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The Wanderlust

The Wanderlust has lured me to the seven lonely seas,
Has dumped me on the tailing-piles of dearth;
The Wanderlust has haled me from the morris chairs of ease,
Has hurled me to the ends of all the earth.
How bitterly I've cursed it, oh, the Painted Desert knows,
The wraithlike heights that hug the pallid plain,
The all-but-fluid silence, -- yet the longing grows and grows,
And I've got to glut the Wanderlust again.

Soldier, sailor, in what a plight I've been!
Tinker, tailor, oh what a sight I've seen!
And I'm hitting the trail in the morning, boys,
And you won't see my heels for dust;
For it's "all day" with you
When you answer the cue
Of the Wan-der-lust.

The Wanderlust has got me . . . by the belly-aching fire,
By the fever and the freezing and the pain;
By the darkness that just drowns you, by the wail of home desire,

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poem by Robert William Service
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When Albani Sang

Was workin' away on de farm dere, wan
morning not long ago,
Feexin' de fence for winter--'cos dat's
w'ere we got de snow!
W'en Jeremie Plouffe, ma neighbor, come
over an' spik wit' me,
'Antoine, you will come on de city,
for hear Ma-dam All-ba-nee?'

'W'at you mean?' I was sayin' right off, me,
'Some woman was mak' de speech,
Or girl on de Hooraw Circus, doin' high
kick an' screech?'
'Non--non,' he is spikin'--'Excuse me,
dat's be Ma-dam All-ba-nee
Was leevin' down here on de contree, two
mile 'noder side Chambly.

'She's jus' comin' over from Englan', on
steamboat arrive Kebeck,

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poem by William Henry Drummond
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Athelston

Lord that is off myghtys most,
Fadyr and Sone and Holy Gost,
Bryng us out of synne
And lene us grace so for to wyrke
To love bothe God and Holy Kyrke
That we may hevene wynne.
Lystnes, lordyngys, that ben hende,
Of falsnesse, hou it wil ende
A man that ledes hym therin.
Of foure weddyd bretheryn I wole yow tell
That wolden yn Yngelond go dwel,
That sybbe were nought of kyn.

And all foure messangeres they were,
That wolden yn Yngelond lettrys bere,
As it wes here kynde.
By a forest gan they mete
With a cros, stood in a strete
Be leff undyr a lynde,
And, as the story telles me,

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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Charmides

HE was a Grecian lad, who coming home
With pulpy figs and wine from Sicily
Stood at his galley's prow, and let the foam
Blow through his crisp brown curls unconsciously,
And holding wave and wind in boy's despite
Peered from his dripping seat across the wet and stormy night

Till with the dawn he saw a burnished spear
Like a thin thread of gold against the sky,
And hoisted sail, and strained the creaking gear,
And bade the pilot head her lustily
Against the nor'west gale, and all day long
Held on his way, and marked the rowers' time with measured song,

And when the faint Corinthian hills were red
Dropped anchor in a little sandy bay,
And with fresh boughs of olive crowned his head,
And brushed from cheek and throat the hoary spray,
And washed his limbs with oil, and from the hold
Brought out his linen tunic and his sandals brazen-soled,

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poem by Oscar Wilde
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Alastor: or, the Spirit of Solitude

Earth, Ocean, Air, belovèd brotherhood!
If our great Mother has imbued my soul
With aught of natural piety to feel
Your love, and recompense the boon with mine;
If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and even,
With sunset and its gorgeous ministers,
And solemn midnight's tingling silentness;
If Autumn's hollow sighs in the sere wood,
And Winter robing with pure snow and crowns
Of starry ice the gray grass and bare boughs;
If Spring's voluptuous pantings when she breathes
Her first sweet kisses,--have been dear to me;
If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beast
I consciously have injured, but still loved
And cherished these my kindred; then forgive
This boast, belovèd brethren, and withdraw
No portion of your wonted favor now!

