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Best Famous Satins Poems

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Written by Sylvia Plath | Create an image from this poem

A Birthday Present

 What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?
It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges?

I am sure it is unique, I am sure it is what I want.
When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking

'Is this the one I am too appear for,
Is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar?

Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus,
Adhering to rules, to rules, to rules.

Is this the one for the annunciation?
My god, what a laugh!'

But it shimmers, it does not stop, and I think it wants me.
I would not mind if it were bones, or a pearl button.

I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year.
After all I am alive only by accident.

I would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way.
Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains,

The diaphanous satins of a January window
White as babies' bedding and glittering with dead breath. O ivory!

It must be a tusk there, a ghost column.
Can you not see I do not mind what it is.

Can you not give it to me?
Do not be ashamed--I do not mind if it is small.

Do not be mean, I am ready for enormity.
Let us sit down to it, one on either side, admiring the gleam,

The glaze, the mirrory variety of it.
Let us eat our last supper at it, like a hospital plate.

I know why you will not give it to me,
You are terrified

The world will go up in a shriek, and your head with it,
Bossed, brazen, an antique shield,

A marvel to your great-grandchildren.
Do not be afraid, it is not so.

I will only take it and go aside quietly.
You will not even hear me opening it, no paper crackle,

No falling ribbons, no scream at the end.
I do not think you credit me with this discretion.

If you only knew how the veils were killing my days.
To you they are only transparencies, clear air.

But my god, the clouds are like cotton.
Armies of them. They are carbon monoxide.

Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in,
Filling my veins with invisibles, with the million

Probable motes that tick the years off my life.
You are silver-suited for the occasion. O adding machine-----

Is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole?
Must you stamp each piece purple,

Must you kill what you can?
There is one thing I want today, and only you can give it to me.

It stands at my window, big as the sky.
It breathes from my sheets, the cold dead center

Where split lives congeal and stiffen to history.
Let it not come by the mail, finger by finger.

Let it not come by word of mouth, I should be sixty
By the time the whole of it was delivered, and to numb to use it.

Only let down the veil, the veil, the veil.
If it were death

I would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes.
I would know you were serious.

There would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday.
And the knife not carve, but enter

Pure and clean as the cry of a baby,
And the universe slide from my side.


Written by Stephen Vincent Benet | Create an image from this poem

The White Peacock

 (France -- Ancient Regime.) 

I.

Go away! 
Go away; I will not confess to you! 
His black biretta clings like a hangman's cap; under his twitching fingers the beads shiver and click, 
As he mumbles in his corner, the shadow deepens upon him; 
I will not confess! . . . 

Is he there or is it intenser shadow? 
Dark huddled coilings from the obscene depths, 
Black, formless shadow, 
Shadow. 
Doors creak; from secret parts of the chateau come the scuffle and worry of rats. 

Orange light drips from the guttering candles, 
Eddying over the vast embroideries of the bed 
Stirring the monstrous tapestries, 
Retreating before the sable impending gloom of the canopy 
With a swift thrust and sparkle of gold, 
Lipping my hands, 
Then 
Rippling back abashed before the ominous silences 
Like the swift turns and starts of an overpowered fencer 
Who sees before him Horror 
Behind him darkness, 
Shadow. 

The clock jars and strikes, a thin, sudden note like the sob of a child. 
Clock, buhl clock that ticked out the tortuous hours of my birth, 
Clock, evil, wizened dwarf of a clock, how many years of agony have you relentlessly measured, 
Yardstick of my stifling shroud? 

I am Aumaury de Montreuil; once quick, soon to be eaten of worms. 
You hear, Father? Hsh, he is asleep in the night's cloak. 

Over me too steals sleep. 
Sleep like a white mist on the rotting paintings of cupids and gods on the ceiling; 
Sleep on the carven shields and knots at the foot of the bed, 
Oozing, blurring outlines, obliterating colors, 
Death. 

