To rob a robber is not robbing.
French proverbs
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The Witch's frolic
[Scene, the 'Snuggery' at Tappington.-- Grandpapa in a high-backed cane-bottomed elbow-chair of carved walnut-tree, dozing; his nose at an angle of forty-five degrees,--his thumbs slowly perform the rotatory motion described by lexicographers as 'twiddling.'--The 'Hope of the family' astride on a walking-stick, with burnt-cork mustachios, and a pheasant's tail pinned in his cap, solaceth himself with martial music.-- Roused by a strain of surpassing dissonance, Grandpapa Loquitur. ]
Come hither, come hither, my little boy Ned!
Come hither unto my knee--
I cannot away with that horrible din,
That sixpenny drum, and that trumpet of tin.
Oh, better to wander frank and free
Through the Fair of good Saint Bartlemy,
Than list to such awful minstrelsie.
Now lay, little Ned, those nuisances by,
And I'll rede ye a lay of Grammarye.
[Grandpapa riseth, yawneth like the crater of an extinct volcano, proceedeth slowly to the window, and apostrophizeth the Abbey in the distance.]
I love thy tower, Grey Ruin,
I joy thy form to see,
Though reft of all,
Cell, cloister, and hall,
Nothing is left save a tottering wall,
That, awfully grand and darkly dull,
Threaten'd to fall and demolish my skull,
As, ages ago, I wander'd along
Careless thy grass-grown courts among,
In sky-blue jacket and trowsers laced,
The latter uncommonly short in the waist.
Thou art dearer to me, thou Ruin grey,
Than the Squire's verandah over the way;
And fairer, I ween,
The ivy sheen
That thy mouldering turret binds,
Than the Alderman's house about half a mile off,
With the green Venetian blinds.
Full many a tale would my Grandam tell,
In many a bygone day,
Of darksome deeds, which of old befell
In thee, thou Ruin grey!
And I the readiest ear would lend,
And stare like frighten'd pig;
While my Grandfather's hair would have stood up an end,
Had he not worn a wig.
One tale I remember of mickle dread--
Now lithe and listen, my little boy Ned!
Thou mayest have read, my little boy Ned,
Though thy mother thine idlesse blames,
In Doctor Goldsmith's history book,
Of a gentleman called King James,
In quilted doublet, and great trunk breeches,
[...] Read more
poem by Richard Harris Barham
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The Teacher Of Wisdom
From his childhood he had been as one filled with the perfect
knowledge of God, and even while he was yet but a lad many of the
saints, as well as certain holy women who dwelt in the free city of
his birth, had been stirred to much wonder by the grave wisdom of
his answers.
And when his parents had given him the robe and the ring of manhood
he kissed them, and left them and went out into the world, that he
might speak to the world about God. For there were at that time
many in the world who either knew not God at all, or had but an
incomplete knowledge of Him, or worshipped the false gods who dwell
in groves and have no care of their worshippers.
And he set his face to the sun and journeyed, walking without
sandals, as he had seen the saints walk, and carrying at his girdle
a leathern wallet and a little water-bottle of burnt clay.
And as he walked along the highway he was full of the joy that
comes from the perfect knowledge of God, and he sang praises unto
God without ceasing; and after a time he reached a strange land in
which there were many cities.
And he passed through eleven cities. And some of these cities were
in valleys, and others were by the banks of great rivers, and
others were set on hills. And in each city he found a disciple who
loved him and followed him, and a great multitude also of people
followed him from each city, and the knowledge of God spread in the
whole land, and many of the rulers were converted, and the priests
of the temples in which there were idols found that half of their
gain was gone, and when they beat upon their drums at noon none, or
but a few, came with peacocks and with offerings of flesh as had
been the custom of the land before his coming.
Yet the more the people followed him, and the greater the number of
his disciples, the greater became his sorrow. And he knew not why
his sorrow was so great. For he spake ever about God, and out of
the fulness of that perfect knowledge of God which God had Himself
given to him.
And one evening he passed out of the eleventh city, which was a
city of Armenia, and his disciples and a great crowd of people
followed after him; and he went up on to a mountain and sat down on
a rock that was on the mountain, and his disciples stood round him,
and the multitude knelt in the valley.
