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Best Famous Oliver Goldsmith Poems

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

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Written by Oliver Goldsmith | Create an image from this poem

An Elegy On The Death Of A Mad Dog

 Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran— Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad— When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends; But when a pique began, The dog, to gain some private ends, Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighbouring streets The wond'ring neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost its wits To bite so good a man.
The wound it seemed both sore and sad To every Christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light That showed the rogues they lied,— The man recovered of the bite, The dog it was that died!

Written by Oliver Goldsmith | Create an image from this poem

When Lovely Woman Stoops To Folly

 When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is—to die.
Written by William Butler Yeats | Create an image from this poem

The Seven Sages

 The First.
My great-grandfather spoke to Edmund Burke In Grattan's house.
The Second.
My great-grandfather shared A pot-house bench with Oliver Goldsmith once.
The Third.
My great-grandfather's father talked of music, Drank tar-water with the Bishop of Cloyne.
The Fourth.
But mine saw Stella once.
The Fifth.
Whence came our thought? The Sixth.
From four great minds that hated Whiggery.
The Fifth.
Burke was a Whig.
The Sixth.
Whether they knew or not, Goldsmith and Burke, Swift and the Bishop of Cloyne All hated Whiggery; but what is Whiggery? A levelling, rancorous, rational sort of mind That never looked out of the eye of a saint Or out of drunkard's eye.
The Seventh.
All's Whiggery now, But we old men are massed against the world.
The First.
American colonies, Ireland, France and India Harried, and Burke's great melody against it.
The Second.
Oliver Goldsmith sang what he had seen, Roads full of beggars, cattle in the fields, But never saw the trefoil stained with blood, The avenging leaf those fields raised up against it.
The Fourth.
The tomb of Swift wears it away.
The Third.
A voice Soft as the rustle of a reed from Cloyne That gathers volume; now a thunder-clap.
The Sixtb.
What schooling had these four? The Seventh.
They walked the roads Mimicking what they heard, as children mimic; They understood that wisdom comes of beggary.
Written by Oliver Goldsmith | Create an image from this poem

An Elegy On The Glory Of Her Sex Mrs Mary Blaize

 Good people all, with one accord
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word,— 
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom passed her door, And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor,— Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighbourhood to please With manners wondrous winning; And never followed wicked ways,— Unless when she was sinning.
At church, in silks and satins new, With hoop of monstrous size, She never slumbered in her pew,— But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux and more; The king himself has followed her,— When she has walked before.
But now her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short all; The doctors found, when she was dead,— Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament in sorrow sore, For Kent Street well may say That had she lived a twelvemonth more,— She had not died today.