TRUE LOVE
Anon

True love is a sacred flame
That burns eternally,
And none can dim its special glow
Or change its destiny.

True love speaks in tender tones
And hears with gentle ear,
True love gives with open heart
And true love conquers fear.

True love makes no harsh demands
It neither rules nor binds,
And true love holds with gentle hands
The hearts that it entwines.

-oo0oo-

TODAY'S POEM IS THE LAST TO BE PUBLISHED ON THIS SITE.

"POETRY FOR PLEASURE" IS NOW A DAILY FEATURE ON MY 80 PLUS BLOG
http://80plus.blogspot.com

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MY LOVE IS LIKE A RED, RED ROSE
Robert Burns (1759-1796)

O, my love is like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
My love is like a melody
That's sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonny lass,
So deep in love am I;
And I will love thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only love!
And fare thee weel, awhile!
And I will come again, my love,
Though it were ten thousand mile.

-oo0oo-

These poems are also being shown daily on the 80 plus site
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ALL IN THE DOWNS
Tom Hood (The Younger) 1835-1874

I would I had something to do - or to think!
Or something to read, or to write!
I am rapidly verging on Lunacy’s brink,
Or I shall be dead before night.

In my ears has been ringing and droning all day,
Without ever a stop or a change,
That poem of Tennyson’s - heart-cheering lay! -
Of the Moated Monotonous Grange!

The stripes in the carpet and paper alike
I have counted, and counted all through.
And now I’ve a fervid ambition to strike
Out some path of wild pleasure that’s new.

They say if a number you count, and re-count,
That the time imperceptibly goes: -
Ah, I wish - how I wish! - I’d ne’er learnt the amount
Of my aggregate fingers and toes.

“Enjoyment is fleeting,” the proverbs all say,
“Even that, which it feeds upon, fails.”
I’ve arrived at the truth of the saying today,
By devouring the whole of my nails.

I have numbered the minutes, so heavy and slow,
Till of that dissipation I tire.
And as for exciting amusements - you know
One can’t ALWAYS be stirring the fire!

-oo0oo

The poems on this site are also appearing on the 80 plus blog
http://80plus.blogspot.com

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THE ISLE OF CAPRI
Jimmy Kennedy (1902-1984)

‘Twas on the Isle of Capri that I found her
Beneath the shade of an old walnut tree,
Oh, I can still see the flowers blooming round her
Where we met on the Isle of Capri.

She was as sweet as a rose at the dawning
But somehow fate hadn’t meant her for me,
And though I sailed with the tide in the morning
Still my heart’s on the Isle of Capri.

Summertime was nearly over,
Blue Italian sky above,
I said “Lady, I’m a rover,
Can you spare a sweet word of love?”

She whispered softly “It’s best not to linger,”
Then as I kissed her hand I could see
She wore a plain golden ring on her finger,
‘Twas goodbye on the Isle of Capri.

-oo0oo-

TWO POEMS
William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

SWEET GARDEN-ORCHARD

Sweet Garden-orchard! of all spots that are
The loveliest surely man hath ever found.
Farewell! we leave thee to heaven's peaceful care.
Thee and the cottage which thou dost surround -

Dear Spot! whom we have watched with tender heed,
Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown
Among the distant mountains, flower and weed
Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own -

O happy Garden! loved for hours of sleep,
O quiet Garden! loved for waking hours.
For soft half-slumbers that did gently steep
Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers.

-oo0oo-

TO A BUTTERFLY

I’ve watched you now a full half-hour;
Self-poised upon that yellow flower
And, little Butterfly! Indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless! - not frozen seas
More motionless! and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!

-oo0oo-

ADLESTROP
Edward Thomas (1878-1917)

Yes, I remember Adlestrop -
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop - only the name

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

-o0o-

LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY
Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)

The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single,
All things by a law divine
In one another's being mingle—
Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdain'd its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea—
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

-oo0oo-

THERE WAS A LITTLE WOMAN
Anon

There was a little woman, as I've heard say,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol;
She went to market, her eggs for to sell,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol.
She went to market all on a market day,
And she fell asleep upon the king's highway;
Fol de rol de lol lol lol lol lol,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol.

And there came a pedlar whose name was Stout,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol;
He cut her petticoats all round about,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol;
He cut her petticoats up to her knees,
Which made the little woman to shiver and freeze,
Fol de rol de lol lol lol lol lol,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol.

When the little woman began to awake,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol;
She began to shiver, and she began to shake,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol;
She began to shake, and she began to cry,
Lawk-a-mercy on me! this is none of I,
Fol de rol de lol lol lol lol lol,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol.

If it be I, as I suppose it be,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol;
I've a little dog at home, and he knows me;
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol;
If it be I, he will wag his little tail,
If it be not I, he will bark and rail,
Fol de rol de lol lol lol lol lol,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol.

And when the little woman went home in the dark,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol;
Her little dog he did begin to bark,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol;
He began to bark, and she began to cry,
Lawk-a-mercy on me! this is none of I,
Fol de rol de lol lol lol lol lol,
Fol, lol, diddle, diddle dol.

-oo0oo-

UPHILL
Christina Georgina Rossetti (1830–1894)

Does the road wind uphill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow, dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you waiting at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

-oo0oo-

THE MOUNTAINS OF MOURNE
Percy French (1854-1920)

Oh Mary, this London's a wonderful sight
With the people here working by day and by night,
They don't sow potatoes nor barley nor wheat,
But there's gangs of them digging for gold in the street;
At least when I asked them that's what I was told,
So I just took a hand at this digging for gold,
But for all that I found there I might as well be
Where the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

I believe that when writing a wish you expressed,
As to how the fine ladies of London were dressed;
Well, if you believe me, when asked to a ball,
They don't wear a top on their dresses at all;
Oh, I've seen them myself, and you couldn't in truth
Say if they were bound for a ball or a bath;
Don't be starting them fashions now, Mary Macree,
Where the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

I've seen England's king from the top of a bus,
I never knew him, though he means to know us;
And though by the Saxon we once were oppressed,
Still I cheered, God forgive me, I cheered with the rest;
And now that he's visited Erin's green shore,
We'll be much better friends than we've heretofore;
When we've got all we want, we're as quiet as can be,
Where the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

You remember young Peter O'Loughlin of course,
Well, now he is here at the head of the force;
I met him today, I was crossing the Strand
And he stopped the whole street with one wave of his hand;
And there we stood talking of days that are gone,
While the whole population of London looked on,
But for all these great powers he's wishful like me
To be back where dark Moume sweeps down to the sea.

