To My Bride (Whoever She May Be)
Oh! little maid! - (I do not know your name
Or who you are, so, as a safe precaution
I'll add) - Oh, buxom widow! married dame!
(As one of these must be your present portion)
Listen, while I unveil prophetic lore for you,
And sing the fate that Fortune has in store for you.
You'll marry soon - within a year or twain -
A bachelor of CIRCA two and thirty:
Tall, gentlemanly, but extremely plain,
And when you're intimate, you'll call him "BERTIE."
Neat - dresses well; his temper has been classified
As hasty; but he's very quickly pacified.
You'll find him working mildly at the Bar,
After a touch at two or three professions,
From easy affluence extremely far,
A brief or two on Circuit - "soup" at Sessions;
A pound or two from whist and backing horses,
And, say three hundred from his own resources.
Quiet in harness; free from serious vice,
His faults are not particularly shady,
You'll never find him "SHY" - for, once or twice
Already, he's been driven by a lady,
Who parts with him - perhaps a poor excuse for him -
Because she hasn't any further use for him.
Oh! bride of mine - tall, dumpy, dark, or fair!
Oh! widow - wife, maybe, or blushing maiden,
I've told YOUR fortune; solved the gravest care
With which your mind has hitherto been laden.
I've prophesied correctly, never doubt it;
Now tell me mine - and please be quick about it!
You - only you - can tell me, an' you will,
To whom I'm destined shortly to be mated,
Will she run up a heavy MODISTE'S bill?
If so, I want to hear her income stated
(This is a point which interests me greatly).
To quote the bard, "Oh! have I seen her lately?"
Say, must I wait till husband number one
Is comfortably stowed away at Woking?
How is her hair most usually done?
And tell me, please, will she object to smoking?
The colour of her eyes, too, you may mention:
Come, Sibyl, prophesy - I'm all attention.
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Related quotes
A buxom widow must be married, buried, or cloistered.
If I Ever Marry, I'll Marry A Maid
If ever I marry, I'll marry a maid;
To marry a widow, I am sore afraid:
For maids they are simple, and never will grutch,
But widows full oft, as they say, know too much.
A maid is so sweet, and so gentle of kind,
That a maid is the wife I will choose to my mind
A widow is froward, and never will yield;
Or if such there be, you will meet them but seeld.
A maid ne'er complaineth, do what so you will;
But what you mean well, a widow takes ill:
A widow will make you a drudge and a slave,
And, cost ne'er so much, she will ever go brave.
A maid is so modest, she seemeth a rose
When it first beginneth the bud to unclose;
But a widow full-blowen full often deceives,
And the next wind that bloweth shakes down all her leaves.
The widows be lovely, I never gainsay,
But too well all their beauty they know to display;
But a maid hath so great hidden beauty in store,
She can spare to a widow, yet never be poor.
Then, if ever I marry, give me a fresh maid,
If to marry with any I be not afraid;
But to marry with any, it asketh much care;
And some bachelors hold they are best as they are.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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The Gascon
I AM always inclined to suspect
The best story under the sun
As soon as by chance I detect
That teller and hero are one.
We're all of us prone to conceit,
And like to proclaim our own glory,
But our purpose we're apt to defeat
As actors in chief of our story.
To prove the truth of what I state
Let me an anecdote relate:
A Gascon with his comrade sat
At tavern drinking. This and that
He vaunted with assertion pat.
From gasconade to gasconade
Passed to the conquests he had made
In love. A buxom country maid,
Who served the wine, with due attention
Lent patient ear to each invention,
And pressed her hands against her side
Her bursting merriment to hide.
To hear our Gascon talk, no Sue
Nor Poll in town but that he knew;
With each he'd passed a blissful night
More to their own than his delight.
This one he loved for she was fair,
That for her glossy ebon hair.
One miss, to tame his cruel rigour,
Had brought him gifts.--She owned his vigour
In short it wanted but his gaze
To set each trembling heart ablaze.
His strength surpassed his luck,--the test--
In one short night ten times he'd blessed
A dame who gratefully expressed
Her thanks with corresponding zest.
At this the maid burst forth, "What more?
"I never heard such lies before!
