Written by
Walter de la Mare |
Thistle and darnell and dock grew there,
And a bush, in the corner, of may,
On the orchard wall I used to sprawl
In the blazing heat of the day;
Half asleep and half awake,
While the birds went twittering by,
And nobody there my lone to share
But Nicholas Nye.
Nicholas Nye was lean and gray,
Lame of leg and old,
More than a score of donkey's years
He had been since he was foaled;
He munched the thistles, purple and spiked,
Would sometimes stoop and sigh,
And turn to his head, as if he said,
"Poor Nicholas Nye!"
Alone with his shadow he'd drowse in the meadow,
Lazily swinging his tail,
At break of day he used to bray,--
Not much too hearty and hale;
But a wonderful gumption was under his skin,
And a clean calm light in his eye,
And once in a while; he'd smile:--
Would Nicholas Nye.
Seem to be smiling at me, he would,
From his bush in the corner, of may,--
Bony and ownerless, widowed and worn,
Knobble-kneed, lonely and gray;
And over the grass would seem to pass
'Neath the deep dark blue of the sky,
Something much better than words between me
And Nicholas Nye.
But dusk would come in the apple boughs,
The green of the glow-worm shine,
The birds in nest would crouch to rest,
And home I'd trudge to mine;
And there, in the moonlight, dark with dew,
Asking not wherefore nor why,
Would brood like a ghost, and as still as a post,
Old Nicholas Nye.
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Written by
Robert William Service |
My Daddy used to wallop me for every small offense:
"Its takes a hair-brush back," said he, "to teach kids common-sense."
And still to-day I scarce can look a hair-brush in the face.
Without I want in sympathy to pat a tender place.
For Dad declared with unction: "Spare the brush and spoil the brat."
The dear old man! What e'er his faults he never did do that;
And though a score of years have gone since he departed hence,
I still revere his deity, The God of Common-sense.
How often I have played the ass (Man's universal fate),
Yet always I have saved myself before it was too late;
How often tangled with a dame - you know how these things are,
Yet always had the gumption not to carry on too far;
Remembering that fancy skirts, however high they go,
Are not to be stacked up against a bunch of hard-earned dough;
And sentiment has little weight compared with pounds and pence,
According to the gospel of the God of Common-sense.
Oh blessing on that old hair-brush my Daddy used to whack
With such benign precision on the basement of my back.
Oh blessings on his wisdom, saying: "Son, don't play the fool,
Let prudence be your counselor and reason be your rule.
Don't get romantic notions, always act with judgment calm,
Poetical emotions ain't in practice worth a damn/
let solid comfort be your goal, self-interest your guide. . . ."
Then just as if to emphasize, whack! whack! the brush he plied.
And so I often wonder if my luck is Providence,
or just my humble tribute to the God of Common-sense.
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Written by
Robert Burns |
O GOWDIE, terror o’ the whigs,
Dread o’ blackcoats and rev’rend wigs!
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,
Girns an’ looks back,
Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues
May seize you quick.
Poor gapin’, glowrin’ Superstition!
Wae’s me, she’s in a sad condition:
Fye: bring Black Jock, 1 her state physician,
To see her water;
Alas, there’s ground for great suspicion
She’ll ne’er get better.
Enthusiasm’s past redemption,
Gane in a gallopin’ consumption:
Not a’ her quacks, wi’ a’ their gumption,
Can ever mend her;
Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption,
She’ll soon surrender.
Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,
For every hole to get a stapple;
But now she fetches at the thrapple,
An’ fights for breath;
Haste, gie her name up in the chapel, 2
Near unto death.
It’s you an’ Taylor 3 are the chief
To blame for a’ this black mischief;
But, could the L—d’s ain folk get leave,
A toom tar barrel
An’ twa red peats wad bring relief,
And end the quarrel.
For me, my skill’s but very sma’,
An’ skill in prose I’ve nane ava’;
But quietlins-wise, between us twa,
Weel may you speed!
And tho’ they sud your sair misca’,
Ne’er fash your head.
E’en swinge the dogs, and thresh them sicker!
The mair they squeel aye chap the thicker;
And still ’mang hands a hearty bicker
O’ something stout;
It gars an owthor’s pulse beat quicker,
And helps his wit.
There’s naething like the honest nappy;
Whare’ll ye e’er see men sae happy,
Or women sonsie, saft an’ sappy,
’Tween morn and morn,
As them wha like to taste the drappie,
In glass or horn?
I’ve seen me dazed upon a time,
I scarce could wink or see a styme;
Just ae half-mutchkin does me prime,—
Ought less is little—
Then back I rattle on the rhyme,
As gleg’s a whittle.
