When The Duke of Clarence Died
Let us sing in tear-choked numbers how the Duke of Clarence went,
Just to make a royal sorrow rather more pre-eminent.
Ladies sighed and sobbed and drivelled—toadies spoke with bated breath,
And the banners floating half-mast made a mockery of death,
And they said Australia sorrowed for the Prince’s death—they lied!
She had done with kings and princes ere the Duke of Clarence died.
What’s a death in lofty places? What’s a noble birth?—say I—
To the poor who die in hundreds, as a man should never die?
Can they shed a tear, or sorrow for a royal dunce’s fate?
No! for royalty has taught them how to sing the songs of hate;
O’er the sounds of grief in Europe, and the lands across the tide
Rose the growl of revolution, when the Duke of Clarence died.
We—it matters not how lonely our o’er-burdened lives are spent—
Claim in common with a Clarence, straight from Adam our descent!
Even the man they call a “bastard” has a lineage to himself,
Though he traces not his fathers through the sordid line of Guelph,
And, perhaps in some foul garret in his misery and pride,
One of Nature’s Kings was dying when the Duke of Clarence died.
Ah! the workgirl’s bloodless fingers, in the plundered human hive,
Sew the banners of rebellion, while the kings and princes thrive;
In the cold of northern winter—in the south in dust and heat—
Weary workmen preach sedition at the corners of the street.
They pre-eminent in sorrow! ’tis pre-eminence in cheek;
We shall hear what care and pain is when the slums begin to speak;
Hundreds starved to pay the shadow of a crown upon his head!
Yellow gold (at last impotent) fought with death beside his bed.
And, perhaps, a Prince of Nature sat despairing by the side
Of a noble mother STARVING when the Duke of Clarence died.
Ignoble living—splendid dead! behold the pomp of royal woe!
Lo, the funeral! battle-hero never yet was buried so.
Who and what was he? What has he done to benefit mankind?
Has he nought to show Saint Peter save a royal race behind?
Who is worthy? Who is noble? God! shall gold alone decide?
Better men like dogs were buried ere the Duke of Clarence died.
Thrones of earth and earthly rulers soon shall all be swept aside,
And ’twere better for his comfort that the Duke of Clarence died.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Related quotes
Duke Of Earl
Duke, duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
As I walk through this world
Nothing can stop the duke of earl
And you, you are my girl
No one can hurt you, oh, no
Yes, i, oh, im gonna love you, oh, oh
Come on let me hold you, darlin
cause im the duke of earl
So yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
And when I hold you
Youll be my duchess, duchess of earl
Well walk through my dukedom
And a paradise we will share
Yes, i, oh, im gonna love you, oh, oh
Nothing can stop me now
cause im the duke of earl
So yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
Yes, i, oh, im gonna love you, oh, oh
Come on let me hold you, darlin
cause im the duke of earl
So yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Duke (nothing can stop me now), duke of earl
Duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
Duke, duke, duke of earl
song performed by by New Edition
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Most Unfair for M lady Ernestine
The Duchess danced delightfully.
The Duke was cursed with two left feet.
Whilst she was dancing gracefully
the Duke would simply drink and eat.
She kept her figure trim with ease
She defied the advancing years
The Duke quite frankly was obese
oblivious to disgusted stares.
The Duchess died at sixty one
why this should be a mystery
The fat old Duke just carried on
still going strong at ninety three.
I think this simply goes to show.
When your time’s up you have to go.
30-May-08
http: // blog.my space.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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A Rather Smelly Sonnet
I once knew a fellow of popular fame,
Clarence Carruthers was the good man's name,
Intelligent, wealthy, a patron of arts
And producer, at times, of the smelliest farts.
Whether most virtuous or someone who'd sinned
It was best to be absent when Clarence broke wind, -
There was nothing quite like it in heaven or earth
Nor was it, dear jester, a subject of mirth..
Imagine the odour of old rotting fish
That one time had garnished a sumptuos dish
Or the reek of a sewer too foul for a rat,
When Clarence let rip it was far worse than that!
