Best Famous Swaggered Poems

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

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Written by John Clare | Remembrances Summer pleasures they are gone like to visions every one And the cloudy days of autumn and of winter cometh on I tried to call them back but unbidden they are gone Far away from heart and eye and for ever far away Dear heart and can it be that such raptures meet decay I thought them all eternal when by Langley Bush I lay I thought them joys eternal when I used to shout and play On its bank at 'clink and bandy' 'chock' and 'taw' and ducking stone Where silence sitteth now on the wild heath as her own Like a ruin of the past all alone When I used to lie and sing by old eastwells boiling spring When I used to tie the willow boughs together for a 'swing' And fish with crooked pins and thread and never catch a thing With heart just like a feather- now as heavy as a stone When beneath old lea close oak I the bottom branches broke To make our harvest cart like so many working folk And then to cut a straw at the brook to have a soak O I never dreamed of parting or that trouble had a sting Or that pleasures like a flock of birds would ever take to wing Leaving nothing but a little naked spring When jumping time away on old cross berry way And eating awes like sugar plumbs ere they had lost the may And skipping like a leveret before the peep of day On the rolly polly up and downs of pleasant swordy well When in round oaks narrow lane as the south got black again We sought the hollow ash that was shelter from the rain With our pockets full of peas we had stolen from the grain How delicious was the dinner time on such a showry day O words are poor receipts for what time hath stole away The ancient pulpit trees and the play When for school oer 'little field' with its brook and wooden brig Where I swaggered like a man though I was not half so big While I held my little plough though twas but a willow twig And drove my team along made of nothing but a name 'Gee hep' and 'hoit' and 'woi'- O I never call to mind These pleasant names of places but I leave a sigh behind While I see the little mouldywharps hang sweeing to the wind On the only aged willow that in all the field remains And nature hides her face where theyre sweeing in their chains And in a silent murmuring complains Here was commons for the hills where they seek for freedom still Though every commons gone and though traps are set to kill The little homeless miners- O it turns my bosom chill When I think of old 'sneap green' puddocks nook and hilly snow Where bramble bushes grew and the daisy gemmed in dew And the hills of silken grass like to cushions to the view When we threw the pissmire crumbs when we's nothing else to do All leveled like a desert by the never weary plough All vanished like the sun where that cloud is passing now All settled here for ever on its brow I never thought that joys would run away from boys Or that boys would change their minds and forsake such summer joys But alack I never dreamed that the world had other toys To petrify first feelings like the fable into stone Till I found the pleasure past and a winter come at last Then the fields were sudden bare and the sky got overcast And boyhoods pleasing haunts like a blossom in the blast Was shrivelled to a withered weed and trampled down and done Till vanished was the morning spring and set that summer sun And winter fought her battle strife and won By Langley bush I roam but the bush hath left its hill On cowper green I stray tis a desert strange and chill And spreading lea close oak ere decay had penned its will To the axe of the spoiler and self interest fell a prey And cross berry way and old round oaks narrow lane With its hollow trees like pulpits I shall never see again Inclosure like a Buonaparte let not a thing remain It levelled every bush and tree and levelled every hill And hung the moles for traitors - though the brook is running still It runs a naked brook cold and chill O had I known as then joy had left the paths of men I had watched her night and day besure and never slept agen And when she turned to go O I'd caught her mantle then And wooed her like a lover by my lonely side to stay Aye knelt and worshipped on as love in beautys bower And clung upon her smiles as a bee upon her flower And gave her heart my poesys all cropt in a sunny hour As keepsakes and pledges to fade away But love never heeded to treasure up the may So it went the comon road with decay

Written by Rudyard Kipling | What Happened Hurree Chunder Mookerjee, pride of Bow Bazaar, Owner of a native press, "Barrishter-at-Lar," Waited on the Government with a claim to wear Sabres by the bucketful, rifles by the pair. Then the Indian Government winked a wicked wink, Said to Chunder Mookerjee: "Stick to pen and ink. They are safer implements, but, if you insist, We will let you carry arms wheresoe'er you list. " Hurree Chunder Mookerjee sought the gunsmith and Bought the tubes of Lancaster, Ballard, Dean, and Bland, Bought a shiny bowie-knife, bought a town-made sword, Jingled like a carriage-horse when he went abroad. But the Indian Government, always keen to please, Also gave permission to horrid men like these -- Yar Mahommed Yusufzai, down to kill or steal, Chimbu Singh from Bikaneer, Tantia the Bhil; Killar Khan the Marri chief, Jowar Singh the Sikh, Nubbee Baksh Punjabi Jat, Abdul Huq Rafiq -- He was a Wahabi; last, little Boh Hla-oo Took advantage of the Act -- took a Snider too. They were unenlightened men, Ballard knew them not. They procured their swords and guns chiefly on the spot; And the lore of centuries, plus a hundred fights, Made them slow to disregard one another's rights. With a unanimity dear to patriot hearts All those hairy gentlemen out of foreign parts Said: "The good old days are back -- let us go to war!" Swaggered down the Grand Trunk Road into Bow Bazaar, Nubbee Baksh Punjabi Jat found a hide-bound flail; Chimbu Singh from Bikaneer oiled his Tonk jezail; Yar Mahommed Yusufzai spat and grinned with glee As he ground the butcher-knife of the Khyberee. Jowar Singh the Sikh procured sabre, quoit, and mace, Abdul Huq, Wahabi, jerked his dagger from its place, While amid the jungle-grass danced and grinned and jabbered Little Boh Hla-oo and cleared his dah-blade from the scabbard. What became of Mookerjee? Smoothly, who can say? Yar Mahommed only grins in a nasty way, Jowar Singh is reticent, Chimbu Singh is mute. But the belts of all of them simply bulge with loot. What became of Ballard's guns? Afghans black and grubby Sell them for their silver weight to the men of Pubbi; And the shiny bowie-knife and the town-made sword are Hanging in a Marri camp just across the Border. What became of Mookerjee? Ask Mahommed Yar Prodding Siva's sacred bull down the Bow Bazaar. Speak to placid Nubbee Baksh -- question land and sea -- Ask the Indian Congressmen -- only don't ask me!

