10 Best Famous Hatter Poems

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

• All Famous Hatter Poems

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, 
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong, 
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam, 
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work, 
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand 
singing on the steamboat deck, 
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands, 
The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or 
at noon intermission or at sundown, 
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of 
the girl sewing or washing, 
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else, 
The day what belongs to the day--at night the party of young fellows, 
robust, friendly, 
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs. 

 The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn't just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there's the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey--
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter--
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular,
A name that's peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum-
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there's still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover--
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.

 Our fathers, brave men were and strong, 
And whisky was their daily liquor; 
They used to move the world along 
In better style than now -- and quicker. 
Elections then were sport, you bet! 
A trifle rough, there's no denying 
When two opposing factions met 
The skin and hair were always flying. 
When "cabbage-trees" could still be worn 
Without the question, "Who's your hatter?" 
There dawned a bright election morn 
Upon the town of Parramatta. 
A man called Jones was all the go -- 
The people's friend, the poor's protector; 
A long, gaunt, six-foot slab of woe, 
He sought to charm the green elector. 

How Jones had one time been trustee 
For his small niece, and he -- the villain! -- 
Betrayed his trust most shamefully, 
And robbed the child of every shillin'. 
He used to keep accounts, they say, 
To save himself in case of trouble; 
Whatever cash he paid away 
He always used to charge it double. 

He'd buy the child a cotton gown 
Too coarse and rough to dress a cat in, 
And then he'd go and put it down 
And charge the price of silk or satin! 
He gave her once a little treat, 
An outing down the harbour sunny, 
And Lord! the bill for bread and meat, 
You'd think they all had eaten money! 

But Jones exposed the course he took 
By carelessness -- such men are ninnies. 
He went and entered in his book, 
"Two pounds of sausages -- two guineas." 
Now this leaked out, and folk got riled, 
And said that Jones, "he didn't oughter". 
But what cared Jones? he only smiled -- 
Abuse ran off his back like water. 

And so he faced the world content: 
His little niece -- he never paid her: 
And then he stood for Parliament, 
Of course he was a rank free trader. 
His wealth was great, success appeared 
To smile propitious on his banner, 
But Providence it interfered 
In this most unexpected manner. 

A person -- call him Brown for short -- 
Who knew the story of this stealer, 
Went calmly down the town and bought 
Two pounds of sausage from a dealer, 
And then he got a long bamboo 
And tightly tied the sausage to it; 
Says he, "This is the thing to do, 
And I am just the man to do it. 

"When Jones comes out to make his speech 
I won't a clapper be, or hisser, 
But with this long bamboo I'll reach 
And poke the sausage in his 'kisser'. 
I'll bring the wretch to scorn and shame, 
Unless those darned police are nigh: 
As sure as Brown's my glorious name, 
I'll knock that candidate sky-high." 

The speech comes on -- beneath the stand 
The people push and surge and eddy 
But Brown waits calmly close at hand 
With all his apparatus ready; 
And while the speaker loudly cries, 
"Of ages all, this is the boss age!" 
Brown hits him square between the eyes, 
Exclaiming, "What's the price of sausage?" 

He aimed the victuals in his face, 
As though he thought poor Jones a glutton. 
And Jones was covered with disgrace -- 
Disgrace and shame, and beef and mutton. 
His cause was lost -- a hopeless wreck 
He crept off from the hooting throng; 
Protection proudly ruled the deck, 
Here ends the sausage and the song.

 I am back from up the country -- very sorry that I went -- 
Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent; 
I have lost a lot of idols, which were broken on the track -- 
Burnt a lot of fancy verses, and I'm glad that I am back. 
Further out may be the pleasant scenes of which our poets boast, 
But I think the country's rather more inviting round the coast -- 
Anyway, I'll stay at present at a boarding-house in town 
Drinking beer and lemon-squashes, taking baths and cooling down. 

Sunny plains! Great Scot! -- those burning wastes of barren soil and sand 
With their everlasting fences stretching out across the land! 
Desolation where the crow is! Desert! where the eagle flies, 
Paddocks where the luny bullock starts and stares with reddened eyes; 
Where, in clouds of dust enveloped, roasted bullock-drivers creep 
Slowly past the sun-dried shepherd dragged behind his crawling sheep. 
Stunted "peak" of granite gleaming, glaring! like a molten mass 
Turned, from some infernal furnace, on a plain devoid of grass. 

