A Letter Written For My Son To A Young Gentleman
Dear Jack, whilst you thro' Flanders roam,
Can you forget your Friends at Home?
Say, will your Tutors give you Time
To write to Hereticks in Rhyme?
A Name they brand us with, dear Youth,
And we affirm they injure Truth.
The sacred Page before us lies,
Which you lock up from vulgar Eyes.
In vain to Men a Light is giv'n,
To point them out the Path to Heav'n;
If, lest their Sight should make them stray,
Their Guides alone must see the Way.
I fancy now you answer thus:
Lord! what's Divinity to us?
This serious Subject is unfit.
To exercise a School--boy's Wit;
Then talk of other Matters, Con.
Inform me how your Class goes on:
Are you, poor Boys! at School To--day,
Whilst others are allow'd to play?
Dear Jack, that is our Case, 'tls true;
We envy them, and envy you;
You, who may ramble from your Book,
To view the Towns Eugenio took;
Ev'n now, perhaps, attend the Story,
How Marlbro' won immortal Glory;
page
Whilst he, who tells the wondrous Tale,
At ev'ry Period turning pale,
Still fancies Vengeance o'er his Head,
And asks you--Are you sure He's dead?
P.S.
I just heard happy News, dear Boy;
And Friendship bids me share the Joy:
Hibernia has not pray'd in vain;
Cyrus will visit her again;
Cyrus, long train'd in Wisdom's School,
And by Mandana form'd for Rule.
Ramsay, we find from whence you drew
Those Characters admir'd in you:
We Cassendana's Virtues trace,
And lovely Form in Weymouth's Race.
O would Mandana cross the Seas,
And hear a People speak her Praise,
With Britain vie to hail the Dame,
Who, Granville, could exalt thy Name,
Transmitting down thy Fame with Care,
And double Lustre, in her Heir!
poem by Mary Barber
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Related quotes
The School Days are near!
Same shrieking morning alarms,
Same morning fear!
The school days are near, The school days are near!
Sleeping in the bathroom,
From out, Mom shouts, '' DO YOU EVEN HEAR? ''
The school days are near, The school days are near!
So drowsy I am,
Confused, don't know what to wear!
The school days are near, The school days are near!
And entered into the school,
Murmuring silently, '' Oh dear! Oh dear! ''
The school days are near, the school days are near!
And if the first period is Maths,
Not again those equations linear! !
The school days are near, the school days are near!
A look at the load of books,
From the corner of my eye drops a tear!
The school days are near, the school days are near!
Gosh! When will vacations come?
We'll have to wait an year!
The school days are near, the school days are near!
Hoping when we go,
We'll find joy, sheer!
The school days are near, The school days are near! ! : D
poem by HudaM DeGratePoet
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Ode IX: At Study
I.
Whither did my fancy stray?
By what magic drawn away
Have I left my studious theme?
From this philosophic page,
From the problems of the sage,
Wandering thro' a pleasing dream?
II.
'Tis in vain alas! i find,
Much in vain, my zealous mind
Would to learned wisdom's throne
Dedicate each thoughtful hour:
Nature bids a softer power
Claim some minutes for his own.
III.
Let the busy or the wise
View him with contemptuous eyes;
Love is native to the heart:
Guide its wishes as you will;
Without Love you'll find it still
Void in one essential part.
IV.
Me though no peculiar fair
Touches with a lover's care;
Though the pride of my desire
Asks immortal friendship's name,
Asks the palm of honest fame,
And the old heroic lyre;
V.
Though the day have smoothly gone,
Or to letter'd leisure known,
Or in social duty spent;
Yet at eve my lonely breast
Seeks in vain for perfect rest;
Languishes for true content.
poem by Mark Akenside
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The End Of May
'Our governess is not in school,
So we may talk a bit;
Sit down upon this little stool,
Come, little Mary, sit:
'And, my dear playmate, tell me why
In dismal black you're drest?
Why does the tear stand in your eye?
With sobs why heaves your breast?
'When we're in grief, it gives relief
Our sorrows to impart;
When you've told why, my dear, you cry,
'Twill ease your little heart.'
'O, it is trouble very bad
Which causes me to weep;
All last night long we were so sad,
Not one of us could sleep.
'Beyond the seas my father went,
'Twas very long ago;
And he last week a letter sent
(I told you so, you know)
'That he was safe in Portsmouth bay,
And we should see him soon,
Either the latter end of May,
Or by the first of June.
