10 Best Famous Wake The Dead Poems

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

• All Famous Wake The Dead Poems

 In silence the heart raves.It utters words
Meaningless, that never had
A meaning.I was ten, skinny, red-headed,

Freckled.In a big black Buick,
Driven by a big grown boy, with a necktie, she sat
In front of the drugstore, sipping something

Through a straw. There is nothing like
Beauty. It stops your heart.It
Thickens your blood.It stops your breath.It

Makes you feel dirty.You need a hot bath.
I leaned against a telephone pole, and watched.
I thought I would die if she saw me.

How could I exist in the same world with that brightness?
Two years later she smiled at me.She
Named my name. I thought I would wake up dead.

Her grown brothers walked with the bent-knee
Swagger of horsemen.They were slick-faced.
Told jokes in the barbershop. Did no work.

Their father was what is called a drunkard.
Whatever he was he stayed on the third floor
Of the big white farmhouse under the maples for twenty-five years.

He never came down.They brought everything up to him.
I did not know what a mortgage was.
His wife was a good, Christian woman, and prayed.

When the daughter got married, the old man came down wearing
An old tail coat, the pleated shirt yellowing.
The sons propped him.I saw the wedding.There were

Engraved invitations, it was so fashionable.I thought
I would cry.I lay in bed that night
And wondered if she would cry when something was done to her.

The mortgage was foreclosed. That last word was whispered. 
She never came back.The family
Sort of drifted off.Nobody wears shiny boots like that now.

But I know she is beautiful forever, and lives
In a beautiful house, far away.
She called my name once.I didn't even know she knew it.

 There is a dish to hold the sea, 
A brazier to contain the sun, 
A compass for the galaxy, 
A voice to wake the dead and done! 

That minister of ministers, 
Imagination, gathers up 
The undiscovered Universe, 
Like jewels in a jasper cup. 

Its flame can mingle north and south; 
Its accent with the thunder strive; 
The ruddy sentence of its mouth 
Can make the ancient dead alive. 

The mart of power, the fount of will, 
The form and mould of every star, 
The source and bound of good and ill, 
The key of all the things that are, 

Imagination, new and strange 
In every age, can turn the year; 
Can shift the poles and lightly change 
The mood of men, the world's career.

 There is an inn, a merry old inn
beneath an old grey hill,
And there they brew a beer so brown
That the Man in the Moon himself came down
one night to drink his fill.

The ostler has a tipsy cat
that plays a five-stringed fiddle;
And up and down he saws his bow
Now squeaking high, now purring low,
now sawing in the middle.

The landlord keeps a little dog
that is mighty fond of jokes;
When there's good cheer among the guests,
He cocks an ear at all the jests
and laughs until he chokes.

They also keep a hornéd cow
as proud as any queen;
But music turns her head like ale,
And makes her wave her tufted tail
and dance upon the green.

And O! the rows of silver dishes
and the store of silver spoons!
For Sunday there's a special pair,
And these they polish up with care
on Saturday afternoons.

The Man in the Moon was drinking deep,
and the cat began to wail;
A dish and a spoon on the table danced,
The cow in the garden madly pranced
and the little dog chased his tail.

The Man in the Moon took another mug,
and then rolled beneath his chair;
And there he dozed and dreamed of ale,
Till in the sky the stars were pale,
and dawn was in the air.

Then the ostler said to his tipsy cat:
'The white horses of the Moon,
They neigh and champ their silver bits;
But their master's been and drowned his wits,
and the Sun'll be rising soon!'

So the cat on the fiddle played hey-diddle-diddle,
a jig that would wake the dead:
He squeaked and sawed and quickened the tune,
While the landlord shook the Man in the Moon:
'It's after three!' he said.

They rolled the Man slowly up the hill
and bundled him into the Moon,
While his horses galloped up in rear,
And the cow came capering like a deer,
and a dish ran up with the spoon.

Now quicker the fiddle went deedle-dum-diddle;
the dog began to roar,
The cow and the horses stood on their heads;
The guests all bounded from their beds
and danced upon the floor.

With a ping and a pang the fiddle-strings broke!
the cow jumped over the Moon,
And the little dog laughed to see such fun,
And the Saturday dish went off at a run
with the silver Sunday spoon.

The round Moon rolled behind the hill,
as the Sun raised up her head.
She* hardly believed her fiery eyes;
For though it was day, to her surprise
they all went back to bed!

 Simon Zelotes speaking after the Crucifixion.
Fere=Mate, Companion.

Ha' we lost the goodliest fere o' all
For the priests and the gallows tree?
Aye lover he was of brawny men,
O' ships and the open sea.

