Little Billee
by William Makepeace Thackeray (1811–1863)

There were three sailors in Bristol City
Who took a boat and went to sea.

But first with beef and captain’s biscuits
And pickled pork they loaded she.

There was guzzling Jack, and gorging Jimmy,
And the youngster he was little Bil-ly.

Now very soon they were so greedy,
They didn’t leave not one split pea.

Says guzzling Jack to gorging Jimmy,
I am confounded hung-ery.

Says gorging Jim to guzzling Jacky,
We have no wittles, so we must eat we.

Says guzzling Jack to gorging Jimmy,
O gorging Jim, what a fool you be.

There’s little Bill as is young and tender,
We ’re old and tough—so let’s eat he.

O Bill, we’re going to kill and eat you,
So undo the collar of your chemie.

When Bill he heard this information,
He used his pocket-handkerchee.

O let me say my Catechism
As my poor mammy taught to me.

Make haste, make haste, says guzzling Jacky,
Whilst Jim pulled out his snicker-snee.

So Bill went up the main-top-gallant mast,
When down he fell on his bended knee.

He scarce had said his Catechism,
When up he jumps: ‛There’s land I see!

‛There’s Jerusalem and Madagascar
And North and South Ameri-key.

‛There’s the British fleet a-riding at anchor,
With Admiral Napier, K.C.B.’

So when they came to the Admiral’s vessel,
He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jim-my.

But as for little Bill, he made him
The Captain of a Seventy-three.

Views: 42

Love Between Brothers and Sisters
by Isaac Watts (1674-1748)

Whatever brawls disturb the street,
⁠      There should be peace at home:
Where sisters dwell and brothers meet,
⁠      Quarrels should never come.

Birds in their little nests agree;
⁠      And ’tis a shameful sight,
When children of one family
⁠      Fall out and chide and fight.

Views: 38

Satisfied
by Mary Baker Eddy (1821-1910)

It matters not what be thy lot,
      So Love doth guide;
For storm or shine, pure peace is thine,
      Whate’er betide.

And of these stones, or tyrants’ thrones,
      God able is
To raise up seed—in thought and deed—
      To faithful His.

Aye, darkling sense, arise, go hence!
      Our God is good.
False fears are foes—truth tatters those,
      When understood.

Love looseth thee, and lifteth me,
      Ayont hate’s thrall:
There Life is light, and wisdom might,
      And God is All.

The centuries break, the earth-bound wake,
      God’s glorified!
Who doth His will—His likeness still—
      Is satisfied.

Views: 43

La Marseillaise
by Claude Joseph Rouget de Lisle (1760-1836)

                  I

      Allons, enfants de la Patrie!
      Le jour de gloire est arrivé.
      Contre nous de la tyrannie
      L’étendard sanglant est levé! (bis)
      Entendez-vous dans les campagnes.
      Mugir ces féroces soldats?
      Ils viennent jusque dans vos bras
      Égorger vos fils, vos compagnes!
Aux armes, Citoyens! formez vos bataillons!
Marchons (bis), qu’un sang impur abreuve nos sillons.

                  II

      Que veut cette horde d’esclaves
      De traîtres, de rois conjurés?
      Pour qui ces ignobles entraves.
      Ces fers dès longtemps préparés? (bis)
      Français! pour nous, ah! quel outrage!
      Quels transports il doit exciter
      C’est nous qu’on ose méditer
      De rendre à l’antique esclavage!…
Aux armes, Citoyens! etc.

                  III

      Quoi! des cohortes étrangères
      Feraient la loi dans nos foyers!
      Quoi! ces phalanges mercenaires
      Terrasseraient nos fiers guerriers! (bis)
      Grand Dieu!… Par des mains enchaînées
      Nos fronts, sous le joug se ploiraient!
      De vils despotes deviendraient
      Les maîtres de nos destinées!…
Aux armes, Citoyens! etc.

                  IV

      Tremblez, tyrans! et vous perfides,
      L’opprobre de tous les partis.
      Tremblez!… Vos projets parricides
      Vont enfin recevoir leur prix. (bis)
      Tout est soldat pour vous combattre.
      S’ils tombent nos jeunes héros,
      La terre en produit de nouveaux
      Contre vous tout prêts à se battre.
Aux armes, Citoyens! etc.

                  V

      Français! En guerriers magnanimes
      Portez ou retenez vos coups.
      Épargnez ces tristes victimes
      À regret s’armant contre nous. (bis)
      Mais le despote sanguinaire!
      Mais les complices de Bouillé!
      Tous ces tigres qui sans pitié
      Déchirent le sein de leur mère…
Aux armes, Citoyens! formez vos bataillons!
Marchons (bis) qu’un sang impur abreuve nos sillons.

                  VI

      Amour sacré de la Patrie,
      Conduis, soutiens nos bras vengeurs!
      Liberté! Liberté chérie,
      Combats avec les défenseurs. (bis)
      Sous nos drapeaux, que la Victoire
      Accoure à tes mâles accents ;
      Que tes ennemis expirants
      Voient ton triomphe et notre gloire.
Aux armes, Citoyens! etc.

