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Where The Mattagami Flows

This is the original:

It's the City of Timmins Where The Mattagami Flows

There's a place East of Sault St. Marie where I go
On hi-way eleven North of Toronto
Just past Texas Gulf's Kidd Creek Copper mine
It's the City of Timmins and South Porcupine

Go ski on the mountain the hills are just great
The ghost of Maggie will greet you at Kamiskotia Lake
The Shania Twain Center and their Gold Mine Tours
Sure proud of 'Whose Beds Have your Boots Been Under'

Chorus:
In summer the farmers rise early at dawn
Their hands tell a story of ancestors gone
They'll feed this great nation with tractors and hoes
At the the old Mountjoy Market their produce are sold

(It's the City of Timmins where the Mattagami flows)

Verse:
Now springtime is a beauty that all can behold
The leaves are a treasure of diamonds and gold
The blooming of tulips will remind us all
That the Pickerel will soon bite at old Sandy Falls

There's one forty four south to Sudbury
On the way there's Gogama Indian Territory
And the road to North Bay is a haven to me
Where grandpa came to settle in the North Country

(It's the city of Timmins where the Mattagami flows) (It's the City of Timmins the place I was born)

In the Key of (C) major

Words & Music
Paul Henry Dallaire
Paul Henry Pub. SOCAN

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Ain't Gonna Work On Your Farm No More

I ain’t gonna work on your farm no more
I ain’t gonna scrub all your floors,
I ain’t gonna take all your friends who ignore
what I do when they hide behind doors
where they pay no attention to stuff that I think,
and say, when they pay me a dime,
that I ain’t entitled to spend it on drink,
or ladies who show me good time.
I ain’t gonna work for your children or friends
who preach of the law and the Lord,
and hear all those messages God never sends
to people with who He is bored,
like I am. I ain’t gonna work on your farm,
instead I will write me a song,
and pray that its words will all sound the alarm,
for I expect to be back before long.


Mark Z. Barabak (“He’s Digging ‘Farm, ’” LA Times, June 26,2008) writes that Barack Obama’s favorite Bob Dylan song isMaggies Farm, ” performed in 1995 at the Newport Festival, when he turned electric and never looked back:

I AIN’T GONNA WORK ON MAGGIES FARM NO MORE

I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more
I wake up every morning
hold my hands and pray for rain
I've got a head full of ideas
driving me insane
It's a shame the way she makes me scrub the floor
well, I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more

Well, I ain't gonna work for Maggie's brother no more
I ain't gonna work for Maggie's brother no more
He hands you a nickel
he hands you a dime
He asks you and your friends
if you're having a good time
He blames you every time you slam the door
Well, I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more

Well, I ain't gonna work for Maggie's Pa no more
I ain't gonna work for Maggie's Pa no more
He stubs his cigarette out in your face just for kicks
his bedroom window is made out of bricks
And the National Guard are standing at his door
well, I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more

Well, I ain't gonna work for Maggie's mother no more
I ain't gonna work for Maggie's mother no more
She talks to all the servants about man and God and law

[...] Read more

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University Of Central Florida Volleyball

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Thurso’s Landing

I
The coast-road was being straightened and repaired again,
A group of men labored at the steep curve
Where it falls from the north to Mill Creek. They scattered and hid
Behind cut banks, except one blond young man
Who stooped over the rock and strolled away smiling
As if he shared a secret joke with the dynamite;
It waited until he had passed back of a boulder,
Then split its rock cage; a yellowish torrent
Of fragments rose up the air and the echoes bumped
From mountain to mountain. The men returned slowly
And took up their dropped tools, while a banner of dust
Waved over the gorge on the northwest wind, very high
Above the heads of the forest.
Some distance west of the road,
On the promontory above the triangle
Of glittering ocean that fills the gorge-mouth,
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Had been watching, and turned to go down the hill. The young
woman looked back,
Widening her violet eyes under the shade of her hand. 'I think
they'll blast again in a minute.'
And the man: 'I wish they'd let the poor old road be. I don't
like improvements.' 'Why not?' 'They bring in the world;
We're well without it.' His lameness gave him some look of age
but he was young too; tall and thin-faced,
With a high wavering nose. 'Isn't he amusing,' she said, 'that
boy Rick Armstrong, the dynamite man,
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show off. Reave likes him, too,'
She added; and they clambered down the path in the rock-face,
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Between the great headland rock and the bright blue sea.

