The Wooing
A YOUTH went faring up and down,
Alack and well-a-day.
He fared him to the market town,
Alack and well-a-day.
And there he met a maiden fair,
With hazel eyes and auburn hair;
His heart went from him then and there,
Alack and well-a-day.
She posies sold right merrily,
Alack and well-a-day;
But not a flower was fair as she,
Alack and well-a-day.
He bought a rose and sighed a sigh,
'Ah, dearest maiden, would that I
Might dare the seller too to buy!'
Alack and well-a-day.
She tossed her head, the coy coquette,
Alack and well-a-day.
'I'm not, sir, in the market yet,'
Alack and well-a-day.
'Your love must cool upon a shelf;
Tho' much I sell for gold and pelf,
I'm yet too young to sell myself,'
Alack and well-a-day.
The youth was filled with sorrow sore,
Alack and well-a-day;
And looked he at the maid once more,
Alack and well-a-day.
Then loud he cried, 'Fair maiden, if
Too young to sell, now as I live,
You're not too young yourself to give,'
Alack and well-a-day.
The little maid cast down her eyes,
Alack and well-a-day,
And many a flush began to rise,
Alack and well-a-day.
'Why, since you are so bold,' she said,
'I doubt not you are highly bred,
So take me!' and the twain were wed,
Alack and well-a-day.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Related quotes
Poor Old Pilgrim Misery ( Song )
Act I, scene 1, lines 141-60
Poor old pilgrim Misery,
Beneath the silent moon he sate,
A-listening to the screech owl's cry,
And the cold wind's goblin prate;
Beside him lay his staff of yew
With withered willow twined,
His scant grey hair all wet with dew,
His cheeks with grief ybrined;
And his cry it was ever, alack!
Alack, and woe is me.
Anon a wanton imp astray
His piteous moaning hears,
And from his bosom steals away
His rosary of tears:
With his plunder fled that urchin elf,
And hid it in your eyes,
Then tell me back the stolen pelf,
Give up the lawless prize;
Or your cry shall be ever, alack!
Alack, and woe is me.
poem by Thomas Lovell Beddoes
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Verses To John Tupper
DEAR Jack
Alack!
A few days back
I bound myself by oath to smack
My lips o'er sloshy tea, and attack
White, brown, or black
Bread, and vile jokes to crack,
This night with brutes whose knack
Would squeeze a pun in Syriac.
And for to—morrow, alack!
I have a model on my track,
So that I may not pack.
Of course I writhe upon the rack:
Though as to NATURE, Jack,
(Poor dear old hack!)
Touching sky, sun, stone, stick, and stack,
I guess I'm half a quack;
For whom ten lines of Browning whack
The whole of the Zodiac.
Nevertheless, alack!
Seeing this time I must send back
To Prince and Baron, Stephens and Jack
(Spec—cadav Rex, hic hæc hoc hac),
And to the Maniac,
The sack.
This much from D.G.R. (in black,
I.e., with coal—ash cloth—of—sack.)
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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The Story
They met each other in the glade –
She lifted up her eyes;
Alack the day! Alack the maid!
She blushed in swift surprise.
Alas! Alas! the woe that comes from lifting up the eyes.
The pail was full, the path was steep –
He reached to her his hand;
She felt her warm young pulses leap,
But did not understand.
Alas! Alas! the woe that comes from clasping hand with hand.
She sat beside him in the wood –
He wooed with words and sighs;
Ah! love in spring seems sweet and good,
And maidens are not wise.
Alas! Alas! the woe that comes from listing lovers’ sighs.
The summer sun shone fairly down,
The wind blew from the south;
As his blue eyes gazed in eyes of brown,
His kiss fell on her mouth.
Alas! Alas! the woe that comes from kisses on the mouth.
And now the autumn time is near,
The lover roves away,
With breaking heart and falling tear,
She sits the livelong day.
Alas! Alas! for breaking hearts when lovers rove away.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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King Borria Bungalee Boo
KING BORRIA BUNGALEE BOO
Was a man-eating African swell;
His sigh was a hullaballoo,
His whisper a horrible yell -
A horrible, horrible yell!
Four subjects, and all of them male,
To BORRIA doubled the knee,
They were once on a far larger scale,
But he'd eaten the balance, you see
('Scale' and 'balance' is punning, you see).
There was haughty PISH-TUSH-POOH-BAH,
There was lumbering DOODLE-DUM-DEY,
Despairing ALACK-A-DEY-AH,
And good little TOOTLE-TUM-TEH -
Exemplary TOOTLE-TUM-TEH.
