She was so wonderful I wondered If wedding me she had not blundered; She was so pure, so high above me, I marvelled how she came to love me: Or did she? Well, in

Each time that I switch on the light A Miracle it seems to me That I should rediscover sight And banish dark so utterly. One moment I am bleakly blind, The next exultant life

Being a gaoler I’m supposed To be a hard-boiled guy; Yet never prison walls enclosed A kinder soul than I: Passing my charges precious pills To end their ills. And if in gentle sleep

Should you preserve white mice in honey Don’t use imported ones from China, For though they cost you less in money You’ll find the Japanese ones finer. But if Chinese, stuff them with spice,

We brought him in from between the lines: we’d better have let him lie; For what’s the use of risking one’s skin for a tyke that’s going to die? What’s the use of tearing

In all the pubs from Troon to Ayr Grandfather’s father would repair With Bobby Burns, a drouthy pair, The glass to clink; And oftenwhiles, when not too “fou,” They’d roar a bawdy stave or

Ye who know the Lone Trail fain would follow it, Though it lead to glory or the darkness of the pit. Ye who take the Lone Trail, bid your love good-by; The Lone Trail,

Three times I had the lust to kill, To clutch a throat so young and fair, And squeeze with all my might until No breath of being lingered there. Three times I drove the

Gold! We leapt from our benches. Gold! We sprang from our stools. Gold! We wheeled in the furrow, fired with the faith of fools. Fearless, unfound, unfitted, far from the night and the cold,

Hurrah! I’m off to Finistere, to Finistere, to Finistere; My satchel’s swinging on my back, my staff is in my hand; I’ve twenty louis in my purse, I know the sun and sea are

At dusk I saw a craintive mouse That sneaked and stole around the house; At first I took it for a ghost, For it was snowy white – almost. I’ve seen them in captivity,

When I was boxing in the ring In ‘Frisco back in ninety-seven, I used to make five bucks a fling To give as good as I was given. But when I felt too fighting

As you gaze beyond the bay With such wanness in your eyes, You who have out-stayed your day, Seeing other stars arise, Slender though your lifehold be, Still you dream beside the sea. We,

Could Fate ordain a lot for me Beyond all human ills, I think that I would choose to be A shephard of the hills; With shaggy cloak and cape where skies Eternally are blue

Let us have birthdays every day, (I had the thought while I was shaving) Because a birthday should be gay, And full of grace and good behaving. We can’t have cakes and candles bright,

Oh you who have daring deeds to tell! And you who have felt Ambition’s spell! Have you heard of the louse who longed to dwell In the golden hair of a queen? He sighed

Before the florid portico I watched the gamblers come and go, While by me on a bench there sat A female in a faded hat; A shabby, shrinking, crumpled creature, Of waxy casino-ward with

Throughout my life I see A guiding hand; The pitfalls set for me Were grimly planned. But always when and where They opened wide, Someone who seemed to care Stood by my side. When

Alas! I see that thrushes three Are ravishing my old fig tree, In whose green shade I smoked my pipe And waited for the fruit to ripe; From green to purple softly swell Then

Tick-tocking in my ear My dollar clock I hear. ‘Arise,’ it seems to say: ‘Behold another day To grasp the golden key Of Opportunity; To turn the magic lock Tick-tock! ‘Another day to gain

Some poets sing of scenery; Some to fair maids make sonnets sweet. A fig for love and greenery, Be mine a song of things to eat. Let brother bards divinely dream, I’m just plain

“Lord God of Hosts,” the people pray, “Make strong our arms that we may slay Our cursed foe and win the day.” “Lord God of Battles,” cries the foe, “Guide us to strike a

Dick’s dead! It was the Polack guard Put powdered glass into his cage When I was tramping round the yard, I could have killed him in my rage. I slugged him with that wrench

I drink my fill of foamy ale I sing a song, I tell a tale, I play the fiddle; My throat is chronically dry, Yet savant of a sort am I, And Life’s my

I have done with love and lust, I reck not for gold or fame; I await familiar dust These frail fingers to reclaim: Not for me the tiger flame. Not for me the furnace