Be thankful, at least, the poor fellow has died.
(Though the stench in the graveyard canNOT be denied!)
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey
MORTALITY, behold and fear!
What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones
Sleep within this heap of stones:
Here they lie had realms and lands,
Who now want strength to stir their hands:
Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust
They preach, 'In greatness is no trust.'
Here 's an acre sown indeed
With the richest, royall'st seed
That the earth did e'er suck in
Since the first man died for sin:
Here the bones of birth have cried--
'Though gods they were, as men they died.'
Here are sands, ignoble things,
Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings;
Here 's a world of pomp and state,
Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
poem by Francis Beaumont
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The Duke of Plaza-Toro
In enterprise of martial kind,
When there was any fighting,
He led his regiment from behind
(He found it less exciting).
But when away his regiment ran,
His place was at the fore, O-
That celebrated,
Cultivated,
Underrated
Noble man,
The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
In the first and foremost flight, ha, ha!
You always found that knight, ha, ha!
That celebrated,
Cultivated,
Underrated
Noble man,
The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
When, to evade Destruction's hand,
To hide they all proceeded,
No soldier in that gallant band
Hid half as well as he did.
He lay concealed throughout the war,
And so preserved his gore, O!
That unaffected,
Undetected,
Well connected
Warrior,
The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
In every doughty deed, ha, ha!
He always took the lead, ha, ha!
That unaffected,
Undetected,
Well connected
Warrior,
The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
When told that they would all be shot
Unless they left the service,
That hero hesitated not,
So marvellous his nerve is.
He sent his resignation in,
The first of all his corps, O!
That very knowing,
Overflowing,
Easy-going
Paladin ,
The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
To men of grosser clay, ha, ha!
He always showed the way, ha, ha!
That very knowing,
Overflowing,
Easy-going
Paladin ,
The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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A Raging Battle, An Epic Fight
The sun is out
When you hear a shout
Soldiers’ dash
Swords clash
A sorcerer duke
A lady knight
A raging battle
An epic fight
The prince is weakening
The duke is leering
A clash of swords
Blood falls to the floor
The sorcerer duke fails
Good has prevailed
The prince calls the lady
The daylight is fading
The battle is over
Good has triumphed
Accepted at last
The lady knight basks
In acceptance.
poem by Amanda Tambacas
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The Crys 2
Crys are various and of many kinds
For examples, here are a few
The cry of frustration when a housewife's dinner is a flop
The cry of sadness of a little girl when her pet kitten died
The cry of happiness when a little boy's father gives him a dog
The cry of happiness when a little girl's mother gives her a new do; ;
The cry of anger when someone has done you a wrong
the cry of happiness when you have forgiven someone
The cry of happiness when you have been released from debt
The cry of sadness when your best friend has passed on
Of all the crys in the world
These are just a few
April 27,2006, Clarence A. Graham, Jr.
poem by Jr. Clarence A. Graham
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Thee Unexpected
It took me by storm, but yet I did not won't to deal with it. The weight became so intense that it did not make no sense at all to me. And now I'm stuck in disbelieve like I'm going crazy. Trying to cope and stay a float but the pain I wish was a memory and it's killing me, to face the day that my fathers no longer with me, I'm doing my best, and it's like a faith test either I pass or fail. But I will tell you the truth I just really miss him! ! ! ! ! you see so for give me and my attitude because his death is new and I no it's no excuse. I just wish I had the power to erase the pain the hurt and the memory that my father is no longer with me. Sir Clarence of greater
poem by Clarence Williams
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Lines On A Late Hospicious Ewent, By A Gebtleman Of The Footguards (Blue)
I paced upon my beat
With steady step and slow,
All huppandownd of Ranelagh Street:
Ran'lagh St. Pimlico.
While marching huppandownd
Upon that fair May morn,
Beold the booming cannings sound,
A royal child is born!
The Ministers of State
Then presnly I sor,
They gallops to the Pallis gate,
In carridges and for.
