Market Day
With arms and legs at work and gentle stroke
That urges switching tail nor mends his pace,
On an old ribbed and weather beaten horse,
The farmer goes jogtrotting to the fair.
Both keep their pace that nothing can provoke
Followed by brindled dog that snuffs the ground
With urging bark and hurries at his heels.
His hat slouched down, and great coat buttoned close
Bellied like hooped keg, and chuffy face
Red as the morning sun, he takes his round
And talks of stock: and when his jobs are done
And Dobbin's hay is eaten from the rack,
He drinks success to corn in language hoarse,
And claps old Dobbin's hide, and potters back.
poem by John Clare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Going to School
Did you see them pass to-day, Billy, Kate and Robin,
All astride upon the back of old grey Dobbin?
Jigging, jogging off to school, down the dusty track -
What must Dobbin think of it - three upon his back?
Robin at the bridle-rein, in the middle Kate,
Billy holding on behind, his legs out straight.
Now they're coming back from school, jig, jog, jig.
See them at the corner where the gums grow big;
Dobbin flicking off the flies and blinking at the sun -
Having three upon his back he thinks is splendid fun:
Robin at the bridle-rein, in the middle Kate,
Little Billy up behind, his legs out straight.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Human Wheels
This land today, shall draw its last breath
And take into its ancient depths
This frail reminder of its giant, dreaming self
While i, with human-hindered eyes
Unequal to the sweeping curve of life
Stand on this single print of time
Chorus:
Human wheels spin round and round
While the clock keeps the pace
Human wheels spin round and round
Help the light to my face
That time, today, no triumph gains
At this short success of age
This pale reflection of its brave and
Blundering deed
For i, descend from this vault
Now dreams beyond my earthly fault
Knowledge, sure, from the seed
Chorus:
Human wheels spin round and round
While the clock keeps the pace
Human wheels spin round and round
Help the light to my face
This land, today, my tears shall taste
And take into its dark embrace
This love, who in my beating heart endures
Assured, by every sun that burns
The dust to which this flesh shall return
It is the ancient, dreaming dust of god
Chorus:
Human wheels spin round and round
While the clock keeps the pace
Human wheels spin round and round
Help the light to my face
Human wheels spin round and round
While the clock keeps the pace
Human wheels spin round and round
Help the light to my face
song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stink My Death
'Stink my death till I smell bad, '
the Man to the rest of It said,
'Unflesh me with care and consume all the hair
that falls from the skin of my head, pale head,
the thin pallid skin of my head.
.
'Let me squat in this apologia,
stuff my gullet with humus and air,
for I've raped that fair maiden, fair Gaea,
and I don't even seem to care. Me care?
No, I don't even seem to care.
.
'I have eaten my fill of biota,
and I've bent all the rest to my will.
I have sung from a pyre of industrial fire,
but my urges are adamant still to kill.
Yes, my urges are adamant still.
.
'So if you should need me tomorrow,
with appropriate changes, of course,
my genes will be there in the 39th layer,
just over eohippus, the horse, dawn horse.
Just over eohippus, my horse.'
1998
poem by Mister Micawber
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Plight of Working Men
Work, work, laborious work
has taken its toll on men.
Their backs all sweaty,
their hands all chafed
and all their fingernails, ten
Caked with dirt, caked with grime,
unable to keep them clean.
Their arms are weary
at day's end.
Their legs are lank and lean.
Their shoes they leave right at the door,
a reminder of what they do.
Back-breaking jobs
to earn their pay,
jobs that are never through.
And yet they hold back
whines and complaints
and suffer in silent ways.
In the house that is their nest
their voice they will not raise.
Tired bodies and burned out dreams
have stopped the hopes of these men.
They methodically work
their laborious jobs
and wait for their days to end.
poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dead Robin
The inadvertent fact of a robin
Carelessly snapping its back on a glass bus shelter
Is not a major tragedy of epic proportions.
Nevertheless, today there has been a death,
Two beautiful slender legs
Are crossed, a demure crucifix of twigs.
