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Best Famous Ten To One (1) Poems

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Written by Eugene Field | Create an image from this poem

Sisters cake

 I'd not complain of Sister Jane, for she was good and kind,
Combining with rare comeliness distinctive gifts of mind;
Nay, I'll admit it were most fit that, worn by social cares,
She'd crave a change from parlor life to that below the stairs,
And that, eschewing needlework and music, she should take
Herself to the substantial art of manufacturing cake.

At breakfast, then, it would befall that Sister Jane would say:
"Mother, if you have got the things, I'll make some cake to-day!"
Poor mother'd cast a timid glance at father, like as not--
For father hinted sister's cooking cost a frightful lot--
But neither she nor he presumed to signify dissent,
Accepting it for gospel truth that what she wanted went!

No matter what the rest of 'em might chance to have in hand,
The whole machinery of the house came to a sudden stand;
The pots were hustled off the stove, the fire built up anew,
With every damper set just so to heat the oven through;
The kitchen-table was relieved of everything, to make
That ample space which Jane required when she compounded cake.

And, oh! the bustling here and there, the flying to and fro;
The click of forks that whipped the eggs to lather white as snow--
And what a wealth of sugar melted swiftly out of sight--
And butter? Mother said such waste would ruin father, quite!
But Sister Jane preserved a mien no pleading could confound
As she utilized the raisins and the citron by the pound.

Oh, hours of chaos, tumult, heat, vexatious din, and whirl!
Of deep humiliation for the sullen hired-girl;
Of grief for mother, hating to see things wasted so,
And of fortune for that little boy who pined to taste that dough!
It looked so sweet and yellow--sure, to taste it were no sin--
But, oh! how sister scolded if he stuck his finger in!

The chances were as ten to one, before the job was through,
That sister'd think of something else she'd great deal rather do!
So, then, she'd softly steal away, as Arabs in the night,
Leaving the girl and ma to finish up as best they might;
These tactics (artful Sister Jane) enabled her to take
Or shift the credit or the blame of that too-treacherous cake!

And yet, unhappy is the man who has no Sister Jane--
For he who has no sister seems to me to live in vain.
I never had a sister--may be that is why today
I'm wizened and dyspeptic, instead of blithe and gay;
A boy who's only forty should be full of romp and mirth,
But I (because I'm sisterless) am the oldest man on earth!

Had I a little sister--oh, how happy I should be!
I'd never let her cast her eyes on any chap but me;
I'd love her and I'd cherish her for better and for worse--
I'd buy her gowns and bonnets, and sing her praise in verse;
And--yes, what's more and vastly more--I tell you what I'd do:
I'd let her make her wondrous cake, and I would eat it, too!

I have a high opinion of the sisters, as you see--
Another fellow's sister is so very dear to me!
I love to work anear her when she's making over frocks,
When she patches little trousers or darns prosaic socks;
But I draw the line at one thing--yes, I don my hat and take
A three hours' walk when she is moved to try her hand at cake!


Written by John Wilmot | Create an image from this poem

Tunbridge Wells

 At five this morn, when Phoebus raised his head
From Thetis' lap, I raised myself from bed,
And mounting steed, I trotted to the waters
The rendesvous of fools, buffoons, and praters,
Cuckolds, whores, citizens, their wives and daughters.

My squeamish stomach I with wine had bribed
To undertake the dose that was prescribed;
But turning head, a sudden curséd view
That innocent provision overthrew,
And without drinking, made me purge and spew.
From coach and six a thing unweildy rolled,
Whose lumber, card more decently would hold.
As wise as calf it looked, as big as bully,
But handled, proves a mere Sir Nicholas Cully;
A bawling fop, a natural Nokes, and yet
He dares to censure as if he had wit.
To make him more ridiculous, in spite
Nature contrived the fool should be a knight.
Though he alone were dismal signet enough,
His train contributed to set him off,
All of his shape, all of the selfsame stuff.
No spleen or malice need on them be thrown:
Nature has done the business of lampoon,
And in their looks their characters has shown.

