10 Best Famous Sacked Poems

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

• All Famous Sacked Poems

 Now Jones had left his new-wed bride to keep his house in order,
And hied away to the Hurrum Hills above the Afghan border,
To sit on a rock with a heliograph; but ere he left he taught
His wife the working of the Code that sets the miles at naught.

And Love had made him very sage, as Nature made her fair;
So Cupid and Apollo linked , per heliograph, the pair.
At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise --
At e'en, the dying sunset bore her busband's homilies.

He warned her 'gainst seductive youths in scarlet clad and gold,
As much as 'gainst the blandishments paternal of the old;
But kept his gravest warnings for (hereby the ditty hangs)
That snowy-haired Lothario, Lieutenant-General Bangs.

'Twas General Bangs, with Aide and Staff, who tittupped on the way,
When they beheld a heliograph tempestuously at play.
They thought of Border risings, and of stations sacked and burnt --
So stopped to take the message down -- and this is whay they learnt --

"Dash dot dot, dot, dot dash, dot dash dot" twice. The General swore.
"Was ever General Officer addressed as 'dear' before?
"'My Love,' i' faith! 'My Duck,' Gadzooks! 'My darling popsy-wop!'
"Spirit of great Lord Wolseley, who is on that mountaintop?"

The artless Aide-de-camp was mute; the gilded Staff were still,
As, dumb with pent-up mirth, they booked that message from the hill;
For clear as summer lightning-flare, the husband's warning ran: --
"Don't dance or ride with General Bangs -- a most immoral man."

[At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise --
But, howsoever Love be blind, the world at large hath eyes.]
With damnatory dot and dash he heliographed his wife
Some interesting details of the General's private life.

The artless Aide-de-camp was mute, the shining Staff were still,
And red and ever redder grew the General's shaven gill.
And this is what he said at last (his feelings matter not): --
"I think we've tapped a private line. Hi! Threes about there! Trot!"

All honour unto Bangs, for ne'er did Jones thereafter know
By word or act official who read off that helio.
But the tale is on the Frontier, and from Michni to Mooltan
They know the worthy General as "that most immoral man."

 'Twas on the famous Empire run, 
Whose sun does never set, 
Whose grass and water, so they say, 
Have never failed them yet -- 
They carry many million sheep, 
Through seasons dry and wet. 
They call the homestead Albion House, 
And then, along with that, 
There's Welshman's Gully, Scotchman's Hill, 
And Paddymelon Flat: 
And all these places are renowned 
For making jumbacks fat. 

And the out-paddocks -- holy frost! 
There wouldn't be no sense 
For me to try and tell you half -- 
They really are immense; 
A man might ride for days and weeks 
And never strike a fence. 

But still for years they never had 
Been known a sheep to lose; 
Old Billy Gladstone managed it, 
And you can bet your shoes 
He'd scores of supers under him, 
And droves of jackaroos. 

Old Billy had an eagle eye, 
And kept his wits about -- 
If any chaps got trespassing 
He quickly cleared 'em out; 
And coves that used to "work a cross", 
They hated him, no doubt. 

But still he managed it in style, 
Until the times got dry, 
And Billy gave the supers word 
To see and mind their eye -- 
"If any paddocks gets a-fire 
I'll know the reason why." 

Now on this point old Bill was sure, 
Because, for many a year, 
Whenever times got dry at all, 
As sure as you are here, 
The Paddymelon Flat got burnt 
Which Bill thought rather *****. 

He sent his smartest supers there 
To try and keep things right. 
No use! The grass was always dry -- 
They'd go to sleep at night, 
And when they woke they'd go and find 
The whole concern alight. 

One morning it was very hot -- 
The sun rose in a haze; 
Old Bill was cutting down some trees 
(One of his little ways); 
A black boy came hot-foot to say 
The Flat was in a blaze. 

Old Bill he swears a fearful oath 
And lets the tommy fall -- 
Says he: "'ll take this business up, 
And fix it once for all; 
If this goes on the cursed run 
Will send us to the wall." 