Tail feathers, folded away
Like ironed packing.
The small red body nestles in my hand
A cold flame
Fragile as an egg.
I do not want to bury it.
I do not want to draw earth's curtain over its closed face.
This delicate two-winged coffin.
I stroke and stroke the fiery breast
The light brown back
Turning it round and round like a roasting spit,
Regret its fading essences
Its lightness and its grace
Its softly thudding heartbeat
Has sunk without a trace
Into a sealed silence.
Over morning smells of toast and tea
I have read columns of obituaries
Black lists of names on thin cheap paper
My eyes dusted the dead as lightly as swatting a fly
But today one of the winged ones
Has tumbled from the sky
And I may stroke and stroke that small stilled throat
But cannot stir one feather with my gentling.
poem by Sheena Blackhall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Head Over Heals
I have a very good friend
The kind of girl who likes to follow a trend
She has a personal style
Some people like it, others tend to go wild
You hear her voice everywhere
Taking the chair
She's a leading lady
And with no trace of hesitation she keeps going
Head over heels
Breaking her way
Pushing through unknown jungles every day
She's a girl with a taste for the world
(The world is like a playing-ground where she goes rushing)
Head over heels
Setting the pace
Running the gauntlet in a whirl of lace
She's extreme, if you know what I mean
Her man is one I admire
He's so courageous but he's constantly tired
Each time when he speaks his mind
She pats his head and says, "That's all very fine
Exert that will of your own
When you're alone
Now we'd better hurry"
And with no trace of hesitation she keeps going
Head over heels
Breaking her way
Pushing through unknown jungles every day
She's a girl with a taste for the world
(The world is like a playing-ground where she goes rushing)
Head over heels
Setting the pace
Running the gauntlet in a whirl of lace
She's extreme, if you know what I mean
You hear her voice everywhere
Taking the chair
She's a leading lady
And with no trace of hesitation she keeps going
Head over heels
Breaking her way
Pushing through unknown jungles every day
She's a girl with a taste for the world
(The world is like a playing-ground where she goes rushing)
Head over heels
Setting the pace
Running the gauntlet in a whirl of lace
She's extreme, if you know what I mean
(She's just one of those who always has to do whatever she please)
And she goes
Head over heels
song performed by by ABBA
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In the time honored tradition of email, just ignore the question.
quote by John Dobbin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In The Poppy Field
Mad Patsy said, he said to me,
That every morning he could see
An angel walking on the sky;
Across the sunny skies of morn
He threw great handfuls far and nigh
Of poppy seed among the corn;
And then, he said, the angels run
To see the poppies in the sun.
A poppy is a devil weed,
I said to him - he disagreed;
He said the devil had no hand
In spreading flowers tall and fair
Through corn and rye and meadow land,
by garth and barrow everywhere:
The devil has not any flower,
But only money in his power.
And then he stretched out in the sun
And rolled upon his back for fun:
He kicked his legs and roared for joy
Because the sun was shining down:
He said he was a little boy
And would not work for any clown:
He ran and laughed behind a bee,
And danced for very ecstasy.
poem by James Stephens
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rural Morning
Soon as the twilight through the distant mist
In silver hemmings skirts the purple east,
Ere yet the sun unveils his smiles to view
And dries the morning's chilly robes of dew,
Young Hodge the horse-boy, with a soodly gait,
Slow climbs the stile, or opes the creaky gate,
With willow switch and halter by his side
Prepared for Dobbin, whom he means to ride;
The only tune he knows still whistling oer,
And humming scraps his father sung before,
As 'Wantley Dragon,' and the 'Magic Rose,'
The whole of music that his village knows,
Which wild remembrance, in each little town,
From mouth to mouth through ages handles down.
