En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Swagman

Kind friends, pray give attention
To this, my little song.
Some rum things I will mention,
And I'll not detain you long.
Up and down this country
I travel, don't you see,
I'm a swagman on the wallaby,
Oh! don't you pity me.
I'm a swagman on the wallaby,
Oh! don't you pity me.

At first I started shearing,
And I bought a pair of shears.
On my first sheep appearing,
Why, I cut off both its ears.
Then I nearly skinned the brute,
As clean as clean could he.
So I was kicked out of the shed,
Oh! don't you pity me, &c.

I started station loafing,
Short stages and took my ease;
So all day long till sundown
I'd camp beneath the trees.
Then I'd walk up to the station,
The manager to see.
"Boss, I'm hard up and I want a job,
Oh! don't you pity me," &c.

Says the overseer: "Go to the hut.
Says the overseer: "Go to the hut.
In the morning I'll tell you
If I've any work about
I can find for you to do."
But at breakfast I cuts off enough
For dinner, don't you see.
And then my name is Walker.
Oh! don't you pity me.
I'm a swagman, &c.
And now, my friends, I'll say good-bye,
For I must go and camp.
For if the Sergeant sees me
He may take me for a tramp;
But if there's any covey here
What's got a cheque, d'ye see,
I'll stop and help him smash it.
Oh! don't you pity me.
I'm a swagman on the wallaby,
Oh! don't you pity me.

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pity Me, Loo!

On the sunset borders of the mountains I stray,
Of a dear home dreaming 'yond the snow peaks far away,
While the bubbling brook beside me goes dancing along,
As it seeks the "Golden Gate" of the ocean blue;
And a lone bird murmurs in the bush-top his song--
"Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!"

Tra la la la, la la la la
From mate to mate the carol rings:
Tra la la la, la la la la!
la la la la
A thousand valleys through;
Yet the lone bird sorrows as he plaintively sings--
"Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!"

'Neath the rocks I'm treading there are treasures of gold,
But by far more precious is my own native mold.
Nevermore, in search of Beauty need Fancy take wings:
Here is beauty, here is grandeur, at ev'ry view;
Yet my heart grows heavy, and the lone bird still sings--
"Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!"

In the green-clad valley where the wayward brook mends
There are homes most charming--there are warmhearted friends.
Lovely dell! it seems an Eden, afloat in mid-air,
As if God had sent from Heaven a creation new;
But its charm is broken, for my heart is not there--
"Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!"

poem by Henry Clay Work
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The Wallaby Brigade

You often have been told of regiments brave and bold,
But we are the bravest in the land;
We're called the Tag-rag Band, and we rally in Queensland,
We are members of the Wallaby Brigade.

Tramp, tramp, tramp across the borders,
The swagmen are rolling up, I see.
When the shearing's at an end we'll go fishing in a bend.
Then hurrah! for the Wallaby Brigade.

When you are leaving camp, you must ask some brother tramp
If there are any jobs to be had,
Or what sort of a shop that station is to stop
For a member of the Wallaby Brigade.

You ask me if they want men, you ask for rations then,
If they don't stump up a warning should be made;
To teach them better sense—why, "Set fire to their fence"
Is the war cry of the Wallaby Brigade.

The squatters thought us done when they fenced in all their run,
But a prettier mistake they never made;
You've only to sport your dover and knock a monkey over
There's cheap mutton for the Wallaby Brigade.

Now when the shearing's in our harvest will begin,
Our swags for a spell down will be laid;
But when our cheques are drank we will join the Tag-rag rank,
Limeburners in the Wallaby Brigade.

