Willie cocks his highland bonnet,
Johnnie beats the drum.
Mary Jane commands the party,
Peter leads the rear;
Feet in time, alert and hearty,
Each a Grenadier!
All in the most martial manner
Marching double-quick;
While the napkin, like a banner,
Waves upon the stick!
Here’s enough of fame and pillage,
Great commander Jane!
Now that we’ve been round the village,
Let’s go home again.
Similar Posts
The red room with the giant bed
The little room where you and IDid for awhile together lieAnd, simple, suitor, I your handIn decent marriage did demand;The great day nursery, best of all,With pictures pasted on the wallAnd leaves upon the blind–A pleasant room wherein to wakeAnd hear the leafy garden shakeAnd rustle in the wind–And pleasant there to lie in bedAnd…
God, if this were enough,
And up to the buttocks in mire;That I ask nor hope nor hire,Nut in the husk,Nor dawn beyond the dusk,Nor life beyond death:God, if this were faith!Having felt thy wind in my faceSpit sorrow and disgrace,Having seen thine evil doomIn Golgotha and Khartoum,And the brutes, the work of thine hands,Fill with injustice landsAnd stain with…
FOR these are sacred fishes all
Come to the brim and nose the friendly handThat sways and can beshadow all the land.Nor only so, but have their names, and comeWhen they are summoned by the Lord of Rome.Here once his line an impious Lybian threw;And as with tremulous reed his prey he drew,Straight, the light failed him.He groped, nor found the…
The strong man’s hand, the snow-cool head of age,
These, and that lofty passion after truth,Hunger unsatisfied in priest or sageOr the great men of former years, he needsThat not unworthily would dare to sing(Hard task!) black care’s inevitable ringSettling with years upon the heart that feedsIncessantly on glory. Year by yearThe narrowing toil grows closer round his feet;With disenchanting touch rude-handed timeThe unlovely…
The sun is not a-bed, when I
Still round the earth his way he takes,And morning after morning makes.While here at home, in shining day,We round the sunny garden play,Each little Indian sleepy-headIs being kissed and put to bed.And when at eve I rise from tea,Day dawns beyond the Atlantic Sea;And all the children in the westAre getting up and being dressed.
ABOUT the sheltered garden ground
The vale ne’er seemed so deep before,Nor yet so high the hill.An awful sense of quietness,A fulness of repose,Breathes from the dewy garden-lawns,The silent garden rows.As the hoof-beats of a troop of horseHeard far across a plain,A nearer knowledge of great thoughtsThrills vaguely through my brain.I lean my head upon my arm,My heart’s too full…