The Old Chartist
I
Whate'er I be, old England is my dam!
So there's my answer to the judges, clear.
I'm nothing of a fox, nor of a lamb;
I don't know how to bleat nor how to leer:
I'm for the nation!
That's why you see me by the wayside here,
Returning home from transportation.
II
It's Summer in her bath this morn, I think.
I'm fresh as dew, and chirpy as the birds:
And just for joy to see old England wink
Thro' leaves again, I could harangue the herds:
Isn't it something
To speak out like a man when you've got words,
And prove you're not a stupid dumb thing?
III
They shipp'd me of for it; I'm here again.
Old England is my dam, whate'er I be!
Says I, I'll tramp it home, and see the grain:
If you see well, you're king of what you see:
Eyesight is having,
If you're not given, I said, to gluttony.
Such talk to ignorance sounds as raving.
IV
You dear old brook, that from his Grace's park
Come bounding! on you run near my old town:
My lord can't lock the water; nor the lark,
Unless he kills him, can my lord keep down.
Up, is the song-note!
I've tried it, too:- for comfort and renown,
I rather pitch'd upon the wrong note.
V
I'm not ashamed: Not beaten's still my boast:
Again I'll rouse the people up to strike.
But home's where different politics jar most.
Respectability the women like.
This form, or that form, -
The Government may be hungry pike,
But don't you mount a Chartist platform!
VI
Well, well! Not beaten-spite of them, I shout;
And my estate is suffering for the Cause. -
No,-what is yon brown water-rat about,
Who washes his old poll with busy paws?
What does he mean by't?
It's like defying all our natural laws,
For him to hope that he'll get clean by't.
VII
His seat is on a mud-bank, and his trade
Is dirt:- he's quite contemptible; and yet
The fellow's all as anxious as a maid
To show a decent dress, and dry the wet.
Now it's his whisker,
And now his nose, and ear: he seems to get
Each moment at the motion brisker!
VIII
To see him squat like little chaps at school,
I could let fly a laugh with all my might.
He peers, hangs both his fore-paws:- bless that fool,
He's bobbing at his frill now!-what a sight!
Licking the dish up,
As if he thought to pass from black to white,
Like parson into lawny bishop.
IX
The elms and yellow reed-flags in the sun,
Look on quite grave:- the sunlight flecks his side;
And links of bindweed-flowers round him run,
And shine up doubled with him in the tide.
I'M nearly splitting,
But nature seems like seconding his pride,
And thinks that his behaviour's fitting.
X
That isle o' mud looks baking dry with gold.
His needle-muzzle still works out and in.
It really is a wonder to behold,
And makes me feel the bristles of my chin.
Judged by appearance,
I fancy of the two I'm nearer Sin,
And might as well commence a clearance.
XI
And that's what my fine daughter said:- she meant:
Pray, hold your tongue, and wear a Sunday face.
Her husband, the young linendraper, spent
Much argument thereon:- I'm their disgrace.
Bother the couple!
I feel superior to a chap whose place
Commands him to be neat and supple.
XII
But if I go and say to my old hen:
I'll mend the gentry's boots, and keep discreet,
Until they grow TOO violent,-why, then,
A warmer welcome I might chance to meet:
Warmer and better.
And if she fancies her old cock is beat,
And drops upon her knees-so let her!
XIII
She suffered for me:- women, you'll observe,
Don't suffer for a Cause, but for a man.
When I was in the dock she show'd her nerve:
I saw beneath her shawl my old tea-can
Trembling . . . she brought it
To screw me for my work: she loath'd my plan,
And therefore doubly kind I thought it.
XIV
I've never lost the taste of that same tea:
That liquor on my logic floats like oil,
When I state facts, and fellows disagree.
For human creatures all are in a coil;
All may want pardon.
I see a day when every pot will boil
Harmonious in one great Tea-garden!
XV
We wait the setting of the Dandy's day,
Before that time!-He's furbishing his dress, -
He WILL be ready for it!-and I say,
That yon old dandy rat amid the cress, -
Thanks to hard labour! -
If cleanliness is next to godliness,
The old fat fellow's heaven's neighbour!
XVI
You teach me a fine lesson, my old boy!
I've looked on my superiors far too long,
And small has been my profit as my joy.
You've done the right while I've denounced the wrong.
Prosper me later!
Like you I will despise the sniggering throng,
And please myself and my Creator.
XVII
I'll bring the linendraper and his wife
Some day to see you; taking off my hat.
Should they ask why, I'll answer: in my life
I never found so true a democrat.
Base occupation
Can't rob you of your own esteem, old rat!
I'll preach you to the British nation.
poem by George Meredith
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Related quotes
A Pilgrim's Way
I do not look for holy saints to guide me on my way,
Or male and female devilkins to lead my feet astray.
