grunter.
The morrow came--the crowd was greater-- But prejudice and rank ill-nature Usurp'd the minds of men and wenches, Who came to hiss, and break the benches.
The mimic took his usual station, And squeak'd with general approbation.
"Again, encore! encore!" they cry-- 'Twas quite the thing--'twas very high; Old Grouse conceal'd, amidst the racket, A real Pig berneath his jacket-- Then forth he came--and with his nail He pinch'd the urchin by the tail.
The tortur'd Pig from out his throat, Produc'd the genuine nat'ral note.
All bellow'd out--"'Twas very sad! Sure never stuff was half so bad! That like a Pig!"--each cry'd in scoff, "Pshaw! Nonsense! Blockhead! Off! Off! Off!" The mimic was extoll'd, and Grouse Was hiss'd and catcall'd from the house.
-- "Soft ye, a word before I go," Quoth honest Hodge--and stooping low Produc'd the Pig, and thus aloud Bespoke the stupid, partial crowd: "Behold, and learn from this poor creature, How much you Critics know of Nature.
Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Create an image from this poem

Introduction To The Song Of Hiawatha

 Should you ask me, 
whence these stories? 
Whence these legends and traditions, 
With the odors of the forest 
With the dew and damp of meadows,
With the curling smoke of wigwams,
With the rushing of great rivers,
With their frequent repetitions,
And their wild reverberations
As of thunder in the mountains?
I should answer, I should tell you,
"From the forests and the prairies,
From the great lakes of the Northland,
From the land of the Ojibways,
From the land of the Dacotahs,
From the mountains, moors, and fen-lands
Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
Feeds among the reeds and rushes.
I repeat them as I heard them From the lips of Nawadaha, The musician, the sweet singer.
" Should you ask where Nawadaha Found these songs so wild and wayward, Found these legends and traditions, I should answer, I should tell you, "In the bird's-nests of the forest, In the lodges of the beaver, In the hoofprint of the bison, In the eyry of the eagle! "All the wild-fowl sang them to him, In the moorlands and the fen-lands, In the melancholy marshes; Chetowaik, the plover, sang them, Mahng, the loon, the wild-goose, Wawa, The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, And the grouse, the Mushkodasa!" If still further you should ask me, Saying, "Who was Nawadaha? Tell us of this Nawadaha," I should answer your inquiries Straightway in such words as follow.
"In the vale of Tawasentha, In the green and silent valley, By the pleasant water-courses, Dwelt the singer Nawadaha.
Round about the Indian village Spread the meadows and the corn-fields, And beyond them stood the forest, Stood the groves of singing pine-trees, Green in Summer, white in Winter, Ever sighing, ever singing.
"And the pleasant water-courses, You could trace them through the valley, By the rushing in the Spring-time, By the alders in the Summer, By the white fog in the Autumn, By the black line in the Winter; And beside them dwelt the singer, In the vale of Tawasentha, In the green and silent valley.
"There he sang of Hiawatha, Sang the Song of Hiawatha, Sang his wondrous birth and being, How he prayed and how be fasted, How he lived, and toiled, and suffered, That the tribes of men might prosper, That he might advance his people!" Ye who love the haunts of Nature, Love the sunshine of the meadow, Love the shadow of the forest, Love the wind among the branches, And the rain-shower and the snow-storm, And the rushing of great rivers Through their palisades of pine-trees, And the thunder in the mountains, Whose innumerable echoes Flap like eagles in their eyries;- Listen to these wild traditions, To this Song of Hiawatha! Ye who love a nation's legends, Love the ballads of a people, That like voices from afar off Call to us to pause and listen, Speak in tones so plain and childlike, Scarcely can the ear distinguish Whether they are sung or spoken;- Listen to this Indian Legend, To this Song of Hiawatha! Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple, Who have faith in God and Nature, Who believe that in all ages Every human heart is human, That in even savage bosoms There are longings, yearnings, strivings For the good they comprehend not, That the feeble hands and helpless, Groping blindly in the darkness, Touch God's right hand in that darkness And are lifted up and strengthened;- Listen to this simple story, To this Song of Hiawatha! Ye, who sometimes, in your rambles Through the green lanes of the country, Where the tangled barberry-bushes Hang their tufts of crimson berries Over stone walls gray with mosses, Pause by some neglected graveyard, For a while to muse, and ponder On a half-effaced inscription, Written with little skill of song-craft, Homely phrases, but each letter Full of hope and yet of heart-break, Full of all the tender pathos Of the Here and the Hereafter; Stay and read this rude inscription, Read this Song of Hiawatha!
Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | Create an image from this poem