Father, Father, I must not sleep! 
It does not hear -- that shadow crouched in the corner . . . 
Is it a shadow? 
One might think so indeed, save for the calm face, yellow as wax, that lifts like the face of a drowned man from the choking darkness. 


II.

Out of the drowsy fog my body creeps back to me. 
It is the white time before dawn. 
Moonlight, watery, pellucid, lifeless, ripples over the world. 
The grass beneath it is gray; the stars pale in the sky. 
The night dew has fallen; 
An infinity of little drops, crystals from which all light has been taken, 
Glint on the sighing branches. 
All is purity, without color, without stir, without passion. 

Suddenly a peacock screams. 

My heart shocks and stops; 
Sweat, cold corpse-sweat 
Covers my rigid body. 
My hair stands on end. I cannot stir. I cannot speak. 
It is terror, terror that is walking the pale sick gardens 
And the eyeless face no man may see and live! 
Ah-h-h-h-h! 
Father, Father, wake! wake and save me! 
In his corner all is shadow. 

Dead things creep from the ground. 
It is so long ago that she died, so long ago! 
Dust crushes her, earth holds her, mold grips her. 
Fiends, do you not know that she is dead? . . . 
"Let us dance the pavon!" she said; the waxlights glittered like swords on the polished floor. 
Twinkling on jewelled snuffboxes, beaming savagely from the crass gold of candelabra, 
From the white shoulders of girls and the white powdered wigs of men . . . 
All life was that dance. 
The mocking, resistless current, 
The beauty, the passion, the perilous madness -- 
As she took my hand, released it and spread her dresses like petals, 
Turning, swaying in beauty, 
A lily, bowed by the rain, -- 
Moonlight she was, and her body of moonlight and foam, 
And her eyes stars. 
Oh the dance has a pattern! 
But the clear grace of her thrilled through the notes of the viols, 
Tremulous, pleading, escaping, immortal, untamed, 
And, as we ended, 
She blew me a kiss from her hand like a drifting white blossom -- 
And the starshine was gone; and she fled like a bird up the stair. 

Underneath the window a peacock screams, 
And claws click, scrape 
Like little lacquered boots on the rough stone. 

Oh the long fantasy of the kiss; the ceaseless hunger, ceaselessly, divinely appeased! 
The aching presence of the beloved's beauty! 
The wisdom, the incense, the brightness! 

Once more on the ice-bright floor they danced the pavon 
But I turned to the garden and her from the lighted candles. 
Softly I trod the lush grass between the black hedges of box. 
Softly, for I should take her unawares and catch her arms, 
And embrace her, dear and startled. 

By the arbor all the moonlight flowed in silver 
And her head was on his breast. 
She did not scream or shudder 
When my sword was where her head had lain 
In the quiet moonlight; 
But turned to me with one pale hand uplifted, 
All her satins fiery with the starshine, 
Nacreous, shimmering, weeping, iridescent, 
Like the quivering plumage of a peacock . . . 
Then her head drooped and I gripped her hair, 
Oh soft, scented cloud across my fingers! -- 
Bending her white neck back. . . . 

Blood writhed on my hands; I trod in blood. . . . 
Stupidly agaze 
At that crumpled heap of silk and moonlight, 
Where like twitching pinions, an arm twisted, 
Palely, and was still 
As the face of chalk. 

The buhl clock strikes. 
Thirty years. Christ, thirty years! 
Agony. Agony. 

Something stirs in the window, 
Shattering the moonlight. 
White wings fan. 
Father, Father! 

All its plumage fiery with the starshine, 
Nacreous, shimmering, weeping, iridescent, 
It drifts across the floor and mounts the bed, 
To the tap of little satin shoes. 
Gazing with infernal eyes. 
Its quick beak thrusting, rending, devil's crimson . . . 
Screams, great tortured screams shake the dark canopy. 
The light flickers, the shadow in the corner stirs; 
The wax face lifts; the eyes open. 

