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Kong: Skull Island [trailer 3]

Cast: Brie Larson, Tom Hiddleston, Samuel L. Jackson, Toby Kebbell, Tian Jing, Corey Hawkins, John Goodman, Jason Mitchell

trailer for Kong: Skull Island, directed by Jordan Vogt-Roberts (2017)
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Kong: Skull Island

Cast: Brie Larson, Tom Hiddleston, Samuel L. Jackson, Toby Kebbell, Tian Jing, Corey Hawkins, John Goodman, Jason Mitchell

trailer for Kong: Skull Island, directed by Jordan Vogt-Roberts (2017)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Kong: Skull Island [trailer 2]

Cast: Brie Larson, Tom Hiddleston, Samuel L. Jackson, Toby Kebbell, Tian Jing, Corey Hawkins, John Goodman, Jason Mitchell

trailer for Kong: Skull Island, directed by Jordan Vogt-Roberts (2017)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Robin Hood and the Monk

In somer, when the shawes be sheyne,
And leves be large and long,
Hit is full mery in feyre foreste
To here the foulys song,

To se the dere draw to the dale,
And leve the hilles hee,
And shadow hem in the leves grene,
Under the grene wode tre.

Hit befel on Whitson
Erly in a May mornyng,
The son up feyre can shyne,
And the briddis mery can syng.

'This is a mery mornyng,' seid Litull John,
'Be Hym that dyed on tre;
A more mery man then I am one
Lyves not in Cristianté.

'Pluk up thi hert, my dere mayster,'
Litull John can sey,
'And thynk hit is a full fayre tyme
In a mornyng of May.'

'Ye, on thyng greves me,' seid Robyn,
'And does my hert mych woo:
That I may not no solem day
To mas nor matyns goo.

'Hit is a fourtnet and more,' seid he,
'Syn I my Savyour see;
To day wil I to Notyngham,' seid Robyn,
'With the myght of mylde Marye.'

Than spake Moche, the mylner sun,
Ever more wel hym betyde!
'Take twelve of thi wyght yemen,
Well weppynd, be thi side.
Such on wolde thi selfe slon,
That twelve dar not abyde.'

'Of all my mery men,' seid Robyn,
'Be my feith I wil non have,
But Litull John shall beyre my bow,
Til that me list to drawe.'

'Thou shall beyre thin own,' seid Litull Jon,
'Maister, and I wyl beyre myne,
And we well shete a peny,' seid Litull Jon,

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Grandfather Bridgeman

I

'Heigh, boys!' cried Grandfather Bridgeman, 'it's time before dinner to-day.'
He lifted the crumpled letter, and thumped a surprising 'Hurrah!'
Up jumped all the echoing young ones, but John, with the starch in his throat,
Said, 'Father, before we make noises, let's see the contents of the note.'
The old man glared at him harshly, and twinkling made answer: 'Too bad!
John Bridgeman, I'm always the whisky, and you are the water, my lad!'

II

But soon it was known thro' the house, and the house ran over for joy,
That news, good news, great marvels, had come from the soldier boy;
Young Tom, the luckless scapegrace, offshoot of Methodist John;
His grandfather's evening tale, whom the old man hailed as his son.
And the old man's shout of pride was a shout of his victory, too;
For he called his affection a method: the neighbours' opinions he knew.

III

Meantime, from the morning table removing the stout breakfast cheer,
The drink of the three generations, the milk, the tea, and the beer
(Alone in its generous reading of pints stood the Grandfather's jug),
The women for sight of the missive came pressing to coax and to hug.
He scattered them quick, with a buss and a smack; thereupon he began
Diversions with John's little Sarah: on Sunday, the naughty old man!

IV

Then messengers sped to the maltster, the auctioneer, miller, and all
The seven sons of the farmer who housed in the range of his call.
Likewise the married daughters, three plentiful ladies, prime cooks,
Who bowed to him while they condemned, in meek hope to stand high in his books.
'John's wife is a fool at a pudding,' they said, and the light carts up hill
Went merrily, flouting the Sabbath: for puddings well made mend a will.

V

The day was a van-bird of summer: the robin still piped, but the blue,
As a warm and dreamy palace with voices of larks ringing thro',
Looked down as if wistfully eyeing the blossoms that fell from its lap:
A day to sweeten the juices: a day to quicken the sap.
All round the shadowy orchard sloped meadows in gold, and the dear
Shy violets breathed their hearts out: the maiden breath of the year!