Onward he jolls, nor can the minstrel-throngs
Entice him once to listen to their songs;
Nor marks he once a blossom on his way;
A senseless lump of animated clay--
With weather-beaten hat of rusty brown,
Stranger to brinks, and often to a crown;
With slop-frock suiting to the ploughman's taste,
Its greasy skirtings twisted round his waist;
And hardened high-lows clenched with nails around,
Clamping defiance oer the stoney ground,
The deadly foes to many a blossomed sprout
That luckless meets him in his morning's rout.
In hobbling speed he roams the pasture round,
Till hunted Dobbin and the rest are found;
Where some, from frequent meddlings of his whip,
Well know their foe, and often try to slip;
While Dobbin, tamed by age and labour, stands
To meet all trouble from his brutish hands,
And patient goes to gate or knowly brake,
The teasing burden of his foe to take;
Who, soon as mounted, with his switching weals,
Puts Dob's best swiftness in his heavy heels,
The toltering bustle of a blundering trot
Which whips and cudgels neer increased a jot,
Though better speed was urged by the clown--
And thus he snorts and jostles to the town.
And now, when toil and summer's in its prime,
In every vill, at morning's earliest time,
To early-risers many a Hodge is seen,
And many a Dob's heard clattering oer the green.
Now straying beams from day's unclosing eye
In copper-coloured patches flush the sky,
And from night's prison strugglingly encroach,
To bring the summons of warm day's approach,
Till, slowly mounting oer the ridge of clouds
That yet half shows his face, and half enshrouds,
The unfettered sun takes his unbounded reign
And wakes all life to noise and toil again:
And while his opening mellows oer the scenes
Of wood and field their many mingling greens,
Industry's bustling din once more devours
The soothing peace of morning's early hours:
The grunt of hogs freed from their nightly dens
And constant cacklings of new-laying hens,
And ducks and geese that clamorous joys repeat
The splashing comforts of the pond to meet,
And chirping sparrows dropping from the eaves
For offal kernels that the poultry leaves,
Oft signal-calls of danger chittering high
At skulking cats and dogs approaching nigh.
And lowing steers that hollow echoes wake
Around the yard, their nightly fast to break,
As from each barn the lumping flail rebounds
In mingling concert with the rural sounds;
While oer the distant fields more faintly creep
The murmuring bleatings of unfolding sheep,
And ploughman's callings that more hoarse proceed
Where industry still urges labour's speed,
The bellowing of cows with udders full
That wait the welcome halloo of 'come mull,'
And rumbling waggons deafening again,
Rousing the dust along the narrow lane,
And cracking whips, and shepherd's hooting cries,
From woodland echoes urging sharp replies.
Hodge, in his waggon, marks the wondrous tongue,
And talks with echo as he drives along;
Still cracks his whip, bawls every horse's name,
And echo still as ready bawls the same:
The puzzling mystery he would gladly cheat,
And fain would utter what it can't repeat,
Till speedless trials prove the doubted elf
As skilled in noise and sounds as Hodge himself;
And, quite convinced with the proofs it gives,
The boy drives on and fancies echo lives,
Like some wood-fiend that frights benighted men,
The troubling spirit of a robber's den.
And now the blossom of the village view,
With airy hat of straw, and apron blue,
And short-sleeved gown, that half to guess reveals
By fine-turned arms what beauty it conceals;
Whose cheeks health flushes with as sweet a red
As that which stripes the woodbine oer her head;
Deeply she blushes on her morn's employ,
To prove the fondness of some passing boy,
Who, with a smile that thrills her soul to view,
Holds the gate open till she passes through,
While turning nods beck thanks for kindness done,
And looks--if looks could speak-proclaim her won.
With well-scoured buckets on proceeds the maid,
And drives her cows to milk beneath the shade,
Where scarce a sunbeam to molest her steals--
Sweet as the thyme that blossoms where she kneels;
And there oft scares the cooing amorous dove
With her own favoured melodies of love.
Snugly retired in yet dew-laden bowers,
This sweetest specimen of rural flowers
Displays, red glowing in the morning wind,
The powers of health and nature when combined.
