A Hungry Day
I MIND him well, he was a quare ould chap,
Come like meself from swate ould Erin's sod;
He hired me wanst to help his harvest in-
The crops was fine that summer, praised be God!
He found us, Rosie, Mickie, an' meself,
Just landed in the emigration shed;
Meself was tyin' on their bits of clothes;
Their mother-rest her tender sowl!-was dead.
It's not meself can say of what she died:
But 'twas the year the praties felt the rain,
An' rotted in the soil; an' just to dhraw
The breath of life was one long hungry pain.
If we wor haythens in a furrin land,
Not in a country grand in Christian pride,
Faith, then a man might have the face to say
'Twas of stharvation me poor Sheila died.
But whin the parish docthor come at last,
Whin death was like a sun-burst in her eyes-
They looked straight into Heaven-an' her ears
Wor deaf to the poor children's hungry cries,
He touched the bones stretched on the mouldy sthraw:
'She's gone!' he says, and drew a solemn frown;
'I fear, my man, she's dead.' 'Of what?' says I.
He coughed, and says, 'She's let her system down!'
'An' that's God's truth!' says I, an' felt about
To touch her dawney hand, for all looked dark;
An' in me hunger-bleached, shmall-beatin' heart,
I felt the kindlin' of a burnin'spark.
'O by me sowl, that is the holy truth!
There's Rosie's cheek has kept a dimple still,
An' Mickie's eyes are bright-the craythur there
Died that the weeny ones might eat their fill.'
An' whin they spread the daisies thick an' white
Above her head that wanst lay on me breast,
I had no tears, but took the childher's hands,
An' says, 'We'll lave the mother to her rest.'
An' och! the sod was green that summer's day,
An' rainbows crossed the low hills, blue an' fair;
But black an' foul the blighted furrows stretched,
An' sent their cruel poison through the air.
An' all was quiet-on the sunny sides
Of hedge an' ditch the stharvin' craythurs lay,
An' thim as lacked the rint from empty walls
Of little cabins wapin' turned away.
God's curse lay heavy on the poor ould sod,
An' whin upon her increase His right hand
Fell with'ringly, there samed no bit of blue
For Hope to shine through on the sthricken land.
No facthory chimblys shmoked agin the sky.
No mines yawned on the hills so full an' rich;
A man whose praties failed had nought to do
But fold his hands an' die down in a ditch.
A flame rose up widin me feeble heart,
Whin, passin' through me cabin's hingeless dure,
I saw the mark of Sheila's coffin in
The grey dust on the empty earthen flure.
I lifted Rosie's face betwixt me hands;
Says I, 'Me girleen, you an' Mick an' me
Must lave the green ould sod an' look for food
In thim strange countries far beyant the sea.'
An' so it chanced, whin landed on the sthreet,
Ould Dolan, rowlin' a quare ould shay
Came there to hire a man to save his wheat,
An' hired meself and Mickie by the day.
'An' bring the girleen, Pat,' he says, an' looked
At Rosie, lanin' up agin me knee;
'The wife will be right plaised to see the child,
The weeney shamrock from beyant the sea.
'We've got a tidy place, the saints be praised!
As nice a farm as ever brogan trod.
A hundered acres-us as never owned
Land big enough to make a lark a sod.'
'Bedad,' says I, 'I heerd them over there
Tell how the goold was lyin' in the sthreet,
An' guineas in the very mud that sthuck
To the ould brogans on a poor man's feet.'
'Begorra, Pat,' says Dolan, 'may ould Nick
Fly off wid thim rapscallions, schaming rogues,
An' sind thim thrampin' purgatory's flure
Wid red hot guineas in their polished brogues!'
'Och, thin,' says I, 'meself agrees to that!'
Ould Dolan smiled wid eyes so bright an' grey;
Says he, 'Kape up yer heart; I never kew
Since I come out a single hungry day.
'But thin I left the crowded city sthreets-
Th'are men galore to toil in thim an' die;
Meself wint wid me axe to cut a home
In the green woods beneath the clear, swate sky.
'I did that same; an' God be praised this day!
Plenty sits smilin' by me own dear dure;
An' in them years I never wanst have seen
A famished child creep tremblin' on me flure.'
I listened to ould Dolan's honest words:
That's twenty years ago this very spring,
An' Mick is married, an' me Rosie wears
A swateheart's little shinin' goulden ring.
'Twould make yer heart lape just to take a look
At the green fields upon me own big farm;
An' God be praised! all men may have the same
That owns an axe an' has a strong right arm!
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Only A Sod
It's only a sod, but ’twill break me ould heart
Nigh hardened wid toilin’ and carin’,
And make the ould wounds in it tingle and smart.
It’s only a sod, but it’s parcel and part
Of strugglin’, sufferin’ Erin.
It’s only a sod, but it rakes the ould pain —
The ould love in me heart that still lingers,
That Time has been soothing and docth’ring in vain;
And now he must soothe it and heal it again
Wid his kindly and gentle ould fingers.
It’s only a sod, but I see a big ship
Through the gallopin’ waters come tearin’,
And a lass that looks back on the horizon dip,
Wid eyes full of tears and a thrimblin’ lip,
On the last that she saw of ould Erin.
