First Love
A clergyman in Berkshire dwelt,
The REVEREND BERNARD POWLES,
And in his church there weekly knelt
At least a hundred souls.
There little ELLEN you might see,
The modest rustic belle;
In maidenly simplicity,
She loved her BERNARD well.
Though ELLEN wore a plain silk gown
Untrimmed with lace or fur,
Yet not a husband in the town
But wished his wife like her.
Though sterner memories might fade,
You never could forget
The child-form of that baby-maid,
The Village Violet!
A simple frightened loveliness,
Whose sacred spirit-part
Shrank timidly from worldly stress,
And nestled in your heart.
POWLES woo'd with every well-worn plan
And all the usual wiles
With which a well-schooled gentleman
A simple heart beguiles.
The hackneyed compliments that bore
World-folks like you and me,
Appeared to her as if they wore
The crown of Poesy.
His winking eyelid sang a song
Her heart could understand,
Eternity seemed scarce too long
When BERNARD squeezed her hand.
He ordered down the martial crew
Of GODFREY'S Grenadiers,
And COOTE conspired with TINNEY to
Ecstaticise her ears.
Beneath her window, veiled from eye,
They nightly took their stand;
On birthdays supplemented by
The Covent Garden band.
And little ELLEN, all alone,
Enraptured sat above,
And thought how blest she was to own
The wealth of POWLES'S love.
I often, often wonder what
Poor ELLEN saw in him;
For calculated he was NOT
To please a woman's whim.
He wasn't good, despite the air
An M.B. waistcoat gives;
Indeed, his dearest friends declare
No greater humbug lives.
No kind of virtue decked this priest,
He'd nothing to allure;
He wasn't handsome in the least, -
He wasn't even poor.
No - he was cursed with acres fat
(A Christian's direst ban),
And gold - yet, notwithstanding that,
Poor ELLEN loved the man.
As unlike BERNARD as could be
Was poor old AARON WOOD
(Disgraceful BERNARD'S curate he):
He was extremely good.
A BAYARD in his moral pluck
Without reproach or fear,
A quiet venerable duck
With fifty pounds a year.
No fault had he - no fad, except
A tendency to strum,
In mode at which you would have wept,
A dull harmonium.
He had no gold with which to hire
The minstrels who could best
Convey a notion of the fire
That raged within his breast.
And so, when COOTE and TINNEY'S Own
Had tootled all they knew,
And when the Guards, completely blown,
Exhaustedly withdrew,
And NELL began to sleepy feel,
Poor AARON then would come,
And underneath her window wheel
His plain harmonium.
He woke her every morn at two,
And having gained her ear,
In vivid colours AARON drew
The sluggard's grim career.
He warbled Apiarian praise,
And taught her in his chant
To shun the dog's pugnacious ways,
And imitate the ant.
Still NELL seemed not, how much he played,
To love him out and out,
Although the admirable maid
Respected him, no doubt.
She told him of her early vow,
And said as BERNARD'S wife
It might be hers to show him how
To rectify his life.
"You are so pure, so kind, so true,
Your goodness shines so bright,
What use would ELLEN be to you?
Believe me, you're all right."
She wished him happiness and health,
And flew on lightning wings
To BERNARD with his dangerous wealth
And all the woes it brings.
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Related quotes
A Worm Will Turn
I love a man who'll smile and joke
When with misfortune crowned;
Who'll pun beneath a pauper's yoke,
And as he breaks his daily toke,
Conundrums gay propound.
Just such a man was Bernaqrd Jupp
He scoffed at Fortune's frown;
He gaily drained his bitter cup -
Though Fortune often threw him up,
It never cast him down.
Though years their share of sorrow bring,
We know that far above
All other griefs, are griefs that spring
From some misfortune happening
To those we really love.
E'en sorrow for another's woe
Our BERNARD failed to quell;
Though by this special form of blow
No person ever suffered so,
Or bore his grief so well.
His father, wealthy and well clad,
And owning house and park,
Lost every halfpenny he had,
And then became (extremely sad!)
A poor attorney's clerk.
All sons it surely would appal,
Except the passing meek,
To see a father lose his all,
And from an independence fall
To one pound ten a week!
But JUPP shook off this sorrow's weight,
And, like a Christian son,
Proved Poverty a happy fate -
Proved Wealth to be a devil's bait,
To lure poor sinners on.
With other sorrows Bernard coped,
For sorrows came in packs;
His cousins with their housemaids sloped -
His uncles forged - his aunts eloped -
His sisters married blacks.
But BERNARD, far from murmuring
(Exemplar, friends, to us),
Determined to his faith to cling, -
He made the best of everything,
And argued softly thus:
"'Twere harsh my uncles' forging knack
Too rudely to condemn -
My aunts, repentant, may come back,
And blacks are nothing like as black
As people colour them!"
Still Fate, with many a sorrow rife,
Maintained relentless fight:
His grandmamma next lost her life,
Then died the mother of his wife,
But still he seemed all right.
