 The Friend of Humanity and the Knife Grinder by George Kenning From the world's best poetry, Volume 9, Tragedy and Humour, Part 2 Read for LibriVox.org by Sonja as the narrator Thomas Peter as the Friend of Humanity And Jason in Canada as the Knife Grinder The Friend of Humanity and the Knife Grinder Friend of Humanity Needy Knife Grinder, where are you going? Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order Bleak blows the blast, your hat has got a hole in it So have your britches Weary Knife Grinder Little think the proud ones Who in their coaches roll along the Turnpike Road What hard worked is crying all day Knives and scissors to grind oh Tell me Knife Grinder Who came you to grind knives? Did some rich men tyrannically use you? Was it the squire or parson of the parish or the attorney? Was it the squire for killing of his game Or covetous parson for his tilts distraining Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little all in a lawsuit? Have you not read the Rites of Man by Tom Payne Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids Ready to fall as soon as you have told your pitiful story Knife Grinder Story, God bless you, I have none to tell, sir Only last night, a drinkin' at the checkers This poor old hat and breeches, as you see Were torn in a scuffle Constables came up for to take me into custody They took me before the justice Old mix and put me into the parish stocks for a vagrant I should be glad to drink your honour's health in a pot of beer If you will give me sixpence But for my part, I never love to meddle with politics, sir Friend of humanity I give thee sixpence I will see thee damned first Wretch, whom no sense of wrongs can rouse divensions Sorted unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, spiritless outcast Kicks the knife grinder, overturns his wheel And exits in a transport of republican enthusiasm And universal philanthropy End of poem, this recording is in the public domain Deborah Lee Tis a dozen or so of years ago Somewhere in the west country That a nice girl lived as Yehuzia's know By the name of Deborah Lee Her sister was loved by Edgar Poe But Deborah, by me Now I was green and she was green As a summer squash might be And we loved as warmly as other folks I and my Deborah Lee With a love that the lasses of Huzia dumb Coveted her and me But somehow it happened a long time ago In the Aegish west country That chill-march morning gave the shakes To my beautiful Deborah Lee And the grim-steam doctor, Dratim, came And bore her away from me The doctor and death old partners they In the Aegish west country The angels wanted her in heaven But they never asked for me And that is the reason I rather guess In the Aegish west country That the cold-march wind and the doctor and death Took off my Deborah Lee My beautiful Deborah Lee From the warm sunshine in the opening flowers And bore her away from me Our love was as strong as a six-horse team Or the love of folks older than we Or possibly wiser than we But death were the aid of doctor and steam Was rather too many for me He closed the peepers and silenced the breath Of my sweetheart Deborah Lee And her form lies cold in the priory mould Silent and cold, ah, me The foot of the hunter shall press her grave And the priory's sweet wildflowers In their odorous beauty around it wave Through all the sunny hours The still bright summer hours And the bird shall sing in the tufted grass And the nectar laden bee With his dreamy hum on his gore's wings pass She wakes no more to me Ah, never more to me So the wild birds sing And the wild flowers spring She wakes no more to me Yet often the hush of the dim still night A vision of beauty I see Gliding soft to my bedside A phantom of light, dear beautiful Deborah Lee My bride that was to be And I wake to mourn that the doctor And death in the cold March wind Should stop to the breath Of my darling Deborah Lee Adorable Deborah Lee That angel should want her up in heaven Before they wanted me End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Cock and the Bull By Charles Stuart Calvally From the world's best poetry, volume nine Tragedy and humour, part two Read for LibriVox.org By Sonya as the narrator And Phone as the vendor The Cock and the Bull You see this pebble stone? It's a thing I bought Of a bit of a chit of a boy A bit of the day I like to dock the smaller parts of speech As we curtailed the already curtailed cur You catch the Paranomasia player words? Did rather in the pre-Lenssyrian days Well, to my muttons I purchased a concern And clapped it in my poke And gave for same By way too wit of barter or exchange Chook! Was my snickering dandy pretz' own term One shilling and four pence Current coin of the realm O-N-E One And F-O-U-R Four Pence One and four pence You are with me, sir? What hour it skills not Ten or eleven o'clock One day And what a roaring day it was In February, 1869 Alexandrina Victoria Fidei How runs the jargon? Being enthroned Such, sir, are all the facts Succinctly put, the basis Or substratum, what you will Of the impending 80,000 lines Not much in them either Quoth perhaps simple hodge But there's a superstructure Wait a bit Mark first the rationality Of the thing Hear logic rival and levygate the deed That shilling, and for matter or debt The pence I