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Thurso drew rein by
a group of men at a tent door
And frowned at them without speaking, square-shouldered and
heavy-jawed, too heavy with strength for so young a man,
He chose one of the men with his eyes. 'You're Danny Woodruff,

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The Tower Beyond Tragedy

I
You'd never have thought the Queen was Helen's sister- Troy's
burning-flower from Sparta, the beautiful sea-flower
Cut in clear stone, crowned with the fragrant golden mane, she
the ageless, the uncontaminable-
This Clytemnestra was her sister, low-statured, fierce-lipped, not
dark nor blonde, greenish-gray-eyed,
Sinewed with strength, you saw, under the purple folds of the
queen-cloak, but craftier than queenly,
Standing between the gilded wooden porch-pillars, great steps of
stone above the steep street,
Awaiting the King.
Most of his men were quartered on the town;
he, clanking bronze, with fifty
And certain captives, came to the stair. The Queen's men were
a hundred in the street and a hundred
Lining the ramp, eighty on the great flags of the porch; she
raising her white arms the spear-butts
Thundered on the stone, and the shields clashed; eight shining
clarions
Let fly from the wide window over the entrance the wildbirds of
their metal throats, air-cleaving
Over the King come home. He raised his thick burnt-colored
beard and smiled; then Clytemnestra,
Gathering the robe, setting the golden-sandaled feet carefully,
stone by stone, descended
One half the stair. But one of the captives marred the comeliness
of that embrace with a cry
Gull-shrill, blade-sharp, cutting between the purple cloak and
the bronze plates, then Clytemnestra:
Who was it? The King answered: A piece of our goods out of
the snatch of Asia, a daughter of the king,
So treat her kindly and she may come into her wits again. Eh,
you keep state here my queen.
You've not been the poorer for me.- In heart, in the widowed
chamber, dear, she pale replied, though the slaves
Toiled, the spearmen were faithful. What's her name, the slavegirl's?
AGAMEMNON Come up the stair. They tell me my kinsman's
Lodged himself on you.
CLYTEMNESTRA Your cousin Aegisthus? He was out of refuge,
flits between here and Tiryns.
Dear: the girl's name?
AGAMEMNON Cassandra. We've a hundred or so other
captives; besides two hundred
Rotted in the hulls, they tell odd stories about you and your
guest: eh? no matter: the ships
Ooze pitch and the August road smokes dirt, I smell like an
old shepherd's goatskin, you'll have bath-water?
CLYTEMNESTRA
They're making it hot. Come, my lord. My hands will pour it.

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Annals of Assur-Nasir-Pal column I

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of heaven and earth, opener of canals, treader of the wide earth, the god who in his divinity nourishes heaven and earth, the beneficent,

the exalted, the powerful, who has not lessened the glory of his face, head of nations, bestower of sceptres, glorious, over all cities a ruler,

valiant, the renown of whose sceptre is not approached, chief of widespread influence, great among the gods, shading from the southern sun, Lord of Lords, whose hand the vault of heaven

(and) earth has controlled, a King in battle mighty who has vanquished opposition, victorious, powerful, Lord of water-courses and seas,

strong, not yielding, whose onset brings down the green corn, smiting the land of the enemy, like the cutting of reeds, the deity who changes not his purposes,

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no god has ever disregarded, the gatherer of life, the god(?) whose prayers are good, whose abode is in the city of Calah, a great Lord, my Lord - (who am) Assur-nasir-pal, the mighty King,