Last on the road the cowboy careless swings,
Leading tamed cattle in their tending strings,
With shining tin to keep his dinner warm
Swung at his back, or tucked beneath his arm;
Whose sun-burnt skin, and cheeks chuffed out with fat,
Are dyed as rusty as his napless hat.
And others, driving loose their herds at will,
Are now heard whooping up the pasture-hill;
Peeled sticks they bear of hazel or of ash,
The rib-marked hides of restless cows to thrash.
In sloven garb appears each bawling boy,
As fit and suiting to his rude employ;
His shoes, worn down by many blundering treads,
Oft show the tenants needing safer sheds:
The pithy bunch of unripe nuts to seek,
And crabs sun-reddened with a tempting cheek,
From pasture hedges, daily puts to rack
His tattered clothes, that scarcely screen the back,--
Daubed all about as if besmeared with blood,
Stained with the berries of the brambly wood
That stud the straggling briars as black as jet,
Which, when his cattle lair, he runs to get;
Or smaller kinds, as if beglossed with dew
Shining dim-powdered with a downy blue,
That on weak tendrils lowly creeping grow
Where, choaked in flags and sedges, wandering slow,
The brook purls simmering its declining tide
Down the crooked boundings of the pasture-side.
There they to hunt the luscious fruit delight,
And dabbling keep within their charges' sight;
Oft catching prickly struttles on their rout,
And miller-thumbs and gudgeons driving out,
Hid near the arched brig under many a stone
That from its wall rude passing clowns have thrown.
And while in peace cows eat, and chew their cuds,
Moozing cool sheltered neath the skirting woods,
To double uses they the hours convert,
Turning the toils of labour into sport;
Till morn's long streaking shadows lose their tails,
And cooling winds swoon into faultering gales;
And searching sunbeams warm and sultry creep,
Waking the teazing insects from their sleep;
And dreaded gadflies with their drowsy hum
On the burnt wings of mid-day zephyrs come,--
Urging each lown to leave his sports in fear,
To stop his starting cows that dread the fly;
Droning unwelcome tidings on his ear,
That the sweet peace of rural morn's gone by.
poem by John Clare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Fiddle Riddle
Once stood a man on my face
Ooh yeah, on my face
Gobbled him up cause my taste
Leaves nothing to waste
Hear the riddle that I say
Hear the riddle that I say
What is fair is fair
That is fair and square
To me
Piano it marks the good pace
Ooh yeah, the good pace
Dont know if its right, but I like the bass
So turn up the bass
Hear the fiddles as they play
Hear the fiddles as they play
What is fair is fair
And the guitar player
No metal, no brick, was no trace
Oh, no, was no trace
But machines moved on and still chased
No particular place
Hear the riddle that I say
Hear the riddle that I say
What is fair is fair
That is fair and square
To me
What is fair is fair
That is fair and square
To me
song performed by by Frank Black
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Vixen
Among the taller wood with ivy hung,
The old fox plays and dances round her young.
She snuffs and barks if any passes by
And swings her tail and turns prepared to fly.
The horseman hurries by, she bolts to see,
And turns agen, from danger never free.
If any stands she runs among the poles
And barks and snaps and drive them in the holes.
The shepherd sees them and the boy goes by
And gets a stick and progs the hole to try.
They get all still and lie in safety sure,
And out again when everything’s secure,
And start and snap at blackbirds bouncing by
To fight and catch the great white butterfly.
poem by John Clare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Red Sky: The Good Shepherd and I
Jesus, the good shepherd, once said:
'When it is evening, ye say,
It will be fair weather:
For the sky is red.
And in the morning,
It will be foul weather today:
For the sky is red and lowering.'
Evening red and morning gray
Are the signs of a bonny day.
Evening red:
'Shepherd's delight, '
Daddy said.
That is to say,
'Red sky at night,
Shepherd's delight.'
Evening gray and morning red
Bring down rain on the farmer's head.
Morning red:
'Shepherd's warning, '
Daddy said.
That is to say,
'Red sky in the morning,
Shepherd's warning.'