VI

Full time there was before dinner to bring fifteen of his blood,
To sit at the old man's table: they found that the dinner was good.
But who was she by the lilacs and pouring laburnums concealed,

[...] Read more

poem by George Meredith
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Wat Tyler - Act III

ACT III.

SCENE—SMITHFIELD.

PIERS (meeting JOHN BALL.)

You look disturb'd, my father?

JOHN BALL.

Piers, I am so.
Jack Straw has forced the Tower: seized the Archbishop,
And beheaded him.

PIERS.

The curse of insurrection!

JOHN BALL.

Aye, Piers! our nobles level down their vassals—
Keep them at endless labour like their brutes,
Degrading every faculty by servitude:
Repressing all the energy of the mind.
We must not wonder then, that like wild beasts,
When they have burst their chains, with brutal rage
They revenge them on their tyrants.

PIERS.

This Archbishop!
He was oppressive to his humble vassals:
Proud, haughty, avaricious.—

JOHN BALL.

A true high-priest!
Preaching humility with his mitre on!
Praising up alms and Christian charity
Even whilst his unforgiving hand distress'd
His honest tenants.

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Southey
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The Life And Death Of Tom Thumb

In Arthur's court Tom Thumb did live,
A man of mickle might ;
The best of all the table round,
And eke a doughty knight.
His stature but an inch in height,
Or quarter of a span :
Then think you not this little knight
Was proved a valiant man ?

His father was a ploughman plain,
His mother milk'd the cow,
Yet how that they might have a son
They knew not what to do :
Until such time this good old man
To learned Merlin goes,
And there to him his deep desires
In secret manner shows.

How in his heart he wish'd to have
A child, in time to come,
To be his heir, though it might be
No bigger than his thumb.

Of which old Merlin thus foretold,
That he his wish should have,
And so this son of statue small
The charmer to him gave.

No blood nor bones in him should be,
In shape, and being such
That men should hear him speak, but not
His wandering shadow touch.

But so unseen to go or come,—
Whereas it pleas'd him still ;
Begot and born in half and hour,
To fit his father's will.

And in four minutes grew so fast
That he became so tall
As was the ploughman's thumb in height,
And so they did him call—
TOM THUMB, the which the fairy queen
There gave him to his name,
Who, with her train of goblins grim,
Unto his christening came.

Whereas she cloth'd him richly brave,
In garments fine and fair,
Which lasted him for many years

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Metamorphoses: Book The Seventh

THE Argonauts now stemm'd the foaming tide,
And to Arcadia's shore their course apply'd;
Where sightless Phineus spent his age in grief,
But Boreas' sons engage in his relief;
And those unwelcome guests, the odious race
Of Harpyes, from the monarch's table chase.
With Jason then they greater toils sustain,
And Phasis' slimy banks at last they gain,
Here boldly they demand the golden prize
Of Scythia's king, who sternly thus replies:
That mighty labours they must first o'ercome,
Or sail their Argo thence unfreighted home.
The Story of Meanwhile Medea, seiz'd with fierce desire,
Medea and By reason strives to quench the raging fire;
Jason But strives in vain!- Some God (she said)
withstands,
And reason's baffl'd council countermands.
What unseen Pow'r does this disorder move?
'Tis love,- at least 'tis like, what men call love.
Else wherefore shou'd the king's commands appear
To me too hard?- But so indeed they are.
Why shou'd I for a stranger fear, lest he
Shou'd perish, whom I did but lately see?
His death, or safety, what are they to me?
Wretch, from thy virgin-breast this flame expel,
And soon- Oh cou'd I, all wou'd then be well!
But love, resistless love, my soul invades;
Discretion this, affection that perswades.
I see the right, and I approve it too,
Condemn the wrong- and yet the wrong pursue.
Why, royal maid, shou'dst thou desire to wed
A wanderer, and court a foreign bed?
Thy native land, tho' barb'rous, can present
A bridegroom worth a royal bride's content:
And whether this advent'rer lives, or dies,
In Fate, and Fortune's fickle pleasure lies.
Yet may be live! for to the Pow'rs above,
A virgin, led by no impulse of love,
So just a suit may, for the guiltless, move.
Whom wou'd not Jason's valour, youth and blood
Invite? or cou'd these merits be withstood,
At least his charming person must encline
The hardest heart- I'm sure 'tis so with mine!
Yet, if I help him not, the flaming breath
Of bulls, and earth-born foes, must be his death.
Or, should he through these dangers force his way,
At last he must be made the dragon's prey.
If no remorse for such distress I feel,
I am a tigress, and my breast is steel.
Why do I scruple then to see him slain,

[...] Read more

poem by Ovid
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The King Of Brentford’s Testament

The noble King of Brentford
Was old and very sick,
He summon'd his physicians
To wait upon him quick;
They stepp'd into their coaches
And brought their best physick.

