Rus. Vs. Urbs
Whenever the penner of this pome
Regards a lovely country home,
He sighs, in words not insincere,
"I think I'd like to live out here."
And when the builder of this ditty
Returns to this pulsating city,
The perpetrator of this pome
Yearns for a lovely country home.
poem by Franklin P. Adams
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It Was a Famous Victory
It was a summer evening;
Old Kaspar was at home,
Sitting before his cottage door--
Like in the Southey pome--
And near him, with a magazine,
Idled his grandchild, Geraldine.
"Wy don't you ask me," Kaspar said
To the child upon the floor,
"Why don't you ask me what I did
When I was in the war?
They told me that each little kid
Would surely ask me what I did.
"I've had my story ready
For thirty years or more."
"Don't bother, Grandpa," said the child;
"I find such things a bore.
Pray leave me to my magazine,"
Asserted little Geraldine.
Then entered little Peterkin,
To whom the gaffer said:
"You'd like to hear about the war?
How I was left for dead?"
"No. And, besides," declared the youth,
"How do I know you speak the truth?"
Arose the Wan, embittered man,
The hero of this pome,
And walked, with not unsprightly step,
Down to the Soldiers' Home,
Where he, with seven other men,
Sat swapping lies till half-past ten.
poem by Franklin P. Adams
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Glycera Rediviva
Horace: Book I, Ode 19
"Mater sæva Cupidinum"
Venus, the cruel mother of
The Cupids (symbolising Love),
Bids me to muse upon and sigh
For things to which I've said "Good-bye!"
Believe me or believe me not,
I give this Glycera girl a lot:
Pure Parian marble are her arms--
And she has eighty other charms.
Venus has left her Cyprus home
And will not let me pull a pome
About the Parthians, fierce and rough,
The Scythian war, and all that stuff.
Set up, O slaves, a verdant shrine!
Uncork a quart of last year's wine!
Place incense here, and here verbenas,
And watch me while I jolly Venus!
poem by Franklin P. Adams
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When You Meet a Man from Your Own Home Town
Sing, O Muse, in treble clef,
A little song of the A.E.F.,
And pardon me, please, if I give vent
To something akin to sentiment.
But we have our moments Over Here
When we want to cry and we want to cheer;
And the hurrah feeling will not down
When you meet a man from your own home town.
It's many a lonesome, longsome day
Since you embarked from the U.S.A.,
And you met some men--it's a great big war--
From towns that you never had known before;
And you landed here, and your rest camp mate
Was a man from some strange and distant state.
Liked him? Yes; but you wanted to see
A man from the town where you used to be.
And then you went, by design or chance,
All over the well-known map of France;
And you yearned with a yearn that grew and grew
To talk with a man from the burg you knew.
And some lugubrious morn when
Your morale is batting about .110,
"Where are you from?" and you make reply,
And the O.D. warrior says, "So am I."
The universe wears a smiling face
As you spill your talk of the old home place;
You talk of the streets, and the home town jokes,
And you find that you know each other's folks;
And you haven't any more woes at all
Ad you both decide that the world is small--
A statement adding to its renown
When you meet a man from your own home town.
You may be among the enlisted men,
You may be a Lieut. or a Major-Gen.;
Your home may be up in the Chilkoot Pass,
In Denver, Col., or in Pittsfield, Mass.;
You may have come from Chicago, Ill.,
Buffalo, Portland, or Louisville--
But there's nothing, I'm gambling, can keep you down,
When you meet a man from your own home town.
* * * * *
If you want to know why I wrote this pome,
Well . . . I've just had a talk with a guy from home.
poem by Franklin P. Adams
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Nora, the Maid of Killarney
Down by the beautiful Lakes of Killarney,
Off times I have met my own dear Barney,
In the sweet summer time of the year,
In the silvery moonlight so clear,
I've rambled with my sweetheart Barney,
Along the green banks of the Lakes of Killarney.
The Lakes of Killarney are most lovely to be seen
In the summer season when nature's face is green,
Especially in the beautiful silvery moonlight,
When its waters do shine like silver bright;
Such was the time when me and my Barney
Went to walk by the purty Lakes of Killarney.
My Barney was beautiful, gallant, and gay,
But, alas, he has left me and gone far away,
To that foreign country called Amerikay;
But when he returns we will get married without delay,
And again we will roam by the Lakes of Killarney,
Me and my sweetheart, charming Barney.
And until he returns I will feel rather sad,
For while walking with Barney I always felt glad;
May God send him home again safe to me,
And he will fill my sad heart with glee,
While we walk by the Lakes of Killarney.