Endeavoring this irksome sight to balk,
And a more irksome noise, their silly talk,
I silently slunk down t' th' Lower Walk,
But often when one would Charybdis shun,
Down upon Scilla 'tis one's fate to run,
For here it was my curséd luck to find
As great a fop, though of another kind,
A tall stiff fool that walked in Spanish guise:
The buckram puppet never stirred its eyes,
But grave as owl it looked, as woodcock wise.
He scorns the empty talking of this mad age,
And speaks all proverbs, sentences, and adage;
Can with as much solemnity buy eggs
As a cabal can talk of their intrigues;
Master o' th' Ceremonies, yet can dispense
With the formality of talking sense.

From hence unto the upper walk I ran,
Where a new scene of foppery began.
A tribe of curates, priests, canonical elves,
Fit company for none besides themselves,
Were got together. Each his distemper told,
Scurvy, stone, strangury; some were so bold
To charge the spleen to be their misery,
And on that wise disease brought infamy.
But none had modesty enough t' complain
Their want of learning, honesty, and brain,
The general diseases of that train.
These call themselves ambassadors of heaven,
And saucily pretend commissions given;
But should an Indian king, whose small command
Seldom extends beyond ten miles of land,
Send forth such wretched tools in an ambassage,
He'd find but small effects of such a message.
Listening, I found the cob of all this rabble
Pert Bays, with his importance comfortable.
He, being raised to an archdeaconry
By trampling on religion, liberty,
Was grown to great, and looked too fat and jolly,
To be disturbed with care and melancholy,
Though Marvell has enough exposed his folly.
He drank to carry off some old remains
His lazy dull distemper left in 's veins.
Let him drink on, but 'tis not a whole flood
Can give sufficient sweetness to his blood
To make his nature of his manners good.

Next after these, a fulsome Irish crew
Of silly Macs were offered to my view.
The things did talk, but th' hearing what they said
I did myself the kindness to evade.
Nature has placed these wretches beneath scorn:
They can't be called so vile as they are born.
Amidst the crowd next I myself conveyed,
For now were come, whitewash and paint being laid,
Mother and daughter, mistress and the maid,
And squire with wig and pantaloon displayed.
But ne'er could conventicle, play, or fair
For a true medley, with this herd compare.
Here lords, knights, squires, ladies and countesses,
Chandlers, mum-bacon women, sempstresses
Were mixed together, nor did they agree
More in their humors than their quality.

Here waiting for gallant, young damsel stood,
Leaning on cane, and muffled up in hood.
The would-be wit, whose business was to woo,
With hat removed and solemn scrape of shoe
Advanceth bowing, then genteelly shrugs,
And ruffled foretop into order tugs,
And thus accosts her: "Madam, methinks the weather
Is grown much more serene since you came hither.
You influence the heavens; but should the sun
Withdraw himself to see his rays outdone
By your bright eyes, they would supply the morn,
And make a day before the day be born."
With mouth screwed up, conceited winking eyes,
And breasts thrust forward, "Lord, sir!" she replies.
"It is your goodness, and not my deserts,
Which makes you show this learning, wit, and parts."
He, puzzled, butes his nail, both to display
The sparkling ring, and think what next to say,
And thus breaks forth afresh: "Madam, egad!
Your luck at cards last night was very bad:
At cribbage fifty-nine, and the next show
To make the game, and yet to want those two.
God damn me, madam, I'm the son of a whore
If in my life I saw the like before!"
To peddler's stall he drags her, and her breast
With hearts and such-like foolish toys he dressed;
And then, more smartly to expound the riddle
Of all his prattle, gives her a Scotch fiddle.

Tired with this dismal stuff, away I ran
Where were two wives, with girl just fit for man -
Short-breathed, with pallid lips and visage wan.
Some curtsies past, and the old compliment
Of being glad to see each other, spent,
With hand in hand they lovingly did walk,
And one began thus to renew the talk:
"I pray, good madam, if it may be thought
No rudeness, what cause was it hither brought
Your ladyship?" She soon replying, smiled,
"We have a good estate, but have no child,
And I'm informed these wells will make a barren
Woman as fruitful as a cony warren."
The first returned, "For this cause I am come,
For I can have no quietness at home.
My husband grumbles though we have got one,
This poor young girl, and mutters for a son. 
And this is grieved with headache, pangs, and throes;
Is full sixteen, and never yet had those."
She soon replied, "Get her a husband, madam:
I married at that age, and ne'er had 'em;
Was just like her. Steel waters let alone:
A back of steel will bring 'em better down."
And ten to one but they themselves will try
The same means to increase their family.
Poor foolish fribble, who by subtlety
Of midwife, truest friend to lechery,
Persuaded art to be at pains and charge
To give thy wife occasion to enlarge
Thy silly head! For here walk Cuff and Kick,
With brawny back and legs and potent prick,
Who more substantially will cure thy wife,
And on her half-dead womb bestow new life.
From these the waters got the reputation
Of good assistants unto generation.

