The Brother's Reply
Sister, fie, for shame, no more,
Give this ignorant babble o'er,
Nor with little female pride
Things above your sense deride.
Why this foolish under-rating
Of my first attempts at Latin?
Know you not each thing we prize
Does from small beginnings rise?
'Twas the same thing with your writing,
Which you now take such delight in.
First you learnt the down-stroke line,
Then the hair-stroke thin and fine,
Then a curve, and then a better,
Till you came to form a letter;
Then a new task was begun,
How to join them two in one;
Till you got (these first steps past)
To your fine text-hand at last.
So though I at first commence
With the humble accidence,
And my study's course affords
Little else as yet but words,
I shall venture in a while
At construction, grammar, style,
Learn my syntax, and proceed
Classic authors next to read,
Such as wiser, better, make us,
Sallust, Phædrus, Ovid, Flaccus:
All the poets (with their wit),
All the grave historians writ,
Who the lives and actions show
Of men famous long ago;
Even their very sayings giving
In the tongue they used when living.
Think not I shall do that wrong
Either to my native tongue,
English authors to despise,
Or those books which you so prize;
Though from them awhile I stray,
By new studies called away,
Them when next I take in hand,
I shall better understand.
For I've heard wise men declare
Many words in English are
From the Latin tongue derived,
Of whose sense girls are deprived
'Cause they do not Latin know.-
But if all this anger grow
From this cause, that you suspect
By proceedings indirect,
I would keep (as misers pelf)
All this learning to myself;
Sister, to remove this doubt,
Rather than we will fall out,
(If our parents will agree)
You shall Latin learn with me.
poem by Charles Lamb
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Related quotes
The Language That The Poor Wants To Speak
do you speak good English?
do you take pride in it and then use it to impress others
and swindle them
into a belief that they are inferior?
they have feelings too
of humiliation
which even in such a sad state
wish that their humiliation
speak good English still
they always think that English will give them
a good job
a better standing in the society
a flare of fashionable tongue
you make them cry
but still they want to speak that cry in English too
foolish!
but can you blame them?
you who hold that power and might
you who have taken all what they once had
and made them
worse within
themselves
despite which,
they still want to be like you
to speak like you
a god
how sad!
you have never known the language of love
the grammar of generosity
the syntax of sympathy
that language that good English
sometimes has forgotten
to utter
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Idiosyncrasy and Inferiority Complex
* Vanishing table manners of a deprived loner
I see you have 1212 poems (currently) on PH. I also see you comment regularly on other members' work (though I don't think you have commented on my own) . I wonder why you have sent this to me without any idea of what you want me to do about it. If you could explain what you want (just my thoughts on this piece of writing?) I might be able to help. Most people wanting a comment on a poem post it on the site and invite others to read it.
Paul Hansford
I belong to the small Island Sri Lanka
Once a British colony, I gathered few words from your mother tongue
And my vocabulary is too small, Sorry Sir and I try to improve myself.
A painter either famous or not his brush strikes on the canvas
And the bristles never refuse to absorb the different colors.
He himself has the freedom of choice.
But a poet? Why all these restrictions of adjectives and grammar?
If he tells of his mother tongue very few understand
But his slang English some try to realize?
Let him scribble as the trash bins never refuse him.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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English Class
English Class
Is supposed to be fun.
But when teachers make you
Listen to them while they talk about
Nothing
You don't really pay attention.
You drift off instead,
Floating around in your head,
Thinking about things that don't make sense
And about sense that don't make things.
You doodle on a page,
Or stare at the walls,
Or read under your desk,
Or stare at the teacher
And wonder how she managed to qualify
To be a teacher when she doesn't even use
Grammar.
I think it's stupid
To waste an hour of my day
Sitting doing nothing.
It's pointless to sit here
When I could do something
More.
I could:
Volunteer,
Or be in Drama class,
Or could be making a movie,
Or helping my mom,
Or hanging out with my friends,
Or helping my brother and sister learn to ski,
Or doing SOMETHING, ANYTHING ELSE.
This class isn't doing
Anything.
I can feel my love for English
Dissapearing.
It's sad that one teacher
Can ruin an
Art form.
poem by Kelsey Tennant
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Latin Girls
Mira mira mira mira mira....
Mira mira mira mira mira....
Mira mira mira mira mira....
Mira mira yo quiero
Cuban girls, Cuban girls, I like em'
Puerto Rican girls, Puerto Rican girls, yo quiero
Mexican girls, Mexican girls, yo quiero
Spanish girls, Spanish girls, I like em'
Girls, Girls, Latin girls
Latin girls, Latin girls
Latin girls, What's happenin' girls?