had a course upon me With me say Me coms the latin Make a note of that When I popped pan his stand Blue snout, scratched ear Sniffed ch At snuffbox Tumbled up He heed Ho hard Not he hard That's another guess thing Then fumbled at And stumbled out of door I shoved the door open With my omoplat And in vestibulo In the entrance hall Don't galley gaskins Antigropolos Answer forth And complete with head and gloves One on and one at angle In my hand And ombrefuge Lord love you Case a rain I flopped forth Spudikins On my own ten toes I do assure you There be ten of them And went clump-clumping Up hill and down dale To find myself or the sudden In front of the boy Put case I hand them on me Could I have bought this sort of kind Or what you might call toy This pebble thing Or the boy thing QED That's proven without aid From mumping pope Sleek pauperate Or bloated cardinal Isn't it old fat chaps? You're in Euclid now So having the shilling Having in fact a lot And pants and half pants Ever so many of them I purchased As I think I said before The pebble Lapis lapidis di dem de What noun squeeze short In the genitive fat chaps, hey? Or the boy A bear-legged beggary son of a gun For one and four pants Here we are again Now law steps in Big wigged, voluminous jarred Investigates and reinvestigates Was the transaction illegal? Law shakes head Perpends, sir, all the bearings Of the case At first the coin was mine The chattel his But now, by virtue of the sad exchange And barter, vice versa All the coin per Eury's operazione Vess in the boy And his assigns til dinged doom In saecula saeculo o o oorum I think I hear the abbot mouth Out that To have and told the same To him and them Confir some idiot on conveyancing Whereas the pebble and every part thereof And all that are pertaineth therein too Or shall will, may, might, can, could, would, or should Subandhi kaitara Clap me to the close For what's the good of law In a case of the kind Is mine to all intents and purposes This settled I resume the thread of detail Now for a touch of the vendor's quality He says a gentleman bought a pebble of him This pebble ensues, sir, which I hold in my hand And paid for it, like a gentleman, on the nail Did I overcharge him a happening? Devil a bit Fiddlesticks and get out, you blazing ass Gavala the goose Don't bugaboo, baby, me Go dobbler, quits Yah, tear up What's the odds? There's the transaction viewed In the vendor's light Next ass, that dumpled hag Stood snuffling by With her three frowsy-browsy brats of babes The scum on the kennel Cream of the filth-heap Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay Stead which we blurt out Hoity-toity now And the baker and the candlestick maker And Jack and Jill Bleared goody, this and queasy, gaffer that Ask the schoolmaster Take schoolmaster first He saw a gentleman purchase of a lad, a stone And pay for it, right on the square And carry it off per sultum, jointly Propria quay maribus Gentleman's property now Agreeable to the law explained above In proprium usum for his private ends The boy he chucked a brown in the air And bit in the face the shilling Heaved a thumping-stone at the lean hand That ran clock-clucking by And hit her that a snail imposed a door Then at be it What's the Ciceroanian phrase? Exquesit evasit erupit Of slogs, boy Of in three fiskips Hactenus, so far, so good Tambene, bene, satis male Where was I? Who said what of one in a quag? I did once hitch the syntax into verse Verbum personale, a verb personal Concordat, ay, agrees Old fetcheps, cum nominativo With its nominative Genere, ipoi in the gender Numero, on number Et persona, and person Ut, instance Sol ruit, downflops sun Et, and Montes umbrantur, snuffs out mountains Pah, excuse me sir I think I'm going mad You see the trick on it though And can yourself continue the discourse at libitum It takes up about 80,000 lines A thing imagination boggles at And might odds bob sir In judicious hands extend from here To mesopotamie End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Old Wife by Charles Stuart Calvely From the world's best poetry volume nine Tragedy in humour part two Read for LibriVonx.org by Craig Franklin as the narrator Phone as the cow And Lian Yao as the goose The Old Wife The Old Wife sat at her ivee de door Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese A thing she had frequently done before And her spectacles lay on her aproned knees The piper, he piped on the hilltop high Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese Till the cow said I die And the goose asked Why? And the dog said nothing but searched for fleas The farmer, he strode through the square farm yard Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese His last brew of ale was a trifle hard The connection of which with the plot one sees The farmer's daughter hath frank blue eyes Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese She hears the rook's core in the windy skies She sits at her lattice and shells her peas The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese If you try to approach her away she skips Over tables and chairs with apparent ease The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese And I met with a ballad I can't say where Which wholly consists of lines like these She sat with her hands near