Some warlike men were now got into th' throng,
With hair tied back, singing a bawdy song.
Not much afraid, I got a nearer view,
And 'twas my chance to know the dreadful crew.
They were cadets, that seldom can appear:
Damned to the stint of thirty pounds a year.
With hawk on fist, or greyhound led in hand,
The dogs and footboys sometimes they command.
But now, having trimmed a cast-off spavined horse,
With three hard-pinched-for guineas in their purse,
Two rusty pistols, scarf about the ****,
Coat lined with red, they here presume to swell:
This goes for captain, that for colonel.
So the Bear Garden ape, on his steed mounted,
No longer is a jackanapes accounted,
But is, by virtue of his trumpery, then
Called by the name of "the young gentleman."

Bless me! thought I, what thing is man, that thus
In all his shapes, he is ridiculous?
Ourselves with noise of reason we do please
In vain: humanity's our worst disease.
Thrice happy beasts are, who, because they be
Of reason void, and so of foppery.
Faith, I was so ashamed that with remorse
I used the insolence to mount my horse;
For he, doing only things fit for his nature,
Did seem to me by much the wiser creature.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Carry On

 It's easy to fight when everything's right,
 And you're mad with the thrill and the glory;
It's easy to cheer when victory's near,
 And wallow in fields that are gory.
It's a different song when everything's wrong,
 When you're feeling infernally mortal;
When it's ten against one, and hope there is none,
 Buck up, little soldier, and chortle:

Carry on! Carry on!
There isn't much punch in your blow.
You're glaring and staring and hitting out blind;
You're muddy and bloody, but never you mind.
Carry on! Carry on!
You haven't the ghost of a show.
It's looking like death, but while you've a breath,
Carry on, my son! Carry on!

And so in the strife of the battle of life
 It's easy to fight when you're winning;
It's easy to slave, and starve and be brave,
 When the dawn of success is beginning.
But the man who can meet despair and defeat
 With a cheer, there's the man of God's choosing;
The man who can fight to Heaven's own height
 Is the man who can fight when he's losing.

Carry on! Carry on!
Things never were looming so black.
But show that you haven't a cowardly streak,
And though you're unlucky you never are weak.
Carry on! Carry on!
Brace up for another attack.
It's looking like hell, but -- you never can tell:
Carry on, old man! Carry on!

There are some who drift out in the deserts of doubt,
 And some who in brutishness wallow;
There are others, I know, who in piety go
 Because of a Heaven to follow.
But to labour with zest, and to give of your best,
 For the sweetness and joy of the giving;
To help folks along with a hand and a song;
 Why, there's the real sunshine of living.

Carry on! Carry on!
Fight the good fight and true;
Believe in your mission, greet life with a cheer;
There's big work to do, and that's why you are here.
Carry on! Carry on!
Let the world be the better for you;
And at last when you die, let this be your cry:
Carry on, my soul! Carry on!
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Old Pardon the Son of Reprieve

 You never heard tell of the story? 
Well, now, I can hardly believe! 
Never heard of the honour and glory 
Of Pardon, the son of Reprieve? 
But maybe you're only a Johnnie 
And don't know a horse from a hoe? 
Well, well, don't get angry, my sonny, 
But, really, a young un should know. 
They bred him out back on the "Never", 
His mother was Mameluke breed. 
To the front -- and then stay there - was ever 
The root of the Mameluke creed. 
He seemed to inherit their wiry 
Strong frames -- and their pluck to receive -- 
As hard as a flint and as fiery 
Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve. 

We ran him at many a meeting 
At crossing and gully and town, 
And nothing could give him a beating -- 
At least when our money was down. 
For weight wouldn't stop him, nor distance, 
Nor odds, though the others were fast; 
He'd race with a dogged persistence, 
And wear them all down at the last. 

