All Poems
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Cruelty and Love / Love on the Farm
© David Herbert Lawrence
Version 1 (1913)1.2Lifted, grasping the golden light1.3Which weaves its way through the creeper leaves1.4 To my heart's delight?
The Blue Jay
© David Herbert Lawrence
The blue jay with a crest on his headComes round the cabin in the snow.He runs in the snow like a bit of blue metal,Turning his back on everything.
The New Plaything
© Lardner Ring W.
I wonder what your thought will beAnd what you'll say and do, sir.When you come home again and seeWhat Daddy's got for you, sir.
Salve Deus Rex Iudæorum
© Lanyer Æmilia
Now Pontius Pilate is to judge the CauseOf faultlesse Jesus, who before him stands;Who neither hath offended Prince, nor Lawes,Although he now be brought in woefull bands:O noble Governour, make thou yet a pause,Doe not in innocent blood imbrue thy hands; But heare the words of thy most worthy wife, Who sends to thee, to beg her Sauiours life
The Ahkoond of Swat
© Lanigan George Thomas
What, what, what,What's the news from Swat? Sad news, Bad news,Comes by the cable ledThrough the Indian Ocean's bed,Through the Persian Gulf, the RedSea and the Med-Iterranean--he's dead;The Ahkoond is dead!
For the Ahkoond I mourn
Piers Plowman: The Prologue
© William Langland
In a somer sesun, whon softe was the sonne,I schop me into a shroud, as I a scheep were;In habite as an hermite unholy of werkesWente I wyde in this world wondres to here;Bote in a Mayes morwnynge on Malverne hullesMe bifel a ferly, of fairie, me-thoughte
Zimbabwe
© Andrew Lang
INTO the darkness whence they came, They passed -- their country knoweth none,They and their gods without a name Partake the same oblivion
To Correspondents
© Andrew Lang
MY postman, though I fear thy tread, And tremble as thy foot draws nearer,'Tis not the Christmas dun I dread, My mortal foe is much severer --The unknown correspondent, who, With indefatigable pen,And nothing in the world to do, Perplexes literary men
A Song of Life and Golf
© Andrew Lang
THE thing they ca' the stimy o't, I find it ilka where!Ye 'maist lie deid -- an unco shot -- Anither's ba' is there!Ye canna win into the hole, However gleg ye be,And aye, where'er ma ba' may roll, Some limmer stimies me!Chorus -- Somebody stimying me, Somebody stimying me,The grass may grow, the ba' may row, Some limmer stimies me!
I lo'ed a lass, a bonny lass, Her lips an' locks were reid;Intil her heart I couldna pass: Anither man lay deid!He cam' atween me an' her heart, I turned wi' tearfu' e'e;I couldna loft him, I maun part, The limmer stimied me!
I socht a kirk, a bonny kirk, Wi' teind, an' glebe, an' a';A bonny yaird to feed a stirk, An' links to ca' the ba'!Anither lad he cam' an' fleeched -- A Convartit U
Off my Game
© Andrew Lang
'I'M off my game,' the golfer said, And shook his locks in woe;'My putter never lays me dead, My drives will never go;Howe'er I swing, howe'er I stand, Results are still the same,I'm in the burn, I'm in the sand -- I'm off my game!
'Oh, would that such mishaps might fall On Laidlay or Macfie,That they might toe or heel the ball, And sclaff along like me!Men hurry from me in the street, And execrate my name,Old partners shun me when we meet -- I'm off my game!
'Why is it that I play at all? Let memory remind meHow once I smote upon my ball, And bunkered it -- behind me
Of his Lady's Old Age
© Andrew Lang
When you are very old, at evening You'll sit and spin beside the fire, and say, Humming my songs, "Ah well, ah well-a-day!When I was young, of me did Ronsard sing
Les Roses de Sâdi
© Andrew Lang
This morning I vowed I would bring thee my roses,They were thrust in the band that my bodice encloses;But the breast-knots were broken, the roses went free.
Jacobite 'Auld Lang Syne'
© Andrew Lang
Shall ancient freedom be forgot And the auld Stuart line?Shall ancient freedom be forgot And Auld Lang Syne?Though now we take King Louis' fee And drink King Louis' wine,We'll bring the King frae o'er the sea For Auld Lang Syne
Hymn to the Winds
© Andrew Lang
To you, troop so fleet,That with winged wandering feet, Through the wide world pass,And with soft murmuringToss the green shades of spring In woods and grass,Lily and violetI give, and blossoms wet, Roses and dew;This branch of blushing roses
The Bonnie Banks o' Loch Lomond
© Andrew Lang
THERE's an ending o' the dance, and fair Morag's safe in France,And the Clans they hae paid the lawing,And the wuddy has her ain, and we twa are left alane,Free o' Carlisle gaol in the dawing.
Ballade of the Girton Girl
© Andrew Lang
She has just 'put her gown on' at Girton, She is learned in Latin and Greek,But lawn tennis she plays with a skirt on That the prudish remark with a shriek
Ballad of the Gibbet
© Andrew Lang
An epitaph in the form of a ballad that François Villonwrote of himself and his company, they expectingshortly to be hanged