One day there was grief in the crew,
For they hadn't a morsel of meat,
And BORRIA BUNGALEE BOO
Was dying for something to eat -
'Come, provide me with something to eat!
'ALACK-A-DEY, famished I feel;
Oh, good little TOOTLE-TUM-TEH,
Where on earth shall I look for a meal?
For I haven't no dinner to-day! -
Not a morsel of dinner to-day!
'Dear TOOTLE-TUM, what shall we do?
Come, get us a meal, or, in truth,
If you don't, we shall have to eat you,
Oh, adorable friend of our youth!
Thou beloved little friend of our youth!'
And he answered, 'Oh, BUNGALEE BOO,
For a moment I hope you will wait, -
TIPPY-WIPPITY TOL-THE-ROL-LOO
Is the Queen of a neighbouring state -
A remarkably neighbouring state.
'TIPPY-WIPPITY TOL-THE-ROL-LOO,
She would pickle deliciously cold -
And her four pretty Amazons, too,
Are enticing, and not very old -
Twenty-seven is not very old.
'There is neat little TITTY-FOL-LEH,
There is rollicking TRAL-THE-RAL-LAH,
There is jocular WAGGETY-WEH,
There is musical DOH-REH-MI-FAH -
There's the nightingale DOH-REH-MI-FAH!'
So the forces of BUNGALEE BOO
Marched forth in a terrible row,
And the ladies who fought for QUEEN LOO
Prepared to encounter the foe -
This dreadful, insatiate foe!
But they sharpened no weapons at all,
And they poisoned no arrows - not they!
They made ready to conquer or fall
In a totally different way -
An entirely different way.
With a crimson and pearly-white dye
They endeavoured to make themselves fair,
With black they encircled each eye,
And with yellow they painted their hair
(It was wool, but they thought it was hair).
And the forces they met in the field:-
And the men of KING BORRIA said,
'Amazonians, immediately yield!'
And their arrows they drew to the head -
Yes, drew them right up to the head.
But jocular WAGGETY-WEH
Ogled DOODLE-DUM-DEY (which was wrong),
And neat little TITTY-FOL-LEH
Said, 'TOOTLE-TUM, you go along!
You naughty old dear, go along!'
And rollicking TRAL-THE-RAL-LAH
Tapped ALACK-A-DEY-AH with her fan;
And musical DOH-REH-MI-FAH
Said, 'PISH, go away, you bad man!
Go away, you delightful young man!'
And the Amazons simpered and sighed,
And they ogled, and giggled, and flushed,
And they opened their pretty eyes wide,
And they chuckled, and flirted, and blushed
(At least, if they could, they'd have blushed).
But haughty PISH-TUSH-POOH-BAH
Said, 'ALACK-A-DEY, what does this mean?'
And despairing ALACK-A-DEY-AH
Said, 'They think us uncommonly green!
Ha! ha! most uncommonly green!'
Even blundering DOODLE-DUM-DEY
Was insensible quite to their leers,
And said good little TOOTLE-TUM-TEH,
'It's your blood we desire, pretty dears -
We have come for our dinners, my dears!'
And the Queen of the Amazons fell
To BORRIA BUNGALEE BOO, -
In a mouthful he gulped, with a yell,
TIPPY-WIPPITY TOL-THE-ROL-LOO -
The pretty QUEEN TOL-THE-ROL-LOO.
And neat little TITTY-FOL-LEH
Was eaten by PISH-POOH-BAH,
And light-hearted WAGGETY-WEH
By dismal ALACK-A-DEY-AH -
Despairing ALACK-A-DEY-AH.
And rollicking TRAL-THE-RAL-LAH
Was eaten by DOODLE-DUM-DEY,
And musical DOH-REH-MI-FAH
By good little TOOTLE-DUM-TEH -
Exemplary TOOTLE-TUM-TEH!
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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The Giddy Girl
A giddy young maiden with nimble feet,
Heigh-ho! alack and alas!
Declared she would far rather dance than eat,
And the truth of it came to pass.
For she danced all day and she danced all night;
She danced till the green earth faded white;
She danced ten partners out of breath;
She danced the eleventh one quite to death;
And still she redowaed up and down-
The giddiest girl in town.
With one, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three-kick;
Chassée back, chassée back, whirl around quick.
The name of this damsel ended with E-
Heigh-ho! alack and a-day!