They cramm'd their gracious master
With potion and with pill;
They drench'd him and they bled him;
They could not cure his ill.
'Go fetch,' says he, 'my lawyer,
I'd better make my will.'

The monarch's royal mandate
The lawyer did obey;
The thought of six-and-eightpence
Did make his heart full gay.
'What is't,' says he, 'your Majesty
Would wish of me to-day?'

'The doctors have belabor'd me
With potion and with pill:
My hours of life are counted,
O man of tape and quill!
Sit down and mend a pen or two,
I want to make my will.

'O'er all the land of Brentford
I'm lord, and eke of Kew:
I've three-per-cents and five-per-cents;
My debts are but a few;
And to inherit after me
I have but children two.

Prince Thomas is my eldest son,
A sober Prince is he,
And from the day we breech'd him
Till now, he's twenty-three,
He never caused disquiet
To his poor Mamma or me.

'At school they never flogg'd him,
At college, though not fast,
Yet his little-go and great-go
He creditably pass'd,
And made his year's allowance
For eighteen months to last.

'He never owed a shilling.

[...] Read more

poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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Sir Peter Harpdon's End

In an English Castle in Poictou. Sir Peter Harpdon, a Gascon knight in the English service, and John Curzon, his lieutenant.

John Curzon

Of those three prisoners, that before you came
We took down at St. John's hard by the mill,
Two are good masons; we have tools enough,
And you have skill to set them working.

Sir Peter

So-
What are their names?

John Curzon

Why, Jacques Aquadent,
And Peter Plombiere, but-

Sir Peter

What colour'd hair
Has Peter now? has Jacques got bow legs?

John Curzon

Why, sir, you jest: what matters Jacques' hair,
Or Peter's legs to us?

Sir Peter

O! John, John, John!
Throw all your mason's tools down the deep well,
Hang Peter up and Jacques; they're no good,
We shall not build, man.

John Curzon

going.

Shall I call the guard
To hang them, sir? and yet, sir, for the tools,
We'd better keep them still; sir, fare you well.

[...] Read more

poem by William Morris
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D. S.

Written and composed by michael jackson.
Produced by michael jackson.
They wanna get my ass
Dead or alive
You know he really tried to take me
Down by surprise
I bet he missioned with the cia
He don't do half what he say
Tom sneddon is a cold man
Tom sneddon is a cold man
Tom sneddon is a cold man
Tom sneddon is a cold man
He out shock in every single way
He'll stop at nothing just to get his political say
He think he hot cause he's bsta
I bet he never had a social life anyway
You think he brother with the kkk?
I bet his mother never taught him
Right anyway
He want your vote just to remain ta.
He don't do half what he say
Tom sneddon is a cold man
Tom sneddon is a cold man
Tom sneddon is a cold man
Tom sneddon is a cold man
Thomas sneddon is a cold man
Tom sneddon is a cold man
Tom sneddon is a cold man
Tom sneddon is a cold man
Does he send letters to the fbi?
Did he say to either do it or die?
Tom sneddon is a cold man
Tom sneddon is a cold man
Tom sneddon is a cold man
Tom sneddon is a cold man
Thomas sneddon is a cold man
Tom sneddon is a cold man
Tom sneddon is a cold man
Tom sneddon is a cold man
Thomas sneddon is a cold man
(ad lib fade)

song performed by Michael Jackson
Added by Lucian Velea
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John Daniel

