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Chanson de Gavroche

Monsieur Prudhomme est un veau
Qui s'enrhume du cerveau
Au moindre vent frais qui souffle.
Prudhomme, c'est la pantoufle
Qu'un roi met sous ses talons
Pour marcher à reculons.

Je fais la chansonnette,
Faites le rigodon.
Ramponneau, Ramponnette, don !
Ramponneau, Ramponnette !

Ce Prudhomme est un grimaud
Qui prend sa pendule au mot
Chaque fois qu'elle retarde.
Il contresigne en bâtarde
Coups d'état, décrets, traités,
Et toutes les lâchetés.

Je fais la chansonnette,

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poem by Victor Hugo
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Golden Gully

No one lives in Golden Gully, for its golden days are o’er,
And its clay shall never sully blucher-boots of diggers more,
For the diggers long have vanished — nought but broken shafts remain,
And the bush, by diggers banished, fast reclaims its own again.
Now, when dying Daylight slowly draws her fingers from the “Peak”,
The Weird Empress Melancholy rises from the reedy creek —
In the gap above the gully, while the dismal curlews scream
Loud to welcome her as ruler of the dreary night supreme —
Takes her throne, and by her presence fills the strange, uncertain air
With a ghostly phosphorescence of the horrors hidden there.
None would think, by camp-fire blazy, lighting fitfully the scene,
In the seasons that are hazy, how in seasons gone between,
Diggers yarned or joined in jolly ballads of the field and foam,
Or grew sad and melancholy over songs like “Home, Sweet Home” —
Songs of other times, demanding sullen tears that would not start,
Every digger understanding what was in his comrade’s heart.
It may seem to you a riddle how a poet’s fancies roam,
But methinks I hear a fiddle softly playing “Home, Sweet Home”
’Mid the trees, while meditative diggers round the camp-fire stand.
(Those were days before Australians learned to love their native land.)

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poem by Henry Lawson
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Void and Untitled

Asleep from November ten
To November eleven,
I dreamt of being alive.
A sunset can extend as far
As eternity without you
Your absence in your presence,
Your presence in your absence
The transatlantic distance:
One heartbeat away
So I faded behind
Your taciturn pace,
Your beautiful face
And I watch you grew brighter
Like an imploding sun
Garish light, I know this
Is but another guise
Egoistic barricade, I know this
Is how you sully yourself
So I gave up with your game
You know my faith, why test?

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poem by Norman Santos
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The Swan

Without sound, under the mirror of the lake deep and calm,
The swan hunts the waves with its large webbed feet
And glides. Its downy sides resemble
April snow melting in the sun;
But, firm and of matt white, vibrant in the zephyr breeze,
Its large wings spread just like a sailing boat.
He raises his beautiful neck above the reeds,
Diving, proceeding rising over the waters,
Its gracious curve like a profile of Acanthus,
And hides his black beak in his sparkling throat.
Soon along the pines, staying in the shade and peace,
He glides, and, letting the dense grass
Drag behind him like a comet's tail,
He walks with a stately and languishing allure;
The grotto, where the poet listens drawn by his senses
And by waters evoking tears of an eternal absence,
Pleases him: he prowls there; a willow leaf
Falling in silence brushing his shoulders;
Soon, he takes to the open air, and, far from the dark wood,
Superb, striking toward the sky,

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poem by Sully Prudhomme, translated by David Paley
Added by Dan Costinaş
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But generally speaking, I felt to engage in the political process was to sully oneself to such a degree that whatever came out wasn't worth the trouble put in.

quote by John Perry Barlow
Added by Lucian Velea
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I'm 0 for 3 with marriage - the scoreboard doesn't lie, never has. So what we all have is a marriage of the heart. To sully or contaminate or radically disrespect this union with a shameful contract is something that I will leave to the amateurs and the Bible grippers.

quote by Charlie Sheen
Added by Lucian Velea
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Songs Set To Music: 18. Set By Mr. Smith

Since we your husband daily see
So jealous out of season,
Phillis, let you and I agree
To make him so with reason.

I'm vex'd to think that every night
A sot, within thy arms,
Tasting the most divine delight,
Should sully all your charms.

While, fretting, I must lie alone,
Cursing the powers divine,
That undeservedly have thrown
A pearl unto a swine.

Then, Phillis, heal my wounded heart,
My burning passion cool;
Let me at least in thee have part
With thy insipid fool.

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poem by Matthew Prior
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Clay Upon The Wheel

The poet, like the potter,
takes the raw clay of thoughts
and shapes them
through the mind of his loving you.

The beauty of these fragments
without having to expend the energy
to try to express
the image envisioned.

Through the medium
of paper or clay
for personal solitaire,
or the benevolence of other eyes.

Each colour and weave
their thoughts in different patterns
seeing different visions
momentarily lost in their multiple meanings.

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poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Minstrel Boy

The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.
"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,
"Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"

The Minstrel fell! -- but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
And said, "No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the pure and free,
They shall never sound in slavery."

poem by Thomas Moore
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If The Truth Is My Due

I would prefer praise to criticism any day
But for as long as people their truth to me do say
And with lies not defame me in any way
I will 'cop it sweet' with me 'twill be okay
Yet some people even whilst speaking the truth
By their words alone do seem lacking in ruth
Even the truth spoken crudely can leave a mental sting
The great power of words can be a hurtful thing
Yet the truth is the truth and can never defame
It is with your own actions that you sully your name
Due to jealousy or a sense of revenge some with their words are cruel
And with their words to character ruin light the fuel
I will accept the truth if the truth is my due
For as long as you say of me of me what's true.

poem by Francis Duggan
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