En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Little Pierre's Song

In a humble room in London sat a pretty little boy,
By the bedside of his sick mother her only joy,
Who was called Little Pierre, and who's father was dead;
There he sat poor boy, hungry and crying for bread.

There he sat humming a little song, which was his own,
But to the world it was entirely unknown,
And as he sang the song he felt heartsick,
But he resolved to get Madame Malibran to sing his song in public

Then he paused for a moment and clasped his hands,
And running to the looking-glass before it he stands,
Then he smoothed his yellow curls without delay,
And from a tin box takes a scroll of paper worn and grey.

Then he gave one fond eager glance at his mother,
Trying hard brave boy his grief to smother,
As he gazed on the bed where she lay,
But he resolved to see Madame Malibran without delay.

Then he kissed his mother while she slept,
And stealthily from the house he crept,
And direct to Madame Malibran's house he goes,
Resolved to see her no matter who did him oppose.

And when he reached the door he knocked like a brave gallant
And the door was answered by her lady servant,
Then he told the servant Madame Malibran he wished to see
And the servant said, oh yes, I'll tell her immediately.

Then away the servant goes quite confident,
And told her a little boy wished to see her just one moment
Oh! well, said Madame Malibran, with a smile,
Fetch in the little boy he will divert me a while.

So Little Pierre was broght in with his hat under his arm
And in his hand a scroll of paper, thinking it no harm,
Then walked straight up to Madame Malibran without dread
And said, dear lady my mother is sick and in want of bread.

And I have called to see if you would sing my little song,
At someof your grand concerts, Ah! Say before long,
Or perhaps you could sell it to a publisher for a small sum,
Then I could buy food for my mother and with it would run.

Then Madame Malibran rose from her seat most costly and grand
And took the scroll of paper from Pierre's hand
And hummed his little song, to a plaintive air,
Then said, your song is soul stirring I do declare.

Dear child did you compose the words she asked Pierre,
Oh yes my dear lady just as you see,
Well my dear boy I will sing your song to-night,
And you shall have a seat near me on the right.

Then Pierre, said, Oh! lady I cannot leave my mother,
But my dear boy, as for her you need not bother,
So dear child don't be the least cast down,
And in the meantime here is a crown.

And for your mother you can buy food and medicine,
So run away and be at the concert to-night in time
Then away he ran and bought many little necessary things
And while doing so his little song he hums and sings.

Then home to his poor sick mother he quickly ran,
And told her of his success with Madame Malibran,
Then his mother cried, Oh! Pierre, you are a very good boy,
And to hear of your success my heart is full of joy.

Dear mother, I am going to the concert hall to-night,
To hear Madame Malibran, which will my heart delight,
Oh! well said his mother, God speed you my little man,
I hope you will be delighted to hear Madame Malibran.

So to the concert hall he goes, and found a seat there,
And the lights and flashing of diamonds made him stare,
And caused a joyous smile to play upon his face,
For never had he been in so grand a place.

There the brave boy sat and Madame Malibran came at last
And with his eyes rivetted on her he sared aghast,
And to hear her sing, Oh! how he did long,
And he wondered if the lady would really sing his song.

At last the great singer commenced his little song,
And many a heart was moved and the plaudits loud and long
And as she sang it Pierre clapped his hands for joy.
That he felt as if it were free from the world's annoy.

When the concert was over his heart felt as light as the air
And as for money now he didn't seem to care,
Since the great singer in Europe had sung his little song,
But he hoped that dame fortune would smile on him ere long

The next day he was frightened by a visit from Madame Malibran
And turning to his mother, she said your little boy Madame
Will make a fortune for himself and you before long,
Because I've been offered a large sum for his little song.

And Madame thank God you have such a gifted son,
But dear Madame heavens will must be done,
Then Pierre knelt and prayed that God would the lady bless
For helping them in the time of their distress.

And the memory of Pierre's prayer made the singer do more good
By visiting the poor and giving them clothing and food
And Pierre lightened her last moments ere her soul fled away
And he came to be one of the most talented composers of the day.

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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The End

ADIEU, Madame! The moon of May
Wanes now above the orchard grey;
The white May-blossoms fall like snow,
As Love foretold a month ago--
Or was it only yesterday?

All pleasant things must pass away;
You would not, surely, have me stay?
I own I shun the inference! No!
Adieu, Madame!