And he bowed his head on his hands and wept, and said to his Soul,
'Why is it that I am full of sorrow and fear, and that each of my
disciples is an enemy that walks in the noonday?' And his Soul
answered him and said, 'God filled thee with the perfect knowledge
of Himself, and thou hast given this knowledge away to others. The
[...] Read more
poem by Oscar Wilde
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Robber & The Roadie
When willie met ronnie he was runnin up a track
He was bent down, burned out, carryin a sack
Come on boy, you got to stop and help me some
And keep this money hidden when the police come
Ronnie was shiverin and makin funny sounds
He was lookin like a fox
That was runnin from the hounds
Sure little buddy, I can lighten up your load
You half it up, Ill hit it up, Ill take it down the road
Never had a better combination been planned
cos willie was a roadie with a rock n? roll band
They were heads back, celebratin, drinkin moonshine
Heads down, here we go across another state line
Tanked up and bullet proof
They couldnt give a monkeys
Damn if he didnt hide the money in a drum case
Pack em up, hit em up, do another show
The robber and the roadie got a long way to go
Willie and ronnie
Anytime they wanted they would pull another job
Anywhere they found a place
And it was fat enough to rob
If ronnie saw the police he would make a little sign
Then willie stuck the money in the bands back line
In the main racks, bass stacks
Anywhere he thought it could
Be hidden out of sight
Until the finished out in hollywood
Split it down the middle
When they took it out the sound
The robber and the roadie got enough to go around
Willie and ronnie
The robber and the roadie
Forty seven days and they had only one to go
When the telegram arived
To say the band wouldnt show
The crowd was getting nasty and it turned into a rage
The bottles and the bodies started coverin the stage
Then the cops came running in
And breaking up the riotin
When they saw the money falling
Out the back of everything
Hey little buddy think its time to run and duck
The robber and the roadie could be runnin out of luck
Willie and ronnie had to skip it out of town
They were sittin by the highway like jackson browne
They were stickin out their thumbs
In the middle of the night
When they saw the car comin with the spinnin red light
Wide eyed, tongue tied feelin pretty stranded
[...] Read more
song performed by Nazareth
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Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803 X. Rob Roy’s Grave .
A FAMOUS man is Robin Hood,
The English ballad-singer's joy!
And Scotland has a thief as good,
An outlaw of as daring mood;
She has her brave ROB ROY!
Then clear the weeds from off his Grave,
And let us chant a passing stave,
In honour of that Hero brave!
Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart
And wondrous length and strength of arm:
Nor craved he more to quell his foes,
Or keep his friends from harm.
Yet was Rob Roy as wise as brave;
Forgive me if the phrase be strong;--
A Poet worthy of Rob Roy
Must scorn a timid song.
Say, then, that he was 'wise' as brave;
As wise in thought as bold in deed:
For in the principles of things
'He' sought his moral creed.
Said generous Rob, 'What need of books?
Burn all the statutes and their shelves:
They stir us up against our kind;
And worse, against ourselves.
'We have a passion--make a law,
Too false to guide us or control!
And for the law itself we fight
In bitterness of soul.
'And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose
Distinctions that are plain and few:
These find I graven on my heart:
'That' tells me what to do.
'The creatures see of flood and field,
And those that travel on the wind!
With them no strife can last; they live
In peace, and peace of mind.
'For why?--because the good old rule
Sufficeth them, the simple plan,
That they should take, who have the power,
And they should keep who can.
'A lesson that is quickly learned,
[...] Read more
poem by William Wordsworth
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Bank Robber Man
I was walking down the street today
Just as somebody blew the doors off of the B of A
Just then I head them call my name
As I was thrown against the car
I was being framed
All units we've got our man
We've got the bank robber man
We don't need no reason
You're going in the can
You look like the bank robber man
I think you misunderstand
Do you think that I am the one that did it
Just because I'm tan?
Just then the officer at hand said
I don't give a damn that you are in a rock and roll band
All units we've got our man
We've got the bank robber man
We don't need no reason
You're going in the can
You look like the bank robber man
Just tell me what's going on ?