I dreamt one night I was walking with Barney,
Down by the beautiful Lakes of Killarney,
And he said, "Nora, dear Nora, don't fret for me,
For I will soon come home to thee;
And I will build a nice cabin near the Lakes of Killarney,
And Nora will live happy with her own dear Barney."
But, alas, I awoke from my beautiful dream,
For, och, if was a most lovely scene;
But I hope it will happen some unexpected day,
When Barney comes home from Amerikay;
Then Barney will relate his adventures to me,
As we walk by the silvery Lakes of Killarney.
We will ramble among its green trees and green bushes,
And hear the sweet songs of the blackbirds and thrushes,
And gaze on its lovely banks so green,
And its waters glittering like crystal in the moonlight's sheen;
Och! how I long to be walking with Barney,
Along the green banks of the Lakes of Killarney.
Of all the spots in Ireland, Killarney for me,
For 'twas there I first met my dear Barney:
He was singing, I remember, right merrily;
And his singing filled my heart with glee,
And he said, "Nora, dear Nora, will you walk with me,
For you are the prettiest girl I ever did see."
"Now, Barney," I said, "you are just mocking me,
When you say no other girl like me you can see";
Then he said, "Nora, you are the only girl I do love,
And this I do swear by the saints above,
I will marry you, dear Nora, without delay,
When I come home from Amerikay."
But when Barney landed in Amerikay,
He courted another girl without dismay,
And he married her in the month of May,
And when I heard it I fainted away;
So maidens beware of such men as Barney,
Or else they will deceive ye with their flattering blarney.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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The Ruined Maid
"O 'Melia, my dear, this does everything crown!
Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town?
And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?"-
"O didn't you know I'd been ruined?" said she.
-"You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks,
Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks;
And now you've gay bracelets and bright feathers three!"-
"Yes: that's how we dress when we're ruined," said she.
-"At home in the barton you said 'thee' and 'thou,'
And 'thik oon' and 'theäs oon' and 't'other'; but now
Your talking quite fits 'ee for high compan-ny!"-
"Some polish is gained with one's ruin," said she.
-"Your hands were like paws then, you face blue and bleak
But now I'm bewitched by your delicate cheek,
And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!"-
"We never do work when we're ruined," said she.
-"You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream,
And you'd sigh, and you'd sock; but at present you seem
To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!"-
"True. One's pretty lively when ruined," said she.
-"I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown,
And a delicate face, and could strut about Town"-
"My dear - raw country girl, such as you be,
Cannot quite expect that. You ain't ruined," said she.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Over The Range
Little bush maiden, wondering-eyed,
Playing alone in the creek-bed dry,
In the small green flat on every side
Walled in by the Moonbi ranges high;
Tell me the tale of your lonely life
'Mid the great grey forests that know no change.
"I never have left my home," she said,
"I have never been over the Moonbi Range.
"Father and mother are long since dead,
And I live with granny in yon wee place."
"Where are your father and mother?" I said.
She puzzled awhile with thoughtful face,
Then a light came into the shy brown face,
And she smiled, for she thought the question strange
On a thing so certain -- "When people die
They go to the country over the range."
"And what is this country like, my lass?"
"There are blossoming trees and pretty flowers
And shining creeks where the golden grass
Is fresh and sweet from the summer showers.
They never need work, nor want, nor weep;
No troubles can come their hearts to estrange.
Some summer night I shall fall asleep,
And wake in the country over the range."
Child, you are wise in your simple trust,
For the wisest man knows no more than you.
Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust:
Our views by a range are bounded too;
But we know that God hath this gift in store,
That, when we come to the final change,
We shall meet with our loved ones gone before
To the beautiful country over the range.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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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
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A Domestic Tragedy
Clorinda met me on the way
As I came from the train;
Her face was anything but gay,
In fact, suggested pain.
"Oh hubby, hubby dear!" she cried,
"I've awful news to tell. . . ."
"What is it, darling?" I replied;
"Your mother -- is she well?"
"Oh no! oh no! it is not that,
It's something else," she wailed,
My heart was beating pit-a-pat,
My ruddy visage paled.
Like lightning flash in heaven's dome
The fear within me woke:
"Don't say," I cried, "our little home
Has all gone up in smoke!"
She shook her head. Oh, swift I clasped
And held her to my breast;
"The children! Tell me quick," I gasped,
"Believe me, it is best."
Then, then she spoke; 'mid sobs I caught
These words of woe divine:
"It's coo-coo-cook has gone and bought
A new hat just like mine."
poem by Robert William Service
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In modern way
If king turns perpetrator and thief
What can be expected from him as chief?