If these are added, I rejoice---if not, I shall not mind,
So long as I have leave and choice to meet my fellow-kind.
For as we come and as we go (and deadly-soon go we!)
The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!
Thus I will honour pious men whose virtue shines so bright
(Though none are more amazed than I when I by chance do right),
And I will pity foolish men for woe their sins have bred
(Though ninety-nine per cent. of mine I brought on my own head).
And, Amorite or Eremite, or General Averagee,
The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!
And when they bore me overmuch, I will not shake mine ears,
Recalling many thousand such whom I have bored to tears.
And when they labour to impress, I will not doubt nor scoff;
Since I myself have done no less and---sometimes pulled it off.
Yea, as we are and we are not, and we pretend to be,
The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!
And when they work me random wrong, as oftentimes hath been,
I will not cherish hate too long (my hands are none too clean).
And when they do me random good I will not feign surprise.
No more than those whom I have cheered with wayside charities.
But, as we give and as we take---whate'er our takings be---
The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!
But when I meet with frantic folk who sinfully declare
There is no pardon for their sin, the same I will not spare
Till I have proved that Heaven and Hell which in our hearts we have
Show nothing irredeemable on either side of the grave.
For as we live and as we die---if utter Death there be---
The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!
Deliver me from every pride---the Middle, High, and Low---
That bars me from a brother's side, whatever pride he show.
And purge me from all heresies of thought and speech and pen
That bid me judge him otherwise than I am judged. Amen!
That I may sing of Crowd or King or road-borne company,
That I may labour in my day, vocation and degree,
To prove the same in deed and name, and hold unshakenly
(Where'er I go, whate'er I know, whoe'er my neighbor be)
This single faith in Life and Death and to Eternity:
``The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!''
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The Fellow Who Doesn't Fit In
He doesn't play sports drink alcohol or take dope and you might say he doesn't fit in
And he doesn't lust after young women and he's not seen as a man amongst men
He works hard to provide for his family and he leads a good and a clean life
And he is a nice man to talk to and he is faithful to his wife.
He's not a religious type person and he doesn't attend church on sunday
And he too in some ways a sinner the religious zealots might say
And some see him as a social outsider but to live clean should not be a sin
And he deserve respect not scorn the fellow who doesn't fit in.
He doesn't watch football on the t.v. or support any football team
And he's not part of any social club nor does he crave social esteem
Yet he has his many detractors in life it is so hard to win
And his type of man getting rarer the fellow who doesn't fit in.
He doesn't play cricket or football with his children as many a young father do
On sundays with his wife and his young son and daughter he's at the cinema, art gallery or zoo
And he is a man who loves Nature and is loving Nature a sin?
For he is looked on with suspicion the fellow who doesn't fit in.
Politics, women, money and work matters of such topics he tend to stay clear
And he's just your average type of person his children and his wife to him dear
Yet he is looked on as quite boring and his name is mentioned with a grin
And life isn't meant to be easy for the fellow who 'doesn't fit in'
poem by Francis Duggan
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Who’ll Wear the Beaten Colours?
Who’ll wear the beaten colours—and cheer the beaten men?
Who’ll wear the beaten colours, till our time comes again?
Where sullen crowds are densest, and fickle as the sea,
Who’ll wear the beaten colours, and wear them home with me?
We closed the bars and gambling dens and voted straight and clean,
Our women walked while motor cars were whirling round the scene,
The Potts Point Vote was one for Greed and Ease and Luxury
With all to hold, and coward gold, and beaten folk are we.
Who’ll wear the beaten colours, with hands and pockets clean?
(I wore the beaten colours since I was seventeen)
I wore them up, and wore them down, Outback and across the sea—
Who’ll wear the beaten colours, and wear them home with me?
We wore them back from Ladysmith to where the peace was signed,
And wore them through the London streets where Jingoes howled behind.
We wore them to the Queen’s Hall, while England yelled “Pro-Boers!”
And sat them over victory while London banged the doors.1
We wore them from Port Arthur round till all sunk in the sea—
(Who’ll wear the white man’s colours, and wear them home with me?)
I’ve worn them through with gentlemen, with work-slaves and alone—
Who’ll wear the beaten colours, boys, and wear them on his own?
There’s one would look with startled eyes and shrink while I caressed,
Came I not with the colours of the conquered on my breast.
And twenty thousand Bushmen would stand with hands behind
And scorn in all their faces for the coward of his kind.
Who’ll wear the beaten colours and raise the voice they drowned—
It may be when we march again, they’ll bear some other sound—
Who’ll pin the beaten colours on and drive the beaten pen—
It may be other steel and ink when we march out again.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Pro Rege Nostro
WHAT have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown, England --
Round the world on your bugles blown!
Where shall the watchful Sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England, my own?
When shall he rejoice again
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown, England --
Down the years on your bugles blown?
