• From the Provençal by Harriet Waters Preston
    From “Calendau”

    AT Arles in the Carlovingian days,
            By the swift Rhone water,
    A hundred thousand on either side,
    Christian and Saracen, fought till the tide
            Ran red with the slaughter.

    May God forefend such another flood
            Of direful war!
    The Count of...

  • March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale!
      Why the de’il dinna ye march forward in order?
    March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale!
      All the Blue Bonnets are over the Border!
              Many a banner spread
              Flutters above your head,
    Many a crest that is famous in story!—
              Mount and make ready, then,
              Sons of...

  • [1415]
    fair stood the wind for France,
    When we our sails advance,
    Nor now to prove our chance
        Longer will tarry;
    But putting to the main,
    At Kause, the mouth of Seine,
    With all his martial train,
        Landed King Harry,

    And taking many a fort,
    Furnished in warlike sort,
    Marchèd towards Agincourt...

  • As I was walkin' the jungle round, a-klllin' of tigers an' time,

    I seed a kind of an author man, a writin' a rousin' rhyme;

    'E was writin' a mile a minute an' more, an' I sez to 'im: "Oo are you?"

    Sez 'e, "I'm a poet—'er majesty's poet—soldier an' sailor, too!"

    An' 'is poem began at Ipsahan an' ended In Kalamazoo;

    ...

  • In Reading gaol by Reading town

       There is a pit of shame,

    And in it lies a wretched man

       Eaten by teeth of flame,

    In a...

  • No! never such a draught was poured

      Since Hebe served with nectar

    The bright Olympians and their Lord,

      Her over-kind protector,—

    Since Father Noah squeezed the grape

      And took to such behaving

    As would have shamed our grandsire ape

      Before the days of shaving,—

    No! ne'er was...

  • "Who carries the gun?"

      A lad from London town.

    We'll let him go, for well we know

      The stuff that never backs down!

    He has learned to joke at the powder smoke,

      For he is the fog-smoke's son,

    And his heart is light and his pluck is right,

      The lad who carries the gun.

    ...

  • Into the woods my Master went,

          Clean forspent, forspent.

    Into the woods my Master came,

          Forspent with love and shame.

    But the olives they were not blind to Him,

    The little gray leaves were kind to Him:

    The thorn-tree had a mind to Him
    ...