Can you tell me what I did wrong ?
Does busting me make you feel strong ?
Make you feel strong
All units we've got our man
We've got the bank robber man
We don't need no reason
You're going in the can
You look like the bank robber man
song performed by Lenny Kravitz from Lenny
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The Terrible Robber Men
OH I wish the sun was bright in the sky,
And the fox was back in his den O!
For always I'm hearing the passing by
Of the terrible robber men O!
Of the terrible robber men.
Oh what does the fox carry over the rye,
When it's bright in the morn again O!
And what is it making the lonesome cry
With the terrible robber men O!
With the terrible robber men.
Oh I wish the sun was bright m the sky,
And the fox was back in his den O!
For always I'm hearing the passing by
Of the terrible robber men O!
With the terrible robber men.
poem by Padraic Colum
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Gentle Alice Brown
It was a robber's daughter, and her name was ALICE BROWN,
Her father was the terror of a small Italian town;
Her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing;
But it isn't of her parents that I'm going for to sing.
As ALICE was a-sitting at her window-sill one day,
A beautiful young gentleman he chanced to pass that way;
She cast her eyes upon him, and he looked so good and true,
That she thought, "I could be happy with a gentleman like you!"
And every morning passed her house that cream of gentlemen,
She knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten;
A sorter in the Custom-house, it was his daily road
(The Custom-house was fifteen minutes' walk from her abode).
But ALICE was a pious girl, who knew it wasn't wise
To look at strange young sorters with expressive purple eyes;
So she sought the village priest to whom her family confessed,
The priest by whom their little sins were carefully assessed.
"Oh, holy father," ALICE said, "'t would grieve you, would it not,
To discover that I was a most disreputable lot?
Of all unhappy sinners I'm the most unhappy one!"
The padre said, "Whatever have you been and gone and done?"
"I have helped mamma to steal a little kiddy from its dad,
I've assisted dear papa in cutting up a little lad,
I've planned a little burglary and forged a little cheque,
And slain a little baby for the coral on its neck!"
The worthy pastor heaved a sigh, and dropped a silent tear,
And said, "You mustn't judge yourself too heavily, my dear:
It's wrong to murder babies, little corals for to fleece;
But sins like these one expiates at half-a-crown apiece.
"Girls will be girls - you're very young, and flighty in your mind;
Old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect to find:
We mustn't be too hard upon these little girlish tricks -
Let's see - five crimes at half-a-crown - exactly twelve-and-six."
"Oh, father," little Alice cried, "your kindness makes me weep,
You do these little things for me so singularly cheap -
Your thoughtful liberality I never can forget;
But, oh! there is another crime I haven't mentioned yet!
"A pleasant-looking gentleman, with pretty purple eyes,
I've noticed at my window, as I've sat a-catching flies;
He passes by it every day as certain as can be -
I blush to say I've winked at him, and he has winked at me!"
[...] Read more
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Rob Ford 2... Nov 29th,2012
ROB FORD 2... Nov 29th,2012
by
James Bredin
If we don't get Rob Ford back as mayor; we're ruined for sure,
God only knows what the other idiots will do to make us poor,
They might like insite clinics or those doing drugs and crack,
Therefore we need Rob Ford in office to keep Toronto on track.
We like Rob Ford because he's our kinda good guy,
The left-wingers didn't like him and forced him to say goodbye,
Used the courts and a judge to force him out the door,
As if Rob Ford was some sort of criminal bore.
The media has been filled with Rob Ford stuff for several weeks,
Telling Rob Ford stories and his various techniques,
Which goes to show that some can be a very vindictive bunch,
If they get the keys to Rob Ford's office, we will feel the crunch.
Nov 29th,2012
poem by James Bredin
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The Man And The Robbers
A MAN HAD GONE TO HIS BANK AND WITHDREW A LARGE SUM OF MONEY, AND ON HIS WAY BACK, HE SUDDENLY HAPPENED UPON A CREW OF ROBBERS AND HE TURNED BACK AND RAN AWAY AS FAST AS HIS LEGS COULD RUN!
