A Bubble
Mrs. Mehitable Marcia Moore
Was a dame of superior mind,
With a gown which, modestly fitting before,
Was greatly puffed up behind.
The bustle she wore was ingeniously planned
With an inspiration bright:
It magnified seven diameters and
Was remarkably nice and light.
It was made of rubber and edged with lace
And riveted all with brass,
And the whole immense interior space
Inflated with hydrogen gas.
The ladies all said when she hove in view
Like the round and rising moon:
'She's a stuck up thing!' which was partly true,
And men called her the Captive Balloon.
To Manhattan Beach for a bath one day
She went and she said: 'O dear!
If I leave off _this_ what will people say?
I shall look so uncommonly queer!'
So a costume she had accordingly made
To take it all nicely in,
And when she appeared in that suit arrayed,
She was greeted with many a grin.
Proudly and happily looking around,
She waded out into the wet,
But the water was very, very profound,
And her feet and her forehead met!
As her bubble drifted away from the shore,
On the glassy billows borne,
All cried: 'Why, where is Mehitable Moore?
I saw her go in, I'll be sworn!'
Then the bulb it swelled as the sun grew hot,
Till it burst with a sullen roar,
And the sea like oil closed over the spot
Farewell, O Mehitable Moore!
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Related quotes
On Moore's Last Operatic Farce, Or Farcical Opera
Good plays are scarce:
So Moore writes farce.
The poet's fame grows brittle--
We knew before
That Little's Moore,
But now 'tis Moore that's little.
September 14, 1811.
To Thomas Moore
My boat is on the shore,
And my bark is on the sea;
But, before I go, Tom Moore,
Here's a double health to thee!
Here's a sigh to those who love me,
And a smile to those who hate;
And, whatever sky's above me,
Here's a heart for every fate.
Though the ocean roar around me,
Yet it still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.
Were't the last drop in the well,
As I gasp'd upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirit fell,
'Tis to thee that I would drink.
With that water, as this wine,
The libation I would pour
Should be -peace with thine and mine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore!
To Thomas Moore (My Boat Is On The Shore)
I.
My boat is on the shore,
And my bark is on the sea;
But before I go, Tom Moore,
Here's a double health to thee!
II.
Here's a sigh to those who love me,
And a smile to those who hate;
And, whatever sky's above me,
Here's a heart for every fate.
III.
Though the ocean roar around me,
Yet it still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.
IV.
Were't the last drop in the well,
As I gasp'd upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirit fell
'Tis to thee that I would drink.
V.
With that water, as this wine,
The libation I would pour
Should be - peace with thine and mine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore.
July 1817.
Where is the Slave
Oh, where's the slave so lowly,
Condemn'd to chains unholy,
Who, could he burst
His bonds at first,
Would pine beneath them slowly?
What soul, whose wrongs degrade it,
Would wait till time decay'd it,
When thus its wing
At once may spring
To the throne of Him who made it?
Farewell, Erin, -- farewell, all,
Who live to weep our fall!
Less dear the laurel growing,
Alive, untouch'd and blowing,
Than that whose braid
Is pluckd to shade
The brows with victory glowing.
We tread the land that bore us,
Her green flag glitters o'er us,
The friends we've tried
Are by our side,
And the foe we hate before us.
Farewell, Erin, -- farewell, all,
Who live to weep our fall!
poem by Thomas Moore
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Who Killed Davey Moore?
Who killed davey moore,
Why an whats the reason for?
Not i, says the referee,
Dont point your finger at me.
I couldve stopped it in the eighth
An maybe kept him from his fate,
But the crowd wouldve booed, Im sure,
At not gettin their moneys worth.
Its too bad he had to go,
But there was a pressure on me too, you know.
It wasnt me that made him fall.
No, you cant blame me at all.
Who killed davey moore,
Why an whats the reason for?
Not us, says the angry crowd,
Whose screams filled the arena loud.
Its too bad he died that night
But we just like to see a fight.
We didnt mean for him t meet his death,
We just meant to see some sweat,
There aint nothing wrong in that.
It wasnt us that made him fall.
No, you cant blame us at all.
Who killed davey moore,
Why an whats the reason for?
Not me, says his manager,
Puffing on a big cigar.
Its hard to say, its hard to tell,
I always thought that he was well.
Its too bad for his wife an kids hes dead,
But if he was sick, he shouldve said.
It wasnt me that made him fall.
No, you cant blame me at all.
Who killed davey moore,
Why an whats the reason for?
Not me, says the gambling man,
With his ticket stub still in his hand.
It wasnt me that knocked him down,
My hands never touched him none.
I didnt commit no ugly sin,
Anyway, I put money on him to win.
It wasnt me that made him fall.
No, you cant blame me at all.
Who killed davey moore,
Why an whats the reason for?
Not me, says the boxing writer,
Pounding print on his old typewriter,
Sayin, boxing aint to blame,
Theres just as much danger in a football game.