Evening gray and morning red
Brought down rain on my father's head.
My father, a seasoned farmer,
Could discern the face of the sky.
O Lord, my shepherd, so can I.
poem by Monty Gilmer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Jumping Horses
As you step into the arena,
Your heart rushes,
Horse following close behind,
Giving you steady nudges.
You mount yourself slowly into the English saddle
You move toward the jump.
Faster, faster.
Your feet ready in the stirrups
In jumping position,
As you grow closer to the jump
You are overcome by a weird sensation,
A sensation of happiness, nervousness, and excitement
As you post you feel the heart rate of the horse.
You are both one.
Faster, and faster still,
You feel as if you where flying,
Your horse raises its front legs,
You are flying!
Over the jump you feel relaxed,
You feel great.
You draw your horse to a slow gait,
Your heart racing.
Again and again you jump
15 minutes pass you loose time,
You slow down.
The horse’s heart is racing to the pace of yours,
You slow to a halt
Lower yourself from his back,
You pat him congratulate him,
And return the tack.
(Pause)
Jumping… Such a wonderful feeling,
Your heart rushing!
poem by Bethany Maxwell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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When comes the morning?
When
comes the real morning?
When golden, the sun's rays hover
Over the earth's snow-cover,
And where the shadows nestle,
Wrestle,
Lifting lightward the root enringèd
Till it shall seem an angel wingèd,
Then it is morning,
Real, real morning.
But if the weather is bad
And my spirit sad,
Never morning I know.
No.
Truly, it's real morning,
When blossom the buds winter-beaten,
The birds having drunk and eaten
Are glad as they sing, divining
Shining
Great new crowns to the tree-tops given,
Cheering the brooks to the broad ocean riven.
Then it is morning,
Real, real morning.
But if the weather is bad
And my spirit sad,
Never morning I know.
No.
When
comes the real morning?
When power to conquer parries
Sorrow and storm, and carries
Sun to the soul, whose burning
Yearning
Opens in love and calls to others:
Good to be unto all as brothers.
Then
it is morning,
Real, real morning.
Greatest power you know
-And most dangerous, lo!-
Will you
this
then possess?
Yes.
poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Head Over Heels
I have a very good friend
The kind of girl who likes to follow a trend
She has a personal style
Some people like it, others tend to go wild
You hear her voice everywhere
Taking the chair
Shes a leading lady
And with no trace of hesitation she keeps going
Head over heels
Breaking her way
Pushing through unknown jungles every day
Shes a girl with a taste for the world
(the world is like a playing-ground where she goes rushing)
Head over heels
Setting the pace
Running the gauntlet in a whirl of lace
Shes extreme, if you know what I mean
Her man is one I admire
Hes so courageous but hes constantly tired
Each time when he speaks his mind
She pats his head and says, thats all very fine
Exert that will of your own
When youre alone
Now wed better hurry
And with no trace of hesitation she keeps going
Head over heels
Breaking her way
Pushing through unknown jungles every day
Shes a girl with a taste for the world
(the world is like a playing-ground where she goes rushing)
Head over heels
Setting the pace
Running the gauntlet in a whirl of lace
Shes extreme, if you know what I mean
You hear her voice everywhere
Taking the chair
Shes a leading lady
And with no trace of hesitation she keeps going
Head over heels
Breaking her way
Pushing through unknown jungles every day
Shes a girl with a taste for the world
(the world is like a playing-ground where she goes rushing)
Head over heels
Setting the pace
Running the gauntlet in a whirl of lace
Shes extreme, if you know what I mean
(shes just one of those who always has to do whatever she please)
And she goes
Head over heels
song performed by by ABBA
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Code—Heroics
There were three in the meadow by the brook,
Gathering up windrows, piling haycocks up,
With an eye always lifted toward the west,
Where an irregular, sun-bordered cloud
Darkly advanced with a perpetual dagger
Flickering across its bosom. Suddenly
One helper, thrusting pitchfork in the ground,
Marched himself off the field and home. One stayed.
