To Mr. Murray (Strahan, Tonson Lintot Of The Times)
Strahan, Tonson Lintot of the times,
Patron and publisher of rhymes,
For thee the bard up Pindus climbs,
My Murray.
To thee, with hope and terror dumb,
The unedged MS. authors come;
Thou printest all - and sellest some--
My Murray.
Upon thy table's baize so green
The last new Quarterly is seen,--
But where is thy new Magazine,
My Murray?
Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine
The works thou deemest most divine-
The 'Art of Cookery,' and mine,
My Murray.
Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist,
And Sermons, to thy mill bring grist;
And then thou hast the 'Navy List,'
My Murray.
And Heaven forbid I should conclude
Without 'the Board of Longitude,'
Although this narrow paper would,
My Murray.
Venice, March 25, 1818.
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Impromptus
Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times,
Patron and publisher of rhymes,
For thee the bard up Pindus climbs,
My Murray.
To thee, with hope and terror dumb,
The unfledged MS. authors come;
Thou printest all-and sellest some-
My Murray.
Upon thy table's baize so green
The last new Quarterly is seen,-
But where is thy new Magazine,
My Murray?
Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine
The works thou deemest most divine-
The "Art of Cookery,"and mine,
My Murray.
Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist,
And Sermons, to thy mill bring grist;
And then thou hast the "Navy List,"
My Murray.
And Heaven forbid I should conclude
Without "the Board of Longitude,"
Although this narrow paper would,
My Murray.
When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home,
Let him combat for that of his neighbours;
Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome,
And get knock'd on the head for his labours.
To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan,
And is always as nobly requited;
Then battle for freedom wherever you can,
And, if not shot or hang'd, you'll get knighted.
The Bonny Earl of Murray
Ye highlands, and ye lawlands,
Oh! whair hae ye been?
They hae slaine the earl of Murray,
And hae layd him on the green.
Now wae be to thee, Huntley!
And whairfore did you sae!
I bade you bring him wi' you,
But forbade you him to slay.
He was a braw gallant,
And he rid at the ring;
And the bonny earl of Murray,
Oh! he might hae been a king.
He was a braw gallant,
And he playd at the ba';
And the bonny earl of Murray
Was the flower among them a'.
He was a braw gallant,
And he playd at the gluve;
And the bonny earl of Murray,
Oh! he was the queenes luve.
Oh! lang will his lady
Luke owre the castle downe,
Ere she see the earl of Murray
Cum sounding throw the towne.
poem by Thomas Percy
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To Mr. Murray (For Oxford And For Waldegrave)
For Oxford and for Waldegrave
You give much more than me you gave;
Which is not fairly to behave,
My Murray.
Because if a live dog, 'tis said,
Be worth a lion fairly sped,
A live lord must be worth two dead,
My Murray.
And if, as the opinion goes,
Verse hath a better sale than prose--
Certes, I should have more than those,
My Murray.
But now this sheet is nearly cramm'd,
So, if you will, I shan't be shamm'd,
And if you won't, you may be damn'd,
My Murray.
The Bonny Earl of Murray
YE Highlands and ye Lawlands,
O where hae ye been?
They hae slain the Earl of Murray,
And hae laid him on the green.
Now wae be to thee, Huntley!
And whairfore did ye sae!
I bade you bring him wi' you,
But forbade you him to slay.
He was a braw gallant,
And he rid at the ring;
Ana the bonny Earl of Murray,
O he might hae been a king!
He was a braw gallant,
And he play'd at the ba';
And the bonny Earl of Murray
Was the flower amang them a'!
He was a braw gallant,
And he play'd at the gluve;
And the bonny Earl of Murray,
O he was the Queen's luve!
O lang will his Lady
Look owre the Castle Downe,
Ere she see the Earl of Murray
Come sounding through the town!
The Bonnie Earl Moray
A.
Ye Highlands, and ye Lawlands
Oh where have you been?
They have slain the Earl of Murray,
And they layd him on the green.
'Now wae be to thee, Huntly!
And wherefore did you sae?
I bade you bring him wi you,
But forbade you him to slay.'
He was a braw gallant,
And he rid at the ring;
And the bonny Earl of Murray,
Oh he might have been a King!
He was a braw gallant,
And he playd at the ba;
And the bonny Earl of Murray,
Was the flower amang them a'.
He was a braw gallant,
And he playd at the glove;
And the bonny Earl of Murray,
Oh he was the Queen's love!
Oh lang will his lady
Look oer the castle Down,
Eer she see the Earl of Murray
Come sounding thro the town!
Eer she, etc.
B.
'Open the gates
and let him come in;
He is my brother Huntly,
he'll do him nae harm.'
The gates they were opent,
they let him come in,
But fause traitor Huntly,
he did him great harm.
He's ben and ben,
and ben to his bed,
And with a sharp rapier
he stabbed him dead.
The lady came down the stair,
wringing her hands:
'He has slain the Earl o Murray,
the flower o Scotland.'
But Huntly lap on his horse,
rade to the King:
'Ye're welcome hame, Huntly,
and whare hae ye been?
