poem.txt

À Nîmes by Guillaume Apollinaire

Je me suis engagé sous le plus beau des cieux
Dans Nice la Marine au nom victorieux

Perdu parmi 900 conducteurs anonymes
Je suis un charretier du neuf charroi de Nîmes

L’Amour dit Reste ici Mais là-bas les obus
Épousent ardemment et sans cesse les buts

J’attends que le printemps commande que s’en aille
Vers le nord glorieux l’intrépide bleusaille

Les 3 servants assis dodelinent leurs fronts
Où brillent leurs yeux clairs comme mes éperons

Un bel après-midi de garde à l’écurie
J’entends sonner les trompettes d’artillerie

J’admire la gaieté de ce détachement
Qui va rejoindre au front notre beau régiment

Le territorial se mange une salade
À l’anchois en parlant de sa femme malade

4 pointeurs fixaient les bulles des niveaux
Qui remuaient ainsi que les yeux des chevaux

Le bon chanteur Girault nous chante après 9 heures
Un grand air d’opéra toi l’écoutant tu pleures

Je flatte de la main le petit canon gris
Gris comme l’eau de Seine et je songe à Paris

Mais ce pâle blessé m’a dit à la cantine
Des obus dans la nuit la splendeur argentine

Je mâche lentement ma portion de bœuf
Je me promène seul le soir de 5 à 9

Je selle mon cheval nous battons la campagne
Je te salue au loin belle rose ô tour Magne

Allons plus vite by Guillaume Apollinaire

Et le soir vient et les lys meurent
Regarde ma douleur beau ciel qui me l’envoies
Une nuit de mélancolie

Enfant souris ô sœur écoute
Pauvres marchez sur la grand-route
Ô menteuse forêt qui surgis à ma voix
Les flammes qui brûlent les âmes

Sur le boulevard de Grenelle
Les ouvriers et les patrons
Arbres de mai cette dentelle
Ne fais donc pas le fanfaron
Allons plus vite nom de Dieu
Allons plus vite

Tous les poteaux télégraphiques
Viennent là-bas le long du quai
Sur son sein notre République
A mis ce bouquet de muguet
Qui poussait dru le long du quai
Allons plus vite nom de Dieu
Allons plus vite

La bouche en cœur Pauline honteuse
Les ouvriers et les patrons
Oui-dà oui-dà belle endormeuse
Ton frère
Allons plus vite nom de Dieu
Allons plus vite

A Party Of Lovers By John Keats

Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes,
Nibble their toast, and cool their tea with sighs,
Or else forget the purpose of the night,
Forget their tea, forget their appetite.
See with cross'd arms they sit, ah! happy crew,
The fire is going out and no one rings
For coals, and therefore no coals Betty brings.
A fly is in the milk-pot, must he die
By a humane society?
No, no; there Mr. Werter takes his spoon,
Inserts it, dips the handle, and lo! soon
The little straggler, sav'd from perils dark,
Across the teaboard draws a long wet mark.
Arise! take snuffers by the handle,
There's a large cauliflower in each candle.
A winding-sheet, ah me! I must away
To No. 7, just beyond the circus gay.
'Alas, my friend! your coat sits very well;
Where may your tailor live?'    'I may not tell.
O pardon me, I'm absent now and then.
Where might my tailor live?    I say again
I cannot tell, let me no more be teaz'd,
He lives in Wapping, might live where he pleas'd.'

The Road That Has No End By Joseph Burrows


Hast ever tramped along the road
That has no end?
The far brown winding road, your one
Fast friend
A tattered weather-beaten swag,
A silent mate
To send
His dumb warm comfort to the heart,
A fount where dreams ascend.

There’s wondrous freedom on the road
That has no end;
A man’s heart glows, his spirit leaps
To blend
Its joy of life with fierce wind’s gust
Upon his face:
To lend
Its cry to Nature’s tumult, full
And shrill, as twilight shades descend.