The Ad-Dressing Of Cats

 You've read of several kinds of Cat,
And my opinion now is that
You should need no interpreter
To understand their character.
You now have learned enough to see That Cats are much like you and me And other people whom we find Possessed of various types of mind.
For some are same and some are mad And some are good and some are bad And some are better, some are worse-- But all may be described in verse.
You've seen them both at work and games, And learnt about their proper names, Their habits and their habitat: But How would you ad-dress a Cat? So first, your memory I'll jog, And say: A CAT IS NOT A DOG.
And you might now and then supply Some caviare, or Strassburg Pie, Some potted grouse, or salmon paste-- He's sure to have his personal taste.
(I know a Cat, who makes a habit Of eating nothing else but rabbit, And when he's finished, licks his paws So's not to waste the onion sauce.
) A Cat's entitled to expect These evidences of respect.
And so in time you reach your aim, And finally call him by his NAME.
So this is this, and that is that: And there's how you AD-DRESS A CAT.
Written by Tony Harrison | Create an image from this poem

Long Distance I

 Your bed's got two wrong sides.
You life's all grouse.
I let your phone-call take its dismal course: Ah can't stand it no more, this empty house! Carrots choke us wi'out your mam's white sauce! Them sweets you brought me, you can have 'em back.
Ah'm diabetic now.
Got all the facts.
(The diabetes comes hard on the track of two coronaries and cataracts.
) Ah've allus liked things sweet! But now ah push food down mi throat! Ah'd sooner do wi'out.
And t'only reason now for beer 's to flush (so t'dietician said) mi kidneys out.
When I come round, they'll be laid out, the sweets, Lifesavers, my father's New World treats, still in the big brown bag, and only bought rushing through JFK as a last thought.

