Tune - "Bonnie wee thing."
I. Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom, Lest my jewel I should tine. Wishfully I look and languish In that bonnie face o' thine; And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, Lest my wee thing be na mine.II. Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty In ae constellation shine; To adore thee is my duty, Goddess o' this soul o' mine! Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing. Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom, Lest my jewel I should tine!By Robert Burns
https://www.public-domain-poetry.com/robert-burns/bonnie-wee-thing-10238
When the drums begin to beatDown the street,When the poles are fetched and guyed,When the tight-rope's stretched and tied,When the dance-girls make salaam,When the snake-bag wakes alarm,When the pipes set up their drone,When the sharp-edged knives are thrownWhen the red-hot coals are shown,To be swallowed by-and-by,Arre, Brethren, here come I!Stripped to loin-cloth in the sun,Search me well and watch me close!Tell me how my tricks are done,Tell me how the mango grows!Give a man who is not madeTo his tradeSwords to fling and catch again,Coins to ring and snatch again,Men to harm and cure again,Snakes to charm and lure again,He'll be hurt by his own blade,By his serpents disobeyed,By his clumsiness bewrayed,By the people laughed to scorn,So 'tis not with juggler born! Pinch of dust or withered flower,Chance-flung nut or borrowed staff,Serve his need and shore
As those of old drank mummiaTo fire their limbs of lead,Making dead kings from AfricaStand pandar to their bed;Drunk on the dead, and medicinedWith spiced imperial dust,In a short night they reeled to findTen centuries of lust.So I, from paint, stone, tale, and rhyme,Stuffed love's infinity,And sucked all lovers of all timeTo rarify ecstasy.Helen's the hair shuts out from meVerona's livid skies;Gypsy the lips I press; and seeTwo Antonys in your eyes.The unheard invisible
Vast was the wealth I carried in life's pack - Youth, health, ambition, hope and trust; but Time And Fate, those robbers fit for any crime,Stole all, and left me but the empty sack.Before me lay a long and lonely track Of darkling hills and barren steeps to climb; Behind me lay in shadows the sublimeLost lands of Love's delight.Alack!Alack!Unwearied, and with springing steps elate, I had conveyed my wealth along the road. The empty sack proved now a heavier load:&n
Coming, clean from the Maryland-endOf this great National Road of ours,Through your vast West; with the time to spend,Stopping for days in the main towns, whereEvery citizen seemed a friend,And friends grew thick as the wayside flowers, -I found no thing that I might narrateMore singularly strange or queerThan a thing I found in your sister-stateOhio, - at a river-town - down hereIn my notebook:Zanesville - situateOn the stream Muskingum - broad and clear,And navigable, through half the year,North, to Coshocton; south, as farAs Marietta.- But these f
He seemed so strange to me, every way -In manner, and form, and size,From the boy I knew but yesterday, -I could hardly believe my eyes!To hear his name called over there,My memory thrilled with gleeAnd leaped to picture him young and fairIn youth, as he used to be.But looking, only as glad eyes can,For the boy I knew of yore,&nb
Ah, fair Lord God of Heaven, to whom we call, - By whom we live, - on whom our hopes are built, - Do Thou, from year to year, e'en as Thou wilt,Control the Realm, but suffer not to fallIts ancient faith, its grandeur, and its thrall! Do Thou preserve it, in the hours of guilt, When foemen thirst for blood that should be spilt,And keep it strong when traitors would appal.Uphold us still, O God! and be the screen And sword and buckler of our England's might, 
Some one came knockingAt my wee, small door;Some one came knocking,I'm sure - sure - sure;I listened, I opened,I looked to left and right,But naught there was a-stirringIn the still dark night;Only the busy beetleTap-tapping in the wall,Only from the forestThe screech-owl's call,Only the cricket whistlingWhile the dewdrops fall,So I know not who came knocking,At all, at all, a
O Sorrow, cruel fellowship,O Priestess in the vaults of Death,O sweet and bitter in a breath,What whispers from thy lying lip?"The stars," she whispers, "blindly run;A web is wov'n across the sky;From out waste places comes a cry,And murmurs from the dying sun:"And all the phantom, Nature, stands--With all the music in her tone,A hollow echo of my own,--A hollow form with empty hands."And shall I take a thing so blind,Embrace her as my natural good;Or crush her, like a vice of blood,Upon the threshold of the mind?ByAlfred Lord Tennysonhttps://www.public-domain-poetry.com/alfred-lord-tennyson/in-memoriam-3-o-sorrow-cruel-fellowship-743