Come, dry your eyes, for not this way
Should end your pretty pastoral play.
You have no heart--you told me so--
And I adore you, as you know;
Smile, while I break my heart and say
Adieu, Madame!

poem by Edith Nesbit
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You Never Can Tell

It was a teenage wedding
And the old folks wished em well
You could see that pierre
Did truly love the mademoiselle.
And the young monsieur and madame
Have rung the chapel bell,
Cest la vie,
-say the old folks
It goes to show that you never can tell
They furnished off an apartment
With a two room roebuck sale
The coolerator was filled
With t.v. dinners and ginger ale
But when pierre found work,
The little money comin worked out well
Cest la vie,
-say the old folks
It goes to show that you never can tell
They had a hi-fi phono
Boy, did they let it blast
Seven hundred little records
All rock, rhythm and jazz
But when the sun went down
The rapid tempo of the music fell
Cest la vie,
-say the old folks
It goes to show that you never can tell
They bought a souped up jitney
twas a cherry in fifty-three
They drove it down to new orleans
To celebrate their anniversary.
It was there where pierre was wedded
To the lovely mademoiselle,
Cest la vie,
-say the old folks
It goes to show that you never can tell
It was a teenage wedding
And the old folks wished em well
You could see that pierre
Did truly love the mademoiselle.
And the young monsieur and madame
Have rung the chapel bell,
Cest la vie,
-say the old folks
It goes to show that you never can tell

song performed by by John Prine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Little Popeet - the Lost Child

Near by the silent waters of the Mediterranean,
And at the door of an old hut stood a coloured man,
Whose dress was oriental in style and poor with wear,
While adown his furrowed cheeks ran many a tear.

And the poor coloured man seemed very discontent,
And his grief overcame him at this moment;
And he wrung his hands in agony wild,
And he cried, "Oh! help me, great God, to find my child."

"And Ada, my dear wife, but now she is dead,
Which fills my poor heart with sorrow and dread;
She was a very loving wife, but of her I'm bereft,
And I and my lost child are only left.

And, alas! I know not where to find my boy,
Who is dear to me and my only joy;
But with the help of God I will find him,
And this day in search of him I will begin."

So Medoo leaves Turkey and goes to France,
Expecting to find his boy there perhaps by chance;
And while there in Paris he was told
His boy by an Arab had been sold

To a company of French players that performed in the street,
Which was sad news to hear about his boy Popeet;
And while searching for him and making great moan,
He was told he was ill and in Madame Mercy's Home.

Then away went Medoo with his heart full of joy,
To gaze upon the face of his long-lost boy;
Who had been treated by the players mercilessly,
But was taken to the home of Madame Celeste.

She was a member of the players and the leader's wife,
And she loved the boy Popeet as dear as her life,
Because she had no children of her own;
And for the poor ill-treated boy often she did moan.

And when Popeet's father visited the Home,
He was shown into a room where Popeet lay alone,
Pale and emaciated, in his little bed;
And when his father saw him he thought he was dead.

And when Popeet saw his father he lept out of bed,
And only that his father caught him he'd been killed dead;
And his father cried, " Popeet, my own darling boy,
Thank God I've found you, and my heart's full of joy."

Then Madame Mercy's tears fell thick and fast,
When she saw that Popeet had found his father at last;
Then poor Popeet was taken home without delay,
And lived happy with his father for many a day.

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Golden-Tressed Adelaide

SING, I pray, a little song,
Mother dear!
Neither sad nor very long:
It is for a little maid,
Golden-tressed Adelaide!
Therefore let it suit a merry, merry ear,
Mother dear!

Let it be a merry strain,
Mother dear!
Shunning e’en the thought of pain:
For our gentle child will weep,
If the theme be dark and deep;
And we will not draw a single, single tear,
Mother dear!

Childhood should be all divine,
Mother dear!
And like an endless summer shine;
Gay as Edward’s shouts and cries,
Bright as Agnes’ azure eyes:
Therefore, bid thy song be merry:—dost thou hear,
Mother dear?

poem by Barry Cornwall
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Thomas Winterbottom Hance

IN all the towns and cities fair
On Merry England's broad expanse,
No swordsman ever could compare
With THOMAS WINTERBOTTOM HANCE.

The dauntless lad could fairly hew
A silken handkerchief in twain,
Divide a leg of mutton too -
And this without unwholesome strain.