Views: 54

First Love
by John Clare (1793-1864)

I ne’er was struck before that hour
With love so sudden and so sweet,
Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower
And stole my heart away complete.
My face turned pale as deadly pale.
My legs refused to walk away,
And when she looked, what could I ail?
My life and all seemed turned to clay.

And then my blood rushed to my face
And took my eyesight quite away,
The trees and bushes round the place
Seemed midnight at noonday.
I could not see a single thing,
Words from my eyes did start.—
They spoke as chords do from the string,
And blood burnt round my heart.

Are flowers the winter’s choice?
Is love’s bed always snow?
She seemed to hear my silent voice,
Not love’s appeals to know.
I never saw so sweet a face
As that I stood before.
My heart has left its dwelling-place
And can return no more.

Views: 34

Mist
by Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862)

Low-anchored cloud,
Newfoundland air,
Fountain-head and source of rivers,
Dew-cloth, dream-drapery,
And napkin spread by fays;
Drifting meadow of the air,
Where bloom the daisied banks and violets,
And in whose fenny labyrinth
The bittern booms and heron wades;
Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers,
Bear only perfumes and the scent
Of healing herbs to just men’s fields.

Views: 29

Léon Bloy
by Paul Verlaine (1844-1896)

Le Dogme certes, et la Loi,
Mais Cliarité qui ne commence
Ni ne finit, énorme, immense,
Telle est la foi de Léon Bloy.

Un Abel mais un saint Éloi:
Enclume et marteau sans clémence,
La raison jusqu’à la démence,
Telle est la foi de Léon Bloy.

Une tête féroce et douce,
Très extraordiuairement
Un peu va comme je te pousse;

Un génie horrible et charmant,
Et tout l’être et tout le paraître
D’un mauvais moine et d’un bon prêtre.

Views: 24

Before the Mirror
(Verses Written Under a Picture)
Inscribed to J.A. Whistler
by Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909)

                  I.
White rose in red rose-garden
      Is not so white;
Snowdrops that plead for pardon
      And pine for fright
Because the hard East blows
Over their maiden rows
      Grow not as this face grows from pale to bright.

Behind the veil, forbidden,
      Shut up from sight,
Love, is there sorrow hidden,
      Is there delight?
Is joy thy dower or grief,
White rose of weary leaf,
      Late rose whose life is brief, whose loves are light?

Soft snows that hard winds harden
      Till each flake bite
Fill all the flowerless garden
      Whose flowers took flight
Long since when summer ceased,
And men rose up from feast,
      And warm west wind grew east, and warm day night.

                  II.
“Come snow, come wind or thunder
      High up in air,
I watch my face, and wonder
      At my bright hair;
Nought else exalts or grieves
The rose at heart, that heaves
      With love of her own leaves and lips that pair.

“She knows not loves that kissed her
      She knows not where.
Art thou the ghost, my sister,
      White sister there,
Am I the ghost, who knows?
My hand, a fallen rose,
      Lies snow-white on white snows, and takes no care.

“I cannot see what pleasures
      Or what pains were;
What pale new loves and treasures
      New years will bear;
What beam will fall, what shower,
What grief or joy for dower;
      But one thing knows the flower; the flower is fair.”

                  III.
Glad, but not flushed with gladness,
      Since joys go by;
Sad, but not bent with sadness,
      Since sorrows die;
Deep in the gleaming glass
She sees all past things pass,
      And all sweet life that was lie down and lie.

There glowing ghosts of flowers
      Draw down, draw nigh;
And wings of swift spent hours
      Take flight and fly;
She sees by formless gleams,
She hears across cold streams,
      Dead mouths of many dreams that sing and sigh.

Face fallen and white throat lifted,
      With sleepless eye
She sees old loves that drifted,
      She knew not why,
Old loves and faded fears
Float down a stream that hears
      The flowing of all men’s tears beneath the sky.

Views: 28

Von der Freude
by Johann Nikolaus Götz (1721-1781)

Sage, sprach ich, holde Freude!
Sage doch, was fliehst du so?
Hat man dich, so fliehst du wieder!
Niemals wird man deiner froh.

Danke, sprach sie, dem Verhängnis!
Alle Götter lieben mich;
Wenn ich ohne Flügel wäre,
Sie behielten mich für sich.

Views: 25

The Poplar
by Richard Aldington (1892-1962)

Why do you always stand there shivering
Between the white stream and the road?

The people pass through the dust
On bicycles, in carts, in motor-cars;
The waggoners go by at dawn;
The lovers walk on the grass path at night.

Stir from your roots, walk, poplar!
You are more beautiful than they are.

I know that the white wind loves you,
Is always kissing you and turning up
The white lining of your green petticoat.
The sky darts through you like blue rain,
And the grey rain drips on your flanks
And loves you.
And I have seen the moon
Slip his silver penny into your pocket
As you straightened your hair;
And the white mist curling and hesitating
Like a bashful lover about your knees.

I know you, poplar;
I have watched you since I was ten.
But if you had a little real love,
A little strength,
You would leave your nonchalant idle lovers
And go walking down the white road
Behind the waggoners.

There are beautiful beeches
Down beyond the hill.
Will you always stand there shivering?

Views: 26