10 Best Famous Peggy Poems

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

• All Famous Peggy Poems

"I cannot go to school today"
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
"I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.

My mouth is wet, my throat is dry.
I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox.

And there's one more - that's seventeen,
And don't you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut, my eyes are blue,
It might be the instamatic flu.

I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I'm sure that my left leg is broke.
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button's caving in.

My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,
My 'pendix pains each time it rains.
My toes are cold, my toes are numb,
I have a sliver in my thumb.

My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.

My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.

I have a hangnail, and my heart is ...
What? What's that? What's that you say?
You say today is .............. Saturday?
G'bye, I'm going out to play!"

 When silver snow decks Susan's clothes,
And jewel hangs at th' shepherd's nose,
The blushing bank is all my care,
With hearth so red, and walls so fair;
`Heap the sea-coal, come, heap it higher,
The oaken log lay on the fire.'
The well-wash'd stools, a circling row,
With lad and lass, how fair the show!
The merry can of nut-brown ale,
The laughing jest, the love-sick tale,
Till, tir'd of chat, the game begins.
The lasses prick the lads with pins;
Roger from Dolly twitch'd the stool,
She, falling, kiss'd the ground, poor fool!
She blush'd so red, with sidelong glance
At hob-nail Dick, who griev'd the chance.
But now for Blind man's Buff they call;
Of each encumbrance clear the hall--
Jenny her silken 'kerchief folds,
And blear-eyed Will the black lot holds.
Now laughing stops, with `Silence! hush!'
And Peggy Pout gives Sam a push.
The Blind man's arms, extended wide,
Sam slips between:--`O woe betide
Thee, clumsy Will!'--but titt'ring Kate
Is penn'd up in the corner straight!
And now Will's eyes beheld the play;
He thought his face was t'other way.
`Now, Kitty, now! what chance hast thou,
Roger so near thee!--Trips, I vow!'
She catches him--then Roger ties
His own head up--but not his eyes;
For thro' the slender cloth he sees,
And runs at Sam, who slips with ease
His clumsy hold; and, dodging round,
Sukey is tumbled on the ground!--
`See what it is to play unfair!
Where cheating is, there's mischief there.'
But Roger still pursues the chase,--
`He sees! he sees!' cries, softly, Grace;
`O Roger, thou, unskill'd in art,
Must, surer bound, go thro' thy part!'
Now Kitty, pert, repeats the rimes,
And Roger turns him round three times,
Then pauses ere he starts--but Dick
Was mischief bent upon a trick;
Down on his hands and knees he lay
Directly in the Blind man's way,
Then cries out `Hem!' Hodge heard, and ran
With hood-wink'd chance--sure of his man;
But down he came. -- Alas, how frail
Our best of hopes, how soon they fail!
With crimson drops he stains the ground;
Confusion startles all around.
Poor piteous Dick supports his head,
And fain would cure the hurt he made.
But Kitty hasted with a key,
And down his back they straight convey
The cold relief; the blood is stay'd,
And Hodge again holds up his head.
Such are the fortunes of the game,
And those who play should stop the same
By wholesome laws; such as all those
Who on the blinded man impose
Stand in his stead; as, long a-gone,
When men were first a nation grown,
Lawless they liv'd, till wantonness
A 1000 nd liberty began t' increase,
And one man lay in another's way;
Then laws were made to keep fair play.

 Chor.—And I’ll kiss thee yet, yet,
 And I’ll kiss thee o’er again:
And I’ll kiss thee yet, yet,
 My bonie Peggy Alison.


ILK care and fear, when thou art near
 I evermair defy them, O!
Young kings upon their hansel throne
 Are no sae blest as I am, O!
 And I’ll kiss thee yet, yet, &c.


When in my arms, wi’ a’ thy charms,
 I clasp my countless treasure, O!
I seek nae mair o’ Heaven to share
 Than sic a moment’s pleasure, O!
 And I’ll kiss thee yet, yet, &c.


And by thy een sae bonie blue,
 I swear I’m thine for ever, O!
And on thy lips I seal my vow,
 And break it shall I never, O!
 And I’ll kiss thee yet, yet, &c.

 NOW westlin winds and slaught’ring guns
 Bring Autumn’s pleasant weather;
The moorcock springs on whirring wings
 Amang the blooming heather:
Now waving grain, wide o’er the plain,
 Delights the weary farmer;
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night,
 To muse upon my charmer.


The partridge loves the fruitful fells,
 The plover loves the mountains;
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells,
 The soaring hern the fountains:
Thro’ lofty groves the cushat roves,
 The path of man to shun it;
The hazel bush o’erhangs the thrush,
 The spreading thorn the linnet.


Thus ev’ry kind their pleasure find,
 The savage and the tender;
Some social join, and leagues combine,
 Some solitary wander:
Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,
 Tyrannic man’s dominion;
The sportsman’s joy, the murd’ring cry,
 The flutt’ring, gory pinion!


But, Peggy dear, the ev’ning’s clear,
 Thick flies the skimming swallow,
The sky is blue, the fields in view,
 All fading-green and yellow:
Come let us stray our gladsome way,
 And view the charms of Nature;
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
 And ev’ry happy creature.


We’ll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
 Till the silent moon shine clearly;
I’ll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest,
 Swear how I love thee dearly:
Not vernal show’rs to budding flow’rs,
 Not Autumn to the farmer,
So dear can be as thou to me,
 My fair, my lovely charmer!