King of multitudes, a Prince unequalled, Lord of all the four countries, powerful over hosts of men, the possession of Bel and Ninip the exalted and Anu

and of Dakan, a servant of the great gods in the lofty shrine for great (O Ninip) is thy heart; a worshipper of Bel whose might upon

thy great deity is founded, and thou makest righteous his life, valiant, warrior, who in the service of Assur his Lord hath proceeded, and among the Kings

of the four regions who has not his fellow, a Prince for admiration, not sparing opponents, mighty leader, who an equal

has not, a Prince reducing to order his disobedient ones, who has subdued whole multitudes of men, a strong worker, treading down

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marched vigorously and the lands of all of them his hand captured, caused the forests of all of them to fall, and received their tribute, taking

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Break North '97

[kool keith]
Yeah..
Black mon, come get him served
Black mon, come get him served
Black mon, come get him served
Yeah! live from, the st. nickalaus arena in detroit, michigan
We gon' get busy with fifty-five million thousand people out there
Let the crowd go wild!
One, two, three, four..
[kool keith]
I got a radio, small and yet portable
Comfortable, with the sound in audio
Kickin, high hats just tickin
Spicy lyrics, and words finger lickin.. good
But you know i could
Beat on steel, break tons of wood.. down
With a funky sound
Square mixer, the record is round
And turning, for the million i'm earning
Shock the rhythm, and just keep learning
This, that is supposed to
Grab your ear, and have it move close
To the speakers, so you hear me clearly
I'm out yes, to damage severely
You're very far, and not yet nearly
Expressing them, but you're messing them up
Your bummy rhymes, i'm dressing them up
For the battle win, like a snake i'm rattlin
The red ball with the wooden piece paddlin
Mc's stop perpetrating
Break north (break north)
Break north (break north)
Break north (break north)
Break north (break north)
Break north (break north)
Break north (break north)
[ced gee]
I'm a merchandise, a customized item
Computer rapper for suckers who wanna bite em
Stand back, watch the man recite em
It took a second a minute for me to write em
And type em and hype em and psych em, up
Change my rhythm, before i get stuck
In an altitude, beyond my own level
I smack rappers, and send em to the devil
On a bus, return em to dust
I start infections, reduce em to pus
I'm on the scanner, with brains i blow out
Your old bones, and skulls i throw out
To the backyard, and yes the wackyard

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Goodbye Marie

I woke up this mornin'
All cotton mouthed from drinkin'
Wonderin' how I'd make it through the day-ay
Wild eyed and crazy
All burned out from thinkin'
Wonderin' how the hell I's gonna say
Goodbye Marie, oh goodbye Marie-ie
Out the window there's a lonesome highway callin' me
It was fun Marie, but I got to ru-un Marie
If I can not keep your love
At least I'll have your memory
Goodbye Marie
Wakin' up beside you
On a Tijuana mornin'
With that ocean breeze to keep us cool
Three weeks of lovin'
Twenty-one nights of heaven
I stayed just long enough to be your fool
Oh goodbye Marie, oh goodbye Marie-ie
Out the window there's a lonesome highway callin' me
It was fun Marie, but I got to ru-un Marie
If I can not keep your love
At least I'll have your memory
Goodbye Marie
Por favor, pour me
One more tequila
I need all the courage I can fi-ind
This time tomorrow
I'll be back in Houston
Thinkin' about the girl I left behi-ind
So goodbye Marie, oh good Marie-ie
Out the window there's a lonesome highway callin' me
It was fun Marie and I got to ru-un Marie
If I can not keep your love
At least I'll have your memory
Goodbye Marie
Goodbye Marie, oh good Marie
Out the window there's a lonesome highway callin' me
It was fun Marie, but I got to ru-un Marie
If I can not keep your love
At least I'll have your memory
Goodbye Marie [fade]

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Soccer Rollback

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Ode to the town of Porcupine ON. Canada

Roy Rogers & The Rocket man (They were my heroes)
(Ode to the Porcupine)