Ever the faith endures,
England, my England: --
'Take and break us: we are yours,
England, my own!
Life is good, and joy runs high
Between English earth and sky:
Death is death; but we shall die
To the Song on your bugles blown, England --
To the stars on your bugles blown!'
They call you proud and hard,
England, my England:
You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!
You whose mailed hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies,
You could know nor dread nor ease,
Were the Song on your bugles blown, England --
Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of Ships whose might,
England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,
Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,
There's the menace of the Word
In the Song of your bugles blown, England --
Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
poem by William Ernest Henley
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A Hard Candy Christmas
Hey, maybe i'll dye my hair
Maybe i'll move somewhere
Maybe i'll get a car
Maybe i'll drive so far
They'll all lose track
Me, i'll bounce right back
Maybe i'll sleep real late
Maybe i'll lose some weight
Maybe i'll clear my junk
Maybe i'll just get drunk on apple wine
Me, i'll be just
Fine and dandy
Lord it's like a hard candy christmas
I'm barely getting through tomorrow
But still i won't let
Sorrow bring me way down
I'll be fine and dandy
Lord it's like a hard candy christmas
I'm barely getting through tomorrow
But still i won't let
Sorrow get me way down
Hey, maybe i'll learn to sew
Maybe i'll just lie low
Maybe i'll hit the bars
Maybe i'll count the stars until dawn
Me, i will go on
Maybe i'll settle down
Maybe i'll just leave town
Maybe i'll have some fun
Maybe i'll meet someone
And make him mine
Me, i'll be just
Fine and dandy
Lord it's like a hard candy christmas
I'm barely getting throung tomorrow
But still i won't let
Sorrow bring me way down
I'll be fine and dandy
Lord it's like a hard candy christmas
I'm barely getting through tomorrow
But still i won't let
Sorrow bring me way down
I'll be fine and dandy
Lord it's like a hard candy christmas
I'm barely getting through tomorrow
But still i won't let
Sorrow bring me way down
'cause i'll be fine
(i'll be fine)
Oh, i'll be fine
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What Have I Done For You
What have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Round the world on your bugles blown!
Where shall the watchful Sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England, my own?
When shall he rejoice agen
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Down the years on your bugles blown?
Ever the faith endures,
England, my England:-
'Take and break us: we are yours,
'England, my own!
'Life is good, and joy runs high
'Between English earth and sky:
'Death is death; but we shall die
'To the Song on your bugles blown,
'England -
'To the stars on your bugles blown!
They call you proud and hard,
England, my England:
You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!
You whose mailed hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies
You could know nor dread nor ease
Were the Song on your bugles blown,
England,
Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of Ships whose might,
England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,
Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient sword,
There's the menace of the Word
In the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
poem by William Ernest Henley
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A Pretty Woman
I
That fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers,
And the blue eye
Dear and dewy,
And that infantine fresh air of hers!
II
To think men cannot take you, Sweet,
And enfold you,
Ay, and hold you,
And so keep you what they make you, Sweet!
III
You like us for a glance, you know—
For a word's sake
Or a sword's sake,
All's the same, whate'er the chance, you know.
IV
And in turn we make you ours, we say—
You and youth too,
Eyes and mouth too,
All the face composed of flowers, we say.
V
All's our own, to make the most of, Sweet—
Sing and say for,
Watch and pray for,
Keep a secret or go boast of, Sweet!
VI
But for loving, why, you would not, Sweet,
Though we prayed you,
Paid you, brayed you
in a mortar—for you could not, Sweet!
VII
So, we leave the sweet face fondly there:
Be its beauty
Its sole duty!
Let all hope of grace beyond, lie there!
VIII
And while the face lies quiet there,
Who shall wonder
That I ponder
A conclusion? I will try it there.
IX
As,—why must one, for the love foregone,
Scout mere liking?
Thunder-striking
Earth,—the heaven, we looked above for, gone!
X
Why, with beauty, needs there money be,
Love with liking?
Crush the fly-king
In his gauze, because no honey-bee?
XI
May not liking be so simple-sweet,
If love grew there
'Twould undo there
All that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet?
XII
Is the creature too imperfect,
Would you mend it
And so end it?
Since not all addition perfects aye!
XIII
Or is it of its kind, perhaps,
Just perfection—
Whence, rejection
Of a grace not to its mind, perhaps?
XIV
Shall we burn up, tread that face at once
Into tinder,
And so hinder
Sparks from kindling all the place at once?
XV
Or else kiss away one's soul on her?
Your love-fancies!
—A sick man sees
Truer, when his hot eyes roll on her!
XVI
Thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose,—
Plucks a mould-flower
For his gold flower,
Uses fine things that efface the rose:
XVII
Rosy rubies make its cup more rose,
Precious metals
Ape the petals,—
Last, some old king locks it up, morose!
XVIII
Then how grace a rose? I know a way!