(Dolly Parton)
John Daniel came to town one summer afternoon
Wearin' dirty work clothes so everyone presumed
He was just another logger from the loggin' camp nearby
And he was, but there was somethin' different in John Daniel's eyes
John Daniel was a young man, not more than twenty-four
And there was an air about him that one could not ignore
And in spite of callused hands & dirty clothes, his face was kind
And I wanted so to know what was in John Daniel's mind
John Daniel, tell me where did you come from; tell me where is it you've been
John Daniel, tell me why are you different from all of these other men
John Daniel, there's somethin' about you that I don't quite understand
John Daniel, do you hold the answer to a higher plan?
I rented him a room; he went upstairs like all the rest
It was Saturday and he'd be goin' in to town, I guessed
But he left in a robe and sandals, with a Bible in his hand;
And I thought to myself, John Daniel, I don't understand
Now I'd planned to meet some friends of mine when I got off at three,
In the park we often gather to talk of love and peace
When I got there I found that a crowd had gathered 'round;
And there I saw John Daniel a sittin' on the ground
John Daniel, tell me where did you come from; tell me where is it you've been
John Daniel, tell me why are you different from all of these other men
John Daniel, there's somethin' about you that I don't quite understand
John Daniel, do you hold the answer to a higher plan?
So, "You want to be free," he said, "Well, this is how you can."
As he read from the Bible he held in his hand
We were searchin' for the truth not knowin' where to look,
Not knowin' that the answers all were in John Daniel's book
John Daniel told us all how we could be free
John Daniel taught us all a better way for you and me
He came to us in our own way so we'd be sure to see
He had the light and essence of the man from Galilee
John Daniel, tell me where did you come from; tell me where is it you've been
John Daniel, tell me why are you different from all of these other men
John Daniel, there's something about you that I don't quite understand
John Daniel, do you hold the answer to a higher plan?
John Daniel, John Daniel, John Daniel
John Daniel do you hold the answer to a higher plan?
John Daniel came to town one summer afternoon
Wearin' dirty work clothes so everyone presumed
He was just another logger from the loggin' camp nearby
And he was, but there was somethin' different in John Daniel's eyes
Ooh, John Daniel, tell me where did you come from
Tell me where is it you've been
John Daniel, tell me why are you different from all of these other men
John Daniel, there's something about you that I don't quite understand
John Daniel, do you hold the answer to a higher plan?

song performed by Dolly Parton
Added by Lucian Velea
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John, John

John, oh, john,
John,
Let's hope for peace.
Oh, john, let's hope for peace.
John, oh, john,
Let's hope for peace,
Let's hope for peace,
Let's hope for peace,
Peace, peace, peace.
Oh, john, oh, john, john, john,
Oh, john,
John,
Oh, oh, john, john, john,
John, john, john, john, john, john,
John, john, john, john, john, john, john,
Let's hope, hope, hope, hope, hope, hope, hope for peace.
Peace -
John.

song performed by Yoko Ono
Added by Lucian Velea
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John, John

John, oh, john,
John,
Let's hope for peace.
Oh, john, let's hope for peace.
John, oh, john,
Let's hope for peace,
Let's hope for peace,
Let's hope for peace,
Peace, peace, peace.
Oh, john, oh, john, john, john,
Oh, john,
John,
Oh, oh, john, john, john,
John, john, john, john, john, john,
John, john, john, john, john, john, john,
Let's hope, hope, hope, hope, hope, hope, hope for peace.
Peace -
John.

song performed by Yoko Ono
Added by Lucian Velea
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Tale XIX

THE CONVERT.

Some to our Hero have a hero's name
Denied, because no father's he could claim;
Nor could his mother with precision state
A full fair claim to her certificate;
On her own word the marriage must depend -
A point she was not eager to defend:
But who, without a father's name, can raise
His own so high, deserves the greater praise;
The less advantage to the strife he brought,
The greater wonders has his prowess wrought;
He who depends upon his wind and limbs,
Needs neither cork nor bladder when he swims;
Nor will by empty breath be puff'd along,
As not himself--but in his helpers--strong.
Suffice it then, our Hero's name was clear,
For call John Dighton, and he answer'd 'Here!'
But who that name in early life assign'd
He never found, he never tried to find:
Whether his kindred were to John disgrace,
Or John to them, is a disputed case;
His infant state owed nothing to their care -
His mind neglected, and his body bare;
All his success must on himself depend,
He had no money, counsel, guide, or friend;
But in a market-town an active boy
Appear'd, and sought in various ways employ;
Who soon, thus cast upon the world, began
To show the talents of a thriving man.
With spirit high John learn'd the world to

brave,
And in both senses was a ready knave;
Knave as of old obedient, keen, and quick,
Knave as of present, skill'd to shift and trick;
Some humble part of many trades he caught,
He for the builder and the painter wrought;
For serving-maids on secret errands ran,
The waiter's helper, and the ostler's man;
And when he chanced (oft chanced he) place to lose,
His varying genius shone in blacking shoes:
A midnight fisher by the pond he stood,
Assistant poacher, he o'erlook'd the wood;
At an election John's impartial mind
Was to no cause nor candidate confined;
To all in turn he full allegiance swore,
And in his hat the various badges bore:
His liberal soul with every sect agreed,
Unheard their reasons, he received their creed:

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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The Exiles. 1660

The goodman sat beside his door
One sultry afternoon,
With his young wife singing at his side
An old and goodly tune.