On whole half-sheep, with cunning trick,
His sabre sometimes he'd employ -
No bar of lead, however thick,
Had terrors for the stalwart boy.

At Dover daily he'd prepare
To hew and slash, behind, before -
Which aggravated MONSIEUR PIERRE,
Who watched him from the Calais shore.

It caused good PIERRE to swear and dance,
The sight annoyed and vexed him so;
He was the bravest man in France -
He said so, and he ought to know.

"Regardez donc, ce cochon gros -
Ce polisson! Oh, sacre bleu!
Son sabre, son plomb, et ses gigots
Comme cela m'ennuye, enfin, mon Dieu!

"Il sait que les foulards de soie
Give no retaliating whack -
Les gigots morts n'ont pas de quoi -
Le plomb don't ever hit you back."

But every day the headstrong lad
Cut lead and mutton more and more;
And every day poor PIERRE, half mad,
Shrieked loud defiance from his shore.

HANCE had a mother, poor and old,
A simple, harmless village dame,
Who crowed and clapped as people told
Of WINTERBOTTOM'S rising fame.

She said, "I'll be upon the spot
To see my TOMMY'S sabre-play;"
And so she left her leafy cot,
And walked to Dover in a day.

PIERRE had a doating mother, who
Had heard of his defiant rage;
HIS Ma was nearly ninety-two,
And rather dressy for her age.

At HANCE'S doings every morn,
With sheer delight HIS mother cried;
And MONSIEUR PIERRE'S contemptuous scorn
Filled HIS mamma with proper pride.

But HANCE'S powers began to fail -
His constitution was not strong -
And PIERRE, who once was stout and hale,
Grew thin from shouting all day long.

Their mothers saw them pale and wan,
Maternal anguish tore each breast,
And so they met to find a plan
To set their offsprings' minds at rest.

Said MRS. HANCE, "Of course I shrinks
From bloodshed, ma'am, as you're aware,
But still they'd better meet, I thinks."
"Assurement!" said MADAME PIERRE.

A sunny spot in sunny France
Was hit upon for this affair;
The ground was picked by MRS. HANCE,
The stakes were pitched by MADAME PIERRE.

Said MRS. H., "Your work you see -
Go in, my noble boy, and win."
"En garde, mon fils!" said MADAME P.
"Allons!" "Go on!" "En garde!" "Begin!"

(The mothers were of decent size,
Though not particularly tall;
But in the sketch that meets your eyes
I've been obliged to draw them small.)

Loud sneered the doughty man of France,
"Ho! ho! Ho! ho! Ha! ha! Ha! ha!
"The French for 'Pish'" said THOMAS HANCE.
Said PIERRE, "L'Anglais, Monsieur, pour 'Bah.'"

Said MRS. H., "Come, one! two! three! -
We're sittin' here to see all fair."
"C'est magnifique!" said MADAME P.,
"Mais, parbleu! ce n'est pas la guerre!"

"Je scorn un foe si lache que vous,"
Said PIERRE, the doughty son of France.
"I fight not coward foe like you!"
Said our undaunted TOMMY HANCE.

"The French for 'Pooh!'" our TOMMY cried.
"L'Anglais pour 'Va!'" the Frenchman crowed.
And so, with undiminished pride,
Each went on his respective road.

poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Sing a Song Mother!

Sing a song Mother, sing again
for your daughter now grown
but sing again that lullaby
for her to sleep a while

Sing a song Mother, sing
again and caress her
sing for her and sooth
away her worries.....

Sing a song Mother, with
love and care
sing again that melody
to warm her heart...

Sing a song Mother, hold her tight
and sing again from your love
sing for her she needs only you
and sing for her to smile..