AS HE RAN AWAY, HE SUDDENLY RAN INTO A CREW OF NIGERIAN POLICEMEN! AND THE MAN WAS FLABBERGASTED, HE DIDN'T KNOW WHICH WAY TO RUN ANYMORE AND HE SUDDENLY TURNED BACK AND BEGAN TO RUN TOWARDS THE ROBBERS AND HE SHOUTED AS HE RAN, WAIT MR ROBBER! WAIT!
THE SURPRISED ROBBERS STOOD WHILE HE CAME TO THEM AND HUMBLY HANDED THE MONEY OVER TO THEM, AND ONE OF THEM ASKED, WHY DID YOU RETURN TO GIVE US THE MONEY WE WANTED TO ROB YOU OF? AND HE REPLIED, OH, AS I RAN AWAY FROM YOU, I RAN INTO A CREW OF NIGERIAN POLICEMEN! AND I DECIDED TO COME BACK AND GIVE YOU ROBBERS THE MONEY INSTEAD!
A CURIOUS ROBBER ASKED, WHY DID YOU PREFER TO GIVE US THE MONEY? AND THE MAN SAID, OH, WELL, YOU ROBBERS WOULD ROB ME AND LEAVE ME ALIVE, BUT THE NIGERIAN POLICEMEN WOULD ROB ME, THEN SHOOT ME DEAD AND TELL THE WORLD THAT I WAS THE ROBBER! STATED THE MAN TO THE ASTONISHED ROBBERS
poem by Overlord Don Manuel Ihcakeyno
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Invasion
The Vikings are coming, You'd better get ready for we're having a fight
The longboats are coming, looking like dragons in the dead of the night
Muster the men from all the villages
You'd better get ready to fight with your enemies
Beacons are burning, I'm giving the word to get ready to fight
The battle is nearing, You'd better get ready to fight for your lives
Muster the men from all the villages
You'd better get ready to fight with your enemies
The Norsemen are coming, The Norsemen are coming
The warnings are given, The Norsemen are coming
The Norsemen are coming, The Norsemen are coming
The warnings are given, The Norsemen are coming
Raping and pillaging, Robbing and looting the land
Raping and pillaging, Robbing and looting the land
Viking raiders from afar
The Norsemen are coming, The Norsemen are coming
The warnings are given, The Norsemen are coming
The Norsemen are coming, The Norsemen are coming
The warnings are given, The Norsemen are coming
Raping and pillaging, Robbing and looting the land
Raping and pillaging, Robbing and looting the land
Viking raiders from afar
song performed by Iron Maiden
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Legend of Lady Gertrude
I.
Fallen the lofty halls, where vassal crowds
Drank in the dawn of Gertrude's natal day.
The dungeon roof an Alpine snow-wreath shrouds,
The strong, wild eagle's eyrie in the clouds—
The robber-baron's nest—is swept away.
II.
Bare is the mountain brow of lordly towers;
Only the sunbeams stay, the moon and stars,
The faithful saxifrage and gentian flowers,
The silvery mist, and soft, white, crystal showers,
And torrents rushing through their rocky bars.
III.
More than three hundred years ago, the flag
Charged with that dread device, an Alpine bear—
By many storm-winds rent—a grim, grey rag—
Floated above the castle on the crag,
Above the last whose heads were shelter'd there.
IV.
He was the proudest of an ancient race,
The fiercest of the robber chieftain's band,
That haughty Freiherr, with the iron face:
And she—his lady-sister, by God's grace—
The sweetest, gentlest maiden in the land.
V.
'Twas a rude nest for such a tender bird,
That lonely fortress, with its warrior-lord.
Aye drunken revels the night-stillness stirred;
From morn till eve the battle-cries were heard,
The sound of jingling spur and clanking sword.
VI.
And Lady Gertrude was both young and fair,
A mark for lawless hearts and roving eyes,—
With sweet, grave face, and amber-tinted hair,
And a low voice soft-thrilling through the air,
Filling it full of subtlest melodies.
VII.
But the great baron, proudest of his line,
Fetter'd, with jealous care, his white dove's wing;
Guarded his treasure in an inner shrine,
Till such a day as knightly hands should twine
Her slender fingers with the marriage-ring.