It’s only a sod, but wid care it will keep
Till me brooms and me brushes are silint
Put it into me arms ere they bury me deep,
And tell them old Biddy the “slavey” does sleep
’Neath a sod from the bogs of ould Irlint.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Missis Moriarty's Boy
Missis Moriarty called last week, and says she to me, says she:
"Sure the heart of me's broken entirely now -- it's the fortunate woman you are;
You've still got your Dinnis to cheer up your home, but me Patsy boy where is he?
Lyin' alone, cold as a stone, kilt in the weariful wahr.
Oh, I'm seein' him now as I looked on him last, wid his hair all curly and bright,
And the wonderful, tenderful heart he had, and his eyes as he wint away,
Shinin' and lookin' down on me from the pride of his proper height:
Sure I'll remember me boy like that if I live to me dyin' day."
And just as she spoke them very same words me Dinnis came in at the door,
Came in from McGonigle's ould shebeen, came in from drinkin' his pay;
And Missis Moriarty looked at him, and she didn't say anny more,
And she wrapped her head in her ould black shawl, and she quietly wint away.
And what was I thinkin', I ask ye now, as I put me Dinnis to bed,
Wid him ravin' and cursin' one half of the night, as cold by his side I sat;
Was I thinkin' the poor ould woman she was wid her Patsy slaughtered and dead?
Was I weepin' for Missis Moriarty? I'm not so sure about that.
Missis Moriarty goes about wid a shinin' look on her face;
Wid her grey hair under her ould black shawl, and the eyes of her mother-mild;
Some say she's a little bit off her head; but annyway it's the case,
Her timper's so swate that you nivver would tell she'd be losin' her only child.
And I think, as I wait up ivery night for me Dinnis to come home blind,
And I'm hearin' his stumblin' foot on the stair along about half-past three:
Sure there's many a way of breakin' a heart, and I haven't made up me mind --
Would I be Missis Moriarty, or Missis Moriarty me?
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Cut Finger
THE GOSSOON [Weeping]
It’s bleedin’! It’s bleedin’!
THE OULD WOMAN [Soothingly]
An’ shure, me lad, ‘t is bleedin’;
But come, me hearty laddy buck, be brave an’ do not cry;
A lad that’s learnin’ readin’ sh’u'd be far beyant the heedin’
Av a tiny bit o’ finger cut that hurrts a bit foreby.
‘Ere ye come till wan an’ twinty
Ye’ll be havin’ hurrts in plinty
An’ ye’ll learn a bit o’ bleedin’ doesn’t mean ye’re goin’ t’ die.
THE GOSSOON [Crying]
It’s bleedin’! It’s bleedin’!
THE OULD WOMAN [Comfortingly]
An’ shure, me lad, ‘t is bleedin’;
But he’s me slashin’ buckeen, an’ he will not weep at all;
A rag is all ‘t is needin’ fer t’ sthop the whole proceedin’,
An’, shure, a bit o’ rosy blood won’t make me gossoon bawl;
Fer ‘t is but wan way av knowin’
Ye have good red blood a-flowin’
An’ a-workin’ all inside av ye t’ make ye strong an’ tall.
THE GOSSOON [Sobbing]
It’s bleedin’! It’s bleedin’!
THE OULD WOMAN [Lovingly]
Aye, aye, me lad, ‘t is bleedin’,
An’ some foine day yer hearrt will bleed as bleeds the hearrt av me.
The saints ye will be pleadin’, but ‘t is little they’ll be heedin’,
Fer the worrld is full av bleedin’ hearrts on either side the sea.
An’ I’d die t’ aise the achin’
Whin ye feel yer hearrt a-brealdn’,
But, ah! the poor ould woman won’t be there t’ comfort ye.
poem by Ellis Parker Butler
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
When the Children Come Home
On a lonely selection far out in the West
An old woman works all the day without rest,
And she croons, as she toils 'neath the sky's glassy dome,
`Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come home.'
She mends all the fences, she grubs, and she ploughs,
She drives the old horse and she milks all the cows,
And she sings to herself as she thatches the stack,
`Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come back.'
It is five weary years since her old husband died;
And oft as he lay on his deathbed he sighed
`Sure one man can bring up ten children, he can,
An' it's strange that ten sons cannot keep one old man.'
Whenever the scowling old sundowners come,
And cunningly ask if the master's at home,
`Be off,' she replies, `with your blarney and cant,
Or I'll call my son Andy; he's workin' beyant.'
`Git out,' she replies, though she trembles with fear,
For she lives all alone and no neighbours are near;
But she says to herself, when she's like to despond,
That the boys are at work in the paddock beyond.
Ah, none of her children need follow the plough,
And some have grown rich in the city ere now;
Yet she says: `They might come when the shearing is done,
And I'll keep the ould place if it's only for one.'
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Molony’s Lament
O TIM, did you hear of thim Saxons,
And read what the peepers report?
They're goan to recal the Liftinant,
And shut up the Castle and Coort!
Our desolate counthry of Oireland,
They're bint, the blagyards, to desthroy,
And now having murdthered our counthry,
They're goin to kill the Viceroy, Dear boy;
'Twas he was our proide and our joy!
And will we no longer behould him,
Surrounding his carriage in throngs,
As he weaves his cocked-hat from the windies,
And smiles to his bould aid-de-congs?