And she was as fair as a maiden need be,
Till she danced her beauty away.
She danced her big toes out of joint;
She danced her other toes all to a point;
She danced out slipper and boot and shoe;
She danced till the bones of her feet came through.
And still she redowaed, waltzed and whirled-
The giddiest girl in the world.
With one, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three-kick;
Chassée back, chassée back, whirl around quick.
Now the end of my story is sad to relate-
Heigh-ho! and away we go!
For this beautiful maiden's final fate
Is shrouded in gloom and woe.
She danced herself into a patent top;
She whirled and whirled till she could not stop;
She danced and bounded and sprang so far,
That she stuck at last on a pointed star;
And there she must dance till the Judgment Day,
And after it, too, for she danced away
Her soul, you see, so she has no place anywhere out of space,
With her one, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three-kick;
Chassée back, chassée back, whirl about quick.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Ballade De Marguerite
(NORMANDE.)
I AM weary of lying within the chase
When the knights are meeting in market-place.
Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town
Lest the hooves of the war-horse tread thee down.
But I would not go where the Squires ride,
I would only walk by my Lady's side.
Alack! and alack! thou art over bold,
A Forester's son may not eat off gold.
Will she love me the less that my Father is seen,
Each Martinmas day in a doublet green?
Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie,
Spindle and loom are not meet for thee.
Ah, if she is working the arras bright
I might ravel the threads by the fire-light.
Perchance she is hunting of the deer,
How could you follow o'er hill and meer?
Ah, if she is riding with the court,
I might run beside her and wind the morte.
Perchance she is kneeling in S. Denys,
(On her soul may our Lady have gramercy!)
Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle,
I might swing the censer and ring the bell.
Come in my son, for you look sae pale,
The father shall fill thee a stoup of ale.
But who are these knights in bright array?
Is it a pageant the rich folks play?
'Tis the King of England from over sea,
Who has come unto visit our fair countrie.
But why does the curfew toll sae low
And why do the mourners walk a-row?
O 'tis Hugh of Amiens my sister's son
Who is lying stark, for his day is done.
Nay, nay, for I see white lilies clear,
It is no strong man who lies on the bier.
O 'tis old Dame Jeannette that kept the hall,
I knew she would die at the autumn fall.
Dame Jeannette had not that gold-brown hair,
Old Jeannette was not a maiden fair.
O 'tis none of our kith and none of our kin,
(Her soul may our Lady assoil from sin!)
But I hear the boy's voice chaunting sweet,
'Elle est morte, la Marguerite.'
Come in my son and lie on the bed,
And let the dead folk bury their dead.
O mother, you know I loved her true:
O mother, hath one grave room for two?
poem by Oscar Wilde
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Mysticism.
Uri Geller
bend me a fork
so’s I may
eat round corners.
For I will meet
On the corner of the street
A comely maid
With dainty feet
And midnight eyes
And raven hair
And if without a glance
She will by me pass
I’ll cry aloud
Alack!
Alas!
And without turning
the corner I
could fork her
in the ass.
poem by Frederick Boslough
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Ballade De Marguerite (Normande)
I am weary of lying within the chase
When the knights are meeting in market-place.
Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town
Lest the hoofs of the war-horse tread thee down.
But I would not go where the Squires ride,
I would only walk by my Lady's side.
Alack! and alack! thou art overbold,
A Forester's son may not eat off gold.
Will she love me the less that my Father is seen
Each Martinmas day in a doublet green?
Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie,
Spindle and loom are not meet for thee.
Ah, if she is working the arras bright
I might ravel the threads by the fire-light.
Perchance she is hunting of the deer,
How could you follow o'er hill and mere?
Ah, if she is riding with the court,
I might run beside her and wind the morte.
Perchance she is kneeling in St. Denys,
(On her soul may our Lady have gramercy!)
Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle,
I might swing the censer and ring the bell.
Come in, my son, for you look sae pale,
The father shall fill thee a stoup of ale.
But who are these knights in bright array?
Is it a pageant the rich folks play?
'T is the King of England from over sea,
Who has come unto visit our fair countrie.
But why does the curfew toll sae low?
And why do the mourners walk a-row?
O 't is Hugh of Amiens my sister's son
Who is lying stark, for his day is done.
Nay, nay, for I see white lilies clear,
It is no strong man who lies on the bier.
O 't is old Dame Jeannette that kept the hall,
I knew she would die at the autumn fall.
