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Yet I remember you!
And Your piercing words,
Words that shake my soul,
Words that Disintegrate my being,
The Holy Fair
A note of seeming truth and trust
Hid crafty observation;
And secret hung, with poison'd crust,
The dirk of defamation:
someway related to affection?
We're good only till we see each other,
and then don't bother?
Destiny Of Love
Journey of every love story
Has good & bitter history
Some propose & get accepted
But some were rejected.
This was the land's end: the last fingers, knuckled and rheumatic,
Cramped on nothing. Black
Admonitory cliffs, and the sea exploding
With no bottom, or anything on the other side of it,
The sting of bees took away my father
who walked in a swarming shroud of wings
and scorned the tick of the falling weather.
I have lived in important places, times
When great events were decided, who owned
That half a rood of rock, a no-man's land
Surrounded by our pitchfork-armed claims.
The slow movement of a lion
doesn't show weakness or tiredness
but rather a calculated step to get its
prey, so do not bother your self seeing others
When the heavy sand is yielding backward from your blistered feet,
And across the distant timber you can SEE the flowing heat;
When your head is hot and aching, and the shadeless plain is wide,
And it's fifteen miles to water in the scrub the other side --
On the hill they are crowding together,
In the stand they are crushing for room,
Like midge-flies they swarm on the heather,
They gather like bees on the broom;
Adam Lindsay Gordon
There were three in the meadow by the brook
Gathering up windrows, piling cocks of hay,
With an eye always lifted toward the west
Where an irregular sun-bordered cloud
The Bench-legged Fyce
Speakin' of dorgs, my bench-legged fyce
Hed most o' the virtues, an' nary a vice.
Some folks called him Sooner, a name that arose
From his predisposition to chronic repose;
What's The Pope Do?
What's the pope do? Drinks, and takes a nap;
looks out the window, has a bite to eat,
fiddles with the housemaid's garter strap,
and makes the town a cushion for his feet.
Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli
There were three in the meadow by the brook,
Gathering up windrows, piling haycocks up,
With an eye always lifted toward the west,
Where an irregular, sun-bordered cloud
Beautiful town of Montrose, I will now commence my lay,
And I will write in praise of thee without dismay,
And in spite of all your foes,
l will venture to call thee Bonnie Montrose.
William Topaz Mcgonagall
The Hero Of Rorke's Drift
Twas at the camp of Rorke's Drift, and at tea-time,
And busily engaged in culinary operations was a private of the line;
But suddenly he paused, for he heard a clattering din,
When instantly two men on horseback drew rein beside him.
William Topaz Mcgonagall
About the size of an old-style dollar bill,
American or Canadian,
mostly the same whites, gray greens, and steel grays
-this little painting (a sketch for a larger one?)
Fixing The Shame
They put him in jail for the thing he'd done,
For that was the law they'd made;
They turned the key on his youth till he
The price of his crime had paid.
Edgar Albert Guest
A Quiet Day.
A'a! its grand to have th' place to yorsen!
To get th' wimmen fowk all aght o'th' way!
Mine's all off for a trip up to th' Glen,
An aw've th' haase to misen for a day.
Zut! it's two o'clock.
See! the lights are jumping.
Finish up your bock,
Time we all were humping.
He showed up in the springtime, when the geese began to honk;
He signed up with the outfit, and we fattened up his bronk;
His chaps were old and tattered, but he never seemed to mind,
‘Cause for worryin' and frettin' he had never been designed;
Little Boy Blue
Little Boy Blue lost his way in a wood-
Sing apples and cherries, roses and honey:
He said, “I would not go back if I could,
It's all so jolly and funny!”
The Early Bird
A little bird sat on the edge of her nest;
Her yellow-beaks slept as sound as tops;
Day-long she had worked almost without rest,
And had filled every one of their gibbous crops;
The Little Clock
Kind friend, you do not know how much
I prize this time-ly treasure,
So dainty, diligent, and such
A constant source of pleasure.
O hae ye heard the latest news
O' Mistress Mucklewame?
Her doctor hadna pickit up
Her trouble here at hame,
The Sons Of Martha
The Sons of Mary seldom bother, for they have inherited that good part;
But the Sons of Martha favour their Mother of the careful soul and the troubled heart.
And because she lost her temper once, and because she was rude to the Lord her Guest,
Her Sons must wait upon Mary's Sons, world without end, reprieve, or rest.
Do you hear the soft rustle
beside your table?
Don't bother to write
for I'll come to you.
Why do we bother with the rest of the day,
the swale of the afternoon,
the sudden dip into evening,