To John Clare
Well, honest John, how fare you now at home?
The spring is come, and birds are building nests;
The old cock-robin to the sty is come,
With olive feathers and its ruddy breast;
And the old cock, with wattles and red comb,
Struts with the hens, and seems to like some best,
Then crows, and looks about for little crumbs,
Swept out by little folks an hour ago;
The pigs sleep in the sty; the bookman comes--
The little boy lets home-close nesting go,
And pockets tops and taws, where daisies blow,
To look at the new number just laid down,
With lots of pictures, and good stories too,
And Jack the Giant-killer's high renown.
poem by John Clare
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Related quotes
Watching The Chickens
the strong cock
struts its way
towards a
group of hens
and as there
are too many
of them
hens, the cock
in confidence
does what is
of most service
to its master
he fucked them
all
for the eggs.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Snowball Is Back With His Hens
Poor snowball the white silky bantam cock not feeling well of late
His son big red has thrashed him he is in a sorry state
Dried blood on his neck feathers from the comb he has bled
He has really copped a hiding from his oldest offspring red.
Red and his half sibling cock white silky bantams by Steve and Annie to be sold
Around the yard with their parent hens they won't grow tired and old
In the fowl pen they are obliged to wait tomorrow at the break of day
Steve will take them in a box to the fowl dealing woman in the house across the way.
Snowball is back with his hens his aggressive son now behind lettuce wire
Will never have another chance of attacking his snow white sire
Snowball is Steve and Annie's favourite rooster and they decide who stay
And violence as big red will find out it does not always pay.
Snowball the silky bantam cock he crows in the backyard
With dried blood on his neck feathers and his comb from warring scarred
And tomorrow big red will be gone and snowball again will reign supreme
And he will recover from his wounds and regain his self esteem.
poem by Francis Duggan
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In the backyard a cock crows
In the backyard a cock crows
from a plot surrounded by walls of steel
while a dog lies in the sun where he is making a din.
In the backyard a cock crows
half astonished the hens peer at him
where in the early afternoon they how and peck.
In the backyard a cock crows
from a plot surrounded by walls of steel
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A September Day
A thing of such great beauty to behold
The wattles resplendent in their blooms of gold
The first week of September and Spring is in the air
And in the green park daisies bloom everywhere,
On a day like this 'tis good to be alive
To start your car and go off on a drive
So great to live to see another Spring
To hear the nesting wild birds chirp and sing,
Were i a poet i would write a simple lay
For to celebrate this beautiful Spring day
To celebrate the beauty i can see
Where the Goddess of Spring has spread her greenery
And the wattles laden in their golden flowers
Look resplendent in these mild September hours.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Couple Of Chicken Religious Meal
The couple of chicken religious meal
On the ruwatan of my mother
Offering to me
8. Couple Of Chicken Religious Meal
I left the hen one at my grandma house
and bring the cock going home
after arrive at home
that cock
I bring everywhere
aver meet the another one
keep fighting with my cock and win
sometime meet with the cockfighter
neighbour, who have gerobak repair house
where they iron for
and teakwood for
in the center field
they fight my cock and theirs
the winner is always my cock
Their face look very regretful
And they offering to bought my cock
I avoid
And tomorrow eveing, when I went home from school
I found my cock foot
He stay and asleep in my house corner
My cockfoot had injury was harpooned
I care with garlic, not yet recover
I care with peniciclin, not
a week after that cock dead
I cry for the whole day
I don’t understand adult will won theirself
they dont understand, that is not just a cock
But a cock for religious meal in the ruwatan of my mother
My grandma gift
poem by Prasetya Utama
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I Have a Gentil Cock
I have a gentil cock
croweth me day
he doth me risen early
my matins for to stay
I have a gentil cock
comen he is of great
his comb is of red coral
his tail is of jet
I have a gentil cock
comen he is of kind
his comb is of red sorrel
his tail is of inde
his legs be of azure
so gentil and so small
his spurs are of silver white
into the wortewale
his eyes are of crystal
locked all in amber
and every night he pertcheth him
in my lady`s chamber
Prequel..cock Robin.
