Tra-la-la, Tra-la-la
Tra-la-la, tra-la-la,
Tra-la-la, tra-la-la,
Rum-tum-tiddle-um-tum.
Tiddle-id dle, tiddle-iddle,
Tiddle-iddle, tiddle-iddle,
Rum-tum-tum-tiddle-um.
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Feeling the draught
Tom tiddle om, tiddle om tom tom.
The drummers played as they marched along,
close behind were the infantry.
they were smart as smart could be.
The cavalry were there of course,
each man riding on his horse.
Oh what a wonderful sight to see
the soldiers in their finery
.
At the head was Major drum
who had a very large tum tum.
He was dressed in red and gray,
But his big tum tum got in the way.
As he marched so very proudly.
Someone in the crowd said loudly.
He wont cut such a dashing figure,
If his tum tum gets any bigger.
The people yelled, the people cheered.,
the king was laughing in his beard.
The queen. she nearly had a fit.
when the Major’s trousers split.
,
First they sniggered then they laughed.
when the Major felt the draught.
No one there had ever seen
a major wearing shorts of emerald green.
April 2003
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Welsh Hymn
Bron Dilys Teashop
Of Threadneedle Alleyway,
Swaddled in a pinafore
And cosseted in lace,
Soon charmed the borough boys
When she sang long for the scallywags
Or served up sweet tyshan lap
With her famous welsh cakes.
Her soft-breasted menu
Of cariad and comfort,
Her short tacky temper
Emblazed her blue eyes,
Dai Jones ate those long legs
Alive in the bara brith
And deep-delved her laverbread
With his brandysnap lies.
Then was Tilly Tongue-fit
Sweet cuddled in the marigold
With muddling Tom Tiddle-O
And his calico cat,
Dan Rees called for 'cave-o'
As Tom stoked the middle-up
To watch for the Billy Boyo
And Moll Thunderclap.
Long years now I've wondered
At the conjure of your alleyway;
Does Bron Dilys Jiggle-O
Still sup bara caws,
Does Willy the Wag now
Still wriggle in the coal-hole
With a mouth full of marigolds
And a handful of yours?
I spend my mind dreaming
Of cariad and comfort,
Of tight fitting pinafores
In parlour and bower,
Her bonnet up-ended
In the spell of welsh rare-bits
Sweet tasted, willy nilly-o
Back when, in Bryn Mawr.
19 February 1981
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Bob Polter
BOB POLTER was a navvy, and
His hands were coarse, and dirty too,
His homely face was rough and tanned,
His time of life was thirty-two.
He lived among a working clan
(A wife he hadn't got at all),
A decent, steady, sober man -
No saint, however - not at all.
He smoked, but in a modest way,
Because he thought he needed it;
He drank a pot of beer a day,
And sometimes he exceeded it.
At times he'd pass with other men
A loud convivial night or two,
With, very likely, now and then,
On Saturdays, a fight or two.
But still he was a sober soul,
A labour-never-shirking man,
Who paid his way - upon the whole
A decent English working man.
One day, when at the Nelson's Head
(For which he may be blamed of you),
A holy man appeared, and said,
"Oh, ROBERT, I'm ashamed of you."
He laid his hand on ROBERT'S beer
Before he could drink up any,
And on the floor, with sigh and tear,
He poured the pot of "thruppenny."
"Oh, ROBERT, at this very bar
A truth you'll be discovering,
A good and evil genius are
Around your noddle hovering.
"They both are here to bid you shun
The other one's society,
For Total Abstinence is one,
The other, Inebriety."
He waved his hand - a vapour came -
A wizard POLTER reckoned him;
A bogy rose and called his name,
And with his finger beckoned him.
The monster's salient points to sum, -
His heavy breath was portery:
His glowing nose suggested rum:
His eyes were gin-and-WORtery.
His dress was torn - for dregs of ale
And slops of gin had rusted it;
His pimpled face was wan and pale,
Where filth had not encrusted it.
"Come, POLTER," said the fiend, "begin,
And keep the bowl a-flowing on -
A working man needs pints of gin
To keep his clockwork going on."
BOB shuddered: "Ah, you've made a miss
If you take me for one of you:
You filthy beast, get out of this -
BOB POLTER don't wan't none of you."
The demon gave a drunken shriek,
And crept away in stealthiness,
And lo! instead, a person sleek,
Who seemed to burst with healthiness.
"In me, as your adviser hints,
Of Abstinence you've got a type -
Of MR. TWEEDIE'S pretty prints
I am the happy prototype.
"If you abjure the social toast,
And pipes, and such frivolities,
You possibly some day may boast
My prepossessing qualities!"
BOB rubbed his eyes, and made 'em blink:
"You almost make me tremble, you!
If I abjure fermented drink,
Shall I, indeed, resemble you?
"And will my whiskers curl so tight?
My cheeks grow smug and muttony?
My face become so red and white?
My coat so blue and buttony?
"Will trousers, such as yours, array
Extremities inferior?
Will chubbiness assert its sway
All over my exterior?
"In this, my unenlightened state,
To work in heavy boots I comes;
Will pumps henceforward decorate
My tiddle toddle tootsicums?
"And shall I get so plump and fresh,
And look no longer seedily?
My skin will henceforth fit my flesh
So tightly and so TWEEDIE-ly?"
The phantom said, "You'll have all this,
You'll know no kind of huffiness,
Your life will be one chubby bliss,
One long unruffled puffiness!"
"Be off!" said irritated BOB.
"Why come you here to bother one?
You pharisaical old snob,
You're wuss almost than t'other one!
"I takes my pipe - I takes my pot,
And drunk I'm never seen to be:
I'm no teetotaller or sot,
And as I am I mean to be!"
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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