Pretty is the widowed mother,
And the daughter, too, is pretty.
When I see that maiden shrinking,
By the gods I swear I’ll get ‘er!
But anon I fall to thinking
That the mother ‘ll suit me better!
So, like any idiot ass
Hungry for the fragrant fodder,
Placed between two bales of grass,
Lo, I doubt, delay, and dodder!
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Though care and strife
Upon my word I do not heed ’em;In bed I lieWith books hard by,And with increasing zest I read ’em.Propped up in bed,So much I’ve readOf musty tomes that I’ve a headfulOf tales and rhymesOf ancient times,Which, wife declares, are ‘simply dreadful!’They give me joyWithout alloy;And isn’t that what books are made for?And yet–and yet–(Ah,…
‘Give me my bow,’ said Robin Hood,
And where ‘t is shot mark thou that spot,For there my grave shall be.’Then Little John did make no sign,And not a word he spake;But he smiled, altho’ with mickle woeHis heart was like to break.He raised his master in his arms,And set him on his knee;And Robin’s eyes beheld the skies,The shaws, the greenwood…
Last night, as my dear babe lay dead,
‘0 God! what have I done,Or in what wise offended Thee,That Thou should’st take away from meMy little son?‘Upon the thousand useless lives,Upon the guilt that vaunting thrives,Thy wrath were better spent!Why should’st Thou take my little son –Why should’st Thou vent Thy wrath uponThis innocent?’Last night, as my dear babe lay dead,Before mine eyes…
The Blue Horizon wuz a mine us fellers all thought well uv,
‘T wuz in the year uv sixty-nine,–somewhere along in summer,–There hove in sight one afternoon a new and curious comer;His name wuz Silas Pettibone,–a’ artist by perfession,–With a kit of tools and a big mustache and a pipe in his possession.He told us, by our leave, he ‘d kind uv like to make some sketchesUv…
What perfumed, posie-dizened sirrah,
Clasps you, O fair but faithless Pyrrha,On the quiet?For whom do you bind up your tresses,As spun-gold yellow,–Meshes that go, with your caresses,To snare a fellow?How will he rail at fate capricious,And curse you duly!Yet now he deems your wiles delicious,You perfect, truly!Pyrrha, your love’s a treacherous ocean;He’ll soon fall in there!Then shall I gloat…
As beats the sun from mountain crest,
Cometh the partridge from her nest;The flowers threw kisses sweet to her(For all the flowers that bloomed knew her);Yet hasteneth she to mine and me–Ah! pretty, pretty;Ah! dear little partridge!And when I hear the partridge crySo pretty, pretty,Upon the house-top, breakfast I;She comes a-chirping far and wide,And swinging from the mountain side–I see and hear…