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Best Famous Ross Poems

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

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Written by William Dunbar | Create an image from this poem

Lament for the Makers

 I THAT in heill was and gladness 
Am trublit now with great sickness 
And feblit with infirmitie:-- 
 Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Our plesance here is all vain glory, This fals world is but transitory, The flesh is bruckle, the Feynd is slee:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me.
The state of man does change and vary, Now sound, now sick, now blyth, now sary, Now dansand mirry, now like to die:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me.
No state in Erd here standis sicker; As with the wynd wavis the wicker So wannis this world's vanitie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Unto the Death gois all Estatis, Princis, Prelatis, and Potestatis, Baith rich and poor of all degree:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He takis the knichtis in to the field Enarmit under helm and scheild; Victor he is at all mellie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me.
That strong unmerciful tyrand Takis, on the motheris breast sowkand, The babe full of benignitie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He takis the campion in the stour, The captain closit in the tour, The lady in bour full of bewtie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He spairis no lord for his piscence, Na clerk for his intelligence; His awful straik may no man flee:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Art-magicianis and astrologgis, Rethoris, logicianis, and theologgis, Them helpis no conclusionis slee:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me.
In medecine the most practicianis, Leechis, surrigianis, and physicianis, Themself from Death may not supplee:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me.
I see that makaris amang the lave Playis here their padyanis, syne gois to grave; Sparit is nocht their facultie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He has done petuously devour The noble Chaucer, of makaris flour, The Monk of Bury, and Gower, all three:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me.
The good Sir Hew of Eglintoun, Ettrick, Heriot, and Wintoun, He has tane out of this cuntrie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me.
That scorpion fell has done infeck Maister John Clerk, and James Afflek, Fra ballat-making and tragedie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Holland and Barbour he has berevit; Alas! that he not with us levit Sir Mungo Lockart of the Lee:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Clerk of Tranent eke he has tane, That made the anteris of Gawaine; Sir Gilbert Hay endit has he:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He has Blind Harry and Sandy Traill Slain with his schour of mortal hail, Quhilk Patrick Johnstoun might nought flee:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He has reft Merseir his endite, That did in luve so lively write, So short, so quick, of sentence hie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He has tane Rowll of Aberdene, And gentill Rowll of Corstorphine; Two better fallowis did no man see:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me.
In Dunfermline he has tane Broun With Maister Robert Henrysoun; Sir John the Ross enbrast has he:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me.
And he has now tane, last of a, Good gentil Stobo and Quintin Shaw, Of quhom all wichtis hes pitie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Good Maister Walter Kennedy In point of Death lies verily; Great ruth it were that so suld be:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Sen he has all my brether tane, He will naught let me live alane; Of force I man his next prey be:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Since for the Death remeid is none, Best is that we for Death dispone, After our death that live may we:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Written by Henry Lawson | Create an image from this poem

The Fire At Rosss Farm

 The squatter saw his pastures wide 
Decrease, as one by one 
The farmers moving to the west 
Selected on his run; 
Selectors took the water up 
And all the black soil round; 
The best grass-land the squatter had 
Was spoilt by Ross's Ground.
Now many schemes to shift old Ross Had racked the squatter's brains, But Sandy had the stubborn blood Of Scotland in his veins; He held the land and fenced it in, He cleared and ploughed the soil, And year by year a richer crop Repaid him for his toil.
Between the homes for many years The devil left his tracks: The squatter pounded Ross's stock, And Sandy pounded Black's.
A well upon the lower run Was filled with earth and logs, And Black laid baits about the farm To poison Ross's dogs.
It was, indeed, a deadly feud Of class and creed and race; But, yet, there was a Romeo And a Juliet in the case; And more than once across the flats, Beneath the Southern Cross, Young Robert Black was seen to ride With pretty Jenny Ross.
One Christmas time, when months of drought Had parched the western creeks, The bush-fires started in the north And travelled south for weeks.
At night along the river-side The scene was grand and strange -- The hill-fires looked like lighted streets Of cities in the range.
The cattle-tracks between the trees Were like long dusky aisles, And on a sudden breeze the fire Would sweep along for miles; Like sounds of distant musketry It crackled through the brakes, And o'er the flat of silver grass It hissed like angry snakes.
It leapt across the flowing streams And raced o'er pastures broad; It climbed the trees and lit the boughs And through the scrubs it roared.
The bees fell stifled in the smoke Or perished in their hives, And with the stock the kangaroos Went flying for their lives.
The sun had set on Christmas Eve, When, through the scrub-lands wide, Young Robert Black came riding home As only natives ride.
He galloped to the homestead door And gave the first alarm: `The fire is past the granite spur, `And close to Ross's farm.
' `Now, father, send the men at once, They won't be wanted here; Poor Ross's wheat is all he has To pull him through the year.
' `Then let it burn,' the squatter said; `I'd like to see it done -- I'd bless the fire if it would clear Selectors from the run.
`Go if you will,' the squatter said, `You shall not take the men -- Go out and join your precious friends, And don't come here again.
' `I won't come back,' young Robert cried, And, reckless in his ire, He sharply turned his horse's head And galloped towards the fire.
And there, for three long weary hours, Half-blind with smoke and heat, Old Ross and Robert fought the flames That neared the ripened wheat.
The farmer's hand was nerved by fears Of danger and of loss; And Robert fought the stubborn foe For the love of Jenny Ross.
But serpent-like the curves and lines Slipped past them, and between, Until they reached the bound'ry where The old coach-road had been.
`The track is now our only hope, There we must stand,' cried Ross, `For nought on earth can stop the fire If once it gets across.
' Then came a cruel gust of wind, And, with a fiendish rush, The flames leapt o'er the narrow path And lit the fence of brush.
`The crop must burn!' the farmer cried, `We cannot save it now,' And down upon the blackened ground He dashed the ragged bough.
But wildly, in a rush of hope, His heart began to beat, For o'er the crackling fire he heard The sound of horses' feet.
`Here's help at last,' young Robert cried, And even as he spoke The squatter with a dozen men Came racing through the smoke.
Down on the ground the stockmen jumped And bared each brawny arm, They tore green branches from the trees And fought for Ross's farm; And when before the gallant band The beaten flames gave way, Two grimy hands in friendship joined -- And it was Christmas Day.
Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Create an image from this poem

Thomas Ross Jr

 This I saw with my own eyes:
A cliff-swallow
Made her nest in a hole of the high clay-bank
There near Miller's Ford.
But no sooner were the young hatched Than a snake crawled up to the nest To devour the brood.
Then the mother swallow with swift flutterings And shrill cries Fought at the snake, Blinding him with the beat of her wings, Until he, wriggling and rearing his head, Fell backward down the bank Into Spoon River and was drowned.
Scarcely an hour passed Until a shrike Impaled the mother swallow on a thorn.
As for myself I overcame my lower nature Only to be destroyed by my brother's ambition.