His brother fond (the only link
To life that bound him now)
One morning, overcome by drink,
He broke his leg (the right, I think)
In some disgraceful row.
But did my Bernard swear and curse?
Oh no - to murmur loth,
He only said, "Go, get a nurse:
Be thankful that it isn't worse;
You might have broken both!"
But worms who watch without concern
The cockchafer on thorns,
Or beetles smashed, themselves will turn
If, walking through the slippery fern,
You tread upon their corns.
One night as Bernard made his track
Through Brompton home to bed,
A footpad, with a vizor black,
Took watch and purse, and dealt a crack
On BERNARD'S saint-like head.
It was too much - his spirit rose,
He looked extremely cross.
Men thought him steeled to mortal foes,
But no - he bowed to countless blows,
But kicked against this loss.
He finally made up his mind
Upon his friends to call;
Subscription lists were largely signed,
For men were really glad to find
Him mortal, after all!
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Ellen Irwin
Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate
Upon the braes of Kirtle,
Was lovely as a Grecian maid
Adorned with wreaths of myrtle;
Young Adam Bruce beside her lay,
And there did they beguile the day
With love and gentle speeches,
Beneath the budding beeches.
From many knights and many squires
The Bruce had been selected;
And Gordon, fairest of them all,
By Ellen was rejected.
Sad tidings to that noble Youth!
For it may be proclaimed with truth,
If Bruce hath loved sincerely,
That Gordon loves as dearly.
But what are Gordon's form and face,
His shattered hopes and crosses,
To them, 'mid Kirtle's pleasant braes,
Reclined on flowers and mosses?
Alas that ever he was born!
The Gordon, couched behind a thorn,
Sees them and their caressing;
Beholds them blest and blessing.
Proud Gordon, maddened by the thoughts
That through his brain are travelling,
Rushed forth, and at the heart of Bruce
He launched a deadly javelin!
Fair Ellen saw it as it came,
And, starting up to meet the same,
Did with her body cover
The Youth, her chosen lover.
And, falling into Bruce's arms,
Thus died the beauteous Ellen,
Thus, from the heart of her True-love,
The mortal spear repelling.
And Bruce, as soon as he had slain
The Gordon, sailed away to Spain;
And fought with rage incessant
Against the Moorish crescent.
But many days, and many months,
And many years ensuing,
This wretched Knight did vainly seek
The death that he was wooing.
So, coming his last help to crave,
Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave
His body he extended,
And there his sorrow ended.
Now ye, who willingly have heard
The tale I have been telling,
May in Kirkconnel churchyard view
The grave of lovely Ellen:
By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid;
And, for the stone upon his head,
May no rude hand deface it,
And its forlorn "Hie jacet"!
poem by William Wordsworth
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Ellen McJones Aberdeen
MACPHAIRSON CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS McCLAN
Was the son of an elderly labouring man;
You've guessed him a Scotchman, shrewd reader, at sight,
And p'r'aps altogether, shrewd reader, you're right.
From the bonnie blue Forth to the lovely Deeside,
Round by Dingwall and Wrath to the mouth of the Clyde,
There wasn't a child or a woman or man
Who could pipe with CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS McCLAN.
No other could wake such detestable groans,
With reed and with chaunter - with bag and with drones:
All day and ill night he delighted the chiels
With sniggering pibrochs and jiggety reels.
He'd clamber a mountain and squat on the ground,
And the neighbouring maidens would gather around
To list to the pipes and to gaze in his een,
Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.
All loved their McCLAN, save a Sassenach brute,
Who came to the Highlands to fish and to shoot;
He dressed himself up in a Highlander way,
Tho' his name it was PATTISON CORBY TORBAY.
TORBAY had incurred a good deal of expense
To make him a Scotchman in every sense;
But this is a matter, you'll readily own,
That isn't a question of tailors alone.
A Sassenach chief may be bonily built,
He may purchase a sporran, a bonnet, and kilt;
Stick a skein in his hose - wear an acre of stripes -
But he cannot assume an affection for pipes.
CLONGLOCKETY'S pipings all night and all day
Quite frenzied poor PATTISON CORBY TORBAY;
The girls were amused at his singular spleen,
Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN,
"MACPHAIRSON CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS, my lad,
With pibrochs and reels you are driving me mad.
If you really must play on that cursed affair,
My goodness! play something resembling an air."
Boiled over the blood of MACPHAIRSON McCLAN -
The Clan of Clonglocketty rose as one man;
For all were enraged at the insult, I ween -
Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.
"Let's show," said McCLAN, "to this Sassenach loon
That the bagpipes CAN play him a regular tune.
Let's see," said McCLAN, as he thoughtfully sat,
"'IN MY COTTAGE' is easy - I'll practise at that."
He blew at his "Cottage," and blew with a will,
For a year, seven months, and a fortnight, until
(You'll hardly believe it) McCLAN, I declare,
Elicited something resembling an air.
It was wild - it was fitful - as wild as the breeze -
It wandered about into several keys;
It was jerky, spasmodic, and harsh, I'm aware;
But still it distinctly suggested an air.