[...] Read more
poem by Ada Cambridge
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The Kid Just Wanted To have The Candy
The kid was alone
had promised her mother
not to let
any stranger in.
The robber knew this
but he was wise
he stood up infront
of the glassed window of the house
where the kid could see him.
The kid saw the robber
and the robber gave him
a kind and gentle smile
while showing a candy
of orange and green colors.
The kid's eyes
opened big and wide
and the robber gave the kid
the sign to open the door.
Little by little
the kid
became closer and closer
to the door
and then...
he opened it!
The kid
just wanted to have
the candy.
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
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I save for them
A robber appointed as the Government.
A robber inherited as the religion.
A robber elected as the minister.
A robber allowed as a trader.
You save money for them.
31.08.2005
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Gallant Peter Clarke
On Walden's Range at morning time
The sun shone brightly down;
It shone across the winding Page
Near Murrurundi town.
It glittered o'er the Burning Mount,
Where murky shadows fell
Across the path to travellers known
To some, alas, too well.
There stands a simple block of stone,
Erected as a mark
To show the spot where he fought and died,
That gallant Peter Clarke.
And if you will but list awhile,
To you I will relate
What happened there to Peter Clarke
And Jimmy Clarke, his mate.
They camped one night close by the range,
In songs the hours flew past,
And little did poor Peter think
That night would be his last.
At dawn they toiled the steep ascent;
They had scarcely reached the top
When a voice in accents stern and cold
Commanded them to stop.
'Hand up your money, watch and chain,'
The robber sternly cried,
'Who takes my money takes my life!'
The angry Clarke replied.
Then laughed the robber loud in scorn
As he his pistol drew.
Said he 'My hand is firm and strong,
And my aim is ever true.
'And he who will my word gainsay,
Though he be earl or knight,
I swear by all I sacred hold
He ne'er shall see morning light.
'So give up your money now, my lad,
And do not idly rave.
Resist and, by the God above,
This night you'll fill the grave.'
[...] Read more
poem by Anonymous Oceania
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The Treasure Of The Wise Man
O the night was dark and the night was late,
And the robbers came to rob him;
And they picked the locks of his palace-gate,
The robbers that came to rob him--
They picked the locks of his palace-gate,
Seized his jewels and gems of state,
His coffers of gold and his priceless plate,--
The robbers that came to rob him.
But loud laughed he in the morning red!--
For of what had the robbers robbed him?--
Ho! hidden safe, as he slept in bed,
When the robbers came to rob him,--
They robbed him not of a golden shred
Of the childish dreams in his wise old head--
'And they're welcome to all things else,' he said,
When the robbers came to rob him.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Golden Age
Long ere the Muse the strenuous chords had swept,
And the first lay as yet in silence slept,
A Time there was which since has stirred the lyre
To notes of wail and accents warm with fire;
Moved the soft Mantuan to his silvery strain,
And him who sobbed in pentametric pain;
To which the World, waxed desolate and old,
Fondly reverts, and calls the Age of Gold.
Then, without toil, by vale and mountain side,
Men found their few and simple wants supplied;
Plenty, like dew, dropped subtle from the air,
And Earth's fair gifts rose prodigal as prayer.
Love, with no charms except its own to lure,
Was swiftly answered by a love as pure.
No need for wealth; each glittering fruit and flower,
Each star, each streamlet, made the maiden's dower.
Far in the future lurked maternal throes,
And children blossomed painless as the rose.
No harrowing question `why,' no torturing `how,'
Bent the lithe frame or knit the youthful brow.
The growing mind had naught to seek or shun;
Like the plump fig it ripened in the sun.
From dawn to dark Man's life was steeped in joy,
And the gray sire was happy as the boy.
Nature with Man yet waged no troublous strife,
And Death was almost easier than Life.
Safe on its native mountains throve the oak,
Nor ever groaned 'neath greed's relentless stroke.
No fear of loss, no restlessness for more,
Drove the poor mariner from shore to shore.
No distant mines, by penury divined,
Made him the sport of fickle wave or wind.
