What, like I want to look like Dick Clark? No. I think I look great with liver spots.
quote by Dennis Quaid
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Now I'm Following You, Part 2
Let's dance, you can do a little two-step
I'll go anywhere that you step to, 'cause I'm following you.
My feet might be falling out of rhythm,
Don't know what I'm doing with them, but I know I'm following you.
Unlikely as it is to me, on the floor with two left feet
Let's boogie woogie till our hearts skip a beat, but who's counting?
Encore, once again around the dance floor
Romance is in the picture too, now I'm following you.
(Spoken:) Take it away, boys.
On the run.
Be the one.
On the run.
Spoken:
Yeah.
[Calling Dick Tracy, calling Dick Tracy]
[Come here Tracy, this is Sam, what are you doing up there?]
I'll tell ya.
[Calling Dick Tracy, calling Dick Tracy]
[Do you read me, Tracy?]
[To tell you the truth Tracy, I don't know.]
Find out.
An unexamined life is not worth living.
(Spoken:) Come over here!
Let's dance, you can do a little two-step
I'll go anywhere that you step to, 'cause I'm following you.
Encore, once again around the dance floor
Romance is in the picture too, now I'm following you.
But who's counting?
Spoken:
[Ten million, twenty million, thirty million]
What about Dick Tracy?
[Forty million]
Dick, that's an interesting name.
[Fifty million]
Dick Dick [Sixty million] Dick
Dick Dick Dick Dick Dick Dick Dick, [Seventy million], Dick,
Dick Dick Dick Dick Dick Dick [Eighty million], Dick Dick Dick
Dick Dick Dick Dick Dick Dick Dick
[Ninety million.]
Dick.
(Spoken:) My bottom hurts just thinking about it.
Unlikely as it is to me, on the floor with two left feet
Let's boogie woogie till our hearts skip a beat, but who's counting?
Encore, once again around the dance floor
Romance is in the picture too, now I'm following you.
(Spoken:) Would you knock it off please? Thank you
song performed by Madonna
Added by Lucian Velea
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69
Dick meets jane and a fire starts
Jane leaves dick and it breaks his heart
Dick asked jane, whyd you leave me?
Cause youre not dangerous, rough or sleazy
Now dicks dangerous
Now dicks rough
Now dicks sleazy
Nice guy dick dont live here anymore
Dick bought a swanky love pad down by the shore
Chorus
Hes going prime time
Online
69
All the girls come around to get dick
They all adore him now cause he acts like a prick
Each one tries to tie dick down
Dick never falls in love, on the girls start coming round
Dick dont fall for their sweetness
He knows their weakness
Dick knows a secret
Secret is dick leased himself a nice car
Girls like car
Girls like dick
Dick scores
Chorus
Solo
Suddenly jane wants back in dicks life
cause jane hears dicks a popular guy
Jane looks good, dick takes her home
Dick kicks hers out after he gets his bone
Now jane wants him
Now jane needs him
Now jane loves him
Jane loves dick now that she got the heave ho
Jane got what she wanted
Dick aint a nice guy no more
Chorus
Spoken by woman: but I want dick!
Solo
song performed by Poison
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Cancer Rising
Mind called the meeting with just Heart and Lungs attending:
Mind said:
'What is the problem? '
Heart said:
'I had been pumping as usual last week bringing Blood
back and I noticed that I was a two pints short from the usual flow.'
Lungs said:
'I was pumping oxygen and I noticed it as well. There was a shortage, not enough blood was coming back.'
'So, ' Heart said 'I sent some white blood cells down to the liver to investigate.'
'And, ' Mind said.
'Well, Crystal came back, she is the While Blood cell leader and she said that 'we definitely have problem down there. We have two problems.' she said.
'And? ' Mind said.
'Well first Crystal reported she found a group of cells had all gotten together, just outside the liver and had started to grow out of control, so out of control that they blocked all of the blood flow to the liver such that less blood was getting to Liver and therefore, Liver couldn't do it's job.
'What happened then? ' Mind said.
'Crystal asked who was in charge and a man stepped up and said 'I am.
'His name was CC Crystal told me.'
'So what did this CC have to say for himself? ' Mind said
'He said that since he and his cell friends were pumping enzymes blood and other purfiers to Liver that they wanted to be paid.
Other cells joined in' CC said.
'And soon there were thousands and millions of them clamoring to be paid before they would spend time pumping blood.' Crystal said.
'Liver didn't know what to do.
But, Crystal said:
The more cells that joined CC's group the more of them that had to be paid such that the price kept going up and up and less and less blood was actually being pumped.
