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Best Famous Jingly Poems

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

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Written by Edward Lear | Create an image from this poem

The Courtship of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo

 I 

On the Coast of Coromandel
Where the early pumpkins blow,
In the middle of the woods
Lived the Yonghy-Bonghy-B?.
Two old chairs, and half a candle,-- One old jug without a handle,-- These were all his worldly goods: In the middle of the woods, These were all the worldly goods, Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-B?, Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-B?.
II Once, among the Bong-trees walking Where the early pumpkins blow, To a little heap of stones Came the Yonghy-Bonghy-B?.
There he heard a Lady talking, To some milk-white Hens of Dorking,-- ''Tis the lady Jingly Jones! 'On that little heap of stones 'Sits the Lady Jingly Jones!' Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-B?, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-B?.
III 'Lady Jingly! Lady Jingly! 'Sitting where the pumpkins blow, 'Will you come and be my wife?' Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-B?.
'I am tired of living singly,-- 'On this coast so wild and shingly,-- 'I'm a-weary of my life: 'If you'll come and be my wife, 'Quite serene would be my life!'-- Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-B?, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-B?.
IV 'On this Coast of Coromandel, 'Shrimps and watercresses grow, 'Prawns are plentiful and cheap,' Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-B?.
'You shall have my chairs and candle, 'And my jug without a handle!-- 'Gaze upon the rolling deep ('Fish is plentiful and cheap) 'As the sea, my love is deep!' Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-B?, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-B?.
V Lady Jingly answered sadly, And her tears began to flow,-- 'Your proposal comes too late, 'Mr.
Yonghy-Bonghy-B?! 'I would be your wife most gladly!' (Here she twirled her fingers madly,) 'But in England I've a mate! 'Yes! you've asked me far too late, 'For in England I've a mate, 'Mr.
Yonghy-Bonghy-B?! 'Mr.
Yonghy-Bonghy-B?!' VI 'Mr.
Jones -- (his name is Handel,-- 'Handel Jones, Esquire, & Co.
) 'Dorking fowls delights to send, 'Mr.
Yonghy-Bonghy-B?! 'Keep, oh! keep your chairs and candle, 'And your jug without a handle,-- 'I can merely be your friend! '-- Should my Jones more Dorkings send, 'I will give you three, my friend! 'Mr.
Yonghy-Bonghy-B?! 'Mr.
Yonghy-Bonghy-B?!' VII 'Though you've such a tiny body, 'And your head so large doth grow,-- 'Though your hat may blow away, 'Mr.
Yonghy-Bonghy-B?! 'Though you're such a Hoddy Doddy-- 'Yet a wish that I could modi- 'fy the words I needs must say! 'Will you please to go away? 'That is all I have to say-- 'Mr.
Yonghy-Bonghy-B?! 'Mr.
Yonghy-Bonghy-B?!'.
VIII Down the slippery slopes of Myrtle, Where the early pumpkins blow, To the calm and silent sea Fled the Yonghy-Bonghy-B?.
There, beyond the Bay of Gurtle, Lay a large and lively Turtle,-- 'You're the Cove,' he said, 'for me 'On your back beyond the sea, 'Turtle, you shall carry me!' Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-B?, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-B?.
IX Through the silent-roaring ocean Did the Turtle swiftly go; Holding fast upon his shell Rode the Yonghy-Bonghy-B?.
With a sad prim?val motion Towards the sunset isles of Boshen Still the Turtle bore him well.
Holding fast upon his shell, 'Lady Jingly Jones, farewell!' Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-B?, Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-B?.
X From the Coast of Coromandel, Did that Lady never go; On that heap of stones she mourns For the Yonghy-Bonghy-B?.
On that Coast of Coromandel, In his jug without a handle Still she weeps, and daily moans; On that little hep of stones To her Dorking Hens she moans, For the Yonghy-Bonghy-B?, For the Yonghy-Bonghy-B?.


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

Book Lover

 I keep collecting books I know
I'll never, never read;
My wife and daughter tell me so,
And yet I never head.
"Please make me," says some wistful tome, "A wee bit of yourself.
" And so I take my treasure home, And tuck it in a shelf.
And now my very shelves complain; They jam and over-spill.
They say: "Why don't you ease our strain?" "some day," I say, "I will.
" So book by book they plead and sigh; I pick and dip and scan; Then put them back, distrest that I Am such a busy man.
Now, there's my Boswell and my Sterne, my Gibbon and Defoe; To savour Swift I'll never learn, Montaigne I may not know.
On Bacon I will never sup, For Shakespeare I've no time; Because I'm busy making up These jingly bits of rhyme.
Chekov is caviare to me, While Stendhal makes me snore; Poor Proust is not my cup of tea, And Balzac is a bore.
I have their books, I love their names, And yet alas! they head, With Lawrence, Joyce and Henry James, My Roster of Unread.
I think it would be very well If I commit a crime, And get put in a prison cell And not allowed to rhyme; Yet given all these worthy books According to my need, I now caress with loving looks, But never, never read.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things