So he withdrew his trespass suits, 
He'd one with Dutchy's boss -- 
In prosecutions criminal 
He entered nolle pros., 
But these were neither here nor there -- 
They always meant a loss. 

And off to Paddymelon Flat 
He started double quick 
Drayloads of men with lots of grog 
Lest heat should make them sick, 
And all the strangers came around 
To see him do the trick. 

And there the fire was flaming bright, 
For miles and miles it spread, 
And many a sheep and horse and cow 
Were numbered with the dead -- 
The super came to meet Old Bill, 
And this is what he said: 

"No use, to try to beat it out, 
'Twill dry you up like toast, 
I've done as much as man can do, 
Although I never boast; 
I think you'd better chuck it up, 
And let the jumbucks roast." 

Then Bill said just two words: "You're sacked," 
And pitches off his coat, 
And wrenches down a blue gum bough 
And clears his manly throat, 
And into it like threshing wheat 
Right sturdily he smote. 

And beat the blazing grass until 
His shirt was dripping wet; 
And all the people watched him there 
To see what luck he'd get, 
"Gosh! don't he make the cinders fly," 
And, Golly, don't he sweat!" 

But though they worked like Trojans all, 
The fire still went ahead 
So far as you could see around, 
The very skies were red, 
Sometimes the flames would start afresh, 
Just where they thought it dead. 

His men, too, quarreled 'mongst themselves 
And some coves gave it best 
And some said, "Light a fire in front, 
And burn from east to west" -- 
But Bill he still kept sloggin' in, 
And never took no rest. 

Then through the crowd a cornstalk kid 
Come ridin' to the spot 
Says he to Bill, "Now take a spell, 
You're lookin' very 'ot, 
And if you'll only listen, why, 
I'll tell you what is what. 

"These coves as set your grass on fire, 
There ain't no mortal doubt, 
I've seen 'em ridin' here and there, 
And pokin' round about; 
It ain't no use your workin' here, 
Until you finds them out. 

"See yonder, where you beat the fire -- 
It's blazin' up again, 
And fires are starting right and left 
On Tipperary Plain, 
Beating them out is useless quite, 
Unless Heaven sends the rain. 

Then Bill, he turns upon the boy, 
"Oh, hold your tongue, you pup!" 
But a cinder blew across the creek 
While Bill stopped for a sup, 
And fired the Albion paddocks, too -- 
It was a bitter cup; 
Old Bill's heart was broke at last, 
He had to chuck it up. 


Moral 

The run is England's Empire great, 
The fire is the distress 
That burns the stock they represent -- 
Prosperity you'll guess. 
And the blue gum bough is the Home Rule Bill 
That's making such a mess. 

And Ireland green, of course I mean 
By Paddymelon Flat; 
All men can see the fire, of course, 
Spreads on at such a bat, 
But who are setting it alight, 
I cannot tell you that. 

But this I think all men will see, 
And hold it very true -- 
"Don't quarrel with effects until 
The cause is brought to view." 
What is the cause? That cornstalk boy -- 
He seemed to think he knew.

 "Flowers, only flowers -- bring me dainty posies,
 Blossoms for forgetfulness," that was all he said;
So we sacked our gardens, violets and roses,
 Lilies white and bluebells laid we on his bed.
Soft his pale hands touched them, tenderly caressing;
 Soft into his tired eyes came a little light;
Such a wistful love-look, gentle as a blessing;
 There amid the flowers waited he the night.

"I would have you raise me; I can see the West then:
 I would see the sun set once before I go."
So he lay a-gazing, seemed to be at rest then,
 Quiet as a spirit in the golden glow.
So he lay a-watching rosy castles crumbling,
 Moats of blinding amber, bastions of flame,
Rugged rifts of opal, crimson turrets tumbling;
 So he lay a-dreaming till the shadows came.

"Open wide the window; there's a lark a-singing;
 There's a glad lark singing in the evening sky.
How it's wild with rapture, radiantly winging:
 Oh it's good to hear that when one has to die.
I am horror-haunted from the hell they found me;
 I am battle-broken, all I want is rest.
Ah! It's good to die so, blossoms all around me,
 And a kind lark singing in the golden West.

