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Ode Tae Colin Leslie Dean, Australia's Leading Erotic Poet Allegedly
Weel, colin man, ye’ve done us proud
Ye’ve plestered a’ the wa’s an’ a’
Ye’ve sprung fae in a b’low yer shroud
An’ flashed us wi yer whang an’ a’
An’ mushrooms rare ye didnae spare
Until oor very een were sare
Wi kittlin’ skits this day
But feminists aroon the globe
Are writhing wi their wrath an’ a
An’ probably there’ll be a probe
Wi’ bile an’ much anathema
Yer rhymes are ripe fer getting sockt
Yer tool’s in line fer getting’ dockt
In whittlin’ fits this day
An’ aye it seems there come the day
Whun structured rhymers, scribes an’ a’
Must realise it’s time tae slay
Some ither fiends some ither whar
Ye’ve fed us foo on Aussie prose
Wi chittlin whits ye passed as brose
Never-endin’ly this lang day
To The Commissioners Of Northern Lights
I SEND to you, commissioners,
A paper that may please ye, sirs
(For troth they say it might be worse
An' I believe't)
And on your business lay my curse
Before I leav't.
I thocht I'd serve wi' you, sirs, yince,
But I've thocht better of it since;
The maitter I will nowise mince,
But tell ye true:
I'll service wi' some ither prince,
An' no wi' you.
I've no been very deep, ye'll think,
Cam' delicately to the brink
An' when the water gart me shrink
Straucht took the rue,
An' didna stoop my fill to drink -
I own it true.
I kent on cape and isle, a light
Burnt fair an' clearly ilka night;
But at the service I took fright,
As sune's I saw,
An' being still a neophite
Gaed straucht awa'.
Anither course I now begin,
The weeg I'll cairry for my sin,
The court my voice shall echo in,
An' - wha can tell? -
Some ither day I may be yin
O' you mysel'.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A proud mind and an empty purse gree ill thegither.
New customers are lik razor-toothed Gree worms, they may be succulent, but sometimes they bite.
He has coosten his cloak on the ither shouther.
Oor ain reek's better than ither fowk's fire.
Ye cut lang whangs out o' ither folk's leather.
Some cut lang whangs aff ither folk's leather.
Bread and cheese is gude to eat when folk can get nae ither meat.
Expect not a very covetous person to be very honest for a long time. Experience keeps a dear school, but fools will learn in nae ither.
The Elphin Nourrice
I heard a cow low, a bonnie cow low,
An' a cow low down in yon glen;
Lang, lang will my young son greet,
Or his mither bid him come ben.
I heard a cow low, a bonnie cow low,
An' a cow low down in yon fauld;
Lang, lang will my young son greet,
Or is mither take him frae cauld.
Waken, Queen of Elfan,
An hear your Nourrice moan.
O moan ye for your meat,
Or moan ye for your fee,
Or moan ye for the ither bounties
That ladies are wont to gie?
I moan na for my meat,
Nor yet for my fee,
But I mourn for Christened land--
It's there I fain would be.
O nurse my bairn, Nourice, she says,
Till he stan' at your knee,
An' ye's win hame to Christen land,
Whar fain it's ye wad be.
O keep my bairn, Nourice,
Till he gang by the hauld,
An' ye's win hame to your young son,
Ye left in four nights auld.
poem by Andrew Lang
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Till I Go Down
Till I go down
Till I go down
Till I go down
Im not gonna shut my eyes
Till I go down
Im not gonna shut my eyes
Ive already seen the lies
On the faces of the men of war
Leading people to the killing floor
Till I go down
Till I go down
Till I go down
Im not gonna shut my eyes
No no
Till I go down
Till the world stops spinning around
Till Im six feet under the ground
Till theres no sound
Till theres no pain
Im gonna swing this chain
Till I go down
Im not gonna shut my mouth
Im for the truth to come out
About the leader with the iron will
And his allegiance to the dollar bill
Till I go down
Till I go down
Till I go down
Im not gonna shut my eyes
Till I go down
song performed by by Jackson Browne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Later Tonight
You wait till later
till later tonight
You wait till later, till later
till later tonight
That boy never cast a look in your direction
Never tried to hook for your affection
Dresses like the mod of your invention, tall and proud
He is the head boy of the school of thought
That plays in your intentions, night and day
And you wait till later
till later tonight
You wait till later, till later
till later tonight
And you wait till later
till later tonight
You wait till later, till later
till later tonight
cause tonight always comes
song performed by by Pet Shop Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Rower's Chant
ROW till the land dip 'neath
The sea from view.
Row till a land peep up,
A home for you.
Row till the mast sing songs
Welcome and sweet,
Row till the waves, outstripped,
Give up, dead beat.
Row till the sea-nymphs rise
To ask you why
Rowing you tarry not
To hear them sigh.
Row till the stars grow bright
Like certain eyes.
Row till the noon be high
As hopes you prize.
Row till you harbour in
All longing's port.
Row till you find all things
For which you sought.
poem by Thomas Sturge Moore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rowers Chant
Row till the land dip 'neath
The sea from view.
Row till a land peep up,
A home for you.
Row till the mast sing songs
Welcome and sweet.
Row till the waves, out-stripped,
Give up dead beat.
Row till the sea-nymphs rise
To ask you why
Rowing you tarry not
To hear them sigh.
Row till the stars grow bright
Like certain eyes.
Row till the noon be high
As hopes you prize.
Row till you harbour in
All longing's port.
Row till you find all things
For which you sought.
poem by Thomas Sturge Moore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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This Crazy Game o' Golf
Tae pick up a stick an' chase a wee ba'
I jist canna see the sense in it ava'
Hittin' a ba' roond a park full o' holes
ye'd think t'wis a new wey tae kill a ' the moles
But they tell me it's golf - it's the "IN" game the noo
It swackens ye up withoot hae' in tae bou'
Bit if yon's meant tae swacken ye? - Hodgin' aboot
Aff o' ae fit on' till't ither, o' this there's nae doot
Yer banes are mair like tae seize up than tae swacken
Bit golfin' freends say "Fresh air is nae lackin'"
"Jist think o't yer lungs are gettin' a treat"
Bit wi' the win' there is here ye'd be blawn aff yer feet
An faur's the fresh air, faur's the sport faur's the tricks
Fin the rain's poorin oot o' the doup o' yer breeks
An' syne come the winter, it's nae eese ava'
Lookin' for holes amon' sax fit o' snaw
So takkin't a' roond, ye'd be better by far,
Tae stick tae the nineteenth - an' bide in the bar!
poem by Frances Jaffray
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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