Leave it, rather.
Must you gather?
Smell, kiss, wear it—at last, throw away!
poem by Robert Browning from Men and Women (1855)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A War Hero's Lament
Don't fight for England anymore,
Don't fight for the chaps at the corner store,
Just go back home and close the door
'Cos England isn't England anymore.
Don't boast you're British, they'll deplore
Your ancestry and what is more
They'll kick you out, show you the door
'Cos England isn't England anymore.
They'll tell you you are just like them,
They'll laugh at you and then condemn
Your Anglo-Saxon attitude
And tell you it is very crude.
Don't blame them, they don't understand
Devotion to a fatherland:
They're here to make the very most
Of everything that you have lost.
(The cunning reader may detect
I'm not 'politically correct',
Well that is true - that's why I choose
To sing these PATRIOTIC blues! !)
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Hard Candy Christmas
Hey, maybe Ill dye my hair
Maybe Ill move somewhere
Maybe Ill get a car
Maybe Ill drive so far
Theyll all lose track
Me, Ill bounce right back
Maybe Ill sleep real late
Maybe Ill lose some weight
Maybe Ill clear my junk
Maybe Ill just get drunk on apple wine
Me, Ill be just
Fine and dandy
Lord its like a hard candy christmas
Im barely getting through tomorrow
But still I wont let
Sorrow bring me way down
Ill be fine and dandy
Lord its like a hard candy christmas
Im barely getting through tomorrow
But still I wont let
Sorrow get me way down
Hey, maybe Ill learn to sew
Maybe Ill just lie low
Maybe Ill hit the bars
Maybe Ill count the stars until dawn
Me, I will go on
Maybe Ill settle down
Maybe Ill just leave town
Maybe Ill have some fun
Maybe Ill meet someone
And make him mine
Me, Ill be just
Fine and dandy
Lord its like a hard candy christmas
Im barely getting throung tomorrow
But still I wont let
Sorrow bring me way down
Ill be fine and dandy
Lord its like a hard candy christmas
Im barely getting through tomorrow
But still I wont let
Sorrow bring me way down
Ill be fine and dandy
Lord its like a hard candy christmas
Im barely getting through tomorrow
But still I wont let
Sorrow bring me way down
cause Ill be fine
(Ill be fine)
Oh, Ill be fine
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Early Works - Lucky
Black with flecks of white under his chin
across my manuscripts with muddy paws
treads my furry pet
butts my pen with his head
then with amber eyes
looks at me dolefully
as if to say “Did I do something wrong? ”
Again, with head gives my pen another shove
rolls on his back to have his tummy rubbed.
Drippy tap, ears alert
flick with paw makes muddy dirt
will sit in sink all day long
when tap washers gone.
Curls up near fire on cold night
beams a smile, I’m all right.
Darkness does not like
rather chase butterflies in sunlight
never far does he roam
loves his family and his home.
29 June 1978
Author’s Note:
Lucky was our first cat which we had for eleven years. He was all black when we first got him hence his name, and as he grew older little flecks of white grew under his chin.
poem by David Harris
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The Beggar's Soliloquy
I
Now, this, to my notion, is pleasant cheer,
To lie all alone on a ragged heath,
Where your nose isn't sniffing for bones or beer,
But a peat-fire smells like a garden beneath.
The cottagers bustle about the door,
And the girl at the window ties her strings.
She's a dish for a man who's a mind to be poor;
Lord! women are such expensive things.
II
We don't marry beggars, says she: why, no:
It seems that to make 'em is what you do;
And as I can cook, and scour, and sew,
I needn't pay half my victuals for you.
A man for himself should be able to scratch,
But tickling's a luxury:- love, indeed!
Love burns as long as the lucifer match,
Wedlock's the candle! Now, that's my creed.
III
The church-bells sound water-like over the wheat;
And up the long path troop pair after pair.
The man's well-brushed, and the woman looks neat:
It's man and woman everywhere!
Unless, like me, you lie here flat,
With a donkey for friend, you must have a wife:
She pulls out your hair, but she brushes your hat.
Appearances make the best half of life.
IV
You nice little madam! you know you're nice.
I remember hearing a parson say
You're a plateful of vanity pepper'd with vice;
You chap at the gate thinks t' other way.
On his waistcoat you read both his head and his heart:
There's a whole week's wages there figured in gold!
Yes! when you turn round you may well give a start:
It's fun to a fellow who's getting old.
V
Now, that's a good craft, weaving waistcoats and flowers,
And selling of ribbons, and scenting of lard:
It gives you a house to get in from the showers,
And food when your appetite jockeys you hard.
You live a respectable man; but I ask
If it's worth the trouble? You use your tools,
And spend your time, and what's your task?
Why, to make a slide for a couple of fools.
VI
You can't match the colour o' these heath mounds,
Nor better that peat-fire's agreeable smell.