There's beautiful girls here - Oh, never you mind,
With beautiful shapes Nature never designed,
And lovely complexions, all roses and cream,
But O'Loughlin remarked with regard to the same,
That, if at those roses you venture to sip,
The colours might all come away on your lip,
So I'll wait for the wild rose that's waiting for me
Where the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea

-oo0oo-

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DO NOT STAND AT MY GRAVE AND WEEP
Mary Elizabeth Frye (1905-2004)

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.

-oo0oo-

THE SLAVE'S DREAM
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

Beside the ungathered rice he lay,
His sickle in his hand;
His breast was bare, his matted hair
Was buried in the sand.
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,
He saw his Native Land.

Wide through the landscape of his dreams
The lordly Niger flowed;
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain
Once more a king he strode;
And heard the tinkling caravans
Descend the mountain-road.

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen
Among her children stand;
They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,
They held him by the hand!
A tear burst from the sleeper's lids
And fell into the sand.

And then at furious speed he rode
Along the Niger's bank;
His bridle-reins were golden chains,
And, with a martial clank,
At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel
Smiting his stallion's flank.

Before him, like a blood-red flag,
The bright flamingoes flew;
From morn till night he followed their flight,
O'er plains where the tamarind grew,
Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts,
And the ocean rose to view.

At night he heard the lion roar,
And the hyena scream,
And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds
Beside some hidden stream;
And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums,
Through the triumph of his dream.

The forests, with their myriad tongues,
Shouted of liberty;
And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud,
With a voice so wild and free,
That he started in his sleep and smiled
At their tempestuous glee.

He did not feel the driver's whip,
Nor the burning heat of day;
For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep,
And his lifeless body lay
A worn-out fetter, that the soul
Had broken and thrown away!

-oo0oo-

I REMEMBER IT WELL
Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Lowe

We met at nine,
We met at eight,
I was on time,
No, you were late,
Ah, yes, I remember it well;

We dined with friends,
We dined alone,
A tenor sang,
A baritone,
Ah, yes, I remember it well;

That dazzling April moon,
There was none that night,
And the month was June,
That's right, that's right,
It warms my heart to know that you
Remember still the way you do,
Ah, yes, I remember it well.

How often I've thought of that Friday - Monday - night
When we had our last rendezvous,
And somehow I foolishly wondered if you might
By some chance be thinking of it, too?

That carriage ride,
You walked me home,
You lost a glove,
It was a comb,
Ah, yes, I remember it well;

That brilliant sky,
We had some rain,
Those Russian songs
From sunny Spain,
Ah, yes, I remember it well;

You wore a gown of gold,
I was all in blue,
Am I getting old?
Oh, no, not you.
How strong you were,
How young and gay,
A prince of love in every way,
Ah, yes, I remember it well.
Ah, yes, I remember it well.

-oo0oo-

HAVE YOU SEEN BUT A BRIGHT LILY GROW?
Ben Jonson (1572-1637)

Have you seen but a bright lily grow
Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you marked but the fall of snow
Before the soil hath smutched it?
Have you felt the wool of beaver,
Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier,
Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!

-oo0oo-

BALLADE OF AUTUMN
Andrew Lang (1844 - 1912)

We built a castle in the air,
In summer weather, you and I,
The wind and sun were in your hair,
Gold hair against a sapphire sky:
When autumn came, with leaves that fly
Before the storm, across the plain,
You fled from me, with scarce a sigh,
My Love returns no more again!

The windy lights of autumn flare:
I watch the moonlit sails go by;
I marvel how men toil and fare,
The weary business that they ply!
Their voyaging is vanity,
And fairy gold is all their gain,
And all the winds of winter cry,
"My Love returns no more again!"

Here, in my Castle of Despair,
I sit alone with memory;
The wind-fed wolf has left his lair,
To keep the outcast company.
The brooding owl he hoots hard by,
The hare shall kindle on thy hearth-stane,
The Rhymer's soothest prophecy,
My Love returns no more again!

-oo0oo-

THE BATH
Harry Graham (1874-1936)

Broad is the gate and wide the path
That leads man to his daily bath;

But e’er you spend the shining hour
With plunge and spray, with sluice and show’r,

With all that teaches you to dread
The bath as little as your bed,

Remember, whereso’er you be,
To shut the door and turn the key.

I had a friend - my friend no more!
Who failed to bolt the bathroom door;

An aunt of his, I'm sad to say,
Walked in, as half-submerged he lay;

But did not notice nephew John,
And turned the boiling water on!

He had no time or even scope
To camouflage himself with soap,

But gave a yell and flung aside
The sponge ‘neath which he sought to hide!

It fell to earth, I know not where;
He beat his breast in his despair

And then, like Venus from the sea,
Sprang into view and tried to flee.

His aunt fell fainting to the ground;
Alas! They never brought her round!

She died, intestate, in her prime,
The victim of another’s crime;

And John can never quite forget
How, by a breach of etiquette,

He lost, at one fell swoop (or plunge)
His aunt, his honour, and his sponge!