Mother of this unfathomable world!
Favor my solemn song, for I have loved

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poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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The Avowyng of Arthur

He that made us on the mulde,
And fair fourmet the folde,
Atte His will, as He wold,
The see and the sande,
Giffe hom joy that will here
Of dughti men and of dere,
Of haldurs that before us were,
That lifd in this londe.
One was Arther the Kinge,
Wythowtun any letting;
Wyth him was mony lordinge
Hardi of honde.
Wice and war ofte thay were,
Bold undur banere,
And wighte weppuns wold were,
And stifly wold stond.

This is no fantum ne no fabull;
Ye wote wele of the Rowun Tabull,
Of prest men and priveabull,

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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Vanity

A wan sky greener than the lawn,
A wan lawn paler than the sky.
She gave a flower into my hand,
And all the hours of eve went by.

Who knows what round the corner waits
To smite? If shipwreck, snare, or slur
Shall leave me with a head to lift,
Worthy of him that spoke with her.

A wan sky greener than the lawn,
A wan lawn paler than the sky.
She gave a flower into my hand,
And all the days of life went by.

Live ill or well, this thing is mine,
From all I guard it, ill or well.
One tawdry, tattered, faded flower
To show the jealous kings in hell.

poem by G.K. Chesterton from The Wild Knight and Other Poems (1900)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Beggar-Man

Abject, stooping, old, and wan,
See yon wretched beggar-man;
Once a father's hopeful heir,
Once a mother's tender care.
When too young to understand
He but scorched his little hand,
By the candle's flaming light
Attracted, dancing, spiral, bright,
Clasping fond her darling round,
A thousand kisses healed the wound.
Now abject, stooping, old, and wan,
No mother tends the beggar-man.

Then nought too good for him to wear,
With cherub face and flaxen hair,
In fancy's choicest gauds arrayed,
Cap of lace with rose to aid,
Milk-white hat and feather blue,
Shoes of red, and coral too

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poem by Charles Lamb
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De Snowbird

O leetle bird dat's come to us w'en stormy win' she's blowin',
An' ev'ry fiel' an' mountain top is cover wit' de snow,
How far from home you're flyin', noboddy's never knowin'
For spen' wit' us de winter tam, mon cher petit oiseau!

We alway know you're comin', w'en we hear de firs' beeg storm,
A sweepin' from de sky above, an' screamin' as she go--
Can tell you're safe inside it, w'ere you're keepin' nice an' warm,
But no wan's never see you dere, mon cher petit oiseau!

Was it 'way behin' de mountain, dat de nort' win' ketch you sleepin'
Mebbe on your leetle nes' too, an' before de wing she grow,
Lif' you up an' bring you dat way, till some morning fin' you peepin'
Out of new nes' on de snow dreef, mon pauv' petit oiseau!

All de wood is full on summer, wit' de many bird is sing dere,
Dey mus' offen know each oder, mebbe mak' de frien' also,
But w'en you was come on winter, never seein' wan strange wing dere
Was it mak' you feelin' lonesome, mon pauv' petit oiseau?

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poem by William Henry Drummond
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De Notaire Publique

M'sieu Paul Joulin, de Notaire Publique
Is come I s'pose seexty year hees life
An' de mos' riche man on Sainte Angelique
W'en he feel very sorry he got no wife--
So he's paint heem hees buggy, lak new, by Gor!
Put flower on hees coat, mak' hese'f more gay
Arrange on hees head fine chapeau castor
An' drive on de house of de Boulanger.

For de Boulanger's got heem une jolie fille
Mos' bes' lookin' girl on paroisse dey say
An' all de young feller is lak Julie
An' plaintee is ax her for mak' mariée,
But Julie she's love only jus' wan man,
Hees nam' it is Jérémie Dandurand
An' he's work for her sak' all de hard he can
'Way off on de wood, up de Mattawa.

M'Sieu Paul he spik him 'Bonjour Mamzelle,
You lak promenade on de church wit' me?

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poem by William Henry Drummond
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