When Jack took Nell into his arms He knew he acted ill, And thought as he enjoyed her charms Of his fiancée Jill. “Poor dear,” he sighed, “she dreams of me, I shouldn’t act

Here is this vale of sweet abiding, My ultimate and dulcet home, That gently dreams above the chiding Of restless and impatient foam; Beyond the hazards of hell weather, The harceling of wind and

I have a house I’ve lived in long: I can’t recall my going in. ‘Twere better bartered for a song Ere ruin, rot and rust begin. When it was fresh and fine and fair,

‘Why keep a cow when I can buy,’ Said he, ‘the milk I need,’ I wanted to spit in his eye Of selfishness and greed; But did not, for the reason he Was stronger

When young I was an Atheist, Yea, pompous as a pigeon No opportunity I missed To satirize religion. I sneered at Scripture, scoffed at Faith, I blasphemed at believers: Said I: “There’s nothing after

I asked of ancient gaffers three The way of their ripe living, And this is what they told to me Without Misgiving. The First: ‘The why I’ve lived so long, To my fond recollection

Worms finer for fishing you couldn’t be wishing; I delved them dismayed from the velvety sod; The rich loam upturning I gathered them squirming, Big, fat, gleamy earthworms, all ripe for my rod. Thinks

When I was daft (as urchins are), And full if fairy lore, I aimed an arrow at a star And hit – the barnyard door. I’ve shot at heaps of stars since then, But

They’re hanging Bill at eight o’ clock, And millions will applaud. He killed, and so they have to kill, Such is the will of God. His brother Tom is on my bed To keep

I know a mountain thrilling to the stars, Peerless and pure, and pinnacled with snow; Glimpsing the golden dawn o’er coral bars, Flaunting the vanisht sunset’s garnet glow; Proudly patrician, passionless, serene; Soaring in

(The Wounded Canadian Speaks) My leg? It’s off at the knee. Do I miss it? Well, some. You see I’ve had it since I was born; And lately a devilish corn. (I rather chuckle

If you leave the gloom of London and you seek a glowing land, Where all except the flag is strange and new, There’s a bronzed and stalwart fellow who will grip you by the

My rhymes are rough, and often in my rhyming I’ve drifted, silver-sailed, on seas of dream, Hearing afar the bells of Elfland chiming, Seeing the groves of Arcadie agleam. I was the thrall of

Said the Door: “She came in With no shadow of sin; Turned the key in the lock, Slipped out of her frock, The robe she liked best When for supper she dressed. Then a

The Dreamer visioned Life as it might be, And from his dream forthright a picture grew, A painting all the people thronged to see, And joyed therein till came the Man Who Knew, Saying:

Of garden truck he made his fare, As his bright eyes bore witness; Health was his habit and his care, His hobby human fitness. He sang the praise of open sky, The gladth of

My neighbour has a field of wheat And I a rood of vine; And he will give me bread to eat, And I will give him wine. And so we are a jolly pair,

An Englishman was Thomas Paine Who bled for liberty; But while his fight was far from vain He died in poverty: Though some are of the sober thinking ‘Twas due to drinking. Yet this

The Junior God looked from his place In the conning towers of heaven, And he saw the world through the span of space Like a giant golf-ball driven. And because he was bored, as

She phoned them when the Round was Eight: ‘How is my Joe?’ they heard her say. They answered: ‘Gee! He’s going great, Your guy’s Okay.’ She phoned them when the Round was Nine: ‘How

I bought a cuckoo clock And glad was I To hear its tick and tock, Its dulcet cry. But Jones, whose wife is young And pretty too, Winced when that bird gave tongue: Cuckoo!

Father drank himself to death, Quite enjoyed it. Urged to draw a sober breath He’d avoid it. ‘Save your sympathy,’ said Dad; ‘Never sought it. Hob-nail liver, gay and glad, Sure, I bought it.’