What's happenin' girl? What's happenin?
I like Latin dem Latin women (I do)
And they love me cause I'm that man
With cocoa nuts and chocolate skin
I'm that mocha masculine
Feminines that are Latin call ya friends
And call your cousins cause I know you got dozens of them
Marias, Elizabeths, Sonyas and Blancas
When I see ya you can get boned if ya wanta
Yo quiero en I'm sincero
If you never had an ichi let me be your primero
We can hit the channel we can dance the bolero
Have a shopping spree and you can spend my dinero
But...
I wish you was more like JLo
(my love don't cost) Cause love don't cost a thing
So why don't you let this king love the queen of Argentin
Girl you know I know you know what I mean
Cause I like them'
Cuban girls, Cuban girls, I like em'
Puerto Rican girls, Puerto Rican girls, yo quiero'
Mexican girls, Mexican girls, yo quiero'
Spanish girls, Spanish girls, I like em'
Girls, Girls, Latin girls'
Latin girls, Latin girls'
You makin me hot girl!
What's happnin' girl? What's happnin? (oh!)
Que un da
Que quieres con mi
Mira muchacha esta es para ti
Latina chicana por mi
Mas finas me gusta me a si
Mira ah, mira ah, mira ah, mami
Esperate, esperate, esperate aqui
We could connect
song performed by by Black Eyed Peas
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A dream
I look at Paulo Coelho's blog
And I see ten's of thousand's of followers
At each word he writes
He gains ever more fans
And I have nothing
Except one or two faithful friends
Oh Allah will I too gain notice?
Will publishers look at my work
And see pure talent?
Will the world read my pieces
And see utter beauty?
Will my name go down
As one of the authors of the century?
Or will this forever be a dream?
Am I foolish
To spend hours writing?
Should I just go to sleep
And let go of my persistent pen?
During English we learn of men long dead
We relive their words
Rethink their memories
Will future generations learn from me?
Will my writings ensure my immortality?
Or should I bury
my words along with my body?
I know not my destiny
Or where Allah will take me
But my love for words
Is tied to my every breathe
I will not let my pen fall
Not until the angels take my soul.
poem by Mariam de Haan
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Translation of Ancient Epigrams
From Latin, Greek, to English presses,
‘tis rare that e’er the pith impresses.
Th’original oft effervesces
with sparkle, spite, delight, mistresses,
Spartan prowess, Roman fortresses,
maids like Mycilla, bought braids, tresses.
Who, living, the true jest possesses,
is past: - and all the rest is guesses.
Most amateur attempts are messes,
betray the sense, so each depresses.
Stray copies seldom seem successes,
translation tritely turned distresses,
and everybody who professes
ability thereat the less is!
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Dunce
At school I never gained a prize,
Proving myself the model ass;
Yet how I watched the wistful eyes,
And cheered my mates who topped the class.
No envy in my heart I found,
Yet bone was worthier to own
Those precious books in vellum bound,
Than I, a dreamer and a drone.
No prize at school I ever gained
(Shirking my studies, I suppose):
Yes, I remember being caned
For lack of love of Latin prose.
For algebra I won no praise,
In grammar I was far from bright:
Yet, oh, how Poetry would raise
In me a rapture of delight!
I never gained a prize at school;
The dullard's cap adorned my head;
My masters wrote me down a fool,
And yet - I'm sorry they are dead.
I'd like to go to them and say:
"Yours is indeed a tricky trade.
My honoured classmates, where are they?
Yet I, the dunce, brave books have made."
Oh, I am old and worn and grey,
And maybe have not long to live;
Yet 'tis my hope at some Prize Day
At my old school the Head will give
A tome or two of mine to crown
Some pupil's well-deserved success -
Proving a scapegrace and a clown
May win at last to worthiness.
poem by Robert William Service
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The Sister's Expostulation On The Brother's Learning Latin
Shut these odious books up, brother;
They have made you quite another
Thing from what you used to be:
Once you liked to play with me,
Now you leave me all alone,
And are so conceited grown
With your Latin, you'll scarce look
Upon any English book.
We had used on winter eves
To con over Shakespeare's leaves,
Or on Milton's harder sense
Exercise our diligence-
And you would explain with ease
The obscurer passages,
Find me out the prettiest places,
The poetic turns, and graces,
Which, alas! now you are gone,
I must puzzle out alone,
And oft miss the meaning quite,
Wanting you to set me right.
All this comes since you've been under
Your new master. I much wonder
What great charm it is you see
In those words, musa, musæ;
Or in what they do excel
Our word, song. It sounds as well
To my fancy as the other.
