Washington

Soldier and statesman, rarest unison; 

High-poised example of great duties done 

Simply as breathing, a world's honors worn 

As life's indifferent gifts to all men born; 

Dumb for himself, unless it were to God, 

But for his barefoot soldiers eloquent, 

Tramping the snow to coral where they trod, 

Held by his awe in hollow-eyed content; 

Modest, yet firm as Nature's self; unblamed 

Save by the men his nobler temper shamed; 

Not honored then or now because he wooed 

The popular voice, but that he still withstood; 

Broad-minded, higher-souled, there is but one 

Who was all this and ours, and all men's --- Washington.

~ James Russell Lowell

Abraham Lincoln

[April 26, 1865]

Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare,

Gentle and merciful and just!

Who, in the fear of God, didst bear

The sword of power, a nation’s trust!

In sorrow by thy bier we stand,

Amid the awe that hushes all,

And speak the anguish of a land

That shook with horror at thy fall.

Thy task is done; the bond are free:

We bear thee to an honored grave,

Whose proudest monument shall be

The broken fetters of the slave.

Pure was thy life; its bloody close

Hath placed thee with the sons of light,

Among the noble host of those

Who perished in the cause of Right.

~ William Cullen Bryant

Lincoln

Hurt was the nation with a mighty wound,

And all her ways were filled with clam'rous sound.

Wailed loud the South with unremitting grief,

And wept the North that could not find relief.

Then madness joined its harshest tone to strife:

A minor note swelled in the song of life.

'Till, stirring with the love that filled his breast,

But still, unflinching at the right's behest,

Grave Lincoln came, strong handed, from afar --

The mighty Homer of the lyre of war.

'Twas he who bade the raging tempest cease,

Wrenched from his harp the harmony of peace,

Muted the strings, that made the discord,Wrong,

And gave his spirit up in thund'rous song.

Oh mighty Master of the mighty lyre,

Earth heard and trembled at thy strains of fire:

Earth learned of thee what Heav'n already knew,

And wrote thee down among her treasured few!

~ Paul Laurence Dunbar

Captain Jinks

I'm Captain Jinks of the Horse Marines, 

I feed my horse on corn and beans, 

And sport young ladies in their teens, 

Though a captain in the army. 

I teach young ladies how to dance, 

How to dance, how to dance, 

I teach young ladies how to dance, 

For I'm the pet of the army. 

CHORUS: 

Captain Jinks of the Horse Marines, 

I feed my horse on corn and beans, 

And often live beyond my means, 

Though a captain in the army. 

I joined my corps when twenty-one, 

Of course I thought it capital fun; 

When the enemy came, of course I run, 

For I'm not cut out for the army. 

When I left home, mama she cried, 

Mama she cried, mama she cried, 

When I left home, mama she cried: 

"He's not cut out for the army." 

The first time I went out to drill, 

The bugle sounding made me ill; 

Of the battle field I'd had my fill, 

For I'm not cut out for the army. 

The officers they all did shout, 

They all did shout, they all did shout, 

The officers they all did shout: 

"Why, kick him out of the army."

~ Anonymous

The Old Woman

Untidy, squat, and soft old body slack

The woman sat alone beside her door.

The dog. the past; these friends she does not lack

And beauty cannot grieve her any more.

For all her springs are done.  These are but days

Soft and warm, that do a body good."

No man can move her now with any praise;

She cares no more that she be understood.

~ Anonymous

Richard Cory

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,

We people on the pavement looked at him:

He was a gentleman from sole to crown,

Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,

And he was always human when he talked;

But still he fluttered pulses when he said,

"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—

And admirably schooled in every grace:

In fine, we thought that he was everything

To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,

And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;

And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,

Went home and put a bullet through his head.

~ Edwin Arlington Robinson

The Modern Major-General

I am the very model of a modern Major-General,

I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral,

I know the kings of England, and I quote the fights historical

From Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical;

I'm very well acquainted, too, with matters mathematical,

I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical,

About binomial theorem I'm teeming with a lot o' news,

With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse.

I'm very good at integral and differential calculus;

I know the scientific names of beings animalculous:

In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,

I am the very model of a modern Major-General.

I know our mythic history, King Arthur's and Sir Caradoc's;

I answer hard acrostics, I've a pretty taste for paradox,

I quote in elegiacs all the crimes of Heliogabalus,

In conics I can floor peculiarities parabolous;

I can tell undoubted Raphaels from Gerard Dows and Zoffanies,

I know the croaking chorus from The Frogs of Aristophanes!

Then I can hum a fugue of which I've heard the music's din afore,

And whistle all the airs from that infernal nonsense Pinafore.

Then I can write a washing bill in Babylonic cuneiform,

And tell you ev'ry detail of Caractacus's uniform:

In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,

I am the very model of a modern Major-General.