We have no aspiration vain For paradise Utopian, And here in our sun-happy Spain, Though man exploit his fellow man, To high constraint we humbly yield, And turn from politics to toil, Content to

Oh Lip-Stick Liz was in the biz, That’s the oldest known in history; She had a lot of fancy rags, Of her form she made no myst’ry. She had a man, a fancy man,

I do not write for love of pelf, Nor lust for phantom fame; I do not rhyme to please myself, Nor yet to win acclaim: No, strange to say it is my plan, What

A-sitttin’ on a cracker box an’ spittin’ in the stove, I took a sudden notion that I’d kindo’ like to rove; An’ so I bought a ticket, jest as easy as could be, From

His frown brought terror to his foes, But now in twilight of his days The pure perfection of a rose Can kindle rapture in his gaze. Where once he swung the sword of wrath

The Greatest Writer of to-day (With Maupassant I almost set him) Said to me in a weary way, The last occasion that I met him: “Old chap, this world is more and more Becoming

Said she: ‘Although my husband Jim Is with his home content, I never should have married him, We are so different. Oh yes, I know he loves me well, Our children he adores; But

Day after day behold me plying My pen within an office drear; The dullest dog, till homeward hieing, Then lo! I reign a king of cheer. A throne have I of padded leather, A

When first I left Blighty they gave me a bay’nit And told me it ‘ad to be smothered wiv gore; But blimey! I ‘aven’t been able to stain it, So far as I’ve gone

This year an ocean trip I took, and as I am a Scot And like to get my money’s worth I never missed a meal. In spite of Neptune’s nastiness I ate an awful

As I sat by my baby’s bed That’s open to the sky, There fluttered round and round my head A radiant butterfly. And as I wept of hearts that ache The saddest in the

My Master is a man of might With manners like a hog; He makes me slave from morn to night And treats me like a dog. He thinks there’s nothing on this earth His

In Paris on a morn of May I sent a radio transalantic To catch a steamer on the way, But oh the postal fuss was frantic; They sent me here, they sent me there,

Oh darling Eric, why did you For my fond affection sue, And then with surgeons artful aid Transform yourself into a maid? So now in petticoats you go And people call you Erico. Sometimes

The height of wisdom seems to me That of a child; So let my ageing vision be Serene and mild. The depth of folly, I aver, Is to fish deep In that dark pool

I wrote a poem to the moon But no one noticed it; Although I hoped that late or soon Someone would praise a bit Its purity and grace forlone, Its beauty tulip-cool… But as

In the gay, gleamy morn I adore to go walking, And oh what sweet people I meet on my way! I hail them with joy for I love to be talking, Although I have

My precious grand-child, aged two, Is eager to unlace one shoe, And then the other; Her cotton socks she’ll deftly doff Despite the mild reproaches of Her mother. Around the house she loves to

Within a pub that’s off the Strand and handy to the bar, With pipe in mouth and mug in hand sat Jobson of the Star. “Come, sit ye down, ye wond’ring wight, and have

Jenny was my first sweetheart; Poor lass! she was none too smart. Though I swore she’d never rue it, She would never let me do it. When I tried she mad a fuss, So

A wild and woeful race he ran Of lust and sin by land and sea; Until, abhorred of God and man, They swung him from the gallows-tree. And then he climbed the Starry Stair,

Because my overcoat’s in pawn, I choose to take my glass Within a little bistro on The rue du Montparnasse; The dusty bins with bottles shine, The counter’s lined with zinc, And there I

If you and I should chance to meet, I guess you wouldn’t care; I’m sure you’d pass me in the street As if I wasn’t there; You’d never look me in the face, My

First Ghost To sepulcher my mouldy bones I bough a pile of noble stones, And half a year a sculptor spent To hew my marble monument, The stateliest to rear its head In all

When I went by the meadow gate The chestnut mare would trot to meet me, And as her coming I would wait, She’d whinney high as if to greet me. And I would kiss

A mattock high he swung; I watched him at his toil; With never gulp of lung He gashed the ruddy soil. Thought I, I’d give my wealth To have his health. With fortune I

If I could practise what I preach, Of fellows there would few be finer; If I were true to what I teach My life would be a lot diviner. If I would act the

Because I was a wonton wild And welcomed many a lover, Who is the father of my child I wish I could discover. For though I know it is not right In tender arms