'Where hae ye been?
and how hae ye sped?'
'I've killed the Earl o Murray
dead in his bed.'
'Foul fa you, Huntly!
and why did ye so?
You might have taen the Earl o Murray,
and saved his life too.'
'Her bread it's to bake,
her yill is to brew;
My sister's a widow,
and sair do I rue.
'Her corn grows ripe,
her meadows grow green,
But in bonnie Dinnibristle
I darena be seen.'
poem by Andrew Lang
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Requiem
For thee the birds shall never sing again,
Nor fresh green leaves come out upon the tree,
The brook shall no more murmur the refrain
For thee.
Thou liest underneath the windswept lea,
Thou dreamest not of pleasure or of pain,
Thou dreadest no to-morrow that shall be.
Deep rest is thine, unbroken by the rain,
Ay, or the thunder. Brother, canst thou see
The tears that night and morning fall in vain
For thee?
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Magni Nominnus Umbra
St. Andrews! not for ever thine shall be
Merely the shadow of a mighty name,
The remnant only of an ancient fame
Which time has crumbled, as thy rocks the sea.
For thou, to whom was given the earliest key
Of knowledge in this land (and all men came
To learn of thee), shalt once more rise and claim
The glory that of right belongs to thee.
Grey in thine age, there yet in thee abides
The force of youth, to make thyself anew
A name of honour and a place of power.
Arise, then! shake the dust from off thy sides;
Thou shalt have many where thou now hast few;
Again thou shalt be great. Quick come the hour!
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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The Tempted Soul
Weak soul, by sense still led astray,
Why wilt thou parley with the foe?
He seeks to work thine overthrow,
And thou, poor fool! dost point the way.
Hast thou forgotten many a day,
When thou exulting forth didst go,
And ere the noon wert lying low,
A broken and defenceless prey?
If thou wouldst live, avoid his face;
Dwell in the wilderness apart,
And gather force for vanquishing,
Ere thou returnest to his place.
Then arm, and with undaunted heart
Give battle, till he own thee king.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Chevy Chase and Bill Murray - we thought those guys were funny. We love Bill Murray, but we didn't think they were right for Airplane! because it would step on the joke if there was a known comedian.
quote by David Zucker
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Yes, yes, no one denies, for example, that you're going to be able to fix the Murray through the Living Murray process without money, no one denies that.
quote by John Anderson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Summer Morning
Never was sun so bright before,
No matin of the lark so sweet,
No grass so green beneath my feet,
Nor with such dewdrops jewelled o'er.
I stand with thee outside the door,
The air not yet is close with heat,
And far across the yellowing wheat
The waves are breaking on the shore.
A lovely day! Yet many such,
Each like to each, this month have passed,
And none did so supremely shine.
One thing they lacked: the perfect touch
Of thee--and thou art come at last,
And half this loveliness is thine.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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I Cannot Save You from Yourself
I cannot save you from yourself,
from your father who died,
from your mother
who likes to quarrel with you
from every man that has broken your heart
but I can be there for you
when you need me,
try and bring tranquillity
after we visited your mother
listen and try to understand
about the things that worry you
and hugging and kissing
I do fairly well
and she looked at me
quite carefully
as if I had spoken pure truths.
(In answer to Sally-Ann Murray/Reference: Analysis by Sally-Ann Murray.)
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Grand Budapest Hotel
Saoirse Ronan, Edward Norton, Ralph Fiennes, Owen Wilson, Jude Law, Bill Murray, Willem Dafoe, Lea Seydoux, Tilda Swinton, Adrien Brody, Jeff Goldblum, Jason Schwartzman, Harvey Keitel, F. Murray Abraham, Tom Wilkinson, Bob Balaban, Mathieu Amalric
from The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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And What Is Your Wife Doing?
well, she is in the music room
singing the Anne Murray songs
as i make my poems for the day
writing about Anne Murray
and why do you ask? oh i know
it is true we are not talking, precisely
because she is singing and i am into
this poetry writing and yes, i ask you
why do you keep on reading?
every poem that i write, oh my, why?
alright, friends forever there shall be
no denying, and too truth telling, see?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In The Wide Brown Country
To the wide brown country the Seasons come and go
South in South Australia where the Murray flow
Through the wide brown country where the brown dust fly
When the gales are rushing down the southern sky.
In the wide brown country woods not there to see
Where the mighty Murray crawls on towards the sea
Through the bone dry paddocks that are never green
Mother Nature in this landscape in her brown only seen.
Where the black tribes fished and hunted centuries ago
Little of their culture others seem to know
Through the wide brown country they travelled far and wide
And theirs was a great culture but their culture with them died.
In the wide brown country wildering flowers are rare
And the sun parched paddocks always looking bare
And where only the hardiest can hope to survive
Emu, wombat and wallaby and grey roo seem to thrive.
In the wide brown country where the Murray flow
Onwards towards the ocean onwards ever slow
And the grass is growing brown even where the rains have been
In that brown old country that man has failed to green.
poem by Francis Duggan
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He said that everyone will have a house
(after Ena Murray)
He said that everyone will have a house
who believe in Him and in His words
and keenly I want to live in a place,
even if I stumble in my inability.