A thin trickle of blood worms darkly against the vast red coverlet and spreads to a pool on the floor.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Ballad Of Touch-The-Button Nell

 Beyond the Rocking Bridge it lies, the burg of evil fame,
The huts where hive and swarm and thrive the sisterhood of shame.
Through all the night each cabin light goes out and then goes in,
A blood-red heliograph of lust, a semaphore of sin.
From Dawson Town, soft skulking down, each lewdster seeks his mate;
And glad and bad, kimono clad, the wanton women wait.
The Klondike gossips to the moon, and sinners o'er its bars;
Each silent hill is dark and chill, and chill the patient stars.
Yet hark! upon the Rocking Bridge a bacchanalian step;
A whispered: "Come," the skirl of some hell-raking demirep...

 * * * * * * * * * * *

They gave a dance in Lousetown, and the Tenderloin was there,
The girls were fresh and frolicsome, and nearly all were fair.
They flaunted on their back the spoil of half-a-dozen towns;
And some they blazed in gems of price, and some wore Paris gowns.
The voting was divided as to who might be the belle;
But all opined, the winsomest was Touch-the-Button Nell.

Among the merry mob of men was one who did not dance,
But watched the "light fantastic" with a sour sullen glance.
They saw his white teeth gleam, they saw his thick lips twitch;
They knew him for the giant Slav, one Riley Dooleyvitch.

"Oh Riley Dooleyvitch, come forth," quoth Touch-the-Button Nell,
"And dance a step or two with me - the music's simply swell,"
He crushed her in his mighty arms, a meek, beguiling witch,
"With you, oh Nell, I'd dance to hell," said Riley Dooleyvitch.

He waltzed her up, he waltzed her down, he waltzed her round the hall;
His heart was putty in her hands, his very soul was thrall.
As Antony of old succumbed to Cleopatra's spell,
So Riley Dooleyvitch bowed down to Touch-the-Button Nell.

"And do you love me true?" she cried. "I love you as my life."
"How can you prove your love?" she sighed. "I beg you be my wife.
I stake big pay up Hunker way; some day I be so rich;
I make you shine in satins fine," said Riley Dooleyvitch.

"Some day you'll be so rich," she mocked; "that old pipe-dream don't go.
Who gets an option on this kid must have some coin to show.
You work your ground. When Spring comes round, our wedding bells will ring.
I'm on the square, and I'll take care of all the gold you bring."

So Riley Dooleyvitch went back and worked upon his claim;
He ditched and drifted, sunk and stoped, with one unswerving aim;
And when his poke of raw moose-hide with dust began to swell,
He bought and laid it at the feet of Touch-the-Button Nell.

 * * * * * * * * * * *

Now like all others of her ilk, the lady had a friend,
And what she made my way of trade, she gave to him to spend;
To stake him in a poker game, or pay his bar-room score;
He was a pimp from Paris. and his name was Lew Lamore.

And so as Dooleyvitch went forth and worked as he was bid,
And wrested from the frozen muck the yellow stuff it hid,
And brought it to his Lady Nell, she gave him love galore -
But handed over all her gains to festive Lew Lamore.

 * * * * * * * * * * *

A year had gone, a weary year of strain and bloody sweat;
Of pain and hurt in dark and dirt, of fear that she forget.
He sought once more her cabin door: "I've laboured like a beast;
But now, dear one, the time has come to go before the priest.

"I've brought you gold - a hundred fold I'll bring you bye and bye;
But oh I want you, want you bad; I want you till I die.
Come, quit this life with evil rife - we'll joy while yet we can..."
"I may not wed with you," she said; "I love another man.

"I love him and I hate him so. He holds me in a spell.
He beats me - see my bruisèd brest; he makes my life a hell.
He bleeds me, as by sin and shame I earn my daily bread:
Oh cruel Fate, I cannot mate till Lew Lamore is dead!"