Entire kingdom may go bankrupt
Whole business may come to halt and disrupt
Today it is repeated in modern way
Politicians are turning as thief and taking away
National wealth out from country
To make it sure for comfortable stay in another country
What happens if protector turns perpetrator?
Villain is showing teeth and turns actor
What the life can turn into in the long run?
Nothing but simple farce and full of fun
There is saying about Dala Tawadi"*
An occasional thief visited vaadi*(farm house)
He himself asked "can I pick one watermelon or more'?
The replied by him self" why less take as much as you want or more"
Finally farmer noticed regular theft attempts
He decided to catch thief and vigil was kept
He heard thief repeating same
He tied him with rope and dipped in water
How many dips you want in water?
One, two, three or more
Thief got sense and immediately apologized
Here everybody is busy and not at all realized
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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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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What is—
215
What is—"Paradise"—
Who live there—
Are they "Farmers"—
Do they "hoe"—
Do they know that this is "Amherst"—
And that I—am coming—too—
Do they wear "new shoes"—in "Eden"—
Is it always pleasant—there—
Won't they scold us—when we're homesick—
Or tell God—how cross we are—
You are sure there's such a person
As "a Father"—in the sky—
So if I get lost—there—ever—
Or do what the Nurse calls "die"—
I shan't walk the "Jasper"—barefoot—
Ransomed folks—won't laugh at me—
Maybe—"Eden" a'n't so lonesome
As New England used to be!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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A Day Of Sunshine
It was such a lovely sunshine-day,
The house and the yard couldn't hold me;
I roved to the woods, on my back I lay,
In cradle of fancy rolled me;
But there were ants, and gnats that bite,
The horse-fly was keen, the wasp showed fight.
"Dear me, don't you want to be out in this fine
weather?" --said mother, who sat on the steps and sang.
It was such a lovely sunshine-day,
The house and the yard couldn't hold me;
A meadow I found, on my back I lay,
And sang what my spirit told me;
Then snakes came crawling, a fathom long,
To bask in the sun,--I fled with my song.
"In such blessed weather we can go barefoot,"--said mother,
as she pulled off her stockings.
It was such a lovely sunshine-day,
The house and the yard couldn't hold me;
I loosened a boat, on my back I lay,
While blithely the current bowled me;
But hot grew the sun, and peeled my nose;
Enough was enough, and to land I chose.
"Now these are just the days to make hay in,"-- said mother,
as she stuck the rake in it.
It was such a lovely sunshine-day,
The house and the yard couldn't hold me;
I climbed up a tree, oh, what bliss to play,
As cooling the breeze consoled me;
But worms soon fell on my neck, by chance,
And jumping, I cried: "'T is the Devil's own dance!"
"Yes, if the cows aren't sleek and shiny to-day, they'll
never be so,"--said mother, gazing up the hillside.
It was such a lovely sunshine-day,
The house and the yard couldn't hold me;
I dashed to the waterfall's endless play,
There only could peace enfold me.
The shining sun saw me drown and die,--
If you made this ditty, 't was surely not I.
"Three more such sunshine-days, and everything will
be in,"--said mother, and went to make my bed.
poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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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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My Friend, The Parking Lot Attendant
—he's a dandy
—small moustache
—usually sucking on a cigar
he tends to lean into cars as he
transacts business
first time I met him, he said,
"hey! ya gonna make a
killin'?"
"maybe," I answered.
next meeting it was:
"hey, Ramrod! what's
happening?"
"very little," I told
him.
next time I had my girlfriend with me
and he just
grinned.
next time I was
alone.
"hey," he asked, "where's the young
chick?"
"I left her at home...."
"Bullshit! I'll bet she dumped
you!"
and the next time
he really leaned into the car:
"what's a guy like you doing driving a
BMW! I'll bet you inherited your
money, you didn't get this car with your
brains!"
"how'd you guess?" I
answered.
that was some weeks ago.
I haven't seen him lately.
feIlow like that, chances are he just moved on
to better
things.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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The Gardener LXXV: At Midnight
At midnight the would-be ascetic
announced:
"This is the time to give up my
home and seek for God. Ah, who has
held me so long in delusion here?"
God whispered, "I," but the ears
of the man were stopped.
With a baby asleep at her breast
lay his wife, peacefully sleeping on
one side of the bed.
The man said, "Who are ye that
have fooled me so long?"
The voice said again, "They are
God," but he heard it not.
The baby cried out in its dream,
nestling close to its mother.