"Content were I if at that sport
"I had what that poor dame was short."
poem by La Fontaine
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The 'Viduate Dame
'Tis the widow of Thomas Blythe,
And she goeth upon the spree,
And red are cheeks of the bystanders
For her acts are light and free.
In a seven-ounce costume
The widow of Thomas Blythe,
Y-perched high on the window ledge,
The difficult can-can tryeth.
Ten constables they essay
To bate the dame's halloing.
With the widow of Thomas Blythe
Their hands are overflowing,
And they cry: 'Call the National Guard
To quell this parlous muss-
For all of the widows of Thomas Blythe
Are upon the spree and us!'
O long shall the eerie tale be told
By that posse's surviving tithe;
And with tears bedewed he'll sing this rude
Ballad of the widow of Thomas Blythe.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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The Orphan Maid
November's hail-cloud drifts away,
November's sunbeam wan
Looks coldly on the castle grey,
When forth comes Lady Anne.
The orphan by the oak was set,
Her arms, her feet, were bare;
The hail drops had not melted yet,
Amid her raven hair.
'And, dame,' she said, 'by all the ties
That child and mother know,
Aid one who never knew these joys,
Relieve an orphan's woe.'
The lady said, 'An orphan's state
Is hard and sad to bear;
Yet worse the widow'd mother's fate
Who mourns both lord and heir.
'Twelve times the rolling year has sped,
Since, when from vengeance wild
Of fierce Strathallan's Chief I fled
Forth's eddies whelm'd my child.'
'Twelve times the year its course has borne,'
The wandering maid replied;
'Since fishers on Saint Bridget's morn
Drew nets on Campsie side.
'Saint Bridget sent no scaly spoil;
An infant, wellnigh dead,
They saved, and rear'd in want and toil,
To beg from you her bred.'
That orphan maid the lady kiss'd,-—
'My husband's looks you bear;
Saint Bridget and her morn be bless'd!
You are his widow's heir.'
They've robed that maid, so poor and pale
In silk and sandals rare;
And pearls, for drops of frozen hail,
Are glistening in her hair.
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Guilt is not so to the guilty
The one who married as second or second time,
The one having a concubine or is cuckolding.
An eloper, a paramour, an incest sinner,
A widow in love, a widow to wed, or a love
Across the cast and creed, all I abhorred.
The concept would have been different
Had I been involved in any of them.
Guilt is the guilt to one till one commits it.
15.09.2000, Paklm
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Fundamental of Liar Chapter XXXVII: Portion
there's man who gets big portion
then eats it without thinking
there's man who chews it slowly
and manage himself with that portion
there's man who wastes his portion
or saves for someone
but there's man who keeps it for himself
and with greedy heart wanting more
there's man who gets small portion
then eats it with pleasure
there's man who chews it slowly
and try to satisfy himself with that portion
there's man who doesn't touch it
so the others can taste it
but there's man who empties it
and without ashamed keep asking more
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Not Wanting To Forget
The Modigliani print was on the wall
By the front door. Who’s she? Bridshaw’s
Dame asked, pointing at the print.
It’s a painting by Modigliani, Bridshaw said.
Is he a friend of yours? The dame asked.
Bridshaw pulled a face and said, No, he’s
Dead now. Shame, she replied, stroking
The print, her finger tracing the woman’s
Outline, her tongue hanging out of the side
Of her mouth in concentration. She’s a bit
On the thin side, the dame said, and I don’t
Like the black coat she’s wearing, like some
Darn widow. Bridshaw wanted to get the dame
In bed for sex; the Modigliani print was no
Big deal, he’d bought it in some art shop on
The high street from the guy with the Boston
Tones. Shame he’s dead, the dame said, he
Could have painted me; I would have made
A good model, more meat on me than that
Woman in black, thin as a pole. Bridshaw
Nodded his head, Sure, sure, but you’re too
Late, the guy’s dead, now can we move on,
Get a drink, hit the bed, have sex, and then
A cigarette. Sure, the dame said, moving away
From the Modigliani print, taking the image
Of the woman with her, not wanting to forget.