-oo0oo-

THE SKYLARK
James Hogg (1770-1835)

Bird of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place,
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay and loud,
Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where, on thy dewy wing,
Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,
O'er moor and mountain green,
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet dim,
Over the rainbow's rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place,
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

-oo0oo-

LOVE’S BEEN GOOD TO ME
Rod McKuen

I have been a rover,
I have walked alone,
Hiked a hundred highways,
Never found a home,
Still in all I'm happy,
The reason is, you see,
Once in a while along the way
Love's been good to me.

There was a girl in Denver
Before the summer storm,
Oh, her eyes were tender,
Oh, her arms were warm,
And she could smile away the thunder,
Kiss away the rain,
Even though she's gone away,
You won't hear me complain.

There was a girl in Portland
Before the winter chill,
We used to go a-courtin'
Along October hill,
And she could laugh away the dark clouds,
Cry away the snow,
It seems like only yesterday
As down the road I go.

I've been a rover,
I have walked alone,
Hiked a hundred highways,
Never found a home,
Still in all I'm happy,
The reason is, you see,
Once in a while along the way
Love's been good to me.

-oo0oo-

THOMAS HARDY THE WESSEX POET
http://thewessexpoet.blogspot.com

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THE MOON
Anon

Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon:
This way, and that, she peers and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep;
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam
By silver reeds in a silver stream.

-oo0oo-

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THE FAIRIES
William Allingham. (1824–1889)

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather!

Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.

High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music
On cold starry nights
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow,
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.
If any man so daring
As dig them up in spite,
He shall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather!

-oo0oo-

BEN LOMOND
Thomas Campbell (1777-1844)

Hadst thou a genius on thy peak,
What tales, white-headed Ben,
Could'st thou of ancient ages speak,
That mock th' historian's pen!

Thy long duration makes our lives
Seem but so many hours;
And likens, to the bees' frail hives,
Our most stupendous towers.

Temples and towers thou seest begun,
New creeds, new conquerers sway;
And, like their shadows in the sun,
Hast seen them swept away.

Thy steadfast summit, heaven-allied
(Unlike life's little span),
Looks down a mentor on the pride
Of perishable man.

-oo0oo-

O MISTRESS MINE, WHERE ARE YOU ROAMING?
William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear; your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low:
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love? 'Tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies not plenty;
Then, come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

-o00oo-

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI
John Keats (1795–1821)

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful - a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said -
“I love thee true.”

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept, and sighed fill sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep,
And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dreamed
On the cold hill’s side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—“La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!”

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.

And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

-oo0oo-

THOMAS HARDY THE WESSEX POET
http://thewessexpoet.blogspot.com

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ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL
Anon 18th century

A friend of mine was married to a scold,
To me he came and all his troubles told.
Said he, “She’s like a woman raving mad.”
“Alas, my friend” said I, “that’s very bad.”
“No, not so bad,” said he, “for with her, true,
I had both house and land, and money too.”

“That was well,” said I;
“No, not so well,” said he;
“For I and her own brother
Went to law with one another;
I was cast, the suit was lost,
And every penny went to pay the cost.”

“That was bad,” said I;
“No, not so bad,” said he;
“For we agreed that I the house should keep,
And give to me four score of Yorkshire sheep,
All fat and fine and fair, they were to be.”
“Well then,” said I, “sure that was well for thee?”

“No, not so well,” said he,
“For though the sheep I got, every one died of the rot.”
“That was bad,” said I;
“No, not so bad,” said he,
“For I had thought to scrape the fat,
And keep it in an oaken vat,
Then into tallow melt for winter store.”
“Well then,” said I, “That’s better than before.”

“Twas not so well,” said he,
“For having got a clumsy fellow
To scrape the fat and melt the tallow,
Into the melting fat the fire catches,
And, like brimstone matches,
Burnt my house to ashes.
“That WAS bad,” said I;
“No, not so bad,” said he, “for what is best,
My scolding wife got burnt up with the rest!”

-oo0oo-

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BEAUTIFUL DREAMER
Stephen Foster (1826-1864)

Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,
Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee;
Sounds of the rude world, heard in the day,
Lulled by the moonlight have all passed away!

Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song,
List while I woo thee with soft melody;
Gone are the cares of life's busy throng,
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea
Mermaids are chanting the wild lorelie;
Over the streamlet vapours are borne,
Waiting to fade at the bright coming morn.

Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart,
E'en as the morn on the streamlet and sea;
Then will all clouds of sorrow depart,
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

-oo0oo-

Have you visited the "Happiness is . . ." site yet?
http://johnshappytalkpage.blogspot.com

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THERE ARE FAIRIES AT THE BOTTOM OF OUR GARDEN
Rose Fyleman (1877-1957)

There are fairies at the bottom of our garden!
It's not so very, very far away;
You pass the gardener's shed and you just keep straight ahead,
I do so hope they've really come to stay.
There's a little wood, with moss in it and beetles,
And a little stream that quietly runs through;
You wouldn't think they'd dare to come merrymaking there -
Well, they do!

There are fairies at the bottom of our garden!
They often have a dance on summer nights;
The butterflies and bees make a lovely little breeze,
And the rabbits stand about and hold the lights.
Did you know that they could sit upon the moonbeams
And pick a little star to make a fan,
And dance away up there in the middle of the air?
Well, they can!

There are fairies at the bottom of our garden!
You cannot think how beautiful they are;
They all stand up and sing when the Fairy Queen and King
Come gently floating down upon their car.
The King is very proud and very handsome;
The Queen -now you can guess who that could be -
She's a little girl all day, but at night she steals away -
Well - it's Me!

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THE BURIEL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA
Charles Wolfe (1791-1823)

Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow.

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But left him alone with his glory.

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THE VISUAL IMAGE SITE
http://thevisualimagesite.blogspot.com

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STELLA'S BIRTHDAY MARCH 13, 1719
Jonathan Swift (1667-1745)

Stella this day is thirty-four,
(We shan't dispute a year or more:)
However, Stella, be not troubled,
Although thy size and years are doubled,
Since first I saw thee at sixteen,
The brightest virgin on the green;
So little is thy form declined;
Made up so largely in thy mind.

