Wanderers Lost
Oh, we are the phantoms of rovers lost
See how the mocking mirages play!
Men who have ventured and paid the cost.
Lone, waiting women, 'tis vain to pray!
We dies unshriven, as rovers die,
And no man knows where our white bones lie.
Black birds gather when rovers stray,
Out where the mocking mirages play.
A maiden has waited a long year thro'.
Mark where a crow from the northward flies!
'Ah, can he be false that had sworn so true?'
They say that a wanderer woos with lies.
A maiden has waited and counted the days,
Since a lover went roving the northward ways.
What do they profit - unheeded sighs?
Mark where a crow from the northward flies!
Out in the desert a still thing lies.
Westward the sun is sinking low.
Who is to mourn when a rover dies?
Hark! 'Tis the caw of a sated crow.
Who is to tell of a mad'ning thrist
Of a lonely death in a land accurst?
Merciful God! Is she ne'er to know?
(Hark to the caw of a sated crow.)
Oh, we are the legion that never came back
Ever have rovers to count the cost.
Men who went out on the waterless track.
Curst is the plain that was ne'er recross'd!
Restless to roam o'er the desert our doom,
Till our end shall be known and our bones find a tomb.
Mourn for the souls of wanderers lost,
Ever have rovers to count the cost.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
To Alan O Connor A Young K.R.R. Fan
He was so young just fourteen years and he had one great dream
To play for Killarney Road Rovers the Millstreet soccer team
To play for Killarney Road Rovers and to prove himself a man
He loved the game, he loved his team and he was a Rovers fan.
But Alan did not get the chance to carve his own renown
In football field at Claraghatlea just west of Millstreet Town
For Rovers in the Kerry league he'll not line out to play
An angel met him going to school and carried him away..
He did not live to ripe old age to slow and fade and die
His span was brief so very brief like rose flower of July
He did not live to fulfil his dream for Rovers play football
God needed him in Paradise and God know best of all.
But Alan will be still around when Rovers come to play
His ghost will be there watching them in field at Claraghatlea
And Rovers fans will talk about their star who would have been
The lad an angel took from Millstreet Town when he was just fourteen.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Old Jim Crow
Ron vander groef, jackie alper, nina simone
Old jim crow
Where you been baby
Down mississippi and back again
Old jim crow dont you know
Its all over now
Old jim crow
Whats wrong with you
It aint your name
Its the things you do
Old jim crow dont you know
Its all over now
Old jim crow
Youve been around too long
Gotta work the devil
til your dead and gone
Old jim crow
Yes, dont you know
Its all over now
Its all over now
Old jim crow
You know its true
When you hurt my brother
You hurt me too
Old jim crow dont you know
Its all over now
Old jim crow
I thought I had you beat
Now I see you walkin
And talkin up and down my street
Old jim crow dont you know
Its all over now
Old jim crow
Youve been around too long
Gotta work the devil
til your dead and gone
Old jim crow dont you know
Its all over
All over
Oh lord, its all over
All over
Its all over
Its all over
Its all over now.
song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Crow and The Butterfly
Ever wonder why the Crow chases the Butterfly?
Have you ever heard the Crow let out it's cry?
I think I found out why...
It's quite the interesting story, I had to pry..
The Butterfly's beauty, the Crow's will never match.
The Crow's life is nothing compared the the Butterfly's since it's first hatch.
If you are good enough to get a Butterfly, that is quite a catch.
Get a Crow somehow and it gets thrown right back out to the patch.
The Crow has had it so much easier than the Butterfly.
Straight jealousy from the Crow because they have to share the sky.
The Butterfly's flight is reason to stare, the Crow's just reason to cry.
Everyone stops to get a glance of a Buttflies, a few Crows and people pass by.
So if you ever hear a Crow cry,
Or see a Butterfly being chased by a Crow,
Just think how bad that Crow wants to be a Butterfly.....
poem by Joe Gosart
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Johnson, alias Crow
Where the seasons are divided and the bush begins to change,
and the links are rather broken in the Great Dividing Range;
where the atmosphere is hazy underneath the summer sky,
lies the little town of Eton, rather westward of Mackay.