At the Turon the Yattendon filly 
Led by lengths at the mile-and-a-half, 
And we all began to look silly, 
While her crowd were starting to laugh; 
But the old horse came faster and faster, 
His pluck told its tale, and his strength, 
He gained on her, caught her, and passed her, 
And won it, hands down, by a length. 

And then we swooped down on Menindie 
To run for the President's Cup; 
Oh! that's a sweet township -- a shindy 
To them is board, lodging, and sup. 
Eye-openers they are, and their system 
Is never to suffer defeat; 
It's "win, tie, or wrangle" -- to best 'em 
You must lose 'em, or else it's "dead heat". 

We strolled down the township and found 'em 
At drinking and gaming and play; 
If sorrows they had, why they drowned 'em, 
And betting was soon under way. 
Their horses were good uns and fit uns, 
There was plenty of cash in the town; 
They backed their own horses like Britons, 
And, Lord! how we rattled it down! 

With gladness we thought of the morrow, 
We counted our wages with glee, 
A simile homely to borrow -- 
"There was plenty of milk in our tea." 
You see we were green; and we never 
Had even a thought of foul play, 
Though we well might have known that the clever 
Division would "put us away". 

Experience docet, they tell us, 
At least so I've frequently heard; 
But, "dosing" or "stuffing", those fellows 
Were up to each move on the board: 
They got to his stall -- it is sinful 
To think what such villains will do -- 
And they gave him a regular skinful 
Of barley -- green barley -- to chew. 

He munched it all night, and we found him 
Next morning as full as a hog -- 
The girths wouldn't nearly meet round him; 
He looked like an overfed frog. 
We saw we were done like a dinner -- 
The odds were a thousand to one 
Against Pardon turning up winner, 
'Twas cruel to ask him to run. 

We got to the course with our troubles, 
A crestfallen couple were we; 
And we heard the " books" calling the doubles -- 
A roar like the surf of the sea. 
And over the tumult and louder 
Rang "Any price Pardon, I lay!" 
Says Jimmy, "The children of Judah 
Are out on the warpath today." 

Three miles in three heats: -- Ah, my sonny, 
The horses in those days were stout, 
They had to run well to win money; 
I don't see such horses about. 
Your six-furlong vermin that scamper 
Half-a-mile with their feather-weight up, 
They wouldn't earn much of their damper 
In a race like the President's Cup. 

The first heat was soon set a-going; 
The Dancer went off to the front; 
The Don on his quarters was showing, 
With Pardon right out of the hunt. 
He rolled and he weltered and wallowed -- 
You'd kick your hat faster, I'll bet; 
They finished all bunched, and he followed 
All lathered and dripping with sweat. 

But troubles came thicker upon us, 
For while we were rubbing him dry 
The stewards came over to warn us: 
"We hear you are running a bye! 
If Pardon don't spiel like tarnation 
And win the next heat -- if he can -- 
He'll earn a disqualification; 
Just think over that now, my man!" 

Our money all gone and our credit, 
Our horse couldn't gallop a yard; 
And then people thought that we did it 
It really was terribly hard. 
We were objects of mirth and derision 
To folks in the lawn and the stand, 
Anf the yells of the clever division 
Of "Any price Pardon!" were grand. 

We still had a chance for the money, 
Two heats remained to be run: 
If both fell to us -- why, my sonny, 
The clever division were done. 
And Pardon was better, we reckoned, 
His sickness was passing away, 
So we went to the post for the second 
And principal heat of the day. 

They're off and away with a rattle, 
Like dogs from the leashes let slip, 
And right at the back of the battle 
He followed them under the whip. 
They gained ten good lengths on him quickly 
He dropped right away from the pack; 
I tell you it made me feel sickly 
To see the blue jacket fall back. 

Our very last hope had departed -- 
We thought the old fellow was done, 
When all of a sudden he started 
To go like a shot from a gun. 
His chances seemed slight to embolden 
Our hearts; but, with teeth firmly set, 
We thought, "Now or never! The old un 
May reckon with some of 'em yet." 

Then loud rose the war-cry for Pardon; 
He swept like the wind down the dip, 
And over the rise by the garden 
The jockey was done with the whip. 
The field was at sixes and sevens -- 
The pace at the first had been fast -- 
And hope seemed to drop from the heavens, 
For Pardon was coming at last. 