Oh, would it please the gods to split
Thy beauty, size, and years, and wit;
No age could furnish out a pair
Of nymphs so graceful, wise, and fair;
With half the lustre of your eyes,
With half your wit, your years, and size.
And then, before it grew too late,
How should I beg of gentle Fate,
(That either nymph might have her swain,)
To split my worship too in twain

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New - - - THE VISUAL IMAGE SITE - - - New
http://thevisualimagesite.blogspot.com

MINE BE A COT BESIDE THE HILL
Samuel Rogers (1763-1855)

Mine be a cot beside the hill;
A bee-hive’s hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow oft beneath my thatch
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy at her wheel shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.

The village church among the trees,
Where first our marriage vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze
And point with taper spire to Heaven.

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New - - - THE VISUAL IMAGE SITE - - - New
http://thevisualimagesite.blogspot.com

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A FINE ROMANCE
Dorothy Fields/Jerome Kern

A fine romance with no kisses,
A fine romance, my friend, this is,
We should be like a couple of hot tomatoes,
But you're as cold as yesterday's mashed po-tah-toes.

A fine romance, you won't nestle,
A fine romance, you won't even wrestle,
You've never mussed the crease in my blue serge pants,
You never take a chance, this is a fine romance.

A fine romance, my good fellow,
You take romance, I'll take jello,
You're calmer than the seals in the Arctic Ocean,
At least they flap their fins to express emotion.

A fine romance, my dear Duchess,
Two old fogies, we really need crutches,
You're just as hard to land as the Ile de France!
I haven't got a chance, this is a fine romance.

A fine romance, my good woman,
My strong, aged-in-the-wood woman,
You never give those orchids I send a glance,
They're just like cactus plants,
This is a fine romance.

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THE LITTLE VAGABOND
William Blake (1757-1827)

Dear mother, dear mother, the church is cold,
But the ale-house is healthy and pleasant and warm;
Besides I can tell where I am used well,
Such usage in Heaven will never do well.

But if at the church they would give us some ale,
And a pleasant fire our souls to regale,
We'd sing and we'd pray all the live-long day,
Nor ever once wish from the church to stray.

Then the parson might preach, and drink, and sing,
And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring;
And modest Dame Lurch, who is always at church,
Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch.

And God, like a father rejoicing to see
His children as pleasant and happy as he,
Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the barrel,
But kiss him, and give him both drink and apparel.

-oo0oo-

This is a version of the old Scottish poem comes from West Virginia USA

GET UP AND BAR THE DOOR
Anon

The wind blew high, the wind blew cold,
It blew across the moor,
When John Jones said to Jane, his wife,
"Get up and bar the door."

"Oh, I have worked all day," said she,
"I've washed and scrubbed the floor,
You lazy man, get up, I say,
Get up and bar the door."

"Oh, I have worked so hard," said he,
"I know I can't do more;
So come, my own, my dearest wife,
Get up and bar the door."

Then they agreed between the two,
A solemn oath they swore,
That the one who spoke the very first word
Would have to bar the door.

The wind blew east, the wind blew west,
It blew all over the floor,
But neither one would say a word
For barrin' of the door.

Three robbers came along that way,
They came across the moor;
They saw the light and walked right in,
Right through the open door.

"Oh, is the owner of this house
A rich man or a poor?"
But neither one would say a word
For barrin' of the door.

They ate the bread, they drank the ale,
Then said, "Come, give us more."
But neither one would say sword
For barrin' of the door.

"Let's pull the old man's beard" said one,
"Let's beat him till he's sore."
But still the old man wouldn't speak
For barrin' of the door.

"I'll kiss his pretty wife," said one,
"Oh, her I could adore."
And then the old man shook his fist
And gave a mighty roar.

"Oh, you'll not kiss my wife," said he,
"I'll throw you on the floor.
Said she, "Now, John, you've spoken first,
So get up and bar the door.

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HOW DO I LOVE THEE
Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

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"Happiness is . . ."
http://johnshappytalkpage.blogspot.com

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I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER
Thomas Hood (1789-1845)

I remember, I remember
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon
Nor brought too long a day;
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away.

I remember, I remember
The roses red and white,
The violets and the lily cups,
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday,
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then
That is so heavy now,
The summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow.

I remember, I remember
The fir-trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm farther off from Heaven
Than when I was a boy.

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THINGS
Joan Dixon

So many things
Everywhere things,
My things, your things,
On-the-shelves and in-drawers things,
Old things, new things,
Useful and trivial things,
Pretty and ugly things,
Treasured and forgotten things,
Not-need-now things,
One day come-in-handy things,
Will keep-for-grandchildren things,
Hate-to-throw-away things,
Oh! Too many things!
Time to shed the blooming things!!!

-oo0oo-

Have you looked at "Happiness is . . ." yet?
http://johnshappytalkpage.blogspot.com

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LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER
Thomas Campbell (1777-1844)

A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry!”

“Now, who be ye would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy weather?”
“O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.

“And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.

“His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?”

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
“I'll go, my chief, I'm ready:
It is not for your silver bright;
But for your winsome lady.

“And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
So, though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry.”

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armèd men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.

“O haste thee, haste!” the lady cries,
“Though tempests round us gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father.”

The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,
When, O! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gather'd o'er her.

And still they row'd amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:
Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,
His wrath was changed to wailing.

For, sore dismay'd through storm and shade,
His child he did discover:
One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,
And one was round her lover.

“Come back! come back!” he cried in grief
Across this stormy water:
“And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter! - O my daughter!'“

'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore,
Return or aid preventing:
The waters wild went o'er his child,
And he was left lamenting.

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THE STAR
Jane Taylor (1783–1824)

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are.
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.

When the blazing sun is gone,
When he nothing shines upon,
Then you show your little light,
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.