'The end of May was yesterday,
We all expected him;
And in our best clothes we were dressed,
Susan, and I, and Jim.
'O how my poor dear mother smiled,
And clapped her hands for joy;
She said to me, 'Come here, my child,
And Susan, and my boy.
''Come all, and let us think,' said she,
'What we can do to please
Your father, for to-day will he
Come home from off the seas.
''That you have won, my dear young son,
A prize at school, we'll tell,
Because you can, my little man,
In writing all excel:
''And you have made a poem, nearly
All of your own invention:
Will not your father love you dearly
When this to him I mention?
''Your sister Mary, she can say
Your poetry by heart;
And to repeat your verses may
Be little Mary's part.
''Susan, for you, I'll say you do
Your needlework with care,
And stitch so true the wristbands new
Dear father's soon to wear!'
''O hark!' said James; 'I hear one speak;
'Tis like a seaman's voice.'-
Our mother gave a joyful shriek;
How did we all rejoice!
''My husband's come!' 'My father's here!'
But O, alas, it was not so;
It was not as we said:
A stranger seaman did appear,
On his rough cheek there stood a tear,
For he brought to us a tale of woe,-
Our father dear was dead.'
poem by Charles Lamb
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~Please Lord~
Dear Lord, please let school be out!
Then the whole wide world will say hurray in one big shout
But even More please let school be Banned,
So we can sit here being fanned.
Oh lord please just let school be banned!
OH please let it just be forbidden!
And all the school books hidden.
Just dear Lord just let this one pray be given,
Then let our heart be driven.
Oh Lord please just let school be forbidden!
poem by Nyki Thomas
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Stay With Me (o' Dear Heart Of Mine)
stay with me
o' dear heart
live with me
my soulheart
come with me
sit with me
talk with me
sing with me
dream with me
o' dear heart of mine
kneel with me
feel with me
smile a joy with me
pain a tear with me
frown with me
but come with me
and stay with thee
dance with me
chance with me
cleanse my heart
and stay with me
o' dear heart of mine
plan with me
journey with me
run with me
walk with me
o' dear heart of mine
brand with me
trend with me
trek with me
pray with me
thirst with me
quench with me
o' dear heart of mine
deal with me
seal with me
not steal with me
but steel with me
care with me
tenderly, humbly
o' dear heart of mine
friend with me
blend with me
mend with me
bend with me
nod with me
unto lord with me
come on board with me
o' dear heart of mine
fear not with me
as far as i see
a life to be
with you and me
o' dear heart of mine
corn with me
form with me
shape with me
tape with me
face with me
race with me
sense with me
nurse with me
o' dear heart of mine
nap with me
not a trap with me
this time
o' dear soul of mine
proud is me
rock with me
my heart
o' dear heart
of mine
map with me
wap with me
come with me
alone with me
stare with me
not to sick me
nor seek me
but stay with me
o' dear heart of mine
cross with me
boss with me
sail with me
rail with me
if i cry
cry with me
when i die
die with me
o' dear heart of mine
cold with me
fold with thee
rainbow with me
shine with me
rise with me
fall with me
stay with me
o' dear heart of mine
share
and care
with thee
o' dear heart of thine
**stay with me o' dear heart of mine** january 2012 ebook
(r) opn
(c) 09.01.2012
2159hrs
***ntema's unique poetry (nup)
(p) all rights of this piece are those of the poet.
poem by Onalethuso Petruss Ntema
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My son's Teacher
On this beautiful day
For all of a whole eight hours
My little boy I place
Dear Teacher, with trust in these hands of yours.
Teach him dear Teacher
The right way to grow
So when he is older
He will know the way he should go
By example, dear Teacher
In words that you say
By things that you do
Dear Teacher, show him the right way.
Graciousness let him see
And gracious words let him hear
Not the rude, the nasty
Keep belittling away from his ears.
Show him how firmness and love
Can difficult people or times gently handle
That screaming and beating
Become only a bully’s poor saddle.
I tell him dear Teacher
Solutions are thought
But the cane at school dear Teacher
Tells him by violence they are bought.
Dear Teacher of my little boy
Do please take care
To you he is one in a forty
To me he is one in a one, only!
poem by Dennisa Davidson
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Happy Birthday....