And how he did come! It was splendid; 
He gained on them yards every bound, 
Stretching out like a greyhound extended, 
His girth laid right down on the ground. 
A shimmer of silk in the cedars 
As into the running they wheeled, 
And out flashed the whips on the leaders, 
For Pardon had collared the field. 

Then right through the ruck he was sailing -- 
I knew that the battle was won -- 
The son of Haphazard was failing, 
The Yattendon filly was done; 
He cut down The Don and The Dancer, 
He raced clean away from the mare -- 
He's in front! Catch him now if you can, sir! 
And up went my hat in the air! 

Then loud fron the lawn and the garden 
Rose offers of "Ten to one on!" 
"Who'll bet on the field? I back Pardon!" 
No use; all the money was gone. 
He came for the third heat light-hearted, 
A-jumping and dancing about; 
The others were done ere they started 
Crestfallen, and tired, and worn out. 

He won it, and ran it much faster 
Than even the first, I believe; 
Oh, he was the daddy, the master, 
Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve. 
He showed 'em the method of travel -- 
The boy sat still as a stone -- 
They never could see him for gravel; 
He came in hard-held, and alone. 

* * * * * * * 

But he's old -- and his eyes are grown hollow 
Like me, with my thatch of the snow; 
When he dies, then I hope I may follow, 
And go where the racehorses go. 
I don't want no harping nor singing -- 
Such things with my style don't agree; 
Where the hoofs of the horses are ringing 
There's music sufficient for me. 

And surely the thoroughbred horses 
Will rise up again and begin 
Fresh faces on far-away courses, 
And p'raps they might let me slip in. 
It would look rather well the race-card on 
'Mongst Cherubs and Seraphs and things, 
"Angel Harrison's black gelding Pardon, 
Blue halo, white body and wings." 

And if they have racing hereafter, 
(And who is to say they will not?) 
When the cheers and the shouting and laughter 
Proclaim that the battle grows hot; 
As they come down the racecourse a-steering, 
He'll rush to the front, I believe; 
And you'll hear the great multitude cheering 
For Pardon, the son of Reprieve
Written by Robert Herrick | Create an image from this poem

A Thanksgiving to God for His House

 Lord, Thou hast given me a cell 
Wherein to dwell; 
An little house, whose humble roof 
Is weather-proof; 
Under the spars of which I lie 
Both soft and dry; 
Where Thou my chamber for to ward 
Hast set a guard 
Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep 
Me, while I sleep. 
Low is my porch as is my fate, 
Both void of state;
And yet the threshold of my door 
Is worn by'th' poor, 
Who thither come, and freely get 
Good words, or meat; 
Like as my parlour, so my hall 
And kitchen's small; 
A little butterie and therein 
A little bin, 
Which keeps my little loaf of bread 
Unchipp'd, unflay'd; 
Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar 
Make me a fire, 
Close by whose living coal I sit, 
And glow like it. 
Lord, I confess too, when I dine, 
The pulse is Thine,
And all those other bits that be 
There plac'd by Thee; 
The worts, the purslain, and the mess 
Of water-cress, 
Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent; 
And my content 
Makes those, and my beloved beet, 
To be more sweet. 
'Tis Thou that crown'st my glitt'ring hearth 
With guiltless mirth; 
And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink, 
Spic'd to the brink. 
Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand 
That soils my land; 
And giv'st me, for my bushel sown, 
Twice ten for one; 
Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay 
Her egg each day; 
Besides my healthful ewes to bear 
Me twins each year; 
The while the conduits of my kine 
Run cream (for wine.) 
All these, and better Thou dost send 
Me, to this end, 
That I should render, for my part, 
A thankful heart, 
Which, fir'd with incense, I resign 
As wholly Thine; 
But the acceptance, that must be, 
My Christ, by Thee.


Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

With French to Kimberley

 The Boers were down on Kimberley with siege and Maxim gun; 
The Boers were down on Kimberley, their numbers ten to one! 
Faint were the hopes the British had to make the struggle good -- 
Defenceless in an open plain the Diamond City stood. 
They built them forts with bags of sand, they fought from roof and wall, 
They flashed a message to the south, "Help! or the town must fall!" 
Then down our ranks the order ran to march at dawn of day, 
And French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. 
He made no march along the line; he made no front attack 
Upon those Magersfontein heights that held the Seaforths back; 
But eastward over pathless plains, by open veldt and vley. 
Across the front of Cronje's force his troopers held their way. 
The springbuck, feeding on the flats where Modder River runs, 
Were startled by his horses' hoofs, the rumble of his guns. 
The Dutchman's spies that watched his march from every rocky wall 
Rode back in haste: "He marches East! He threatens Jacobsdal!" 
Then north he wheeled as wheels a hawk, and showed to their dismay 
That French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. 