When they came wi' a host to take Our Man
His smile was good to see,
"First let these go!" quo' our Goodly Fere,
"Or I'll see ye damned," says he.

Aye he sent us out through the crossed high spears
And the scorn of his laugh rang free,
"Why took ye not me when I walked about
Alone in the town?" says he.

Oh we drank his "Hale" in the good red wine
When we last made company,
No capon priest was the Goodly Fere
But a man o' men was he.

I ha' seen him drive a hundred men
Wi' a bundle o' cords swung free,
That they took the high and holy house
For their pawn and treasury.

They'll no' get him a' in a book I think
Though they write it cunningly;
No mouse of the scrolls was the Goodly Fere
But aye loved the open sea.

If they think they ha' snared our Goodly Fere
They are fools to the last degree.
"I'll go to the feast," quo' our Goodly Fere,
"Though I go to the gallows tree."

"Ye ha' seen me heal the lame and blind,
And wake the dead," says he,
"Ye shall see one thing to master all:
'Tis how a brave man dies on the tree."

A son of God was the Goodly Fere
That bade us his brothers be.
I ha' seen him cow a thousand men.
I have seen him upon the tree.

He cried no cry when they drave the nails
And the blood gushed hot and free,
The hounds of the crimson sky gave tongue
But never a cry cried he.

I ha' seen him cow a thousand men
On the hills o' Galilee,
They whined as he walked out calm between,
Wi' his eyes like the grey o' the sea,

Like the sea that brooks no voyaging
With the winds unleashed and free,
Like the sea that he cowed at Genseret
Wi' twey words spoke' suddently.

A master of men was the Goodly Fere,
A mate of the wind and sea,
If they think they ha' slain our Goodly Fere
They are fools eternally.

I ha' seen him eat o' the honey-comb
Sin' they nailed him to the tree.

 The Raven croak'd as she sate at her meal, 
And the Old Woman knew what he said, 
And she grew pale at the Raven's tale, 
And sicken'd and went to her bed. 

'Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with speed,' 
The Old Woman of Berkeley said, 
'The Monk my son, and my daughter the Nun, 
Bid them hasten or I shall be dead.' 

The Monk her son, and her daughter the Nun, 
Their way to Berkeley went, 
And they have brought with pious thought 
The holy sacrament. 

The Old Woman shriek'd as they enter'd her door, 
And she cried with a voice of despair, 
'Now take away the sacrament, 
For its presence I cannot bear!' 

Her lip it trembled with agony, 
The sweat ran down her brow, 
'I have tortures in store for evermore, 
But spare me, my children, now!' 

Away they sent the sacrament, 
The fit it left her weak, 
She look's at her children with ghastly eyes, 
And faintly struggled to speak. 

'All kind of sin have I rioted in, 
And the judgement now must be, 
But I secured my children's souls, 
Oh! pray, my children, for me! 

'I have 'nointed myself with infant's fat, 
The fiends have been my slaves, 
From sleeping babes I have suck'd the breath, 
And breaking by charms the sleep of death, 
I have call'd the dead from their graves. 

'And the Devil will fetch me now in fire, 
My witchcrafts to atone; 
And I who have troubled the dead man's grave 
Shall never have rest in my own. 

'Bless, I entreat, my winding sheet, 
My children, I beg of you; 
And with holy water sprinkle my shroud, 
And sprinkle my coffin, too. 

'And let me be chain'd in my coffin of stone, 
And fasten it strong, I implore, 
With iron bars, and with three chains, 
Chain it to the church floor. 

'And bless the chains and sprinkle them, 
And let fifty Priests stand round, 
Who night and day the mass may say 
Where I lie on the ground. 

'And see that fifty Choristers 
Beside the bier attend me, 
And day and night by the tapers' light, 
With holy hymns defend me. 

'Let the church bells all, both great and small, 
Be toll'd by night and day, 
To drive from thence the fiends who come 
To bear my body away. 

`And ever have the church door barr'd 
After the even-song; 
And I beseech you, children dear, 
Let the bars and bolts be strong. 

'And let this be three days and nights 
My wretched corpse to save; 
Till the fourth morning keep me safe, 
And then I may rest in my grave.' 

The Old Woman of Berkeley laid her down, 
And her eyes grew deadly dim, 
Short came her breath, and the struggle of death 
Did loosen every limb. 

They blest the old woman's winding sheet 
With rites and prayers due, 
With holy water they sprinkled her shroud, 
And they sprinkled her coffin too. 

And they chain'd her in her coffin of stone, 
And with iron barr'd it down, 
And in the church with three strong chains 
The chain'd it to the ground. 

And they blest the chains and sprinkled them, 
And fifty Priests stood round, 
By night and day the mass to say 
Where she lay on the ground. 