'Liver started to turn yellow, ' Crystal said.
'That won't do.' Mind said.
'Let's go down and have a talk with Mr. CC.' Mind said.
They all retired from the Brain and took the Blood stream down to the Liver which was looking pale and yellow indeed.
'Hi, ' Mind said, 'you don't look well.'
'Well, ' Liver said, 'I am not well. Look around me.
Mind looked around and saw cells dying in the area around the valves which fed blood to Liver.
'My God, 'Mind said, 'this is horrible.'
Suddenly off to the side he saw green blood cells, enormous in size coming toward the group.
[...] Read more
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Box Car Harry
The railroad dick looked straight at him, eyes unwavering, beady-eyed, menacing, and Harry counted his change to see if there was enough for a bribe; searched his thoughts for an escape route, but he was not as young as he used to be and the dick was young, legs like a deer.
He tussled Barney’s hair and said:
“Go there in that thar car and wait for me, got to dump the dick. Wait for my whistle.”
Barney looked up him hesitantly and Harry stammered hoarsely
“Go! ”
Barney scrambled on all fours the way Harry had taught him and quickly disappeared under cover of the dark Chicago night.
Always, the dick against the Bos, the rich against the poor was Harry’s thought, been that way since her was born, the wanders, the lose, the lose people on the road trying to find an odd job and a meal, against the railroad fat cats trying to exterminate the railroad people, who what was just trying to get by.
Harry held his breath and told himself to concentrate and finally turned back to the dick and showed himself, full on so as the dick could get a good look at him. The dick wide-eyed and incredulous stared hard at Harry surprised by the brazenness of the tramp and stood stock still for a moment, prey in the eyes of the predator.
Harry swayed a little left and then a little right like a running back taunting the linebacker, which way boy, am I going to bolt, which way is the question. Harry feinted a dash to the right and the dick crouched right ready for the chase, Harry smiled and then feinted to the left, testing the dick’s reflexes. The dick danced to the left enjoying the thrilling moment before the chase.
Harry guessed Barney had had time to secure himself in the car and then dashed straight toward the dick, who was thoroughly surprised and steeled himself for what he thought would be a crash between the two men. But Harry at the last minute slanted right allowing the dick to remain close behind but not enough to lay hand on him.
He headed for track 13 for the Great Northern line car.
The dick was breathing behind him; Harry could hear his labored breaths, close enough but not close enough to grab, what was what Harry wanted.
He hit the Northern line yard and saw number 13 looming. The dick was laughing behind him yelping with the sheer joy of it all, feeling he had Harry cornered because the Northern lot was a closed in one, a big wall in the back, a closed station and of course cars, most closed.
But Harry was aiming toward 13 and left up into the car and waited for the dick to catch up and see him. Harry looked down at the man’s heaving chest smiling his best Harry smile.
To be Continued
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Nonsuited
“Dear Richard, come at once;”—so ran her letter;
The letter of a married female friend:
“She likes you both, and really knows no better
Than I myself do, how her choice will end.
Be sure of this, the first who pops will get her.
He's here for Chris——” Whatever else was penned
Dick never knew: nor knows he to this day
How he got drest, and mounted—and away!
Like arrow from the bow, like lightning-streak,
Including thunder following fierce and quick,
By ridge and flat, through scrub and foaming creek
Dick galloped like a very lunatic;
Whipped, jerked, and spurred, but never word did speak,
Although his thoughts rushed furious and thick,
Headed by one he strove in vain to wipe out,
The fear that this same “he” might put his pipe out.
And faster yet, and ever faster grew
The maddening music of the pace, until
The station-roofs gleamed suddenly in view,
Quivering in noon-heat on the vine-clad hill:
When all at once his bridle-rein he drew,
But not from craven fear or flagging will,—
Though, truth to tell, his heart a moment sank
To see the river nearly “bank and bank.”
For Bowstring was the choice of all his stud,
And he at least had no fair bride to win;
And wherefore should he risk him in the flood?—
A question Bowstring also asked within:
For though he was a squatter's horse by blood,
And held the grazing interest more than kin,
He eyed the huge logs wheeling, bobbing, bowling,
As if his soul objected to “log-rolling.”
And by that curious telegraphic force,
Outspeaking half-a-dozen formal speeches,
That works its quick inexplicable course
Through saddle-cloth, pigskin, and buckskin breeches,
Until the dumb opinion of a horse
Its sympathetic rider's spirit reaches—
Dick, feeling under him the strong flanks quiver,
Knew that his thoroughbred would funk the river
A moment more, Dick from his seat had leapt,
Ungirthed, uncurbed, unreined his trembling steed;
Who straightway vanished from his sight, nor kept
The high tradition of a loyal breed,
But quickened by no stimulus except
His own unbridled (and unsaddled) greed,
[...] Read more
poem by James Brunton Stephens
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Alma; or, The Progress of the Mind. In Three Cantos. - Canto I.