The flowers bloom along the road
That has no end
Cool breezes blow, the gum trees sway
And bend;
The wild doves woo, and softly coo
Their soothing notes,
And mend
Heart’s throbbing pain to sweet content,
And peace lights on the mind’s sad trend

There’s pain and toil along the road
That has no end;
A sinking heart, and weary feet
That spend
Their strength, and lag and crave respite;
And dim tired eyes
That tend
To close their heavy lids upon
The stinging dusts that upward wend.

There are sweet still hours along the road
That has no end
’Neath twinkling stars when night’s deep shades
O’erpend;
A man’s eyes shine with gathered tears,
And memories come
To rend
His straining heart strings, while above
The paling lights his mood commend.

I love the road, the swagman’s road
That has no end;
I love its joys, that pains and toils
Transcend;
It is my dreams, the life that fills my heart
And when death comes and would
My peacefulness
Amend,
I pray that God may let my soul depart
With my tattered swag beside me,
’Mid my friends that never chide me,
And my face towards the distant clouded hill,
Where leads the far brown winding road
That has no end.

L’écolier by Raymond Queneau

J’écrirai le jeudi j’écrirai le dimanche
quand je n’irai pas à l’école
j’écrirai des nouvelles j’écrirai des romans
et même des paraboles
je parlerai de mon village je parlerai de mes parents
de mes aïeux de mes aïeules
je décrirai les prés je décrirai les champs
les broutilles et les bestioles
puis je voyagerai j’irai jusqu’en Iran
au Tibet ou bien au Népal
et ce qui est beaucoup plus intéressant
du côté de Sirius ou d’Algol
où tout me paraîtra tellement étonnant
que revenu dans mon école
je mettrai l’orthographe mélancoliquement

The Water By Henry Lawson

Let others make the songs of love
For our young struggling nation;
But I will sing while e’er I live
The Songs of Irrigation;
For while the white man shall beget
The white man’s son and daughter,
The two most precious things for us
Shall still be wheat and water.

We’ve been drought-ruined in the West,
And ever in my dreaming
I see wide miles of waving crops
And sheets of water gleaming,
On plains where fortune died of thirst
When my brave father sought her,
I see the painted barges pass
Along the winding water.

And now the glorious scheme’s afoot,
Our country to deliver
From drought and death on blazing waste,
By long neglected river.
You’ll see the boodlers of the world
Rush in from every quarter:
They want the land,, the gold-reefed sand,
And now they’ll want the water.

Bright intellects will plan the dykes,
With little gold to gild them,
Bright intellects will plan the dykes,
The people pay to build them;
And when we’ve made our long canals,
And lakes in every quarter,
Then ours would be the “guarantee”,
The Trust would own the water.

They’d hold the bores and aqueducts,
The water-ways and barges,
And we would live, or we would starve
According to their charges;
From all the Edens in the West
They’d bar our sons and daughters,
They’d hold the land, ten leagues or so,
Each side the rippling waters.

But those who fight to hold their own,
The Lord and time delivers;
As we have held our railway lines,
So we shall hold our rivers.
We’ll find the money, as was found
The money spent in slaughter,
To build our dykes and build our dams,
And we shall own the water.

The Oak By Alfred Lord Tennyson

Live thy Life,
Young and old,
Like yon oak,
Bright in spring,
Living gold;

Summer-rich
Then; and then
Autumn-changed
Soberer-hued
Gold again.

All his leaves
Fall'n at length,
Look, he stands,
Trunk and bough
Naked strength.

Fringford Brook By Violet Jacob

The willows stand by Fringford brook,
    From Fringford up to Hethe,
Sun on their cloudy silver heads,
    And shadow underneath.

They ripple to the silent airs
    That stir the lazy day,
Now whitened by their passing hands,
    Now turned again to grey.

The slim marsh-thistle's purple plume
    Droops tasselled on the stem,
The golden hawkweeds pierce like flame
    The grass that harbours them;

Long drowning tresses of the weeds
    Trail where the stream is slow,
The vapoured mauves of water-mint
    Melt in the pools below;

Serenely soft September sheds
    On earth her slumberous look,
The heartbreak of an anguished world
    Throbs not by Fringford brook.