In fact, when I know what is meant by "mamelon" and "ravelin",

When I can tell at sight a Mauser rifle from a Javelin,

When such affairs as sorties and surprises I'm more wary at,

And when I know precisely what is meant by "commissariat"

When I have learnt what progress has been made in modern gunnery,

When I know more of tactics than a novice in a nunnery

In short, when I've a smattering of elemental strategy

You'll say a better Major-General has never sat a gee.

For my military knowledge, though I'm plucky and adventury,

Has only been brought down to the beginning of the century;

But still, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,

I am the very model of a modern Major-General!

~ W.S Gilbert

Clementine

In a cavern, in a canyon, excavating for a mine,

Dwelt a miner, forty-niner, and his daughter Clementine.

Oh, my darling, oh, my darling, oh, my darling Clementine,

You are lost and gone forever, dreadful sorry, Clementine.

Light she was and like a fairy, and her shoes were number nine;

Herring boxes, without topses, sandals were for Clementine.

Drove she ducklings to the water, every morning just at nine;

Hit her foot against a splinter, fell into the foaming brine.

Ruby lips above the water, blowing bubbles soft and fine;

Alas for me! I was no swimmer, so I lost my Clementine.

In a churchyard, near the canyon, where the myrtle doth entwine,

There grow roses and other posies, fertilized by Clementine.

Then the miner, forty-niner, soon began to peak and pine,

Thought he oughter jine his daughter, now he's with his Clementine.

In my dreams she still doth haunt me, robed in garments soaked in brine,

Though in life I used to hug her, now she's dead, I'll draw the line.

~ Anonymous

Miniver Cheevy

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,

Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;

He wept that he was ever born,

And he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old

When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;

The vision of a warrior bold

Would set him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not,

And dreamed, and rested from his labors;

He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,

And Priam’s neighbors.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown

That made so many a name so fragrant;

He mourned Romance, now on the town,

And Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici,

Albeit he had never seen one;

He would have sinned incessantly

Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace

And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;

He missed the mediæval grace

Of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought,

But sore annoyed was he without it;

Miniver thought, and thought, and thought,

And thought about it.

Miniver Cheevy, born too late,

Scratched his head and kept on thinking;

Miniver coughed, and called it fate,

And kept on drinking.

~ Edwin Arlington Robinson

My Merrilies

Old Meg she was a Gipsy, 

And liv'd upon the Moors: 

Her bed it was the brown heath turf, 

And her house was out of doors. 

Her apples were swart blackberries, 

Her currants pods o' broom; 

Her wine was dew of the wild white rose, 

Her book a churchyard tomb. 

Her Brothers were the craggy hills, 

Her Sisters larchen trees— 

Alone with her great family 

She liv'd as she did please. 

No breakfast had she many a morn, 

No dinner many a noon, 

And 'stead of supper she would stare 

Full hard against the Moon. 

But every morn of woodbine fresh 

She made her garlanding, 

And every night the dark glen Yew 

She wove, and she would sing. 

And with her fingers old and brown 

She plaited Mats o' Rushes, 

And gave them to the Cottagers 

She met among the Bushes. 

Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen 

And tall as Amazon: 

An old red blanket cloak she wore; 

A chip hat had she on. 

God rest her aged bones somewhere— 

She died full long agone!

~ John Keats

FROM Pocahontas

Wearied arm and broken sword

Wage in vain the desperate fight:

Round him press a countless horde,

He is but a single knight.

Hark! a cry of triumph shrill

Through the wilderness resounds,

As, with twenty bleeding wounds,

Sinks the warrior, fighting still.

Now they heap the fatal pyre,

And the torch of death they light:

Ah! 'tis hard to die of fire!

Who will shield the captive knight?

Round the stake with fiendish cry

Wheel and dance the savage crowd,

Cold the victim's mien, and proud.

And his breast is bared to die.

Who will shield the fearless heart?

Who avert the murderous blade?

From the throng, with sudden start,

See there springs an Indian maid.

Quick she stands before the knight,

'Loose the chain, unbind the ring,

I am daughter of the king,

And I claim the Indian right!'

Dauntlessly aside she flings

Lifted axe and thirsty knife;

Fondly to his heart she clings,

And her bosom guards his life!

In the woods of Powhattan,

Still 'tis told by Indian fires,

How a daughter of their sires

Saved the captive Englishman.

~ WIlliam Makepeace Thackeray

How Pleasant to Know Mr. Lear

How pleasant to know Mr. Lear, 

Who has written such volumes of stuff. 

Some think him ill-tempered and queer, 

But a few find him pleasant enough. 

His mind is concrete and fastidious, 

His nose is remarkably big; 

His visage is more or less hideous, 

His beard it resembles a wig. 

He has ears, and two eyes, and ten fingers, 

(Leastways if you reckon two thumbs); 

He used to be one of the singers, 

But now he is one of the dumbs. 