Now believe me, dearest brother,
I would give my finest frock,
And my cabinet, and stock
Of new playthings, every toy,
I would give them all with joy
Could I you returning see
Back to English and to me.
poem by Charles Lamb
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The Chatterbox
From morning till night it was Lucy's delight
To chatter and talk without stopping:
There was not a day but she rattled away,
Like water for ever a-dropping.
No matter at all if the subjects were small,
Or not worth the trouble of saying,
'Twas equal to her, she would talking prefer
To working, or reading, or playing.
You'll think now, perhaps, that there would have been gaps,
If she had not been wonderfully clever:
That her sense was so great, and so witty her pate,
It would be forthcoming for ever;
But that's quite absurd, for have you not heard
That much tongue and few brains are connected?
That they are supposed to think least who talk most,
And their wisdom is always suspected?
While Lucy was young, had she bridled her tongue,
With a little good sense and exertion,
Who knows, but she might now have been our delight,
Instead of our jest and aversion?
poem by Ann Taylor
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Ch 08 On Rules For Conduct In Life - Maxim 23
Nothing is better for an ignorant man than silence, and if he were to consider it to be suitable, he would not be ignorant.
If thou possessest not the perfection of excellence
It is best to keep thy tongue within thy mouth.
Disgrace is brought on a man by his tongue.
A walnut, having no kernel, will be light.
A fool was trying to teach a donkey,
Spending all his time and efforts in the task.
A sage observed: ‘O ignorant man, what sayest thou?
Fear blame from the censorious in this vain attempt.
A brute cannot learn speech from thee.
Learn thou silence from a brute.’
Who does not reflect what he is to answer
Will mostly speak improperly.
Come. Either arrange thy words like a wise man
Or remain sitting silent like a brute.
I Need To Hear!
I want to hear.
how much your language is.
His way to express so soft.
And how English is so touching! And so tender! In your voice.
because my, is so rude!
and yours, is so spherical
and when I expected for one R
Always comes a Th
so smooth!
That´s confused me!
that reminds me when the smoothness of your tongue meet mine.
And overcome and resign me!
Only in English! ! !
two famous tongue can be meet.
mellow and back words.
Only for you, because your wet time i insist! And you have a beautiful weather! ! ! Can unite drops and sounds.
Oh! No, beautiful language!
Oh! wrong again? ? ? What beautiful wet tongue! ! ! !
poem by Mirna Morgan
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In England only uneducated people show off their knowledge; nobody quotes Latin or Greek authors in the course of conversation, unless he has never read them.
quote by George Mikes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ανεμωλια
Go, foolish thoughts, and join the throng
Of myriads gone before;
To flutter and flap and flit along
The airy limbo shore.
Go, words of sport and words of wit,
Sarcastic point and fine,
And words of wisdom, wholly fit
With folly’s to combine.
Go, words of wisdom, words of sense,
Which, while the heart belied,
The tongue still uttered for pretence,
The inner blank to hide.
Go, words of wit, so gay, so light,
That still were meant express
To soothe the smart of fancied slight
By fancies of success.
Go, broodings vain o’er fancied wrong;
Go, love-dreams vainer still;
And scorn that’s not, but would be, strong;
And Pride without a Will.
Go, foolish thoughts, and find your way
Where myriads went before,
To languish out your lingering day
Upon the limbo shore.
poem by Arthur Hugh Clough (1850)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Tongue tied
Whenever I lie I seem to get tongue tied,
On the face of it you may well think it's fine,
But it makes me sigh and I have even cried,
As it leads one to a life of poor design,
I hate when people say that lying is bad,
Sometimes it's the best option that is at hand,
For telling the truth can make people feel sad,
Or lead you to enduring things you can't stand,
Like assessing the appearance of a friend,
Being made to read the writings of laymen,
Having to attend a play in the West End,
Or visiting a relative yet again,
I've often done things I'd rather not have done,
Such as kissing an unappealing person,
Or doing stuff that others seem to find fun,
And so I wish to change before things worsen,
I heard there was someone who knew of a cure,
And so I went off so as to find out more,
With time I found the one I was looking for,
They gave advice which was best not to ignore,
I went and put a piece of ice on my tongue,
Hoping I couldn't lie if my mouth was numb,
I even tried eating a bee to get stung,
However my speech suffered as an outcome,
I altered the language in which I express,
Lest English was that with which my plight depends,
With the use of sign language I found success,
But I couldn't communicate with my friends,
I guess that all of my efforts were in vain,
I'll now have to speak words that are genuine,
Endure the consequences and not complain,
Either that or learn to lace my words with spin.
poem by Christian Lacdael
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It's a World for All
The test of history never rest
A queue of villians give their best.