The town-bred farmer failed to understand.
What was there wrong?
Something you said just now.
What did I say?
About our taking pains.
To cock the hay?—because it's going to shower?
I said that nearly half an hour ago.
I said it to myself as much as you.
You didn't know. But James is one big fool.
He thought you meant to find fault with his work.
That's what the average farmer would have meant.
James had to take his time to chew it over
Before he acted; he's just got round to act.
He is a fool if that's the way he takes me.
Don't let it bother you. You've found out something.
The hand that knows his business won't be told
To do work faster or better—those two things.
I'm as particular as anyone:
Most likely I'd have served you just the same:
But I know you don't understand our ways.
You were just talking what was in your mind,
What was in all our minds, and you weren't hinting.
Tell you a story of what happened once.
I was up here in Salem, at a man's
Named Sanders, with a gang of four or five,
Doing the haying. No one liked the boss.
He was one of the kind sports call a spider,
All wiry arms and legs that spread out wavy
From a humped body nigh as big as a biscuit.
But work!—that man could work, especially
If by so doing he could get more work
Out of his hired help. I'm not denying
He was hard on himself: I couldn't find
That he kept any hours—not for himself.
Day-light and lantern-light were one to him:
I've heard him pounding in the barn all night.
But what he liked was someone to encourage.
Them that he couldn't lead he'd get behind
And drive, the way you can, you know, in mowing
Keep at their heels and threaten to mow their legs off.
I'd seen about enough of his bulling tricks—
We call that bulling. I'd been watching him.
So when he paired off with me in the hayfield
To load the load, thinks I, look out for trouble!
I built the load and topped it off; old Sanders
Combed it down with the rake and said, 'O. K.'
Everything went right till we reached the barn
With a big take to empty in a bay.
You understand that meant the easy job
For the man up on top of throwing down
The hay and rolling it off wholesale,
Where, on a mow, it would have been slow lifting.
You wouldn't think a fellow 'd need much urging
Under those circumstances, would you now?
But the old fool seizes his fork in both hands,
And looking up bewhiskered out of the pit,
Shouts like an army captain, 'Let her come!'
Thinks I, d'ye mean it? 'What was that you said?'
I asked out loud so's there'd be no mistake.
'Did you say, let her come?' 'Yes, let her come.'
He said it over, but he said it softer.
Never you say a thing like that to a man,
Not if he values what he is. God, I'd as soon
Murdered him as left out his middle name.
I'd built the load and knew just where to find it.
Two or three forkfuls I picked lightly round for
Like meditating, and then I just dug in
And dumped the rackful on him in ten lots.
I looked over the side once in the dust
And caught sight of him treading-water-like,
Keeping his head above. 'Damn ye,' I says,
'That gets ye!' He squeaked like a squeezed rat.
That was the last I saw or heard of him.
I cleaned the rack and drove out to cool off.
As I sat mopping the hayseed from my neck,
And sort of waiting to be asked about it,
One of the boys sings out, 'Where's the old man?'
'I left him in the barn,—under the hay.
If you want him you can go and dig him out.'
They realized from the way I swobbed my neck
More than was needed, something must be up.
They headed for the barn I stayed where I was.
They told me afterward: First they forked hay,
A lot of it, out into the barn floor.
Nothing! They listened for him. Not a rustle!
I guess they thought I'd spiked him in the temple
Before I buried him, else I couldn't have managed.
They excavated more. 'Go keep his wife
Out of the barn.'
Some one looked in a window;
And curse me, if he wasn't in the kitchen,
Slumped way down in a chair, with both his feet
Stuck in the oven, the hottest day that summer.
He looked so mad in back, and so disgusted
There was no one that dared to stir him up
Or let him know that he was being looked at.
Apparently I hadn't buried him
(I may have knocked him down), but just my trying
To bury him had hurt his dignity.
He had gone to the house so's not to face me.
He kept away from us all afternoon.