poem by Terry Collett
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Dame Dame Dame (Amor Esta Noche)
El reloj
ya marc medianoche
y otra vez encontr
que tan slo me acompaña la TV
El soplar
de ese viento afuera
vive la deolacin
me oprime con angustia el corazn
No hay mas que soledad
nadie, ni por piedad
Dame, dame, dame
amor esta noche
alguien que me ayude
a las sombras borrar
Dame, dame, dame
amor esta noche
hasta que amanezca
ver el dia aclarar
Tantos hay
con gran suerte y fortuna
todo pueden conseguir
tan distinto a lo que tengo que vivir
Aburrida me encuentro esta noche
y la gran oscuridad
es mi siempre obligada amistad
No hay mas que soledad
nadie, ni por piedad
Dame, dame, dame
amor esta noche
alguien que me ayude
a las sombras borrar
Dame, dame, dame
amor esta noche
hasta que amanezca
ver el dia aclarar
Dame, dame, dame
amor esta noche
Dame, dame, dame
amor esta noche
No hay mas que soledad
nadie, ni por piedad
Dame, dame, dame
amor esta noche
alguien que me ayude
a las sombras borrar
Dame, dame, dame
amor esta noche
hasta que amanezca
ver el dia aclarar
Dame, dame, dame
amor esta noche
alguien que me ayude
a las sombras borrar
Dame, dame, dame
amor esta noche
hasta que amanezca
ver el dia aclarar
song performed by by ABBA
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Victorious if not meritorious.
A boy wooed a girl. No wonder.
A lord coaxed a maid. No wonder.
A man hooked an estranged woman
Or a widow is courted. No wonder.
Love between a widow and a widower
Sparks and so does the extra marital sex
When they have grown beyond the age..
A man past the age won the love of a woman, a young mother of rpute.
It is the wonder of wonders,
worth reminiscing and ruminating.
24.05.2001, Pmdi
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Fat Dame in Maine.
You know the fat dame in Maine
Whose husband used to carry a
Gun for the Mob until they banged
Him up for shooting some guy in
The head? Well she rang Eddie the
Other night and said why don’t you
Come over and spend a little time
With me? And Eddie said sorry Honey
But I’m washing my hair then I’m sitting
Down with a JD and going to listen to
Some jazz and maybe get in a take away
And so the fat dame said ok then I’ll
Come over to you and dry your hair
And share the JD and bring a pizza and
Snuggle up close and listen to some jazz
And maybe later we can hit the sack and
Make some hot sex and dig deep into each
Other so Eddie said hang on there Babe
I’ve just now remembered my mother’s
Coming to see my new pad and I’m taking
Her for a bite to eat and maybe take in a
Movie ok the fat dame said then I‘ll stay
Home and drink my booze and watch the
Late night TV and eat some chocs and sit
Sad so well the next day they found her in
Her bathtub throat cut lying in water dead.
poem by Terry Collett
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Listen To The Rain
(Rain)
Listen listen
Listen listen
Listen listen
Listen listen
Listen (listen) listen (listen)
Listen (listen) listen (listen)
Listen (listen) listen (listen)
Listen listen
Listen to each drop of rain (listen listen)
Aaah
Whispering secrets in rain (listen listen)
Aaah
Frantically searching for someone to hear
That story be more than it hides
Please don't let go
Can't we stay for a while?
It's just to hard to say goodbye
Listen to the rain
Aa...ah
Listen listen listen listen listen listen to the rain
Weeping
Oo...ooh oooh ooh oo...ooh
Oo...ooh oooh oh oh
Listen (listen) listen (listen)
Listen (listen) listen
I stand alone in the storm (listen listen)
Suddenly sweet words take hold
(Listen listen)
Hurry they stay for you haven't much time
Open your eyes to the love around you
You can feel youre alone
But I'm here still with you
You can do what you dream
Just remember to listen to the rain
oo...ooh oh oh oh oh
ooh ooh oh oh oooh
Listen
song performed by by Evanescence
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dame Amor
(graham russell, michael sherwood, jimmy haun)
No basta pintar un cuadro
Solo de ti mismo
Si los colores son para dos...
Te quiero, te quiero
No basta sonar diamantes
Cuando en tu mano los diamantes
No reflejan un puro amor
Te quiero, te quiero
Caer lentamente, que sensacion!