PREQUEL..COCK ROBIN.
THE DAWN MIST HANGS LOW THROUGHOUT THE VALLEY
CREATING THE SHROUD WHICH ALLOWS TIMID CREATURES TO VENTURE OUT
IN THE DISTANCE, THE WOOP OF A DOVE, RAT-TAT-TAT OF WOODPECKER RINGS OUT
SOON ALL LIFE TAKES THEIR PLACE, MAN AND ALL.
WOODCUTTER SAM COPPICES IN A SUSTAINABLE WAY
AS SOON AS HE IS GONE THE ANTS AND WOODLICE ARRIVE TO CART THE CHIPS AWAY
LIFE CAN BE SWEET HERE, HARMONY ENDURES
THE SQUIRREL AND THE JAY ARE ONE..THESE ARE MINE..THOSE ARE YOURS
BUT THERE'S SOMETHING MISSING, ROUTINE HAS FINALLY RELEASED THEIR MINDS
WHERE IS COCK ROBIN'S CHIRPING OF THE TWITTERING KIND?
HE MUST BE IN THE SOUTH OF THE VALLEY, SAY'S JOHN CROW
OH NO, THIS ISN'T THE DAY HE'D GO
SOON THE WORD HAD GONE OUT, COCK ROBIN HAS NOT BEEN SEEN
HE'LL RETURN BEFORE LONG AND TELL US WHERE HE'S BEEN
THE HOURS WEAR ON, THE RUMOURS ABOUND, ALL ARE LISTENING FOR THAT CHIPPY-CHIRPY SOUND
IN THE FOLLOWING DAYS WITH NO MORNING ACLAIM FROM COCK ROBIN
THE TEARS SHED ARE HIDDEN IN THE MISTY WETNESS OF THE MORNING.
poem by Brian Roy Skyers
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I Have a Gentil Cock
I have a gentil cock
croweth me day
he doth me risen early
my matins for to stay
I have a gentil cock
comen he is of great
his comb is of red coral
his tail is of jet
I have a gentil cock
comen he is of kind
his comb is of red sorrel
his tail is of inde
his legs be of azure
so gentil and so small
his spurs are of silver white
into the wortewale
his eyes are of crystal
locked all in amber
and every night he pertcheth him
in my lady`s chamber
poem by Anonymous Americas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Have A Gentil Cock
I have a gentil cock
croweth me day
he doth me risen early
my matins for to stay
I have a gentil cock
comen he is of great
his comb is of red coral
his tail is of jet
I have a gentil cock
comen he is of kind
his comb is of red sorrel
his tail is of inde
his legs be of azure
so gentil and so small
his spurs are of silver white
into the wortewale
his eyes are of crystal
locked all in amber
and every night he pertcheth him
in my lady`s chamber
poem by Anonymous Olde English
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sugar
On the vermont transit bus I leaned my arm into alittle chink of sun,
Going somewhere older than I was,
Strapped into something tight, keeping me small.
I dug into you like rock climbing;
Too scared of coming down,
Too scared of going up,
Too scared of rockface.
I shouldve split my sides or spilled my guts or hit you or something,
But I was good, and your fathers little pancakes
So round and perfect and me sitting up too straight,
Laughing in wrong places, kissing you,
Kissing up, kissing too soon.
When the cock crows
When the morning comes where will I go?
When the cock crows
When the love is gone where will I go?
And when you got me pregnant I stopped the party and
I stopped the typewriter and I stopped your dumb ball game in the red barn and i
Stopped your father and bled instead.
And I felt the lie - something sticky on the inside,
A bitter wind in my throat,
Stopping me wanting,
In my stomach, in my head and you said
Sugar sugar, you couldnt come come
Sugar sugar, without your mother
Sugar sugar, you couldnt taste it
Sugar sugar, in my throat.
When the cock crows
When the morning comes where will I go?
When the cock crows
When the love is gone where will I go?
song performed by by Heather Nova
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wings In The Night
Now in the soft spring midnight
There's rush of wings and whirr,
Birds flying softly, swiftly;
The night's a-flutter, a-stir.