Miles and miles of thirsty gutters -- strings of muddy waterholes 
In the place of "shining rivers" (walled by cliffs and forest boles). 
"Range!" of ridgs, gullies, ridges, barren! where the madden'd flies -- 
Fiercer than the plagues of Egypt -- swarm about your blighted eyes! 
Bush! where there is no horizon! where the buried bushman sees 
Nothing. Nothing! but the maddening sameness of the stunted trees! 
Lonely hut where drought's eternal -- suffocating atmosphere -- 
Where the God forgottcn hatter dreams of city-life and beer. 

Treacherous tracks that trap the stranger, endless roads that gleam and glare, 
Dark and evil-looking gullies -- hiding secrets here and there! 
Dull, dumb flats and stony "rises," where the bullocks sweat and bake, 
And the sinister "gohanna," and the lizard, and the snake. 
Land of day and night -- no morning freshness, and no afternoon, 
For the great, white sun in rising brings with him the heat of noon. 
Dismal country for the exile, when the shades begin to fall 
From the sad, heart-breaking sunset, to the new-chum, worst of all. 

Dreary land in rainy weather, with the endless clouds that drift 
O'er the bushman like a blanket that the Lord will never lift -- 
Dismal land when it is raining -- growl of floods and oh! the "woosh" 
Of the rain and wind together on the dark bed of the bush -- 
Ghastly fires in lonely humpies where the granite rocks are pil'd 
On the rain-swept wildernesses that are wildest of the wild. 

Land where gaunt and haggard women live alone and work like men, 
Till their husbands, gone a-droving, will return to them again -- 
Homes of men! if homes had ever such a God-forgotten place, 
Where the wild selector's children fly before a stranger's face. 
Home of tragedy applauded by the dingoes' dismal yell, 
Heaven of the shanty-keeper -- fitting fiend for such a hell -- 
And the wallaroos and wombats, and, of course, the "curlew's call" -- 
And the lone sundowner tramping ever onward thro' it all! 

I am back from up the country -- up the country where I went 
Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent; 
I have left a lot of broken idols out along the track, 
Burnt a lot of fancy verses -- and I'm glad that I am back -- 
I believe the Southern poet's dream will not be realised 
Till the plains are irrigated and the land is humanised. 
I intend to stay at present -- as I said before -- in town 
Drinking beer and lemon-squashes -- taking baths and cooling down.

 Unfunny uncles who insist
in trying on a lady's hat,
--oh, even if the joke falls flat,
we share your slight transvestite twist

in spite of our embarrassment.
Costume and custom are complex.
The headgear of the other sex
inspires us to experiment.

Anandrous aunts, who, at the beach
with paper plates upon your laps,
keep putting on the yachtsmen's caps
with exhibitionistic screech,

the visors hanging o'er the ear
so that the golden anchors drag,
--the tides of fashion never lag.
Such caps may not be worn next year.

Or you who don the paper plate
itself, and put some grapes upon it,
or sport the Indian's feather bonnet,
--perversities may aggravate

the natural madness of the hatter.
And if the opera hats collapse
and crowns grow draughty, then, perhaps,
he thinks what might a miter matter?

Unfunny uncle, you who wore a
hat too big, or one too many,
tell us, can't you, are there any
stars inside your black fedora?

Aunt exemplary and slim,
with avernal eyes, we wonder
what slow changes they see under
their vast, shady, turned-down brim.

 How I wonder what you're at!'You know the song, perhaps?" "I've heard something like it," said Alice. "It goes on, you know," the Hatter continued,
"in this way: -- -- 
`Up above the world you fly,
Like a teatray in the sky.
Twinkle, twinkle --'"

 I am back from up the country -- very sorry that I went -- 
Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent; 
I have lost a lot of idols, which were broken on the track, 
Burnt a lot of fancy verses, and I'm glad that I am back. 
Further out may be the pleasant scenes of which our poets boast, 
But I think the country's rather more inviting round the coast. 
Anyway, I'll stay at present at a boarding-house in town, 
Drinking beer and lemon-squashes, taking baths and cooling down. 