And fifty sacred Choristers 
Beside the bier attend her, 
Who day and night by the taper's light 
Should with holy hymns defend her. 

To see the Priests and Choristers 
It was a goodly sight, 
Each holding, as it were a staff, 
A taper burning bright. 

And the church bells all, both great and small, 
Did toll so loud and long; 
And they have barr'd the church door hard, 
After the even-song. 

And the first night the tapers' light 
Burnt steadily and clear, 
But they without a hideous rout 
Of angry fiends could hear; 

A hideous roar at the church door 
Like a long thunder peal; 
And the Priests they pray'd, and the Choristers sung 
Louder in fearful zeal. 

Loud toll'd the bell, the Priests pray'd well, 
The tapers they burnt bright, 
The Monk her son, and her daughter the Nun, 
They told their beads all night. 

The cock he crew, the Fiends they flew 
From the voice of the morning away; 
Then undisturb'd the Choristers sing, 
And the fifty Priests they pray; 
As they had sung and pray'd all night, 
They pray'd and sung all day. 

The second night the tapers' light 
Burnt dismally and blue, 
And every one saw his neighbour's face 
Like a dead man's face to view. 

And yells and cries without arise 
That the stoutest heart might shock, 
And a deafening roar like a cataract pouring 
Over a mountain rock. 

The Monk and Nun they told their beads 
As fast as they could tell, 
And aye as louder grew the noise 
The faster went the bell. 

Louder and louder the Choristers sung 
As they trembled more and more, 
And the Priests as they pray'd to heaven for aid, 
They smote their breasts full sore. 

The cock he crew, the Fiends they flew 
From the voice of the morning away; 
Then undisturb'd the Choristers sing, 
And the fifty Priests they pray; 
As they had sung and pray'd all night, 
The pray'd and sung all day. 

The third night came, and the tapers' flame 
A frightful stench did make; 
And they burnt as though they had been dipt 
In the burning brimstone lake. 

And the loud commotion, like the rushing of ocean, 
Grew momently more and more; 
And strokes as of a battering ram 
Did shake the strong church door. 

The bellmen, they for very fear 
Could toll the bell no longer; 
And still as louder grew the strokes 
Their fear it grew the stronger. 

The Monk and Nun forgot their beads, 
They fell on the ground in dismay; 
There was not a single Saint in heaven 
To whom they did not pray. 

And the Choristers' song, which late was so strong, 
Falter'd with consternation, 
For the church did rock as an earthquake shock 
Uplifed its foundation. 

And a sound was heard like the trumpet's blast, 
That shall one day wake the dead; 
The strong church door could bear no more, 
And the bolts and the bars they fled; 

And the tapers' light was extinguish'd quite, 
And the Choristers faintly sung, 
And the Priests dismay'd, panted and pray'd, 
And on all the Saints in heaven for aid 
They call'd with trembling tongue. 

And in He came with eyes of flame, 
The Devil to fetch the dead, 
And all the church with his presence glow'd 
Like a fiery furnace red. 

He laid his hand on the iron chains, 
And like flax they moulder'd asunder, 
And the coffin lid, which was barr'd so firm, 
He burst with his voice of thunder. 

And he bade the Old Woman of Berkeley rise, 
And some with her Master away; 
A cold sweat started on that cold corpse, 
At the voice she was forced to obey. 

She rose on her feet in her winding sheet, 
Her dead flesh quiver'd with fear, 
And a groan like that which the Old Woman gave 
Never did mortal hear. 

She follow'd her Master to the church door, 
There stood a black horse there; 
His breath was red like furnace smoke, 
His eyes like a meteor's glare. 

The Devil he flung her on the horse, 
And he leapt up before, 
And away like the lightning's speed they went, 
And she was seen no more. 

They saw her no more, but her cries 
For four miles round they could hear, 
And children at rest at their mothers' breast 
Started, and scream'd with fear.

 It was a man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town,
He wandered over street and park, he wandered up and down,
He loitered here, he loitered there, till he was like to drop,
Until at last in sheer despair he sought a barber's shop.
" 'Ere! shave me beard and whiskers off, I'll be a man of mark,
I'll go and do the Sydney toff up home in Ironbark!"

The barber man was small and flash, as barbers mostly are,
He wore a strike-your-fancy sash, he smoked a huge cigar:
He was a humorist of note and keen on repartee,
He laid the odds and kept a 'tote', whatever that might be.
And when he saw our friend arrive, he whispered, "Here's a lark!
Just watch me catch him all alive, this man from Ironbark!"