Dear Lord.... Good morning
Thanks for brightly December
Thanks for those smile
Thanks for nice neighborhood
Thanks for forgiveness
Thanks for a very special today
For a Birthday of my son's cousin
Dear Lord... Let The Holly Spirit
Bring our smile in our family
Let us have a a good respect for one to another
We can't be a hero without You, my dear Lord
Lord, let us put this heart on You
With share to others
With the unspoken of True Love
But with the act of love
Dear Lord.... You open our eyes
The winner of all battle are
People who can change lust in to true love
The winner of all games
are not the people who have a lot of money
But the winner are people who can always smile
when people insulted them
when people humiliated them
when people can give to others even though they are poor
Dear Lord.... I am honest to you
It's difficult to be a winner
But i try my best to love to people who hate and hurt me
I try to give without ask them to return
I pray for them Lord
So they have a pure heart to others too
Lord, i believe You will make us smile
I don't want to cry
I let go my sins
And i want to do it right
Only to make You happy
Lord... by saying these words
A peaceful feeling is really coming in to my heart
Keep my heart always clean from any sin
Amen..
Santa Fe
Santa-fe,
Dear, dear, dear, dear, dear santa-fe,
My woman needs it evryday,
She promised this a-lad shed stay,
Shes rollin up a lotta bread
To toss away.
Shes in santa-fe,
Dear, dear, dear, dear, dear santa-fe
Now shes opened up an old maids home,
Shes proud, but she needs to roam,
Shes gonna write herself a roadside poem,
About santa-fe.
Santa-fe,
Dear, dear, dear, dear santa-fe.
Since Im never gonna cease to roam,
Im never, ever far from home,
But Ill build a geodesic dome
And sail away.
Dont feel bad.
No, no, no, no, dont feel bad
Its the best food Ive ever had.
Makes me feel so glad
That shes cooking in a home-made pad
She never caught a cold so bad
When Im away.
Santa-fe,
Dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear santa-fe.
My shrimp boats in the bay
I wont have my nature this way,
And Im leanin on the wheel each day
To drift away
From santa-fe,
Dear, dear, dear, dear, dear santa-fe.
My sister looks good at home,
Shes lickin on an ice cream cone,
Shes packin her big white comb,
What does it weigh?
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To A Lady Who Commanded Me To Send Her An Account In Verse
How I succeed, you kindly ask;
Yet set me on a grievous Task,
When you oblige me to rehearse,
The Censures past upon my Verse.
Tho' I with Pleasure may relate,
That many, truly good, and great,
With candid Eye my Lines survey,
And smile upon the artless Lay;
To those with grateful Heart I bend --
But your Commands I must attend.
SERVILLA cries, I hate a Wit;
Women should to their Fate submit,
Should in the Needle take Delight;
'Tis out of Character to write:
She may succeed among the Men;
They tell me, Swift subscribes for Ten;
And some say, Dorset does the same;
But she shall never have my Name:
Her Poetry has cost me dear;
When Lady Carteret was here,
The Widow Gordon got my Guinea;
For which I own myself a Ninny.
OLIVIA loses oft at Play;
So will not throw her Gold away.
Thus Silvia, of the haughty Tribe:
She never ask'd me to subscribe,
Nor ever wrote a Line on me,
I was no Theme for Poetry!
She rightly judg'd; I have no Taste --
For Womens Poetry, at least.
Then Fulvia made this sage Reply;
(And look'd with self--sufficient Eye
I oft have said, and say again,
Verses are only writ by Men;
I know a Woman cannot write;
I do not say this out of Spite;
Nor shall be thought, by those who know me,
To envy one so much below me.
SABINA, fam'd in Wisdom's School,
Allows I write--but am a Fool:
``What!--must our Sons be form'd by Rhyme?
``A fine Way to employ one's Time!''
ALBINO has no gold to waste,
Far gone in the Italian Taste:
He vows he must subscribe this Year,
To keep dear Carestini here;
Not from a narrow Party View;
He doats on Senesino too;
By Turns their Int'rest he'll espouse;
He's for the public Good, he vows;
A gen'rous Ardor fires his Breast.
Hail, Britain, in such Patriots blest!
Says Belvidera, Since a Wit
Or Friend or Foe alike will hit,
Deliver me from Wits, I say;
Grant Heav'n, they ne'er may cross my Way!
Besides, I oft have heard it hinted,
Her Poems never will be printed:
Her Sickness is a Feint, no doubt,
To keep her Book from coming out.