God commanded, "Stop, fool, leave
not thy home," but still he heard not.
God sighed and complained, "Why
does my servant wander to seek me,
forsaking me?"
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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The Rhyme of the O'Sullivan
Pro Bono Publico
Went out the streets to scan,
And marching to and fro
He met a seedy man,
Who did a tale unfold
In solemn tones and slow
And this is what he told
Pro Bono Publico.
"For many years I led
The people's onward march;
I was the 'Fountain Head',
The 'Democratic Arch'.
"In more than regal state
I used to sit and smile,
And bridges I'd donate,
And railways by the mile.
"I pawned the country off
For many million quid,
And spent it like a toff --
So hel me, Bob, I did.
"But now those times are gone,
The wind blows cold and keen;
I sit and think upon
The thing that I have been.
"And if a country town
Its obligation shirks,
I press for money down
To pay for water works.
"A million pounds or two
Was naught at all to me --
And now I have to sue
For paltry £ s d!
"Alas, that such a fate
Should come to such a man,
Who once was called the Great --
The great O'Sullivan!"
With weary steps and slow,
With tears of sympathy
Pro Bono Publico
Went sadly home to tea.
Remarking, as he went,
With sad and mournful brow,
"The cash that party spent --
I wish I had it now!"
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Pledge No Longer
after watching films like "The Killing Fields, "
"Apocalypse Now, " "Full Metal Jacket" &
beginning to think long and hard about what
his country had really been doing in Vietnam, Cambodia & Laos,
this high school senior refuses in early morning
home room
to stand up & say
The Pledge of Allegiance
to the flag hanging from the corner of the wall,
where all his classmates, holding their hands over their hearts
mutter along the words that they have repeated
day in & day out,
since they can remember-
his homeroom teacher takes him aside when the rest sit down &
he is told that he needs to say the pledge just like the rest of the kids,
but he sits there staring up at the teacher with
fierce eyes that the teacher sees other classmates already being inspired by at that very moment,
and he utters simply,
"i'm not pledging any longer."
poem by Andrew Delapruch
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Thoughts in a Far Country
I rise and applaud, in the patriot manner,
Whenever (as often) I hear
The palpitanat strains of "The Star Spangled Banner,"--
I shout and cheer.
And also, to show my unbound devotion,
I jump to my feet with a "Whee!"
Whenever "Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean"
Is played near me.
My fervour's so hot and my ardour so searing--
I'm hoarse for a couple of days--
You've heard me, I'm positive, joyously cheering
"The Marsailles"
I holler for "Dixie." I go off my noodle,
I whistle, I pound, and I stamp
Whenever an orchestra plays "Yankee Doodle,"
Or "Tramp, Tramp, Tramp."
But if you would enter my confidence, reader,
Know that I'd go clean off my dome,
And madly embrace any orchestra leader
For "Home, Sweet Home."
poem by Franklin P. Adams
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The ABC
'Twas midnight in the schoolroom
And every desk was shut
When suddenly from the alphabet
Was heard a loud "Tut-Tut!"
Said A to B, "I don't like C;
His manners are a lack.
For all I ever see of C
Is a semi-circular back!"
"I disagree," said D to B,
"I've never found C so.
From where I stand he seems to be
An uncompleted O."
C was vexed, "I'm much perplexed,
You criticise my shape.
I'm made like that, to help spell Cat
And Cow and Cool and Cape."
"He's right" said E; said F, "Whoopee!"
Said G, "'Ip, 'Ip, 'ooray!"
"You're dropping me," roared H to G.
"Don't do it please I pray."
"Out of my way," LL said to K.
"I'll make poor I look ILL."
To stop this stunt J stood in front,
And presto! ILL was JILL.
"U know," said V, "that W
Is twice the age of me.
For as a Roman V is five
I'm half as young as he."
X and Y yawned sleepily,
"Look at the time!" they said.
"Let's all get off to beddy byes."
They did, then "Z-z-z."
poem by Spike Milligan
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A Country Boy At Heart
No matter what city I live in
it will never be home to me
my home is the wide-open spaces
in the heart of the countryside.
Where fields stretch to the horizon,
changing colours with the seasons
as they fall upon us for a while.
I’m a country boy at heart;
in the country is where my heart is free.
Away from the city turmoil
and the rush of vacant minds
breathing in the cool clear air
with no worries about time.
No bleating of irate horns
only the twittering of birds
winging they way through
the freeways of the sky.
Yes, I’m a country boy at heart
that is the place I want to be.
In the country where my heart is free.
5 March 2011
poem by David Harris
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