The Sassenach screamed, and the Sassenach danced;
He shrieked in his agony - bellowed and pranced;
And the maidens who gathered rejoiced at the scene -
Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.
"Hech gather, hech gather, hech gather around;
And fill a' ye lugs wi' the exquisite sound.
An air fra' the bagpipes - beat that if ye can!
Hurrah for CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS McCLAN!"
The fame of his piping spread over the land:
Respectable widows proposed for his hand,
And maidens came flocking to sit on the green -
Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.
One morning the fidgety Sassenach swore
He'd stand it no longer - he drew his claymore,
And (this was, I think, in extremely bad taste)
Divided CLONGLOCKETTY close to the waist.
Oh! loud were the wailings for ANGUS McCLAN,
Oh! deep was the grief for that excellent man;
The maids stood aghast at the horrible scene -
Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.
It sorrowed poor PATTISON CORBY TORBAY
To find them "take on" in this serious way;
He pitied the poor little fluttering birds,
And solaced their souls with the following words:
"Oh, maidens," said PATTISON, touching his hat,
"Don't blubber, my dears, for a fellow like that;
Observe, I'm a very superior man,
A much better fellow than ANGUS McCLAN."
They smiled when he winked and addressed them as "dears,"
And they all of them vowed, as they dried up their tears,
A pleasanter gentleman never was seen -
Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Song. Low hung the dark clouds
LOW hung the dark clouds on Plinlimmon's tall peak,
And slowly, yet surely, the winter drew near;
When Ellen, sweet Ellen, a tear on her cheek,
Exclaimed as we parted, 'In May I'll be here.'
How swiftly I ran up the mountain's steep height,
To catch the last glimpse of an object so dear!
And, when I no longer could keep her in sight,
I thought on her promise,....'In May I'll be here.'
Now gladly I mark from Plinlimmon's tall peak
The low-hanging vapours and clouds disappear,
And climb the rough mountain, thence Ellen to seek,
Repeating her promise....'In May I'll be here.'
But vainly I gaze the wide prospect around,
'T is May, yet no Ellen returning is near:
Oh, when shall I see her! when feel my heart bound,
As sweetly she cries, 'It is May, and I'm here!'
poem by Amelia Opie
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There is no intrinsic worth in money but what is alterable with the times, and whether a guinea goes for twenty pounds or for a shilling, it is the labor of the poor and not the high and low value that is set on gold or silver, which all the comforts of life must arise from.
quote by Bernard de Mandeville
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mother's Treasures
Two little children sit by my side,
I call them Lily and Daffodil;
I gaze on them with a mother's pride,
One is Edna, the other is Will.
Both have eyes of starry light,
And laughing lips o'er teeth of pearl.
I would not change for a diadem
My noble boy and darling girl.
To-night my heart o'erflows with joy;
I hold them as a sacred trust;
I fain would hide them in my heart,
Safe from tarnish of moth and rust.
What should I ask for my dear boy?
The richest gifts of wealth or fame?
What for my girl? A loving heart
And a fair and a spotless name?
What for my boy? That he should stand
A pillar of strength to the state?
What for my girl? That she should be
The friend of the poor and desolate?
I do not ask they shall never tread
With weary feet the paths of pain.
I ask that in the darkest hour
They may faithful and true remain.
I only ask their lives may be
Pure as gems in the gates of pearl,
Lives to brighten and bless the world --
This I ask for my boy and girl.
I ask to clasp their hands again
'Mid the holy hosts of heaven,
Enraptured say: "I am here, oh! God,
"And the children Thou hast given."
poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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I am a gentleman: I live by robbing the poor.
quote by George Bernard Shaw
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Three Graves. A Fragment Of A Sexton's Tale
The grapes upon the Vicar's wall
Were ripe as ripe could be;
And yellow leaves in sun and wind
Were falling from the tree.
On the hedge-elms in the narrow lane
Still swung the spikes of corn:
Dear Lord! it seems but yesterday--
Young Edward's marriage-morn.
Up through that wood behind the church,
There leads from Edward's door
A mossy track, all over boughed,
For half a mile or more.
And from their house-door by that track
The bride and bridegroom went;
Sweet Mary, though she was not gay,
Seemed cheerful and content.
But when they to the church-yard came,
I've heard poor Mary say,
As soon as she stepped into the sun,
Her heart it died away.
And when the Vicar join'd their hands,
Her limbs did creep and freeze;
But when they prayed, she thought she saw
Her mother on her knees.
And o'er the church-path they returned--
I saw poor Mary's back,
Just as she stepped beneath the boughs
Into the mossy track.
Her feet upon the mossy track
The married maiden set:
That moment--I have heard her say--
She wished she could forget.
The shade o'er-flushed her limbs with heat--
Then came a chill like death:
And when the merry bells rang out,
They seemed to stop her breath.
Beneath the foulest mother's curse
No child could ever thrive:
A mother is a mother still,
The holiest thing alive.
So five months passed: the mother still
Would never heal the strife;
But Edward was a loving man,
And Mary a fond wife.