 * * * * * * * * * * *

The long lean flume streaked down the hill, five hundred feet of fall;
The waters in the dam above chafed at their prison wall;
They surged and swept, they churned and leapt, with savage glee and strife;
With spray and spume the dizzy flume thrilled like a thing of life.

"We must be free," the waters cried, and scurried down the slope;
"No power can hold us back," they roared, and hurried in their hope.
Into a mighty pipe they plunged, like maddened steers they ran,
And crashed out through a shard of steel - to serve the will of Man.

And there, by hydraulicking his ground beside a bedrock ditch,
With eye aflame and savage aim was Riley Dooleyvitch.
In long hip-boots and overalls, and dingy denim shirt,
Behind a giant monitor he pounded at the dirt.

A steely shaft of water shot, and smote the face of clay;
It burrowed in the frozen muck, and scooped the dirt away;
It gored the gravel from its bed, it bellowed like a bull;
It hurled the heavy rock aloft like heaps of fleecy wool.

Strength of a hundred men was there, resistess might and skill,
And only Riley Dooleyvitch to swing it at his will.
He played it up, he played it down, nigh deafened by its roar,
'Til suddenly he raised his eyes, and there stood Lew Lamore.

Pig-eyed and heavy jowled he stood and puffed a big cigar;
As cool as though he ruled the roost in some Montmartre bar.
He seemed to say, "I've got a cinch, a double diamond hitch:
I'll skin this Muscovitish oaf, this Riley Dooleyvitch.

He shouted: "Stop ze water gun; it stun me... Sacré damn!
I like to make one beezness deal; you know ze man I am.
Zat leetle girl, she loves me so - I tell you what I do:
You geeve to me zees claim... Jeecrize! I geeve zat girl to you."

"I'll see you damned," says Dooleyvitch; but e'er he checked his tongue,
(It may have been an accident) the little Giant swung;
Swift as a lightning flash it swung, until it plumply bore
And met with an obstruction in the shape of Lew lamore.

It caught him up, and spun him round, and tossed him like a ball;
It played and pawed him in the air, before it let him fall.
Then just to show what it could do, with savage rend and thud,
It ripped the entrails from his spine, and dropped him in the mud.

They gathered up the broken bones, and sadly in a sack,
They bore to town the last remains of Lew Lamore, the macque.
And would you hear the full details of how it all befell,
Ask Missis Riley Dooleyvitch (late Touch-the-Button Nell).
Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | Create an image from this poem

Common Things

 I like to hear of wealth and gold, 
And El Doradoes in their glory; 
I like for silks and satins bold 
To sweep and rustle through a story.

The nightingale is sweet of song; 
The rare exotic smells divinely; 
And knightly men who stride along, 
The role heroic carry finely.

But then, upon the other hand, 
Our minds have got a way of running 
To things that aren't quite so grand, 
Which, maybe, we are best in shunning.

For some of us still like to see 
The poor man in his dwelling narrow, 
The hollyhock, the bumblebee, 
The meadow lark, and chirping sparrow.

We like the man who soars and sings 
With high and lofty inspiration; 
But he who sings of common things 
Shall always share our admiration.
Written by Henry Van Dyke | Create an image from this poem

The Proud Lady

 When Stiivoren town was in its prime
And queened the Zuyder Zee,
Its ships went out to every clime
With costly merchantry. 

A lady dwelt in that rich town,
The fairest in all the land;
She walked abroad in a velvet gown,
With many rings on her hand. 

Her hair was bright as the beaten gold,
Her lips as coral red,
Her roving eyes were blue and bold,
And her heart with pride was fed. 

For she was proud of her father's ships,
As she watched them gayly pass;
And pride looked out of her eyes and lips
When she saw herself in the glass. 

"Now come," she said to the captains ten,
Who were ready to put to sea,
"Ye are all my men and my father's men,
And what will ye do for me?" 

"Go north and south, go east and west,
And get me gifts," she said.
"And he who bringeth me home the best,
With that man will I wed." 