A glimmer of heat was in the air,-
The dark green woods were still;
And the skirts of a heavy thunder-cloud
Hung over the western hill.

Black, thick, and vast arose that cloud
Above the wilderness,

As some dark world from upper air
Were stooping over this.

At times the solemn thunder pealed,
And all was still again,
Save a low murmur in the air
Of coming wind and rain.

Just as the first big rain-drop fell,
A weary stranger came,
And stood before the farmer's door,
With travel soiled and lame.

Sad seemed he, yet sustaining hope
Was in his quiet glance,
And peace, like autumn's moonlight, clothed
His tranquil countenance,-

A look, like that his Master wore
In Pilate's council-hall:
It told of wrongs, but of a love
Meekly forgiving all.

'Friend! wilt thou give me shelter here?'
The stranger meekly said;
And, leaning on his oaken staff,
The goodman's features read.

'My life is hunted,-evil men
Are following in my track;
The traces of the torturer's whip
Are on my aged back;

'And much, I fear, 't will peril thee
Within thy doors to take
A hunted seeker of the Truth,
Oppressed for conscience' sake.'

[...] Read more

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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The White Cliffs

I
I have loved England, dearly and deeply,
Since that first morning, shining and pure,
The white cliffs of Dover I saw rising steeply
Out of the sea that once made her secure.
I had no thought then of husband or lover,
I was a traveller, the guest of a week;
Yet when they pointed 'the white cliffs of Dover',
Startled I found there were tears on my cheek.
I have loved England, and still as a stranger,
Here is my home and I still am alone.
Now in her hour of trial and danger,
Only the English are really her own.

II
It happened the first evening I was there.
Some one was giving a ball in Belgrave Square.
At Belgrave Square, that most Victorian spot.—
Lives there a novel-reader who has not
At some time wept for those delightful girls,
Daughters of dukes, prime ministers and earls,
In bonnets, berthas, bustles, buttoned basques,
Hiding behind their pure Victorian masks
Hearts just as hot - hotter perhaps than those
Whose owners now abandon hats and hose?
Who has not wept for Lady Joan or Jill
Loving against her noble parent's will
A handsome guardsman, who to her alarm
Feels her hand kissed behind a potted palm
At Lady Ivry's ball the dreadful night
Before his regiment goes off to fight;
And see him the next morning, in the park,
Complete in busbee, marching to embark.
I had read freely, even as a child,
Not only Meredith and Oscar Wilde
But many novels of an earlier day—
Ravenshoe, Can You Forgive Her?, Vivien Grey,
Ouida, The Duchess, Broughton's Red As a Rose,
Guy Livingstone, Whyte-Melville— Heaven knows
What others. Now, I thought, I was to see
Their habitat, though like the Miller of Dee,
I cared for none and no one cared for me.

III
A light blue carpet on the stair
And tall young footmen everywhere,
Tall young men with English faces
Standing rigidly in their places,
Rows and rows of them stiff and staid

[...] Read more

poem by Alice Duer Miller
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Walkin' In Jerusalem