Then the traveller in the dark,
Thanks you for your tiny spark,
He could not see which way to go,
If you did not twinkle so.

In the dark blue sky you keep,
And often through my curtains peep,
For you never shut your eye,
Till the sun is in the sky.

Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
How I wonder what you are.
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

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This poem appeared in an 1806 collection Rhymes for the Nursery written by Jane Taylor and her sister Ann.

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MYFANWY
Richard Davies (1833-1877)

Why is it anger, O Myfanwy,
That fills your eyes so dark and clear?
Your gentle cheeks, O sweet Myfanwy,
Why blush they not when I draw near?

Where is the smile that once most tender
Kindled my love so fond, so true?
Where is the sound of your sweet words,
That drew my heart to follow you?

What have I done, O my Myfanwy,
To earn your frown? What is my blame?
Was it just play, my sweet Myfanwy,
To set your poet's love aflame?

You truly once to me were promised,
Is it too much to keep your part?
I wish no more your hand, Myfanwy,
If I no longer have your heart.

Myfanwy, may you spend your lifetime
Beneath the midday sunshine's glow,
And on your cheeks O may the roses
Dance for a hundred years or so.

Forget now all the words of promise
You made to one who loved you well,
Give me your hand, my sweet Myfanwy,
But one last time, to say "farewell".

-oo0oo-

My new blog begins today
“HAPPINESS IS . . .”
http://johnshappytalkpage.blogspot.com

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LIFE IS FINE
Langston Hughes (1902-1967)

I went down to the river,
I set down on the bank.
I tried to think but couldn't,
So I jumped in and sank.

I came up once and hollered!
I came up twice and cried!
If that water hadn't a-been so cold
I might've sunk and died.

But it was Cold in that water! It was cold!

I took the elevator
Sixteen floors above the ground.
I thought about my baby
And thought I would jump down.

I stood there and I hollered!
I stood there and I cried!
If it hadn't a-been so high
I might've jumped and died.

But it was High up there! It was high!

So since I'm still here livin',
I guess I will live on.
I could've died for love--
But for livin' I was born

Though you may hear me holler,
And you may see me cry--
I'll be dogged, sweet baby,
If you gonna see me die.

Life is fine! Fine as wine! Life is fine!

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Langston Hughes was an American poet, playwright, novelist and social activist.

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Next post Monday

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FAIRIES’ SONG
Leigh Hunt (1784-1859)

We the fairies blithe and antic,
Of dimensions not gigantic,
Though the moonshine mostly keep us,
Oft in orchards frisk and peep us.

Stolen sweets are always sweeter,
Stolen kisses much completer,
Stolen looks are nice in chapels,
Stolen, stolen, be your apples.

When to bed the world is bobbing,
Then’s the time for orchard robbing,
Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling,
Were it not for stealing, stealing.

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Tomorrow - Life is fine (Langston Hughes)

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THANKS FOR THE MEMORY
Leo Robin and Ralph Rainger

Thanks for the memory
Of candlelight and wine, castles on the Rhine,
The Parthenon and moments on the Hudson River Line,
How lovely it was!

Thanks for the memory
Of rainy afternoons, swingy Harlem tunes,
And motor trips and burning lips and burning toast and prunes,
How lovely it was!

Many's the time that we feasted
And many's the time that we fasted,
Oh, well, it was swell while it lasted,
We did have fun and no harm done.

And thanks for the memory
Of sunburns at the shore, nights in Singapore,
You might have been a headache but you never were a bore,
So thank you so much.

Thanks for the memory
Of sentimental verse, nothing in my purse
And chuckles when the preacher said "For better or for worse,"
How lovely it was!

Thanks for the memory
Of lingerie with lace, Pilsner by the case,
And how I jumped the day you trumped my one-and-only ace,
How lovely it was!

We said goodbye with a highball,
Then I got as "high" as a steeple,
But we were intelligent people,
No tears, no fuss, Hooray for us -

So, thanks for the memory
And strictly entre-nous, darling how are you?
And how are all the little dreams that never did come true?
Awfully glad I met you, cheerio and toodle-oo
And thank you so much.

-oo0oo-

Tomorrow - Fairies' Song (Leigh Hunt)

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LUCY
William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and oh,
The difference to me!

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Tomorrow - Thanks for the Memory (Leo Robin and Ralph Rainger)

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THE BROOK
Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorpes, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling,

And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel,

And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance
Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses;

And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

-oo0oo-

Tomorrow - Lucy (William Wordsworth)

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LIMERICKS
Anon

An exceedingly fat friend of mine,
When asked at what hour he'd dine,
Replied, "At eleven,
At three, five, and seven,
And eight and a quarter past nine."

I once took our vicar to tea;
It was just as I thought it would be:
His rumblings abdominal
Were simply phenomenal,
And everyone thought it was me.

The incredible Wizard of Oz
Retired from his business becoz
Due to up-to-date science,
To most of his clients,
He wasn't the Wizard he woz.

There was an old gent from Hyde
Who ate rotten apples and died.
The apples fermented
Inside the lamented
And made cider inside his inside.

Said an ape as he swung by his tail,
To his offspring both female and male,
"From your offspring, my dears,
In a couple of years,
May evolve a professor at Yale."

There was a young man of Japan
Whose limericks never would scan.
When they asked him, Why?
He said, with a sigh,
"It's because I always try to get as many words into the last line as I possibly can."

There once was a young man from Crewe
Whose limericks stopped at line two.

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The origin of the limerick lies somewhere in the early 18th century. It became popular in the 19th century, largely due to Edward Lear the English artist, illustrator and poet.

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Next post Monday

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TO CELIA
Ben Jonson (1572-1637)

Drink to me only with thine eyes
And I will pledge with mine.
Or leave a kiss but in the cup
And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much hon'ring thee
As giving it a hope that there
It could not withered be;

But thou thereon did'st only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me,
Since when it grows and smells, I swear
Not of itself, but thee.