Sing a song Mother, sing again
for your daughter
sing again until she sleeps
on your loving lap...

poem by Rema Prasanaa
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Exemplary And Lavish Extravagance

Aaah, Madame La Pompadour needs time off
from the office they had built her, soundproof,
air-con, and everything she wants inside, today
she plays chauffer to the children in her neigh-
bourhood and visiting her mother in the old-age
home - she condescendingly told us - though
there is really no need why we should know
where she is, she is the free incumbent

Madame La Pompadour suffers agoraphobia
at home and claustrophobia in the office, her
problems are debilitating; she needs a bigger
office of course, with user-friendly interior
decorating - I sigh in admiration, such a very
exemplary and lavish extravagance, with the
cool presumption that a James Bond would
envy her, she does what she wants

Madame La Pompadour looks down on the
mundane civil servants - us - who man the
open-plan office, why should she earn her
salary like a slave when she gets it without
ever leaving her home?

poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Suite Madame Blue

Time after time I sit and I wait for your call
I know Im a fool what can I say
Whatever the price Ill pay for you, madame blue
Once long ago, one word from your lips and the world turned around
But somehow youve changed, youre so far away
I long for the past and dream of the days with you, madame blue
Suite madame blue, gaze in your looking glass
Youre not a child anymore
Suite madame blue, the future is all but past
Dressed in your jewels, you made your own rules
You conquered the world and more ..............heavens door
America....america...america..america..
America....america...america..america..
America....america...america..america..
Red white and blue, gaze in your looking glass
Youre not a child anymore
Red, white, and blue, the future is all but past
So lift up your heart, make a new start
And lead us away from here

song performed by by Styx
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Madame Minda

i remember when i was yet so small like a

snail,

mother took me to your house where the roof leaks like a wooden

boat

and i was gazing up my eyes fixed on some stars that night like a

telescope

and mother pinched me in my arm afraid to offend your poverty like a

worm

but then i could not be stopped and i spoke so loud asking mother why are
they so poor like a

rat

and mother silenced me with her hand covering my mouth and you pretended
you did not hear anything like a

pig

you stared at me but i could not be outdone i also stared at you like a white

pegion

that was how it was Madame Minda, we started as two opposing river banks
we never reach each other like you were my broad back and i am a short

hand

that never reached your heart

i never miss you and you never change.Whatever are you i simply keep it
to myself like a

wart.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Madame George

Down on cyprus avenue
With a childlike vision leaping into view
Clicking, clacking of the high heeled shoe
Ford & fitzroy, madame george
Marching with the soldier boy behind
Hes much older with hat on drinking wine
And that smell of sweet perfume comes drifting through
The cool night air like shalimar
And outside theyre making all the stops
The kids out in the street collecting bottle-tops
Gone for cigarettes and matches in the shops
Happy taken madame george
Thats when you fall
Whoa, thats when you fall
Yeah, thats when you fall
When you fall into a trance
A sitting on a sofa playing games of chance
With your folded arms and history books you glance
Into the eyes of madame george
And you think you found the bag
Youre getting weaker and your knees begin to sag
In the corner playing dominoes in drag
The one and only madame george
And then from outside the frosty window raps
She jumps up and says lord have mercy I think its the cops
And immediately drops everything she gots
Down into the street below
And you know you gotta go
On that train from dublin up to sandy row
Throwing pennies at the bridges down below
And the rain, hail, sleet, and snow
Say goodbye to madame george
Dry your eye for madame george
Wonder why for madame george
And as you leave, the room is filled with music, laughing, music,
Dancing, music all around the room
And all the little boys come around, walking away from it all
So cold
And as youre about to leave
She jumps up and says hey love, you forgot your gloves
And the gloves to love to love the gloves...
To say goodbye to madame george
Dry your eye for madame george
Wonder why for madame george
Dry your eyes for madame george
Say goodbye in the wind and the rain on the back street
In the backstreet, in the back street
Say goodbye to madame george
In the backstreet, in the back street, in the back street
Down home, down home in the back street
Gotta go
Say goodbye, goodbye, goodbye
Dry your eye your eye your eye your eye your eye...
Say goodbye to madame george
And the loves to love to love the love
Say goodbye
Oooooo
Mmmmmmm
Say goodbye goodbye goodbye goodbye to madame george
Dry your eye for madame george
Wonder why for madame george
The loves to love the loves to love the loves to love...
Say goodbye, goodbye
Get on the train
Get on the train, the train, the train...
This is the train, this is the train...
Whoa, say goodbye, goodbye....
Get on the train, get on the train...

song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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See Not At All

The high and mighty lady who seldom
honours state office with her graceful
presence told Madame De Lafayette,
supervisor - off for follow-up tests

Still not coming to the office while the
rest of us are threatened with legal
procedures should we violate any
regulation pertaining to absence

Stunned by these double standards
some openly mimicking Madame La
Pompadour's haughty manner - the
Calvinistic work ethic of colleagues