With anxious looks intent,
Before the gate they stop,
There comes the good Lord President,
And there the Archbishopp.
Lord John he next elights;
And who comes here in haste?
'Tis the ero of one underd fights,
The caudle for to taste.
Then Mrs. Lily, the nuss,
Towards them steps with joy;
Says the brave old Duke, 'Come tell to us,
Is it a gal or a boy?'
Says Mrs. L. to the Duke,
'Your Grace, it is A PRINCE.'
And at that nuss's bold rebuke,
He did both laugh and wince.
He vews with pleasant look
This pooty flower of May,
Then, says the wenarable Duke,
'Egad, it's my buthday.'
By memory backwards borne,
Peraps his thoughts did stray
To that old place where he was born,
Upon the first of May.
Perhaps he did recal
The ancient towers of Trim;
And County Meath and Dangan Hall
They did rewisit him.
I phansy of him so
His good old thoughts employin';
Fourscore years and one ago
Beside the flowin' Boyne.
His father praps he sees,
Most Musicle of Lords,
A playing maddrigles and glees
Upon the Arpsicords.
Jest phansy this old Ero
Upon his mother's knee!
Did ever lady in this land
Ave greater sons than she?
And I shoudn be surprize
While this was in his mind,
If a drop there twinkled in his eyes
Of unfamiliar brind.
. . . . .
To Hapsly Ouse next day
Drives up a Broosh and for,
A gracious prince sits in that Shay
I mention him with Hor!)
They ring upon the bell,
The Porter shows his Ed,
(He fought at Vaterloo as vell,
And vears a Veskit red).
To see that carriage come,
The people round it press:
'And is the galliant Duke at ome?'
'Your Royal Ighness, yes.'
He stepps from out the Broosh
And in the gate is gone;
And X, although the people push,
Says wary kind, 'Move hon.'
The Royal Prince unto
The galliant Duke did say,
'Dear duke, my little son and you
Was born the self same day.
'The Lady of the land,
My wife and Sovring dear,
It is by her horgust command
I wait upon you here.
'That lady is as well
As can expected be;
And to your Grace she bid me tell
This gracious message free.
'That offspring of our race,
Whom yesterday you see,
To show our honor for your Grace,
Prince Arthur he shall be.
'That name it rhymes to fame;
All Europe knows the sound:
And I couldn't find a better name
If you'd give me twenty pound.
'King Arthur had his knights
That girt his table round,
But you have won a hundred fights,
Will match 'em I'll be bound.
'You fought with Bonypart,
And likewise Tippoo Saib;
I name you then with all my heart
The Godsire of this babe.'
That Prince his leave was took,
His hinterview was done.
So let us give the good old Duke
Good luck of his god-son.
And wish him years of joy
In this our time of Schism,
And hope he'll hear the royal boy
His little catechism.
And my pooty little Prince
That's come our arts to cheer,
Let me my loyal powers ewince
A welcomin of you ere.
And the Poit-Laureat's crownd,
I think, in some respex,
Egstremely shootable might be found
For honest Pleaseman X.
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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The Southern Scourge
The yellow fever was raging,
Down in the sunny south;
And in many of the cities,
There was a death at every house.
This plague a war was raging,
With the lives of people there;
The young and old were stricken down,
And lay in sad despair.
No comfort, all was misery
In many a southern home.
Where once was peace and quietness,
Now in distress are thrown;
For death the house has visited,
And caused the inmates to mourn
The loss of some dear loving friend,
That on earth no more shall roam.
Some people in delirium,
Have wandered from their home;
Have wandered to a vacant house,
And there have died alone,
With no kind friend to care for them,
Or close their dying eyes.
Oh God! in horrid misery
Hundreds of people died.
There were many whole families
Taken down sick in a day;
With no one to care for them,
In death they passed away.
Their spirits arose to God above,
Where sickness is no more;
Where peace and comfort ever reign,
On Heaven's blissful shore.
There is many a southern city
To-day is filled with woe,
And many of the inhabitants
Have wandered to and fro
To nurse the sick and dying --
The dead for the grave prepare.