Matthew met Richard, when or where
From story is not mighty clear:
Of many knotty points they spoke,
And pro and con by turns they took:
Rats half the manuscript have ate;
Dire hunger! which we still regret;
O! may they ne'er again digest
The horrors of so sad a feast;
Yet less our grief, if what remains,
Dear Jacob, by thy care and pains
Shall be to future times convey'd:
It thus begins:
** Here Matthew said,
Alma in verse, in prose, the mind,
By Aristotle's pen defined,
Throughout the body squat or tall,
Is
bona fide
, all in all;
And yet, slapdash, is all again
In every sinew, nerve, and vein;
Runs here and there, like Hamlet's ghost,
While every where she rules the roast.
This system, Richard, we are told
The men of Oxford firmly hold:
The Cambridge wits, you know, deny
With
ispe dixit
to comply:
They say (for in good truth they speak
With small respect of that old Greek)
That, putting all his words together,
'Tis three blue beans in one blue bladder.
Alma, they strenuously maintain,
Sits cock-horse on her throne, the brain,
And from that seat of thought dispenses,
Her sovereign pleasure to the senses.
Two optic nerves, they say, she ties,
Like spectacle across the eyes,
By which the spirits bring her word
Whene'er the balls are fix'd or stirr'd;
How quick at Park and play they strike;
The duke they court; the toast they like;
And at St. James's turn their grace
From former friends, now out of place.
Without these aids, to be more serious,
[...] Read more
poem by Matthew Prior
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Alma; or, The Progress of the Mind. In Three Cantos. - Canto II.
But shall we take the Muse abroad,
To drop her idly on the road,
And leave our subject in the middle,
As Butler did his Bear and Fiddle?
Yet he, consummate master, knew
When to recede and where pursue:
His noble negligence teach
What others' toils despair to reach.
He, perfect dancer, climbs the rope,
And balances your fear and hope.
If, after some distinguished leap,
He drops his pole, and seems to slip,
Straight gathering all his active strength,
He rises higher half his length:
With wonder you approve his sleight,
And owe your pleasure to your fright:
But like poor Andrew I advance,
False mimic of my master's dance;
Around the chord a while I sprawl,
And thence, though low, in earnest fall.
My preface tells you I digress'd;
He's half absolved who has confess'd.
I like, quoth Dick, your simile,
And in return take two from me.
As masters in the
clare-obscure
With various light your eyes allure,
A flaming yellow here they spread,
Draw off in blue, or change in red;
Yet from these colours oddly mix'd
Your sight upon the whole is fix'd:
Or as, again, your courtly dames
(Whose clothes returning birthday claims)
By arts improve the stuffs they vary,
And things are best as most contrary;
The gown with stiff embroidery shining,
Looks charming with a slighter lining;
Look out, if Indian figure stain,
The in-side must be rich and plain:
So you, great authors, have thought fit
To make digression temper wit:
You calm them with a milder air:
To break their points you turn their force,
And furbelow the plain discourse.
Richard, quoth Matt, these words of thine
Speak something sly and something fine;
[...] Read more
poem by Matthew Prior
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Of the four Humours in Mans Constitution.
The former four now ending their discourse,
Ceasing to vaunt their good, or threat their force.
Lo other four step up, crave leave to show
The native qualityes that from them flow:
But first they wisely shew'd their high descent,
Each eldest daughter to each Element.
Choler was own'd by fire, and Blood by air,
Earth knew her black swarth child, water her fair:
All having made obeysance to each Mother,
Had leave to speak, succeeding one the other:
But 'mongst themselves they were at variance,
Which of the four should have predominance.
Choler first hotly claim'd right by her mother,
Who had precedency of all the other:
But Sanguine did disdain what she requir'd,
Pleading her self was most of all desir'd.
Proud Melancholy more envious then the rest,
The second, third or last could not digest.
She was the silentest of all the four,
Her wisdom spake not much, but thought the more
Mild Flegme did not contest for chiefest place,
Only she crav'd to have a vacant space.
Well, thus they parle and chide; but to be brief,
Or will they, nill they, Choler will be chief.
They seing her impetuosity
At present yielded to necessity.
Choler.
