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Best Famous Mallard Poems

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

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Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

242. The Poet's Progress

 THOU, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign;
Of thy caprice maternal I complain.
The peopled fold thy kindly care have found, The hornèd bull, tremendous, spurns the ground; The lordly lion has enough and more, The forest trembles at his very roar; Thou giv’st the *** his hide, the snail his shell, The puny wasp, victorious, guards his cell.
Thy minions, kings defend, controul devour, In all th’ omnipotence of rule and power: Foxes and statesmen subtle wiles ensure; The cit and polecat stink, and are secure: Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, The priest and hedgehog, in their robes, are snug: E’en silly women have defensive arts, Their eyes, their tongues—and nameless other parts.
But O thou cruel stepmother and hard, To thy poor fenceless, naked child, the Bard! A thing unteachable in worldly skill, And half an idiot too, more helpless still: No heels to bear him from the op’ning dun, No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun: No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, And those, alas! not Amalthea’s horn: No nerves olfact’ry, true to Mammon’s foot, Or grunting, grub sagacious, evil’s root: The silly sheep that wanders wild astray, Is not more friendless, is not more a prey; Vampyre-booksellers drain him to the heart, And viper-critics cureless venom dart.
Critics! appll’d I venture on the name, Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame, Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes, He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose: By blockhead’s daring into madness stung, His heart by wanton, causeless malice wrung, His well-won ways-than life itself more dear— By miscreants torn who ne’er one sprig must wear; Foil’d, bleeding, tortur’d in th’ unequal strife, The hapless Poet flounces on through life, Till, fled each hope that once his bosom fired, And fled each Muse that glorious once inspir’d, Low-sunk in squalid, unprotected age, Dead even resentment for his injur’d page, He heeds no more the ruthless critics’ rage.
So by some hedge the generous steed deceas’d, For half-starv’d, snarling curs a dainty feast; By toil and famine worn to skin and bone, Lies, senseless of each tugging *****’s son.
· · · · · · A little upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, And still his precious self his dear delight; Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets, Better than e’er the fairest she he meets; Much specious lore, but little understood, (Veneering oft outshines the solid wood), His solid sense, by inches you must tell, But mete his cunning by the Scottish ell! A man of fashion too, he made his tour, Learn’d “vive la bagatelle et vive l’amour;” So travell’d monkeys their grimace improve, Polish their grin-nay, sigh for ladies’ love! His meddling vanity, a busy fiend, Still making work his selfish craft must mend.
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · Crochallan came, The old cock’d hat, the brown surtout—the same; His grisly beard just bristling in its might— ’Twas four long nights and days from shaving-night; His uncomb’d, hoary locks, wild-staring, thatch’d A head, for thought profound and clear, unmatch’d; Yet, tho’ his caustic wit was biting-rude, His heart was warm, benevolent and good.
· · · · · · O Dulness, portion of the truly blest! Calm, shelter’d haven of eternal rest! Thy sons ne’er madden in the fierce extremes Of Fortune’s polar frost, or torrid beams; If mantling high she fills the golden cup, With sober, selfish ease they sip it up; Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, They only wonder “some folks” do not starve! The grave, sage hern thus easy picks his frog, And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog.
When disappointment snaps the thread of Hope, When, thro’ disastrous night, they darkling grope, With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, And just conclude that “fools are Fortune’s care:” So, heavy, passive to the tempest’s shocks, Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox.
Not so the idle Muses’ mad-cap train, Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain; In equanimity they never dwell, By turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell!


Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

351. Second Epistle to Robert Graham Esq. of Fintry

 LATE crippl’d of an arm, and now a leg,
About to beg a pass for leave to beg;
Dull, listless, teas’d, dejected, and deprest
(Nature is adverse to a cripple’s rest);
Will generous Graham list to his Poet’s wail?
(It soothes poor Misery, hearkening to her tale)
And hear him curse the light he first survey’d,
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade?


 Thou, Nature! partial Nature, I arraign;
Of thy caprice maternal I complain;
The lion and the bull thy care have found,
One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground;
Thou giv’st the *** his hide, the snail his shell;
Th’ envenom’d wasp, victorious, guards his cell;
Thy minions kings defend, control, devour,
In all th’ omnipotence of rule and power;
Foxes and statesmen subtile wiles ensure;
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure;
Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug,
The priest and hedgehog in their robes, are snug;
Ev’n silly woman has her warlike arts,
Her tongue and eyes—her dreaded spear and darts.
But Oh! thou bitter step-mother and hard, To thy poor, fenceless, naked child—the Bard! A thing unteachable in world’s skill, And half an idiot too, more helpless still: No heels to bear him from the op’ning dun; No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun; No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, And those, alas! not, Amalthea’s horn: No nerves olfact’ry, Mammon’s trusty cur, Clad in rich Dulness’ comfortable fur; In naked feeling, and in aching pride, He bears th’ unbroken blast from ev’ry side: Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, And scorpion critics cureless venom dart.
Critics—appall’d, I venture on the name; Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame: Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes; He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose: His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung, By blockheads’ daring into madness stung; His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, By miscreants torn, who ne’er one sprig must wear; Foil’d, bleeding, tortur’d in th’ unequal strife, The hapless Poet flounders on thro’ life: Till, fled each hope that once his bosom fir’d, And fled each muse that glorious once inspir’d, Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, Dead even resentment for his injur’d page, He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic’s rage! So, by some hedge, the gen’rous steed deceas’d, For half-starv’d snarling curs a dainty feast; By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, Lies, senseless of each tugging *****’s son.
O Dulness! portion of the truly blest! Calm shelter’d haven of eternal rest! Thy sons ne’er madden in the fierce extremes Of Fortune’s polar frost, or torrid beams.
If mantling high she fills the golden cup, With sober selfish ease they sip it up; Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, They only wonder “some folks” do not starve.
The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog, And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog.
When disappointments snaps the clue of hope, And thro’ disastrous night they darkling grope, With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, And just conclude that “fools are fortune’s care.
” So, heavy, passive to the tempest’s shocks, Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox.
Not so the idle Muses’ mad-cap train, Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain; In equanimity they never dwell, By turns in soaring heav’n, or vaulted hell.
I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe, With all a poet’s, husband’s, father’s fear! Already one strong hold of hope is lost— Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust (Fled, like the sun eclips’d as noon appears, And left us darkling in a world of tears); O! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray’r! Fintry, my other stay, long bless and spare! Thro’ a long life his hopes and wishes crown, And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down! May bliss domestic smooth his private path; Give energy to life; and soothe his latest breath, With many a filial tear circling the bed of death!
Written by Omer Tarin | Create an image from this poem