I liked for to see the young haroes,
All shoining with sthripes and with stars,
A horsing about in the Phaynix,
And winking the girls in the cyars,
Like Mars,
A smokin' their poipes and cigyars.
Dear Mitchell exoiled to Bermudies,
Your beautiful oilids you'll ope,
And there'll be an abondance of croyin'
From O'Brine at the Keep of Good Hope,
When they read of this news in the peepers,
Acrass the Atlantical wave,
That the last of the Oirish Liftinints
Of the oisland of Seents has tuck lave. God save
The Queen—she should betther behave.
And what's to become of poor Dame Sthreet,
And who'll ait the puffs and the tarts,
Whin the Coort of imparial splindor
From Doblin's sad city departs?
And who'll have the fiddlers and pipers,
When the deuce of a Coort there remains?
And where'll be the bucks and the ladies,
To hire the Coort-shuits and the thrains?
In sthrains,
It's thus that ould Erin complains!
There's Counsellor Flanagan's leedy
'Twas she in the Coort didn't fail,
And she wanted a plinty of popplin,
For her dthress, and her flounce, and her tail;
She bought it of Misthress O'Grady,
Eight shillings a yard tabinet,
But now that the Coort is concluded,
The divvle a yard will she get; I bet,
Bedad, that she wears the old set.
There's Surgeon O'Toole and Miss Leary,
They'd daylings at Madam O'Riggs';
Each year at the dthrawing-room sayson,
They mounted the neatest of wigs.
When Spring, with its buds and its dasies,
Comes out in her beauty and bloom,
Thim tu'll never think of new jasies,
Becase there is no dthrawing-room,
For whom
They'd choose the expense to ashume.
There's Alderman Toad and his lady,
'Twas they gave the Clart and the Poort,
And the poine-apples, turbots, and lobsters,
To feast the Lord Liftinint's Coort.
But now that the quality's goin,
I warnt that the aiting will stop,
And you'll get at the Alderman's teeble
The devil a bite or a dthrop,
Or chop;
And the butcher may shut up his shop.
Yes, the grooms and the ushers are goin,
And his Lordship, the dear honest man,
And the Duchess, his eemiable leedy,
And Corry, the bould Connellan,
And little Lord Hyde and the childthren,
And the Chewter and Governess tu;
And the servants are packing their boxes,—
Oh, murther, but what shall I due
Without you?
O Meery, with ois of the blue!
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Himself
Last night, when I was listenin’
Alone, to wind and rain,
He took the chair beside me,
Himself - come home again.
His kind blue eyes were smilin’
Beneath his thatch of grey,
He laid his hand on my hand,
The ould sweetheartin’ way.
I pressed my cheek upon it,
Remembering bitterly
The times he faced his daily toil
Without one smile from me.
And yet, his meals were always good,
His clothes well kept and clean,
The neighbours, sure, will tell you,
The splendid wife I’ve been.
But in Life’s stress and struggle,
We somehow, grew apart,
You know these Irish mothers,
'Tis “the childer” has their heart.
And he grew grim, and close-lipped,
And harder, day by day,
Poor man - too tired for laughter,
Too worried to be gay.
But - how his care enclosed us,
For all he was so grim,
The very rafters of our home
Were cut and laid by him.
And I, that might have cheered him,
The bitter words I said,
Oh! God, that we remember,
Only when they are dead.
But now - my arms were round him,
The room seemed full of flowers,
And Youth came back and sunshine,
That glorious time was ours.
The firelight flamed and flickered,
The embers fell apart,
I woke to empty silence,
With sorrow at my heart.
The wild winds brought the morning,
The dawn was red and chill,
And Himself was lyin’ sleepin’
In the graveyard on the hill!
poem by Alice Guerin Crist
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Dublin Fusilier
Here's to you, Uncle Kruger! slainté!
an' slainté galore.
You 're a dacint ould man, begorra; never
mind if you are a Boer.
So with heart an' a half ma boucahl, we 'll
drink to your health to-night
For yourself an' your farmer sojers gave us a
damn good fight.
I was dramin' of Kitty Farrell, away in the
Gap o' Dunloe,
When the song of the bugle woke me, ringin'
across Glencoe;
An' once in a while a bullet came pattherin'
from above,
That tould us the big brown fellows were send-
in' us down their love.
'Twas a kind of an invitation, an' written in
such a han'
That a Chinaman could n't refuse it- not to
spake of an Irishman.
So the pickets sent back an answer. 'We're
comin' with right good will,'
Along what they call the kopje, tho' to me it
looked more like a hill.
'Fall in on the left,' sez the captain, 'my
men of the Fusiliers;
You 'll see a great fight this morning -like
you have n't beheld for years.'
'Faith, captain dear,' sez the sergeant, 'you
can bet your Majuba sword
If the Dutch is as willin' as we are, you never
spoke truer word.'
So we scrambled among the bushes, the bowl-
ders an' rocks an' all,
Like the gauger's men still-huntin' on the
mountains of Donegal;
We doubled an' turned an' twisted the same
as a hunted hare,
While the big guns peppered each other over
us in the air.
Like steam from the divil's kettle the kopje
was bilin' hot,
For the breeze of the Dutchman's bullets was
the only breeze we got;
An' many a fine boy stumbled, many a brave
lad died,
When the Dutchman's message caught him
there on the mountainside.