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Pity, pity, pity

Look at to the unwanted child
Look at to the divorced wife
Look at to the homeless man
What people do other than saying
“Pity, pity, pity”

Look at to the tragic hero
Look at to the sympathized villain
Look at to the clueless victim
What witnesses do other than staring
“Pity, pity, pity”

Look at to the crazy dreamer
Look at to the unlucky gambler
Look at to the stubborn fighter
What friends do other than whispering
“Pity, pity, pity”

Look at to the withering flower
Look at to the starving animal
Look at to the extinct nature
What human do other than howling
“Pity, pity, pity”

Look at to the empty spaces
Look at to the blank faces
Look at to the lost traces
What devils do other than laughing
“Pity, pity, pity”

poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Get Up Off That Pity Pot

Why don't you,
Get up off that pity pot...
You've sat on quite a lot.
Why don't you get up off that pot.
Why don't you get up off that pot.
Why don't you,
Get up off that pity pot...
You've sat on quite a lot.
Why don't you get up off that pot.
Why don't you get up off that pot.

No need to keep weeping tears,
That long ago overflowed.
Why don't you,
Get up off that pity pot...
You've sat on quite a lot.

Holding onto woes,
Have eroded your motives.
Get up off that pity pot...
You've sat on quite a lot.
So wipe your eyes to dry,
And realize...
You are not alone.
You're not alone.
You are not alone.
You're not alone.
Get up!
Off your butt!

Get up off that pity pot...
You've sat on quite a lot.
Why don't you get up off that pot.
Why don't you get up off that pot.
Why don't you,
Get up off that pity pot...
You've sat on quite a lot.
Why don't you get up off that pot.
Why don't you get up off that pot.
And realize...
You are not alone.
You're not alone.
You are not alone.
You're not alone.
Get up!

Get up off that pity pot...
You've sat on quite a lot.
You need to get up off that pot.
Why don't you get up off that pot.
Why don't you,
Get up off that pity pot...
You've sat on quite a lot.
You need to get up off that pot.
Why don't you get up off that pot,
And stop those woes to drop.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Two Songs

I heard an Angel Singing
When the day was springing:
"Mercy, pity, and peace,
Are the world's release."

So he sang all day
Over the new-mown hay,
Till the sun went down,
And the haycocks looked brown.

I heard a devil curse
Over the heath and the furse:
"Mercy vould be no more
If there were nobody poor,
And pity no more could be
If all were happy as ye:
And mutual fear brings peace,
Misery's increase
Are mercy, pity, and peace."

At his curse the sun went down,
And the heavens gave a frown.

poem by William Blake
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A Folk Song

I came to your town, my love,
   And you were away, away!
I said "She is with the Queen's maidens:
   They tarry long at their play.
They are stringing her words like pearls
To throw to the dukes and earls."
   But O, the pity!
I had but a morn of windy red
To come to the town where you were bred,
   And you were away, away!

I came to your town, my love,
   And you were away, away!
I said, "She is with the mountain elves
   And misty and fair as they.
They are spinning a diamond net
To cover her curls of jet."
   But O, the pity!
I had but a noon of searing heat
To come to your town, my love, my sweet,
   And you were away, away!

I came to your town, my love,
   And you were away, away!
I said, "She is with the pale white saints,
   And they tarry long to pray.
They give her a white lily-crown,
And I fear she will never come down."
   But O, the pity!
I had but an even grey and wan
To come to your town and plead as man,
   And you were away, away!

poem by Jessie Mackay
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That Pity B-Gone!

Let that pity b-gone!
No more from me you get pity.
That pity b-gone!
You indulged and had to rid of it.
That pity b-gone.
And also going are those benefits.
If you carry on...
Like you can't handle it!

Let that pity b-gone!
No more from me you get pity.
That pity b-gone!
You indulged and had to rid of it.
That pity b-gone.
And also going are those benefits.
If you carry on...
Like you can't handle it!

We knew that pity had to split!
B-gone.
We knew that our hearts would split, and soon...
B-gone.
If we let that pity sit,
Between us....
Both of us would have a fit.
If we let that pity sit,
Both of us would have a fit.
If we let that pity sit...
Between us!

And...
You'd believe,
That I could never love you.
To leave me feeling sorry,
And blue.