'My sister may not visit us,
My mother says her nay:
O Edward! you are all to me,
I wish for your sake I could be
More lifesome and more gay.
'I'm dull and sad! indeed, indeed
I know I have no reason!
Perhaps I am not well in health,
And 'tis a gloomy season.'
'Twas a drizzly time--no ice, no snow!
And on the few fine days
She stirred not out, lest she might meet
Her mother in the ways.
But Ellen, spite of miry ways
And weather dark and dreary,
Trudged every day to Edward's house,
And made them all more cheery.
Oh! Ellen was a faithful friend,
More dear than any sister!
As cheerful too as singing lark;
And she ne'er left them till 'twas dark,
And then they always missed her.
And now Ash-Wednesday came-that day
But few to church repair:
For on that day you know we read
The Commination prayer.
Our late old Vicar, a kind man,
Once, Sir, he said to me,
He wished that service was clean out
Of our good Liturgy.
The mother walked into the church--
To Ellen's seat she went:
Though Ellen always kept her church
All church-days during Lent.
And gentle Ellen welcomed her
With courteous looks and mild:
Thought she, 'What if her heart should melt,
And all be reconciled!'
The day was scarcely like a day--
The clouds were black outright:
And many a night, with half a moon,
I've seen the church more light.
The wind was wild; against the glass
The rain did beat and bicker;
The church-tower swinging over head,
You scarce could hear the Vicar!
And then and there the mother knelt,
And audibly she cried-
'Oh! may a clinging curse consume
This woman by my side!
'O hear me, hear me, Lord in Heaven,
Although you take my life--
O curse this woman, at whose house
Young Edward woo'd his wife.
'By night and day, in bed and bower,
O let her cursed be!!! '
So having prayed, steady and slow,
She rose up from her knee!
And left the church, nor e'er again
The church-door entered she.
I saw poor Ellen kneeling still,
So pale! I guessed not why:
When she stood up, there plainly was
A trouble in her eye.
And when the prayers were done, we all
Came round and asked her why:
Giddy she seemed, and sure, there was
A trouble in her eye.
But ere she from the church-door stepped
She smiled and told us why:
'It was a wicked woman's curse,'
Quoth she, 'and what care I?'
She smiled, and smiled, and passed it off
Ere from the door she stept--
But all agree it would have been
Much better had she wept.
And if her heart was not at ease,
This was her constant cry--
'It was a wicked woman's curse--
God's good, and what care I?'
There was a hurry in her looks,
Her struggles she redoubled:
'It was a wicked woman's curse,
And why should I be troubled?'
These tears will come--I dandled her
When 'twas the merest fairy--
Good creature! and she hid it all:
She told it not to Mary.
But Mary heard the tale: her arms
Round Ellen's neck she threw;
'O Ellen, Ellen, she cursed me,
And now she hath cursed you!'
I saw young Edward by himself
Stalk fast adown the lee,
He snatched a stick from every fence,
A twig from every tree.
He snapped them still with hand or knee,
And then away they flew!
As if with his uneasy limbs
He knew not what to do!
You see, good Sir! that single hill?
His farm lies underneath:
He heard it there, he heard it all,
And only gnashed his teeth.
Now Ellen was a darling love
In all his joys and cares:
And Ellen's name and Mary's name
Fast-linked they both together came,
Whene'er he said his prayers.
And in the moment of his prayers
He loved them both alike:
Yea, both sweet names with one sweet joy
Upon his heart did strike!
He reach'd his home, and by his looks
They saw his inward strife:
And they clung round him with their arms,
Both Ellen and his wife.
And Mary could not check her tears,
So on his breast she bowed;
Then frenzy melted into grief,
And Edward wept aloud.
Dear Ellen did not weep at all,
But closelier did she cling,
And turned her face and looked as if
She saw some frightful thing.
PART II.
To see a man tread over graves
I hold it no good mark;
'Tis wicked in the sun and moon,
And bad luck in the dark!
You see that grave? The Lord he gives,
The Lord, he takes away:
O Sir! the child of my old age
Lies there as cold as clay.
Except that grave, you scarce see one
That was not dug by me;
I'd rather dance upon 'em all
Than tread upon these three!
'Aye, Sexton!'tis a touching tale.'
You, Sir! are but a lad;
This month I'm in my seventieth year,
And still it makes me sad.
And Mary's sister told it me,
For three good hours and more;
Though I had heard it, in the main,
From Edward's self, before.
Well! it passed off! the gentle Ellen
Did well nigh dote on Mary;
And she went oftener than before,
And Mary loved her more and more:
She managed all the dairy.
To market she on market-days,
To church on Sundays came;
All seemed the same: all seemed so, Sir!
But all was not the same!
Had Ellen lost her mirth? Oh! no!
But she was seldom cheerful;
And Edward look'd as if he thought
That Ellen's mirth was fearful.
When by herself, she to herself
Must sing some merry rhyme;
She could not now be glad for hours,
Yet silent all the time.
And when she soothed her friend, through all
Her soothing words 'twas plain
She had a sore grief of her own,
A haunting in her brain.