Walkin in Jerusalem?
Diamond Rio
Oh John, Oh John what did you say, walking in Jerusalem just like John
I'll meet you there on the judgement day, walking in Jerusalem just like John.
...........instrumental..............
(quicker now)
Oh John, Oh John what did you say, walking in Jerusalem just like John
I'll meet you there on the judgement day, walking in Jerusalem just like John.
I'm gonna be ready
I'm gonna be ready
I'm gonna be ready (lord) I'm walking in Jerusalem just like John.
Yeah
I'm gonna be ready
I'm gonna be ready
I'm gonna be ready (lord) I'm walking in Jerusalem just like John.
...........instrumental..............
Some come crippled, and some come lame, walking in Jerusalem just like John
Some come walking in Jesus' name, walking in Jerusalem just like John
I'm gonna be ready
I'm gonna be ready
I'm gonna be ready (lord) I'm walking in Jerusalem just like John.
Yeah
I'm gonna be ready
I'm gonna be ready
I'm gonna be ready (lord) I'm walking in Jerusalem just like John.
....... instrumental........
If you get to heaven before I do, walking in Jerusalem just like John.
Tell all my friends I'm coming too, walking in Jerusalem just like John
I'm gonna be ready
I'm gonna be ready
I'm gonna be ready (lord) I'm walking in Jerusalem just like John.
Yeah
I'm gonna be ready
I'm gonna be ready
I'm gonna be ready (lord) I'm walking in Jerusalem just like John.
........... instrumental...........
Well carrying a load upon your shoulder, walking in Jerusalem just like John.
Yeah I'll meet you there at the first crossover, walking in Jerusalem just like John.
Yeah
I'm gonna be ready
I'm gonna be ready
I'm gonna be ready (lord) I'm walking in Jerusalem just like John.
REPEAT 2 times
I'm gonna be ready
I'm gonna be ready
I'm gonna be ready LORD
(slow right down)
To ........Walking in Jerusalem.......... Just like John

song performed by Diamond Rio
Added by Lucian Velea
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Courtship of Miles Standish, The

I
MILES STANDISH

In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims
To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling,
Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather,
Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.
Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing
Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare,
Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber, --
Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus,
Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence,
While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock.
Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic,
Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron;
Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already
Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November.
Near him was seated John Alden, his friend and household companion,
Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window:
Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion,
Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives
Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, "Not Angles, but Angels."
Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the Mayflower.

Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting,
Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth.
"Look at these arms," he said, "the war-like weapons that hang here
Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection!
This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate,
Well I remember the day! once save my life in a skirmish;
Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet
Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero.
Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish
Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish morasses."
Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing:
"Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet;
He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!"
Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling:
"See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging;
That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others.
Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage;
So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn.
Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army,
Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock,
Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage,
And, like Caesar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!"
This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams
Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment.
Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued:
"Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted

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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Added by Poetry Lover
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Poor Tom

(page/plant)
Heres a tale of tom
Who worked the railroads long
His wife would cook his meal
As he would change the wheel
Poor tom, seventh son, always knew whats goin on
Aint a thing that you can hide from tom
There aint nothing that you can hide from tom
Worked for thirty years
Sharing hopes and fears
Dreamin of the day
He could turn and say
Poor tom, works done, been lazin out in the noonday sun
Aint a thing that you can hide from tom
His wife was annie mae
With any man a game shed play
When tom was out of town
She couldnt keep her dress down
Poor tom, seventh son, always knew whats goin on
Aint a thing that you can hide from tom
And so it was one day
People got to annie mae (? )
Tom stood, a gun in his hand
And stopped her runnin around
Poor tom, seventh son, gotta die for what youve done
All those years of work are thrown away
To ease your mind is that all you can say?
But what about that grandson on your knee?
Them railroad songs, tom would sing to me
Aint nothing that you can hide from tom
Keep-a truckin

song performed by Led Zeppelin
Added by Lucian Velea
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Robin Hood And Guy Of Gisborne

When shawes been sheene, and shradds full fayre,
And leeves both large and longe,
Itt is merry, walking in the fayre forrest,
To heare the small birds songe.

The woodweele sang, and wold not cease,
Amongst the leaves a lyne:
And it is by two wight yeomen,
By deare God, that I meane.

'Me thought they did mee beate and binde,
And tooke my bow mee froe;
If I bee Robin a-live in this lande,
I'le be wrocken on both them towe.'

Sweavens are swift, master,' quoth John,
'As the wind that blowes ore a hill;
For if itt be never soe lowde this night,
To-morrow it may be still.'

'Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all,
For John shall goe with mee:
For I'le goe seek yond wight yeomen
In greenwood where the bee.'
^ TOP

The cast on their gowne of greene,
A shooting gone are they,
Untill they came to the merry greenwood,
Where they had gladdest bee;

There were the ware of a wight yeoman,
His body leaned to a tree.

A sword and a dagger he wore by his side,
Had beene many a man bane,
And he was cladd in his capull-hyde,
Topp, and tayle, and mayne.

'Stand you still, master,' quoth Litle John,
'Under this trusty tree,
And I will goe to yong wight yeomen,
To know his meaning trulye.'

'A, John, by me thou setts noe store,
And that's a farley thinge;
How offt send I my men beffore,
And tarry my-selfe behinde?

It is noe cunning a knave to ken,

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poem by Anonymous Olde English
Added by Poetry Lover
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