To shew my high descent and pedegree,
Your selves would judge but vain prolixity;
It is acknowledged from whence I came,
It shall suffice to shew you what I am,
My self and mother one, as you shall see,
But shee in greater, I in less degree.
We both once Masculines, the world doth know,
Now Feminines awhile, for love we owe
Unto your Sisterhood, which makes us render
Our noble selves in a less noble gender.
Though under Fire we comprehend all heat,
Yet man for Choler is the proper seat:
I in his heart erect my regal throne,
Where Monarch like I play and sway alone.
Yet many times unto my great disgrace
One of your selves are my Compeers in place,
Where if your rule prove once predominant,
The man proves boyish, sottish, ignorant:
But if you yield subservience unto me,
I make a man, a man in th'high'st degree:
Be he a souldier, I more fence his heart
Then iron Corslet 'gainst a sword or dart.
What makes him face his foe without appal,
[...] Read more
poem by Anne Bradstreet
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Bridegroom Dick
1876
Sunning ourselves in October on a day
Balmy as spring, though the year was in decay,
I lading my pipe, she stirring her tea,
My old woman she says to me,
'Feel ye, old man, how the season mellows?'
And why should I not, blessed heart alive,
Here mellowing myself, past sixty-five,
To think o' the May-time o' pennoned young
fellows
This stripped old hulk here for years may
survive.
Ere yet, long ago, we were spliced, Bonny Blue,
(Silvery it gleams down the moon-glade o' time,
Ah, sugar in the bowl and berries in the prime!)
Coxswain I o' the Commodore's crew,--
Under me the fellows that manned his fine gig,
Spinning him ashore, a king in full fig.
Chirrupy even when crosses rubbed me,
Bridegroom Dick lieutenants dubbed me.
Pleasant at a yarn, Bob o' Linkum in a song,
Diligent in duty and nattily arrayed,
Favored I was, wife, and _fleeted_ right along;
And though but a tot for such a tall grade,
A high quartermaster at last I was made.
All this, old lassie, you have heard before,
But you listen again for the sake e'en o' me;
No babble stales o' the good times o' yore
To Joan, if Darby the babbler be.
Babbler?--O' what? Addled brains, they
forget!
O--quartermaster I; yes, the signals set,
Hoisted the ensign, mended it when frayed,
Polished up the binnacle, minded the helm,
And prompt every order blithely obeyed.
To me would the officers say a word cheery--
Break through the starch o' the quarter-deck
realm;
His coxswain late, so the Commodore's pet.
Ay, and in night-watches long and weary,
Bored nigh to death with the navy etiquette,
Yearning, too, for fun, some younker, a cadet,
Dropping for time each vain bumptious trick,
Boy-like would unbend to Bridegroom Dick.
But a limit there was--a check, d' ye see:
Those fine young aristocrats knew their degree.
[...] Read more
poem by Herman Melville
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Athabaska Dick
When the boys come out from Lac Labiche in the lure of the early Spring,
To take the pay of the "Hudson's Bay", as their fathers did before,
They are all a-glee for the jamboree, and they make the Landing ring
With a whoop and a whirl, and a "Grab your girl", and a rip and a skip and a roar.
For the spree of Spring is a sacred thing, and the boys must have their fun;
Packer and tracker and half-breed Cree, from the boat to the bar they leap;
And then when the long flotilla goes, and the last of their pay is done,
The boys from the banks of Lac Labiche swing to the heavy sweep.
And oh, how they sigh! and their throats are dry, and sorry are they and sick:
Yet there's none so cursed with a lime-kiln thirst as that Athabaska Dick.
He was long and slim and lean of limb, but strong as a stripling bear;
And by the right of his skill and might he guided the Long Brigade.
All water-wise were his laughing eyes, and he steered with a careless care,
And he shunned the shock of foam and rock, till they came to the Big Cascade.
And here they must make the long portage, and the boys sweat in the sun;
And they heft and pack, and they haul and track, and each must do his trick;
But their thoughts are far in the Landing bar, where the founts of nectar run:
And no man thinks of such gorgeous drinks as that Athabaska Dick.
'Twas the close of day and his long boat lay just over the Big Cascade,
When there came to him one Jack-pot Jim, with a wild light in his eye;
And he softly laughed, and he led Dick aft, all eager, yet half afraid,
And snugly stowed in his coat he showed a pilfered flask of "rye".
And in haste he slipped, or in fear he tripped, but -- Dick in warning roared --
And there rang a yell, and it befell that Jim was overboard.
Oh, I heard a splash, and quick as a flash I knew he could not swim.
I saw him whirl in the river swirl, and thresh his arms about.