Note 1. The Rev. J. Russell, Kilmarnock.—R. B. [back]
Note 2. Mr. Russell’s Kirk.—R. B. [back]
Note 3. Dr. Taylor of Norwich.—R. B. [back]
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Written by
Robert William Service |
Because I love the soothing weed
And am of sober type,
I'd choose me for a friend in need
A man who smokes a pipe.
A cove who hasn't much to say,
And spits into the fire,
Puffing like me a pipe of clay,
Corn-cob or briar.
A chap original of thought,
With cheery point of view,
Who has of gumption quite a lot,
And streaks of humour too.
He need not be a whiskered sage,
With wisdom over-ripe:
Just give me in the old of age
A pal who smokes a pipe.
A cigarette may make for wit,
Although I like it not;
A good cigar, I must admit,
Gives dignity to thought.
But as my glass of grog I sip
I never, never gripe
If I have for companionship
A guy who smokes a pipe.
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Written by
Robert William Service |
A pote is sure a goofy guy;
He ain't got guts like you or I
To tell the score;
He ain't goy gumption 'nuff to know
The game of life's to get the dough,
Then get some more.
Take Brother Bill, he used to be
The big shot of the family,
The first at school;
But since about a year ago,
Through readin' Longfeller and Poe,
He's most a fool.
He mopes around with dimwit stare;
You might as well jest not be there,
The way he looks;
You'd think he shuns the human race,
The how he buries down his face
In highbrow books.
I've seen him stand for near an hour,
Jest starin' at a simple flower -
Sich waste o' time;
The scribblin' on an envelope . . .
Why, most of all his silly dope
Don't even rhyme.
Now Brother's Jim's an engineer,
And Brother Tim's a bank cashier,
While I keep store;
Yet Bill, the brightest of the flock,
Might be a lawyer or a doc,
And then some more.
But no, he moons and loafs about,
As if he tried to figger out
Why skies are blue;
Instead o' gittin' down to grips
Wi' life an' stackin' up the chips
Like me an' you.
* * * * * * * * * *
Well, since them final lines I wrote,
We're mournin' for our Brother Pote:
Bill crossed the sea
And solved his problem with the beat,
For now he lies in peace and rest
In Normandie.
He died the bravest of the brave,
And here I'm standin' by his grave
So far from home;
With just a wooden cross to tell
How in the blaze of battle hell
As gloriously there he fell -
Bill wrote his "pome".
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Written by
Paul Laurence Dunbar |
Want to trade me, do you, mistah? Oh, well, now, I reckon not,
W'y you could n't buy my Sukey fu' a thousan' on de spot.
Dat ol' mare o' mine?
Yes, huh coat ah long an' shaggy, an' she ain't no shakes to see;
Dat's a ring-bone, yes, you right, suh, an' she got a on'ry knee,
But dey ain't no use in talkin', she de only hoss fu' me,
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
Co'se, I knows dat Suke 's contra'y, an' she moughty ap' to vex;
But you got to mek erlowance fu' de nature of huh sex;
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
Ef you pull her on de lef han'; she plum 'termined to go right,
A cannon could n't skeer huh, but she boun' to tek a fright
At a piece o' common paper, or anyt'ing whut's white,
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
Wen my eyes commence to fail me, dough, I trus'es to huh sight,
An' she 'll tote me safe an' hones' on de ve'y da'kes' night,
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
Ef I whup huh, she jes' switch huh tail, an' settle to a walk,
Ef I whup huh mo', she shek huh haid, an' lak ez not, she balk.[Pg 190]
But huh sense ain't no ways lackin', she do evah t'ing but talk,
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
But she gentle ez a lady w'en she know huh beau kin see.
An' she sholy got mo' gumption any day den you or me,
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
She's a leetle slow a-goin,' an' she moughty ha'd to sta't,
But we 's gittin' ol' togathah, an' she 's closah to my hea't,
An' I does n't reckon, mistah, dat she 'd sca'cely keer to pa't;
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
W'y I knows de time dat cidah 's kin' o' muddled up my haid,
Ef it had n't been fu' Sukey hyeah, I reckon I 'd been daid;
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
But she got me in de middle o' de road an' tuk me home,
An' she would n't let me wandah, ner she would n't let me roam,
Dat's de kin' o' hoss to tie to w'en you 's seed de cidah's foam,
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
You kin talk erbout yo' heaven, you kin talk erbout yo' hell,
Dey is people, dey is hosses, den dey's cattle, den dey's—well—
Dat ol' mare o' mine;
She de beatenes' t'ing dat evah struck de medders o' de town,
An' aldough huh haid ain't fittin' fu' to waih no golden crown,
D' ain't a blessed way fu' Petah fu' to tu'n my Sukey down,
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
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