So they all fared forth, and sought with care
In many a famous mart,
For satins and silks and jewels rare,
To win that lady's heart. 

She looked at them all with never a thought,
And careless put them by;
"I am not fain of the things ye brought,
Enough of these have I." 

The last that came was the head of the fleet,
His name was Jan Borel;
He bent his knee at the lady's feet,--
In truth he loved her well. 

"I've brought thee home the best i' the world,
A shipful of Danzig corn!"
She stared at him long; her red lips curled,
Her blue eyes filled with scorn. 

"Now out on thee, thou feckless kerl,
A loon thou art," she said.
"Am I a starving beggar girl?
Shall I ever lack for bread?" 

"Go empty all thy sacks of grain
Into the nearest sea,
And never show thy face again
To make a mock of me." 

Then Jan Borel, he hoisted sail,
And out to sea he bore;
He passed the Helder in a gale
And came again no more. 

But the grains of corn went drifting down
Like devil-scattered seed,
To sow the harbor of the town
With a wicked growth of weed. 

The roots were thick and the silt and sand
Were gathered day by day,
Till not a furlong out from land
A shoal had barred the way. 

Then Stavoren town saw evil years,
No ships could out or in,
The boats lay rotting at the piers,
And the mouldy grain in the bin. 

The grass-grown streets were all forlorn,
The town in ruin stood,
The lady's velvet gown was torn,
Her rings were sold for food. 

Her father had perished long ago,
But the lady held her pride,
She walked with a scornful step and slow,
Till at last in her rags she died. 

Yet still on the crumbling piers of the town,
When the midnight moon shines free,
woman walks in a velvet gown
And scatters corn in the sea.


Written by Jennifer Reeser | Create an image from this poem

Should You Ask At Midnight

 What would I do without your voice to wake me?
Cor ad cor loquitur, I’m loath to know.
Kitsch operas sound, unhesitant to shake me,
The sheers undrawn, the heavens hardly showing,
My camisole askew, of lace-trimmed black –
Not red, not white; not passionate or pure.
I raise the volume, and the voices crack—
Vanilla scores: accessible, obscure.
But what would I do without your certain voice?
Disjecta membra ... I am loath to think.
This negligée is sable, but my choice
If black had been forbidden, would be pink:
The blood of ballet satins, quartz, the lover,
That cut from which I never could recover.
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.
Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | Create an image from this poem