There's a place east of Sault St. Marie where I go
On highway eleven north of Toronto
Near the Texas Gulf Kidd Creek Copper Mine
It's the city of Timmins and South Porcupine

There's the Hollinger mine and the Shania Twain Centre
So proud of 'Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under'
Les Costello 'the flying father' and Shumacher town
It's the place where Frank and Peter Mahovlich were born

Chorus:
In summer the farmers rise early at dawn
Their hands tell a story of ancestors gone
They'll feed this great nation with tractors and hoes
At the ol Mounjoy Market their produce are sold

Verse:
When I was a boy we'd play cowboys and Indians
With my trusty dog Ginger by old Feldman's mill
Roy Rogers and the Rocket Man they were my heroes
At a nickel for popcorn and two bits for the show

There's the one forty four goes south to Sudbury
On the way there's Gogama Indian territory
And were next of kin to the great Cross Canada Highway
You go west to Vancouver and east P.E.I.

As sung by Loopen Cash

By Paul Henry Dallaire
Paul Henry Pub.
SOCAN

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marie Devereaux

There once was a girl named Marie Devereaux
Who was born in a small village near Bordeaux
Maries Papa was master-maker of fine wine
He made nectar from “The fruit of the vine”

Marie dreamed of one day going to Paris
To dance the “cancan” in some fine cabaret
She’d take her best friend Margeaux with her
Altho Papa longed for Marie to learn ballet

At only 16 Marie looked more like twenty
A dark haired beauty with beautiful legs
She ran across town to fetch Margeaux
Nearly tripped on one of Papa’s wine kegs

Margeaux bowed out at the last minute
I can’t leave my widowed Mom Alone
I’m the oldest of 9 children Marie
They’d starve if I were to leave home”

Marie ran home, packed and set out
Before “cold feet” changed her mind
Behind Marie someone called out
“Don’t leave Marie” Papa whined

Marie stepped off the train at Lyon station
Overwhelmed by the crowd and loud noise
Marie held her worn suitcase close
When approached by 3 tough looking boys

“Please tell me how to get to Les Folies Bergere”
Marie inquired with a half-hearted smile
One of the boys answered “Too far to walk”
Go by taxi, because its more than 3 miles”

Marie hailed a cab and said “Les Folies Bergere”
The cabbie smiled n’ thought “Another dreamer”
He’d taxied many a Dewey-eyed girl there before
He didn’t care, as it was not his to dissuade her

The cab pulled up to Les Folies Bergere
Marie paid cabbie the fare
But to her despair…
A sign on the door read “Closed for repair”

In but a moment Maries dream was shattered
With eyes full of tears she started to cry
A dancing career was all that had mattered
A nearby voice said “Here Mademoiselle, dry your eyes”

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Ghost Train

Here they come to steal my soul
(Ghost train)
Wait it out until I know
(Ghost train)
Trying not to feel I give it
(Ghost train)
Moving up until I go go
(Ghost train)
She was not to hear about me leaving
(Ghost train)
Trying to be near my heart
(Ghost train)
Trying not to feel like bleeding
(Ghost train)
Moving up until I'm taught to your side
(Ghost train)
Yeah yeah yeah
(Ghost train)
yeah yeah yeah
(Ghost train)
yeah yeah yeah
(Ghost train)
Got suicide for my baby
(Ghost train)
Living up until I wanted
(Ghost train)
Seeing like I'm out of bed, yeah
(Ghost train)
Moving up and taught I'm a weapon
(Ghost train)
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
(Ghost train)
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
(Ghost train)
I see myself pretend how to get there
(Ghost train)
Dripping down, I'm poisoned on the street
(Ghost train)
Come on come on come on!
(Ghost train)
Come on come on come on!
(Ghost train)
Come on come on come on!
(Ghost train)
Come on come on come on!
(Ghost train)
Come on come on come on!
(Ghost train)
Come on come on come on!
(Ghost train)

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The Queen's Marie

Marie Hamilton's to the kirk gane,
Wi ribbons in her hair;
The king thought mair o Marie Hamilton,
Than ony that were there.