Home by the bitter seas,
They have sped home together.
So glad to be coming home
To the grey hills, the grey weather.
Calling and calling softly
One lights by the window-pane:
The rook, weary with building,
Turns to his sleep again.
Ere ever the moor-hens wake
And the wild duck come in,
The birds are about the house
With a long call and thin.
They have wakened the wood-pigeon
To make her plaintive moan,
The wood-pigeon lamenting
For sorrows not her own.
Oh, they are never birds,
But souls of men on the wind,
Seeking the mother's breast,
The heart that is soft and kind.
Souls of the Irish dead,
Flown from the fields of slaughter,
Home to the mother's arms
Over the wild grey water.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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As the old cock crows, the young cock learns.
On The Second Week Of September
Across the high green paddocks the freshening winds blow
In the sunshine of September near where the river waters crawl slow
Near the end of it's journey the deep salty sea
The river water like us fulfil their life's destiny.
A pair of crows are building their stick nest high on a gum tree
And the mud nesting magpie lark known to some as pee wee
Are singing out pee wee their familiar song
Some voices of Nature one cannot get wrong.
On the second week of September in the early Spring
The nesting songbirds chirp and whistle and sing
With young to be raised and borders to defend
The circle of Nature does not have an end.
I do feel quite grateful as the word can be
That another Spring I have lived for to see
For the natural beauty to look at that's free
Of Nature herself who is all around me.
poem by Francis Duggan
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In Green Old Duhallow From Here Far Away
The fields in their beautiful wildflowers of May
In green old Duhallow from here far away
And nesting birds sing in grove and on hedgerow
In Cullen where Araglen waters do flow
On to the Blackwater en route to the sea
The old river babbles on eternally
Through a Countryside that is as ancient as time
That has inspired poets of the past for to rhyme
About the great beauty around them they had seen
In May when the landscape was looking so green
For May is a beautiful time of the year
In green old Duhallow so far north of here
The wonders of Nature a thing to enjoy
The cock pheasants are cucking in old Lisnaboy
In fancy I am back in the long ago
Just remembering a beauty that I used to know.
Were I a poet of such beauty I would write
White butterflies flitting in the warm sunlight
and cock robin with the sun on his red breast sing
In green old Duhallow in the latter Spring.
In fancy the song of the chaffinch I hear
In green old Duhallow so far north of here
Where the babbling waters of Araglen flow
Through fields to the Blackwater by grove and hedgerow.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Yeoman's Son
It fell about the edge of dark,
Between the sun and moon,
The yeoman's son came home again
With the mire upon his shoon -
With the red clay upon his shoon
From a furrowed field afar -
The sour and bitter clod that breaks
Beneath the share of war.
'Oh, kiss me once on the brows, mother,
And hold me to your breast;
For the long day's work is over and done,
And I go glad to rest.'
'And oh, good-bye, my father's house,
Good-bye to field and hill,
For I'll lie down in the red furrow
To sleep, and sleep my fill.'
'I shall not rouse at the cock-crow,
I shall not wake with the sun;
I shall sleep the sleep of a strong man tired
When his day's work is done.'
'Ay, deep I'll sleep in the red furrow,
Out over the Channel foam . . .
And another hand than mine, mother,
Must lead the harvest home!'
poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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The Song at Cock-Crow
1918 -- Ille autem iterum negavit.
The first time that Peter denied his Lord
He shrank from the cudgel, the scourge and the cord,
But followed far off to see what they would do,
Till the cock crew--till the cock crew--
After Gethsemane, till the cock crew!
The first time that Peter denied his Lord
'Twas only a maid in the palace who heard,
As he sat by the fire and warmed himself through.
Then the cock crew! Then the cock crew!
("Though also art one of them.") Then the cock crew!
The first time that Peter denied his Lord
He had neither the Throne, nor the Keys nor the Sword--
A poor silly fisherman, what could he do,
When the cock crew--when the cock crew--
But weep for his wickedness when the cock crew?