The Party

Dey had a gread big pahty down to Tom's de othah night;
Was I dah? You bet! I nevah in my life see sich a sight;
All de folks f'om fou' plantations was invited, an' dey come,
Dey come troopin' thick ez chillun when dey hyeahs a fife an' drum.
Evahbody dressed deir fines'—Heish yo' mouf an' git away,
Ain't seen no sich fancy dressin' sence las' quah'tly meetin' day;
Gals all dressed in silks an' satins, not a wrinkle ner a crease,
Eyes a-battin', teeth a-shinin', haih breshed back ez slick ez grease;
Sku'ts all tucked an' puffed an' ruffled, evah blessed seam an' stitch;
Ef you 'd seen 'em wif deir mistus, could n't swahed to which was which.
Men all dressed up in Prince Alberts, swaller-tails 'u'd tek yo' bref!
I cain't tell you nothin' 'bout it, y' ought to seen it fu' yo'se'f.
Who was dah? Now who you askin'? How you 'spect I gwine to know?
You mus' think I stood an' counted evahbody at de do.'
Ole man Babah's house-boy Isaac, brung dat gal, Malindy Jane,
Huh a-hangin' to his elbow, him a-struttin' wif a cane;
My, but Hahvey Jones was jealous! seemed to stick him lak a tho'n;[Pg 84]
But he laughed with Viney Cahteh, tryin' ha'd to not let on,
But a pusson would 'a' noticed f'om de d'rection of his look,
Dat he was watchin' ev'ry step dat Ike an' Lindy took.
Ike he foun' a cheer an' asked huh: "Won't you set down?" wif a smile,
An' she answe'd up a-bowin', "Oh, I reckon 't ain't wuth while."
Dat was jes' fu' Style, I reckon, 'cause she sot down jes' de same,
An' she stayed dah 'twell he fetched huh fu' to jine some so't o' game;
Den I hyeahd huh sayin' propah, ez she riz to go away,
"Oh, you raly mus' excuse me, fu' I hardly keers to play."
But I seen huh in a minute wif de othahs on de flo',
An' dah wasn't any one o' dem a-playin' any mo';
Comin' down de flo' a-bowin' an' a-swayin' an' a-swingin',
Puttin' on huh high-toned mannahs all de time dat she was singin':
"Oh, swing Johnny up an' down, swing him all aroun',
Swing Johnny up an' down, swing him all aroun',
Oh, swing Johnny up an' down, swing him all aroun'
Fa' you well, my dahlin'."
Had to laff at ole man Johnson, he 's a caution now, you bet—
Hittin' clost onto a hunderd, but he 's spry an' nimble yet;
He 'lowed how a-so't o' gigglin', "I ain't ole, I 'll let you see,
D'ain't no use in gittin' feeble, now you youngstahs jes' watch me,"
An' he grabbed ole Aunt Marier—weighs th'ee hunderd mo' er less,
An' he spun huh 'roun' de cabin swingin' Johnny lak de res'.
Evahbody laffed an' hollahed: "Go it! Swing huh, Uncle Jim!"
An' he swung huh too, I reckon, lak a youngstah, who but him.
Dat was bettah 'n young Scott Thomas, tryin' to be so awful smaht.
You know when dey gits to singin' an' dey comes to dat ere paht:
"In some lady's new brick house,
In some lady's gyahden.
Ef you don't let me out, I will jump out,
So fa' you well, my dahlin'."
Den dey 's got a circle 'roun' you, an' you's got to break de line;
Well, dat dahky was so anxious, lak to bust hisse'f a-tryin';[Pg 85]
Kep' on blund'rin' 'roun' an' foolin' 'twell he giv' one gread big jump,
Broke de line, an lit head-fo'most in de fiah-place right plump;
Hit 'ad fiah in it, mind you; well, I thought my soul I 'd bust,
Tried my best to keep f'om laffin', but hit seemed like die I must!
Y' ought to seen dat man a-scramblin' f'om de ashes an' de grime.
Did it bu'n him! Sich a question, why he did n't give it time;
Th'ow'd dem ashes and dem cindahs evah which-a-way I guess,
An' you nevah did, I reckon, clap yo' eyes on sich a mess;
Fu' he sholy made a picter an' a funny one to boot,
Wif his clothes all full o' ashes an' his face all full o' soot.
Well, hit laked to stopped de pahty, an' I reckon lak ez not
Dat it would ef Tom's wife, Mandy, had n't happened on de spot,
To invite us out to suppah—well, we scrambled to de table,
An' I 'd lak to tell you 'bout it—what we had—but I ain't able,
Mention jes' a few things, dough I know I had n't orter,
Fu' I know 't will staht a hank'rin' an' yo' mouf 'll 'mence to worter.
We had wheat bread white ez cotton an' a egg pone jes like gol',
Hog jole, bilin' hot an' steamin' roasted shoat an' ham sliced cold—
Look out! What's de mattah wif you? Don't be fallin' on de flo';
Ef it 's go'n' to 'fect you dat way, I won't tell you nothin' mo'.
Dah now—well, we had hot chittlin's—now you 's tryin' ag'in to fall,
Cain't you stan' to hyeah about it? S'pose you'd been an' seed it all;
Seed dem gread big sweet pertaters, layin' by de possum's side,
Seed dat coon in all his gravy, reckon den you 'd up and died!
Mandy 'lowed "you all mus' 'scuse me, d' wa'n't much upon my she'ves,
But I's done my bes' to suit you, so set down an' he'p yo'se'ves."
Tom, he 'lowed: "I don't b'lieve in 'pologisin' an' perfessin',
Let 'em tek it lak dey ketch it. Eldah Thompson, ask de blessin'."[Pg 86]
Wish you 'd seed dat colo'ed preachah cleah his th'oat an' bow his head;
One eye shet, an' one eye open,—dis is evah wud he said:
"Lawd, look down in tendah mussy on sich generous hea'ts ez dese;
Make us truly thankful, amen. Pass dat possum, ef you please!"
Well, we eat and drunk ouah po'tion, 'twell dah was n't nothin' lef,
An' we felt jes' like new sausage, we was mos' nigh stuffed to def!
Tom, he knowed how we 'd be feelin', so he had de fiddlah 'roun',
An' he made us cleah de cabin fu' to dance dat suppah down.
Jim, de fiddlah, chuned his fiddle, put some rosum on his bow,
Set a pine box on de table, mounted it an' let huh go!
He's a fiddlah, now I tell you, an' he made dat fiddle ring,
'Twell de ol'est an' de lamest had to give deir feet a fling.
Jigs, cotillions, reels an' breakdowns, cordrills an' a waltz er two;
Bless yo' soul, dat music winged 'em an' dem people lak to flew.
Cripple Joe, de old rheumatic, danced dat flo' f'om side to middle,
Th'owed away his crutch an' hopped it; what's rheumatics 'ginst a fiddle?
Eldah Thompson got so tickled dat he lak to los' his grace,
Had to tek bofe feet an' hol' dem so 's to keep 'em in deir place.
An' de Christuns an' de sinnahs got so mixed up on dat flo',
Dat I don't see how dey 'd pahted ef de trump had chanced to blow.
Well, we danced dat way an' capahed in de mos' redic'lous way,
'Twell de roostahs in de bahnyard cleahed deir th'oats an' crowed fu' day.
Y' ought to been dah, fu' I tell you evahthing was rich an' prime,
An' dey ain't no use in talkin', we jes had one scrumptious time![Pg 87]
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Tommy Corrigan