Sayin, fist fighting is here to stay,
Its just the old american way.
It wasnt me that made him fall.
No, you cant blame me at all.
Who killed davey moore,
Why an whats the reason for?
Not me, says the man whose fists
Laid him low in a cloud of mist,
Who came here from cubas door
Where boxing aint allowed no more.
I hit him, yes, its true,
But thats what I am paid to do.
Dont say murder, dont say kill.
It was destiny, it was gods will.
Who killed davey moore,
Why an whats the reason for?
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You're not free until you've been made captive by supreme belief.
quote by Marianne Moore
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Valentine
The sky wore black like elegantly
like a burnt out bulb; like
silence, a lullaby DOA.
a tidal wave of drums.
Leaves, birds, confetti
wiring exposed
and the red balloons take off to the sky above Rome
to shards of rain,
Rooftops echo ilke a canyon rattle
and the streetlamps hang
from the young ladies eyes
poem by Jerome Moore
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The Saginaw Song
In Saginaw, in Saginaw,
The wind blows up your feet,
When the ladies’ guild puts on a feed,
There’s beans on every plate,
And if you eat more than you should,
Destruction is complete.
Out Hemlock Way there is a stream
That some have called Swan Creek;
The turtles have bloodsucker sores,
And mossy filthy feet;
The bottoms of migrating ducks
Come off it much less neat.
In Saginaw, in Saginaw,
Bartenders think no ill;
But they’ve ways of indicating when
You are not acting well:
They throw you through the front plate glass
And then send you the bill.
The Morleys and the Burrows are
The aristocracy;
A likely thing for they’re no worse
Than the likes of you or me,—
A picture window’s one you can’t
Raise up when you would pee.
In Shaginaw, in Shaginaw
I went to Shunday Shule;
The only thing I ever learned
Was called the Golden Rhule,—
But that’s enough for any man
What’s not a proper fool.
I took the pledge cards on my bike;
I helped out with the books;
The stingy members when they signed
Made with their stingy looks,—
The largest contributions came
From the town’s biggest crooks.
In Saginaw, in Saginaw,
There’s never a household fart,
For if it did occur,
It would blow the place apart,—
I met a woman who could break wind
And she is my sweet-heart.
O, I’m the genius of the world,—
Of that you can be sure,
But alas, alack, and me achin’ back,
I’m often a drunken boor;
But when I die—and that won’t be soon—
I’ll sing with dear Tom Moore,
With that lovely man, Tom Moore.
Coda:
My father never used a stick,
He slapped me with his hand;
He was a Prussian through and through
And knew how to command;
I ran behind him every day
He walked our greenhouse land.
I saw a figure in a cloud,
A child upon her breast,
And it was O, my mother O,
And she was half-undressed,
All women, O, are beautiful
When they are half-undressed.
poem by Theodore Roethke
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Superior people never make long visits.
quote by Marianne Moore
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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St. Senanus and the Lady
St. Senanus
"On! haste, and leave this sacred isle,
Unholy bark, ere morning smile;
For on thy deck, though dark it be,
A female form I see;
And I have sworn this sainted sod
Shall ne'er by woman's feet by trod!"
The Lady
"Oh! Father, send not hence my bark
Through wintry winds and billows dark,
I come, with humble heart, to share
Thy morn and evening prayer;
Nor mine the feet, oh! holy Saint,
The brightness of thy sod to taint."
The lady's prayer Senanus spurn'd;
The winds blew fresh, the bark return'd.
But legends hint, that had the maid
Till morning's light delay'd,
And given the saint one rosy smile,
She ne'er had left his lonely isle.
poem by Thomas Moore
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My father used to say superior people never make long visits.
quote by Marianne Moore
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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All that's bright must fade, The brightest still the fleetest; All that's sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest.
quote by Thomas Moore
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Days Of 49
Im old tom moore from the bummers shore in that good old golden days
They call me a bummer and a ginsot too, but what cares I for praise ?
I wander around from town to town just like a roving sign
And all the people say, there goes tom moore, in the days of 49
In the days of old, in the days of gold
How ofttimes I repine for the days of old
When we dug up the gold, in the days of 49.
My comrades they all loved me well, a jolly saucy crew
A few hard cases I will recall though they all were brave and true
Whatever the pitch they never would flinch, they never would fret or whine
Like good old bricks they stood the kicks in the days of 49
In the days of old, in the days of gold
How ofttimes I repine for the days of old
When we dug up the gold, in the days of 49.
There was new york jake, the butcher boy, he was always getting tight
And every time that hed get full he was spoiling for a fight
But jake rampaged against a knife in the hands of old bob stein
And over jake they held a wake in the days of 49
In the days of old, in the days of gold
How ofttimes I repine for the days of old
When we dug up the gold, in the days of 49.
There was poker bill, one of the boys who was always in a game
Whether he lost or whether he won, to him it was always the same
He would ante up and draw his cards and he would you go a hatful blind
In the game with death bill lost his breath, in the days of 49
In the days of old, in the days of gold
How ofttimes I repine for the days of old
When we dug up the gold, in the days of 49.