But...
I would know,
How deep inside my love goes.
And protecting what I love,
Before it overflows.

Let that pity b-gone!
No more from me you get pity.
That pity b-gone!
You indulged and had to rid of it.
That pity b-gone.
And also going are those benefits.
If you carry on...
Like you can't handle it!

So...
No more from me you get pity.
That pity b-gone!
You indulged and had to rid of it.
That pity b-gone.
And maybe not so much the benefits.
Since I would miss too much your many moods.

That pity b-gone.
No more from me you get pity.
That pity b-gone!
You indulged and had to rid of it.
That pity b-gone.
No more from me you get pity.
That pity b-gone!
You indulged and had to rid of it.
That pity b-gone.
No more from me you get pity.
That pity b-gone!
You indulged and had to rid of it.
That pity b-gone.
No more from me you get pity.
That pity b-gone!
You indulged and had to rid of it.
That pity b-gone!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Pity You

I pity you when you walk down the street
I pity you when you open your mouth to speak
You will tell your story, with its pity and glory
As sympathy is all that you do seek.

I pity you and your parents dear
I pity you when from you they don’t want to hear
As you put them to blame, for your sadness and pain
That’s why for you no-one will shed a tear.

I pity you when you laugh and smile
I pity you as your life is full of guile
But you are the source, for your sadness and remorse
And you wont change even when walking your last mile.

I pity you as you once had something
I pity you as now you have nothing
You threw everything away, so you could stray
Now your retribution will be coming.

I pity you as with time you will age
I pity you with your hate and your rage
You will always fight, whether you are wrong or right
You are the animal and your soul is your cage

I pity you and I do it without a clue
I pity you whenever I see or hear of you
There is no sympathy, as your not my friend or enemy
And all I can say is, that I truly pity you.

Randy L. McClave

poem by Randy McClave
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This Is Such A Pity

How is your heart little darling?
I didn't mean to get so mad.
Let me just hold you closely.
How did things get so bad?
I know how to pick on you.
You pushed me over the edge.
We caused so much agony.
We can't seem to move ahead.
This is such a pity.
We should give all our love to each other.
Not this hate that destroys us.
This is such a pity.
(This is a pity)
What kind of future will we have?
Will we we ever find peace?
Everybody thinks we're crazy.
They're about to call the police.
I don't wanna be a chump.
You think I'm a fascist pig.
Right now everything is black.
I don't think we'll get it.
This is such a pity.
We should give all our love to each other.
Not this hate that destroys us.
This is such a pity.
(This is a pity)
[solo]
This is such a pity.
We should give all our love to each other.
Not this hate that destroys us.
This is such a pity.
(This is a pity)

song performed by by Weezer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Widow

Cold was the night wind, drifting fast the snows fell,
Wide were the downs and shelterless and naked,
When a poor Wanderer struggled on her journey
Weary and way-sore.

Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflexions;
Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom!
She had no home, the world was all before her,
She had no shelter.

Fast o'er the bleak heath rattling drove a chariot,
"Pity me!" feebly cried the poor night wanderer.
"Pity me Strangers! lest with cold and hunger
Here I should perish.

"Once I had friends,--but they have all forsook me!
"Once I had parents,--they are now in Heaven!
"I had a home once--I had once a husband--
"Pity me Strangers!

"I had a home once--I had once a husband--
"I am a Widow poor and broken-hearted!"
Loud blew the wind, unheard was her complaining.
On drove the chariot.

On the cold snows she laid her down to rest her;
She heard a horseman, "pity me!" she groan'd out;
Loud blew the wind, unheard was her complaining,
On went the horseman.

Worn out with anguish, toil and cold and hunger,
Down sunk the Wanderer, sleep had seiz'd her senses;
There, did the Traveller find her in the morning,
GOD had releast her.

poem by Robert Southey
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Get Up Off Your Pity Pot To Stop It

To wiggle out from under all doubts,
With a hanging them out to dry...
In front of passersby to eye,
Is intended to get attention.