A place where it's always summer,
where a garden stretches out for hectares,
where all of my animals, now missing to death,
will move in with me,
where one day I would pick
rose on rose or any other flower
and even if at times you blush,
I would embrace you nurturing
and still I wonder
if I would also admire you there?
[Reference: "Roosknop vir ‘n engel" ("Rosebud for an angel") by Ena Murray.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Thou Art Queen
Thou art queen to every eye,
When the fairest maids convene.
Envy's self can not deny
Thou art queen.
In thy step thy right is seen,
In thy beauty pure and high,
In thy grace of air and mien.
Thine unworthy vassal I,
Lay my hands thy hands between;
Kneeling at thy feet I cry
Thou art queen!
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Aien Aristeuein (Motto of St. Andrews University)
Ever to be the best. To lead
In whatsoever things are true;
Not stand among the halting crew
The faint of heart, the feeble-kneed,
Who tarry for a certain sign
To make them follow with the rest --
Oh, let not their reproach be thine!
But ever be the best.
For want of this aspiring soul,
Great deeds on earth remain undone,
But, sharpened by the sight of one,
Many shall press toward the goal,
Thou running foremost of the throng,
The fire of striving in thy breast,
Shalt win, although the race be long,
And ever be the best.
And wilt thou question of the prize?
'Tis not of silver or of gold,
Nor in applauses manifold,
But hidden in the heart it lies.
To know that but for thee not one
Had run the race or sought the quest,
To know that thou hast ever done
And ever been the best.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Murray's Ride
I seldom get to hatin' men, nor had much cause to hate;
To me, it just a foolish game to play, at any rate.
But it kills the hard thought in you, an' forgiveness is complete,
To see the man you hated once a maimed thing at your feet.
We'd had a meetin' at the mill; the boss had said his say
The good old boss, who stints himself to find the men their pay
He told us, fair an' honest, he was up against the game
Unless he got the timber out before the Winter came.
I'll say this much for decent men - an' decent men they were
They saw the game that Murray played to give the boss a scare.
We saw he'd pay near anything and Ben would do him brown;
But a fair thing is a fair thing; so we truned Ben Murray down.
A truck was waitin' in the yard, full-loaded for the trip.
Just an easin' of the brake-rope was enough to let her rip
For half a mile or more down-hill along atrack, rough-made,
To where the horses wait to haul her up the other grade.
The talk was done, the numbers up, the boss had won the day,
An' we were ready to go back an' earn our bit of pay;
When Murray in a mad black rage, goes on to rave an' shout.
'You're sacked,' the old man tells him plain. 'I've had enough. Get Out!'
For close on half a minute I expected Hell to pay;
But Murray glares around the mill - then turns an' walks away.
He stops beside the loaded truck; an' each man in the mill
Watched Murray with a sidelong look; an' each man wished him ill.
I knew Ben Murray for a gab; I knew him for a fool
A decent man enough at heart when he was calm an' cool
Wild rage had hold on him that day, an', maybe, madness too;
An' scorn in me changed to dismay at what I saw him do.
He sprang behind the timber load an' leaped up to the back;
He loosed the rope to start the truck upon the down-hill track;
An' if he meant to jump or stay no man will ever know.
'If I go out,' Ben Murray yelled, 'this is the way I go!'
'Stop that mad fool!' howled old man Blair. 'He'll wreck the track below!'
But now the truck had gathered way, an', as we watched her go,
Ben Murray, with the brake-rope slack, cursed us with all his might.
She took the curve behind the huts, an' then went out of sight.
. . . . . . . . . .
We found him near the wattle-clump, down in the little creek.
His head was by a coral fern, an' blood was on his cheek,
An' blood was on the wooden rails, an' he lay very still,
The man who half an hour ago had meant to boss the mill!
'He's livin' yet' says old man Blair. 'Boys, we must do our best.
Lay hold there, Jim, an' you, young Dick, an' heave that off his chest.
Man, but he's crushed! The crazy fool! Now treat him gently, lad.'
'The track ain't damaged much,' says Pike; 'but, gosh, he's got it bad!'
. . . . . . . . . .
Red stains were on the wooden track an' on the sunlight ground;
A wagtail twittered by the creek, an' hopped an' fussed around;
The Laughin' Jacks were wild with mirth; but very still he lay,
As we took poor Ben Murray up an' carried him away.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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In Time of Doubt
`In the shadow of Thy wings, O Lord of Hosts, whom I extol,
I will put my trust for ever,' so the kingly David sings.
`Thou shalt help me, Thou shalt save me, only
Thou shalt keep me whole,
In the shadow of Thy wings.'
In our ears this voice triumphant, like a blowing trumpet, rings,
But our hearts have heard another, as of funeral bells that toll,
`God of David where to find Thee?' No reply the question brings.
Shadows are there overhead, but they are of the clouds that roll,
Blotting out the sun from sight, and overwhelming earthly things.
Oh, that we might feel Thy presence! Surely we could rest our soul
In the shadow of Thy wings.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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