-oo0oo-

Tomorrow - Something quite different!!!

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THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL
Anon

There lived a wife at Usher's Well,
And a wealthy wife was she;
She had three stout and stalwart sons,
And sent them o’er the sea.

They hadna' been a week from her,
A week but barely ane,
When word came to the carline wife,
That her three sons were gane.

They hadna' been a week from her,
A week but barely three,
When word came to the carline wife
That her sons she‘d never see.

"I wish the wind may never cease,
Nor fashes in the flood,
Till my three sons come hame to me,
In earthly flesh and blood."

It fell about the Martinmass,
When nights are long and mirk,
The carline wife's three sons came hame,
But their hats were o’ the birk.

It neither grew in syke nor ditch,
Nor yet in any sheugh;
But at the gates o Paradise,
That birk grew fair enough.

"Blow up the fire my maidens,
Bring water from the well;
For a' my house shall feast this night,
Since my three sons are well."

And she has made to them a bed,
She's made it large and wide,
And she's ta'en her mantle her about,
Sat down at the bed-side.

Up then crew the red, red cock,
And up then crew the grey;
The eldest to the youngest said,
“Tis time we were away.”

The cock he hadna' crowed but once,
And clapped his wings at a',
When the youngest to the eldest said,
“Brother, we must awa'.”

"Fare ye well, our mother dear!
Farewell to barn and byre!
And fare ye well, the bonny lass
That kindles our mother's fire!"

carlin wife = old woman, fashes = troubles, flood = sea, birk = birch, syke = trench, sheugh = furrow

-oo0oo-

Tomorrow - To Celia (Ben Jonson)

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TO AUTUMN
William Blake (1757-1827)

O Autumn, laden with fruit and stain'd
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof; there thou may’st rest,
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.

"The narrow bud opens her beauties to
The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;
Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and
Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,
Till clust’ring Summer breaks forth into singing,
And feather’d clouds strew flowers round her head.

"The spirits of the air live in the smells
Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round
The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.”
Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat,
Then rose, girded himself, and o’er the bleak
Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.

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Tomorrow - There lived a Wife at Usher's Well (Anon)

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A NIGHTINGALE SANG IN BERKELEY SQUARE
Eric Maschwitz (1901-1969)

That certain night,
The night we met,
There was magic abroad in the air.
There were angels dining at the Ritz,
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.

I may be right, I may be wrong,
But I'm perfectly willing to swear
That when you turned and smiled at me,
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.

The moon that lingered over London town
Poor puzzled moon, he wore a frown.
How could he know that we two were so in love?
The whole darn world seemed upside down.

The streets of town were paved with stars,
It was such a romantic affair.
And as we kissed and said goodnight,
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.

When dawn came stealing up, all gold and blue
To interrupt our rendezvous,
I still remember how you smiled and said,
"Was that a dream? Or was it true?"

Our homeward step was just as light
As the dancing of Fred Astaire,
And like an echo far away
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square -
I know, for I was there
That night in Berkeley Square.

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Tomorrow - To Autumn (William Blake)

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A LTTLE WHILE, A LITTLE WHILE
Emily Bronte (1818-1848)

A little while, a little while,
The weary task is put away,
And I can sing and I can smile,
Alike, while I have holiday.

Where wilt thou go, my harassed heart -
What thought, what scene invites thee now,
What spot, or near or far apart,
Has rest for thee, my weary brow?

There is a spot, 'mid barren hills,
Where winter howls, and driving rain;
But, if the dreary tempest chills,
There is a light that warms again.

The house is old, the trees are bare,
Moonless above bends twilight's dome;
But what on earth is half so dear -
So longed for - as the hearth of home?

The mute bird sitting on the stone,
The dank moss dripping from the wall,
The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown,
I love them - how I love them all!

Still, as I mused, the naked room,
The alien firelight died away;
And from the midst of cheerless gloom,
I passed to bright, unclouded day.

A little and a lone green lane
That opened on a common wide;
A distant, dreamy, dim blue chain
Of mountains circling every side.

A heaven so clear, an earth so calm,
So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air;
And, deepening still the dream-like charm,
Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere.

That was the scene, I knew it well;
I knew the turfy pathway's sweep,
That, winding o'er each billowy swell,
Marked out the tracks of wandering sheep.

Could I have lingered but an hour,
It well had paid a week of toil;
But Truth has banished Fancy's power:
Restraint and heavy task recoil.

Even as I stood with raptured eye,
Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear,
My hour of rest had fleeted by,
And back came labour, bondage, care.

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The poetry of Thomas Hardy at The Wessex Poet
http://thewessexpoet.blogspot.com

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ON A TIRED HOUSEWIFE
Anon

Here lies a poor woman who was always tired,
She lived in a house where help wasn't hired:
Her last words on earth were: “Dear friends, I am going
To where there's no cooking, or washing, or sewing,
For everything there is exact to my wishes,
For where they don't eat there's no washing of dishes.
I'll be where loud anthems will always be ringing,
But having no voice I'll be quit of the singing.
Don't mourn for me now, don't mourn for me never,
I am going to do nothing for ever and ever.”

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Tomorrow - a poem by Emily Bronte

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ABOU BEN ADHEM
Leigh Hunt (1784-1859)

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said
"What writest thou?" The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still, and said "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

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Leigh Hunt was the writer of this famous verse -
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and wealth have missed me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kissed me.

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Tomorrow - On a Tired Housewife (Anon)

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OVER THE SEA TO SKYE
Sir Harold Boulton (1859-1935)

Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,
Onward! the sailors cry;
Carry the lad that's born to be King
Over the sea to Skye.

Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar,
Thunderclaps rend the air;
Baffled, our foes stand by the shore,
Follow they will not dare.

Though the waves leap, soft shall ye sleep,
Ocean's a royal bed.
Rocked in the deep, Flora will keep
Watch by your weary head.

Many's the lad fought on that day,
Well the Claymore could wield,
When the night came, silently lay
Dead in Culloden's field.