`Sunny plains'! Great Scott! -- those burning 
wastes of barren soil and sand 
With their everlasting fences stretching out across the land! 
Desolation where the crow is! Desert where the eagle flies, 
Paddocks where the luny bullock starts and stares with reddened eyes; 
Where, in clouds of dust enveloped, roasted bullock-drivers creep 
Slowly past the sun-dried shepherd dragged behind his crawling sheep. 
Stunted peak of granite gleaming, glaring like a molten mass 
Turned from some infernal furnace on a plain devoid of grass. 

Miles and miles of thirsty gutters -- strings of muddy water-holes 
In the place of `shining rivers' -- `walled by cliffs and forest boles.' 
Barren ridges, gullies, ridges! where the ever-madd'ning flies -- 
Fiercer than the plagues of Egypt -- swarm about your blighted eyes! 
Bush! where there is no horizon! where the buried bushman sees 
Nothing -- Nothing! but the sameness of the ragged, stunted trees! 
Lonely hut where drought's eternal, suffocating atmosphere 
Where the God-forgotten hatter dreams of city life and beer. 

Treacherous tracks that trap the stranger, 
endless roads that gleam and glare, 
Dark and evil-looking gullies, hiding secrets here and there! 
Dull dumb flats and stony rises, where the toiling bullocks bake, 
And the sinister `gohanna', and the lizard, and the snake. 
Land of day and night -- no morning freshness, and no afternoon, 
When the great white sun in rising bringeth summer heat in June. 
Dismal country for the exile, when the shades begin to fall 
From the sad heart-breaking sunset, to the new-chum worst of all. 

Dreary land in rainy weather, with the endless clouds that drift 
O'er the bushman like a blanket that the Lord will never lift -- 
Dismal land when it is raining -- growl of floods, and, oh! the woosh 
Of the rain and wind together on the dark bed of the bush -- 
Ghastly fires in lonely humpies where the granite rocks are piled 
In the rain-swept wildernesses that are wildest of the wild. 

Land where gaunt and haggard women live alone and work like men, 
Till their husbands, gone a-droving, will return to them again: 
Homes of men! if home had ever such a God-forgotten place, 
Where the wild selector's children fly before a stranger's face. 
Home of tragedy applauded by the dingoes' dismal yell, 
Heaven of the shanty-keeper -- fitting fiend for such a hell -- 
And the wallaroos and wombats, and, of course, the curlew's call -- 
And the lone sundowner tramping ever onward through it all! 

I am back from up the country, up the country where I went 
Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent; 
I have shattered many idols out along the dusty track, 
Burnt a lot of fancy verses -- and I'm glad that I am back. 
I believe the Southern poets' dream will not be realised 
Till the plains are irrigated and the land is humanised. 
I intend to stay at present, as I said before, in town 
Drinking beer and lemon-squashes, taking baths and cooling down.

 Early germ
warfare. The dead
hurled this way look like wheels
in the sky. Look: there goes
Larry the Shoemaker, barefoot, over the wall,
and Mary Sausage Stuffer, see how she flies,
and the Hatter twins, both at once, soar
over the parapet, little Tommy's elbow bent
as if in a salute,
and his sister, Mathilde, she follows him,
arms outstretched, through the air,
just as she did
on earth.

 I HEAR America singing, the varied carols I hear; 
Those of mechanics—each one singing his, as it should be, blithe and strong; 
The carpenter singing his, as he measures his plank or beam, 
The mason singing his, as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work; 
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat—the deckhand singing on the steamboat
 deck;
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench—the hatter singing as he stands; 
The wood-cutter’s song—the ploughboy’s, on his way in the morning, or at the noon
 intermission, or at sundown; 
The delicious singing of the mother—or of the young wife at work—or of the girl sewing or
 washing—Each singing what belongs to her, and to none else; 
The day what belongs to the day—At night, the party of young fellows, robust, friendly, 
Singing, with open mouths, their strong melodious songs.