I'm clothed-like with natural sights and sounds;
To myself I'm in tune: I hope you're as well.
You jolly old cot! though you don't own coal:
It's a generous pot that's boiled with peat.
Let the Lord Mayor o' London roast oxen whole:
His smoke, at least, don't smell so sweet.
VII
I'm not a low Radical, hating the laws,
Who'd the aristocracy rebuke.
I talk o' the Lord Mayor o' London because
I once was on intimate terms with his cook.
I served him a turn, and got pensioned on scraps,
And, Lord, Sir! didn't I envy his place,
Till Death knock'd him down with the softest of taps,
And I knew what was meant by a tallowy face!
VIII
On the contrary, I'm Conservative quite;
There's beggars in Scripture 'mongst Gentiles and Jews:
It's nonsense, trying to set things right,
For if people will give, why, who'll refuse?
That stopping old custom wakes my spleen:
The poor and the rich both in giving agree:
Your tight-fisted shopman's the Radical mean:
There's nothing in common 'twixt him and me.
IX
He says I'm no use! but I won't reply.
You're lucky not being of use to him!
On week-days he's playing at Spider and Fly,
And on Sundays he sings about Cherubim!
Nailing shillings to counters is his chief work:
He nods now and then at the name on his door:
But judge of us two, at a bow and a smirk,
I think I'm his match: and I'm honest-that's more.
X
No use! well, I mayn't be. You ring a pig's snout,
And then call the animal glutton! Now, he,
Mr. Shopman, he's nought but a pipe and a spout
Who won't let the goods o' this world pass free.
This blazing blue weather all round the brown crop,
He can't enjoy! all but cash he hates.
He's only a snail that crawls under his shop;
Though he has got the ear o' the magistrates.
XI
Now, giving and taking's a proper exchange,
Like question and answer: you're both content.
But buying and selling seems always strange;
You're hostile, and that's the thing that's meant.
It's man against man-you're almost brutes;
There's here no thanks, and there's there no pride.
If Charity's Christian, don't blame my pursuits,
I carry a touchstone by which you're tried.
XII
- 'Take it,' says she, 'it's all I've got':
I remember a girl in London streets:
She stood by a coffee-stall, nice and hot,
My belly was like a lamb that bleats.
Says I to myself, as her shilling I seized,
You haven't a character here, my dear!
But for making a rascal like me so pleased,
I'll give you one, in a better sphere!
XIII
And that's where it is-she made me feel
I was a rascal: but people who scorn,
And tell a poor patch-breech he isn't genteel,
Why, they make him kick up-and he treads on a corn.
It isn't liking, it's curst ill-luck,
Drives half of us into the begging-trade:
If for taking to water you praise a duck,
For taking to beer why a man upbraid?
XIV
The sermon's over: they're out of the porch,
And it's time for me to move a leg;
But in general people who come from church,
And have called themselves sinners, hate chaps to beg.
I'll wager they'll all of 'em dine to-day!
I was easy half a minute ago.
If that isn't pig that's baking away,
May I perish!-we're never contented-heigho!
poem by George Meredith
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As a World Would Have It
ALCESTIS
Shall I never make him look at me again?
I look at him, I look my life at him,
I tell him all I know the way to tell,
But there he stays the same.
Shall I never make him speak one word to me?
Shall I never make him say enough to show
My heart if he be glad? Be glad? … ah! God,
Why did they bring me back?
I wonder, if I go to him again,
If I take him by those two cold hands again,
Shall I get one look of him at last, or feel
One sign—or anything?
Or will he still sit there in the same way,
Without an answer for me from his lips,
Or from his eyes,—or even with a touch
Of his hand on my hand?…
“Will you look down this once—look down at me?
Speak once—and if you never speak again,
Tell me enough—tell me enough to make
Me know that you are glad!
“You are my King, and once my King would speak:
You were Admetus once, you loved me once:
Life was a dream of heaven for us once—
And has the dream gone by?
“Do I cling to shadows when I call you Life?
Do you love me still, or are the shadows all?
Or is it I that love you in the grave,
And you that mourn for me?
“If it be that, then do not mourn for me;
Be glad that I have loved you, and be King.
But if it be not that—if it be true …
Tell me if it be true!”
Then with a choking answer the King spoke;
But never touched his hand on hers, or fixed
His eyes on hers, or on the face of her:
“Yes, it is true,” he said.
“You are alive, and you are with me now;
And you are reaching up to me that I—
That I may take you—I that am a King—
I that was once a man."
So then she knew. She might have known before;
Truly, she thought, she must have known it long
Before: she must have known it when she came
From that great sleep of hers.
She knew the truth, but not yet all of it:
He loved her, but he would not let his eyes
Prove that he loved her; and he would not hold
His wife there in his arms.