Near the township, in the graveyard, where the dead of Eton go,
lies the body of a sinner known as “Johnson alias Crow”.
He was sixty-four was Johnson, and in other days, lang syne,
was apprenticed to a ship-wright in the land across the Rhine;
but, whatever were his prospects in the days of long ago,
things went very bad with Johnson—Heinrich Johnson (alias Crow).
He, at Eton—where he drifted in his age, a stranded wreck—
got three pounds by false pretences, in connection with a cheque.
But he didn’t long enjoy it, the police soon got to know;
and the lockup closed on Johnson, lonely Johnson alias Crow.
Friday night, and Crow retired, feeling, as he said, unwell;
and the warder heard the falling of a body in the cell.
Going in, the warder saw him bent with pain and crouching low—
Death had laid his hand on Johnson, Heinrich Johnson, alias Crow.
Then the constable bent o’er him—asked him where he felt the pain. Johnson only said, “I’m dying”—and he never spoke again.
They had waited for a witness, and the local people say
Johnson’s trial would have ended on that very Saturday;
but he took his case for judgment where our cases all must go,
and the higher court is trying Heinrich Johnson (alias Crow).
poem by Henry Lawson
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Outside
I want to be lighting my pipe on deck,
With my baggage safe below—
I want to be free of the crowded quay,
While the steamer’s swinging slow.
I want to be free of treachery,
And of sordid joys and griefs—
To be out of sight of the faces white,
And the waving of handkerchiefs.
I want to be making my ship-board friends,
I want to be free of the past—
I want to be laughing with kindred souls,
While the Heads are opening fast.
I want to be sailing far to-day,
On the tracks where the rovers go,
To feel the heave of the deck, and draw
The breath that the rovers know.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Outside
I want to be lighting my pipe on deck,
With my baggage safe below—
I want to be free of the crowded quay,
While the steamer’s swinging slow.
I want to be free of treachery,
And of sordid joys and griefs—
To be out of sight of the faces white,
And the waving of handkerchiefs.
I want to be making my ship-board friends,
I want to be free of the past—
I want to be laughing with kindred souls,
While the Heads are opening fast.
I want to be sailing far to-day,
On the tracks where the rovers go,
To feel the heave of the deck, and draw
The breath that the rovers know.
poem by Henry Lawson
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As the Crow flies
There are certain species in the crow family.
This entirely glossy black bird never sings.
Carrion crow feeds on grain and the house crow is a reputed scavenger.
Fish crow eats fish and all these species live in the handsome and dangerous Man-crow who sings at all but never flies?
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Frank Riordan
He and Neily Lehane in the late sixties they formed a Club and a Gaelic Football team
And the Football Club they christened Slanan Rovers and Cloghoula people back then had a dream
That they might one day be Duhallow Champions but to win in any grade quite hard to do
And though out of dreams great ideas have been born dreams are dreams and they don't always come true.
Frank Riordan was the President of Slanan Rovers and of the honour he felt very proud
And of the footballers who wore the Slanan jersey he spoke in glowing terms and sang their praises loud
And with help from the likes of Joe and Noel Buckley, Danny Healy and Dave Sheehan as well as many others who rallied around
A football club was thriving in Cloghoula and many willing helpers to be found.
The untimely death at a young age of Danny Healy a great blow to Cloghoula and it's football team
He was liked by the officials and players and by so many held in high esteem
But the likes of Frank Riordan and Neily Lehane worked all the harder their motto all for one and one for all
And Slanan Rovers survived for a decade and in Duhallow played Gaelic football.