Enabling them to do her work also, no-
body lodges a complaint; such good
officials, used to oppression for no
apparent reason other than

Management's inefficiency which only
intimidate the law-abiding while serial
offenders are untouchable - best is
to see La Madame not at all…

poem by Margaret Alice Second
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A Prima Donna

Madame La Pompadour cannot come to work,
the world is spinning out of control, her dog
needs medical attention, her car cannot start in
the morning, her dog needs another vet, now
Madame Pompadour's newly built office is
empty - it was given as a compelling condition
for her return to work, yet it seems something
is lacking still, can we guess what it is

Maybe a chauffeur to drive her to work every
morning, a special kennel next to her office so
she can bring her dogs to be with her all day,
maybe a built-in a humidifier so she can breathe
freely without germs, maybe a Jacuzzi so she can
get rid of the tension right here at work, maybe
her own cook and kitchenette so she can order
the right meals with the same aplomb as

A Lady Gaga, surely Madame La Pompadour has
already dethroned both Madonna and Lady Gaga
for being a prima donna who gets her own way!

poem by Margaret Alice Second
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The Orphan Boy's Tale

Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake,
And hear a helpless orphan's tale,
Ah! sure my looks must pity wake,
'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale.

Yet I was once a mother's pride,
And my brave father's hope and joy,
But in the Nile's proud fight he died,
And I am now an orphan boy.

Poor foolish child! how pleased was I,
When news of Nelson's victory came,
Along the crowded streets to fly,
And see the lighted windows flame!

To force me home my mother sought,
She could not bear to see my joy;
For with my father's life 'twas bought,
And made me a poor orphan boy.

The people's shouts were long and loud,
My mother, shuddering, clos'd her ears;
'Rejoice! rejoice!' still cried the crowd;
My mother answered with her tears.

'Why are you crying thus,' said I,
'While others laugh and shout for joy?'
She kiss'd me -- and with such a sigh!
She called me her poor orphan boy.

'What is an orphan boy?' I cried,
As in her face I look'd and smil'd;
My mother through her tears replied,
'You'll know too soon, ill-fated child!'

And now they've toll'd my mother's knell,
And I'm no more a parent's joy;
O lady, -- I have learnt too well
What 'tis to be an orphan boy.

Oh! were I by your bounty fed!
Nay, gentle lady, do not chide,--
Trust me, I mean to earn my bread;
The sailor's orphan boy has pride.

Lady, you weep! -- ha? -- this to me?
You'll give me clothing, food, employ
Look down, dear parents! look and see
Your happy, happy orphan boy!

poem by Amelia Opie
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C'est La Vie

(chuck berry)
It was a teenage wedding
And the old folks wished them well
You could see that pierre
Did truly love the mademoiselle
And now the young monsieur and madame
Have rung the chapel bell
"c'est la vie", say the old folks
It goes to slow you never can tell
They furnished off an apartment
With a two room roebuck sale
The coolerator was crammed
With t.v. dimmers and ginger ale
But when pierre found work
The little money comin' worked out well
"c'est la vie", say the old folks
It goes to show you never can tell
They had a hi-fi phono
Boy did they let it blast
Seven hundred little records
All rockin' rhythm and jazz
But when the sun went down
The rapid tempo of the music fell
"c'est la vie", say the old folks
It goes to show you never can tell
They bought a souped-up jitney
T'was a cherry-red fifty nine
They drove it down to new orleans
To celebrate their anniversary
It was there that pierre
Was wedded to the lovely mad'moiselle
"c'est la vie", say the old folks
It goes to show you never can tell

song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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(You Never Can Tell) C'est Lavie

(Chuck Berry)
It was a teenage wedding
And the old folks wished them well
You could see that Pierre
Did truly love the mademoiselle
And now the young monsieur and madame
Have rung the chapel bell
"C'est la vie", say the old folks
It goes to slow you never can tell
They furnished off an apartment
With a two room Roebuck sale
The coolerator was crammed
With T.V. dimmers and ginger ale
But when Pierre found work
The little money comin' worked out well
"C'est la vie", say the old folks
It goes to show you never can tell
They had a hi-fi phono
Boy did they let it blast
Seven hundred little records
All rockin' rhythm and jazz
But when the sun went down
The rapid tempo of the music fell
"C'est la vie", say the old folks
It goes to show you never can tell
they bought a souped-up jitney
T'was a cherry-red fifty nine
They drove it down to New Orleans
To celebrate their anniversary
It was there that Pierre
Was wedded to the lovely mad'moiselle
"C'est la vie", say the old folks
It goes to show you never can tell

song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Song: XI

Mother, mother, do you not hear?
Mother, they come; there is news to tell!
– Give me your hands, my daughter dear:
'Tis but a ship that saileth well.