All peace is here. Beyond our range,
    Yet 'neath the selfsame sky,
The boys that knew these fields of home
    By Flemish willows lie.

They waded in the sun-shot flow,
    They loitered in the shade,
Who trod the heavy road of death,
    Jesting and unafraid.

Peace! What of peace? This glimpse of peace
    Lies at the heart of pain,
For respite, ere the spirit's load
    We stoop to lift again.

O load of grief, of faith, of wrath,
    Of patient, quenchless will,
Till God shall ease us of your weight
    We'll bear you higher still!

O ghosts that walk by Fringford brook,
    'Tis more than peace you give,
For you, who knew so well to die,
    Shall teach us how to live.

Children Of Light By Robert Lowell

Our fathers wrung their bread from stocks and stones
And fenced their gardens with the Redmen's bones;
Embarking from the Nether Land of Holland,
Pilgrims unhouseled by Geneva's night,
They planted here the Serpent's seeds of light;
And here the pivoting searchlights probe to shock
The riotous glass houses built on rock,
And candles gutter by an empty altar,
And light is where the landless blood of Cain
Is burning, burning the unburied grain.

A Brief Love Letter By Nizar Qabbani

My darling, I have much to say
Where o precious one shall I begin ?
All that is in you is princely
O you who makes of my words through their meaning
Cocoons of silk
These are my songs and this is me
This short book contains us
Tomorrow when I return its pages
A lamp will lament
A bed will sing
Its letters from longing will turn green
Its commas be on the verge of flight
Do not say: why did this youth
Speak of me to the winding road and the stream
The almond tree and the tulip
So that the world escorts me wherever I go ?
Why did he sing these songs ?
Now there is no star
That is not perfumed with my fragrance
Tomorrow people will see me in his verse
A mouth the taste of wine, close-cropped hair
Ignore what people say
You will be great only through my great love
What would the world have been if we had not been
If your eyes had not been, what would the world have been?

The Four Ages Of Man By William Butler Yeats

He with body waged a fight,
But body won; it walks upright.
Then he struggled with the heart;
Innocence and peace depart.
Then he struggled with the mind;
His proud heart he left behind.
Now his wars on God begin;
At stroke of midnight God shall win.

Struck It At Last By Edward Dyson


He was almost blind, and wasted
With the wear of many years;
He had laboured, and had tasted
Bitter troubles, many cares;
But his laugh was loud and ringing,
And his flag was on the mast
Every day they heard him singing:
‘Bound to strike it rich at last.’

Here he brandished axe and maul ere
Buninyong, and after that
Fought and bled with Peter Lalor
And the boys at Ballarat.
East and west and northward, striving,
As the tides set fresh and fast
Ever trying, rarely thriving
Yes, he’d strike it rich at last.

Now and then she’d pan out snugly,
Mostly all the other way,
But he never cut up ugly
When he bottomed on the clay;
Never cursed, or got disgusted,
Mourned the days and chances past
Geordie always hoped and trusted
He would strike it rich at last.

If the days were very dull, or
When the store-men cut up rough
And he couldn’t raise a colour
From a cart-load of the stuff,
No man found him chicken-hearted,
He’d no time to bang and blast;
Pegged her out again and started
Bound to strike it rich at last.

Blinded by a shot in Eighty,
Sinking for the Pegleg Reef,
If he sorrowed o’er his fate, he
Let no mortal see his grief.
In the Home there in the city
Geordie won their favor fast,
All the inmates learned his ditty
‘Bound to strike it rich at last.’

When brought low, and bowed, and hoary,
Still his eyes alone were blind,
Fortune left undimmed the glory
Of his happy, tranquil mind;
In his heart a flame was glowing
That defied the roughest blast,
And he sang: ‘There is no knowing,
Mates, I’ll strike it rich at last.’

As the end approached he prattled
Of old days at Ballarat,
And again the windlass rattled
At Jim Crow and Blanket Flat;
And the nurses heard him mutter
As his dauntless spirit passed:
‘Streak of luck, boys! On the gutter!’
Geordie struck it rich at last.