Marie Hamilton's to the kirk gane,
Wi ribbons on her breast;
The king thought mair o Marie Hamilton,
Than he listend to the priest.

Marie Hamilton's to the kirk gane,
Wi gloves upon her hands;
The king thought mair o Marie Hamilton,
Than the queen and a' her lands.

She hadna been about the king's court
A month, but barely one,
Till she was beloved by a' the king's court,
And the king the only man.

She hadna been about the king's court
A month, but barely three,
Till frae the king's court Marie Hamilton,
Marie Hamilton durst na be.

The king is to the Abbey gane,
To pu the Abbey tree,
To scale the babe frae Marie's heart;
But the thing it wadna be.

O she has rowd it in her apron,
And set it on the sea:
'Gae sink ye, or swim ye, bonny babe,
Ye's get na mair o me.'

Word is to the kitchen gane,
And word is to the ha,
And word is to the noble room,
Amang the ladyes a',
That Marie Hamilton's brought to bed,
And the bonny babe's mist and awa.

Scarcely had she lain down again,
And scarcely faen asleep,
When up then started our gude queen,
Just at her bed-feet,
Saying 'Marie Hamilton, where's your babe?
For I am sure I heard it greet.'

'O no, O no, my noble queen!

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The Queen's Marie

MARIE HAMILTON 's to the kirk gane,
   Wi' ribbons in her hair;
The King thought mair o' Marie Hamilton
   Than ony that were there.

Marie Hamilton 's to the kirk gane
   Wi' ribbons on her breast;
The King thought mair o' Marie Hamilton
   Than he listen'd to the priest.

Marie Hamilton 's to the kirk gane,
   Wi' gloves upon her hands;
The King thought mair o' Marie Hamilton
   Than the Queen and a' her lands.

She hadna been about the King's court
   A month, but barely one,
Till she was beloved by a' the King's court
   And the King the only man.

She hadna been about the King's court
   A month, but barely three,
Till frae the King's court Marie Hamilton,
   Marie Hamilton durstna be.

The King is to the Abbey gane,
   To pu' the Abbey tree,
To scale the babe frae Marie's heart;
   But the thing it wadna be.

O she has row'd it in her apron,
   And set it on the sea--
'Gae sink ye or swim ye, bonny babe,
   Ye'se get nae mair o' me.'

Word is to the kitchen gane,
   And word is to the ha',
And word is to the noble room
   Amang the ladies a',
That Marie Hamilton 's brought to bed,
   And the bonny babe 's miss'd and awa'.

Scarcely had she lain down again,
   And scarcely fa'en asleep,
When up and started our gude Queen
   Just at her bed-feet;
Saying--'Marie Hamilton, where 's your babe?
   For I am sure I heard it greet.'

'O no, O no, my noble Queen!

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A poem, on the rising glory of America

LEANDER.
No more of Memphis and her mighty kings,
Or Alexandria, where the Ptolomies.
Taught golden commerce to unfurl her falls,
And bid fair science smile: No more of Greece
Where learning next her early visit paid,
And spread her glories to illume the world,
No more of Athens, where she flourished,
And saw her sons of mighty genius rise
Smooth flowing Plato, Socrates and him
Who with resistless eloquence reviv'd
The Spir't of Liberty, and shook the thrones
Of Macedon and Persia's haughty king.
No more of Rome enlighten'd by her beams,
Fresh kindling there the fire of eloquence,
And poesy divine; imperial Rome!
Whose wide dominion reach'd o'er half the globe;
Whose eagle flew o'er Ganges to the East,
And in the West far to the British isles.
No more of Britain, and her kings renown'd,
Edward's and Henry's thunderbolts of war;
Her chiefs victorious o'er the Gallic foe;
Illustrious senators, immortal bards,
And wise philosophers, of these no more.
A Theme more new, tho' not less noble claims
Our ev'ry thought on this auspicious day
The rising glory of this western world,
Where now the dawning light of science spreads
Her orient ray, and wakes the muse's song;
Where freedom holds her sacred standard high,
And commerce rolls her golden tides profuse
Of elegance and ev'ry joy of life.