Frank Riordan was the President of Slanan Rovers a Gaelic Football Club formed close to Millstreet Town
Till emigration and a dwindling population the curtain on them finally brought down
But then suppose nothing can last forever and Slanan Rovers like all had their day
And life goes on and time brings about changes and things are quiet now up Cloghoula way.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Black Crow
He sees the stormy anger of the world
And wants no part of it at all
And as the weeping leaves of autumn curl
He feels the savage winter call
See far below the dust of conflict settles on the hill
Where there was no escape before
And as he spreads his wings and soars up to another level
He brings the icy prophecies of war
Black crow, black crow, tell me where you really go
When you fly into the sunset, high in evening sky,
Black crow, black crow, tell me what you really know
Will we flourish in this hurricane, or will we fall and die?
While children lose their souls and so much more
To ragged armies of the field
A vicious fanfare cries appeasing hungry savages
To trigger that their fate is surely sealed
I wonder where that black crow sleeps as day beckons the night
Or if he even sleeps at all
I wonder what he thinks of all the human traffic far below
Thats struggled on the road so, so long
Tell me black crow, black crow (solely? ) you pass above
Understanding everything but you know nothing at all
Black crow black crow, tell me what you really know
Do you understand the pain that we feel down here at all
song performed by by Jamiroquai
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mistake of Fact!
Crow! Crow!
Male crow! Female crow!
Love each other,
Wife and husband;
Wife crow lays eggs,
All are white!
Husband crow suspects
Loyalty and fidelity;
Ignorant husband,
Innocent wife,
Wife crow shows
other nests;
Trust assured
Sorry sorry,
Mistake of Fact, Forget it,
We love for ever!
poem by V.K. Kanniappan
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On The Passing Of Dave Sheehan
Dave Sheehan worked for the Cork County Council and I'd known him since I was a Primary school going boy
A gentle soul one who kept a low profile and one might say he would not harm a fly
All those he came in contact with seemed to like him and a bad word of him not one had to say
For a big family a good bread winner and he worked hard till his retirement day.
One of the founder members of the Slanan Rovers a Gaelic Football Club in the Parish of Millstreet
When Slanan won the day he felt so happy though he was one who too smiled in defeat
The Slanan Rovers as a Club now defunct but nothing lasts for forever so they say
Perhaps the Club lost out to emigration the migrant boats took the young men away.
I last spoke to Dave Sheehan in the mid eighties and that's going back some two decades ago
In mid November in the Town of Millstreet the weather it was cold enough to snow
We talked about the birth of Slanan Rovers in Cloghoula where the Finnow waters flow
He and Neil Lehane and Danny Healy and Frank Riordan founder members from their ideas a Football Club did grow.
From the green country side around Cloghoula the young men they went off to live elsewhere
And the Slanan Rovers Club for lack of numbers was quick to founder into disrepair
The older players had been getting older and the young men had their own dreams to pursue
And another Gaelic Club went from Duhallow that without players the Club won't survive seems so true.
Dave Sheehan from Carrigacooleen gone forever in quiet old St Mary's he now lay
But in Duhallow he won't be forgotten and his soul will live for forever and a day
A gentleman and liked by all who knew him in life he never made an enemy
And sad to think that when I return to Millstreet that he is one I never more will see.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Crows Words
Crow and
Crow...
On the tree...
Speak one crow
With another crow
'Kaa kaa kaaaa'
Another crow
Also...
'Kaa kaa kaaaa'
Speaking
This is crow words
You i did not
Understand ok...O...!
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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Crow Black Chicken
(laurence wilson)
Well, I went on the mountain
And I gave my horn a blow
Thought I heard some purty gal say
Yonder come my beau
Crow black chicken and crow for a day
Crow black chicken and fly away
Crow black chicken and-a ...