And oft she said, I'm not grown thin!
And then her wrist she spanned;
And once when Mary was down-cast,
She took her by the hand,
And gazed upon her, and at first
She gently pressed her hand;
Then harder, till her grasp at length
Did gripe like a convulsion!
'Alas!' said she, 'we ne'er can be
Made happy by compulsion!'
And once her both arms suddenly
Round Mary's neck she flung,
And her heart panted, and she felt
The words upon her tongue.
She felt them coming, but no power
Had she the words to smother;
And with a kind of shriek she cried,
'Oh Christ! you're like your mother!'
So gentle Ellen now no more
Could make this sad house cheery;
And Mary's melancholy ways
Drove Edward wild and weary.
Lingering he raised his latch at eve,
Though tired in heart and limb:
He loved no other place, and yet
Home was no home to him.
One evening he took up a book,
And nothing in it read;
Then flung it down, and groaning cried,
'O! Heaven! that I were dead.'
Mary looked up into his face,
And nothing to him said;
She tried to smile, and on his arm
Mournfully leaned her head.
And he burst into tears, and fell
Upon his knees in prayer:
'Her heart is broke! O God! my grief,
It is too great to bear!'
'Twas such a foggy time as makes
Old sextons, Sir! like me,
Rest on their spades to cough; the spring
Was late uncommonly.
And then the hot days, all at once,
They came, we knew not how:
You looked about for shade, when scarce
A leaf was on a bough.
It happened then ('twas in the bower,
A furlong up the wood:
Perhaps you know the place, and yet
I scarce know how you should,)
No path leads thither, 'tis not nigh
To any pasture-plot;
But clustered near the chattering brook,
Lone hollies marked the spot.
Those hollies of themselves a shape
As of an arbour took,
A close, round arbour; and it stands
Not three strides from a brook.
Within this arbour, which was still
With scarlet berries hung,
Were these three friends, one Sunday morn,
Just as the first bell rung.
'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet
To hear the Sabbath-bell,
'Tis sweet to hear them both at once,
Deep in a woody dell.
His limbs along the moss, his head
Upon a mossy heap,
With shut-up senses, Edward lay:
That brook e'en on a working day
Might chatter one to sleep.
And he had passed a restless night,
And was not well in health;
The women sat down by his side,
And talked as 'twere by stealth.
'The Sun peeps through the close thick leaves,
See, dearest Ellen! see!
'Tis in the leaves, a little sun,
No bigger than your ee;
'A tiny sun, and it has got
A perfect glory too;
Ten thousand threads and hairs of light,
Make up a glory gay and bright
Round that small orb, so blue.'
And then they argued of those rays,
What colour they might be;
Says this, 'They're mostly green'; says that,
'They're amber-like to me.'
So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts
Were troubling Edward's rest;
But soon they heard his hard quick pants,
And the thumping in his breast.
'A mother too!' these self-same words
Did Edward mutter plain;
His face was drawn back on itself,
With horror and huge pain.
Both groan'd at once, for both knew well
What thoughts were in his mind;
When he waked up, and stared like one
That hath been just struck blind.
He sat upright; and ere the dream
Had had time to depart,
'O God, forgive me!' (he exclaimed)
'I have torn out her heart.'
Then Ellen shrieked, and forthwith burst
Into ungentle laughter;
And Mary shivered, where she sat,
And never she smiled after.
Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum. To-morrow! and To-morrow! and To-morrow!----
poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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Forget-Me-Not
A gallant knight and his betroth'd bride,
Were walking one day by a river side,
They talk'd of love, and they talk'd of war,
And how very foolish lovers are.
At length the bride to the knight did say,
'There have been many young ladies led astray
By believing in all their lovers said,
And you are false to me I am afraid.'
'No, Ellen, I was never false to thee,
I never gave thee cause to doubt me;
I have always lov'd thee and do still,
And no other woman your place shall fill.'
'Dear Edwin, it may be true, but I am in doubt,
But there's some beautiful flowers here about,
Growing on the other side of the river,
But how to get one, I cannot discover.'
'Dear Ellen, they seem beautiful indeed,
But of them, dear, take no heed;
Because they are on the other side,
Besides, the river is deep and wide.'
'Dear Edwin, as I doubt your love to be untrue,
I ask one favour now from you:
Go! fetch me a flower from across the river,
Which will prove you love me more than ever.'
'Dear Ellen! I will try and fetch you a flower
If it lies within my power
To prove that I am true to you,
And what more can your Edwin do?'
So he leap'd into the river wide,
And swam across to the other side,
To fetch a flower for his young bride,
Who watched him eagerly on the other side.
So he pluck'd a flower right merrily
Which seemed to fill his heart with glee,
That it would please his lovely bride;
But, alas! he never got to the other side.
For when he tried to swim across,
All power of his body he did loss,
But before he sank in the river wide,
He flung the flowers to his lovely bride.
And he cried, 'Oh, heaven! hard is my lot,
My dearest Ellen! Forget me not:
For I was ever true to you,
My dearest Ellen! I bid thee adieu!'