Little Nelly O'Brien, God help her! over
there at ould Ballybay,
Will wait for a transvaal letter till her face an'
her hair is grey,
For I seen young Crohoore on a stretcher, an'
I knew the poor boy was gone
When I spoke to the ambulance doctor,an' he
nodded an' then passed on.
'Steady there!' cried the captain, 'we must
halt for a moment here,'
An' he spoke like a man in trainin' , full winded
an' strong an' clear.
So we threw ourselves down on the kopje,
weary an' tired as death,
Waitin' the captain 's orders, waitin' to get a
breath.
It 's strange all the humours an' fancies that
comes to a man like me;
But the smoke of the battle risin' took me
across the sea-
It 's the mist of Benbo I 'm seein'; an' the
rock that we 'll capture soon
Is the rock where I shot the eagle, when I was
a small gosson.
I close my eyes for a minute, an' hear my poor
mother say,
'Patrick, avick, my darlin', you 're surely not
goin' away
To join the red-coated sojers?'- but the
blood in me was strong-
If your sire was a Connaught Ranger, sure
where would his son belong?
Hark! whisht! do you hear the music comin'
up from the camp below?
An odd note or two when the Maxims take
breath for a second or so,
Liftin' itself on somehow, stealin' its way up
here,
Knowin' there 's waitin' to hear it, many an
Irish ear.
Augh! Garryowen! you 're the jewel! an' we
charged on the Dutchman's guns,
An' covered the bloody kopje, like a Galway
greyhound runs,
At the top of the hill they met us, with faces
all set and grim;
But they could n't take the bayonet - that 's
the trouble with most of thim.
So of course, they 'll be praisin' the Royals
an' men of the Fusiliers,
An' the newspapers help to dry up the widows
an' orphans' tears,
An' they 'll write a new name on the colors-
that is, if there 's room for more
An' we 'll follow them thro' the battle, the same
as we 've done before.
But here 's to you, Uncle Kruger! slainté! an'
slainté galore.
After all, you 're a dacint Christian, never
mind if you are a Boer.
So with heart an' a half, ma boucahl, we 'll
drink to your health to-night,
For yourself an' your brown-faced Dutchmen
gave us a damn good fight.
poem by William Henry Drummond
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Why Doherty Died
It was out on the Bogan near Billabong Creek
Where the sky shines like brass seven days in the week,
Where the buzzin' mosquitoes annoy you all night
And the blowflies come wakin' you up at daylight;
Where the people get weary and sad and forlorn
Till they wish they had died long before they were born;
There's a flat near the river, I knew the place well,
For ‘twas there Dinny Doherty kept the hotel.
Dinny Doherty died. 'Twasn't aisy to say
Just the cause of the trouble that tuk him away;
If 'twas measles or whoopin' cough, croup or catarrh,
Or the things docthers pickle and put in a jar.
Not a dochter was nigh when he come to his death
So we reckoned he died just through shortage of breath —-
We didn't know how these fine points to decide;
What we did know for certain was: Doherty died.
The coroner came up from Bottle-nose Flat,
And twelve of us wid him on Doherty sat.
The hate was intense; there was whisky galore —-
When we'd finished we weren't as wise as before.
We were roastin'; yet there, wid a shmile on his face,
Lay poor Dinny, the only cool man in the place.
Yet divil a one in the crowd could decide
Or even imagine why Doherty died.
The old pub it seemed lonesome whin Dinny was gone,
Lavin' poor Kitty Doherty grievin' alone.
Every time that I called she cried: "Phwat will I do?
Darlin' Dinny, come back to me, Cushla! Wirroo!
Faith it's lonely I am today, Dinny, asthore!
Don't be sayin' you're dead, that I'll see you no more."
Whin I tried to console her, she bitterly cried,
"I have no one to love me since Doherty died."
"I kape pinin'," says she, "till I'm mere shkin and bone."
(Poor Kitty! She only weighed siventeen shtone.)
"Sure, life widhout love is like bread widhout yaste."
Poor Kitty! Her heart was as big as a her waist.
And what is the pain? — 'tisn't iveryone knows
Whin a big heart like Kitty's wid love overflows.
Kitty's love was as broad as the ocean is wide,
But she'd no one to share it since Doherty died.
'Twas a hot sumnmer's day when a visit I paid,
For the hate was hundhred and tin in the shade;
Poor Kitty looked sad as I inthered the gate,
And her cheeks were quite moist wid her tears (and the hate):
But 'twas cosy she looked as she sat in the bar,
And I whispered, "Poor girl, is it lonely ye are?"
"Bedad! Lonely's no name for it," Kitty replied.
"I'm just frettin' me heart out since Doherty died.
Then, says I, "Faith, this isn't the weather to fret!"
And I wiped her plump cheeks, that were clammy and wet;
"Sure, Kitty," says I, "you must hould up your head,
For the world isn't impty if one man is dead.
To be livin' and pinin' alone's a disgrace;
Can you find no good man to take Doherty's place?"
Then she shmiled through her tears, and she said as she sighed:
"Ah! the good men are scarce since poor Doherty died."
"Och," says I, "to talk that way is fiddle-de-dee;
There are good men left yet, Kitty — what about me?"
Then, before you'd say "Jack", o'er the bar she had leapt,
And she flung herself on me bosom and wept.
