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Best Famous Whinny Poems

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

Search and read the best famous Whinny poems, articles about Whinny poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Whinny poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

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Written by Du Fu | Create an image from this poem

Song of the Wagons

Wagons rumble rumble Hhorses whinny whinny Foot person bow arrow each at waist Father mother wife children go mutual see off Dust dust not see Xianyang bridge Pull clothes stamp foot bar way weep Weep sound directly up strike clouds clouds Road side passerby ask foot person Foot person only say mark down often Some from ten five north guard river Even until four ten west army fields Leave time village chief give bind head Return come head white go back garrison border Border post shed blood become sea water Warlike emperor expand border idea no end Gentleman not see Han homes hill east two hundred districts 1000 villages 10000 hamlets grow thorns trees Though be strong women hold hoe plough Seed grow dyked field not order Besides again Qin soldier withstand bitter fighting Be driven not different dogs and chickens Venerable elder though be ask Battle person dare state bitterness Even like this year winter Not stop pass west soldier District official urgent demand tax Tax tax way how pay True know produce males bad Contrast be produce females good Produce female still get married neighbour Produce male bury follow hundred grass Gentleman not see Qinghai edge Past come white skeleton no person gather New ghost vexed injustice old ghosts weep Heaven dark rain wet sound screech screech
The wagons rumble and roll, The horses whinny and neigh, The conscripts each have bows and arrows at their waists. Their parents, wives and children run to see them off, So much dust's stirred up, it hides the Xianyang bridge. They pull clothes, stamp their feet and, weeping, bar the way, The weeping voices rise straight up and strike the clouds. A passer-by at the roadside asks a conscript why, The conscript answers only that drafting happens often. "At fifteen, many were sent north to guard the river, Even at forty, they had to till fields in the west. When we went away, the elders bound our heads, Returning with heads white, we're sent back off to the frontier. At the border posts, shed blood becomes a sea, The martial emperor's dream of expansion has no end. Have you not seen the two hundred districts east of the mountains, Where thorns and brambles grow in countless villages and hamlets? Although there are strong women to grasp the hoe and the plough, They grow some crops, but there's no order in the fields. What's more, we soldiers of Qin withstand the bitterest fighting, We're always driven onwards just like dogs and chickens. Although an elder can ask me this, How can a soldier dare to complain? Even in this winter time, Soldiers from west of the pass keep moving. The magistrate is eager for taxes, But how can we afford to pay? We know now having boys is bad, While having girls is for the best; Our girls can still be married to the neighbours, Our sons are merely buried amid the grass. Have you not seen on the border of Qinghai, The ancient bleached bones no man's gathered in? The new ghosts are angered by injustice, the old ghosts weep, Moistening rain falls from dark heaven on the voices' screeching."


Written by George Herbert | Create an image from this poem

Peace

 And sometimes I am sorry when the grass
Is growing over the stones in quiet hollows
And the cocksfoot leans across the rutted cart-pass
That I am not the voice of country fellows
Who now are standing by some headland talking
Of turnips and potatoes or young corn
Of turf banks stripped for victory.
Here Peace is still hawking 
His coloured combs and scarves and beads of horn.

Upon a headland by a whinny hedge 
A hare sits looking down a leaf-lapped furrow
There's an old plough upside-down on a weedy ridge
And someone is shouldering home a saddle-harrow.
Out of that childhood country what fools climb
To fight with tyrants Love and Life and Time?
Written by Dorothy Parker | Create an image from this poem

The Whistling Girl

 Back of my back, they talk of me,
Gabble and honk and hiss;
Let them batten, and let them be-
Me, I can sing them this:

"Better to shiver beneath the stars,
Head on a faithless breast,
Than peer at the night through rusted bars,
And share an irksome rest.

"Better to see the dawn come up,
Along of a trifling one,
Than set a steady man's cloth and cup
And pray the day be done.

"Better be left by twenty dears
Than lie in a loveless bed;
Better a loaf that's wet with tears
Than cold, unsalted bread."

Back of my back, they wag their chins,
Whinny and bleat and sigh;
But better a heart a-bloom with sins
Than hearts gone yellow and dry!
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Unholy Trinity

 Though Virtue hurt you Vice is nice;
Aye, Parson says it's wrong,
Yet for my pleasing I'll suffice
With Women, Wine and Song.
But though it be with jocund glee
my tavern voice is ringing,
Had I to chuck on of the three,
By gad! I'd give up singing.

Bu not the vine. What draught divine
Could better souse my throttle?
God never meant that mellow wine
Should languish in the bottle.
So Cellerman, your best bring up;
Let silver cobwebs mist it;
When gold or ruby brims the cup,
Could even saint resist it?

I love the ladies, yes, I do,
I always did and will;
I like with dainty dames to coo,
And have been known to bill.
Yes, I agree it's wrong of me,
So call me grey rapscallion,
But when a lusty lass I see
I whinny like a stallion.

Oh let me be a reprobate,
Your canting care defying;
I'll court that gay triumvirate
Right to the day I'm dying.
So troll until the rafter rings,
And may my life be long
To praise the Lord for precious things
like Women, Wine and Song.
Written by Badger Clark | Create an image from this poem

The Christmas Trail

  The wind is blowin' cold down the mountain tips of snow
    And 'cross the ranges layin' brown and dead;
  It's cryin' through the valley trees that wear the mistletoe
    And mournin' with the gray clouds overhead.
  Yet it's sweet with the beat of my little hawse's feet
    And I whistle like the air was warm and blue,
  For I'm ridin' up the Christmas trail to you, Old folks,
    I'm a-ridin' up the Christmas trail to you.

  Oh, mebbe it was good when the whinny of the Spring
    Had wheedled me to hoppin' of the bars,
  And livin' in the shadow of a sailin' buzzard's wing
    And sleepin' underneath a roof of stars.
  But the bright campfire light only dances for a night,
    While the home-fire burns forever clear and true,
  So 'round the year I circle back to you, Old folks,
    'Round the rovin' year I circle back to you.

  Oh, mebbe it was good when the reckless Summer sun
    Had shot a charge of fire through my veins,
  And I milled around the whiskey and the fightin' and the fun
    'Mong the other mav'ricks drifted from the plains.
  Ay! the pot bubbled hot, while you reckoned I'd forgot,
    And the devil smacked the young blood in his stew,
  Yet I'm lovin' every mile that's nearer you,  Good folks,
    Lovin' every blessed mile that's nearer you.

  Oh, mebbe it was good at the roundup in the Fall
    When the clouds of bawlin' dust before us ran,
  And the pride of rope and saddle was a-drivin' of us all
    To a stretch of nerve and muscle, man and man.
  But the pride sort of died when the man got weary eyed;
    'Twas a sleepy boy that rode the night-guard through,
  And he dreamed himself along a trail to you, Old folks,
    Dreamed himself along a happy trail to you.

  The coyote's Winter howl cuts the dusk behind the hill,
    But the ranch's shinin' window I kin see,
  And though I don't deserve it and, I reckon, never will,
    There'll be room beside the fire kep' for me.
  Skimp my plate 'cause I'm late. Let me hit the old kid gait,
    For tonight I'm stumblin' tired of the new
  And I'm ridin' up the Christmas trail to you, Old folks,
    I'm a-ridin' up the Christmas trail to you.



Book: Reflection on the Important Things