In a queer, strained way I heard Dick say: "I'm going after him,"
Throw off his coat, leap down the boat -- and then I gave a shout:
"Boys, grab him, quick! You're crazy, Dick! Far better one than two!
Hell, man! You know you've got no show! It's sure and certain death. . . ."
And there we hung, and there we clung, with beef and brawn and thew,
And sinews cracked and joints were racked, and panting came our breath;
And there we swayed and there we prayed, till strength and hope were spent --
Then Dick, he threw us off like rats, and after Jim he went.
With mighty urge amid the surge of river-rage he leapt,
And gripped his mate and desperate he fought to gain the shore;
With teeth a-gleam he bucked the stream, yet swift and sure he swept
To meet the mighty cataract that waited all a-roar.
And there we stood like carven wood, our faces sickly white,
And watched him as he beat the foam, and inch by inch he lost;
And nearer, nearer drew the fall, and fiercer grew the fight,
Till on the very cascade crest a last farewell he tossed.
Then down and down and down they plunged into that pit of dread;
And mad we tore along the shore to claim our bitter dead.
And from that hell of frenzied foam, that crashed and fumed and boiled,
[...] Read more
poem by Robert William Service
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Incognito
My name is Dick.
I've had that name since the day I was born.
OK - it's Richard, but those who call me that
have a clipboard in their hand.
Then in my 20's I changed my name to Rick.
Please keep in mind - that was in `72.
At least I didn't choose Song Of Dog,
or Ben 2 Awe Sun.
Now some just call me Rick,
and some still call me Dick.
Some say Richard, then there's some
who aren't too sure of what to say.
Dick:
as a noun - What a dick!
an adjective - Hey dick head!
a verb: - Don't dick around!
an expletive - Dick! My hair is on fire!
Unless, of course, your name is Dick.
poem by Rick Stokes
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Superfly Slick
... Big Boy Showing Of All Around The City...... Still The Same For Such A
Suite...... Thinking You're So Bad...... Hustlin' Girls, Handy Phone, Acting Like Your
Busy...... Baby Let Me Tell You, You're The Worst I Ever Had...
[Robot Voice:]
... Superfly Superfly...
... Superfly Slick Dick...
... Superfly Superfly...
... Superfly Slick Dick...
[Robot Voice:]
... Superfly Superfly...
... Superfly Slick Dick...
... Superfly Superfly...
... Superfly Slick Dick...
... Highbrow Attitude, Really Don't Impress Me...
... I Know Where You're Coming From...
... See Right Through Your Game...
... Luxury Overdose Won't Make You Possess Me...
... Baby Let Me Tell You, In The End It's All The Same...
... Don't Think I'm Crying And Trying To Get
You Out Of My Heart...
... No Need Denying That You Have Been Lying
Right From The Start...
... I Thought This Love Would Take Us To The
Heights Of Sensuality...
... But Now I Know That You're Not Even Half
The Man You Said You'd Be...
... Don't Think I'm Crying And Trying To Get
You Out Of My Heart...
... No Need Denying That You Have Been Lying
Right From The Start...
... I Thought This Love Would Take Us To The
Heights Of Sensuality...
... But Now I Know That You're Not Even Half
The Man You Said You'd Be...
[Robot Voice:]
... Superfly Superfly...
... Superfly Slick Dick...
... Superfly Superfly...
... Superfly Slick Dick...
[Robot Voice:]
... Superfly Superfly...
... Superfly Slick Dick...
... Superfly Superfly...
... Superfly Slick Dick...
[Thanks to carrotTop0123@hotmail.com for these lyrics]
song performed by Vengaboys
Added by Lucian Velea
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Superfly Slick Dick
Kim:
Big Boy Showing Of All Around The City
Still The Same For Such A Suite
Thinking You're So Bad
Hustlin' Girls, Handy Phone, Acting Like Your Busy
Baby Let Me Tell You, You're The Worst I Ever Had
Robot Voice:
Superfly Superfly
Superfly Slick Dick
Superfly Superfly
Superfly Slick Dick
Robot Voice:
Superfly Superfly
Superfly Slick Dick
Superfly Superfly
Superfly Slick Dick
Kim:
Highbrow Attitude, Really Don't Impress Me
I Know Where You're Coming From
See Right Through Your Game
Luxury Overdose Won't Make You Possess Me
Baby Let Me Tell You, In The End It's All The Same
Kim:
Don't Think I'm Crying
And Trying To Get You Out Of My Heart
No Need Denying That You Have Been Lying
Right From The Start
I Thought This Love
Would Take Us To The Heights Of Sensuality
But Now I Know
That You're Not Even Half The Man You Said You'd
Be
Kim:
Don't Think I'm Crying And Trying
To Get You Out Of My Heart
No Need Denying That You Have Been Lying
Right From The Start
I Thought This Love Would Take Us
To The Heights Of Sensuality
But Now I Know That
You're Not Even Half The Man You Said You'd
Be
Robot Voice:
Superfly Superfly
Superfly Slick Dick
Superfly Superfly
Superfly Slick Dick
Robot Voice:
Superfly Superfly
Superfly Slick Dick
[...] Read more
song performed by Vengaboys
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Third Monarchy, being the Grecian, beginning under Alexander the Great in the 112. Olympiad.