Coniving, cheating passing threats.
All this for a prize - a world for only one to keep.
If all these ways were ever had.
I fear -
I dreadfully fear what ills there be.
Genocide - an excluded kind.
One supreme tongue.
Greek, Latin even French and German perhaps
But history remains a true defender
.
This world was never made for one.
Cruel intentions must fade
They must learn
It is a world for all
Never a world for one.
poem by Godfrey Morris
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The Text
One Sunday eve a grave old man,
Who had not been at church, did say,
'Eliza, tell me, if you can,
What text our Doctor took to-day?'
She hung her head, she blushed for shame,
One single word she did not know,
Nor verse nor chapter she could name,
Her silent blushes told him so.
Again said he, 'My little maid,
What in the sermon did you hear?
Come tell me that, for that may aid
Me to find out the text, my dear.'
A tear stole down each blushing cheek,
She wished she better had attended;
She sobbing said, when she could speak,
She heard not till 'twas almost ended.
'Ah! little heedless one, why what
Could you be thinking on? 'tis clear
Some foolish fancies must have got
Possession of your head, my dear.
'What thoughts were they, Eliza, tell,
Nor seek from me the truth to smother.'-
'O I remember very well,
I whispered something to my brother.
'I said, 'Be friends with me, dear Will;'
We quarrelled, sir, at the church door,-
Though he cried, 'Hush, don't speak, be still,'
Yet I repeated these words o'er
'Seven or eight times, I have no doubt.
But here comes William, and if he
The good things he has heard about
Forgets too, sir, the fault's in me.'
'No, sir,' said William, 'though perplext
And much disturbed by my sister,
I in this matter of the text,
I thank my memory, can assist her.
'I have, and pride myself on having,
A more retentive head than she.'-
Then gracefully his right hand waving,
He with no little vanity
Recited gospel, chapter, verse-
I should be loth to spoil in metre
All the good words he did rehearse,
As spoken by our Lord to Peter.
But surely never words from heaven
Of peace and love more full descended;
That we should seventy times seven
Forgive our brother that offended.
In every point of view he placed it,
As he the Doctor's self had been,
With emphasis and action graced it:
But from his self-conceit 'twas seen
Who had brought home the words, and who had
A little on the meaning thought;
Eliza now the old man knew had
Learned that which William never caught.
Without impeaching William's merit,
His head but served him for the letter;
Hers missed the words, but kept the spirit;
Her memory to her heart was debtor.
poem by Charles Lamb
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Man In A Uniform
Oh, she said
(hut!)
She said c man in a uniform
2night thats what I want u 2 be
She said c 3rd time this week u wore that old suit
But I dont give a damn, u see?
Because man in a uniform do funny things 2 me
And I said c its the 3rd time, but I dont mind
Cuz that sister just so damn fine, ah
Man in a uniform (hut!)
Thats what I am
Man in a uniform, uh
Thats what I am
She said c man in a uniform
Sufferin every stroke of my hand
From the dusk until the early morn
U will grant this girls demands (why? )
Cuz she need 2 be drunk with pride
Wait a minute, Im gon tell u why
2 make up, 2 make up
2 make up 4 the emptiness that she feel inside
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Come on
Man in a uniform, mama
Thats what I am (hut!)
(hut!)
Man in a uniform
She said c 2night (2night)
I want your attention (tention)
She said c 2night I want your violent tongue
2 swallow my stench and be loyal 2 me
Shell never be free
Until u do me like a man in a uniform (hut!)
Man in a uniform (in a uniform)
Thats what I am
In a uniform (baby, baby, yeah)
Thats what I am
Dirty little man in a uniform
Thats what I am (hut!)
song performed by by Prince
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Clean
Today, everything was fine fine fine
Until roundabout quarter to 9, suddenly I found myself in a bind, a bind
Was it something I said
Something I read
And manifest thats getting you down
Dont you dare come to bed with that ambiguous look in your eye
Id sooner sleep by an open fire and wake up fried
Say what u will
Say what u mean
No, you could never offend
Your dirty words come out clean, clean
Tomorrow, what price will I pay
Could I make it all up to you by serving coffee for two in bed, would you then give me
The time of day
I need a map of your head, translated into english so I can learn to not make you frown
Feel better if you vent, put your frustrations into four letter words and let them out on
Mine
The most weathered ears in town!