'Twas in vain that I thried to get out to get cool,
She was harder to shift than a big bale of wool.
And I thought, as she lay on me bosom and cried:
"Faith! 'Tis now that I know why poor Doherty died."
poem by Thomas E. Spencer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Rosie
(sambora, j bon jovi, child, warren)
Rosie watch doin in this low class joint
Dancin in the dark all day
You used to be the darlin
Of your high school scene
Now you put your love on display
Sweaty hands hand you up a dollar bill
Hungry eyes never seem to get their fill
I used to watch you walkin down the hall
Rosie do you see me
When you hear them call your name
Rosie, rosie I wanna take you away
Rosie, rosie Im gonna make you mine someday
Rosie, I went with you for that rose tattoo
You promised no one else would see
I used to wait and drive you home from dancin school
Remember when you danced just for me
Our love was deeper then the night was long
But things just didnt work out like our favorite song
I used to watch you walkin down the hall
Rosie do you see me
When you hear them call your name
Rosie, rosie I wanna take you away
Rosie, rosie Im gonna make you mine someday
Do you remember
Our love was deeper then the night was long
But things just didnt work out like our favorite song
I used to watch you walkin down the hall
Rosie do you see me
When you hear them call your name
Rosie, rosie I wanna take you away
Rosie, rosie Im gonna make you mine someday
Rosie, rosie I wanna take you away
Rosie, rosie I wanna take you away
song performed by by Bon Jovi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Michael
"There's something in your face, Michael, I've seen it all the day;
There's something quare that wasn't there when first ye wint away. . . ."
"It's just the Army life, mother, the drill, the left and right,
That puts the stiffinin' in yer spine and locks yer jaw up tight. . . ."
"There's something in your eyes, Michael, an' how they stare and stare --
You're lookin' at me now, me boy, as if I wasn't there. . . ."
"It's just the things I've seen, mother, the sights that come and come,
A bit o' broken, bloody pulp that used to be a chum. . . ."
"There's something on your heart, Michael, that makes ye wake at night,
And often when I hear ye moan, I trimble in me fright. . . ."
"It's just a man I killed, mother, a mother's son like me;
It seems he's always hauntin' me, he'll never let me be. . . ."
"But maybe he was bad, Michael, maybe it was right
To kill the inimy you hate in fair and honest fight. . . ."
"I did not hate at all, mother; he never did me harm;
I think he was a lad like me, who worked upon a farm. . . ."
"And what's it all about, Michael; why did you have to go,
A quiet, peaceful lad like you, and we were happy so? . . ."
"It's thim that's up above, mother, it's thim that sits an' rules;
We've got to fight the wars they make, it's us as are the fools. . . ."
"And what will be the end, Michael, and what's the use, I say,
Of fightin' if whoever wins it's us that's got to pay? . . ."
"Oh, it will be the end, mother, when lads like him and me,
That sweat to feed the ones above, decide that we'll be free. . . ."
"And when will that day come, Michael, and when will fightin' cease,
And simple folks may till their soil and live and love in peace? . . ."
"It's coming soon and soon, mother, it's nearer every day,
When only men who work and sweat will have a word to say;
When all who earn their honest bread in every land and soil
Will claim the Brotherhood of Man, the Comradeship of Toil;
When we, the Workers, all demand: `What are we fighting for?' . . .
Then, then we'll end that stupid crime, that devil's madness -- War."
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Mr. Barney Maguire's Account of The Coronation
Och! the Coronation! what celebration
For emulation can with it compare?
When to Westminster the Royal Spinster,
And the Duke of Leinster, all in order did repair!
'Twas there you'd see the New Polishemen
Making a skrimmage at half after four,
And the Lords and Ladies, and the Miss O'Gradys,
All standing round before the Abbey door.
Their pillows scorning, that self-same morning
Themselves adorning, all by the candle light,
With roses and lilies, and daffy-down-dillies,
And gould, and jewels, and rich di'monds bright.
And then approaches five hundred coaches,
With Giniral Dullbeak.-- Och! 'twas mighty fine
To see how asy bould Corporal Casey,
With his swoord drawn, prancing, made them kape the line.
Then the Guns' alarums, and the King of Arums,
All in his Garters and his Clarence shoes,
Opening the massy doors to the bould Ambassydors,
The Prince of Potboys, and great haythen Jews;
'Twould have made you crazy to see Esterhazy
All jew'ls from jasey to his di'mond boots,
With Alderman Harmer, and that swate charmer,
The famale heiress, Miss Anjâ-ly Coutts.
And Wellington walking with his swoord drawn, talking
To Hill and Hardinge, haroes of great fame;
And Sir De Lacy, and the Duke Dalmasey,
(They call'd him Sowlt afore he changed his name,)
Themselves presading Lord Melbourne, lading
The Queen, the darling, to her Royal chair,
And that fine ould fellow, the Duke of Pell-Mello,
The Queen of Portingal's Chargy-de-fair.
Then the Noble Prussians, likewise the Russians,
In fine laced jackets with their goulden cuffs,
And the Bavarians, and the proud Hungarians,
And Everythingarians all in furs and muffs.
Then Misthur Spaker, with Misthur Pays the Quaker,
All in the Gallery you might persave,
But Lord Brougham was missing, and gone a fishing,
Ounly crass Lord Essex would not give him lave.