Of Wit, says Celia, I'll acquit her;
Then archly fell into a Titter.
A Female Bard! Pulvillio cries;
'Tis possible she may be wise;
But I could never find it yet,
Tho' oft in Company we met:
She talks just in the common Way:
Sure Wits their Talents should display;
Their Language surely should be bright,
Before they should pretend to write:
I'll ne'er subscribe for Books, says he;
'Fore Gad, it looks like Pedantry.
High--born Belinda loves to blame;
On Criticism founds her Fame:
When--e'er she thinks a Fault she spies
How Pleasure sparkles in her Eyes!
Call it not Poetry, she says;
No -- Call it Rhyming, if you please:
Her Numbers might adorn a Ring,
Or serve along the Streets to sing:
Stella and Flavia's well enough;
What else I saw, was stupid Stuff;
Nor Love nor Satire in her Lays,
Insipid! neither pain nor please:
I promis'd once to patronize her;
But on Reflection, I was wiser:
Yet I subscrib'd among the rest;
I love to carry on a Jest.
BELINDA thus her Anger shows,
Nor tells the World, from whence it flows:
With more Success to wound my Lays,
She gilds the Dart with other Praise:
To her own Breast I leave the Fair
Convinc'd I stand acquitted there.
AMANDA, your Commands, you see,
Tho' grievous, are obey'd by me.
What my Friends told me had been said,
Just as it came into my Head,
No matter for the Place or Time,
To shew your Pow'r, I tag with Rhyme.
Now let some News salute your Ear,
Tho' I have weary'd you, I fear:
Know, --- has Vengeance vow'd,
And in the Furies Temple bow'd:
He but suspends his Wrath, he says,
Till he can criticise my Lays.
Malice, thy Rancour I expect,
And shall return it--with Neglect:
Go on, display your treasur'd Rage;
Invectives shall not blot my Page:
What real Faults you note, I'll mend:
Proceed, your Efforts I attend;
Taught early, Dryden, by thy Song,
They ne'er forgive, who do the Wrong.
Now to the Muse I bid Adieu;
Nor rail at her, as Poets do:
Protected by the Good and Great,
I'll not repine, but bless my Fate.
You, Madam, who your Sex adorn,
Who Malice and Detraction scorn,
Who with superior Sense are bless'd,
Of ev'ry real Worth possess'd;
With Eye indulgent view my Lays:
You know to blame, but love to praise:
You know my Faults, and know beside,
I want not to be mortify'd.
One Merit I presume to boast,
And dare to plead but one at most:
The Muse I never have debas'd;
My Lays are innocent at least;
Were ever ardently design'd
To mend and to enlarge the Mind.
This must be own'd a virtuous Aim.
The Praise of Wit--let others claim.
poem by Mary Barber
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The Ringlet
OH! treasured thus by passion's slave,
Dear relic of the bygone year;
Say, what remains of her who gave?
The vain regret--the useless tear.
The clasping hands--the throbbing brow--
The murmuring of that shadowy word,
To which had answered once--oh! now,
Why is that light quick step unheard?
What in those syllables is found,
That such a start of woe can claim?
A word is but an empty sound,--
Alas! it is--it was--her name!
It was--yes, she was once! as gay,
As full of life, as aught that lives;
The breath--the life--hath passed away,
But not the pang her memory gives.
Bright tress! thy beauty bringeth now
A thousand dreams of rapture gone;
Her sunny eyes, her radiant brow,
The low, light laughter of her tone.
Gazing on thee, again she stands
Before me, as in days of old;
With all her young head's shining bands,
And all its wavy curls of gold.
Till as I view thee, silken tress,
I feel within my suffering heart,--
'Tis all which now my sight can bless,
All that of her will not depart.
Oh! thou that wert life's dearest prize,
That now art but a thought of pain;
Why do thy tones--thy laughing eyes--
Rise up to wring my soul again?
I roam in vain:--the sun that beams
Is still the sun we looked upon;
My hand, my lonely hand, in dreams,
Seeks still for thine to clasp its own.
My heart resists all time--all change,
And finds no other form so dear.
My memory, wheresoe'er I range,
Clings to the spot where thou wert near.
Change!--thou wert all life's scenery:
To me, the billowy, bounding wave--
The wide green earth--the far blue sky,
Form but the landscape of thy grave!