La Cigale et la Fourmi by Jean de La Fontaine

La Cigale, ayant chanté
Tout l’été,
Se trouva fort dépourvue
Quand la bise fut venue :
Pas un seul petit morceau
De mouche ou de vermisseau.
Elle alla crier famine
Chez la Fourmi sa voisine,
La priant de lui prêter
Quelque grain pour subsister
Jusqu’à la saison nouvelle.
“Je vous paierai, lui dit-elle,
Avant l’Oût, foi d’animal,
Intérêt et principal. ”
La Fourmi n’est pas prêteuse :
C’est là son moindre défaut.
Que faisiez-vous au temps chaud ?
Dit-elle à cette emprunteuse.
- Nuit et jour à tout venant
Je chantais, ne vous déplaise.
- Vous chantiez ? j’en suis fort aise.
Eh bien! dansez maintenant.


Laugh And Be Merry By John Masefield

Laugh and be merry, remember, better the world with a song,
Better the world with a blow in the teeth of a wrong.
Laugh, for the time is brief, a thread the length of a span.
Laugh and be proud to belong to the old proud pageant of man.

Laugh and be merry: remember, in olden time.
God made Heaven and Earth for joy He took in a rhyme,
Made them, and filled them full with the strong red wine of
His mirth
The splendid joy of the stars: the joy of the earth.

So we must laugh and drink from the deep blue cup of the sky,
Join the jubilant song of the great stars sweeping by,
Laugh, and battle, and work, and drink of the wine outpoured
In the dear green earth, the sign of the joy of the Lord.

Laugh and be merry together, like brothers akin,
Guesting awhile in the rooms of a beautiful inn,
Glad till the dancing stops, and the lilt of the music ends.
Laugh till the game is played; and be you merry, my friends.

Ironic Poem About Prostitution By George Orwell (Eric Arthur Blair)

When I was young and had no sense
In far-off Mandalay
I lost my heart to a Burmese girl
As lovely as the day.

Her skin was gold, her hair was jet,
Her teeth were ivory;
I said, “for twenty silver pieces,
Maiden, sleep with me”.

She looked at me, so pure, so sad,
The loveliest thing alive,
And in her lisping, virgin voice,
Stood out for twenty-five.

In Memory Of Anyone Unknown To Me By Elizabeth Jennings

At this particular time I have no one
Particular person to grieve for, though there must
Be many, many unknown ones going to dust
Slowly, not remembered for what they have done
Or left undone. For these, then, I will grieve
Being impartial, unable to deceive.

How they lived, or died, is quite unknown,
And, by that fact gives my grief purity,
An important person quite apart from me
Or one obscure who drifted down alone.
Both or all I remember, have a place.
For these I never encountered face to face.

Sentiment will creep in. I cast it out
Wishing to give these classical repose,
No epitaph, no poppy and no rose
From me, and certainly no wish to learn about
The way they lived or died. In earth or fire
They are gone. Simply because they were human, I admire.

Sister Maude By Christina Georgina Rossetti

Who told my mother of my shame,
    Who told my father of my dear?
Oh who but Maude, my sister Maude,
    Who lurked to spy and peer.

Cold he lies, as cold as stone,
    With his clotted curls about his face:
The comeliest corpse in all the world
    And worthy of a queen's embrace.

You might have spared his soul, sister,
    Have spared my soul, your own soul too:
Though I had not been born at all,
    He'd never have looked at you.

My father may sleep in Paradise,
    My mother at Heaven-gate:
But sister Maude shall get no sleep
    Either early or late.

My father may wear a golden gown,
    My mother a crown may win;
If my dear and I knocked at Heaven-gate
    Perhaps they'd let us in:
But sister Maude, oh sister Maude,
    Bide you with death and sin.

The Things We Dare Not Tell By Henry Lawson

The fields are fair in autumn yet, and the sun's still shining there,
But we bow our heads and we brood and fret, because of the masks we wear;
Or we nod and smile the social while, and we say we're doing well,
But we break our hearts, oh, we break our hearts! for the things we must not tell.