. . . . . .
The next time that Peter denied his Lord
He was Fisher of Men, as foretold by the Word,
With the Crown on his brow and the Cross on his shoe,
When the cock crew--when the cock crew--
In Flanders and Picardy when the cock crew!
The next time that Peter denied his Lord
'Twas Mary the Mother in Heaven Who heard,
She grieved for the maidens and wives that they slew
When the cock crew--when the cock crew--
At Tirmonde and Aerschott when the cock crew!
The next time that Peter denied his Lord
The Babe in the Manger awakened and stirred,
And He stretched out His arms for the playmates
He knew--
When the cock crew--when the cock crew--
But the waters had covered them when the cock crew!
The next time that Peter denied his Lord
'Twas Earth in her agony waited his word,
But he sat by the fire and naught would he do,
Though the cock crew--though the cock crew--
Over all Christendom, though the cock crew!
The last time that Peter denied his Lord,
The Father took from him the Keys and the Sword,
And the Mother and Babe brake his Kingdom in two,
When the cock crew--when the cock crew--
(Because of his wickedness) when the cock crew!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Dawn Time
it is still dark
and what you hear are only footsteps
there are no shadows yet
only speculations
there is something good
at this hour
you ponder on what is
why and
when
then the cock of the neighborhood crows
there is light now
and you are ready to go
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Malediction
I am walking in the last rays of the setting sun.
Whistling a hangmans tune with head held high swinging my gun.
I say this little boy is angry, I say this little boy is mad!
This little boy comes to destroy, stone-eyed, cold-faced in swathes of vengeance clad.
And the black cock crows. and a dead wind blows.
In my wake are seven men who tried to steal my soul.
In my belly six wild wolves curse and howl from their foul hole.
I say no earthly will may stop me, I say no earthly will may try.
No earthly will may halt the spill of blood from wounds and tears from craving eyes.
And the black cock crows. and a dead wind blows.
Below me burn the city lights like fires of pearls and jewels.
Im climbling down the city walls, unseen, unfussed - the sentries must be fools.
I say all pleasantries are over, I say all pleasantries are past.
My enemies, you pimps and thieves, prepare to meet your nemesis at last.
And the black cock crows. and the dead wind blows.
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Price Of The Cock
THE PRICE OF THE COCK
A WOMAN STOLE A COCK AND TOOK IT TO THE MARKET TO SELL IT, WHILST AT THE MARKET, SMARTER THIEVES STOLE THE COCK FROM HER AND SHE WENT BACK HOME SOBER!
ON HER ARRIVAL AT HER HOUSE, AN INQUISITIVE NEIGHBOUR ASKED, DEAR NEIGHBOUR, YOUR COCK WHICH YOU TOOK TO THE MARKET, HOW MUCH DID YOU SELL IT? SHE ASKED AND THE SOBER WOMAN REPLIED, IT WAS SOLD FOR EXACTLY THE SAME PRICE FOR WHICH IT WAS BOUGHT!
poem by Overlord Don Manuel Ihcakeyno
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I Dreamt Of Robin
I opened the casement this morn at starlight,
And, the moment I got out of bed,
The daisies were quaking about in their white
And the cowslip was nodding its head.
The grass was all shivers, the stars were all bright,
And Robin that should come at e'en--
I thought that I saw him, a ghost by moonlight,
Like a stalking horse stand on the green.
I went bed agen and did nothing but dream
Of Robin and moonlight and flowers.
He stood like a shadow transfixed by a stream,
And I couldn't forget him for hours.
I'd just dropt asleep when I dreamed Robin spoke,
And the casement it gave such a shake,
As if every pane in the window was broke;
Such a patter the gravel did make.
So I up in the morning before the cock crew
And to strike me a light I sat down.
I saw from the door all his track in the dew
And, I guess, called 'Come in and sit down.'
And one, sure enough, tramples up to the door,
And who but young Robin his sen?
And ere the old folks were half willing to stir
We met, kissed, and parted agen.
poem by John Clare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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