Dame Jeannette had not that gold-brown hair,
Old Jeannette was not a maiden fair.
O 't is none of our kith and none of our kin,
(Her soul may our Lady assoil from sin!)
But I hear the boy's voice chaunting sweet,
'Elle est morte, la Marguerite.'
Come in, my son, and lie on the bed,
And let the dead folk bury their dead.
O mother, you know I loved her true:
O mother, hath one grave room for two?
poem by Oscar Wilde
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There was an Old Man of Jamaica,
Who suddenly married a Quaker;
But she cried out, 'Alack!
I have married a black!'
Which distressed that Old Man of Jamaica
quote by by Edward Lear
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The Sceptic
My Father Christmas passed away
When I was barely seven.
At twenty-one, alack-a-day,
I lost my hope of heaven.
Yet not in either lies the curse:
The hell of it's because
I don't know which loss hurt the worse --
My God or Santa Claus.
poem by Robert William Service
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Redivivus
To-day I took old rhymes that I had written.
And read them through, each one unto the end:
When with a swift nostalgia was I smitten,
As with sad memories of some old friend
Some happy, wayward man I used to know
Long since. Alas! (And, by the way, heigh-ho!)
All his, it seemed, these sudden, cheerful spasms
Of humor poured from an untroubled mind,
These old ambitions, old enthusiasms,
When all the world seemed true, and men most kind:
When roseate skies were never tinged with grey.
Ah woe! (And, so to speak, alack-a-day!)
All his these views so unsophisticated.
These thoughts so innocent and yet so wise.
Such minds as mine have never contemplated
A world so free of guile, so free of lies,
A world of woe and wickedness so free,
Of misery! (And, as it were, ah me!)
Not mine this intricate, yet careless weaving
Of joyous rhymes? Not mine this happy twist?
Surely not mine? 'Tis far beyond believing!
Such songs come from some youthful optimist
Who gaily danced along life's primrose way,
And yet - (Well, once again, alack-a-day!)
Yet they are mine, these merry, lilting phrases.
Never again shall I pen such sweet lays!
Never again shall I...But why the blazes
Shouldn't I? (Odds fish! and spare me days!)
Why shouldn't I? The time is surely ripe
For verses far surpassing this old tripe!
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Youth Sings A Song Of Rosebuds
Since men grow diffident at last,
And care no whit at all,
If spring be come, or the fall be past,
Or how the cool rains fall,
I come to no flower but I pluck,
I raise no cup but I sip,
For a mouth is the best of sweets to suck;
The oldest wine's on the lip.
If I grow old in a year or two,
And come to the querulous song
Of 'Alack and aday' and 'This was true,
And that, when I was young,'
I must have sweets to remember by,
Some blossom saved from the mire,
Some death-rebellious ember I
Can fan into a fire.
poem by Countee Cullen
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After Hearing Robin Hood
The songs of Sherwood Forest
Are lilac-sweet and clear;
The virile rhymes of merrier times
Sound fair upon mine ear.
Sweet is their sylvan cadence
And sweet their simple art.
The balladry of the greenwood tree
Stirs memories in my heart.
O braver days and elder
With mickle valor dight,
How ye bring back the time, alack!
When Harry Smith could write!
poem by Franklin P. Adams
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A Belloc IV
Take no councils from the east:
old Eden was the place,
remember, where in arrogance
our parents fell from grace.
The east is where the sun crops up-
the young and callow sun
that friend and foe alike alack
so goldenly smiles on.
Yeh, so he rises in the east
and yes, his beams are pretty
but those that truck in such sweet yeast
shall bank but scorn and pity.
And, though he rises in the east
remember, mum, the west
is where, day done, his work complete,
he comes at last to rest.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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On a Wet Day
As I walked thinking through a little grove,
Some girls that gathered flowers came passing me,
Saying -- "Look here! look there!" delightedly.
"O here it is!" "What's that?" "A lily? love!"
"And there are violets!"
"Farther for roses! O the lovely pets!
The darling beauties! O the nasty thorn!
Look here, my hand's all torn!"
"What's that that jumps?" "O don't! It's a grasshopper!"
"Come, run! come, run!
Here's bluebells!" "O what fun!"
"Not that way! Stop her!"
"Yes! this way!" Pluck them then!"
"O, I've found mushrooms! O look here!" "O, I'm
Quite sure that farther on we'll get wild thyme."
"O, we shall stay too long; it's going to rain;
There's lightning; O! there's thunder!"
"O shan't we hear the vesper bell? I wonder."