 NOW spring has clad the grove in green,
 And strew’d the lea wi’ flowers;
The furrow’d, waving corn is seen
 Rejoice in fostering showers.
While ilka thing in nature join
 Their sorrows to forego,
O why thus all alone are mine
 The weary steps o’ woe!


The trout in yonder wimpling burn
 That glides, a silver dart,
And, safe beneath the shady thorn,
 Defies the angler’s art—
My life was ance that careless stream,
 That wanton trout was I;
But Love, wi’ unrelenting beam,
 Has scorch’d my fountains dry.


That little floweret’s peaceful lot,
 In yonder cliff that grows,
Which, save the linnet’s flight, I wot,
 Nae ruder visit knows,
Was mine, till Love has o’er me past,
 And blighted a’ my bloom;
And now, beneath the withering blast,
 My youth and joy consume.


The waken’d lav’rock warbling springs,
 And climbs the early sky,
Winnowing blythe his dewy wings
 In morning’s rosy eye;
As little reck’d I sorrow’s power,
 Until the flowery snare
O’witching Love, in luckless hour,
 Made me the thrall o’ care.


O had my fate been Greenland snows,
 Or Afric’s burning zone,
Wi’man and nature leagued my foes,
 So Peggy ne’er I’d known!
The wretch whose doom is “Hope nae mair”
 What tongue his woes can tell;
Within whase bosom, save Despair,
 Nae kinder spirits dwell.

 Mr. Smiggs was a gentleman,
And he lived in London town;
His wife she was a good kind soul,
And seldom known to frown. 

'Twas on Christmas eve,
And Smiggs and his wife lay cosy in bed,
When the thought of buying a goose
Came into his head. 

So the next morning,
Just as the sun rose,
He jump'd out of bed,
And he donn'd his clothes, 

Saying, "Peggy, my dear.
You need not frown,
For I'll buy you the best goose
In all London town." 

So away to the poultry shop he goes,
And bought the goose, as he did propose,
And for it he paid one crown,
The finest, he thought, in London town. 

When Smiggs bought the goose
He suspected no harm,
But a naughty boy stole it
From under his arm. 

Then Smiggs he cried, "Stop, thief!
Come back with my goose!"
But the naughty boy laugh'd at him,
And gave him much abuse. 

But a policeman captur'd the naughty boy,
And gave the goose to Smiggs,
And said he was greatly bother'd
By a set of juvenile prigs. 

So the naughty boy was put in prison
For stealing the goose.,
And got ten days' confinement
Before he got loose. 

So Smiggs ran home to his dear Peggy,
Saying, "Hurry, and get this fat goose ready,
That I have bought for one crown;
So, my darling, you need not frown." 

"Dear Mr Smiggs, I will not frown:
I'm sure 'tis cheap for one crown,
Especially at Christmas time --
Oh! Mr Smiggs, it's really fine." 

"Peggy. it is Christmas time,
So let us drive dull care away,
For we have got a Christmas goose,
So cook it well, I pray. 

"No matter how the poor are clothed,
Or if they starve at home,
We'll drink our wine, and eat our goose,
Aye, and pick it to the bone."

 MY noble, lovely, little Peggy, 
Let this my First Epistle beg ye, 
At dawn of morn, and close of even, 
To lift your heart and hands to Heaven. 
In double duty say your prayer: 
Our Father first, then Notre Pere. 

And, dearest child, along the day, 
In every thing you do and say, 
Obey and please my lord and lady, 
So God shall love and angels aid ye. 

If to these precepts you attend, 
No second letter need I send, 
And so I rest your constant friend.

 IF ye gae up to yon hill-tap,
 Ye’ll there see bonie Peggy;
She kens her father is a laird,
 And she forsooth’s a leddy.


There Sophy tight, a lassie bright,
 Besides a handsome fortune:
Wha canna win her in a night,
 Has little art in courtin’.


Gae down by Faile, and taste the ale,
 And tak a look o’ Mysie;
She’s dour and din, a deil within,
 But aiblins she may please ye.


If she be shy, her sister try,
 Ye’ll maybe fancy Jenny;
If ye’ll dispense wi’ want o’ sense—
 She kens hersel she’s bonie.


As ye gae up by yon hillside,
 Speir in for bonie Bessy;
She’ll gie ye a beck, and bid ye light,
 And handsomely address ye.


There’s few sae bonie, nane sae guid,
 In a’ King George’ dominion;
If ye should doubt the truth o’ this—
 It’s Bessy’s ain opinion!

 ALTHO’ my bed were in yon muir,
 Amang the heather, in my plaidie;
Yet happy, happy would I be,
 Had I my dear Montgomerie’s Peggy.


When o’er the hill beat surly storms,
 And winter nights were dark and rainy;
I’d seek some dell, and in my arms
 I’d shelter dear Montgomerie’s Peggy.


Were I a baron proud and high,
 And horse and servants waiting ready;
Then a’ ’twad gie o’ joy to me,—
 The sharin’t with Montgomerie’s Peggy.

 WHERE, braving angry winter’s storms,
 The lofty Ochils rise,
Far in their shade my Peggy’s charms
 First blest my wondering eyes;
As one who by some savage stream
 A lonely gem surveys,
Astonish’d, doubly marks it beam
 With art’s most polish’d blaze.


Blest be the wild, sequester’d shade,
 And blest the day and hour,
Where Peggy’s charms I first survey’d,
 When first I felt their pow’r!
The tyrant Death, with grim control,
 May seize my fleeting breath;
But tearing Peggy from my soul
 Must be a stronger death.