Great Alexander was wise Philips son,
He to Amyntas, Kings of Macedon;
The cruel proud Olympias was his Mother,
She to Epirus warlike King was daughter.
This Prince (his father by Pausanias slain)
The twenty first of's age began to reign.
Great were the Gifts of nature which he had,
His education much to those did adde:
By art and nature both he was made fit,
To 'complish that which long before was writ.
The very day of his Nativity
To ground was burnt Dianaes Temple high:
An Omen to their near approaching woe,
Whose glory to the earth this king did throw.
His Rule to Greece he scorn'd should be confin'd,
The Universe scarce bound his proud vast mind.
This is the He-Goat which from Grecia came,
That ran in Choler on the Persian Ram,
That brake his horns, that threw him on the ground
To save him from his might no man was found:
Philip on this great Conquest had an eye,
But death did terminate those thoughts so high.
The Greeks had chose him Captain General,
Which honour to his Son did now befall.
(For as Worlds Monarch now we speak not on,
But as the King of little Macedon)
Restless both day and night his heart then was,
His high resolves which way to bring to pass;
Yet for a while in Greece is forc'd to stay,
Which makes each moment seem more then a day.
Thebes and stiff Athens both 'gainst him rebel,
Their mutinies by valour doth he quell.
This done against both right and natures Laws,
His kinsmen put to death, who gave no cause;
That no rebellion in in his absence be,
Nor making Title unto Sovereignty.
And all whom he suspects or fears will climbe,
Now taste of death least they deserv'd in time,
Nor wonder is t if he in blood begin,
For Cruelty was his parental sin,
Thus eased now of troubles and of fears,
Next spring his course to Asia he steers;
Leavs Sage Antipater, at home to sway,
And through the Hellispont his Ships made way.
Coming to Land, his dart on shore he throws,
Then with alacrity he after goes;
And with a bount'ous heart and courage brave,
His little wealth among his Souldiers gave.
And being ask'd what for himself was left,
Reply'd, enough, sith only hope he kept.
[...] Read more
poem by Anne Bradstreet
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Hunted Down
Two years had the tiger, whose shape was that of a sinister man,
Been out since the night of escape - two years under horror and ban.
In a time full of thunder and rain, when hurricanes hackled the tree,
He slipt through the sludge of a drain, and swam a fierce fork of the sea.
Through the roar of the storm, and the ring
and the wild savage whistle of hail,
Did this naked, whipt, desperate thing
break loose from the guards of the gaol.
And breasting the foam of the bay, and facing the fangs of the bight,
With a great cruel cry on his way, he dashed through the darkness of night.
But foiled was the terror of fin, and baffled the strength of the tide,
For a devil supported his chin and a fiend kept a watch at his side.
And hands of iniquity drest the hellish hyena, and gave
Him food in the hills of the west - in cells of indefinite cave.
Then, strengthened and weaponed, this peer
of the brute, on the track of its prey,
Sprang out, and shed sorrow and fear through the beautiful fields of the day.
And pillage and murder, and worse, swept peace from the face of the land -
The black, bitter work of this curse with the blood on his infamous hand.
But wolf of the hills at the end - chased back to the depths of his lair -
Had horror for neighbour and friend - he supped in the dark with despair.
A whisper of leaf or a breath of the wind in the watch of the night
Was ever as message of death to this devil bent double with fright.
For now were the hunters abroad; and the fiend like an adder at bay,
Cast out of the sight of the Lord, in the folds of his fastnesses lay.
Yea, skulking in pits of the slime - in venomous dens of eclipse -
He cowered and bided his time, with the white malice set on his lips.
Two years had his shadow been cast in forest, on highway, and run;
But Nemesis tracked him at last, and swept him from under the sun.