He sits in a beautiful parlour, 

With hundreds of books on the wall; 

He drinks a great deal of marsala, 

But never gets tipsy at all. 

He has many friends, laymen and clerical, 

Old Foss is the name of his cat; 

His body is perfectly spherical, 

He weareth a runcible hat. 

When he walks in waterproof white, 

The children run after him so! 

Calling out, "He's gone out in his night- 

Gown, that crazy old Englishman, oh!" 

He weeps by the side of the ocean, 

He weeps on the top of the hill; 

He purchases pancakes and lotion, 

And chocolate shrimps from the mill. 

He reads, but he does not speak, Spanish, 

He cannot abide ginger beer; 

Ere the days of his pilgrimage vanish, 

How pleasant to know Mr. Lear!

~ Edward Lear

Father William

“You are old, Father William,” the young man said,

“And your hair has become very white;

And yet you incessantly stand on your head –

Do you think, at your age, it is right?”

“In my youth,” Father William replied to his son,

“I feared it might injure the brain;

But, now that I’m perfectly sure I have none,

Why, I do it again and again.”

“You are old,” said the youth, “as I mentioned before,

And have grown most uncommonly fat;

Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door –

Pray, what is the reason of that?”

“In my youth,” said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,

“I kept all my limbs very supple

By the use of this ointment – one shilling the box –

Allow me to sell you a couple?”

“You are old,” said the youth, “and your jaws are too weak

For anything tougher than suet; 

Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak –

Pray, how did you manage to do it?”

“In my youth,” said his father, “I took to the law,

And argued each case with my wife;

And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,

Has lasted the rest of my life.”

“You are old,” said the youth, “one would hardly suppose

That your eye was as steady as ever;

Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose –

What made you so awfully clever?”

“I have answered three questions, and that is enough,”

Said his father; “don’t give yourself airs! 

Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?

Be off, or I’ll kick you downstairs!”

~ Lewis Carroll

Madame Dill

Madame Dill

Is very ill,

And nothing will improve her,

Until she sees

The Tuileries

And Waddles through the Louvre.

~ Anonymous

Elsie Marley

Elsie Marley is grown so fine,

She won't get up to feed the swine,

But lies in bed till eight or nine,

Lazy Elsie Marley.

~ Anonymous

Lizzie Borden

Lizzie Borden took an axe

and gave her mother forty whacks;

When she saw what she had done

She gave her father forty-one!

~ Anonymous

John Wesley Gaines

John Wesley Gaines!

John Wesley Gaines!

Thou monumental mass of brains!

Come in, John Wesley

For it rains.

~ Anonymous

An Elegy on the Glory of Her Sex, Mrs. Mary Blaize

Good people all, with one accord

Lament for Madam Blaize,

Who never wanted a good word,—

From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom passed her door,

And always found her kind;

She freely lent to all the poor,—

Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighbourhood to please

With manners wondrous winning;

And never followed wicked ways,—

Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks and satins new,

With hoop of monstrous size,

She never slumbered in her pew,—

But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver,

By twenty beaux and more;

The king himself has followed her,—

When she has walked before.

But now her wealth and finery fled,

Her hangers-on cut short all;

The doctors found, when she was dead,—

Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament in sorrow sore,

For Kent Street well may say

That had she lived a twelvemonth more,—

She had not died today.

~ Oliver Goldsmith

Jesse James

It was on a Wednesday night, the moon was shining bright,

He stopped the Glendale train,

And the people all did say for many miles away,

It was robbed by Frank and Jesse James.

CHORUS:

Jesse had a wife to mourn for his life,

Three children, they were brave,

But that dirty little coward that shot Mister Howard,

Has laid Jesse James in his grave.

Jesse was a man, a friend to the poor,

He’d never see a man suffer pain,

And with his brother Frank he robbed the Chicago bank,

And stopped the Glendale train.

It was Robert Ford, that dirty little coward,

I wonder how he does feel,

For he ate of Jesse’s bread and he slept in Jesse’s bed,

Then he laid Jesse James in his grave.

It was his brother Frank that robbed the Gallatin bank,
And carried the money from the town,
It was in this very place that they had a little race,
For they shot Captain Sheets to the ground.

They went to the crossing not very far fro there,
And there they did the same;
And the agent on his knees he delivered up the keys,
To the outlaws Frank and Jesse James.

It was on a Saturday night, Jesse was at home,

Talking to his family brave,

Robert Ford came along like a thief in the night,

And laid Jesse James in his grave.

Jesse went to his rest with his hand on his breast,

The devil will be upon his knee,

He was born one day in the county of Clay

And he came from a solitary race.

How people held their breath when they heard of Jesse's death,
And wondered how he ever came to die,
'Twas one of the gang, dirty Robert Ford,
That shot Jesse James on the sly.

Jesse went to rest with his hand on his breast;
He died with a smile on his face,
He was born one day in the country of Clay,
And came from a solitary race.

~ Anonymous