Oh! bitter is their boon of life
Who cannot hope--who may not die--
I linger in a world of strife,
Whilst thou art in the happy sky!
I envy thee the peace thou hast,
And, but 'tis sin, the knee would bow,
That He who made thee all thou wast,
Would make me all--that thou art now!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Wish You Were Here
I sent you a postcard
Thought it would be funny
Would have sent a souvenir
But they took all my money
It's pretty warm down here but it ain't sunny
And I'm having a hell of a time, my dear
Wish you were here
I tried to call you
I tried to call you
Long distance operators that only stall you
Besides the damn rates are so high
They just appall you
And I'm having a hell of a time, my dear
Wish you were here
And I'm having a hell of a time, my dear
Wish you were here
It started out a nice vacation
Left the station right on time
Can't get a ticket to get me home, dear
They just don't have too many flights from twilight zone, dear
So don't forget to feed my cats
Spot and Jerome, dear
And I'm having a hell of a time, my dear
Wish you were here
Having a hell of a time, my dear
Wish you were here
Having a hell of a time, my dear
Wish you were here
Seeing all the sights here
I'm getting lonely
I'd show you all the film I took if they would only
Let me go home
Dear, sincerely
I'm having a hell of a time, my dear
Wish you were here
I'm having a hell of a time, my dear
Wish you were here
I'm having a hell of a time, my dear
Wish you were here
I'm having a hell of a time, my dear
Wish you were here
I'm having a hell of a time, my dear
Wish you were here
I'm having a hell of a time, my dear
Wish you were here
song performed by by Alice Cooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A School Is So Not Cool
School Is Not So Cool
School, School, School,
A school is not cool
We're here 5 days a week
8 hours a day.
School, School, School,
A school is not cool.
People laugh when we fall
we just have to make a call.
School, School, School
A school is not cool.
We have to work hard to get good grades
I'm not going to do it no more
I do it every day.
We can’t go on the grass
We can’t bother another class
We can’t save spots at lunch
We have to go as a bunch.
We have 3 minutes in the hall
I'm always late what a ball.
We have to pay attention
if not we get detention.
School, School, School,
A school is not cool.
They have too many rules
they play us as fools
if we get A's
the parents jump Hip Hip Hooray.
If we get F's
we tell them we need to take a rest.
We always have homework
we never have class work
they have to many rules
they need to take it cool.
School, School, School,
A school is so not cool!
poem by Fahed Sharaf
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Verses Addressed To My Two Nephews
ON SAINT HELEN'S DAY, 1809.
DEAR Boys!--dismiss'd awhile from school,
From sober learning's thorny rule,--
The annual race of glory run,
The prize bestow'd, the laurels won,--
Ye leave the scientific dome,
While noisy rapture hails your home:
Home--cherish'd spot! whose magic power
Can charm with hope the studious hour;
And where the heart--however far--
Points, like the needle to its star!
And now, with many a fond oration,
Ye ask, to crown this dear vacation,
Saturnian time of sport and play,
A FÊTE !--to grace SAINT HELEN'S DAY !
But will the Saint propitious see
A Fête dear Boys! prepar'd for me?
I!--who her altar never sought,
An heretic! who idly thought
She liv'd alone in pagan fame,
And half forgot her sainted name!
But--since that name, entwin'd with palms,
The legend's deathless page embalms,
And since historic truth must own
Her crested votary fill'd a throne--
We'll lay our offerings at her shrine,
And call her, as she is, divine!
Then haste, dear Boys! and deck the bowers,
This chosen day, with festive flowers!
The votive bouquet joyful bring;
And bid your muse, on lofty wing,
The steep Parnassian summits climb,
And weave the tributary rhyme.
The soothing song which ye rehearse--
Though form'd of perishable verse,
And, like the bouquet , born to die--
Shall fill with tears affection's eye;
Shall touch, with eloquence confest,
The chords which vibrate in her breast!
Then hither bring the early friend,
With whom your bounding hearts unbend;
Till then, in vain the Fête prepared--
What Fête, unless by friendship shar'd?
Together, happy band! advance;
Together frame the sportive dance;
Together tread the mimic stage,
The TALMAS of another age;
And then, to crown this favor'd night,
Unquestion'd symbol of delight,
The soaring rocket swift shall rise,
And, sweeping, gild the midnight skies;
Bright wheels of fire shall rapid turn;
And suns, that soon must set, shall burn;
SAINT HELEN , with a smile, shall view
Her rites all paid in order due.