Foul felons in chains were ashamed to speak of the bloodthirsty thing
Who lived, like a panther inflamed, the life that no singer can sing -
Who butchered one night in the wild three women, a lad, and a maid,
And cut the sweet throat of a child - its mother's pure blood on his blade!
But over the plains and away by the range and the forested lake,
Rode hard, for a week and a day, the terrible tracker, Dick Blake.
Dick Blake had the scent of a hound, the eye of a lynx, and could track
Where never a sign on the ground or the rock could be seen by the black.
A rascal at large, when he heard that Blake was out hard at his heels,
Felt just as the wilderness bird, in the snare fettered hopelessly, feels.
And, hence, when the wolf with the brand of Cain written thrice on his face,
Knew terrible Dick was at hand, he slunk like a snake to his place -
To the depths of his kennel he crept, far back in the passages dim;
But Blake and his mates never slept; they hunted and listened for him.
The mountains were many, but he who had captured big Terrigal Bill,
The slayer of Hawkins and Lee, found tracks by a conical hill.
[...] Read more
poem by Henry Kendall
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The Dying Soldier
Yes! raise me on your arm, Dick Dale,
My comrade old and true.
And let me of the glad earth take
One last and lingering view.
When yet a few brief moments more
Of this flittering hour have fled,
You’ll shed an old friend's tear, Dick Dale,
Above your comrade's head.
We fought together, side by side,
In many a bloody fray,
From Malvern Hill's dark hour of strife,
To fierce Antietam's day.
And when again the 'long roll' calls,
For battle to prepare,
You will not fail the flag, Dick Dale,
But I shall not be there.
You will not soon forget me, Dick!
I know it by that sigh;
I know it by those tears that shine
In your half averted eye.
But my dear old comrade's heart will swell,
I know with honest pride,
When he thinks that for the grand old flag,
His old companion died.
Cut off this light brown lock, Dick Dale,
For the girl that waits at home.
Yes! Hoping waits her soldier love,
Who never more can come.
'Twill soothe perhaps her bleeding heart
To know that watched by you,
The boy she loved, at least has died,
With one who loved him too.
You'll visit all the quaint old nooks
We sought when we were boys,
And thoughts of me will come, Dick Dale,
With thoughts of childhood's joys;
And when you reach the old playground
Where once you used to play,
You’ll not forget your friend, Dick Dale,
In his lone grave far away.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Dead
“ON board the Petrel, in St. Lucia's bay,
Of yellow fever—agèd twenty-nine.”
“Who did you say, my lady?” drawled the Earl.
“The duke—what duke?”
“I did not speak of dukes,”
Replied the Countess slowly, white and grim,
Pressing the rustling sheet between her palms,
The while her diamonds heaved upon her breast,
And sank and heaved, and glitter'd like her eyes—
Hungry, pathetic eyes,—“'Tis only Dick,
Only a sailor-lad I used to know.”
“Humph! A West Indian friend?” he softly sneer'd,
And bow'd and gave his arm. “The carriage waits—
My lady loses time.”
Then pass'd they out,
Through silky servants,—he, the great Earl, stark
In plume and crest and linked mediaeval steel,
The Countess en bergère, in white and red,
With roses, diamond dew-dropped, in her hat
And in her queenly bosom;—pass'd they out,
And, through clear gaslight and the avenue
Of silent Champs-Elysées, to the fête.
Her restless eyes were blind to all the blaze
And motley splendour of the throng'd saloons;
The flowers, the cool cascades, the magic wand
Of Strauss, the vine-draped balustrades, the gaze
Of wistful admiration meeting hers
At every step. The Empress smiled and bow'd,
The Emperor praised the beauty and the taste
Of her mock-rustic costume, princes begged
Her fair hand for the dance, and her grim lord
Scowl'd, wrathful, on her when she pass'd him by.
She cared for none,—she look'd beyond them all.
She saw another night—a hot, bright night—
A night of years ago—danced out in joy
'Neath the low roof-tree of a planter's house
In fair Antigua's bosom;—saw the stars,
Large, liquid, golden, swimming in the blue,
Shining through open doors and jalousies,
And the green sparkles of the fire-flies, thick
About the forest, fringing all the dark;
The crimson creepers swaying in the air
From white verandah pillars—swaying soft;
The small nest of a humming-bird; the stems,
Brown-ring'd, of feathery palm-trees,—plaintains bow'd
[...] Read more
poem by Ada Cambridge
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The Queer Ways Of Australia
Dick Briggs, a wealthy farmer’s son,
To England lately took a run,
To see his friends, and have some fun,
For he’d been ten years in Australia.
Arrived in England, off he went
To his native village down in Kent—
’Twas there his father drew his rent,
And many happy days he’d spent.