Give those petty bits of pity,
To solicit empathy...
Away.
Today.
And...
Throw those doubts you've picked to pity,
With that selfishness that doesn't pay...
To get attention to gain.

Just get up off your pity pot to stop it.
And...
Get up off your pity pot to drop.

Just get up off your pity pot to stop it.
'Cause,
Believe this or not...
Very few are into pity.
And believe this or not...
Pity does not benefit.

Fight those doubts to stop and dropp them.
'Cause no pity benefits.
Fight those doubts to stop and dropp them.
'Cause no pity benefits.
And...
Believe this or not,
Very few are into pity.
And believe this or not...
Pity does not benefit.

Just get up off your pity pot to stop it.
'Cause,
Believe this or not...
Very few are into pity.
And believe this or not...
Pity does not benefit.

Give those petty bits of pity,
To solicit empathy...
Away.
Today.
And...
Throw those doubts you've picked to pity,
With that selfishness that doesn't pay...
To get attention to gain.

Just get up off your pity pot to stop it.
'Cause,
Believe this or not...
Very few are into pity.
And believe this or not...
Pity does not benefit.

Just get up off your pity pot to stop it.
And...
Just get up off your pity pot to stop it quick!

Get up off your pity pot to stop this quick.
'Cause believe this or not...
Your pity does not benefit.

Just get up off your pity pot to stop it.
And...
Just get up off your pity pot to stop it quick!
'Cause believe this or not...
Your pity does not benefit,
One bit.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Swagman's Rest

We buried old Bob where the bloodwoods wave
At the foot of the Eaglehawk;
We fashioned a cross on the old man's grave
For fear that his ghost might walk;
We carved his name on a bloodwood tree
With the date of his sad decease
And in place of "Died from effects of spree"
We wrote "May he rest in peace".
For Bob was known on the Overland,
A regular old bush wag,
Tramping along in the dust and sand,
Humping his well-worn swag.
He would camp for days in the river-bed,
And loiter and "fish for whales".
"I'm into the swagman's yard," he said.
"And I never shall find the rails."

But he found the rails on that summer night
For a better place -- or worse,
As we watched by turns in the flickering light
With an old black gin for nurse.
The breeze came in with the scent of pine,
The river sounded clear,
When a change came on, and we saw the sign
That told us the end was near.

He spoke in a cultured voice and low --
"I fancy they've 'sent the route';
I once was an army man, you know,
Though now I'm a drunken brute;
But bury me out where the bloodwoods wave,
And, if ever you're fairly stuck,
Just take and shovel me out of the grave
And, maybe, I'll bring you luck.
"For I've always heard --" here his voice grew weak,
His strength was wellnigh sped,
He gasped and struggled and tried to speak,
Then fell in a moment -- dead.
Thus ended a wasted life and hard,
Of energies misapplied --
Old Bob was out of the "swagman's yard"
And over the Great Divide.

The drought came down on the field and flock,
And never a raindrop fell,
Though the tortured moans of the starving stock
Might soften a fiend from hell.
And we thought of the hint that the swagman gave
When he went to the Great Unseen --
We shovelled the skeleton out of the grave
To see what his hint might mean.

We dug where the cross and the grave posts were,
We shovelled away the mould,
When sudden a vein of quartz lay bare
All gleaming with yellow gold.
'Twas a reef with never a fault nor baulk
That ran from the range's crest,
And the richest mine on the Eaglehawk
Is known as "The Swagman's Rest".

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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With A Pity That You Want

With a pity that you want,
To prove it.
With a pity that you want.

And with a pity that you want,
To prove it.
With a pity that you want.

You weep too deep,
With a pity that you want to prove it.
With a pity that you want.
To realize...
A pain you keep.
With a pity that you want,
To prove it.
With a pity that you want.

Other people who have less,
Do their best to not in public bleed.