We tended to his hay. We saw him out
After a while picking peas in the garden:
He couldn't keep away from doing something.
Weren't you relieved to find he wasn't dead?
No!—and yet I can't say: it's hard to tell.
I went about to kill him fair enough.
You took an awkward way. Did he discharge you?
Discharge me? No! He knew I did just right.
poem by Robert Frost
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Internet mailing lists are like Fox television shows. They have really cool previews, and they get you all excited about them, but they just don't live up to their promises.
quote by John Dobbin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In reality, everyone is good in bed. Close eyes. Shutdown brain. Pause as necessary. Restart brain. Open eyes. What's there to not be good at? Bed is the one place where laziness is rewarded.
quote by John Dobbin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Farmer's Lament
'The backbone of the country and the salt of all the earth'
That was how they styled us when the farmer had his worth.
But what's his valuation now, when times are pretty thin?
Chorus:
Two bob a dozen, an' the garments given in.
Solo:
We made the country's money an' we paid the country's way,
We raised the wealth for cities from the farm thro' many a day;
But what's the price of farmers now the profits disappeared?
Chorus:
Two bob a dozen, an' a bonus on the beard.
Solo:
They'll pay to patch machinery or cure old Dobbin's sprain;
But they cannot spare a stiver when the farmer gets a pain;
For what's the use o' mendin' him when all he's valued at
Chorus:
Is two bob a dozen, if he's nice an' prime an' fat.
Solo:
But the farmer ain't repinin', tho' his price is down an' out.
There's a good time comin' soon without the smallest doubt;
But, till the world wins sanity, he's got to be content
Chorus:
With two bob a dozen, cash with order ten per cent.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Little Aggie
When Joe Dove took his elephants out on the road
He made each one hold fast with his trunk
To the tail of the elephant walking in front
To stop them from doing a bunk.
There were fifteen in all, so 'twere rather a job
To get them linked up in a row,
But once he had fixed 'em Joe knew they'd hold on,
For an elephant never lets go.
The pace it was set by the big 'uns in front,
'Twas surprising how fast they could stride,
And poor little Aggie, the one at the back...
Had to run till she very near died.
They were walking one Sunday from Blackpool to Crewe,
They'd started at break of the day,
Joe followed behind with a bagful of buns
In case they got hungry on t'way.
They travelled along at a rattling good pace
Over moorland and valley and plain,
And poor little Aggie the one at the back
Her trunk fairly creaked with the strain.
They came to a place where the railway crossed road,
An ungated crossing it were,
And they wasn't to know as the express was due
At the moment that they landed there.
They was half way across when Joe saw the express-
It came tearing along up the track-
He tried hard to stop, but it wasn't much good,
For an elephant never turns back.
He saw if he didn't do something at once
The train looked like spoiling his troupe,
So he ran on ahead and he waggled tho buns
To show them they'd best hurry up
When they caught sight of buns they all started to run,
And they soon got across at this gait,
Except poor little Aggie-the one at the back,
She were one second too late.
The express came dashing along at full speed,
And caught her end on, fair and square
She bounced off the buffers, turned head over heels,
And lay with her legs in the air.
Joe thought she were dead when he saw her lyin' there,
With the back of her head on the line
He knelt by her side, put his ear to her chest,
And told her to say " ninety-nine."
She waggled her tail and she twiggled her trunk ;
To show him as she were alive;
She hadn't the strength for to say "ninety-nine,"
She just managed a weak "eighty-five."
When driver of th' engine got down from his cab
Joe said "Here's a nice howdedo,
To see fifteen elephants ruined for life
By a clumsy great driver like you."
Said the driver, "There's no need to mak' all this fuss,
There's only one hit as I've seen."
Joe said, "Aye, that's right, but they held on so tight
You've pulled back end off t' other fourteen."
Joe still walks around with his elephant troupe,
He got them patched up at the vet's,
But Aggie won't walk at the back any more,
'Cos an elephant never forgets.
poem by Marriott Edgar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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