Written by William Butler Yeats | Create an image from this poem

The Two Kings

 King Eochaid came at sundown to a wood
Westward of Tara.
Hurrying to his queen He had outridden his war-wasted men That with empounded cattle trod the mire, And where beech-trees had mixed a pale green light With the ground-ivy's blue, he saw a stag Whiter than curds, its eyes the tint of the sea.
Because it stood upon his path and seemed More hands in height than any stag in the world He sat with tightened rein and loosened mouth Upon his trembling horse, then drove the spur; But the stag stooped and ran at him, and passed, Rending the horse's flank.
King Eochaid reeled, Then drew his sword to hold its levelled point Against the stag.
When horn and steel were met The horn resounded as though it had been silver, A sweet, miraculous, terrifying sound.
Horn locked in sword, they tugged and struggled there As though a stag and unicorn were met Among the African Mountains of the Moon, Until at last the double horns, drawn backward, Butted below the single and so pierced The entrails of the horse.
Dropping his sword King Eochaid seized the horns in his strong hands And stared into the sea-green eye, and so Hither and thither to and fro they trod Till all the place was beaten into mire.
The strong thigh and the agile thigh were met, The hands that gathered up the might of the world, And hoof and horn that had sucked in their speed Amid the elaborate wilderness of the air.
Through bush they plunged and over ivied root, And where the stone struck fire, while in the leaves A squirrel whinnied and a bird screamed out; But when at last he forced those sinewy flanks Against a beech-bole, he threw down the beast And knelt above it with drawn knife.
On the instant It vanished like a shadow, and a cry So mournful that it seemed the cry of one Who had lost some unimaginable treasure Wandered between the blue and the green leaf And climbed into the air, crumbling away, Till all had seemed a shadow or a vision But for the trodden mire, the pool of blood, The disembowelled horse.
King Eochaid ran Toward peopled Tara, nor stood to draw his breath Until he came before the painted wall, The posts of polished yew, circled with bronze, Of the great door; but though the hanging lamps Showed their faint light through the unshuttered windows, Nor door, nor mouth, nor slipper made a noise, Nor on the ancient beaten paths, that wound From well-side or from plough-land, was there noisc; Nor had there been the noise of living thing Before him or behind, but that far off On the horizon edge bellowed the herds.
Knowing that silence brings no good to kings, And mocks returning victory, he passed Between the pillars with a beating heart And saw where in the midst of the great hall pale-faced, alone upon a bench, Edain Sat upright with a sword before her feet.
Her hands on either side had gripped the bench.
Her eyes were cold and steady, her lips tight.
Some passion had made her stone.
Hearing a foot She started and then knew whose foot it was; But when he thought to take her in his arms She motioned him afar, and rose and spoke: 'I have sent among the fields or to the woods The fighting-men and servants of this house, For I would have your judgment upon one Who is self-accused.
If she be innocent She would not look in any known man's face Till judgment has been given, and if guilty, Would never look again on known man's face.
' And at these words hc paled, as she had paled, Knowing that he should find upon her lips The meaning of that monstrous day.
Then she: 'You brought me where your brother Ardan sat Always in his one seat, and bid me care him Through that strange illness that had fixed him there.
And should he die to heap his burial-mound And catve his name in Ogham.
' Eochaid said, 'He lives?' 'He lives and is a healthy man.
' 'While I have him and you it matters little What man you have lost, what evil you have found.
' 'I bid them make his bed under this roof And carried him his food with my own hands, And so the weeks passed by.
But when I said, "What is this trouble?" he would answer nothing, Though always at my words his trouble grew; And I but asked the more, till he cried out, Weary of many questions: "There are things That make the heart akin to the dumb stone.
" Then I replied, "Although you hide a secret, Hopeless and dear, or terrible to think on, Speak it, that I may send through the wide world For Medicine.
" Thereon he cried aloud "Day after day you question me, and I, Because there is such a storm amid my thoughts I shall be carried in the gust, command, Forbid, beseech and waste my breath.
" Then I: "Although the thing that you have hid were evil, The speaking of it could be no great wrong, And evil must it be, if done 'twere worse Than mound and stone that keep all virtue in, And loosen on us dreams that waste our life, Shadows and shows that can but turn the brain.