The Saint, become my patron now,
To her and you I breathe my vow:
Listen, dear Boys! nor take amiss
A lesson, with a parting kiss--
Your life has clos'd its baby span,
And childhood ripens into man:
On youth's gay threshold now ye tread;
The path unfolds, with roses spread,
That leads the unsuspecting guest
Where Pleasure holds her Circean feast;
With bosoms yet from evil free,
Now promise to the Saint and me,
Oft as the years, on circling wing,
This fond returning day shall bring,
While o'er the world ye lightly roam,
Far from the long-lost scene of home,
This day in Pleasure's course to pause,
This day let Reason plead her cause!
When come the years--for come they must--
When her ye love is laid in dust;
Her who for you has learn'd to prove
A mother's care--a mother's love!
From you all ill has sought to chase,
And fill a mother's vacant place:
Still on this day, to duty true,
Remember that she liv'd for you!
Ah! give her one recording sigh,
Nor pass this day with tearless eye!
Still may its chosen hours impart
The throb of virtue to the heart,
And be the talisman whose spell
Shall Passion's wild delirium quell;
Controul, with some good angel's power,
Seduction in her smiling hour.
This day, from all her wiles secure,
With nobler hopes, with purpose pure,
Resolve to feel that best delight
Reserv'd for those who live aright:
And thus, dear Boys! your tribute pay;
Thus consecrate SAINT HELEN'S DAY!
poem by Helen Maria Williams
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Children's Reply
We are little children,
That go to Sabbath school,
To hear of our Redeemer,
Likewise the golden rule.
We will try and do our duty,
To friends and parents dear,
We will try and do our duty,
Their loving hearts to cheer.
CHORUS:
We are little children,
That love to go to school,
We love to hear of Jesus,
And learn the golden rule.
We will love our parents,
With all our little hearts;
Yes, we will obey them,
We will not from duty part,
For oh, we know they love us,
Though wayward we may be --
Their heart it never changes,
From our little infancy.
We will love our schoolmates,
Likewise our teacher, dear,
For loving words of kindness
From them we often hear.
And we will not forget them,
Those friends so kind and true,
For in the ten commandments
They tell us what to do.
poem by Julia A Moore
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The Young Letter Writer
Dear Sir, Dear Madam, or Dear Friend,
With ease are written at the top;
When those two happy words are penned,
A youthful writer oft will stop,
And bite his pen, and lift his eyes
As if he thinks to find in air
The wished-for following words, or tries
To fix his thoughts by fixëd stare.
But haply all in vain-the next
Two words may be so long before
They'll come, the writer, sore perplext,
Gives in despair the matter o'er;
And when maturer age he sees
With ready pen so swift inditing,
With envy he beholds the ease
Of long-accustomed letter-writing.
Courage, young friend; the time may be
When you attain maturer age,
Some young as you are now may see
You with like ease glide down a page.
Even then when you, to years a debtor,
In varied phrase your meanings wrap,
The welcomest words in all your letter
May be those two kind words at top.
poem by Charles Lamb
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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School as it seems
A young fellow whose job was to sell balloons
looked with desire at uniform clad boys going to school
Unable to contain his feelings any longer
he told them with innocent envy how lucky they were'
The boys in reply laughed and laughed till they could no more
surprised, they told him how school was a big bore
and that they were rather called lucky rather than unlucky
because school was a punishment and how could one be happy
The boy sighed and shook his head from side to side
and exclaimed 'if i were in your place i'd have done more than just enjoy
How can you be unaware of the good fortune that surrounds you-
-friends wherever you see, teacherswho care about you,
four walls and a roof to protect you from the sun
thinking about the pain, you forgot about the fun
The boys words were true for he was wise,
the school boys thanked him for opening their eyes...........!
The Stockman's Last Bed
Be ye stockmen or no, to my story give ear.
Alas! for poor Jack, no more shall we hear
The crack of his stockwhip, his steed's lively trot,
His clear "Go ahead, boys," his jingling quart pot.
For we laid him where wattles their sweet fragrance shed,
And the tall gum trees shadow the stockman's last bed.
Whilst drafting one day he was horned by a cow.
"Alas!" cried poor Jack, "it's all up with me now,
For I never again shall my saddle regain,
Nor bound like a wallaby over the plain."