Burned are their homes, exile and death
Scatter the loyal men;
Yet ere the sword cool in the sheath
Charlie will come again.

Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,
Onward! the sailors cry;
Carry the lad that's born to be King
Over the sea to Skye.

These verses recall the escape of Bonnie Prince Charlie to the Isle of Skye after his defeat at Culloden in 1746. The prince disguised as a servant girl made his escape in a small boat with the help of Flora MacDonald.

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Tomorrow - Abou Ben Adhem (Leigh Hunt)

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TO MARY: I SLEEP WITH THEE
John Clare (1793 - 1864)

I sleep with thee, and wake with thee,
And yet thou art not there;
I fill my arms with thoughts of thee,
And press the common air.
Thy eyes are gazing upon mine
When thou art out of sight;
My lips are always touching thine
At morning, noon, and night.

I think and speak of other things
To keep my mind at rest,
But still to thee my memory clings
Like love in woman's breast.
I hide it from the world's wide eye
And think and speak contrary,
But soft the wind comes from the sky
And whispers tales of Mary.

The night-wind whispers in my ear,
The moon shines on my face;
The burden still of chilling fear
I find in every place.
The breeze is whispering in the bush,
And the leaves fall from the tree,
All sighing on, and will not hush,
Some pleasant tales of thee.

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The poetry of Thomas Hardy - http://thewessexpoet.blogspot.com

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THE ASH GROVE
John Oxenford (19th cent)

The ash grove how graceful, how plainly 'tis speaking
The harp through its playing has language for me.
Whenever the light through its branches is breaking,
A host of kind faces is gazing on me.
The friends from my childhood again are before me
Each step wakes a memory as freely I roam.
With soft whispers laden the leaves rustle o’er me
The ash grove, the ash grove alone is my home.

Down yonder green meadow where streamlets meander
When twilight is fading I pensively roam
Or in the bright noon tide in solitude wander
Amid the dark spaces of that lonely ash grove.
‘Twas there while the black bird was cheerfully singing
I first met my dear one the joy of my heart
Around us for gladness the blue bells were springing
The ash grove, the ash grove that sheltered my home.

My lips smile no more, my heart loses its lightness;
No dream of the future my spirit can cheer.
I only can brood on the past and its brightness
The dear ones I long for again gather here.
From ev'ry dark nook they press forward to meet me;
I lift up my eyes to the broad leafy dome,
And others are there, looking downward to greet me
The ash grove, the ash grove, again is my home.

-oo0oo-

Next post here - Monday

On Sunday at Thomas Hardy the Wessex Poet - the concluding poems in the Satires of Circumstance series
http://thewessexpoet.blogspot.com

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BILLY AND ME
James Hogg (1770-1835)

Where the pools are bright and deep,
Where the grey trout lies asleep,
Up the river and over the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the blackbird sings the latest,
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,
Where the nestlings chirp and flee,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the mowers mow the cleanest,
Where the hay lies thick and greenest,
There to track the homeward bee,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the hazel bank is steepest,
Where the shadow falls the deepest,
Where the clustering nuts fall free,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Why the boys should drive away
Little sweet maidens from the play,
Or love to banter and fight so well,
That's the thing I never could tell.

But this I know, I love to play
Through the meadow, among the hay;
Up the water and over the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.

James Hogg, poet and author, became known as “The Ettrick Shepherd.” He was born on a small farm near Ettrick in Scotland.
His most famous poem "The Skylark" begins -

Bird of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place--
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

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Tomorrow - The Ash Grove (John Oxenford)

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IT WAS A YEAR AGO, SEPTEMBER
Anon

It was a year ago, September
a day I well remember
I was walking up and down
in drunken pride
when my knees began to flutter
and I fell down in the gutter
and a pig came by and lay down by my side

As I lay there in the gutter
thinking thoughts I could not utter
I thought I heard a passing lady say,
"You can tell a man who boozes
by the company he chooses,"
And with that, the pig got up and walked away

There are many versions of the above on the internet. Some have additional verses with other animals in turn lying down beside the drunk.

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Tomorrow - Billy and Me (James Hogg)

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FROM A CARRIAGE WINDOW

Alexander Anderson 1845-1909

Just a peep from a carriage window,
As we stood for a moment still,
Just one look - and no more - till the engine
Gave a whistle sharp and shrill.

But I saw in that moment the heather,
That lay like a purple sheet
On the hills that watch o’er the hamlet
That sleeps like a child at their feet.

O, sweet are those hills when the winter
Flings round them his mantle of snow,
And sweet when the sunshine of summer
Sets their fair green bosoms aglow.

But sweeter and grander in autumn,
When the winds are soft with desire,
When the buds of the heather take blossom,
And run to their summits like fire.

I saw each and all through the heather
That purple lay spread like a sheet
On the hills that watch over the hamlet,
That sleeps like a child at their feet.

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Born in Kirkconnel in Dumfries and Galloway, Scotland, Alexander Anderson at the age of sixteen worked in a quarry, and two years later he became a surfaceman or platelayer on the Glasgow and South-Western railway. He usually wrote under the pseudonym Surfaceman.

Later he became assistant librarian in Edinburgh University, and after an interval as secretary to the Philosophical Institution there, he returned as Chief Librarian to the university. His friends included the Duke of Argyll and Thomas Carlyle.

Many of his poems are in the Scottish dialect, among them the well-known "Cuddle Doon".

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Tomorrow's poem is a warning to all who over-imbibe!!!

Have you a minute? If so, have a quick look at http://haveyouaminute.blogspot.com

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DO YOU HEAR THE CHILDREN WEEPING?
from "The Cry of the Chnildren"
Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,
Ere the sorrow comes with years?
They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,
And that cannot stop their tears.
The young lambs are bleating in the meadows,
The young birds are chirping in the nest,
The young fawns are playing with the shadows,
The young flowers are blowing toward the west:
But the young, young children, O my brothers,
They are weeping bitterly!
They are weeping in the playtime of the others,
In the country of the free.