ACASTO.
Since then Leander you attempt a strain
So new, so noble and so full of fame;
And since a friendly concourse centers here
America's own sons, begin O muse!
Now thro' the veil of ancient days review
The period fam'd when first Columbus touch'd
The shore so long unknown, thro' various toils,
Famine and death, the hero made his way,
Thro' oceans bestowing with eternal storms.
But why, thus hap'ly found, should we resume
The tale of Cortez, furious chief, ordain'd
With Indian blood to dye the sands, and choak
Fam'd Amazonia's stream with dead! Or why,
Once more revive the story old in fame,

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The House Of Dust: Complete

I.

The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light.
The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east:
And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.
A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night.
Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun.

And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams,
The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street,
And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain.
The purple lights leap down the hill before him.
The gorgeous night has begun again.

'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams,
I will hold my light above them and seek their faces.
I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins . . .'
The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness,
Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest,
Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains.

We hear him and take him among us, like a wind of music,
Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard;
We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight,
We pour in a sinister wave, ascend a stair,
With laughter and cry, and word upon murmured word;
We flow, we descend, we turn . . . and the eternal dreamer
Moves among us like light, like evening air . . .

Good-night! Good-night! Good-night! We go our ways,
The rain runs over the pavement before our feet,
The cold rain falls, the rain sings.
We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces
To what the eternal evening brings.

Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid,
We have built a tower of stone high into the sky,
We have built a city of towers.

Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness.
Our souls are light; they have shaken a burden of hours . . .
What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . .
Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . .
And after a while they will fall to dust and rain;
Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands;
And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again.


II.

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Byron

Canto the Fourth

I.

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
A palace and a prison on each hand:
I saw from out the wave her structures rise
As from the stroke of the enchanter’s wand:
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying glory smiles
O’er the far times when many a subject land
Looked to the wingèd Lion’s marble piles,
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles!

II.

She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,
Rising with her tiara of proud towers
At airy distance, with majestic motion,
A ruler of the waters and their powers:
And such she was; her daughters had their dowers
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East
Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers.
In purple was she robed, and of her feast
Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased.

III.

In Venice, Tasso’s echoes are no more,
And silent rows the songless gondolier;
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,
And music meets not always now the ear:
Those days are gone - but beauty still is here.
States fall, arts fade - but Nature doth not die,
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,
The pleasant place of all festivity,
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!

IV.

But unto us she hath a spell beyond
Her name in story, and her long array
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond
Above the dogeless citys vanished sway;
Ours is a trophy which will not decay
With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor,
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away -
The keystones of the arch! though all were o’er,
For us repeopled were the solitary shore.

V.

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Rudyard Kipling

The Betrothed

"You must choose between me and your cigar."
-- BREACH OF PROMISE CASE, CIRCA 1885.


Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout,
For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.

We quarrelled about Havanas -- we fought o'er a good cheroot,
And I knew she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.

Open the old cigar-box -- let me consider a space;
In the soft blue veil of the vapour musing on Maggie's face.

Maggie is pretty to look at -- Maggie's a loving lass,
But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass.

There's peace in a Larranaga, there's calm in a Henry Clay;
But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away --

Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown --
But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o' the talk o' the town!

Maggie, my wife at fifty -- grey and dour and old --
With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold!

And the light of Days that have Been the dark of the Days that Are,
And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar --

The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket --
With never a new one to light tho' it's charred and black to the socket!

Open the old cigar-box -- let me consider a while.
Here is a mild Manila -- there is a wifely smile.

Which is the better portion -- bondage bought with a ring,
Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string?

Counsellors cunning and silent -- comforters true and tried,
And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride?

Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes,
Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close,

This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return,
With only a Suttee's passion -- to do their duty and burn.

This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead,
Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead.

The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main,

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