His whip it is silent, his dogs they do mourn,
His steed looks in vain for his master's return;
No friend to bemoan him, unheeded he dies;
Save Australia's dark sons, few know where he lies.
Now, stockman, if ever on some future day
After the wild mob you happen to stray,
Tread softly where wattles their sweet fragrance spread,
Where alone and neglected poor Jack's bones are laid.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Silly; Human Nature; Scary? ; Long: Mary's Pet
Mary was a little weird, a fact you'll soon agree.
And if this story sounds familiar, I hope you'll forgive me.
She attended Beavis Elementary, just around the block.
She left for school each school day, by eight a.m. by the clock.
Now one day was 'Bring a Pet to School With You Day'.....;
that could turn out hectic, but NOT tragic most would say.
After all, what could eight-year-olds bring to class that could break ANY rule? ?
(Soon, you'll find you are wrong, my friend. Mary was weird and cruel.)
She could have taken her lamb to school, as in the nursery rhyme.
Her classmates would enjoy it. The thought's almost sublime.
But what instead did Mary take from her home menagerie?
Something cold and sinister that would make even teachers flee!
When Mary got to school that day no one paid her any mind.
(She was weird of course.) That she appeared with no pet was fine.
The day progressed quite nicely with dogs and cats; even one rat.
But Mary fidgeted more than usual in the BACK ROW where she sat.
Now as I said there were lots of cats and dogs (and one guinea pig, some birds) :
that day the poor janitor was kept busy, sweeping up their turds.
Each child was given time in class, to show and talk about their pet,
but a half hour before the recess bell, Mary had not talked or shown one......yet!
When she was the last one left, who'd not stood at the teacher's desk,
the teacher, Mrs. Apple, called her up; she thought Mary was a PEST.
'Mary dear' (that's what Apple SAID, though it was NOT what she thought)
'you are now the last one, my dear, left to show us what you've brought.'
At that, with a smirk on her face, Mary reached for her cute rear;
one especially precocious boy thought 'her ass? ' with hope but also fear.
So Mary reached down the back of her skirt, and SLOWLY she did take....
a two foot long, glistening-black, hooded cobra snake.
The teacher fled; some children did too, but SOME were mesmerized.
They could NOT believe what Mary had brought though they saw it with their eyes.
The 'Day' was NOT as successful as the principal hoped it'd be.
Five classmates died of cobra bites. Three are still in comas. Hee hee.
(Nov.2012)
poem by Bri Edwards
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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School Is Not So Cool
School, School, School,
A school is not so cool
We're here 5 days a week
8 hours a day.
School, School, School,
A school is not so cool.
People laugh when we fall
we just have to make a call.
School, School, School
A school is not so cool.
We have to work hard to get good grades
I'm not going to do it no more
I do it everyday.
We cant go on the grass
We cant bother another class
We cant save spots at lunch
We have to go as a bunch.
We have 3 minutes in the hall
I'm always late what a ball.
We have to pay attention
if not we get detention.
School, School, School,
A school is not so cool.
They have to many rules
they play us as fools
if we get A's
the parents jump Hip Hip Hooray.
If we get F's
we tell them we need to take a rest.
We always have homework
we never have classwork
they have to many rules
they need to take it cool.
School, School, School,
A school is so not cool!
poem by Chantel Braatz
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The Boys And Girls I Went To School With
The boys and girls I went to school with from me now far away
And even some of them not living now where the dead are they lay
And in distant flights of fancy I fancy I see them yet
And them I still remember and them I won't forget.
The boys and girls I went to school with the years have left them slow
And were I to meet them on the street perhaps them I''d not know
For the years they leave us looking older and there''s no turning back the hands of time
And those I went to school with like me now long past their prime.
Many of the boys and girls I went to school with live distant from Millstreet
And we well might be strangers now if by chance we did meet
In my mental pictures of them they have not aged a day
But reality is different and 'tis always been that way.
Many of the boys and girls I went to school with in Millstreet our Home -town
Have left that green old countryside where Finnow babbles down
For to join with the great Blackwater on it''s journey to the sea
Still their innocence and youthfulness will always be with me.
The changes keep on happening and nothing seems to last
Still we cling on to our memories and we can''t deny our past
And though we may now be strangers were we to meet again
The boys and girls I went to school with young in my thoughts remain.
poem by Francis Duggan
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