But...
You're one of those,
With a pity that you want to prove it.
With a pity that you want.
Yes you're one of those,
With a pity that you want to prove it.
With a pity that you want.

You weep too deep,
With a pity that you want to prove it.
With a pity that you want.
And your wants are weak.
With a pity that you want to prove it.
With a pity that you want.

Other people who have less,
Do their best to not in public bleed.

But...
You're one of those,
With a pity that you want to prove it.
With a pity that you want.
Yes you're one of those,
With a pity that you want to prove it.
With a pity that you want.

You're one of those,
With a pity that you want to prove it.
With a pity that you want.
Yes you're one of those,
With a pity that you want to prove it.
With a pity that you want.

Other people who have less,
Do their best to not in public bleed.
Oh...
But you're one of those,
With a pity that you want to prove it.
With a pity that you want.
Yes you're one of those,
With a pity that you want to prove it.
With a pity that you want.

With a pity that you want,
To prove it.
With a pity that you want.

And with a pity that you want,
To prove it.
With a pity that you want,
To show you're one of those...
With a pity that you want,
To show exposed.
With a pity that you want,
To be one of those!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Virginity

My mother she had children five and four are dead and gone;
While I, least worthy to survive, persist in living on.
She looks at me, I must confess, sometimes with spite and bitterness.

My mother is three-score and ten, while I am forty-three,
You don't know how it hurts me when we go somewhere to tea,
And people tell her on the sly we look like sisters, she and I.

It hurts to see her secret glee; but most, because it's true.
Sometimes I think she thinks that she looks younger of the two.
Oh as I gently take her arm, how I would love to do her harm!

For ever since I cam from school she put it in my head
I was a weakling and a fool, a "born old maid" she said.
"You'll always stay at home," sighed she, "and keep your Mother company."

Oh pity is a bitter brew; I've drunk it to the lees;
For there is little else to do but do my best to please:
My life has been so little worth I curse the hour she gave me birth.

I curse the hour she gave me breath, who never wished me wife;
My happiest day will be the death of her who gave me life;
I hate her for the life she gave: I hope to dance upon her grave.

She wearing roses in her hat; I wince to hear her say:
"Poor Alice this, poor Alice that," she drains my joy away.
It seems to brace her up that she can pity, pity, pity me.

You'll see us walking in the street, with careful step and slow;
And people often say: "How sweet!" as arm in arm we go.
Like chums we never are apart - yet oh the hatred in my heart!

My chest is weak, and I might be (O God!) the first to go.
For her what triumph that would be - she thinks of it, I know.
To outlive all her kith and kin - how she would glow beneath her skin!

She says she will not make her Will, until she takes to bed;
She little thinks if thoughts could kill, to-morrow she'd be dead. . . .

"Please come to breakfast, Mother dear; Your coffee will be cold I fear."

poem by Robert William Service
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Don’t Pity Me

I can stand on my own two feet
Spare me the reminder that I came from those lonely streets
Which made me cold as I grew old
Don’t pity me, no don’t pity me at all
I did what was necessary to survive
Build my dreams on hard concrete
Fed myself dust until I couldn’t eat
Why pity me, why pity me at all
Now that I am full, I can use the energy
To do what you could have done
Saved me instead of feeling sorry
Because you pity me, and you pity me until I was no more
So the next time you look down and see me
Remember this, it could have been you not me.

poem by Landsley Alexandre
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Putting Pity Properly Propped

How pitiful can a declared pity get?
Some can do pity proud...
By having pity dipped and bronzed.
And accessorized with torment.
With a highlighting of pity in rhinestone...
To give focus with meaning and intention meant.

Capturing a pity purposely posing in a moldedness...
And an importance that could be set on mantels.
Thusly and/or thence...
Putting pity properly propped,
On top and placed upon such a pedestal.
Where pitifulness praised like this can sit!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Gift

She paces
By his side
On a quiet street,
Leafy and wide.
The evening air is balmy
And a golden half moon
Of August
Hangs high
In the sky.