Como una vez yo a ti le ame
Ahora te amo mas y mas
Dame amor,
Dame amor, dame todo lo que das
Dame tiempo
Y esperanzas
Dame tu corazon
No basta guardar secretos
Secretos con ti mismo
Si la verdad quieres susurrar
Que remos...
Te quiero
Recuerdos...nos llaman
Es esto una realidad
Como una vez yo a ti te ame
Ahora vuelvo a un por mas
Dame amor
Dame amor
Dame todo lo que das
Dame tiempo
Y esperanzas
Dame tu corazon
Dame amor
Dame fuerza
Dame lo que quieras dar
Sin cesar
Y sin fin
Dame todo lo que dos
Sostemne
Ensename
Tomame por completo
Porque nuestros corazones
Se merecen uno al otro
Dame amor
song performed by by Air Supply
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Paddy Murphy's Wake
The priest had been here earlier and the rosary was said
and relatives and friends in single file were offering condolences.
'Sorry for your troubles, ' one by one they said,
bending over Maggie Murphy, silent in her rocker,
a foot or so from Paddy, resplendent in his casket,
the two of them much closer now than they had ever been.
A silent guest of honor, Paddy now had nothing more to say,
waked in aspic, if you will, in front of his gothic fireplace.
But the hour was getting late and still the widow hadn't wept.
Her eyes were swept Saharas and the mourners wanted tears.
They had fields to plow come morning and they needed sleep
but the custom in County Kerry was
no one leaves a wake until the widow weeps.
Fair Maggie could have married any man in Kerry,
according to her mother, who almost every day reminded her of that.
'Maggie, ' she would say, 'you should have married Mickey.
His limp was not that bad, ' but Maggie wouldn't listen.
Instead, she married Paddy, 'that pestilence out walking'
as her mother often called him
even on a Sunday but only after Mass.
Maggie married Paddy the day he scored the only goal
the year that Kerry took the trophy back from Galway.
That goal was no small thing, Paddy would remind us all forever
until one of us would gag and buy him another drink.
That goal, he'd shout, was something historians would one day note,
even if they hadn't yet, and every time he'd mention it,
which was almost daily, Maggie's mother would remind her daughter
that she should have married Mickey and had a better life.
The final time her mother praised poor Mickey,
a screaming match ensued, so loud it woke the rooster
the day before her mother, feverish in bed,
gurgled like a frog and died.
This evening, though, as the wake wore on,
the mourners grew more weary
waiting for the tears the widow hadn't shed.
Restless in his folding chair, Mickey put his bottle down
and rose to give the eulogy it had taken days to memorize.
'Folks, ' he said, 'if all of us would holler down to Paddy now,
he'd holler back, I'm sure, and tell us,
despite the flames and all that smoke, that Kerry
winning over Galway is all that ever mattered, even now.
We'll always have cold Paddy over there to thank for that.'
The Widow Murphy hadn't moved all evening,
but after hearing Mickey speak, she began to rock with fury
as she raised a purple fist, shook it to the heavens
and then began to hum her favorite dirge.
The mourners all joined in and hummed along until
midnight pealed on the mantel clock and then,
as if released by God Himself, the mourners one by one
rose from folding chairs and left in single file, freed
by a hurricane of the Widow Murphy's tears.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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A Safe Man
A SAFE MAN
WITH A SAFE SMILE
SEEMED SO SAFE TO THE TOUCH
A SAFE MAN AS TO WHOM I I SAW AS MY FATHER
SO SAFE OR SO I THOUGHT
MY SAFE MAN
MY SAFE FATHER
NOT SO SAFE
MY SAFE FATHER WHOM DID THINGS THAT MADE ME FEEL INDANGERD
ON THAT NIGHT HE STOLE MY DIGNITY &+ MY SELF WORTH
MY SAFE MAN
MY SAFE FATHER
NOT SO SAFE
poem by CRZy WIERd ONe
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The Maid of the Sweet Brown Knowe
COME all ye lads and lassies and listen to me a while,
And I’ll sing for you a verse or two will cause you all to smile;
It’s all about a young man, and I’m going to tell you now,
How he lately came a-courting of the Maid of the Sweet Brown Knowe.