So, like a slave, she waited at his knees,
And waited. She was not unhappy now.
She quivered, but she knew that he would speak
Again—and he did speak.
And while she felt the tremor of his words,
He told her all there was for him to tell;
And then he turned his face to meet her face,
That she might look at him.
She looked; and all her trust was in that look,
And all her faith was in it, and her love;
And when his answer to that look came back,
It flashed back through his tears.
So then she put her arms around his neck,
And kissed him on his forehead and his lips;
And there she clung, fast in his arms again,
Triumphant, with closed eyes.
At last, half whispering, she spoke once more:
“Why was it that you suffered for so long?
Why could you not believe me—trust in me?
Was I so strange as that?
“We suffer when we do not understand;
And you have suffered—you that love me now—
Because you are a man.… There is one thing
No man can understand.
“I would have given everything?—gone down
To Tartarus—to silence? Was it that?
I would have died? I would have let you live?—
And was it very strange?”
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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The Heart Of A Nation
The land of beauty,
The land of joy,
The land of plenty,
With the pearl of tourism to blow my mind!
But, the pride of a nation is all about you.
The home of peace is like,
The people's paradise;
the land of hope is like,
The home of hospitality;
The land of equity is like,
The state of harmony;
And, the food basket of the nation is with joy!
But, the pride of a nation is all about you.
Home for all is like,
The salt of a nation;
Home for solid mineral is like,
The centre of commerce;
But, the sunshine state is where to share your love with,
For, the pride of a nation is all about you.
The state of caliphate and,
The liberal state of love;
For, thenew world is always around you! !
But, the jewel in the savannah is all that i share with you.
Coal in the city of love,
And like the fountain of knowledge and power! !
But the heart beat of a nation is like,
The centre of excellence!
The state of a living spring is like the gateway to all!
But the peace setter state is what i share with you;
Because, nature's gift to a nation is like the rainbow!
Of the big heart of love and,
Of the centre of unity to all mankind!
For, the young shall grow;
And, the treasure base of life is the status of peace.
The pride to farm the land,
And of the confluence state of my mind! !
But, the power to show love is like,
The Creator's own state of mind to a nation!
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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England, My England
WHAT have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown,
England--
Round the world on your bugles blown!
Where shall the watchful sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England, my own?
When shall he rejoice agen
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England--
Down the years on your bugles blown?
Ever the faith endures,
England, my England:--
'Take and break us: we are yours,
England, my own!
Life is good, and joy runs high
Between English earth and sky:
Death is death; but we shall die
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England--
To the stars on your bugles blown!'
They call you proud and hard,
England, my England:
You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!
You whose mail'd hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies,
You could know nor dread nor ease
Were the Song on your bugles blown,
England,
Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of Ships whose might,
England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,
Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,
There 's the menace of the Word
In the Song on your bugles blown,
England--
Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
poem by William Ernest Henley
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World In Motion (Subbuteo Mix)
ENGLAND NEW ORDER - 'WORLD IN MOTION'
=====================================
Express yourself
Create the space
You know you can win
Don't give up the chase
Beat the man
Take him on
You never give up
Its one on one
Express yourself
Its one on one
Express yourself
Its one on one
Express yourself
You can't be wrong
When somethings good
Its never gone
Loves got the world in motion
And I know what we can do
Loves got the world in motion
And I can't believe its true
Now is the time
Let everyone see
You never give up
Thats how it should be
Don't get caught
Make your own play
Express yourself
Don't give it away
Express yourself
Its one on one
Express yourself
Its one on one
Express yourself
You can't be wrong
When somethings good
Its never wrong
Loves got the world in motion
And I know what we can do
Loves got the world in motion
And I can't believe its true
Loves got the world in motion
And I know what we can do
Loves got the world in motion
And I can't believe its true
You've got to hold and give
But do it at the right time
You can be slow or fast
But you must get to the line
They'll always hit you and hurt you
Defend and attack
Theres only one way to beat them
Get round the back
Catch me if you can
Cos' I'm the England man
And what you're looking at
Is the master plan
We ain't no hooligans
This ain't a football song
Three lions on my chest
I know we can't go wrong
We're playing for England {In-ger-land}
We're playing the song
We're singing for England {In-ger-land}
Arrivederci its one one one
We're playing for England {In-ger-land}
We're playing the song
We're singing for England {In-ger-land}
Arrivederci its one one one
We're playing for England {In-ger-land}
We're playing the song
We're singing for England {In-ger-land}
Arrivederci its one one one
We're playing for England {In-ger-land}
We're playing the song
We're singing for England {In-ger-land}
