War poems
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Howard At Atlanta
© John Greenleaf Whittier
RIGHT in the track where Sherman
Ploughed his red furrow,
Out of the narrow cabin,
Up from the cellar's burrow,
43. SongO Leave Novels!
© Robert Burns
O LEAVE novels, 1 ye Mauchline belles,
Yere safer at your spinning-wheel;
Such witching books are baited hooks
For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel;
102. To a Mountain Daisy
© Robert Burns
Evn thou who mournst the Daisys fate,
That fate is thineno distant date;
Stern Ruins plough-share drives elate,
Full on thy bloom,
Till crushd beneath the furrows weight,
Shall be thy doom!
88. The Authors Earnest Cry and Prayer
© Robert Burns
Scotland, my auld, respected mither!
Tho whiles ye moistify your leather,
Till, whare ye sit on craps o heather,
Ye tine your dam;
Freedom an whisky gang thegither!
Take aff your dram!
41. Epistle to John Rankine
© Robert Burns
It pits me aye as mads a hare;
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair;
But pennyworths again is fair,
When times expedient:
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir,
Your most obedient.
155. Epistle to Mrs. Scott of Wauchope House
© Robert Burns
GUDEWIFE,I MIND it weel in early date,
When I was bardless, young, and blate,
An first could thresh the barn,
Or haud a yokin at the pleugh;
84. Address to the Deil
© Robert Burns
But fare-you-weel, auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak a thought an men!
Ye aiblins might-I dinna ken
Stil hae a stake
Im wae to think up yon den,
Evn for your sake!
244. The Henpecked Husband
© Robert Burns
Chorus.Robin shure in hairst,
I shure wi him.
Fient a heuk had I,
Yet I stack by him.
27. The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie
© Robert Burns
O thou, whase lamentable face
Appears to mourn my woefu case!
My dying words attentive hear,
An bear them to my Master dear.
28. Poor Mailies Elegy
© Robert Burns
O, a ye bards on bonie Doon!
An wha on Ayr your chanters tune!
Come, join the melancholious croon
O Robins reed!
His heart will never get aboon
His Mailies dead!
459. Sonnet on the Death of Robert Riddell
© Robert Burns
NO more, ye warblers of the wood! no more;
Nor pour your descant grating on my soul;
Thou young-eyed Spring! gay in thy verdant stole,
More welcome were to me grim Winters wildest roar.
119. Epitaph for Robert Aiken, Esq.
© Robert Burns
KNOW thou, O stranger to the fame
Of this much lovd, much honoured name!
(For none that knew him need be told)
A warmer heart death neer made cold.
106. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mauchline, recommending a Boy
© Robert Burns
I HOLD it, sir, my bounden duty
To warn you how that Master Tootie,
Alias, Laird MGaun,
Was here to hire yon lad away
Episode In A Library
© Zbigniew Herbert
A blonde girl is bent over a poem. With a pencil sharp as a lancet she transfers the words to a blank page and changes them into strokes, accents, caesuras. The lament of a fallen poet now looks like a salamander eaten away by ants.
When we carried him away under machine-gun fire, I believed that his still warm body would be resurrected in the word. Now as I watch the death of the words, I know there is no limit to decay. All that will be left after us in the black earth will be scattered syllables. Accents over nothingness and dust.
98. To Mr. MAdam, of Craigen-Gillan
© Robert Burns
SIR, oer a gill I gat your card,
I trow it made me proud;
See wha taks notice o the bard!
I lap and cried fu loud.
Ode to Simplicity
© William Taylor Collins
O thou, by Nature taught
To breathe her genuine thought
In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong;
Who first on mountains wild,
In Fancy, loveliest child,
Thy babe, or Pleasure's, nurs'd the pow'rs of song!
The Nightingale : A Conversation Poem
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
No cloud, no relique of the sunken day
Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip
Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.
Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge!
351. Second Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry
© Robert Burns
Criticsappalld, I venture on the name;
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame:
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes;
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose:
The Bards Who Lived at Manly
© Henry Lawson
The camp of high-class spielers,
Who sneered in summer dress,
57. Holy Willies Prayer
© Robert Burns
But, Ld, remember me an mine
Wi mercies tempral an divine,
That I for grace an gear may shine,
Excelld by nane,
And a the glory shall be thine,
Amen, Amen!