Said he, “My pretty fair maid, will you come along with me,
We’ll both go off together, and married we will be;
We’ll join our hands in wedlock bands, I’m speaking to you now,
And I’ll do my best endeavour for the Maid of the Sweet Brown Knowe.”
This fair and fickle young thing, she knew not what to say,
Her eyes did shine like silver bright and merrily did play;
She said, “Young man, your love subdue, for I am not ready now,
And I’ll spend another season at the foot of the Sweet Brown Knowe.
Said he, “My pretty fair maid, how can you say so,
Look down in yonder valley where my crops do gently grow,
Look down in yonder valley where my horses and my plough
Are at their daily labour for the Maid of the Sweet Brown Knowe.”
“If they’re at their daily labour, kind sir, it’s not for me,
For I’ve heard of your behaviour, I have, indeed,” she said;
“There is an Inn where you call in, I have heard the people say,
Where you rap and call and pay for all, and go home at the break of day.”
“If I rap and call and pay for all, the money is all my own,
And I’ll never spend your fortune, for I hear you have got none.
You thought you had my poor heart broke in talking with me now,
But I’ll leave you where I found you, at the foot of the Sweet Brown Knowe.”
poem by Anonymous English
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Max and Moritz Fishing
Eben geht mit einem Teller
Witwe Bolte in den Keller,
Daß sie von dem Sauerkohle
Eine Portion sich hole,
Wofür sie besonders schwärmt
Wenn er wieder aufgewärmt. -
- Unterdessen auf dem Dache
Ist man tätig bei der Sache.
Max hat schon mit Vorbedacht
Eine Angel mitgebracht.
Widow Bolte, bless her soul,
Goes downstairs and takes a bowl,
And she scoops a portion out
Of her cherished sauerkraut
Which she deems to taste sublime
Heated up the second time.
In the meantime, on the sly,
Something's going on up high.
Max has shown some foresight here,
For he brought his fishing gear.
poem by Wilhelm Busch
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Song For Heroes
Captain O’Hare was a mariner brave;
He refused to abandon his ship;
A hero, he sleeps in a watery grave—
And his widow is now Mrs. Bipp,
Haw! Haw!
His widow is now Mrs. Bipp!
Henri Dupont was a fearless young ace;
Five thousand feet up he was hit;
Each year on his grave pretty flowers we place—
And his widow is now Mrs. Schmitt,
Haw! Haw!
His widow is now Mrs. Schmitt!
Corporal Dunn was a volunteer bold;
He plunged in the deadliest fray;
A bayonet thrust laid him out stony cold—
And his widow is now Mrs. Gray,
Haw! Haw!
His widow is now Mrs. Gray!
But Peter McGuck was a cowardly sneak,
Like a hound he remained home in fear;
When fishing one day he fell into the creek—
And his widow is now Mrs. Greer,
Haw! Haw! Haw!
Mrs. William O’Houlihan Greer!
poem by Ellis Parker Butler
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Silence Is Golden
If I am silent
I am not real
If I speak up then
No one will hear
If I wear a mask there's
Somewhere to hide
Silence is golden
I have been broken
Safe in my own skin
So nobody wins
If I raise my voice
Will someone get hurt?
If I can feel it
But I can't get touched
If no truce was spoken
Then don't ask me why
Silence is golden
I have been broken
Safe in my own skin
So nobody wins
Won't someone listen
I have been broken
Safe in my own skin
So nobody wins
Did you hear me speak
Do you understand
Did you hear my voice
Did you take my hand
Did you understand me
Won't someone listen?
I have been broken
My body's a temple
But nothing is simple
Won't someone listen?
Something was stolen
Silence is golden
So nobody listen
Won't someone listen?
I have been broken
My body's a temple
But nothing is simple
Won't someone listen?
I have been broken
My body's a temple
But nothing is simple
Won't someone listen?
I have been broken
The silence is golden
I'm safe in my own skin
Won't someone listen?
I have been broken
My body's a temple
But nothing is simple
song performed by by Garbage
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If you have ploughed with oxen, married a widow and never said a bad word - surely you go to heaven.