Then she wrung her hands in wild despair,
Until her cries did rend the air;
And she cried, 'Edwin, dear, hard is out lot,
But I'll name this flower Forget-me-not.
'And I'll remember thee while I live,
And to no other man my hand I'll give,
And I will place my affection on this little flower,
And it will solace me in a lonely hour.'
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Songs Written to Welsh Airs
How fondly I gaze on the fast falling-leaves,
That mark, as I wander, the summer's decline;
And then I exclaim, while my conscious heart heaves,
"Thus early to droop and to perish be mine!"
Yet once I remember, in moments long past,
Most dear to my sight was the spring's opening bloom;
But then my youth's spring sorrow had not o'ercast,
Nor taught me with fondness to look on the tomb.
Fair Spring! now no longer these grief-faded eyes
Thy rich glowing beauties with pleasure can see;
Thy pale sickly hues, chilly Autumn, I prize,
They suit blighted hopes, and are emblems of me.
Where dost thou bide, blessed soul of my love!
Is ether thy dwelling, O whisper me where!
Rapt in remembrance, while lonely I rove,
I gaze on bright clouds, and I fancy thee there.
Or to thy bower when musing I go,
I think, 't is thy voice that I hear in the breeze;
Softly it seems to speak peace to my woe,
And life once again for a moment can please.
If this be phrensy alone, 't is so dear,
That long may the pleasing delusion be nigh;
Still Ellen's voice in the breeze may I hear,
Still see in bright clouds the kind beams of her eye!
Low hung the dark clouds on Plinlimmon's tall peak,
And slowly, yet surely, the winter drew near;
When Ellen, sweet Ellen, a tear on her cheek,
Exclaimed as we parted, "In May I'll be here."
How swiftly I ran up the mountain's steep height,
To catch the last glimpse of an object so dear!
And, when I no longer could keep her in sight,
I thought on her promise,...."In May I'll be here."
Now gladly I mark from Plinlimmon's tall peak
The low-hanging vapours and clouds disappear,
And climb the rough mountain, thence Ellen to seek,
Repeating her promise...."In May I'll be here."
But vainly I gaze the wide prospect around,
'T is May, yet no Ellen returning is near:
Oh, when shall I see her! when feel my heart bound,
As sweetly she cries, "It is May, and I'm here!"
You ask why these mountains delight me no more,
And why lovely Clwyd's attractions are o'er;
Ah! have you not heard, then, the cause of my pain?
The pride of fair Clwyd, the boast of the plain,
We never, no never, shall gaze on again!
What though from her coldness keen anguish I felt,
And vainly, to move her, in agony knelt;
Yet could I restore her, I'd never complain,
Not e'en though she doomed me to endless disdain....
I'd bear any torture to see her again.
I grieved when on others with kindness she gazed,
I mourned when another with pleasure she praised;
But could I recall her to life by my pain,
I'd urge her to favour some happier swain,
And wish no reward but to see her again.
Those beauties that charmed me, from death I would free,
Though sure that those beauties another's should be!
But truth, and affection, and grief are all vain;
The pride of fair Clwyd, the boast of our plain,
We never, ah never! can gaze on again!
poem by Amelia Opie
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Found Poem: Malamud on Metaphor
(From 'The Art of Fiction LII, ' an interview with
Bernard Malamud, in THE PARIS REVIEW)
'I love metaphor, '
said Bernard Malamud. 'It
provides two loaves where
there seems to be one. Sometimes
it throws in a load of fish.'
poem by Monty Gilmer
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You Are The Mother Beneath Our Wings Dedicated to my mother who thought she had nothing to give-but gave the wisest things!
You are the mother beneath our wings, born into poverty brought us the
wealth of many kings, When you art young and don't have anything, you rely on
your Mother to give you everything, For a poor mother who had nothing you gave the
wisest things, You are the Mother beneath our wings.
Being poor was a rich experience for us and heartbreaking for you
You planted many seeds and nourished your ten kids needs
You gave us the wealth of may kings-coming from poverty taught us many things
The way you loved your life, being the kissin' bandit's wife
We were dirt poor, but it wasn't all bad
If material wealth as all we had-We wouldn't appreciate life and be thankful for what
we have. What you gave was unique, prized above material things
To each child special gifts you did bring
We were never too poor to give something-when you think you can't give nothing
You van give the wisest things-The love you gave will be treasured more than anything
When the trumpet blows and you rise up to meet your king
REMEMBER the lilies blooming in spring and that you gave your best in EVERYTHING!
poem by Miriam McKee
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Another Happy Day
Ellen Barkin, Ezra Miller, Kate Bosworth, Demi Moore, Thomas Haden Church, George Kennedy, Ellen Burstyn, Michael Nardelli
by Sam Levinson from Another Happy Day (2011)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Baby's Vengeance
Weary at heart and extremely ill
Was PALEY VOLLAIRE of Bromptonville,
In a dirty lodging, with fever down,
Close to the Polygon, Somers Town.