There was Baron Alten himself exalting,
And Prince Von Swartzenburg, and many more,
Och! I'd be bother'd, and entirely smother'd
To tell the half of 'em was to the fore;
With the swate Peeresses, in their crowns and dresses,
And Aldermanesses, and the Boord of Works;
But Mehemet Ali said, quite gintaly,
'I'd be proud to see the likes among the Turks!'
Then the Queen, Heaven bless her! och! they did dress her
In her purple garaments, and her goulden Crown;
Like Venus or Hebe, or the Queen of Sheby,
With eight young Ladies houlding up her gown.
Sure 'twas grand to see her, also for to he-ar
The big drums bating, and the trumpets blow,
And Sir George Smart! Oh! he play'd a Consarto,
With his four-and-twenty fidlers all on a row!
Then the Lord Archbishop held a goulden dish up,
For to resave her bounty and great wealth,
Saying 'Plase your Glory, great Queen Vict-ory!
Ye'll give the Clargy lave to dhrink your health!'
Then his Riverence, retrating, discoorsed the mating,
'Boys! Here's your Queen! deny it if you can!
And if any bould traitour, or infarior craythur,
Sneezes at that, I'd like to see the man!'
Then the Nobles kneeling to the Pow'rs appealing,
'Heaven send your Majesty a glorious reign!'
And Sir Claudius Hunter he did confront her,
All in his scarlet gown and goulden chain.
The great Lord May'r, too, sat in his chair too,
But mighty sarious, looking fit to cry,
For the Earl of Surrey, all in his hurry
Throwing the thirteens, hit him in his eye.
Then there was preaching, and good store of speeching,
With Dukes and Marquises on bended knee;
And they did splash her with raal Macasshur,
And the Queen said, 'Ah! then, thank ye all for me!'--
Then the trumpets braying, and the organ playing,
And sweet trombones with their silver tones,
But Lord Rolle was rolling;--' twas mighty consoling
To think his Lordship did not break his bones.
Then the crames and the custards, and the beef and mustard,
All on the tombstones like a poultherer's shop,
With lobsters and white-bait, and other swate-meats,
And wine, and nagus, and Imparial Pop!
There was cakes and apples in all the Chapels,
With fine polonies, and rich mellow pears,
Och! the Count Von Strogonoff, sure he got prog enough,
The sly ould Divil, underneath the stairs.
Then the cannons thunder'd, and the people wonder'd,
Crying, 'God save Victoria, our Royal Queen!'
Och! if myself should live to be a hundred,
Sure it's the proudest day that I'll have seen!
And now I've ended, what I pretended,
This narration splendid in swate poe-thry,
Ye dear bewitcher, just hand the pitcher,
Faith, it's meself that's getting mighty dhry
poem by Richard Harris Barham
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Erase
From Bye Bye Birdie soundtrack
JA:
I was never crazy for flowers
I confess that nothing left me colder.
I could watch a daisy for hours
and all i'd feel was several hours older.
Lilacs or lilies,
anything you please
all that they did was make me shrug or sneeze.
But now i love each blossom that i see
for a lovely little rose loves me.
Now my life is Rosie,
since i found my Rosie.
With a girl like rosie
how could i be blue?
Hand in hand we'll mosey
Me and little Rosie.
We will be so cozy
by a fire built for two.
Oh i once heard a poem that goes
A rose is a rose is a rose.
But i don't agree
Take it from me,
There's one rose sweeter than any that grows
That's my Rosie.
I'm so glad you chose me.
Life is one, sweet, beautiful song
to me.
JA: Now my life is Rosie
VW: Oh, we'll be happy I know.
JA: Since I found my Rosie.
VW: Off to the preacher we'll go.
JA: With a girl like ROsie
VW: So how could we
JA: How could I be blue?
VW: Be blue?
VW: Oh we'll have us a home out west.
A nice, little split, level nest.
And in every room, roses in bloom
JA: but there's one Rose sweeter than all of the rest.
JA: And that's my Rosie
Both:
I'm so glad you chose me.
Life is one, sweet, beautiful song.
If love is right, then, what could be wrong?
Life is one, sweet, beautiful song to me.
song performed by by Vanessa Williams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Haymaking
Aye, sure, it does always be rainin'
An' the hay lyin' out in the wet,
But what's the good o' complainin'?
It never made things better yet!
There'll be musty hay in the manger,
The cow's goin' dry, be mischance,
And the boy that went for a Ranger
Is lost on us -- somewhere in France!
The father of him, it's heart-breakin' --
Wid a watery glint o' the sun,
It's out wid him, turnin' an' shakin' --
Then all the labour's undone.
There won't be much savin' in Connaught,
The winter'll be hungry and black,
But I wouldn't waste sorrow upon it
If only the boy could come back!
There's a terrible cloud over Nephin,
An' the rain rushin' up from the say,
Och, what if the hay is past savin'?
I wouldn't be mindin' the hay.
'Tis the loss of the boy's bent me double,
An' the poor ould man is as bad;
I'm starvin' for him, an' the trouble,
The trouble's heavy and sad.
God's good and He'll send better weather,
The sun'll be shinin' again,
If Pat and me was together
I wouldn't be mindin' the rain.