"Why, it's not nones, you silly little thing!
And don't you hear the nightingales that sing --
Fly away, O die away?"
"O, I hear something; hush!"
"Why, where? what is it then?" "Ah! in that bush."
So every girl here knocks it, shakes and shocks it:
Till with the stir they make
Out scurries a great snake.
"O Lord! O me! Alack! Ah me! Alack!"
They scream, and then all run and scream again,
And then in heavy drops comes down the rain.
Each running at the other in a fright,
Each trying to get before the other, and crying,
And flying, and stumbling, tumbling, wrong or right; --
One sets her knee
There where her foot should be;
One has her hands and dress
All smothered up with mud in a fine mess;
And one gets trampled on by two or three.
What's gathered is let fall
About the wood, and not picked up at all.
The wreaths of flowers are scattered on the ground,
And still as, screaming, hustling, without rest,
They run this way and that and round and round,
She thinks herself in luck who runs the best.
I stood quite still to have a perfect view,
And never noticed till I got wet through.
poem by Franco Sacchetti
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Passing The Buck
Whatever the task that comes your way,
Just take it as part of your luck.
Look it right square in the eyes, and say,
'This is
my
task, I'll do it to-day':
Don't pass the buck.
Oh! whether you cook, or whether you fight,
Or whether you trundle a truck,
Just tackle your job and do it right:
Don't pass the buck.
The wheels of the earth have gone, alack!
Deep into war's mire and muck.
If you want to put it again on its track,
Don't shift your load on another man's back:
Don't pass the buck.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Pessimist
1 Nothing to do but work,
2 Nothing to eat but food,
3 Nothing to wear but clothes
4 To keep one from going nude.
5 Nothing to breathe but air
6 Quick as a flash 't is gone;
7 Nowhere to fall but off,
8 Nowhere to stand but on.
9 Nothing to comb but hair,
10 Nowhere to sleep but in bed,
11 Nothing to weep but tears,
12 Nothing to bury but dead.
13 Nothing to sing but songs,
14 Ah, well, alas! alack!
15 Nowhere to go but out,
16 Nowhere to come but back.
17 Nothing to see but sights,
18 Nothing to quench but thirst,
19 Nothing to have but what we've got;
20 Thus thro' life we are cursed.
21 Nothing to strike but a gait;
22 Everything moves that goes.
23 Nothing at all but common sense
24 Can ever withstand these woes.
poem by Benjamin Franklin King
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The Mad Maid's Song
Good morrow to the day so fair;
Good morning, sir, to you;
Good morrow to mine own torn hair,
Bedabbled with the dew.
Good morning to this primrose too;
Good morrow to each maid;
That will with flowers the tomb bestrew
Wherein my Love is laid.
Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me,
Alack and well-a-day!
For pity, sir, find out that bee,
Which bore my Love away.
I'll seek him in your bonnet brave;
I'll seek him in your eyes;
Nay, now I think they've made his grave
I' th' bed of strawberries.
I'll seek him there; I know, ere this,
The cold, cold earth doth shake him;
But I will go, or send a kiss
By you, sir, to awake him.
Pray hurt him not; though he be dead,
He knows well who do love him;
And who with green turfs rear his head,
And who do rudely move him.
He's soft and tender, pray take heed,
With bands of cowslips bind him,
And bring him home;--but 'tis decreed
That I shall never find him.
poem by Robert Herrick
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Disillusion
When fires have burnt your forest bare and black,
And you are parched and dizzy, and search in vain
For pools in dust unvisited of rain,
And shamble, lost, along a shimmering track,
This is the comfort of the world: “Alack!
So youth’s illusions die, that we may gain
Wisdom and strength to face our lifelong pain,
The truth, from which no man shall turn him back.”
Falter for no such melancholy lies,
For by one holy touch the spirit is healed
To know its treasure of sight and sound and scent;
Veil after veil the earthborn fogs arise,
Star beyond star the heavens are then revealed,
And truth is fair in love’s enlightenment.
poem by John Le Gay Brereton
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Contrasts
I see the tall church steeples,
They reach so far, so far,
But the eyes of my heart see the world’s great mart,
Where the starving people are.
I hear the church bells ringing
Their chimes on the morning air;
But my soul’s sad ear is hurt to hear
The poor man’s cry of despair.
Thicker and thicker the churches,
Nearer and nearer the sky –
But alack for their creeds while the poor man’s needs
Grow deeper as years roll by.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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