Arrivederci its one one one
song performed by by New Order
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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As Per Usual
It'll not be the first time he'll
Have said that and not meant
It and she knows oh how she
Knows that he will probably
Say it again and bring her the
Usual flowers and maybe a new
Dress two sizes too big for her
And have that look on his face
That look he used to give his
Mother when he was late home
Or if he'd not noticed her having
Had her hair done and she knows
He'll get down on his knees and
Pretend to beg for forgiveness
Yet at the back of his mind he's
Already imagining the girl in the
Office bent over her desk and him
Doing what he thinks he does best
And now as she waits for him to
Come home knowing he'll have
The words sitting on the end of
His tongue like obedient puppies
Ready for the false apology and
The flowers in one hand and the
Maybe new dress in the other and
Even though she will be able to
Smell the other woman's scent and
See her hairs on his jacket he'll
Have that dumb look about him
As if butter wouldn't melt as if ice
Wouldn't drown his drink and as
She waits for him she really just
Wants him not to come home at
All wants him to stay with the other
Woman soak into her sheets and
Into her skin with his two bit morality
And sin oh that he didn't come home
At all she mumbles as she hears his
Key in the lock and that stupid look
On his face as the door opens up and
The flowers and bag with dress in each
Hand and hair limp by the rain she knows
He'll say he loves her and she knows he
Will do it again the liar her lover the pain.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Tramp The Dirt Down
I saw a newspaper picture from the political campaign
A woman was kissing a child, who was obviously in pain
She spills with compassion, as that young childs
Face in her hands she grips
Can you imagine all that greed and avarice
Coming down on that childs lips
Well I hope I dont die too soon
I pray the lord my soul to save
Oh Ill be a good boy, Im trying so hard to behave
Because theres one thing I know, Id like to live
Long enough to savour
Thats when they finally put you in the ground
Ill stand on your grave and tramp the dirt down
When england was the whore of the world
Margeret was her madam
And the future looked as bright and as clear as
The black tarmacadam
Well I hope that she sleeps well at night, isnt
Haunted by every tiny detail
cos when she held that lovely face in her hands
All she thought of was betrayal
And now the cynical ones say that it all ends the same in the long run
Try telling that to the desperate father who just squeezed the life from his only son
And how its only voices in your head and dreams you never dreamt
Try telling him the subtle difference between justice and contempt
Try telling me she isnt angry with this pitiful discontent
When they flaunt it in your face as you line up for punishment
And then expect you to say thank you straighten up, look proud and pleased
Because youve only got the symptoms, you havent got the whole disease
Just like a schoolboy, whose heads like a tin-can
Filled up with dreams then poured down the drain
Try telling that to the boys on both sides, being blown to bits or beaten and maimed
Who takes all the glory and none of the shame
Well I hope you live long now, I pray the lord your soul to keep
I think Ill be going before we fold our arms and start to weep
I never thought for a moment that human life could be so cheap
cos when they finally put you in the ground
Theyll stand there laughing and tramp the dirt down
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Coronation Poem And Prayer
The world has crowned a thousand kings:
But destiny has kept
Her weightiest hour of kingly power
To offer England's son.
The rising bell of Progress rings;
And Truths which long have slept,
Like prophets strange, predicting change,
Before Time's chariot run.
The greatest Empire of the Earth.
Old England proudly stands.
Like arteries her Colonies
Reach out from sea to sea.
She clasps all races in her girth;
Her gaze the world commands;
And far and wide where strong ships ride,
The British Flag floats free.
Oh, never since the stars began
Their round of Cosmic law,
And souls evolved in ways unsolved,
And kingdoms reached their prime
Has Destiny held out to Man
A gift so full of awe,
As England's crown which she hands down
In this stupendous time.
This is a crucial hour, when Fate
Tries Monarchs as by fire.
All rulers must be more than just-
Men starve on bread alone.
Old England's sense of right is great;
But now let her aspire
To feel more love, and build thereof
An everlasting Throne.
The dreaming East, awake at last,
Is asking 'when' and 'why';
Wait not too long nor answer wrong,
Nor in too stern a voice.
Let England profit by her past,
And with her wise reply
Rouse hearts, within her foster kin
To hope, and to rejoice.
True wealth dwells not in things we own,
But in our use of things.
Who would command a conquered land
Must conquer first its heart.
Such might as Man has never known,
And power undreamed by kings,
And boundless strength would come at length
To one who used that art.
For now has dawned the People's day:
A day of great unrest.
Nor king nor creed can still man's need
Of time and space to grow.
All lands must shape a wider way,
For this eternal quest;
And Leisure yield a larger field
Where work-worn feet may go.
The Universe is all a-thrill
With changes imminent.
The World in faith, with bated breath,
Holds free the Leader's place.
And wise is he whose heart and will
At one with Time's intent,
Shall open wide doors long denied
To mothers of the race.
On this round globe, oh, when and where
Were fitter time and scene
For Woman's soul to reach its goal
Than now in England's realm.
Was not the crown its King will wear
Made glorious by its Queen?
And who steered straight its ship of State?