Say what u will
Say what u mean
No, you could never offend
Your dirty words come out clean
Clean (x6)
Say what u will
Say what u mean
No, you could never offend
Your dirt words come out clean
Say what u will
Say what u mean
No, you could never offend
Your dirty words come out clean, clean
song performed by by Incubus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Let the ignorant learn, and the learned delight in refreshing the memory.
The Prodigy.
Tho' Rhyme serves the Thoughts of great Poets to fetter,
It sets off the Sense of small Poets the better.
When I've written in Prose, I often have found,
That my Sense, in a Jumble of Words, was quite drown'd.
In Verse, as in Armies, that march o'er the Plain,
The least Man among them is seen without Pain.
This they owe to good Order, it must be allow'd;
Else Men that are little, are lost in a Croud.
So much for Simile: Now, to be brief,
The following Lines come to tell you my Grief.
'Tis well I can write; for I scarcely can speak,
I'm so plagu'd with my Teeth, which eternally ake.
When the Wind's in the Point which opposes the south,
For Fear of the Cold, I can't open my Mouth:
And you know, to the Sex it must be a Heart--breaking,
To have any Distemper, that keeps them from speaking.
When first I was silent a Day and a Night,
The Women were all in a terrible Fright.
Supplications to Jove, in an Instant, they make--
``Avert the Portent--a Woman not speak!
``Since Poets are Prophets, and often have sung,
``The last Thing that dies in a Woman's her Tongue;
``O Jove, for what Crime is Sapphira thus curst?
``'Tis plain by her Breathing, her Tongue has dy'd first.
``Ye Powers celestial, tell Mortals, what Cause
``Occasions Dame nature to break her own Laws?
``Did the Preacher live now, from his Text he must run;
``And own there was something new under the Sun.
``O Jove, for the future this Punishment spare;
``And all other Evils we'll willingly bear.''
Then they throng to my House, and my Maid they beseech,
To say, if her Mistress had quite lost her Speech.
Nell readily own'd, what they heard was too true;
That To--day I was dumb, give the Devil his Due:
And frankly confess'd, were it always the Case,
No Servant could e'er have a happier Place.
When they found it was Fact, they began all to fear me;
And, dreading Infection, would scarcely come near me:
Till a Neighbour of mine, who was famous for Speeching,
Bid them be of good Cheer, the Difease was not catching;
And offer'd to prove, from Authors good Store,
That the like Case with this never happen'd before;
And if Ages to come should resemble the past,
As 'twas the first Instance, it would be the last.
Yet against this Disorder we all ought to strive:
Were I in her Case, I'd been bury'd alive.
Were I one Moment silent, except in my Bed,
My good natur'd Husband would swear I was dead.
The next said, her Tongue was so much in her Pow'r,
She was sullenly silent almost--half an Hour:
That, to vex her good Man, she took this Way to
But soon left it off, when she found it would please him:
And vow'd, for the future, she'd make the Housering;
For when she was dumb, he did nothing but sing.
Quite tir'd with their Talking, I held down my Head:
So she who sat next me, cry'd out, I was dead.
They call'd for cold Water to throw in my Face:
Give her Air, give her Air--and cut open her Lace.
Says good Neighbour Nevil, You're out of your Wits;
She oft, to my Knowledge, has these sullen Fits:
Let her Husband come in, and make one Step that's wrong,
My Life for't, the Woman will soon find her Tongue.
You'll soon be convinc'd--O' my Conscience, he's here--
Why what's all this Rout?--Are you sullen, my Dear?
This struck them all silent; which gave me some Ease.
And made them imagine they'd got my Disease.
So they hasted away in a terrible Fright;
And left me, in Silence, to pass the long Night.
Not the Women alone were scar'd at my Fate;
'Twas reckon'd of dreadful Portent to the State.
When the Governors heard it, they greatly were troubled;
And, whilst I was silent, the Guards were all doubled:
The Militia Drums beat a perpetual Alarm,
To rouze up the Sons of the City to arm.
A Story was rumour'd about from Lambey,
Of a powerful Fleet, that was seen off at Sea.
With Horror all list to the terrible Tale;
The Barristers tremble, the Judges grow pale;
To the Castle the frighted Nobility fly;
And the Council were summon'd, they could not tell why;
The Clergy in Crouds to the Churches repair;
And Armies, embattled, were seen in the Air.
Why they were in this Fright, I have lately been told,
It seems, it was sung by a Druid of old,
That the Hanover Race to Great--Britain should come;
And sit on the Throne, till a Woman grew dumb.
As soon as this Prophecy reach'd the Pretender,
He cry'd out, My Claim to the Crown I surrender.
poem by Mary Barber
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