There's the old love wronged ere the new was won, there's the light of long ago;
There's the cruel lie that we suffer for, and the public must not know.
So we go through life with a ghastly mask, and we're doing fairly well,
While they break our hearts, oh, they kill our hearts! do the things we must not tell.

We see but pride in a selfish breast, while a heart is breaking there;
Oh, the world would be such a kindly world if all men's hearts lay bare!
We live and share the living lie, we are doing very well,
While they eat our hearts as the years go by, do the things we dare not tell.

We bow us down to a dusty shrine, or a temple in the East,
Or we stand and drink to the world-old creed, with the coffins at the feast;
We fight it down, and we live it down, or we bear it bravely well,
But the best men die of a broken heart for the things they cannot tell.

To Marigolds. By Robert Herrick

Give way, and be ye ravish'd by the sun,
And hang the head whenas the act is done,
Spread as he spreads, wax less as he does wane;
And as he shuts, close up to maids again.

Ballad Of Fisher's Boarding-House By Rudyard Kipling

'T was Fultah Fisher's boarding-house,
Where sailor-men reside,
And there were men of all the ports
From Mississip to Clyde,
And regally they spat and smoked,
And fearsomely they lied.

They lied about the purple Sea
That gave them scanty bread,
They lied about the Earth beneath,
The Heavens overhead,
For they had looked too often on
Black rum when that was red.

They told their tales of wreck and wrong,
Of shame and lust and fraud,
They backed their toughest statements with
The Brimstone of the Lord,
And crackling oaths went to and fro
Across the fist-banged board.

And there was Hans the blue-eyed Dane,
Bull-throated, bare of arm,
Who carried on his hairy chest
The maid Ultruda's charm
The little silver crucifix
That keeps a man from harm.

And there was Jake Without-the-Ears,
And Pamba the Malay,
And Carboy Gin the Guinea cook,
And Luz from Vigo Bay,
And Honest Jack who sold them slops
And harvested their pay.

And there was Salem Hardieker,
A lean Bostonian he
Russ, German, English, Halfbreed, Finn,
Yank, Dane, and Portugee,
At Fultah Fisher's boarding-house
They rested from the sea.

Now Anne of Austria shared their drinks,
Collinga knew her fame,
From Tarnau in Galicia
To Juan Bazaar she came,
To eat the bread of infamy
And take the wage of shame.

She held a dozen men to heel
Rich spoil of war was hers,
In hose and gown and ring and chain,
From twenty mariners,
And, by Port Law, that week, men called
Her Salem Hardieker's.

But seamen learnt what landsmen know
That neither gifts nor gain
Can hold a winking Light o' Love
Or Fancy's flight restrain,
When Anne of Austria rolled her eyes
On Hans the blue-eyed Dane.

Since Life is strife, and strife means knife,
From Howrah to the Bay,
And he may die before the dawn
Who liquored out the day,
In Fultah Fisher's boarding-house
We woo while yet we may.

But cold was Hans the blue-eyed Dane,
Bull-throated, bare of arm,
And laughter shook the chest beneath
The maid Ultruda's charm
The little silver crucifix
That keeps a man from harm.

"You speak to Salem Hardieker;
"You was his girl, I know.
"I ship mineselfs to-morrow, see,
"Und round the Skaw we go,
"South, down the Cattegat, by Hjelm,
"To Besser in Saro."

When love rejected turns to hate,
All ill betide the man.
"You speak to Salem Hardieker"
She spoke as woman can.
A scream a sob "He called me names!"
And then the fray began.

An oath from Salem Hardieker,
A shriek upon the stairs,
A dance of shadows on the wall,
A knife-thrust unawares
And Hans came down, as cattle drop,
Across the broken chairs.

. . . . . .

In Anne of Austria's trembling hands
The weary head fell low:
"I ship mineselfs to-morrow, straight
"For Besser in Saro;
"Und there Ultruda comes to me
"At Easter, und I go

"South, down the Cattegat What's here?
"There are no lights to guide!"
The mutter ceased, the spirit passed,
And Anne of Austria cried
In Fultah Fisher's boarding-house
When Hans the mighty died.