Mother dear, have a care, give heed!
–They go, my daughter, away they speed.
Mother, the danger is sore, alas!
– Child, my child, it will quickly pass.

Mother, mother, She draweth near!
– It is down in the harbour, daughter dear.
Mother, mother, She opens the door!
– Child, they go, to return no more.

Mother, She enters! I am afraid!
– Child, they now have the anchor weighed.
Mother, I hear Her speaking low.
– Child, my child, it is they that go.

Mother, She makes the stars go dark!
– Child, 'tis the sails of a shadowy bark.
Mother, She knocks at the casement still!
– Child, maybe it is fastened ill. . . .

Mother, mother, my sight grows dim. . . .
– Child, they sail for the open sea.
On every hand I can hear but Him. . . .
– O child, what is it, and who is He?

poem by Maurice Polydore-Marie-Bernard Maeterlinck
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The Death-Song

Mother, mother! my heart is wild,
Hold me upon your bosom dear,
Do not frown on your own poor child,
Death is darkly drawing near.
Mother, mother! the bitter shame
Eats into my very soul;
And longing love, like a wrapping flame,
Burns me away without control.
Mother, mother! upon my brow
The clammy death-sweats coldly rise;
How dim and strange your features grow
Through the hot mist that veils my eyes.
Mother, mother! sing me the song
They sing on sunny August eves,
The rustling barley fields along,
Binding up the ripe, red sheaves.
Mother, mother! I do not hear
Your voice—but his—oh, guard me well!
His breathing makes me faint with fear,
His clasping arms are round me still.
Mother, mother! unbind my vest,
Upon my heart lies his first token:
Now lay me in my narrow nest,
Your withered blossom, crushed and broken.

poem by Frances Anne Kemble
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The Three Bushes

SAID lady once to lover,
'None can rely upon
A love that lacks its proper food;
And if your love were gone
How could you sing those songs of love?
I should be blamed, young man.
O my dear, O my dear.

Have no lit candles in your room,'
That lovely lady said,
'That I at midnight by the clock
May creep into your bed,
For if I saw myself creep in
I think I should drop dead.'
O my dear, O my dear.

'I love a man in secret,
Dear chambermaid,' said she.
'I know that I must drop down dead
If he stop loving me,
Yet what could I but drop down dead
If I lost my chastity?
O my dear, O my dear.

'So you must lie beside him
And let him think me there.
And maybe we are all the same
Where no candles are,
And maybe we are all the same
That stip the body bare.'
O my dear, O my dear.
But no dogs barked, and midnights chimed,
And through the chime she'd say,
'That was a lucky thought of mine,
My lover. looked so gay';
But heaved a sigh if the chambermaid
Looked half asleep all day.
O my dear, O my dear.

'No, not another song,' siid he,
'Because my lady came
A year ago for the first time
At midnight to my room,
And I must lie between the sheets
When the clock begins to chime.'
O my dear, O my d-ear.

'A laughing, crying, sacred song,
A leching song,' they said.
Did ever men hear such a song?
No, but that day they did.
Did ever man ride such a race?
No, not until he rode.
O my dear, O my dear.

But when his horse had put its hoof
Into a rabbit-hole
He dropped upon his head and died.
His lady saw it all
And dropped and died thereon, for she
Loved him with her soul.
O my dear, O my dear.
The chambermaid lived long, and took
Their graves into her charge,
And there two bushes planted
That when they had grown large
Seemed sprung from but a single root
So did their roses merge.
O my dear, O my dear.

When she was old and dying,
The priest came where she was;
She made a full confession.
Long looked he in her face,
And O he was a good man
And understood her case.
O my dear, O my dear.

He bade them take and bury her
Beside her lady's man,
And set a rose-tree on her grave,
And now none living can,
When they have plucked a rose there,
Know where its roots began.
O my dear, O my dear.

poem by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Come Home, Father!