I like chicken pie
Well, the hardest work that ever I done
Is plowin a field of rye
The easiest work that ever I done
Was eatin chicken pie
Chicken crow for midnight
And chicken crow for a day
Along come an owl, lord, have mercy
And stole my chicken away
song performed by by Ry Cooder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Crow On The Cradle
(from the soundtrack to no nukes; peformed live by jackson browne with graham nash & david lindley)
The sheeps in the meadow
The cows in the corn
Now is the time for a child to be born
Hell laugh at the moon
And cry for the sun
And if its a boy hell carry a gun
Sang the crow on the cradle
And if it should be that this babys a girl
Never you mind if her hair doesnt curl
With rings on her fingers
And bells on her toes
And a bomber above her wherever she goes
Sang the crow on the cradle
The crow on the cradle
The black and the white
Somebodys baby is born for a fight
The crow on the cradle
The white and the black
Somebodys baby is not coming back
Sang the crow on the cradle
Your mother and father will sweat and theyll slave
To build you a coffin and dig you a grave
Hush-a-bye little one, never you weep
For weve got a toy that can put you to sleep
Sang the crow on the cradle
Bring me my gun, and Ill shoot that bird dead
Thats what your mother and father once said
The crow on the cradle, what can we do
Ah, this is a thing that Ill leave up to you
Sang the crow on the cradle
Sang the crow on the cradle
song performed by by Jackson Browne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Death Of A Crow
Death Of A Crow
halloween night
in a city park
a dead crow
under an elm tree
I was there
standing alone
a flash light in hand
wet in autumn rain
looking
children in raincoat
passed by
a police car siren
wailed and faded
into distant darkness
no elegy
no dirge
no requiem
no tomb stone
a crow's death
is not tragic
and that is the tragedy
of the crow's death
Battered Suitcase, v 1, issue 3, oct 2008
poem by Suchoon Mo_
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Why the Jackass Laughs
The Boastful Crow and the Laughing Jack
Were telling tales of the outer back:
"I've just been travelling far and wide,
At the back of Bourke and the Queensland side;
There isn't a bird in the bush can go
As far as me," said the old black crow.
"There isn't a bird in the bush can fly
A course as straight or a course as high.
Higher than human eyesight goes.
There's sometimes clouds -- but there's always crows,
Drifting along for a scent of blood
Or a smell of smoke or a sign of flood.
For never a bird or a beast has been
With a sight as strong or a scent as keen.
At fires and floods I'm the first about,
For then the lizards and mice run out:
And I make my swoop -- and that's all they know --
I'm a whale on mice," said the Boastful Crow.
The Bee-birds over the homestead flew
And told each other the long day through
"The cold has come, we must take the track."
"Now, I'll make you a bet," said the Laughing Jack,
"Of a hundred mice, that you dare not go
With the little Bee-birds, by Boastful Crow."
Said the Boastful Crow, "I could take my ease
And fly with little green birds like these.
If they went flat out and they did their best
I could have a smoke and could take a rest."
And he asked of the Bee-birds circling round:
"Now, where do you spike-tails think you're bound?"
"We leave tonight, and out present plan
is to go straight on till we reach Japan.
"Every year, on the self-same day,
We call our children and start away,
Twittering, travelling day and night,
Over the ocean we take our flight;
And we rest a day on some lonely isles
Or we beg a ride for a hundred miles
On a steamer's deck,* and away we go:
We hope you'll come with us, Mister Crow."
But the old black crow was extremely sad.
Said he: "I reckon you're raving mad
To talk of travelling night and day,
And how in the world do you find your way?"
And the Bee-birds answered him, "If you please,
That's one of our own great mysteries".
Now these things chanced in the long ago
And explain the fact, which no doubt you know,
That every jackass high and low
Will always laugh when he sees a crow.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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The crows
A boy killed a crow
So a flock of crow has come
To mourn and protest
poem by Asif Andalib
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The Rovers
Some born of homely parents
For ages settled down—
The steady generations
Of village, farm, and town:
And some of dusky fathers
Who wandered since the flood—
The fairest skin or darkest
Might hold the roving blood—
Some born of brutish peasants,
And some of dainty peers,
In poverty or plenty
They pass their early years;
But, born in pride of purple,
Or straw and squalid sin,
In all the far world corners
The wanderers are kin.