"How beautiful is the Moon",
She says,
"Brighter than in June.
"A pity it is not full tonight".

"You know",
He tells her smiling,
"This thing may sound
Really puzzling,
But,
The part missing
From the Moon,
Is actually hidden
In a lagoon.
Nevertheless,
I offer it to you as a gift,
Before the scene
Would alter and shift,
And for good measure,
Fortune and luck,
I will pluck
For you
The other half, too,
So that you will possess
And own quite soon
The complete moon".

"Oh, no", she says,
"I don't want the moon,
Neither half,
Nor the whole of it,
I don't want it soon
Nor in next June.
Not even a small part.
Just give me, instead,
Your uncut heart".

poem by Paul Hartal
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On the Wallaby

Now the tent poles are rotting, the camp fires are dead,
And the possums may gambol in trees overhead;
I am humping my bluey far out on the land,
And the prints of my bluchers sink deep in the sand:
I am out on the wallaby humping my drum,
And I came by the tracks where the sundowners come.

It is nor'-west and west o'er the ranges and far
To the plains where the cattle and sheep stations are,
With the sky for my roof and the grass for my bunk,
And a calico bag for my damper and junk;
And scarcely a comrade my memory reveals,
Save the spiritless dingo in tow of my heels.

But I think of the honest old light of my home
When the stars hang in clusters like lamps from the dome,
And I think of the hearth where the dark shadows fall,
When my camp fire is built on the widest of all;
But I'm following Fate, for I know she knows best,
I follow, she leads, and it's nor'-west by west.

When my tent is all torn and my blankets are damp,
And the rising flood waters flow fast by the camp,
When the cold water rises in jets from the floor,
I lie in my bunk and I list to the roar,
And I think how to-morrow my footsteps will lag
When I tramp 'neath the weight of a rain-sodden swag.

Though the way of the swagman is mostly up-hill,
There are joys to be found on the wallaby still.
When the day has gone by with its tramp or its toil,
And your camp-fire you light, and your billy you boil,
There is comfort and peace in the bowl of your clay
Or the yarn of a mate who is tramping that way.

But beware of the town -- there is poison for years
In the pleasure you find in the depths of long beers;
For the bushman gets bushed in the streets of a town,
Where he loses his friends when his cheque is knocked down;
He is right till his pockets are empty, and then --
He can hump his old bluey up country again.

poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I cried at Pity—not at Pain

588

I cried at Pity—not at Pain—
I heard a Woman say
"Poor Child"—and something in her voice
Convicted me—of me—

So long I fainted, to myself
It seemed the common way,
And Health, and Laughter, Curious things—
To look at, like a Toy—

To sometimes hear "Rich people" buy
And see the Parcel rolled—
And carried, I supposed—to Heaven,
For children, made of Gold—

But not to touch, or wish for,
Or think of, with a sigh—
And so and so—had been to me,
Had God willed differently.

I wish I knew that Woman's name—
So when she comes this way,
To hold my life, and hold my ears
For fear I hear her say

She's "sorry I am dead"—again—
Just when the Grave and I—
Have sobbed ourselves almost to sleep,
Our only Lullaby—

poem by Emily Dickinson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sonnet V: Nothing But No

Nothing but "No," and "Aye," and "Aye," and "No"?
How falls it out so strangely you reply?
I tell ye, Fair, I'll not be answer'd so,
With this affirming "No," denying "Aye."
I say, "I love," you slightly answer "Aye";
I say, "You love," you pule me out a "No";
I say, "I die," you echo me an "Aye";
"Save me," I cry, you sigh me out a "No";
Must woe and I have nought but "No" and "Aye"?
No I am I, if I no more can have;
Answer no more, with silence make reply,
And let me take myself what I do crave.
Let "No" and "Aye" with I and you be so;
Then answer "No," and "Aye," and "Aye" and "No."

poem by Michael Drayton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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