Rich for secure, he checked each wish to roam,
And hugged the safe felicity of home.
Those days are long gone by; but who shall say
Why, like a dream, passed Saturn's Reign away?
Over its rise, its ruin, hangs a veil,
And naught remains except a Golden Tale.
Whether 'twas sin or hazard that dissolved
That happy scheme by kindly Gods evolved;
Whether Man fell by lucklessness or pride,-
Let jarring sects, and not the Muse, decide.
But when that cruel Fiat smote the earth,
Primeval Joy was poisoned at its birth.
In sorrow stole the infant from the womb,
The agëd crept in sorrow to the tomb.
The ground, so bounteous once, refused to bear
More than was wrung by sower, seed, and share.
[...] Read more
poem by Alfred Austin
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Gotham - Book III
Can the fond mother from herself depart?
Can she forget the darling of her heart,
The little darling whom she bore and bred,
Nursed on her knees, and at her bosom fed;
To whom she seem'd her every thought to give,
And in whose life alone she seem'd to live?
Yes, from herself the mother may depart,
She may forget the darling of her heart,
The little darling whom she bore and bred,
Nursed on her knees, and at her bosom fed,
To whom she seem'd her every thought to give,
And in whose life alone she seem'd to live;
But I cannot forget, whilst life remains,
And pours her current through these swelling veins,
Whilst Memory offers up at Reason's shrine;
But I cannot forget that Gotham's mine.
Can the stern mother, than the brutes more wild,
From her disnatured breast tear her young child,
Flesh of her flesh, and of her bone the bone,
And dash the smiling babe against a stone?
Yes, the stern mother, than the brutes more wild,
From her disnatured breast may tear her child,
Flesh of her flesh, and of her bone the bone,
And dash the smiling babe against a stone;
But I, (forbid it, Heaven!) but I can ne'er
The love of Gotham from this bosom tear;
Can ne'er so far true royalty pervert
From its fair course, to do my people hurt.
With how much ease, with how much confidence--
As if, superior to each grosser sense,
Reason had only, in full power array'd,
To manifest her will, and be obey'd--
Men make resolves, and pass into decrees
The motions of the mind! with how much ease,
In such resolves, doth passion make a flaw,
And bring to nothing what was raised to law!
In empire young, scarce warm on Gotham's throne,
The dangers and the sweets of power unknown,
Pleased, though I scarce know why, like some young child,
Whose little senses each new toy turns wild,
How do I hold sweet dalliance with my crown,
And wanton with dominion, how lay down,
Without the sanction of a precedent,
Rules of most large and absolute extent;
Rules, which from sense of public virtue spring,
And all at once commence a Patriot King!
But, for the day of trial is at hand,
And the whole fortunes of a mighty land
Are staked on me, and all their weal or woe
Must from my good or evil conduct flow,
[...] Read more
poem by Charles Churchill
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Topsy-turvy
They're robbing Peter,
To pay Paul on their debts.
And things are getting out of hand...
To leave some feeling quite upset.
A groaning moaning,
Is heard from dusk 'til dawning.
A smile once there...
Is now a frown most give and get!
Have we been hoo-dooed,
By someone doing voodoo.
What had been up...
Is now topsy-turvy.
That half filled cup,
Is leaking towards the bottom.
Could it be bad luck...
That a rut is stirring in our guts!
Have we been hoo-dooed,
By someone doing voodoo.
What had been up...
Is now topsy-turvy.
They're robbing Peter,
To pay Paul on their debts.
And things are getting out of hand...
To leave some feeling quite upset.
Have we been hoo-dooed,
By someone doing voodoo.
What had been up...
Is now topsy-turvy.
A groaning moaning,
Is heard from dusk 'til dawning.
A smile once there...
Is now a frown most give and get!
Have we been hoo-dooed,
By someone doing voodoo.
What had been up...
Is now topsy-turvy.
They're robbing Peter,
To pay Paul on their debts.
And things are getting out of hand...