Written by Paul Muldoon | The Coney Although I have never learned to mow I suddenly found myself half-way through last year's pea-sticks and cauliflower stalks in our half-acre of garden. My father had always left the whetstone safely wrapped in his old, tweed cap and balanced on one particular plank beside the septic tank. This past winter he had been too ill to work. The scythe would dull so much more quickly in my hands than his, and was so often honed, that while the blade grew less and less a blade the whetstone had entirely disappeared and a lop-eared coney was now curled inside the cap. He whistled to me through the gap in his front teeth; 'I was wondering, chief, if you happen to know the name of the cauliflowers in your cold-frame that you still hope to dibble in this unenviable bit of ground?' 'They would be All the Year Round. ' 'I guessed as much'; with that he swaggered along the diving-board and jumped. The moment he hit the water he lost his tattered bathing-togs to the swimming pool's pack of dogs. 'Come in'; this flayed coney would parade and pirouette like honey on a spoon: 'Come on in; Paddy Muldoon. ' And although I have never learned to swim I would willingly have followed him.

Written by Amy Lowell | The Fool Errant The Fool Errant sat by the highway of life And his gaze wandered up and his gaze wandered down, A vigorous youth, but with no wish to walk, Yet his longing was great for the distant town. He whistled a little frivolous tune Which he felt to be pulsing with ecstasy, For he thought that success always followed desire, Such a very superlative fool was he. A maiden came by on an ambling mule, Her gown was rose-red and her kerchief blue, On her lap she carried a basket of eggs. Thought the fool, "There is certainly room for two. " So he jauntily swaggered towards the maid And put out his hand to the bridle-rein. "My pretty girl," quoth the fool, "take me up, For to ride with you to the town I am fain. " But the maiden struck at his upraised arm And pelted him hotly with eggs, a score. The mule, lashed into a fury, ran; The fool went back to his stone and swore. Then out of the cloud of settling dust The burly form of an abbot appeared, Reading his office he rode to the town. And the fool got up, for his heart was cheered. He stood in the midst of the long, white road And swept off his cap till it touched the ground. "Ah, Reverent Sir, well met," said the fool, "A worthier transport never was found. "I pray you allow me to mount with you, Your palfrey seems both sturdy and young. " The abbot looked up from the holy book And cried out in anger, "Hold your tongue! "How dare you obstruct the King's highroad, You saucy varlet, get out of my way. " Then he gave the fool a cut with his whip And leaving him smarting, he rode away. The fool was angry, the fool was sore, And he cursed the folly of monks and maids. "If I could but meet with a man," sighed the fool, "For a woman fears, and a friar upbraids. " Then he saw a flashing of distant steel And the clanking of harness greeted his ears, And up the road journeyed knights-at-arms, With waving plumes and glittering spears. The fool took notice and slowly arose, Not quite so sure was his foolish heart. If priests and women would none of him Was it likely a knight would take his part? They sang as they rode, these lusty boys, When one chanced to turn toward the highway's side, "There's a sorry figure of fun," jested he, "Well, Sirrah! move back, there is scarce room to ride. " "Good Sirs, Kind Sirs," begged the crestfallen fool, "I pray of your courtesy speech with you, I'm for yonder town, and have no horse to ride, Have you never a charger will carry two?" Then the company halted and laughed out loud. "Was such a request ever made to a knight?" "And where are your legs," asked one, "if you start, You may be inside the town gates to-night. " "'T is a lazy fellow, let him alone, They've no room in the town for such idlers as he. " But one bent from his saddle and said, "My man, Art thou not ashamed to beg charity! "Thou art well set up, and thy legs are strong, But it much misgives me lest thou'rt a fool; For beggars get only a beggar's crust, Wise men are reared in a different school. " Then they clattered away in the dust and the wind, And the fool slunk back to his lonely stone; He began to see that the man who asks Must likewise give and not ask alone. Purple tree-shadows crept over the road, The level sun flung an orange light, And the fool laid his head on the hard, gray stone And wept as he realized advancing night. A great, round moon rose over a hill And the steady wind blew yet more cool; And crouched on a stone a wayfarer sobbed, For at last he knew he was only a fool.

Written by Robert William Service | Maternity There once was a Square, such a square little Square, And he loved a trim Triangle; But she was a flirt and around her skirt Vainly she made him dangle. Oh he wanted to wed and he had no dread Of domestic woes and wrangles; For he thought that his fate was to procreate Cute little Squares and Triangles. Now it happened one day on that geometric way There swaggered a big bold Cube. With a haughty stare and he made that Square Have the air of a perfect boob; To his solid spell the Triangle fell, And she thrilled with love's sweet sickness, For she took delight in his breadth and height - But how she adored his thickness! So that poor little Square just died of despair, For his love he could not strangle; While the bold Cube led to the bridal bed That cute and acute Triangle. The Square's sad lot she has long forgot, And his passionate pretensions . . . For she dotes on her kids-Oh such cute Pyramids In a world of three dimensions.