They tried to do their duty,
With hearts filled with despair.
The Howard Association
Have been doing all they can,
To keep the "plague" from raging
Throughout the southern land;
They nursed the sick, they fed the poor,
They work both night and day,
This brave band in the southern scourge
Heroic courage display.
This noble band of charity
Have went from house to house,
To ease the sad misery of
The sufferers at the south;
Sad scenes of death and suffering
Each day they must endure,
As in the daily rounds they went
Among the afflicted poor.
The noble northern people
Have helped them all they can,
In money, food and clothing
Which they had at their command;
There is many a southern person
That will bless this Howard band,
For their noble deeds of charity
To the sufferers of their land.
poem by Julia A Moore
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It's Almost Sunday Morning
In the summer of 1956,
any Saturday at midnight
when the moon was full
and the stars were bright,
you would see Grandma Groth
on her front-porch swing
waiting for her son, Clarence,
still a bachelor at 53,
to make it home
from the Blind Man's Pub
after another evening quaffing
steins of Heineken's.
Many times when I was young,
I'd be coming home at midnight
from another pub just steps behind
staggering Clarence.
I'd always let him walk ahead
and listen to him hum
'The Yellow Rose of Texas.'
But the last Saturday night
that Clarence and I came down the street,
I didn't see Grandma on her swing.
She wasn't waiting to berate him.
So far so good, I thought,
until, not far from his house,
Clarence fell into Mrs. Murphy's hedge.
When I finally got him up,
I moved him like a fridge on a dolly
down the walk and into his house
only to see Grandma, a wraith
in a hazy nightgown, swoop
into the hallway, screaming
and thrashing Clarence with her broom,
pausing only to tell me,
'Go home to your mother now
so you won't be late for Mass.
It's almost Sunday morning! '
After that sad night in 1956,
I never saw Clarence again,
either marching to work in the morning,
his lunch pail gallantly swinging,
or staggering home at midnight
from the Blind Man's Pub.
But many a midnight after that,
I'd be coming home
from the other pub,
lunch pail in hand,
and I'd see Grandma
reigning on her swing,
broom in hand,
waiting.
Tonight, however, many decades later,
as I stroll home at midnight,
I realize I'm older now than Clarence was
the night he disappeared
and even though Grandma's dead,
I can still see her regal on that swing,
broom in hand, waiting,
and so I give her a big wave,
hoping to hear one more time,
'Go home to your mother now
so you won't be late for Mass.
It's almost Sunday morning! '
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Wilson
Wilson
Wilson
Wilson
Wilson
Oh out near stonehenge, I lived alone
Oh out near gamehendge, I chafed a bone
Wilson, king of prussia, I lay this hate on you
Wilson, duke of lizards, I beg it all trune for you
Talk my duke a mountain, helping friendly book
Inasfar as fiefdom, I think you bad crook
Wilson, king of prussia, I lay this hate on you
Wilson, duke of lizards, I beg it all trune for you
Wilson
Wilson
Wilson
Wilson
I talked to mike christian, rog and pete the same
When we had that meeting, over down near game(henge)
Wilson, king of prussia, I lay this hate on you
Wilson, duke of lizards, I beg it all trune for you
You got me back thinkin that youre the worst one
I must inquire, wilson, can you still have fun?
Wilson, can you still have fun?
Wilson, can you still have fun?