PALEY VOLLAIRE was an only son
(For why? His mother had had but one),
And PALEY inherited gold and grounds
Worth several hundred thousand pounds.
But he, like many a rich young man,
Through this magnificent fortune ran,
And nothing was left for his daily needs
But duplicate copies of mortgage-deeds.
Shabby and sorry and sorely sick,
He slept, and dreamt that the clock's "tick, tick,"
Was one of the Fates, with a long sharp knife,
Snicking off bits of his shortened life.
He woke and counted the pips on the walls,
The outdoor passengers' loud footfalls,
And reckoned all over, and reckoned again,
The little white tufts on his counterpane.
A medical man to his bedside came.
(I can't remember that doctor's name),
And said, "You'll die in a very short while
If you don't set sail for Madeira's isle."
"Go to Madeira? goodness me!
I haven't the money to pay your fee!"
"Then, PALEY VOLLAIRE," said the leech, "good bye;
I'll come no more, for your're sure to die."
He sighed and he groaned and smote his breast;
"Oh, send," said he, "for FREDERICK WEST,
Ere senses fade or my eyes grow dim:
I've a terrible tale to whisper him!"
Poor was FREDERICK'S lot in life, -
A dustman he with a fair young wife,
A worthy man with a hard-earned store,
A hundred and seventy pounds - or more.
FREDERICK came, and he said, "Maybe
You'll say what you happened to want with me?"
"Wronged boy," said PALEY VOLLAIRE, "I will,
But don't you fidget yourself - sit still."
THE TERRIBLE TALE.
"'Tis now some thirty-seven years ago
Since first began the plot that I'm revealing,
A fine young woman, whom you ought to know,
Lived with her husband down in Drum Lane, Ealing.
Herself by means of mangling reimbursing,
And now and then (at intervals) wet-nursing.
"Two little babes dwelt in their humble cot:
One was her own - the other only lent to her:
HER OWN SHE SLIGHTED. Tempted by a lot
Of gold and silver regularly sent to her,
She ministered unto the little other
In the capacity of foster-mother.
"I WAS HER OWN. Oh! how I lay and sobbed
In my poor cradle - deeply, deeply cursing
The rich man's pampered bantling, who had robbed
My only birthright - an attentive nursing!
Sometimes in hatred of my foster-brother,
I gnashed my gums - which terrified my mother.
"One day - it was quite early in the week -
I IN MY CRADLE HAVING PLACED THE BANTLING -
Crept into his! He had not learnt to speak,
But I could see his face with anger mantling.
It was imprudent - well, disgraceful maybe,
For, oh! I was a bad, blackhearted baby!
"So great a luxury was food, I think
No wickedness but I was game to try for it.
NOW if I wanted anything to drink
At any time, I only had to cry for it!
ONCE, if I dared to weep, the bottle lacking,
My blubbering involved a serious smacking!
"We grew up in the usual way - my friend,
My foster-brother, daily growing thinner,
While gradually I began to mend,
And thrived amazingly on double dinner.
And every one, besides my foster-mother,
Believed that either of us was the other.
"I came into HIS wealth - I bore HIS name,
I bear it still - HIS property I squandered -
I mortgaged everything - and now (oh, shame!)
Into a Somers Town shake-down I've wandered!
I am no PALEY - no, VOLLAIRE - it's true, my boy!
The only rightful PALEY V. is YOU, my boy!
"And all I have is yours - and yours is mine.
I still may place you in your true position:
Give me the pounds you've saved, and I'll resign
My noble name, my rank, and my condition.
So far my wickedness in falsely owning
Your vasty wealth, I am at last atoning!"
*
FREDERICK he was a simple soul,
He pulled from his pocket a bulky roll,
And gave to PALEY his hard-earned store,
A hundred and seventy pounds or more.
PALEY VOLLAIRE, with many a groan,
Gave FREDERICK all that he called his own, -
Two shirts and a sock, and a vest of jean,
A Wellington boot and a bamboo cane.
And FRED (entitled to all things there)
He took the fever from MR. VOLLAIRE,
Which killed poor FREDERICK WEST. Meanwhile
VOLLAIRE sailed off to Madeira's isle.
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Very few people can afford to be poor.
quote by George Bernard Shaw
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Marthy Ellen
They's nothin' in the name to strike
A feller more'n common like!
'Taint liable to git no praise
Ner nothin' like it nowadays;
An' yit that name o' her'n is jest
As purty as the purtiest--
And more 'n that, I'm here to say
I'll live a-thinkin' thataway
And die far Marthy Ellen!
It may be I was prejudust
In favor of it from the fust--
'Cause I kin ricollect jest how
We met, and hear her mother now
A-callin' of her down the road--
And, aggervatin' little toad!--
I see her now, jes' sort o' half-
Way disapp'inted, turn and laugh
And mock her--'Marthy Ellen!'
Our people never had no fuss,
And yit they never tuck to us;
We neighbered back and foreds some;
Until they see she liked to come
To our house--and me and her
Were jest together ever'whur
And all the time--and when they'd see
That I liked her and she liked me,
They'd holler 'Marthy Ellen!'