No splendid, fine clothes on had he,
But jumper’n boots up to the knee,
With dirty Sydney ‘cabbage-tree’—
The costume of Australia.
Chorus:
Now when a fellow takes a run
To England for a bit of fun,
He’s sure to ’stonish everyone
With the queer ways of Australia.
Now Dick went home in this array;
His sister came out and did say,
‘No, we don’t want anything today,’
To her brother from Australia.
Cried he, ‘Oh, don’t you know poor Dick?’
They recognized him precious quick;
The ‘old man’ hugged him like a brick.
And there was feasting there that night,
For Richard was a welcome sight,
For each one hailed with great delight
The wanderer from Australia.
The blessed cattle on the farm
Regarded Dick with great alarm;
His swearing acted like a charm
When he gave ’em a ‘touch’ of Australia.
He could talk ‘bullock’ and ‘no flies’,
And when he blessed poor Strawberry’s eyes,
She looked at him with great surprise
As out of her he ‘took a rise’.
‘Fie, fie,’ his mother said one day,
‘What naughty, wicked words you say.’
‘Bless you, mother, that’s the way
We wake ’em up in Australia.’
Dick went to London for a spree,
And got drunk there most gloriously;
He gave them a touch of ‘Coo-oo-ee’
The bush cry of Australia.
He took two ladies to the play,
Both so serene, in dresses gay,
He had champagne brought on a tray
[...] Read more
poem by Charles Thatcher
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The Ballad of Dick Turpin
The daylight moon looked quietly down
Through the gathering dusk on London town
A smock-frocked yokel hobbled along
By Newgate, humming a country song.
Chewing a straw, he stood to stare
At the proclamation posted there:
“Three hundred guineas on Turpins head,
Trap him alive or shoot him dead;
And a hundred more for his mate, Tom King.”
He crouched like a tiger about to spring.
Then he looked up, and he looked down;
And chuckling low, like a country clown,
Dick Turpin painfully hobbled away
In quest of his inn – “The Load of Hay”...
Alone in her stall, his mare, Black Bess,
Lifted her head in mute distress;
For five strange men had entered the yard
And looked at her long, and looked at her hard.
They went out, muttering under their breath;
And then – the dusk grew still as death.
But the velvet ears of the listening mare
Lifted and twitched. They were there – still there;
Hidden and waiting; for whom? And why?
The clock struck four, a set drew nigh.
It was King! Dick Turpins’ mate.
The black mare whinnied. Too late! Too late!
They rose like shadows out of the ground
And grappled him there, without a sound.
“Throttle him – quietly – choke him dead!
Or we lose this hawk for a jay, they said.”
They wrestled and heaved, five men to one;
And a yokel entered the yard, alone;
A smock-frocked yokel, hobbling slow;
But a fight is physic as all men know.
His age dropped off, he stood upright.
[...] Read more
poem by Alfred Noyes
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Canto the Ninth
I
Oh, Wellington! (or "Villainton" -- for Fame
Sounds the heroic syllables both ways;
France could not even conquer your great name,
But punn'd it down to this facetious phrase --
Beating or beaten she will laugh the same),
You have obtain'd great pensions and much praise:
Glory like yours should any dare gainsay,
Humanity would rise, and thunder "Nay!"
II
I don't think that you used Kinnaird quite well
In Marinet's affair -- in fact, 't was shabby,
And like some other things won't do to tell
Upon your tomb in Westminster's old abbey.
Upon the rest 't is not worth while to dwell,
Such tales being for the tea-hours of some tabby;
But though your years as man tend fast to zero,
In fact your grace is still but a young hero.
III
Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much,
Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more:
You have repair'd Legitimacy's crutch,
A prop not quite so certain as before:
The Spanish, and the French, as well as Dutch,
Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore;
And Waterloo has made the world your debtor
(I wish your bards would sing it rather better).
IV
You are "the best of cut-throats:" -- do not start;
The phrase is Shakspeare's, and not misapplied:
War's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art,
Unless her cause by right be sanctified.
If you have acted once a generous part,
The world, not the world's masters, will decide,
And I shall be delighted to learn who,
Save you and yours, have gain'd by Waterloo?
V
I am no flatterer -- you've supp'd full of flattery:
They say you like it too -- 't is no great wonder.
He whose whole life has been assault and battery,
At last may get a little tired of thunder;
And swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he
May like being praised for every lucky blunder,
Call'd "Saviour of the Nations" -- not yet saved,
And "Europe's Liberator" -- still enslaved.
[...] Read more
poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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