" but finding him still silent I stooped down And whispering that none but he should hear, Said, "If a woman has put this on you, My men, whether it please her or displease, And though they have to cross the Loughlan waters And take her in the middle of armed men, Shall make her look upon her handiwork, That she may quench the rick she has fired; and though She may have worn silk clothes, or worn a crown, She'II not be proud, knowing within her heart That our sufficient portion of the world Is that we give, although it be brief giving, Happiness to children and to men.
" Then he, driven by his thought beyond his thought, And speaking what he would not though he would, Sighed, "You, even you yourself, could work the cure!" And at those words I rose and I went out And for nine days he had food from other hands, And for nine days my mind went whirling round The one disastrous zodiac, muttering That the immedicable mound's beyond Our questioning, beyond our pity even.
But when nine days had gone I stood again Before his chair and bending down my head I bade him go when all his household slept To an old empty woodman's house that's hidden Westward of Tara, among the hazel-trees -- For hope would give his limbs the power -- and await A friend that could, he had told her, work his cure And would be no harsh friend.
When night had deepened, I groped my way from beech to hazel wood, Found that old house, a sputtering torch within, And stretched out sleeping on a pile of skins Ardan, and though I called to him and tried To Shake him out of sleep, I could not rouse him.
I waited till the night was on the turn, Then fearing that some labourer, on his way To plough or pasture-land, might see me there, Went out.
Among the ivy-covered rocks, As on the blue light of a sword, a man Who had unnatural majesty, and eyes Like the eyes of some great kite scouring the woods, Stood on my path.
Trembling from head to foot I gazed at him like grouse upon a kite; But with a voice that had unnatural music, "A weary wooing and a long," he said, "Speaking of love through other lips and looking Under the eyelids of another, for it was my craft That put a passion in the sleeper there, And when I had got my will and drawn you here, Where I may speak to you alone, my craft Sucked up the passion out of him again And left mere sleep.
He'll wake when the sun wakes, push out his vigorous limbs and rub his eyes, And wonder what has ailed him these twelve months.
" I cowered back upon the wall in terror, But that sweet-sounding voice ran on: "Woman, I was your husband when you rode the air, Danced in the whirling foam and in the dust, In days you have not kept in memory, Being betrayed into a cradle, and I come That I may claim you as my wife again.
" I was no longer terrified -- his voice Had half awakened some old memory -- Yet answered him, "I am King Eochaid's wife And with him have found every happiness Women can find.
" With a most masterful voice, That made the body seem as it were a string Under a bow, he cried, "What happiness Can lovers have that know their happiness Must end at the dumb stone? But where we build Our sudden palaces in the still air pleasure itself can bring no weariness.
Nor can time waste the cheek, nor is there foot That has grown weary of the wandering dance, Nor an unlaughing mouth, but mine that mourns, Among those mouths that sing their sweethearts' praise, Your empty bed.
" "How should I love," I answered, "Were it not that when the dawn has lit my bed And shown my husband sleeping there, I have sighcd, 'Your strength and nobleness will pass away'? Or how should love be worth its pains were it not That when he has fallen asleep within my atms, Being wearied out, I love in man the child? What can they know of love that do not know She builds her nest upon a narrow ledge Above a windy precipice?" Then he: "Seeing that when you come to the deathbed You must return, whether you would or no, This human life blotted from memory, Why must I live some thirty, forty years, Alone with all this useless happiness?" Thereon he seized me in his arms, but I Thrust him away with both my hands and cried, "Never will I believe there is any change Can blot out of my memory this life Sweetened by death, but if I could believe, That were a double hunger in my lips For what is doubly brief.
" And now the shape My hands were pressed to vanished suddenly.
I staggered, but a beech-tree stayed my fall, And clinging to it I could hear the cocks Crow upon Tara.
' King Eochaid bowed his head And thanked her for her kindness to his brother, For that she promised, and for that refused.
Thereon the bellowing of the empounded herds Rose round the walls, and through the bronze-ringed door Jostled and shouted those war-wasted men, And in the midst King Eochaid's brother stood, And bade all welcome, being ignorant.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The Young British Soldier