To leave some feeling quite upset.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Orlando Furioso Canto 2
ARGUMENT
A hermit parts, by means of hollow sprite,
The two redoubted rivals' dangerous play;
Rinaldo goes where Love and Hope invite,
But is dispatched by Charles another way;
Bradamont, seeking her devoted knight,
The good Rogero, nigh becomes the prey
Of Pinabel, who drops the damsel brave
Into the dungeon of a living grave.
I
Injurious love, why still to mar accord
Between desires has been thy favourite feat?
Why does it please thee so, perfidious lord,
Two hearts should with a different measure beat?
Thou wilt not let me take the certain ford,
Dragging me where the stream is deep and fleet.
Her I abandon who my love desires,
While she who hates, respect and love inspires.
II
Thou to Rinaldo show'st the damsel fair,
While he seems hideous to that gentle dame;
And he, who when the lady's pride and care,
Paid back with deepest hate her amorous flame,
Now pines, himself, the victim of despair,
Scorned in his turn, and his reward the same.
By the changed damsel in such sort abhorred,
She would choose death before that hated lord.
III
He to the Pagan cries: "Forego thy theft,
And down, false felon, from that pilfer'd steed;
I am not wont to let my own be reft.
And he who seeks it dearly pays the deed.
More -- I shall take from thee yon lovely weft;
To leave thee such a prize were foul misdeed;
And horse and maid, whose worth outstrips belief,
Were ill, methinks, relinquished to a thief."
IV
"Thou liest," the haughty Saracen retorts,
As proud, and burning with as fierce a flame,
"A thief thyself, if Fame the truth reports:
But let good deeds decide our dubious claim,
With whom the steed or damsel fair assorts:
Best proved by valiant deeds: though, for the dame,
That nothing is so precious, I with thee
(Search the wide world throughout) may well agree."
[...] Read more
poem by Ludovico Ariosto
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A Day's Ride
Bold are the mounted robbers who on stolen horses ride
And bold the mounted troopers who patrol the Sydney side;
But few of them, though flash they be, can ride, and few can fight
As Walker did, for life and death, with Ward the other night.
It seems the troopers heard that Ward, well known as Thunderbolt,
An outlawed thief, was down near Blanche to try a fresh-roped colt.
(Not far from Armidale, that spot for brilliants so renowned -
Although the talked-of diamonds now are seldom found.)
Said Alick Walker as he clapped his saddle on his steed,
'If I catch sight of Ward today I'll try his horse's speed;
Up hill or down, 'tis all the same, I know my nag can stay'
They got his arms, and galloped off, all ready for the fray.
Soon as he got near Thunderbolt, the first salute he got
From that retreating party was a random pistol-shot ;
The robber fled, the trooper went in chase, his spirits rose -
When Ward advised him to keep off, he answered, 'Bosh, here goes!'
As through the scrubby brush they fled, and timber-tangled brake,
Both held their horses well in hand, nor made the least mistake;
Easing his horse with judgement then, the lightweight trooper raced-
Good jockey as the robber was, he found himself outpaced.
Mile after mile, rough ground and smooth, up hill and down the vale,
Steep rocky tracks they galloped o'er - Wards horse began to fail.
Scant time he had for firing, for whenever he looked back
Onward his adversary pressed, fast nearing on his track.
On to a creek pursuer and pursued still headed straight:
One hastening to avenge the law, his foe to meet his fate.
Ward, almost hopeless of escape, devised a desperate scheme -
Dismounting from his horse he swam the wide and rapid stream.
Cried Walker, 'May my mother's son for ever be accursed
If now I fail to take him, but I'll stop his gallop first.'
His pistol flashed, the stockhorse fell; cut off from all retreat
At bay the reckless outlaw stood, defiant in defeat.
'I'll not surrender,' was his cry, 'before I do, I'll die!'
'All right,' his brave opponent said, 'now for it, you or I!'
A moment's pause - a parley now - the trooper made a push
To grapple at close quarters with the ranger of the bush.
A shot - a blow - a struggle wild - the outlaw with a shriek
Relaxed his hold, and sank beneath the waters of the creek.
'Twas thus the dreaded robber's evil spirit passed away,
Vanquished by brave young Walker, now the hero of the day.
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poem by Anonymous Oceania
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