Thus slew they Hans the blue-eyed Dane,
Bull-throated, bare of arm,
But Anne of Austria looted first
The maid Ultruda's charm
The little silver crucifix
That keeps a man from harm.

Men Improve With The Years By William Butler Yeats

I am worn out with dreams;
A weather-worn, marble triton
Among the streams;
And all day long I look
Upon this lady’s beauty
As though I had found in book
A pictured beauty,
Pleased to have filled the eyes
Or the discerning ears,
Delighted to be but wise,
For men improve with the years;
And yet and yet
Is this my dream, or the truth?
O would that we had met
When I had my burning youth;
But I grow old among dreams,
A weather-worn, marble triton
Among the streams.

A Drinking Song By William Butler Yeats

Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That's all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.

Seann Oran Gailic. By John Campbell

Do reir beulaithris ann an linn Righ Artair bhi ann an Duneidean,
bha Triath urramach Eirinneach a chuir tigh dìdean air
a chraig ris an abairte Aill-séid-chuan, agus ghoid e na braighde
rìomhfhinne uasal, agus thug e i do'n Dun a thog e air Aill-séid-chuan,
s bha e ga gleidh an sin na braighde. Bha Righ Artair
latha anns a bheinn a sealg, luidh e a' leigeadh a sgìtheas dheth,
chaidil e agus bhruadair e air an rìmhfhinne a bha ann am braighdeanas,
agus ghabh e toil a cuir saor, ach cha robh fios aige c'aite
an robh i. Ghabh sir Bhalbha os laimh dol g'a h iarraidh na'm
faigheadh e long o'n Righ. Thug an Righ long dh'a, agus sheol
sir Bhalbha gus gun d'fhuair e air thuileamus i, agus thug e
dh'ionnsaidh Righ Airteir i, agus b'ann do'n chùis chaidh an t
óran a leasas a dheanamh.

Turus a chaidh Righ Arstair s a shluagh
Gu tullach na'm buadh, a shealg;
Gun duine mar-ris an Righ
Ach Sir Bhalbha, fo a lion arm.
Gun duine, &c.

Chunnaic Righ Bhreatun s e na shuain
An aon bhean a b'aillidh snuadh fo'n ghrein
'S b fhearr leis ro na bh'aige a dh'or
An òg-bhean bhi aige fein.
'S b fhearr leis, &c.

Ach b'fhearr leis tuiteam ann an sin
Le comhrag fir, mar bha e fein.
No dol a dh'iarraidh na mnà
S gun fhios aige cia an t'aite fo n ghréin.
No dol a dh'iarraidh, &c.

Thubairt Sir Bhalbha suairce cuin.
'S e mo rùn dol a dh'iarraidh na mnà,
Theid mi fein mo ghille s mo chu
Nar triuir 'g a sireadh gun dàil
Theid mi fein, &c

Seachd seachdainnean le stri
Bha sinn sgìth a sinbhal cuain
Gun chala gun talamh gun fhonn
Gun ionad amis an gabhadh an long tàmh.
Gun chala gun, &c.

Chuannacas an iomall a chuain Ghairbh
Caisteal mór mìn-gheal ghuirm,
Uinneagan gloine air a stuagh
S bu lìon-mhor ann cuaich coirn.
Uninneagan gloine, &c.

Air dhuinn bhi seoladh stigh ri bhun,
Chaidh slabhraidh a chuir a nuas;
S roimh an t slabhraidh cha do ghabh-ar crith
Ach chaidhearurra na m'ruith suas.
S roimh an t slabhraidh, &c.

Cuanna'cas an ighean eididh òg
Air cathair òir na suidhe a steach
Sgàthan gloine air a glùn,
S bheannaich-eam do a gnuis gheal.
Sgàthan gloine, &c.

Fhir a thainig oìrun o'n chuan
S truagh brìgh do bheannachadh ann.

*             *             *             *             *

Ged thigeadh am fear mor na m dhàil
Gun iochd gun bhàigh le a chlaidheamh cruaidh,
Air do ghuidh-se a bhean bhlath.
S coingeis leam a ghradh seach fhuath.
Air do ghuidh-se, &c.