'Tis The
SONG OF LITTLE MARY,
Standing at the bar-room door
While the shameful midnight revel
Rages wildly as before.

Father, dear father, come home with me now!
The clock in the steeple strikes one;
You said you were coming right home from the shop,
As soon as your day's work was done.
Our fire has gone out our house is all dark
And mother's been watching since tea, --
With poor brother Benny so sick in her arms,
And no one to help her but me. --
Come home! come home! come home! --
Please, father, dear father, come home. --

Hear the sweet voice of the child
Which the night winds repeat as they roam!
Oh who could resist this most plaintive of prayers?
"Please, father, dear father, come home."

Father, dear father, come home with me now!
The clock in the steeple strikes two;
The night has grown colder, and Benny is worse
But he has been calling for you.
Indeed he is worse Ma says he will die,
Perhaps before morning shall dawn; --
And this is the message she sent me to bring
"Come quickly, or he will be gone." --
Come home! come home! come home! --
Please, father, dear father, come home. --

Hear the sweet voice of the child
Which the night winds repeat as they roam!
Oh who could resist this most plaintive of prayers?
"Please, father, dear father, come home."

Father, dear father, come home with me now!
The clock in the steeple strikes three;
The house is so lonely the hours are so long
For poor weeping mother and me.
Yes, we are alone poor Benny is dead,
And gone with the angels of light; --
And these were the very last words that he said
"I want to kiss Papa good night." --
Come home! come home! come home! --
Please, father, dear father, come home. --

Hear the sweet voice of the child
Which the night winds repeat as they roam!
Oh who could resist this most plaintive of prayers?
"Please, father, dear father, come home."

poem by Henry Clay Work
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Two Folk Songs

I. THE SOLDIER

(Roumanian)

When winter trees bestrew the path,
Still to the twig a leaf or twain
Will cling and weep, not Winter's wrath,
But that foreknown forlorner pain-
To fall when green leaves come again.

I watch'd him sleep by the furrow-
The first that fell in the fight.
His grave they would dig to-morrow:
The battle called them to-night.

They bore him aside to the trees, there,
By his undigg'd grave content
To lie on his back at ease there,
And hark how the battle went.

The battle went by the village,
And back through the night were borne
Far cries of murder and pillage,
With smoke from the standing corn.

But when they came on the morrow,
They talk'd not over their task,
As he listen'd there by the furrow;
For the dead mouth could not ask-

How went the battle, my brothers?

But that he will never know:
For his mouth the red earth smothers
As they shoulder their spades and go.

Yet he cannot sleep thereunder,
But ever must toss and turn.

How went the battle, I wonder?

-And that he will never learn!

When winter trees bestrew the path,
Still to the twig a leaf or twain
Will cling and weep, not Winter's wrath,
But that foreknown, forlorner pain-
To fall when green leaves come again!

II. THE MARINE

(
Poitevin
)

The bold Marine comes back from war,
So kind:
The bold Marine comes back from war,
So kind:
With a raggety coat and a worn-out shoe.
'Now, poor Marine, say, whence come you,
All so kind?'

I travel back from the war, madame,
So kind:
I travel back from the war, madame,
So kind:
For a glass of wine and a bowl of whey,
'Tis I will sing you a ballad gay,
All so kind.

The bold Marine he sips his whey,
So kind:
He sips and he sings his ballad gay,
So kind:
But the dame she turns toward the wall,
To wipe her tears that fall and fall,
All so kind.

What aileth you at my song, madame,
So kind?
I hope that I sing no wrong, madame,
So kind?

Or grieves it you a beggar should dine
On a bowl of whey and the good white wine,
All so kind?

It ails me not at your ballad gay,
So kind:
It ails me not for the wine and whey,
So kind:

But it ails me sore for the voice and eyes
Of a good man long in Paradise.-
Ah, so kind!

You have fair children five, madame,
So kind:
You have fair children five, madame,
So kind:

Your good man left you children three;
Whence came these twain for company,
All so kind?

'A letter came from the war, Marine,
So kind:
A letter came from the war, Marine,
So kind:
A while I wept for the good man dead,
But another good man in a while I wed,
All so kind.'

The bold Marine he drained his glass,
So kind:
The bold Marine he drained his glass,
So kind.
He said not a word, though the tears they flowed,
But back to his regiment took the road,
All so kind.

poem by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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