His column was five thousand strong -- all mounted men -- and guns: 
There met, beneath the world-wide flag, the world-wide Empire's sons; 
They came to prove to all the earth that kinship conquers space, 
And those who fight the British Isles must fight the British race! 
From far New Zealand's flax and fern, from cold Canadian snows, 
From Queensland plains, where hot as fire the summer sunshine glows -- 
And in front the Lancers rode that New South Wales had sent: 
With easy stride across the plain their long, lean Walers went. 
Unknown, untried, those squadrons were, but proudly out they drew 
Beside the English regiments that fought at Waterloo. 
From every coast, from every clime, they met in proud array 
To go with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. 

He crossed the Reit and fought his way towards the Modder bank. 
The foemen closed behind his march, and hung upon the flank. 
The long, dry grass was all ablaze (and fierce the veldt fire runs); 
He fought them through a wall of flame that blazed around the guns! 
Then limbered up and drove at speed, though horses fell and died; 
We might not halt for man nor beast on that wild, daring ride. 
Black with the smoke and parched with thirst, we pressed the livelong day 
Our headlong march to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. 

We reached the drift at fall of night, and camped across the ford. 
Next day from all the hills around the Dutchman's cannon roared. 
A narrow pass ran through the hills, with guns on either side; 
The boldest man might well turn pale before that pass he tried, 
For, if the first attack should fail, then every hope was gone: 
Bur French looked once, and only once, and then he siad, "Push on!" 
The gunners plied their guns amain; the hail of shrapnel flew; 
With rifle fire and lancer charge their squadrons back we threw; 
And through the pass between the hills we swept in furious fray, 
And French was through to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. 

Ay, French was through to Kimberley! And ere the day was done 
We saw the Diamond City stand, lit by the evening sun: 
Above the town the heliograph hung like an eye of flame: 
Around the town the foemen camped -- they knew not that we came; 
But soon they saw us, rank on rank; they heard our squadrons' tread; 
In panic fear they left their tents, in hopeless rout they fled -- 
And French rode into Kimberley; the people cheered amain, 
The women came with tear-stained eyes to touch his bridle rein, 
The starving children lined the streets to raise a feeble cheer, 
The bells rang out a joyous peal to say "Relief is here!" 
Ay! we that saw that stirring march are proud that we can say 
We went with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The Miracles

 I sent a message to my dear --
 A thousand leagues and more to Her --
The dumb sea-levels thrilled to hear,
 And Lost Atlantis bore to Her.

Behind my message hard I came,
 And nigh had found a grave for me;
But that I launched of steel and flame
 Did war against the wave for me.

Uprose the deep, by gale on gale,
 To bid me change my mind again --
He broke his teeth along my rail,
 And, roaring, swung behind again.

I stayed the sun at noon to tell
 My way across the waste of it;
I read the storm before it fell
 And made the better haste of it.

Afar, I hailed the land at night --
 The towers I built had heard of me --
And, ere my rocket reached its height,
 Had flashed my Love the word of me.

Earth sold her chosen men of strength
 (They lived and strove and died for me)
To drive my road a nation's length,
 And toss the miles aside for me.

I snatched their toil to serve my needs --
 Too slow their fleetest flew for me --
I tired twenty smoking steeds,
 And bade them bait a new for me.

I sent the lightnings forth to see
 Where hour by hour She waited me.
Among ten million one was She,
 And surely all men hated me!

Dawn ran to meet me at my goal --
 Ah, day no tongue shall tell again!
And little folk of little soul
 Rose up to buy and sell again!
Written by Ann Taylor | Create an image from this poem

Deaf Martha

 Poor Martha is old, and her hair is turn'd grey, 
And her hearing has left her for many a year; 
Ten to one if she knows what it is that you say, 
Though she puts her poor wither'd hand close to her ear. 

I've seen naughty children run after her fast, 
And cry, "Martha, run, there's a bullock so bold;" 
And when she was frighten'd, ­laugh at her at last, 
Because she believed the sad stories they told. 

