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Jackaw of Rheims, The

The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair!
Bishop, and abbot, and prior were there;
Many a monk, and many a friar,
Many a knight, and many a squire,
With a great many more of lesser degree,--
In sooth a goodly company;
And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee.
Never, I ween,
Was a prouder seen,
Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams,
Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!

In and out
Through the motley rout,
That little Jackdaw kept hopping about;
Here and there
Like a dog in a fair,
Over comfits and cates,
And dishes and plates,
Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall,

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poem by Richard Harris Barham
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The Jackaw of Rheims

The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair!
Bishop, and abbot, and prior were there;
Many a monk, and many a friar,
Many a knight, and many a squire,
With a great many more of lesser degree,--
In sooth a goodly company;
And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee.
Never, I ween,
Was a prouder seen,
Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams,
Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!

In and out
Through the motley rout,
That little Jackdaw kept hopping about;
Here and there
Like a dog in a fair,
Over comfits and cates,
And dishes and plates,
Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall,

[...] Read more

poem by Richard Harris Barham
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Premature Outbursts Later To Be Cursed

On automatic are dramatics,
With performances begun.
Those combat addicts,
Choose to pick their fights...
To declare what they have won.

Only,
To find themselves birthing...
Premature outbursts,
Later...
To be cursed!

On automatic are dramatics,
With performances begun.
Those combat addicts,
Choose to pick their fights...
To declare what they have won.

Only,
To find themselves birthing...

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Upon The Barren Fig-Tree In God's Vineyard

What, barren here! in this so good a soil?
The sight of this doth make God's heart recoil
From giving thee his blessing; barren tree,
Bear fruit, or else thine end will cursed be!
Art thou not planted by the water-side?
Know'st not thy Lord by fruit is glorified?
The sentence is, Cut down the barren tree:
Bear fruit, or else thine end will cursed be.
Hast thou been digg'd about and dunged too,
Will neither patience nor yet dressing do?
The executioner is come, O tree,
Bear fruit, or else thine end will cursed be!
He that about thy roots takes pains to dig,
Would, if on thee were found but one good fig,
Preserve thee from the axe: but, barren tree,
Bear fruit, or else thy end will cursed be!
The utmost end of patience is at hand,
'Tis much if thou much longer here doth stand.
O cumber-ground, thou art a barren tree.
Bear fruit, or else thine end will cursed be!

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poem by John Bunyan
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Gotham - Book II

How much mistaken are the men who think
That all who will, without restraint may drink,
May largely drink, e'en till their bowels burst,
Pleading no right but merely that of thirst,
At the pure waters of the living well,
Beside whose streams the Muses love to dwell!
Verse is with them a knack, an idle toy,
A rattle gilded o'er, on which a boy
May play untaught, whilst, without art or force,
Make it but jingle, music comes of course.
Little do such men know the toil, the pains,
The daily, nightly racking of the brains,
To range the thoughts, the matter to digest,
To cull fit phrases, and reject the rest;
To know the times when Humour on the cheek
Of Mirth may hold her sports; when Wit should speak,
And when be silent; when to use the powers
Of ornament, and how to place the flowers,
So that they neither give a tawdry glare,
'Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air;'

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poem by Charles Churchill
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H's Soul

I wonder what happened to Hitler's Soul
As children cursed it around the world
At breakfast tables, under hidden floors
And at the oven doors

Lovers cursed it in their ecstasy throes
Soldiers cursed it, spitting on their boots
Marching in life and death parades
As their mothers cursed him too

Begging his Soul to be damned in Hell
Consigned with Generals that cursed it well

Where did it go, that very special Soul
Was there a space, a prison cell
Padded by the silence of his screams
That echo in our darkest dreams?

poem by Frank Bana
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Blessed To Be Cursed

I awaken early,
With thoughts that seem...
Already out of date.
Already out of time.
Already...
I feel I am too late.

Bombarded I am,
With images that feed.
And some I feel,
I am not yet ready to taste.

Am I cursed or blessed?
At times I feel in between.
And aging hasn't made this attraction,
Any easier for me...
It seems.

Am I cursed or blessed?
OR blessed to be cursed?

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Swagless Swaggie

This happened many years ago
Before the bush was cleared,
When every man was six foot high
And wore a flowing beard.

One very hot and windy day,
Along the old coach road,
Towards Joe Murphy’s halfway house
A bearded bushman strode.

He was a huge and heavy man,
Well over six foot high,
An old slouch hat was on his head,
And murder in his eye.

No billy can was in his hand,
No heavy swag he bore,
But deep and awful were the oaths
That swagless swaggie swore.

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poem by Edward Harrington
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Toolangi

He was obviously English, in his Harris tweeds and stockings.
And his accent was of Oxford, and his swagger and his style
Seemed to hint at halls baronial. He despised the 'demned Colonial';
But he praised the things of England with a large and toothful smile.

He'd discourse for hours together on old England's splendid weather;
On her flowers and fruits and fashions, and her wild-fowl and her game.
At all Austral things he snorted; pinned his faith to the imported.
And he said the land was rotten. But he stayed here just the same.

Why, he came or why he lingered he was never keen to mention;
But he hinted at connections 'mid old England's nobly grand.
Seems he drew a vague remittance - some folk said a meagre pittance
And he sought to supplement it by a venture on the land.

So he journeyed to Toolangi, where the mountain ash yearns skyward,
And the messmate and the blue-gum grow to quite abnormal size.
'Spite the 'stately homes' he vaunted, 'twas the simple life he wanted;
And he got it, good and plenty, at Toolangi on the rise.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Canterbury Tales; The Prioresses Tale

The prologe of the Prioresses tale.

Domine dominus noster.

O lord oure lord, thy name how merveillous
Is in this large world ysprad-quod she-
For noght oonly thy laude precious
Parfourned is by men of dignitee,
But by the mouth of children thy bountee
Parfourned is, for on the brest soukynge
Somtyme shewen they thyn heriynge.

Wherfore in laude, as I best kan or may,
Of thee, and of the whyte lylye flour
Which that the bar, and is a mayde alway,
To telle a storie I wol do my labour;
Nat that I may encreessen hir honour,
For she hirself is honour, and the roote
Of bountee, next hir sone, and soules boote.

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poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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