Mohenjodaro Reviisited

I.
You are not dead Why do they call you Mohen-jo-daro, “ Mounds-of-the-Dead”? You are not dead! You have never been dead Or buried Or cremated By the scorching banks of the Sindhu; Historians have conspired against you A thousand and one tales Have besmirched your name Misguided fools have imagined Your obituary to be true; Sentimental fools have sung elegies By their own graves Garlanded their own biers, Cursed the stars and howled at the heavens Self-piteous tears, in the hope That some part of their practiced grief would be remembered As poetry, A fitting tribute to your eternal face; Maybe, they would be able to, by their ululations, Raise demons from the earth Or bring forth spectres From darkest shadows of the thinnest air, precipitating Some prophecy, nameless and foreboding, a small Tin medal on their pathetic breasts, Stark in their hunger for inspired flights; Other dust should fashion other jars, not having the consistency Of ours.
It has been foretold that you will not die That you will not die thus, at the behest of historians Or for the research of archaeologists Or even the yapping lap-dogs Aping the tawny shades of our leonine skins; It has been foretold, And we are witnesses to you survival.
II.
Priest-Kings and dancing girls The sands have shifted, As the river has--- You are only abandoned, “Mound-abandoned-and-shifted”.
Take heart! Be not sad, The sons of Sindhu are around you; You cannot die while your sons live, While the children of the river still ply their wide boats On your consort’s undulating breast; While your daughters carry their vessels Fashioned from your clay; In every face, you are alive.
In the mien of priest-kings who have renounced Their crowns and pulpits for lives of love and freedom— At Bhit Shah, they sing your songs; At Sehwan, they celebrate your being; In every prayer and call to prayer you are revealed Rising gradually towards the heights of Kirthar Rolling ceaselessly over the sands of Kutch With every partridge crooning in the cotton, With every mallard winging over Manchar, You come forth— The Breaker-of-the-Shackles-of-Tyranny The-Keeper-of-the-Honour-of-Dancing –girls Friend-of-the-Imprisoned-Hari Last-Flower-amidst-the-Thorns-of-Despair! You are the yellow turmeric staining the red ajrak Of our wounds Anointing your martyrs Healing your casualties Soothing us with your whispered lullaby Such as our mothers used to sing us In our cradles From the earliest dawn of creation; Even now, your humped oxen plod home in the evening Of their tillage; Every day I hear the rise and fall of your undeciphered script In the cadences of children In the chattering of women In the murmur of lovers In the gestures of old men In the anger of the young.
III.
A Dream Untold It was said, long ago, that you will not die That forever you will live in the eyes of every child, That you will rise from your gargantuan sleep, Arise, woken by the winds! When the Eastern Gates of your citadel are opened wide All wars will cease Your sons will no longer flinch under the lash, Your daughters will no longer be distraught, The pillars of fire and smoke will settle down And the silent waste-lands speak with voices of prophecy; When precious stones will once again etch the bright circumference Of your ruins And the heavens shake themselves into fleeting shapes, Vain and irresolute constellations plunge Into narrow circles of despair— It has been said that you will flourish again, When the crashing shores Of sea and river Melt into each other When waves shiver Into the rock’s embrace.
Then I, too, shall awaken, I trust, And behold you in your truth.
------------ * (c) Omer Tarin.
Pub ''The Glasgow Seeker'', UK, 2005
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Neighbours

 My neighbour has a field of wheat
 And I a rood of vine;
And he will give me bread to eat,
 And I will give him wine.
And so we are a jolly pair, Contentedly unwed, Singing with supper as we share Red wine and crusty bread.
Now venison is mighty meat And so is trout and hare; A mallard duck is sweat to eat And quail is dainty fare.
But such are foods for festal day, And we will not repine While on the table we can lay Crisp bread and rosy wine.
A will to till one's own of soil Is worth a kingly crown, With bread to feed the belly need, And wine to wash it down.
So with my neighbour I rejoice That we are fit and free, Content to praise with lusty voice Bread, Wine and Liberty.