Andrew M’Crie
from the unpublished remains of Edgar Allan Poe
It was many and many a year ago,
In a city by the sea,
That a man there lived whom I happened to know
By the name of Andrew M'Crie;
And this man he slept in another room,
But ground and had meals with me.
I was an ass and he was an ass,
In this city by the sea;
But we ground in a way which was more than a grind,
I and Andrew M'Crie;
In a way that the idle semis next door
Declared was shameful to see.
And this was the reason that, one dark night,
In this city by the sea,
A stone flew in at the window, hitting
The milk-jug and Andrew M'Crie.
And once some low-bred tertians came,
And bore him away from me,
And shoved him into a private house
Where the people were having tea.
Professors, not half so well up in their work,
Went envying him and me—
Yes!—that was the reason, I always thought
(And Andrew agreed with me),
Why they ploughed us both at the end of the year,
Chilling and killing poor Andrew M'Crie.
But his ghost is more terrible far than the ghosts
Of many more famous than he—
Of many more gory than he—
And neither visits to foreign coasts,
Nor tonics, can ever set free
Two well-known Profs from the haunting wraith
Of the injured Andrew M'Crie.
For at night, as they dream, they frequently scream,
'Have mercy, Mr. M'Crie!'
And at morn they will rise with bloodshot eyes,
And the very first thing they will see,
When they dare to descend to their coffee and rolls,
Sitting down by the scuttle, the scuttle of coals,
With a volume of notes on its knee,
Is the spectre of Andrew M'Crie.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Related quotes
Andrew Jones
I hate that Andrew Jones; he'll breed
His children up to waste and pillage.
I wish the press-gang or the drum
With its tantara sound would come,
And sweep him from the village!
I said not this, because he loves
Through the long day to swear and tipple;
But for the poor dear sake of one
To whom a foul deed he had done,
A friendless man, a travelling cripple!
For this poor crawling helpless wretch,
Some horseman who was passing by,
A penny on the ground had thrown;
But the poor cripple was alone
And could not stoop--no help was nigh.
Inch-thick the dust lay on the ground
For it had long been droughty weather;
So with his staff the cripple wrought
Among the dust till he had brought
The half-pennies together.
It chanced that Andrew passed that way
Just at the time; and there he found
The cripple in the mid-day heat
Standing alone, and at his feet
He saw the penny on the ground.
He stopped and took the penny up:
And when the cripple nearer drew,
Quoth Andrew, "Under half-a-crown,
What a man finds is all his own,
And so, my Friend, good-day to you."
And 'hence' I said, that Andrew's boys
Will all be trained to waste and pillage;
And wished the press-gang, or the drum
With its tantara sound, would come
And sweep him from the village.
poem by William Wordsworth
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That
That
Sense of
Loss
I can see
In my
Eyes…
As the
Mirror
Reflects
My
Silent
Crie s…
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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300: Rise of an Empire
Eva Green, Rodrigo Santoro, Sullivan Stapleton, Lena Headey, David Wenham, Jack O'Connell, Caitlin Carmichael, Nancy McCrumb, Mark Killeen, Andrew Tiernan, Andrew Pleavin, Yigal Naor, Hans Matheson
from 300: Rise of an Empire (2014)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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300: Rise of an Empire [trailer 2]
Eva Green, Rodrigo Santoro, Sullivan Stapleton, Lena Headey, David Wenham, Jack O'Connell, Caitlin Carmichael, Nancy McCrumb, Mark Killeen, Andrew Tiernan, Andrew Pleavin, Yigal Naor, Hans Matheson
from 300: Rise of an Empire (2014)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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300: Rise of an Empire [trailer 3]
Eva Green, Rodrigo Santoro, Sullivan Stapleton, Lena Headey, David Wenham, Jack O'Connell, Caitlin Carmichael, Nancy McCrumb, Mark Killeen, Andrew Tiernan, Andrew Pleavin, Yigal Naor, Hans Matheson
from 300: Rise of an Empire (2014)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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My Feelings
Sometimes I think when I die no one will crie.
I'll just go down knowing no loved me.
I'll know I never made anyone happy.
All I did was make people believe I wasn't going to be something.
all they believed was oh she'll never be nothing.
Sometimes I believe that i'll be nothing more than a diseased rat.
I might get a's in school.
But when it comes to life i'm nothing but a fool.
And now as i die and go down under.
all I do is wonder.
poem by Jean Pullman
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Alice Sick
SICK, Alice grown, and fearing dire event,
Some friend advised a servant should be sent
Her confessor to bring and ease her mind;--
Yes, she replied, to see him I'm inclined;
Let father Andrew instantly be sought:--
By him salvation usually I'm taught.
A MESSENGER was told, without delay,
To take, with rapid steps, the convent way;
He rang the bell--a monk enquired his name,
And asked for what, or whom, the fellow came.
I father Andrew want, the wight replied,
Who's oft to Alice confessor and guide:
With Andrew, cried the other, would you speak?
If that's the case, he's far enough to seek;
Poor man! he's left us for the regions blessed,
And has in Paradise ten years confessed.
poem by La Fontaine
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My Cousin Rachel
Rachel Weisz, Sam Claflin, Holliday Grainger, Iain Glen, Andrew Knott, Poppy Lee Friar, Vicki Pepperdine, Andrew Havill
by Roger Michell from My Cousin Rachel (2017)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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My Cousin Rachel [trailer 2]
Rachel Weisz, Sam Claflin, Holliday Grainger, Iain Glen, Andrew Knott, Poppy Lee Friar, Vicki Pepperdine, Andrew Havill
by Roger Michell from My Cousin Rachel (2017)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Keith Of Ravelston
The murmur of the mourning ghost
That keeps the shadowy kine,
'O Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!'
Ravelston, Ravelston,
The merry path that leads
Down the golden morning hill,
And thro' the silver meads;
Ravelston, Ravelston,
The stile beneath the tree,
The maid that kept her mother's kine,
The song that sang she!
She sang her song, she kept her kine,
She sat beneath the thorn,
When Andrew Keith of Ravelston
Rode thro' the Monday morn.
His henchman sing, his hawk-bells ring,
His belted jewels shine;
O Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!
Year after year, where Andrew came,
Comes evening down the glade,
And still there sits a moonshine ghost
Where sat the sunshine maid.
Her misty hair is faint and fair,
She keeps the shadowy kine;
O Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!
I lay my hand upon the stile,
The stile is lone and cold,
The burnie that goes babbling by
Says naught that can be told.
Yet, stranger! here, from year to year,
She keeps her shadowy kine;
O Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!
Step out three steps, where Andrew stood -
Why blanch thy cheeks for fear?
The ancient stile is not alone,
'Tis not the burn I hear!
She makes her immemorial moan,
She keeps her shadowy kine;
O Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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A Nupial Eve (excerpt)
The murmur of the mourning ghost
That keeps the shadowy kine,
"Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!"
Ravelston, Ravelston,
The merry path that leads
Down the golden morning hill,
And thro' the silver meads;
Ravelston, Ravelston,
The stile beneath the tree,
The maid that kept her mother's kine,
The song that sang she!
She sang her song, she kept her kine,
She sat beneath the thorn,
When Andrew Keith of Ravelston
Rode thro' the Monday morn.
His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring,
His belted jewels shine!
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!
Year after year, where Andrew came,
Comes evening down the glade,
And still there sits a moonshine ghost
Where sat the sunshine maid.
Her misty hair is faint and fair,
She keeps the shadowy kine;
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!
I lay my hand upon the stile,
The stile is lone and cold,
The burnie that goes babbling by
Says nought that can be told.
Yet, stranger! here, from year to year,
She keeps her shadowy kine;
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!
Step out three steps, where Andrew stood--
Why blanch thy cheeks for fear?
The ancient stile is not alone,
'Tis not the burn I hear!
She makes her immemorial moan,
She keeps her shadowy kine;
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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He that cannot reason is a fool. He that will not is a bigot. He that dare not is a slave.
quote by Andrew Carnegie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Merry Andrew
Sly Merry Andrew, the last Southwark fair;
(At Bartholomew he did not much appear,
So peevish was the dict of the Mayor)
At Southwark, therefore, as his tricks he show'd,
To please our masters, and his friends the crowd,
A huge neat's tongue he in his right hand held,
His left was with a good black pudding fill'd.
With a grave look, in this odd equipage,
The clownish mimic traverses the stage:
Why, how now, Andrew! cries his brother droll,
To-day's conceit methinks is something dull.
Come on, Sir, to our worthy friends explain
What does your emblematic Worship mean?
Quoth Andrew, honest English let us speak;
Your emble - (what d'ye call it?) is Heathen Greek.
To tongue or pudding thou hast no pretence;
Learning thy talent is, but mine is sense.
That busy fool I was which thou art now,
Desirous to correct, not knowing how,
Blaming or praising things as I thought fit:
I for this conduct had what I deserved.
And dealing honestly was almost starved.
But thanks to my indulgent stars, I eat,
Since I have found the secret to be great.
O dearest Andrew, says the humble droll,
Henceforth may I obey and thou control;
Provided thou impart thy useful skill -
Bow then, says Andrew, and for once I will.-
Be of your patron's mind, whate'er he says;
Sleep very much; think little, and talk less:
Mind neither good nor bad, nor right nor wrong,
But eat your pudding, slave, and hold your tongue.
A reverend prelate stopp'd his couch-and-six
To laugh a little at our Andrew's tricks:
But when he heard him give this golden rule,
Drive on (he cried) this fellow is no fool.
poem by Matthew Prior
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It's no accident that the church and the graveyard stand side by side. The city of the dead sleeps encircled by the city of the living.
quote by Andrew Schneider
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Recall Back the Dread
Recall back the dread
The fear
Recall the incident
The head shaving
Of the year
I want to tell you
Truth filled with beauty and
Sing song rhyme
I want tell you
How strong and ready
I was
But it all would be a lie
This night
Quiet as any other
Was possessed with an
Angry daughter
Peace resting in snail motion
Sweating naked indecision
Bloody wasted off
J. Andrew's Merlot
Ready to quit
Confused through
Raining tears
Or was it the shower's
Steam which appeared?
In purple haze
The mind trampled
All emotional frustration
On this night
When every follicle mattered
Nightmares dominated in dance
This very night
Presently before
A Bald Crowning
Oh…
Loose my hair
Take it
Just as long as I have
A purple vined favorite
Of Mr. J. Andrew
poem by H.E. Brist
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Serene Saturday
Serene Saturday
It's Saturday
and I’m listening to the football
on the radio
It's Saturday
and I’m listening to the football
while slurping my coffee
and having a cigarette
It's not my team who are playing
they play tomorrow
I'm on the brink of falling asleep
but I’m fighting it
My leg is twitching, must be the coffee
I’ve drank too much of it today
Meanwhile my cigarette has burned out in the ashtray
The football has just finished as I wake up,
the classified results are being read out
I light up a cigarette and lie back with my eyes closed
and I remember my dream, 'I’ve had weirder' I think to myself
taking a drag of my cigarette
I wonder, should I get some beer tonight? Decisions, decisions,
yeah, I probably will, maybe cider, yeah, beer and cider...yeah
Andrew Matthews
01/05/2002
16: 26: 01
poem by Andrew Matthews
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If There Is Something
If there is something
That I might find
Look around corners
Try to find peace of mind, I say
Where would you go
If you were me?
Trying to keep a straight course is not easy
Somebody special
Looking at me
Same kind of reaction
Wanted to crie with me
Lived here and there
Its too easy to say
But the service just a game a game-ame-ame-ame
I would do anything for you
I would come all day
I would swim all the oceans blue hu
I would walk a thousand miles
Reveal my secrets
More than enough for me to share
I will put roses around the door
Sit in the garden
Growing potatoes by the score
Shake your head girl, with your ponytail
Takes me right back [when you were young]
Throw your precious gifts into the air
Watch them fall down [when you were young]
Your love - feel you put them on the ground
It use to fall apart [when you were young]
Your love - feel you put them on the ground
The hills were higher [when you were young]
Your love - feel you put them on the ground
The trees were taller then [when you were young]
Your love - feel you put them on the ground
The grass was greener [when you were young]
Your love could feel you with devotion
Used to walk upon [when you were young]
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Andrew Jackson
On the life of Andrew Jackson,
Now dear people I will write,
And in sketches, I will tell you
His career with great delight.
His career on earth is ended;
But his name is ever bright,
And his memory is cherished
As a great glorious knight.
The early life of Andrew Jackson,
Its marked in high renown,
As a lover of his country
He proved steadfastly profound,
Through kind teaching of his mother,
That patriot lady brave;
His mind strengthened by her wisdom,
Ere she sank into her grave.
Ah, in manhood, Andrew Jackson,
Was a daring fearless man;
With a strong iron will commanding,
He was loved throughout our land.
He was kind and generous hearted
In his military acts,
Yet was stubborn, while commanding,
And no courage did he lack.
At middle age, Andrew Jackson
Was a noble warlike man,
And was capable of handling
The army at his command.
You can see it by the battles
Of his Indian campaign,
Or the battle of New Orleans,
Where so many men were slain.
The dauntless energy of Jackson,
Oh, should never be forgot,
Or the battle of New Orleans,
Where he diligently fought.
Where he fought to save his country,
From the British fleets of fame;
Through coolness and courage
The victory he did gain.
As commander, Andrew Jackson
Was a soldier of great skill,
And he nobly done his duty
To his country, with good will.
Yet in life his acts were censured,
Ah, by men both great and small.
One the acts that made him trouble
Was the arresting of Judge Hall.
Oh, that act cost Andrew Jackson
Many heart pang in after life,
For he thought it was his duty
In that hard cruel strife
That his soldiers should obey him
And fulfill every command,
As he knew no other method,
He could save his native land.
The people loved Andrew Jackson,
"Old Hickory" was their friend.
As a President o'er our country
He proved faithful to the end.
His career on earth was ended
Eighteen Forty Five; is seen
As a star his name is shining
The "hero" of "New Orleans."
poem by Julia A Moore
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It is the same to me, whether I rot in the air or in the ground. The earth is the Lord's.
quote by Andrew Melville
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sir Toby Belch: She's a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me.
What o' that?
Sir Andrew: I was adored once too.
line from Twelfth Night, Act II, Scene 3 by William Shakespeare (1601)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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