No matter what weather was in it
I wouldn't care if he'd come.
But the heart o' me's cryin' this minit,
For the boy that'll never come home!
poem by Katharine Tynan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Little Mistake
’Tis a yarn I heard of a new-chum ‘trap’
On the edge of the Never-Never,
Where the dead men lie and the black men lie,
And the bushman lies for ever.
’Twas the custom still with the local blacks
To cadge in the ‘altogether’—
They had less respect for our feelings then,
And more respect for the weather.
The trooper said to the sergeant’s wife:
‘Sure, I wouldn’t seem unpleasant;
‘But there’s women and childer about the place,
‘And—barrin’ a lady’s present—
‘There’s ould King Billy wid niver a stitch
‘For a month—may the drought cremate him!—
‘Bar the wan we put in his dirty head,
‘Where his old Queen Mary bate him.
‘God give her strength!—and a peaceful reign—
‘Though she flies in a bit av a passion
‘If ony wan hints that her shtoyle an’ luks
‘Are a trifle behind the fashion.
‘There’s two of the boys by the stable now—
‘Be the powers! I’ll teach the varmints
‘To come wid nought but a shirt apiece,
‘And wid dirt for their nayther garmints.
‘Howld on, ye blaggards! How dare ye dare
‘To come widin sight av the houses?—
‘I’ll give ye a warnin’ all for wance
‘An’ a couple of ould pair of trousers.’
They took the pants as a child a toy,
The constable’s words beguiling
A smile of something beside their joy;
And they took their departure smiling.
And that very day, when the sun was low,
Two blackfellows came to the station;
They were filled with the courage of Queensland rum
And bursting with indignation.
The constable noticed, with growing ire,
They’d apparently dressed in a hurry;
And their language that day, I am sorry to say,
Mostly consisted of ‘plurry.’
The constable heard, and he wished himself back
In the land of the bogs and the ditches—
‘You plurry big tight-britches p’liceman, what for
‘You gibbit our missuses britches?’
And this was a case, I am bound to confess,
Where civilisation went under;
Had one of the gins been less modest in dress
He’d never have made such a blunder.
And here let the moral be duly made known,
And hereafter signed and attested:
We should place more reliance on that which is shown
And less upon what is suggested.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Dead To The Living
Work while it is day: the night cometh, when no man can work.
IN the childhood of April, while purple woods
With the young year's blood in them smiled,
I passed through the lanes and the wakened fields,
And stood by the grave of the child.
And the pain awoke that is never dead
Though it sometimes sleeps, and again
It set its teeth in this heart of mine,
And fastened its claws in my brain:
For it seemed so hard that the little hands
And the little well-loved head
Should be out of reach of my living lips,
And be side by side with the dead--
Not side by side with us who had loved,
But with these who had never seen
The grace of the smile, the gold of the hair,
And the eyes of my baby-queen.
Yet with trees about where the brown birds build,
And with long green grass above,
She lies in the cold sweet breast of earth
Beyond the reach of our love;
Whatever befalls in the coarse loud world,
We know she will never wake.
When I thought of the sorrow she might have known,
I was almost glad for her sake. . . .
Tears might have tired those kiss-closed eyes,
Grief hardened the mouth I kissed;
I was almost glad that my dear was dead
Because of the pain she had missed.
Oh, if I could but have died a child
With a white child-soul like hers,
As pure as the wind-flowers down in the copse,
Where the soul of the spring's self stirs;
Or if I had only done with it all,
And might lie by her side unmoved!
I envied the very clods of earth
Their place near the child I loved!
And my soul rose up in revolt at life,
As I stood dry-eyed by her grave,
When sudden the grass of the churchyard sod
Rolled back like a green smooth wave;
The brown earth looked like the brown sea rocks,
The tombstones were white like spray,
And white like surf were the curling folds
Of the shrouds where the dead men lay;
For each in his place with his quiet face
I saw the dead lie low,
Who had worked and suffered and found life sad,
So many sad years ago.
Unchanged by time I saw them lie
As when first they were laid to rest,
The tired eyes closed, the sad lips still,
And the work-worn hands on the breast.
There were some who had found the green world so grey,
They had left it before their time,
And some were little ones like my dear,
And some had died in their prime;
And some were old, they had had their fill
Of bitter unfruitful hours,
And knew that none of them, none, had known
A flower of a hope like ours!
Through their shut eyelids the dead looked up,
And without a voice they said:
'We lived without hope, without hope we died,
And hopeless we lie here dead;
And death is better than life that draws
Pain in, as it draws in breath,
If life never dreams of a coming day
When life shall not envy death.
Through the dark of our hours and our times we lived,
Uncheered by a single ray
Of such hope as lightens the lives of you
Who are finding life hard to-day;
With our little lanterns of human love
We lighted our dark warm night--
But you in the chill of the dawn are set
With your face to the eastern light.
Freedom is waiting with hands held out
Till you tear the veil from her face--
And when once men have seen the light of her eyes,
And felt her divine embrace,
The light of the world will be risen indeed,
And will shine in the eyes of men,
And those who come after will find life fair,
And their lives worth living then!
Will you strive to the light in your loud rough world,
That these things may come to pass,
Or lie in the shadow beside the child,
And strive to the sun through the grass?'