Arm cha deargadh air an thear,
Ach a chlaidheamh run-geal fein.
Agus is fhearr dhuit dol fo-chleith
Do aite air leith tearruinnt' o'n eug.
Agus is fhearr, &c.

Chaidh Sir Bhalbha fa-chleith
Agus a steach thainig am fear mor
Tha boladh an fhar-bhalaich a steach
Oirrinn iar teachd o thuinn na traigh.
Tha boladh an, &c.

Anamain, a sheircein, s a rùin
Is mor an gaol a thug mi dhuit,
Cuir thusa do cheann air mo ghlùin,
Agus seinnidh mi ciùin duit a chruit.
Cuir thusa do, &c.

Chuir e a cheann air uchd an ighinn ùir,
Bu ghuirme sùil, s bu ghile deud,
S ge bu bhinn a sheinneadh i a chruit,
Bu bhinneadh an guth bha teachd o a beul.
S ge bu bhinn, &c.

Air dhuinn bhi cuairteachadh na'n cuan
Chaidil e suain, na thruim sheamh fann,
S thug iad an claidheamh a chrios
S ghearr iad gun fhios d'dheth an ceann,
S thug iad an, &c.

Ghoid iad a bhraighdeach s gu leir
S bha a bhean fein fo chumha thruim
Siod agaibh aithris mo sgeul
S mar a leugh iad am bòrd-cruinn.
Siod agaibh, &c.

Latha do Righ Arstair s a shluagh
Bhi air Tullach na'm buadh, a shealg.
Gun duine mar-ris an Righ
Ach Bhalbha, fo lion arm.


A Cradle Song By William Butler Yeats


The Danann children laugh, in cradles of wrought gold,
And clap their hands together, and half close their eyes,
For they will ride the North when the ger-eagle flies,
With heavy whitening wings, and a heart fallen cold:
I kiss my wailing child and press it to my breast,
And hear the narrow graves calling my child and me.
Desolate winds that cry over the wandering sea;
Desolate winds that hover in the flaming West;
Desolate winds that beat the doors of Heaven, and beat
The doors of Hell and blow there many a whimpering ghost;
O heart the winds have shaken; the unappeasable host
Is comelier than candles before Maurya’s feet.

Hope By Joseph Addison


Our lives, discoloured with our present woes,
May still grow white and shine with happier hours.
So the pure limped stream, when foul with stains
Of rushing torrents and descending rains,
Works itself clear, and as it runs refines,
till by degrees the floating mirror shines;
Reflects each flower that on the border grows,
And a new heaven in it's fair bosom shows.

Chorus Of Youths And Virgins By Alexander Pope


Semichorus.
Oh Tyrant Love! hast thou possest
The prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast?
Wisdom and wit in vain reclaim,
And Arts but soften us to feel thy flame.
Love, soft intruder, enters here,
But ent'ring learns to be sincere.
Marcus with blushes owns he loves,
And Brutus tenderly reproves.
Why, Virtue, dost thou blame desire,
Which Nature has imprest?
Why, Nature, dost thou soonest fire
The mild and gen'rous breast?

Chorus.
Love's purer flames the Gods approve;
The Gods and Brutus bent to love:
Brutus for absent Portia sighs,
And sterner Cassius melts at Junia's eyes.
What is loose love? a transient gust,
Spent in a sudden storm of lust,
A vapour fed from wild desire,
A wand'ring, self-consuming fire,
But Hymen's kinder flames unite;
And burn for ever one;
Chaste as cold Cynthia's virgin light,
Productive as the Sun.

Semichorus.
Oh source of ev'ry social tie,
United wish, and mutual joy!
What various joys on one attend,
As son, as father, brother husband, friend?
Whether his hoary sire he spies,
While thousand grateful thoughts arise;
Or meets his spouse's fonder eye;
Or views his smiling progeny;
What tender passions take their turns,
What home-felt raptures move?
His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,
With rev'rence, hope, and love.