I've seen others put their mouths close to her ear, 
And make signs as if they had something to say; 
And when she said, "Master, I'm deaf and can't hear," 
Point at her and mock her, and scamper away. 

Ah! wicked the children poor Martha to tease, 
As if she had not enough else to endure; 
They rather should try her affliction to ease, 
And soothe a disorder that nothing can cure. 

One day, when those children themselves are grown old, 
And one may be deaf, and another be lame, 
Perhaps they may find that some children, as bold, 
May tease them, and mock them, and serve them the same. 

Then, when they reflect on the days of their youth, 
A faithful account will their consciences keep, 
And teach them, with shame and with sorrow, the truth, 
That "what a man soweth, the same shall he reap."
Written by William Shakespeare | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet 6: Then let not winters ragged hand deface

 Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer ere thou be distilled.
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty's treasure ere it be self-killed.
That use is not forbidden usury
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That's for thyself to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one,
Ten times thy self were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee;
Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-willed, for thou art much too fair
To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

With French to Kimberley

 The Boers were down on Kimberley with siege and Maxim gun; 
The Boers were down on Kimberley, their numbers ten to one! 
Faint were the hopes the British had to make the struggle good -- 
Defenceless in an open plain the Diamond City stood. 
They built them forts with bags of sand, they fought from roof and wall, 
They flashed a message to the south, "Help! or the town must fall!" 
Then down our ranks the order ran to march at dawn of day, 
And French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. 
He made no march along the line; he made no front attack 
Upon those Magersfontein heights that held the Seaforths back; 
But eastward over pathless plains, by open veldt and vley. 
Across the front of Cronje's force his troopers held their way. 
The springbuck, feeding on the flats where Modder River runs, 
Were startled by his horses' hoofs, the rumble of his guns. 
The Dutchman's spies that watched his march from every rocky wall 
Rode back in haste: "He marches East! He threatens Jacobsdal!" 
Then north he wheeled as wheels a hawk, and showed to their dismay 
That French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. 

His column was five thousand strong -- all mounted men -- and guns: 
There met, beneath the world-wide flag, the world-wide Empire's sons; 
They came to prove to all the earth that kinship conquers space, 
And those who fight the British Isles must fight the British race! 
From far New Zealand's flax and fern, from cold Canadian snows, 
From Queensland plains, where hot as fire the summer sunshine glows -- 
And in front the Lancers rode that New South Wales had sent: 
With easy stride across the plain their long, lean Walers went. 
Unknown, untried, those squadrons were, but proudly out they drew 
Beside the English regiments that fought at Waterloo. 
From every coast, from every clime, they met in proud array 
To go with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. 

He crossed the Reit and fought his way towards the Modder bank. 
The foemen closed behind his march, and hung upon the flank. 
The long, dry grass was all ablaze (and fierce the veldt fire runs); 
He fought them through a wall of flame that blazed around the guns! 
Then limbered up and drove at speed, though horses fell and died; 
We might not halt for man nor beast on that wild, daring ride. 
Black with the smoke and parched with thirst, we pressed the livelong day 
Our headlong march to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. 

We reached the drift at fall of night, and camped across the ford. 
Next day from all the hills around the Dutchman's cannon roared. 
A narrow pass ran through the hills, with guns on either side; 
The boldest man might well turn pale before that pass he tried, 
For, if the first attack should fail, then every hope was gone: 
Bur French looked once, and only once, and then he siad, "Push on!" 
The gunners plied their guns amain; the hail of shrapnel flew; 
With rifle fire and lancer charge their squadrons back we threw; 
And through the pass between the hills we swept in furious fray, 
And French was through to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. 

Ay, French was through to Kimberley! And ere the day was done 
We saw the Diamond City stand, lit by the evening sun: 
Above the town the heliograph hung like an eye of flame: 
Around the town the foemen camped -- they knew not that we came; 
But soon they saw us, rank on rank; they heard our squadrons' tread; 
In panic fear they left their tents, in hopeless rout they fled -- 
And French rode into Kimberley; the people cheered amain, 
The women came with tear-stained eyes to touch his bridle rein, 
The starving children lined the streets to raise a feeble cheer, 
The bells rang out a joyous peal to say "Relief is here!" 
Ay! we that saw that stirring march are proud that we can say 
We went with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things