It’s not for laws I’ve broken That bitter tears I’ve wept, But solemn vows I’ve spoken And promises unkept; It’s not for sins committed My heart is full of rue, But gentle acts omitted,

You’ve heard of “Casey at The Bat,” And “Casey’s Tabble Dote”; But now it’s time To write a rhyme Of “Casey’s Billy-goat.” Pat Casey had a billy-goat he gave the name of Shamus, Because

Wars have been and wars will be Till the human race is run; Battles red by land and sea, Never peace beneath the sun. I am old and little care; I’ll be cold, my

We’re taking Marie Toro to her home in Père-La-Chaise; We’re taking Marie Toro to her last resting-place. Behold! her hearse is hung with wreaths till everything is hid Except the blossoms heaping high upon

Said darling daughter unto me: “oh Dad, how funny it would be If you had gone to Mexico A score or so of years ago. Had not some whimsey changed your plan I might

One day the Great Designer sought His Clerk of Birth and Death. Said he: “Two souls are in my thought, To whom I gave life-breath. I deemed my work was fitly done, But yester-eve

I saw three wounded of the war: And the first had lost his eyes; And the second went on wheels and had No legs below the thighs; And the face of the third was

Think not because you raise A gleaming sword, That you will win to praise Before the Lord. And though men hail you great Unto the skies, Deem not ’twill ope’ the gate Of Paradise.

Though elegance I ill afford, My living-room is green and gold; The former tenant was a lord Who died of drinking, I am told. I fancy he was rather bored; I don’t think he

Give me a cabin in the woods Where not a human soul intrudes; Where I can sit beside a stream Beneath a balsam bough and deam, And every morning see arise The sun like

Men of the High North, the wild sky is blazing; Islands of opal float on silver seas; Swift splendors kindle, barbaric, amazing; Pale ports of amber, golden argosies. Ringed all around us the proud

There’s a drip of honeysuckle in the deep green lane; There’s old Martin jogging homeward on his worn old wain; There are cherry petals falling, and a cuckoo calling, calling, And a score of

For failure I was well equipped And should have come to grief, By atavism grimly gripped, A fool beyond belief. But lo! the Lord was good to me, And with a heart to sing,

A little mousey man he was With board, and chalk in hand; And millions were awestruck because They couldn’t understand. Said he: ‘E equals Mc2: I’ll prove it true.’ No doubt you can, your

The waves have a story to tell me, As I lie on the lonely beach; Chanting aloft in the pine-tops, The wind has a lesson to teach; But the stars sing an anthem of

With belly like a poisoned pup Said I: ‘I must give bacon up: And also, I profanely fear, I must abandon bread and beer That make for portliness they say; Yet of them copiously

The Men of Seville are, they say, The laziest of Spain. Consummate artists in delay, Allergical to strain; Fr if you have a job for them, And beg them to be spry, They only

It was the steamer Alice May that sailed the Yukon foam. And touched in every river camp from Dawson down to Nome. It was her builder, owner, pilot, Captain Silas Geer, Who took her

Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips, And the mouth so mocking gay, A wanton you to the finger-tips, Who break men’s hearts in play; A thing of dust I have striven for, Honour and

He was my best and oldest friend. I’d known him all my life. And yet I’m sure towards the end He knew I loved his wife, And wonder, wonder if it’s why He came

I bought my little grandchild Ann A bright balloon, And I was such a happy man To hear her croon. She laughed and babbled with delight, So gold its glow, As by a thread

I never thought that Bill could say A proper prayer; ‘Twas more in his hard-bitten way To cuss and swear; Yet came the night when Baby Ted Was bitter ill, I tip-toed to his

I had a dream, a dream of dread: I thought that horror held the house; A burglar bent above my bed, He moved as quiet as a mouse. With hairy hand and naked knife

I have no brief for gambling, nay The notion I express That money earned ‘s the only way To pay for happiness. With cards and dice I do not hold; By betting I’ve been

Since I have come to years sedate I see with more and more acumen The bitter irony of Fate, The vanity of all things human. Why, just to-day some fellow said, As I surveyed