“For oh,” say the children, “we are weary,
And we cannot run or leap;
If we cared for any meadows, it were merely
To drop down in them and sleep.
Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping,
We fall upon our faces, trying to go;
And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping,
The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.
For, all day, we drag our burden tiring
Through the coal-dark, underground,
Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron
In the factories, round and round.

They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
And their look is dread to see,
For they mind you of their angels in high places,
With eyes turned on Deity.
“How long,” they say, “how long, O cruel nation,
Will you stand, to move the world, on a child’s heart,—
Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation,
And tread onward to your throne amid the mart?
Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper,
And your purple shows your path!
But the child’s sob in the silence curses deeper
Than the strong man in his wrath.”

The above is part of a long poem consisting of 13 verses each with 12 lines. It was written at the time "when government investigations had exposed the exploitation of children employed in coal mines and factories."
The full poem can be read at - http://www.bartleby.com/246/260.html

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Tomorrow - From a Carriage Window (Alexander Anderson)

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ALL THE THINGS YOU ARE
Oscar Hammerstein II (1895-1960)

Time and again I’ve longed for adventure,
Something to make my heart beat the faster.
What did I long for? I never really knew.
Finding your love I’ve found my adventure,
Touching your hand, my heart beats the faster,
All that I want in all of this world is you.

You are the promised kiss of springtime
That makes the lonely winter seem long.
You are the breathless hush of evening
That trembles on the brink of a lovely song.

You are the angel glow that lights a star,
The dearest things I know are what you are.
Some day my happy arms will hold you,
And some day I’ll know that moment divine,
When all the things you are, are mine!

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All the Things You Are with music by Jerome Kern was written for the 1939 musical Very Warm for May. In 1944 it was later featured in the film “Broadway Rhythm.” The American Oscar Hammerstein was famous as a brilliant song-writer. He co-wrote around 850 songs and his collaboration with Richard Rodgers in shows like Oklahoma, Carousel, South Pacific, The King and I and The Sound of Music has ensured that his name is still remembered more than 50 years after his death.

Next post Monday - a 19th century protest poem!!!

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On Sunday at Thomas Hardy the Wessex Poet -
continuing the Satires of Circumstance series
http://thewessexpoet.blogspot.com

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MARY’S GHOST
Thomas Hood (1799-1845)

'Twas in the middle of the night,
To sleep young William tried,
When Mary’s ghost came stealing in,
And stood at his bed-side.

O William dear! O William dear!
My rest eternal ceases;
Alas! my everlasting peace
Is broken into pieces.

I thought the last of all my cares
Would end with my last minute;
But tho’ I went to my long home
I didn’t stay long in it.

The body-snatchers they have come,
And made a snatch at me;
It’s very hard them kind of men
Won’t let a body be!

You thought that I was buried deep
Quite decent like and chary,
But from her grave in Mary-bone
They’ve come and boned your Mary.

The arm that used to take your arm
Is took to Dr. Vyse;
And both my legs are gone to walk
The hospital at Guy’s.

I vow’d that you should have my hand,
But fate gives us denial;
You’ll find it there, at Dr. Bell’s
In spirits and a phial.

As for my feet, the little feet
You used to call so pretty,
There’s one, I know, in Bedford Row,
The t’other’s in the city.

I can’t tell where my head is gone,
But Doctor Carpue can:
As for my trunk, it’s all pack’d up
To go by Pickford’s van.*

I wished you’d go to Mr. P.
And save me such a ride;
I don’t half like the outside place,
They’ve took for my inside.

The cock it crows - I must begone!
My William we must part!
But I’ll be yours in death, altho’
Sir Astley has my heart.**

Don’t go to weep upon my grave,
And think that there I be;
They haven’t left an atom there
Of my anatomie.

*Pickford’s removals business was established in the 17th century.

**Sir Astley Paston Cooper, 1st Baronet (1768–1841) was a famous English surgeon and anatomist

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Tomorrow - All The Things You Are (Oscar Hammerstein II)

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'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER
Thomas Moore (1779-1852)

Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
To give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter,
Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
From Love's shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit,
This bleak world alone?

Thomas Moore, the Irish poet, singer and entertainer, has been described as Ireland’s Robert Burns. He was a friend of both Byron and Shelley. Three other poems of his still remembered today are Believe me if All Those Endearing Young Charms, The Minstrel Boy and Oft in the Stilly Night.

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Tomorrow - Mary’s Ghost (Thomas Hood)

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WHEN I WAS FAIR AND YOUNG
Queen Elizabeth I (1533-1603)

When I was fair and young, then favour graced me.
Of many was I sought their mistress for to be,
But I did scorn them all and answered them therefore:
Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.

How many weeping eyes I made to pine in woe,
How many sighing hearts I have not skill to show,

But I the prouder grew and still this spake therefore:
Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.

Then spake fair Venus' son, that brave victorious boy,
Saying: You dainty dame, for that you be so coy,
I will so pluck your plumes as you shall say no more:
Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.

As soon as he had said, such change grew in my breast
That neither night nor day I could take any rest.
Wherefore I did repent that I had said before:
Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.

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This poem has been found in a number of old documents. In one, a note tells that it was written when Elizabeth "was suposed to be in love with mounsyre," her French suitor, the Duke of Anjou. Some modern scholars doubt the authorship, but it’s certainly an interesting little poem.

Tomorrow - 'Tis the Last Rose of Summer by Thomas Moore

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I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD
William Wordsworth (1770-1850).

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee;
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company!
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

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Wordsworth got the inspiration for his famous poem from some words in his sister’s journal. He and Dorothy had been out walking one stormy day at Ullswater, and she later wrote that the daffodils “tossed and reeled and danced, and seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind that blew upon them over the lake.”

Tomorrow - a love poem said to be by Queen Elizabeth I

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