"Flowers, song and sunshine, just one thing is wanting,
 Just the happy laughter of a little child."
So we brought our dearest, Doris all-enchanting;
 Tenderly he kissed her; radiant he smiled.
"In the golden peace-time you will tell the story
 How for you and yours, sweet, bitter deaths were ours. . . .
God bless little children!" So he passed to glory,
 So we left him sleeping, still amid the flow'rs.

 When I put her out, once, by the garbage pail,
She looked so limp and bedraggled,
So foolish and trusting, like a sick poodle,
Or a wizened aster in late September,
I brought her back in again
For a new routine--
Vitamins, water, and whatever
Sustenance seemed sensible
At the time: she'd lived
So long on gin, bobbie pins, half-smoked cigars, dead beer,
Her shriveled petals falling
On the faded carpet, the stale
Steak grease stuck to her fuzzy leaves.
(Dried-out, she creaked like a tulip.)
The things she endured!--
The dumb dames shrieking half the night
Or the two of us, alone, both seedy,
Me breathing booze at her,
She leaning out of her pot toward the window.

Near the end, she seemed almost to hear me--
And that was scary--
So when that snuffling cretin of a maid
Threw her, pot and all, into the trash-can,
I said nothing.

But I sacked the presumptuous hag the next week,
I was that lonely.

 Being Young and Green, I said in love's despite:
Never in the world will I to living wight
Give over, air my mind
To anyone,
Hang out its ancient secrets in the strong wind
To be shredded and faded—

Oh, me, invaded
And sacked by the wind and the sun!

 I

Hot through Troy's ruin Menelaus broke
To Priam's palace, sword in hand, to sate
On that adulterous whore a ten years' hate
And a king's honour. Through red death, and smoke,
And cries, and then by quieter ways he strode,
Till the still innermost chamber fronted him.
He swung his sword, and crashed into the dim
Luxurious bower, flaming like a god.

High sat white Helen, lonely and serene.
He had not remembered that she was so fair,
And that her neck curved down in such a way;
And he felt tired. He flung the sword away,
And kissed her feet, and knelt before her there,
The perfect Knight before the perfect Queen.


II

So far the poet. How should he behold
That journey home, the long connubial years?
He does not tell you how white Helen bears
Child on legitimate child, becomes a scold,
Haggard with virtue. Menelaus bold
Waxed garrulous, and sacked a hundred Troys
'Twixt noon and supper. And her golden voice
Got shrill as he grew deafer. And both were old.

Often he wonders why on earth he went
Troyward, or why poor Paris ever came.
Oft she weeps, gummy-eyed and impotent;
Her dry shanks twitch at Paris' mumbled name.
So Menelaus nagged; and Helen cried;
And Paris slept on by Scamander side.

THIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling  
Like a huge organ rise the burnished arms; 
But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing 
Startles the villages with strange alarms. 

Ah! what a sound will rise how wild and dreary 5 
When the death-angel touches those swift keys! 
What loud lament and dismal Miserere 
Will mingle with their awful symphonies! 

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus  
The cries of agony the endless groan 10 
Which through the ages that have gone before us  
In long reverberations reach our own. 

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer  
Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song  
And loud amid the universal clamor 15 
O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. 

I hear the Florentine who from his palace 
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din  
And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 
Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin; 20 

The tumult of each sacked and burning village; 
The shouts that every prayer for mercy drowns; 
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage; 
The wail of famine in beleaguered towns; 

The bursting shell the gateway wrenched asunder 25 
The rattling musketry the clashing blade; 
And ever and anon in tones of thunder 
The diapason of the cannonade. 

Is it O man with such discordant noises  
With such accursed instruments as these 30 
Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices  
And jarrest the celestial harmonies? 

Were half the power that fills the world with terror  
Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts  
Given to redeem the human mind from error 35 
There were no need of arsenals or forts: 

The warrior's name would be a name abhorr¨¨d! 
And every nation that should lift again 
Its hand against a brother on its forehead 
Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain! 40 

Down the dark future through long generations  
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease; 
And like a bell with solemn sweet vibrations  
I hear once more the voice of Christ say Peace!  

Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals 45 
The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies! 
But beautiful as songs of the immortals  
The holy melodies of love arise.

 I was Lord of Cities very sumptuously builded.
Seven roaring Cities paid me tribute from far.
Ivory their outposts were--the guardrooms of them gilded,
And garrisoned with Amazons invincible in war.

All the world went softly when it walked before my Cities--
Neither King nor Army vexed my peoples at their toil.
Never horse nor chariot irked or overbore my Cities.
Never Mob nor Ruler questioned whence they drew their spoil.

Banded, mailed and arrogant from sunrise unto sunset,
Singing while they sacked it, they possessed the land at large.
Yet when men would rob them, they resisted, they made onset
And pierced the smoke of battle with a thousand-sabred charge.

So they warred and trafficked only yesterday, my Cities.
To-day there is no mark or mound of where my Cities stood.
For the River rose at midnight and it washed away my Cities.
They are evened with Atlantis and the towns before the Flood.

Rain on rain-gorged channels raised the -water-levels round them,
Freshet backed on freshet swelled and swept their world from
 sight; 
Till the emboldened floods linked arms and, flashing forward,
 droned them--
Drowned my Seven Cities and their peoples in one night!

Low among the alders lie their derelict foundations,
The beams wherein they trusted and the plinths whereon they
 built--
 My rulers and their treasure and their unborn populations,
 Dead, destroyed, aborted, and defiled with mud and silt!

The Daughters of the Palace whom they cherished in my Cities,
My silver-tongued Princesses, and the promise of their May--
Their bridegrooms of the June-tide-all have perished in my
 Cities,
 With the harsh envenomed virgins that can neither love nor play.

 I was Lord of Cities--I will build anew my Cities,
 Seven set on rocks, above the wrath of any flood.
 Nor will I rest from search till I have filled anew my Cities
 With peoples undefeated of the dark, enduring blood.

 To the sound of trumpets shall their seed restore my Cities,
 Wealthy and well-weaponed, that once more may I behold
 All the world go softly when it walks before my Cities,
 And the horses and the chariots fleeing from them as of old!

 I made sackcloth also my garment; and I 
 became a proverb to them. They that sit in 
 the gate speak against me; and I was the 
 song of drunkards. Psalm 102

I made sackcloth my garment once, by cutting
arm and neck holes into a burlap bag.
A croker sack they called it. Sackdragger
they called the man who dragged a croker sack
between the cotton rows to pick. He dragged
a gunnysack behind him in the ditch
collecting empties. Him they chose
the Likeliest to Sack Seed in the feed store,
or to suck seed. He was your daddy. He sacked
groceries part-time, and they jeered:
you sorry sack of ****. Sackcloth,
which Job sewed upon his skin, was goat hair.
God who clothed the heavens with such blackness
said, I make sackcloth their covering.
Isaiah understood. God had him speak a word
in season to the weary. Speak, Isaiah, now, to me.
Before the stars like green figs in a windstorm
drop, the sun is black as sackcloth, and the moon
becomes as blood. My soul is weary. Speak,
Isaiah. Sing. I was a scholar as a boy:
I cut the neck and arm holes into the burlap,
pulled it on, and cinched it with a hank of rope:
what I have done from then till now is itch.

 If we sang in the wood (and Death is a German expert)
while snows flies, chill, after so frequent knew
so many all nothing,
for lead & fire, it's not we would assert
particulars, but animal; cats mew,
horses scream, man sing.

Or: men pslam. Man palms his ears and moans.
Death is a German expert. Scrambling, sitting,
spattering, we hurry.
I try to. Odd & trivial, atones
somehow for my escape a bullet splitting
my trod-on instep, fiery.

The cantor bubbled, rattled. The Temple burned.
Lurch with me! phantoms of Varshava. Slop!
When I used to be,
who haunted, stumbling, sewers, my sacked shop,
roofs, a dis-world ai! Death was a German
home-country.