Chorus.
Hence guilty joys, distastes, surmises,
Hence false tears, deceits, disguises,
Dangers, doubts, delays, surprises;
Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine
Purest love's unwasting treasure,
Constant faith, fair hope, long leisure,
Days of ease, and nights of pleasure;
Sacred Hymen! these are thine.

Hexameters  By Samuel Taylor Coleridge

William, my teacher, my friend! dear William and dear Dorothea!
Smooth out the folds of my letter, and place it on desk or on table;
Place it on table or desk; and your right hands loosely half-closing,
Gently sustain them in air, and extending the digit didactic,
Rest it a moment on each of the forks of the five-forkéd left hand,
Twice on the breadth of the thumb, and once on the tip of each finger;
Read with a nod of the head in a humouring recitativo;
And, as I live, you will see my hexameters hopping before you.
This is a galloping measure; a hop, and a trot, and a gallop!

    All my hexameters fly, like stags pursued by the staghounds,
    Breathless and panting, and ready to drop, yet flying still onwards,
    I would full fain pull in my hard-mouthed runaway hunter;
    But our English Spondeans are clumsy yet impotent curb-reins;
    And so to make him go slowly, no way left have I but to lame him.

    William, my head and my heart! dear Poet that feelest and thinkest!
    Dorothy, eager of soul, my most affectionate sister!
    Many a mile, O! many a wearisome mile are ye distant,
    Long, long, comfortless roads, with no one eye that doth know us.
    O! it is all too far to send to you mockeries idle:
    Yea, and I feel it not right! But O! my friends, my belovéd!
    Feverish and wakeful I lie, I am weary of feeling and thinking.
    Every thought is worn down, I am weary, yet cannot be vacant.
    Five long hours have I tossed, rheumatic heats, dry and flushing,
    Gnawing behind in my head, and wandering and throbbing about me,
    Busy and tiresome, my friends, as the beat of the boding night-spider.

    I forget the beginning of the line:
                         ... my eyes are a burthen,
Now unwillingly closed, now open and aching with darkness.
O! what a life is the eye! what a strange and inscrutable essence!
Him that is utterly blind, nor glimpses the fire that warms him;
Him that never beheld the swelling breast of his mother;
Him that smiled in his gladness as a babe that smiles in its slumber;
Even for him it exists, it moves and stirs in its prison;
Lives with a separate life, and `Is it a Spirit?' he murmurs:
`Sure, it has thoughts of its own, and to see is only a language.'

    There was a great deal more, which I have forgotten. ...
    The last line which I wrote, I remember, and write it for the truth
    of the sentiment, scarcely less true in company than in pain and solitude:

    William, my head and my heart! dear William and dear Dorothea!
    You have all in each other; but I am lonely, and want you!


The Welcome  By Thomas Osborne Davis

Come in the evening, or come in the morning;
Come when you ’re look’d for, or come without warning:
Kisses and welcome you ’ll find here before you,
And the oftener you come here the more I ’ll adore you!
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted;
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted;
The green of the trees looks far greener than ever,
And the linnets are singing, “True lovers don’t sever!”

I ’ll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them,
Or, after you’ve kiss’d them, they ’ll lie on my bosom;
I ’ll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you;
I ’ll fetch from my fancy a tale that won’t tire you.
Oh! your step’s like the rain to the summer-vex’d farmer,
Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor;
I ’ll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me,
Then, wandering, I ’ll wish you in silence to love me.

We ’ll look through the trees at the cliff and the eyrie;
We ’ll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy;
We ’ll look on the stars, and we ’ll list to the river,
Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her:
Oh! she ’ll whisper you “Love, as unchangeably beaming,
And trust, when in secret, most tunefully streaming;
Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver,
As our souls flow in one down eternity’s river.”

So come in the evening, or come in the morning;
Come when you ’re looked for, or come without warning:
Kisses and welcome you ’ll find here before you,
And the oftener you come here the more I ’ll adore you!
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted;
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted;
The green of the trees looks far greener than ever,
And the linnets are singing, “True lovers don’t sever!”