Victoria at the Helm!
Kings have been kings by accident,
By favour and by force,
But right of birth and moral worth,
And Empires rich and broad
For England's King to-day are blent
Like rivers on one course.
But, ah! the light falls searching white
Down from the Throne of God.
Lord of the Earth and heavenly spheres,
Creator of all things,
Thou who hast wrought great worlds from naught,
Give strength to England's son.
Give courage to dispel those fears
That come to even kings,
And for his creed give Love's full mead;
Amen. Thy Will be done.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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World In Motion
Express yourself
Create the space
You know you can win
Dont give up the chase
Beat the man
Take him on
You never give up
Its one on one
Express yourself
Its one on one
Express yourself
Its one on one
Express yourself
You cant be wrong
When somethings good
Its never gone
Loves got the world in motion
And I know what we can do
Loves got the world in motion
And I cant believe its true
Now is the time
Let everyone see
You never give up
Thats how it should be
Dont get caught
Make your own play
Express yourself
Dont give it away
Express yourself
Its one on one
Express yourself
Its one on one
Express yourself
You cant be wrong
When somethings good
Its never wrong
Loves got the world in motion
And I know what we can do
Loves got the world in motion
And I cant believe its true
Loves got the world in motion
And I know what we can do
Loves got the world in motion
And I cant believe its true
Youve got to hold and give
But do it at the right time
You can be slow or fast
But you must get to the line
Theyll always hit you and hurt you
Defend and attack
Theres only one way to beat them
Get round the back
Catch me if you can
Cos Im the england man
And what youre looking at
Is the master plan
We aint no hooligans
This aint a football song
Three lions on my chest
I know we cant go wrong
Were playing for england {in-ger-land}
Were playing the song
Were singing for england {in-ger-land}
Arrivederci its one one one
Were playing for england {in-ger-land}
Were playing the song
Were singing for england {in-ger-land}
Arrivederci its one one one
Were playing for england {in-ger-land}
Were playing the song
Were singing for england {in-ger-land}
Arrivederci its one one one
Were playing for england {in-ger-land}
Were playing the song
Were singing for england {in-ger-land}
Arrivederci its one one one
song performed by by New Order
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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L'Ancien Regime
Who has a thing to bring
For a gift to our lord the king,
Our king all kings above?
A young girl brought him love;
And he dowered her with shame,
With a sort of infamous fame,
And then with lonely years
Of penance and bitter tears --
Love is scarcely the thing
To bring as a gift for our king.
Who has a thing to bring
For a gift to our lord the king?
A statesman brought him planned
Justice for all the land;
And he in recompense got
Fierce struggle with brigue and plot,
Then a fall from lofty place
Into exile and disgrace --
Justice is never the thing
To bring as a gift for our king.
Who has a thing to bring
For a gift to our lord the king?
A writer brought him truth;
And first he imprisoned the youth,
And then he bestowed a free pyre
That the works might have plenty of fire,
And also to cure the pain
Of the headache called thought in the brain --
Truth is a very bad thing
To bring as a gift for our king.
Who has a thing to bring
For a gift to our lord the king?
The people brought their sure
Loyalty fervid and pure;
And he gave them bountiful spoil
Of taxes and hunger and toil,
Ignorance, brutish plight,
And wholesale slaughter in fight --
Loyalty's quite the worst thing
To bring as a gift for our king.
Who has a thing to bring
For a gift to our lord the king?
A courtier brought to his feet
Servility graceful and sweet,
With an ever ready smile
And an ever supple guile;
And he got in reward the place
Of the statesman in disgrace --
Servility's always a thing
To bring as a gift for our king.
Who has a thing to bring
For a gift to our lord the king?
A soldier brought him war,
La gloire, la victoire,
Ravage and carnage and groans,
For the pious Te Deum tones;
And he got in return for himself
Rank and honors and pelf --
War is a very fine thing
To bring as a gift for our king.
Who has a thing to bring
For a gift to our lord the king?
A harlot brought him her flesh,
Her lusts, and the manifold mesh
Of her wiles intervolved with caprice;
And he gave her his realm to fleece,
To corrupt, to ruin, and gave
Himself for her toy and her slave
Harlotry's just the thing
To bring as a gift for our king.
Who has a thing to bring
For a gift to our lord the king,
Our king who fears to die?
A priest brought him a lie,
The blackness of hell uprolled
In heaven's shining gold;
And he got as guerdon for that
A see and a cardinal's hat --
A lie is an excellent thing
To bring as a gift for our king.
Has any one yet a thing
For a gift to our lord the king?
The country gave him a tomb,
A magnificent sleeping-room;
And for this it obtained some rest,
Clear riddance of many a pest,
And a hope which it much enjoyed
That the throne would continue void --
A tomb is the very best thing
For a gift to our lord the king.
poem by James Thomson
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