There was ragshag bill from buffalo, I never will forget
He would roar all day and hed roar all night and I guess hes roaring yet
One day he fell in a prospect hole, in a roaring bad design
And in that hole he roared out his soul, in the days of 49
In the days of old, in the days of gold
How ofttimes I repine for the days of old
When we dug up the gold, in the days of 49.
Of the comrades all that Ive had, theres none thats left to boast
And Im left alone in my misery like some poor wandering ghost
And I pass by from town to town, they call me a rambling sign
There goes tom moore, a bummer shore in the days of 49
In the days of old, in the days of gold
How ofttimes I repine for the days of old
When we dug up the gold, in the days of 49.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Lake of the Dismal Swamp
'THEY made her a grave too cold and damp
For a soul so warm and true;
And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,
Where all night long, by a firefly lamp,
She paddles her white canoe.
And her firefly lamp I soon shall see,
And her paddle I soon shall hear;
Long and moving our life shall be
And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree,
When the footstep of death is near.'
Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds, -
His path was rugged and sore,
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,
Through many a fen where the serpent feeds,
And man never trod before.
And when on the earth he sank to sleep,
If slumber his eyelids knew,
He lay where the deadly vine doth weep
Its venemous tear, and nightly steep
The flesh with blistering dew!
And near him the she-wolf stirr'd the brake,
And the copper-snake breathed in his ear,
Till he starting cried, from his dream awake,
'Oh when shall I see the dusky Lake,
And the white canoe of my dear?'
He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright
Quick over its surface play'd, -
'Welcome,' he said, 'my dear one's light!'
And the dim shore echo'd for many a night
The name of the death-cold maid.
Till he hollow'd a boat of the birchen bark,
Which carried him off from the shore;
Far, far he follow'd the meteor spark,
The wind was high and the clouds were dark,
And the boat return'd no more.
But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp,
This lover and maid so true
Are seen at the hour of midnight damp
To cross the Lake by a firefly lamp,
And paddle their white canoe!
poem by Thomas Moore
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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
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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
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The Young May Moon
The young May moon is beaming, love.
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love.
How sweet to rove,
Through Morna's grove,
When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!
Then awake! -- the heavens look bright, my dear,
'Tis never too late for delight, my dear,
And the best of all ways
To lengthen our days
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!
Now all the world is sleeping, love,
But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,
And I, whose star,
More glorious far,
Is the eye from that casement peeping, love.
Then awake! -- till rise of sun, my dear,
The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear,
Or, in watching the flight
Of bodies of light,
He might happen to take thee for one, my dear.
poem by Thomas Moore
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Young Henry
Air -- "Drummer Boy of Waterloo"
Young Henry was as faithful boy
As ever stood on the American soil,
And he did enlist, without a doubt,
When the rebellion was broke out.
He was his parents' only son,
And only child he was but one,
That was a girl aged seventeen,
Henry called her his May Queen.
Young Henry said, "Dear sister May,
What do you think my friends will say?
For now my name is on the roll,
And I down south will have to go."
"I hear my country's call," said he,
"For all her sons of liberty,
And I, forever, will prove true
To that dear old flag, red, white and blue."
"I love my father and mother dear,
I leave you, May, their hearts to cheer;
When I am gone, pray do not mourn
If I should never return home."
His sister then to him did say,
"My only brother, blithe and gay,
Our country calls, calls from afar;
May God protect you through the war."
Their father hearing all was said,
It made his noble heart grow sad;
"My children, I love both of you,
And yet I love my country, too."
"My son, if I was young again,
I never could at home remain,
And see my native land, now free,
Dissolved and made in slavery."
Young Henry left his father's home,
And left his friends for him to mourn,
A captain of a little band,
He marched away from Michigan.
In the battle of Fredericksburg,
Above the battle roar was heard,
"Fight on! fight on! brave boys," he cried,
"I am shot and wounded, and must die."
They placed his head upon the grass,
So he could see his brave boys pass;
"Go tell my father, Henry's slain
To keep him from the rebel's chain."
They dug his grave beneath that spot,
They wrapped him in his soldier's coat,
And while the battle drums they heard,
They laid him low at Fredericksburg.
poem by Julia A Moore
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I want to learn about a different religion. I grew up Catholic, but my grandfather was Jewish. Knowledge about other religions can help you understand your own better. I think it's kind of hypocritical to believe one thing and don't know about any others. A friend once told me it made her sad to think that if we were to pass away, I would go to heaven but our Jewish friend wouldn't because she doesn't believe in Jesus. That totally sent me over the edge! I'm happy with what I believe, but I'm open to the fact that there are people with different faiths, and they might be as passionate about theirs as I am about mine.
quote by Mandy Moore
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We also have favourite place in France, called Charlot Premier in Nice, which does excellent oysters.
quote by Roger Moore
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