'My world while I may,' I cried; 'but you
Whose lives were as dark as your grave?'
'We too are a part of the coming light,'
They called through the smooth green wave.
Their white shrouds gleamed as the flood of green
Rolled over and hid them from me--
Hid all but the little hands and the hair,
And the face that I always see.
poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Rosie Had Everything Planned
Acting upon information received
Rosie had everything planned
Stood in a garden with a shotgun in hand
What a woman
Whilst entertaining the headlines next day
Rosie would not be released
If it was found that her man was deceased
Silly woman
Oh but Rosie, a girl with a strange kind of humor
Stupidly took it a roomer
Making her think that she'd lost
Double-crossed by a man who still
Stood in the garden and shaking her head
Rosie could not understand
Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand
Sad, sad woman
Oh but Rosie, how could a few words have made her
Certain that he had betrayed her
Making her think that she'd lost
Double-crossed by a man who still very near to her
Row upon row of angel-hair
Rosie had everything planned
Sure that the people would not understand
Sad, sad woman
song performed by by Supertramp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Rosie Won't You Please Come Home
Rosie wont you please come home?
Mama dont know where youve been.
Rosie wont you please come home?
Your rooms clean and no ones in it.
Oh my rosie, how I miss you,
You are all the world to me.
Take a look and see if you like it,
If you like it please come back.
Rosie wont you please come home?
Since youve joined the upper classes,
You dont know us anymore.
Live and let your troubles pass.
Rosie, rosie, will you write and tell me,
If you dont want to come back?
I would sacrifice all I have
To have a happy home once more.
Rosie wont you please come home?
Two long years have passed away.
Since you tried to change your life,
Christmas wasnt quite the same.
Rosie, rosie, got any answers?
You are miles across the sea,
And Ill bake a cake if you tell me
You are on the first plane home.
Rosie wont you please come home?
Mama dont know where youve been.
Rosie wont you please come home?
Your rooms clean and no ones in it.
Oh my rosie, how I miss you,
You are all the world to me.
Take a look and see if you like it,
If you like it please come back.
Oh rosie, will you please come back?
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Let It Shine
Clap your hands, make a smile
Let me know you hear me
Stay a while, play with me
Long as you are near me
Way to go, straight I know
Love to hear your laughter
Without a care you are there
Together ever after
Me and you comin through
Its what we got together
Lay it down, make it work
No matter what the weather
We got lots of soul, lots of love
Without a thought of givin unselfishly
You and me all the love were given
See the light
Let it shi-i-i-ine
Let it shine
Down on me
Feeling good
Knew I wou-----ould
Ever since
You set me free
song performed by by Santana
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Out Of Cage
All these years I ran after
Wealth, assets, amusement and laughter
I got no joy with any of them either
It was driving me with fear
I was lonely soul
Caged but looked beautiful
Everyone praised my fame
But I felt in heart a real shame
'Was it not a trap' I felt
Something bad at heart was smelt
I, for a moment, decided to come out
I had lot more in mind to talk about
Yes it was golden cage
To be kept in for all the ages
Surrounded by illusory magic
I now realized its hollowness with basic
Father, mother sister and wife too
Felt real joy and happiness through
I saw it on their faces with shine
I too at once felt very fine
No, this is not my goal
I felt it a real foul
Not suiting to my real soul
I decided to make it final call
One more strong resolve
And all problems may be solved
No anger, hunger or any other wish
Life must end with fine finish
I wished to open the door
Now I was real rich and not poor
I saw the closeness with divine land
Everything seemed to be beautiful and not dead end
I am finally out of cage
Walking away with prints behind on page
I may be cursed, laughed and called coward
I shall have more in store to look forward
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Nothing Compares 2 U
Lead voice by prince & rosie gaines
Prince: its been 7 hours and 13 days
Since u took your love away
I go out every night and sleep all day
Since u took your love away
Rosie: since youve been gone I can do whatever I want
I can see who ever I choose
Eat my dinner in a fancy restaurant, oh yeah
But nothing, nothing can take away these blues
P & r: nothing compares, nothing compares 2 u
Rosie: oh baby
Prince: its been so lonely without u here
Im like a bird without a song
Nothing can stop this lonely rain from falling
Tell me baby, where did I go wrong?
Rosie: oh baby
I can put my arms around every boy I see, oh yeah
But they only remind me of u
Prince: all my dames remind me of u too girl, oh yeah
Rosie: I went 2 the doctor, guess what he told me
Prince: whatd he tell u?
Rosie: guess what he told me
Prince: Im listening
Rosie: he said, rosie,
Prince: what?
Rosie: try to have fun no matter what u do
Prince: u wanna tell me why?
Rosie: hes a fool
P & r: nothing compares (no), nothing compares 2 u
Rosie: ooh, baby
Prince: tenor man, play it for me
Prince: all the flowers that u planted, sugar
In the backyard all died when u went away
Rosie: ooh baby, I know that living with me baby
Is sometimes hard, sometimes hard
But Im willing, Im willing 2 give it one more try
Prince: one more try
Rosie: please do you know why, do you know why
P & r: nothing compares (no), nothing compares 2 u
Rosie: oh, baby
Prince: everytime I say...
P & r: nothing compares (no), nothing compares 2 u
Prince: rosie gaines
song performed by by Prince
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!