A rover or a rebel,
Conceived and born to roam,
As babies they will toddle
With faces turned from home;
They’ve fought beyond the vanguard
Wherever storm has raged,
And home is but a prison
They pace like lions caged.
They smile and are not happy;
They sing and are not gay;
They weary, yet they wander;
They love, and cannot stay;
They marry, and are single
Who watch the roving star,
For, by the family fireside,
Oh, lonely men they are!
They die of peace and quiet—
The deadly ease of life;
They die of home and comfort;
They live in storm and strife;
No poverty can tie them,
Nor wealth nor place restrain—
Girl, wife, or child might draw them,
But they’ll be gone again!
Across the glowing desert;
Through naked trees and snow;
Across the rolling prairies
The skies have seen them go;
They fought to where the ocean
Receives the setting sun;—
But where shall fight the rovers
When all the lands are won?
They thirst on Greenland snowfields,
On Never-Never sands;
Where man is not to conquer
They conquer barren lands;
They feel that most are cowards,
That all depends on ‘nerve,’
They lead who cannot follow,
They rule who cannot serve.
Across the plains and ranges,
Away across the seas,
On blue and green horizons
They camp by twos and threes;
They hold on stormy borders
Of states that trouble earth
The honour of the country
That only gave them birth.
Unlisted, uncommissioned,
Untaught of any school,
In far-away world corners
Unconquered tribes they rule;
The lone hand and revolver—
Sad eyes that never quail—
The lone hand and the rifle
That win where armies fail.
They slumber sound where murder
And treachery are bare—
The pluck of self-reliance,
The pluck of past despair;
Thin brown men in pyjamas—
The thin brown wiry men!—
The helmet and revolver
That lie beside the pen.
Through drought and desolation
They won the way Out Back;
The commonplace and selfish
Have followed on their track;
They conquer lands for others,
For others find the gold,
But where shall go the rovers
When all the lands are old?
A rover and a rebel—
And so the worlds commence!
Their hearts shall beat as wildly
Ten generations hence;
And when the world is crowded—
’Tis signed and sealed by Fate—
The roving blood will rise to make
The countries desolate.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Crow to cat
Cat run
Run to
Run to
Not catch rat...
Watch the crow...
On the tree
Crow sit and eat
Fry fish...
Cat want crow fish
So...
Cat woory hurry...
Watch the crow...
Crow crowing too
Eat the fry fish
Fly too fly...
Cat feel free
For stomach...
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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Gold
We rovers bold,
To the land of Gold,
Over the bowling billows are gliding:
Eager to toil,
For the golden spoil,
And every hardship biding.
See! See!
Before our prows' resistless dashes
The gold-fish fly in golden flashes!
'Neath a sun of gold,
We rovers bold,
On the golden land are gaining;
And every night,
We steer aright,
By golden stars unwaning!
All fires burn a golden glare:
No locks so bright as golden hair!
All orange groves have golden gushings;
All mornings dawn with golden flushings!
In a shower of gold, say fables old,
A maiden was won by the god of gold!
In golden goblets wine is beaming:
On golden couches kings are dreaming!
The Golden Rule dries many tears!
The Golden Number rules the spheres!
Gold, gold it is, that sways the nations:
Gold! gold! the center of all rotations!
On golden axles worlds are turning:
With phosphorescence seas are burning!
All fire-flies flame with golden gleamings!
Gold-hunters' hearts with golden dreamings!
With golden arrows kings are slain:
With gold we'll buy a freeman's name!
In toilsome trades, for scanty earnings,
At home we've slaved, with stifled yearnings:
No light! no hope! Oh, heavy woe!
When nights fled fast, and days dragged slow.
But joyful now, with eager eye,
Fast to the Promised Land we fly:
Where in deep mines,
The treasure shines;
Or down in beds of golden streams,
The gold-flakes glance in golden gleams!
How we long to sift,
That yellow drift!
Rivers! Rivers! cease your goings!
Sand-bars! rise, and stay the tide!
'Till we've gained the golden flowing;
And in the golden haven ride!
poem by Herman Melville
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