There were some gilded youths that sat along the barber's wall,
Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all;
To them the barber passed the wink, his dexter eyelid shut,
"I'll make this bloomin' yokel think his bloomin' throat is cut."
And as he soaped and rubbed it in, he made a rude remark:
"I s'pose the flats are pretty green up there in Ironbark."

A grunt was all reply he got; he shaved the bushman's chin,
Then made the water boiling hot and dipped the razor in.
He raised his hand, his brow grew black, He paused awhile to gloat,
Then slashed the red-hot razor-back across his victim's throat;
Upon the newly-shaven skin it made a livid mark—
No doubt it fairly took him in— that man from Ironbark.

He fetched a wild up-country yell might wake the dead to hear,
And though his throat, he knew full well, was cut from ear to ear,
He struggled gamely to his feet, and faced the murderous foe.
"You've done for me! you dog, I'm beat! one hit before I go!
I only wish I had a knife, you blessed murdering shark!
But you'll remember all your life the man from Ironbark."

He lifted up his hairy paw, with one tremendous clout
He landed on the barber's jaw, and knocked the barber out.
He set to work with tooth and nail, he made the place a wreck;
He grabbed the nearest gilded youth, and tried to break his neck.
And all the while his throat he held to save his vital spark,
And "Murder! Bloody Murder!" yelled the man from Ironbark.

A peeler man who heard the din came in to see the show;
He tried to run the bushman in, but he refused to go.
And when at last the barber spoke, and said " 'Twas all in fun—
'Twas just a little harmless joke, a trifle overdone."
"A joke!" he cried, "By George, that's fine; a lively sort of lark;
I'd like to catch that murdering swine some night in Ironbark."

And now while round the shearing-floor the listening shearers gape,
He tells the story o'er and o'er, and brags of his escape.
"Them barber chaps what keeps a tote, by George, I've had enough,
One tried to cut my bloomin' throat, but thank the Lord it's tough."
And whether he's believed or no, there's one thing to remark,
That flowing beards are all the go way up in Ironbark.

 It was the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town, 
He wandered over street and park, he wandered up and down. 
He loitered here he loitered there, till he was like to drop, 
Until at last in sheer despair he sought a barber's shop. 
"Ere! shave my beard and whiskers off, I'll be a man of mark, 
I'll go and do the Sydney toff up home in Ironbark." 
The barber man was small and flash, as barbers mostly are, 
He wore a strike-your-fancy sash he smoked a huge cigar; 
He was a humorist of note and keen at repartee, 
He laid the odds and kept a "tote", whatever that may be, 
And when he saw our friend arrive, he whispered, "Here's a lark! 
Just watch me catch him all alive, this man from Ironbark." 

There were some gilded youths that sat along the barber's wall. 
Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all; 
To them the barber passed the wink his dexter eyelid shut, 
"I'll make this bloomin' yokel think his bloomin' throat is cut." 
And as he soaped and rubbed it in he made a rude remark: 
"I s'pose the flats is pretty green up there in Ironbark." 

A grunt was all reply he got; he shaved the bushman's chin, 
Then made the water boiling hot and dipped the razor in. 
He raised his hand, his brow grew black, he paused awhile to gloat, 
Then slashed the red-hot razor-back across his victim's throat; 
Upon the newly-shaven skin it made a livid mark - 
No doubt it fairly took him in - the man from Ironbark. 

He fetched a wild up-country yell might wake the dead to hear, 
And though his throat, he knew full well, was cut from ear to ear, 
He struggled gamely to his feet, and faced the murd'rous foe: 
"You've done for me! you dog, I'm beat! one hit before I go! 
I only wish I had a knife, you blessed murdering shark! 
But you'll remember all your life the man from Ironbark." 

He lifted up his hairy paw, with one tremendous clout 
He landed on the barber's jaw, and knocked the barber out. 
He set to work with nail and tooth, he made the place a wreck; 
He grabbed the nearest gilded youth, and tried to break his neck. 
And all the while his throat he held to save his vital spark, 
And "Murder! Bloody murder!" yelled the man from Ironbark. 

A peeler man who heard the din came in to see the show; 
He tried to run the bushman in, but he refused to go. 
And when at last the barber spoke, and said "'Twas all in fun' 
Twas just a little harmless joke, a trifle overdone." 
"A joke!" he cried, "By George, that's fine; a lively sort of lark; 
I'd like to catch that murdering swine some night in Ironbark." 

And now while round the shearing floor the list'ning shearers gape, 
He tells the story o'er and o'er, and brags of his escape. 
"Them barber chaps what keeps a tote, By George, I've had enough, 
One tried to cut my bloomin' throat, but thank the Lord it's tough." 
And whether he's believed or no, there's one thing to remark, 
That flowing beards are all the go way up in Ironbark.