 You talk of riders on the flat, of nerve and pluck and pace -- 
Not one in fifty has the nerve to ride a steeplechase. 
It's right enough, while horses pull and take their faces strong, 
To rush a flier to the front and bring the field along; 
Bur what about the last half-mile, with horses blown and beat -- 
When every jump means all you know to keep him on his feet. 
When any slip means sudden death -- with wife and child to keep -- 
It needs some nerve to draw the whip and flog him at the leap -- 
But Corrigan would ride them out, by danger undismayed, 
He never flinched at fence or wall, he never was afraid; 
With easy seat and nerve of steel, light hand and smiling face, 
He held the rushing horses back, and made the sluggards race. 

He gave the shirkers extra heart, he steadied down the rash, 
He rode great clumsy boring brutes, and chanced a fatal smash; 
He got the rushing Wymlet home that never jumped at all -- 
But clambered over every fence and clouted every wall. 
You should have heard the cheers, my boys, that shook the members' stand 
Whenever Tommy Corrigan weighed out to ride Lone Hand. 

They were, indeed, a glorious pair -- the great upstanding horse, 
The gamest jockey on his back that ever faced a course. 
Though weight was big and pace was hot and fences stiff and tall, 
"You follow Tommy Corrigan" was passed to one and all. 
And every man on Ballarat raised all he could command 
To put on Tommy Corrigan when riding old Lone Hand. 

But now we'll keep his memory green while horsemen come and go; 
We may not see his like again where silks and satins glow. 
We'll drink to him in silence, boys -- he's followed down the track 
Where many a good man went before, but never one came back. 
Amd, let us hope, in that far land where the shades of brave men reign, 
The gallant Tommy Corrigan will ride Lone Hand again.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry