The Salad. By Virgil
The winter night now well nigh worn away,
The wakeful cock proclaimed approaching day,
When Simulus, poor tenant of a farm
Of narrowest limits, heard the shrill alarm,
Yawned, stretched his limbs, and anxious to provide
Against the pangs of hunger unsupplied,
By slow degrees his tattered bed forsook,
And poking in the dark, explored the nook
Where embers slept with ashes heaped around,
And with burnt fingers'-ends the treasure found.
It chanced that from a brand beneath his nose
Sure proof of latent fire, some smoke arose;
When trimming with a pin the incrusted tow,
And stooping it towards the coals below,
He toils, with cheeks distended, to excite
The lingering flame, and gains at length a light.
With prudent heed he spreads his hand before
The quivering lamp, and opes his granary door.
Small was his stock, but taking for the day,
A measured stint of twice eight pounds away,
With these his mill he seeks. A shelf at hand,
Fixt in the wall, affords his lamp a stand:
Then baring both his arms, a sleeveless coat
He girds, the rough exuviae of a goat;
And with a rubber, for that use designed
Cleansing his mill within, begins to grind;
Each hand has its employ; labouring amain,
This turns the winch, while that supplies the grain.
The stone revolving rapidly, now glows,
And the bruised corn a mealy current flows;
While he, to make his heavy labour light,
Tasks oft his left hand to relieve his right;
And chants with rudest accent, to beguile
His ceaseless toil, as rude a strain the while.
And now, 'Dame Cybale, come forth!' he cries;
But Cybale, still slumbering, nought replies.
From Afric she, the swain's sole serving maid,
Whose face and form alike her birth betrayed;
With woolly locks, lips tumid, sable skin,
Wide bosom, udders flaccid, belly thin,
Legs slender, broad and most misshapen feet,
Chapped into chinks, and parched with solar heat,
Such, summoned oft, she came; at his command
Fresh fuel heaped, the sleeping embers fanned,
And made in haste her simmering skillet steam,
Replenished newly from the neighbouring stream.
The labours of the mill performed, a sieve
The mingled flour and bran must next receive,
Which shaken oft, shoots Ceres through refined,
And better dressed, her husks all left behind.
This done, at once, his future plain repast,
Unleavened, on a shaven board he cast,
The tepid lymph, first largely soaked it all,
Then gathered it with both hands to a ball,
And spreading it again with both hands wide,
With sprinkled salt the stiffened mass supplied;
At length, the stubborn substance, duly wrought,
Takes from his palms impressed the shape it ought,
Becomes an orb, and quartered into shares,
The faithful mark of just division bears.
Last, on his hearth it finds convenient space,
For Cybale before had swept the place,
And there, with tiles and embers overspread,
She leaves it -- reeking in its sultry bed.
Nor Similus, while Vulcan thus, alone,
His part performed, proves heedless of his own,
But sedulous, not merely to subdue
His hunger, but to please his palate too,
Prepares more savoury food. His chimney-side
Could boast no gammon, salted well, and dried,
And hooked behind him; but sufficient store
Of bundled anise, and a cheese it bore;
A broad round cheese, which, through its centre strung
With a tough broom-twig, in the corner hung;
The prudent hero therefore with address,
And quick despatch, now seeks another mess.
Close to his cottage lay a garden-ground,
With reeds and osiers sparely girt around;
Small was the spot, but liberal to produce,
Nor wanted aught that serves a peasant's use;
And sometimes even the rich would borrow thence,
Although its tillage was his sole expense.
For oft, as from his toils abroad he ceased,
Home-bound by weather or some stated feast,
His debt of culture here he duly paid,
And only left the plough to wield the spade.
He knew to give each plant the soil it needs,
To drill the ground, and cover close the seeds;
And could with ease compel the wanton rill
To turn, and wind, obedient to his will.
There flourished star-wort, and the branching beet,
The sorrel acid, and the mallow sweet,
The skirret, and the leek's aspiring kind,
The noxious poppy -- quencher of the mind!
Salubrious sequel of a sumptuous board,
The lettuce, and the long huge-bellied gourd;
But these (for none his appetite controlled
With stricter sway) the thrifty rustic sold;
With broom-twigs neatly bound, each kind apart,
He bore them ever to the public mart;
Whence, laden still, but with a lighter load,
Of each well earned, he took his homeward road,
Expending seldom, ere he quitted Rome,
His gains, in flesh-meat for a feast at home.
There, at no cost, on onions, rank and red,
Or the curled endive's bitter leaf, he fed;
On scallions sliced, or with a sensual gust
On rockets -- foul provocatives of lust;
Nor even shunned, with smarting gums, to press
Nasturtium, pungent face-distorting mess!
Some such regale now also in his thought,
With hasty steps his garden-ground he sought;
There delving with his hands, he first displaced
Four plants of garlick, large, and rooted fast;
The tender tops of parsley next he culls,
Then the old rue-bush shudders as he pulls,
And Coriander last to these succeeds,
That hands on slightest threads her trembling seeds.
Placed near his sprightly fire, he now demands
The mortar at his sable servant's hands;
When stripping all his garlick first, he tore
The exterior coats, and cast them on the floor,
Then cast away with like contempt the skin,
Flimsier concealment of the cloves within.
These searched, and perfect found, he one by one
Rinsed and disposed within the hollow stone;
Salt added, and a lump of salted cheese,
With his injected herbs he covered these,
And tucking with his left his tunic tight,
The garlick bruising first he soon expressed,
And mixed the various juices of the rest.
He grinds, and by degrees his herbs below
Lost in each other their own powers forego,
Nor wholly green appear, nor wholly white.
His nostrils oft the forceful fume resent;
He cursed full oft his dinner for its scent,
Or with wry faces, wiping as he spoke
The trickling tears, cried -- 'Vengeance on the smoke!'
The work proceeds: not roughly turns he now
The pestle, but in circles smoothe and slow;
With cautious hand that grudges what it spills,
Some drops of olive-oil he next instils;
Then vinegar with caution scarcely less;
And gathering to a ball the medley mess,
Last, with two fingers frugally applied,
Sweeps the small remnant from the mortar's side:
And thus complete in figure and in kind,
Obtains at length the Salad he designed.
And now black Cybale before him stands,
The cake drawn newly glowing in her hands;
He glad receives it, chasing far away
All fears of famine for the passing day;
His legs enclosed in buskins, and his head
In its tough casque of leather, forth he led,
And yoked his steers, a dull obedient pair,
Then drove afield, and plunged the pointed share.
poem by William Cowper
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Related quotes
The Song at Cock-Crow
1918 -- Ille autem iterum negavit.
The first time that Peter denied his Lord
He shrank from the cudgel, the scourge and the cord,
But followed far off to see what they would do,
Till the cock crew--till the cock crew--
After Gethsemane, till the cock crew!
The first time that Peter denied his Lord
'Twas only a maid in the palace who heard,
As he sat by the fire and warmed himself through.
Then the cock crew! Then the cock crew!
("Though also art one of them.") Then the cock crew!
The first time that Peter denied his Lord
He had neither the Throne, nor the Keys nor the Sword--
A poor silly fisherman, what could he do,
When the cock crew--when the cock crew--
But weep for his wickedness when the cock crew?
. . . . . .
The next time that Peter denied his Lord
He was Fisher of Men, as foretold by the Word,
With the Crown on his brow and the Cross on his shoe,
When the cock crew--when the cock crew--
In Flanders and Picardy when the cock crew!
The next time that Peter denied his Lord
'Twas Mary the Mother in Heaven Who heard,
She grieved for the maidens and wives that they slew
When the cock crew--when the cock crew--
At Tirmonde and Aerschott when the cock crew!
The next time that Peter denied his Lord
The Babe in the Manger awakened and stirred,
And He stretched out His arms for the playmates
He knew--
When the cock crew--when the cock crew--
But the waters had covered them when the cock crew!
The next time that Peter denied his Lord
'Twas Earth in her agony waited his word,
But he sat by the fire and naught would he do,
Though the cock crew--though the cock crew--
Over all Christendom, though the cock crew!
The last time that Peter denied his Lord,
The Father took from him the Keys and the Sword,
And the Mother and Babe brake his Kingdom in two,
When the cock crew--when the cock crew--
(Because of his wickedness) when the cock crew!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Poor Man
The hen has no breasts; poor cock.
The hen has no lips; poor cock.
The hen has no hair; poor cock.
The cock can rape hen; poor man.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Breeding Season Of The Spur Winged Plovers
The spur winged plovers breed in depths of Winter
And in the night you often hear them cry
Perhaps they scream at fox who is out hunting
As in the darkness he goes prowling by?
To where their eggs are far too close for comfort
Their alarm calls re-echo in the sky
And their shrill voices can be heard for some distance
As above their territory they scream and fly.
They do not waste their energy on nest building
And on the ground their green blotched eggs they lay
And in the breeding season they are wary
You hear them every night and every day.
When their chicks are young the plovers are quite fearless
And from their borders chase others away
They mob the currawongs and kites and kookaburras
And other birds who on their young might prey.
It is the breeding season of the spur winged plovers
And in the night their shrill voices you hear
Perhaps at fox out hunting they are screaming
As to where their eggs are he is prowling near.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Bed Bed Bed
The day is done
The sun is down
The curtains have been drawn
And darkness has descended over everything in town
The covers have been turned and I've got my pajamas on
I've had my fun
I've stretched and yawned and all is said and done
I'm going to bed
Bed bed bed bed bed
I've done so many things today
There's nothing left to do
I ate three meals, I rode my bike, I hung out with my friends
I did my chores, I watched TV, I practiced the guitar
I brushed my teeth, I read my book, and then I sat around
I'm going to bed
Bed bed bed bed bed
Moo
Moo
Moo
Moo
Oh it's pointless staying up for even twenty seconds more
When everything has happened and there's nothing else in store
The thing is now to lay my head down, close my eyes, and snore
And so to bed directly I go
The day is done
The sun is down
The curtains have been drawn
And darkness has descended over everything in town
The covers have been turned and I've got my pajamas on
I've had my fun
I've stretched and yawned and all is said and done
I'm going to bed
Bed bed bed bed bed
Bed
Bed bed bed bed bed
I'm going to bed
Bed bed bed bed bed bed bed bed bed
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If laws acting upon private interests can not always be avoided, they should be confined within the narrowest limits, and left wherever possible to the legislatures of the States.
quote by Martin Van Buren
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Mother of Three
Oh, to have a little farm,
A little hearth so warm and bright,
And three little boys all safe from harm
In from the winter night!
A little house with white-washed wall,
And thatched like any golden rick,
And the little boys within my call,
And they running so quick.
A garden and an apple tree,
And me so busy all the day,
And the little boys at home with me,
Merry out at their play.
There was a woman I've heard tell,
Whose three fine sons were killed. For sure
'Tis good to have them little and well
And just beyond your door.
This while back there is something wrong --
It may be that I miss the boys
Who filled the house the whole day long
With happy laughter and noise!
And often when I sit my lone
The sadness comes and lies on me
For the poor soul that has no son.
And me having the three!
And it's oh, to have the little farm
Under the golden thatch so bright,
And the little boys safe home from harm
Shut in with me at night!
poem by Katharine Tynan
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Winter night and the three little men
Winter Night and The Three Little Men.
The Fire burns bright,
While the woods turn to night.
The cold creeps in with sudden quickness
and trees set in sudden ice.
It is, suffice to say, that this is a cold Winter night.
The fire that night kept warm the three little Men
and cast a light that stayed the predators of that cold winter night.
The cold crept and the Wolves howled but all tried in vain
for the fire kept the three little men safe,
but men are lazy and some call them crazy.
All the same because that winter night was to
be the last for the little three men.
The three little men eyes drooped and finely closed
but the poor men forgot to tend the fire.
The fire went out with a flicker then a splutter
and Winter night crept in;
There was one witness that cold Winter night, the Moon.
Try as she could her brightness could not save the poor
little three Men, that cold Winter night.
Josiah, Lozier
poem by Josiah Lozier
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A Late Winter
Why is winter late this year?
Will it come or not, I fear?
Sometime it’s cloudy, sometimes sunny,
They play hide & seek, how funny!
All of sudden it is drizzling,
Then raining, then pouring,
Rain in Winter?
The seasons are in a scatter,
Its mid winter, what happens thereafter?
I feel little bit of cold
Is winter at the threshold?
Christmas is fast approaching,
but no sign of winter,
no festive feeling,
Can’t dream of a Christmas without winter,
Or a winter without Christmas.
Can’t dream of a hot Christmas night,
Or of a Christmas that is not white
If so, no shepherd will shiver out in cold,
No Angel will sing carols new or old
Baby Jesus will not be cold in the manger
No cattle will be in the shed for warmth any longer
No winter fairy tale will be sung,
No Silver Bells will be rung,
No Santa will come on his sleigh,
No Jingle Bells will be heard on the way
Christmas and Winter both go together
They are truly made for each other.
No Freedom of Parental limits
Freedom of expression
Freedom of art
Freedom of life
Freedom of speech
They come with their prices
Parental limits on love
Parental limits on styles
Parental limits on souls
Parental limits on thought
It leaves you crying
From strangling in
backfired justice
Tears gushing
Can't we leave the
labels and live?
Breezing by is happiness
Approaching is darkness
poem by Wensday Wood
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The Farm
There┬┤s a cockroach in my coffee
There┬┤s a needle in my arm
And I feel like New York City
Get me to the farm
Get me to the farm
Get me to the farm
Somebody get me to the farm
I got terminal uniqueness
I'm an egocentric man
I get caught up in my freakness
But I ain┬┤t no Peter Pan
Get me to the farm
Get me to the farm
Get me to the farm
Get me...
Buckle up straight Jack
Sanity is such a drag
Jellybeam thorazene
Trancendental jet lag
Sanity I ain┬┤t gotta
Feeling like a pinala
Sucker punch-blowin┬┤lung
Motherload-pigeonholed
I'm feeling like I'm gonna explode
I wanna be a Hare Krishna
Tattoo a dot right on my head
And the prozac is my fixer
I am the living dead
Take me to the farm
Take me to the farm
Somebody take me to the farm
Somebody take me to the farm
Take me to the farm
Take me to the farm
Somebody take me to the farm
Somebody take me to the farm
Take me to the farm
Take me to the farm
Take me to the farm...
Take me to the farm
Take me to the farm
Somebody take me to the farm
song performed by by Aerosmith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Greater Plan of Day
the cock crows
because the sun
has his heart all
fired up with the
golden promises
of the new day
the crickets shrill
and shrill because
they wish to polish
the shine of the moon
their prayers
pierce and pierce
the night sky
sharpening,
brightening
the edges and faces
of the moon
morning stars
fade away into the day
to give way to the new
and greater lights
in everybody's heart
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Banshee
As we came down the old boreen,
Rose and I – Rose and I,
At vesper time on Sunday e’en,
We heard a banshee cry!
Beyond the churchyard dim and dark,
‘Neath whispering elms, and yew-trees stark,
Where our star shone-a corpse-like spark-
Against the wintry sky.
We heard and shuddered sick with dread,
Rose and I- Rose and I,
As the shrill keening rang o’erhead
Where cloud-wrack floated high.
Our two young hearts long, sorely tried,
By poverty and love denied
Still waiting for some favouring tide,
And now! Death come so nigh.
‘Which of us two is called away
You or I-You or I?”
I heard my patient poor love say,
With bitter plaintive sigh.
‘Neither, dear girl,” I bravely said,
‘To Mary Mother bow your head,
And cry for help to Her instead,
Nor heed the Banshee’s cry’.
We raised our hearts in fervent prayer,
Rose and I-Rose and I,
Nor knew our troubles ended there,
Our happiness came nigh.
For ‘twas the grim old farmer, he-
My only kin, rich, miserly,
Who, dying left his wealth to me-
For whom the banshee cried.
poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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Daybreak In a Garden
I heard the farm cocks crowing, loud, and faint, and thin,
When hooded night was going and one clear planet winked:
I heard shrill notes begin down the spired wood distinct,
When cloudy shoals were chinked and gilt with fires of day.
White-misted was the weald; the lawns were silver-grey;
The lark his lonely field for heaven had forsaken;
And the wind upon its way whispered the boughs of may,
And touched the nodding peony-flowers to bid them waken.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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Motion of Pulling the Fire Alarm
Feverish children running with joy
All but one had fun, a little boy
Left on his mind was the tiny farm
And the motion of pulling the fire alarm
His mind on the farm with nothing to say
Wearing a mask of a happy son
looking back at the angry days
but finally he was done
Thinking to his lonely past
His mom and dad died really fast
Blood on his hands made him feel great
And now his life is filled with hate
But now hes done, no more fun
Painful memoirs slowly stung
regretting causing all that harm
The motion of pulling the fire alarm
poem by Frank Macias
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The Clouded Morning
The morning comes, and thickening clouds prevail,
Hanging like curtains all the horizon round,
Or overhead in heavy stillness sail;
So still is day, it seems like night profound;
Scarce by the city's din the air is stirred,
And dull and deadened comes its every sound;
The cock's shrill, piercing voice subdued is heard,
By the thick folds of muffling vapors drowned.
Dissolved in mists the hills and trees appear,
Their outlines lost and blended with the sky;
And well-known objects, that to all are near,
No longer seem familiar to the eye,
But with fantastic forms they mock the sight,
As when we grope amid the gloom of night.
poem by Jones Very
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The Swallows
From Jean Pierre Claris Florian
I love to see the swallows come
At my window twittering,
Bringing from their southern home
News of the approaching spring.
'Last year's nest,' they softly say,
'Last year's love again shall see;
Only faithful lovers may
Tell you of the coming glee.'
When the first fell touch of frost
Strips the wood of faded leaves,
Calling all their wingèd host,
The swallows meet above the eaves
'Come away, away,' they cry,
'Winter's snow is hastening;
True hearts winter comes not nigh,
They are ever in the spring.'
If by some unhappy fate,
Victim of a cruel mind,
One is parted from her mate
And within a cage confined,
Swiftly will the swallow die,
Pining for her lover's bower,
And her lover watching nigh
Dies beside her in an hour.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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On Alarm
You said he was your brother
But his name was not miller
So if you wanna cheat me, baby
Youre getting a real killer
Im on alarm now baby
Be sure Ill get you if I want
Im on alarm now baby
Be sure Ill get you if I want
You said your dad is working
And you think your mothers too
But I dont love your parents
So I cant belive you
Im on alarm now baby
Be sure Ill get you if I want
Im on alarm now baby
Be sure Ill get you if I want
Im on alarm now baby
Be sure Ill get you if I want
Im on alarm - (hes on alarm)...
song performed by by Fury In The Slaughterhouse
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cricket's Love Song
cricket's shrill
courting love
each shrill digs
at my lonely heart
each shrill
an extra inch
of lonelines
cricket's shrill
a field of love songs
not even one for me
each shrill chills
this lonely heart
cricket's shrill
courting love
i wonder whether
she would come
for this late night tryst
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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When Alice Comes Back To The Farm
Jenny had a bawl at me the other night
She threw it up an drove away.
So I made a call completely outa sight
Hope to put it right today
When alice comes back to the farm
I wont be in the cold tonight.
When alice comes back to the farm
You know its gonna be alright. yeah
Gimme an appointment put me in the light
Thats a taste of what she needs.
Such a disappointment daddys in the right.
Time for tearing out the weeds
When alice comes back to the farm
I wont be in the cold tonight.
When alice comes back to the farm,
You know its gonna be alright, yeah.
Relax now baby that woman wont get past my door
I believe, I believe that woman wont pass my door
She wont be raisin no alarm
Dont get around much any more
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Old Man Smiling
there was this old man
and i always remember him
tenant of the family for years
of the vast coconut land
we own
he was poor and lived in a very
small nipa hut
all house to him
no sala, no furnitures, just this
soil kitchen and dirty kettles and
unwashed tin cups and
and firewood and pail of water
from the nearby river
he got two sons and 3 daughters
all gone to the city
also becoming as domestic helpers
and he would bring a chicken from the farm
and a goat and some fruits
to grandpa and
grandpa would scold him for being too lazy
that the chicken was thin
and the goat was small
and the fruits were not ripe yet for harvest
and what i remember of the old man
was that no matter what verbal abuse or
(even physical abuse) that was accorded to him
he never answered or frowned or
complained
he had that smile always that i saw
and i always remember
always with a sad heart since then
even if i had already become a lawyer
and tried to defend the poor
peasants of our
little town
where the vast coconut farm has thrived
and still conquered
what little injustices still
left unsolved
he died years ago
and i could have died with him
if not
for the reason.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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