When we growed up, and they shet down
On me and her a-runnin' roun'
Together, and her father said
He'd never leave her nary red,
So he'p him, ef she married me,
And so on--and her mother she
Jest agged the gyrl, and said she 'lowed
She'd ruther see her in her shroud,
I _writ_ to Marthy Ellen--
That is, I kindo' tuck my pen
In hand, and stated whur and when
The undersigned would be that night,
With two good hosses saddled right
Far lively travelin' in case
Her folks 'ud like to jine the race.
She sent the same note back, and writ
'The rose is red!' right under it--
'Your 'n allus, Marthy Ellen.'
That's all, I reckon--Nothin' more
To tell but what you've heerd afore--
The same old story, sweeter though
Far all the trouble, don't you know.
Old-fashioned name! and yit it's jest
As purty as the purtiest;
And more 'n that, I'm here to say
I'll live a-thinking thataway,
And die far Marthy Ellen!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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How Can A Poor Man Stand Such Times & Live ?
(alfred reed)
(g) - (c) - (g7) - (d) - (d7) - (am)
(g) I remember a time when every (d) thing was (g) cheap
Now prices nearly puts a man to (d) sleep
(d7) well, when we (g) get our grocery (g7) bill
We (c) feel like making our (am) will
Tell me, (g) how can a poor man (d7) stand such times and (g) live ?
Tell me, (g) how can a poor man (d7) stand such times and (g) live ?
Well, the doctor comes around with his face all bright
And he says, in a little while youll be all right!
Well, all he gives is a humbug pill
Dose of dope and a great big bill
Tell me, how can a poor man stand such times and live ?
Tell me, how can a poor man stand such times and live ?
Most preachers, well, they preach for gold and not for soul
Well, thats what keeps us poor folks always in a hole
Now, we can hardly get our breath
Taxed and schooled and preached to death
Tell me, how can a poor man stand such times and live ?
Tell me, how can a poor man stand such times and live ?
song performed by by Ry Cooder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Carroll County Accident
Carroll countys pointed out as kind of square
The biggest thing that happens is the county fair
And I guess thats why it seemed like such a big event
What we all call the carroll county accident
The wreck was on the highway just inside the line
Walter browning lost his life and for a time
It seemed that mary ellen jones would surely die
But she lived long enough for her to testify
Now walter browning was a happy married man
And he wore a golden wedding ring upon his hand
But it was gone nobody knew just where it went
Hed lost it in the carroll county accident
Mary ellen testified he flagged her down
Said he was sick and could she drive him into town
And no one even doubted what she said was true
Cause she was well respected in the county too
Now I went down to see the wreck like all the rest
The bloody seats, the broken glass, the tangled mess
But I found something no one else had even seen
Behind the dash in marys crumpled up machine
A little matchbox circled by a rubberband
And inside the ring from walter brownings hand
And it took a while to figure out just what it meant
The truth about the carroll county accident
By dark of night I dropped the ring into a well
And I took a sacred oath that I would never tell
The secret of the carroll county accident
Cause the county ordered dad a marble monument
I lost him in the carroll county accident
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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John Robinson
AIR -- "The Drunkard"
Come listen, friends, and hear a song,
It is a doleful one,
About a young man, dead and gone --
He died far away from home.
John Robinson this young man's name,
His age I cannot tell,
And he was loved by all his friends,
And he was known full well.
His father and mother being dead,
It left him an orphan boy,
When he was with his brother
His health failed him, poor boy.
Kind friends they thought 'twould do him good
To travel for his health;
To California he did go
With his Uncle Zera French.
He was not gone but a short time
When a letter his friends received;
It told how homesick Johnny was,
How he for home did grieve.
It said that he was getting worse,
And his money was nearly gone,
And if he did not soon return
Never more would he see home.
It said, "Dear Brother, will you please
Some money to me send,
For I fear I have not got enough
To bring me back again.
The doctor says I must soon return,
If I wish my home to see,
For if I stay my life is short,
For the air disagrees with me."
His brother Will the letter read,
It made his eyes grow dim.
"Dear brother, he shall soon return,
For I will go and fetch him."
This brother dear was very kind;
With money, he went with haste
For to bring him home again,
But Oh! he went too late.
For he was sick, and very bad --
Poor boy, he thought, no doubt,
If he came home in a smoking car
His money would hold out.
He started to come back alone --
He came one-third the way --
One evening in the car alone
His spirit fled away.
No friend was near to speak to him,
Or hear his dying moan;
How sad, how sad it must have been
To die there all alone;
No loving friends to soothe his brow,
Or ease his weary form;
Poor soul, poor soul is now at rest,
For his soul to heaven has gone.
Telegraph dispatch was sent his friends --
How sad were they to hear --
How their loved one died all alone,
In a car with no one near.
The brother brought his body home
To his friends that loved him best.
He's sleeping in their grave yard now
Let peace be e'er his rest.
poem by Julia A Moore
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Gambling promises the poor what property performs for the rich--something for nothing.
quote by George Bernard Shaw
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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