 When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
 Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier, Serve, serve, serve as a soldier, Serve, serve, serve as a soldier, So-oldier OF the Queen! Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day, You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay, An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may: A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier .
First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts, For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts -- Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts -- An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad for the soldier .
When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt -- Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout, For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out, An' it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier .
But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead: You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said: If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead, An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier .
If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind, Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind; Be handy and civil, and then you will find That it's beer for the young British soldier.
Beer, beer, beer for the soldier .
Now, if you must marry, take care she is old -- A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told, For beauty won't help if your rations is cold, Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier .
If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath To shoot when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, on my oath! -- Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both, An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.
Curse, curse, curse of a soldier .
When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck, Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck, Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck And march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front, front like a soldier .
When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch, Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old *****; She's human as you are -- you treat her as sich, An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.
Fight, fight, fight for the soldier .
When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine, The guns o' the enemy wheel into line, Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine, For noise never startles the soldier.
Start-, start-, startles the soldier .
If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white, Remember it's ruin to run from a fight: So take open order, lie down, and sit tight, And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier .
When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains, And the women come out to cut up what remains, Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier, Go, go, go like a soldier, Go, go, go like a soldier, So-oldier of the Queen!
Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | Create an image from this poem

The Rum Tum Tugger

 The Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat:
If you offer him pheasant he would rather have grouse.
If you put him in a house he would much prefer a flat, If you put him in a flat then he'd rather have a house.
If you set him on a mouse then he only wants a rat, If you set him on a rat then he'd rather chase a mouse.
Yes the Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat-- And there isn't any call for me to shout it: For he will do As he do do And there's no doing anything about it! The Rum Tum Tugger is a terrible bore: When you let him in, then he wants to be out; He's always on the wrong side of every door, And as soon as he's at home, then he'd like to get about.
He likes to lie in the bureau drawer, But he makes such a fuss if he can't get out.
Yes the Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat-- And there isn't any use for you to doubt it: For he will do As he do do And there's no doing anything about it! The Rum Tum Tugger is a curious beast: His disobliging ways are a matter of habit.
If you offer him fish then he always wants a feast; When there isn't any fish then he won't eat rabbit.
If you offer him cream then he sniffs and sneers, For he only likes what he finds for himself; So you'll catch him in it right up to the ears, If you put it away on the larder shelf.
The Rum Tum Tugger is artful and knowing, The Rum Tum Tugger doesn't care for a cuddle; But he'll leap on your lap in the middle of your sewing, For there's nothing he enjoys like a horrible muddle.
Yes the Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat-- And there isn't any need for me to spout it: For he will do As he do do And theres no doing anything about it!
Written by Robert Frost | Create an image from this poem

Good-by and Keep Cold

 This saying good-by on the edge of the dark
And the cold to an orchard so young in the bark
Reminds me of all that can happen to harm
An orchard away at the end of the farm
All winter, cut off by a hill from the house.
I don't want it girdled by rabbit and mouse, I don't want it dreamily nibbled for browse By deer, and I don't want it budded by grouse.
(If certain it wouldn't be idle to call I'd summon grouse, rabbit, and deer to the wall And warn them away with a stick for a gun.
) I don't want it stirred by the heat of the sun.
(We made it secure against being, I hope, By setting it out on a northerly slope.
) No orchard's the worse for the wintriest storm; But one thing about it, it mustn't get warm.
'How often already you've had to be told, Keep cold, young orchard.
Good-by and keep cold.
Dread fifty above more than fifty below.
' I have to be gone for a season or so.
My business awhile is with different trees, less carefully nurtured, less fruitful than these, And such as is done to their wood with an ax-- Maples and birches and tamaracks.
I wish I could promise to lie in the night And think of an orchard's arboreal plight When slowly (and nobody comes with a light) Its heart sinks lower under the sod.
But something has to be left to God.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Johnny Boer

 Men fight all shapes and sizes as the racing horses run, 
And no man knows his courage till he stands before a gun.
At mixed-up fighting, hand to hand, and clawing men about They reckon Fuzzy-Wuzzy is the hottest fighter out.
But Fuzzy gives himself away -- his style is out of date, He charges like a driven grouse that rushes on its fate; You've nothing in the world to do but pump him full of lead: But when you're fighting Johhny Boer you have to use your head; He don't believe in front attacks or charging at the run, He fights you from a kopje with his little Maxim gun.
For when the Lord He made the earth, it seems uncommon clear, He gave the job of Africa to some good engineer, Who started building fortresses on fashions of his own -- Lunettes, redoubts, and counterscarps all made of rock and stone.
The Boer need only bring a gun, for ready to his hand He finds these heaven-built fortresses all scattered through the land; And there he sits and winks his eye and wheels his gun about, And we must charge across the plain to hunt the beggar out.
It ain't a game that grows on us -- there's lots of better fun Than charging at old Johnny with his little Maxim gun.
On rocks a goat could scarcely climb, steep as the walls of Troy, He wheels a four-point-seven about as easy as a toy; With bullocks yoked and drag-ropes manned, he lifts her up the rocks And shifts her every now and then, as cunning as a fox.
At night you mark her right ahead, you see her clean and clear, Next day at dawn -- "What, ho! she bumps" -- from somewhere in the rear.
Or else the keenest-eyed patrol will miss him with the glass -- He's lying hidden in the rocks to let the leaders pass; But when the mainguard comes along he opens up the fun; There's lots of ammunition for the little Maxim gun.
But after all the job is sure, although the job is slow.
We have to see the business through, the Boer has got to go.
With Nordenfeldt and lyddite shell it's certain, soon or late, We'll hunt him from his kopjes and across the Orange State; And then across those open flats you'll see the beggar run, And we'll be running after him with our little Maxim gun.