Wilson
song performed by by Phish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I am looking for the Little Boy
I am looking for the Little Boy
Who liked to visit his grandparents at age 5
I am looking for the Little Boy
Who liked to go fishing with his father at age 15
I am looking for the Little Boy
Who became a Mortician at age 21
I am looking for the Little Boy
Who had 54 years of a happy marriage
I am looking for the Little Boy
Who is happily living at the Edgewood Vista
Who is the Little Boy
The Little Boy is me
January 12,2007, Clarence A. Graham, Jr.
poem by Jr. Clarence A. Graham
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Mangan
Arguably the greatest poet old Ireland has seen
'Twas he penned the poem known as 'Dark Rosaleen'
In eighteen forty nine in his mid forties in poverty he died
Though true genius of him never can be denied
The great James Clarence Mangan Ireland's National bard
His journey through life was to say the least hard
He lived as he died in abject poverty
Yet one could not name many poets as great as he
From consumption and poor diet and neglect he died very young
For him no State funeral and he was unsung
Despite his hard life it seems a remarkable feat
That so many great poems the great poet did bequeath
To Ireland and it's people though he died just past his prime
As one of the poor souls of the Dublin of his time.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Satirical Elegy on the Death of a Late Famous General
"His Grace! impossible! what, dead!
Of old age too, and in his bed!
And could that mighty warrior fall,
And so inglorious, after all?
Well, since he's gone, no matter how,
The last loud trump must wake him now;
And, trust me, as the noise grows stronger,
He'd wish to sleep a little longer.
And could he be indeed so old
As by the newspapers we're told?
Threescore, I think, is pretty high;
'Twas time in conscience he should die!
This world he cumber'd long enough;
He burnt his candle to the snuff;
And that's the reason, some folks think,
He left behind so great a stink.
Behold his funeral appears,
Nor widows' sighs, nor orphans' tears,
Wont at such times each heart to pierce,
Attend the progress of his hearse.
But what of that? his friends may say,
He had those honours in his day.
True to his profit and his pride,
He made them weep before he died
Come hither, all ye empty things!
Ye bubbles rais'd by breath of kings!
Who float upon the tide of state;
Come hither, and behold your fate!
Let pride be taught by this rebuke,
How very mean a thing's a duke;
From all his ill-got honours flung,
Turn'd to that dirt from whence he sprung"
poem by Jonathan Swift
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Final solution
The countless dead unburied lay beneath a covering of clay.
The good earth turned to dark red mud mixed with the best of soldier’s blood.
It mattered not how many died for death could not be satisfied.
Brave men who fought for their country. Death chose amongst them randomly.
I lived although my comrades died. Death often took them from my side.
Why did I live? So I can tell the world about the living hell
wich we endured knee deep in mud. I think it fitting that I should.
So many died on either side. Involuntary suicide
To fight a war they could not win, to no more see their kith and kin
Like every war it proved to be a total waste, a mockery
The cream of Europe’s fighting mem would never see their homes again.
What did it prove the First World War? Nothing we had not known before!
Though we remember those who died. The lessons learned are not applied
for men still battle constantly to prove superiority.
It seems mankind can’t live in peace, that wanton killing will not cease
Until death has added to his score the last man and there are no more.
I think that then and only then the world will be at peace again.
16/04/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Paralyze State Of Mind
I was left shaking my head in disbelief, was shock of what was happening to me. Trying my best to stomach the fact of what I was told started to make me sick it zapped the energy right out of my body, that mentally Clarence couldn't move. And I stood there for sometime wishing that I could birth a clue....... But still nothing, nothing nothing! ! ! ! what do you do? when faced with tragic news that leave you in a paralyze state of mind rap around you like yellow tape. And the crime has been committee and your love one is dead in it, with a flowing river of redness with a silent voice crying out aloud to say that I'm SORRY.
poem by Clarence Williams
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Marilyn And I
I heard that Duke was looking for me but,
My identity was not known to him;
So ready or not, i am with the impressionism of his words;
And it will lead me straight on to his office!
But the gravity of my mind awaits me.
You are Marilyn and i am full of adventure,
But this act is too close for a call!
And i need to find Duke to know my mind on this issue.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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I think my real depressions started when I was about 16 and doing The Patty Duke Show. I would go to bed at about 10 o'clock on a Friday night and not get up again until 6:30 Monday morning.
quote by Patty Duke
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In a way, you might say that David Duke is the son of Willie Horton. Duke is more overt, of course, but he's really just pushing the same buttons and sending the same coded messages that the Horton ads did so effectively for the Bush campaign last year.