her dimple cheeks Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese And spake not a word While a lady speaks there is hope But she didn't even sneeze She sat with her hands near her crimson cheeks Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese She gave up mending her father's breeks And let the cat roll in her best chemise She sat with her hands near her crimson cheeks Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks Then she followed him out or the misty leaves Her sheep followed her as their tails did them Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese And this song is considered a perfect gem And as to the meaning it's what you please End of poem This recording is in the public domain Lovers and the Reflection By Charles Stuart Calvally From the world's best poetry volume nine Tragedy and humour part two Read for LibriVox.org by Sonya Lovers and the Reflection In moss-pranked dels Which the sunbeams flatter And heaven it knoweth what that may mean Meaning, however, is no great matter Where woods are a tremble with rifts at wean Through God's own heather we wand together I and my willy, oh, love, my love I need hardly remark it was glorious weather And flitter-bets waved aloe above Boats were curtsying, rising, bowing Boats in that climate are so polite And sands were a ribbon of green and dowing And, oh, the sun-dazzle on bark and bite Through the rare red heather we dance together Oh, love, my willy, and smelt for flowers I must mention again it was glorious weather Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours By rises that flushed with their purple favours Through becks that brattled over grass's sheen We walked, or waded, we two young shavers Thanking our stars we were both so green We journeyed in parallels, I and willy In fortunate parallels, butterflies Hidden weltering shadows of daffodilly Or marjoram kept making peacock's eyes Songbirds started about some inky as coal Or as snowy, Iween, as curds Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinkie They wreck of no eerie to come, those birds But they skim over bends which the mill stream washes Or hang in the lift neither white clouds hem They need no parasols, no galoshes And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them Then we thread God's cow-slips And hurst his heather, that endowed the one grass With their golden blooms, and snapped It was perfectly charming weather Our fingers at fate and her Goddus glooms And willy again sing, o his notes were fluty Wafts fluttered them out to the white wing at sea Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty And rhymes better to put it of ancientry Bowers of flowers and counter-chowers In Williams' carol, o love my willy When he bates sorrow, borrow, from blithe to morrow I quite forget what, say a daffodilly A nest in a hollow, with buds to follow I think occurred next in his nimble strain And clay that was needon, of course in Eden A rhyme most novel I do maintain Mists, bones, the singer himself, love stories And all least furlable things got furled Not with any design to conceal their glories But simply and solely to rhyme with word O, if billows and pillows and hours and flowers And all the brave rhymes of an elder day Could be furled together, this genial weather And carted or carried on Wafts away Nor ever again trotted out, I am me How much fewer volumes of verse there'd be End of poem, this recording is in the public domain Nephy Lydia, by Algernon Charles Swinburne From the world's best poetry, volume 9 Tragedy and humour, part 2 Read for LibriVox.org, Bassonia Nephy Lydia From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn Through a notable nimbus of nebulous noonshine Pallet and pink as the palm of the flag-flower That flickers with fear of the flies as they float Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean From a marvel of mystic, miraculous moonshine These that we feel in the blood of our blushes That thicken and threaten with sobs from the throat Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal Of an actor's appalled agitation Fainter with fear of the fires of the future Than pale with the promise of pride in the past Flushed with the famishing fullness of fever That reddens with radiance of wrath recreation Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam Through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time Is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife Of the dead who is dumb as the dust heaps of death Surely no soul is it sweet as the spasm Of erotic emotional exquisite error Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss Beatific itself by beatitudes breath Surely no spirit or sense of a soul That was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses Sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion That sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh Only this oracle opens Olympian In mystical moods and triangular tenses Life is the lust of a lamp for the light That is dark till the dawn of the day when we die Mild is the murk and monotonous music of memory Melodiously mute as it may be While the hope in the heart of a hero Is bruised by the breach of man's rapiers Resigned to the rod Made meek as a mother whose bosom beats bound With the bliss-bringing bulk of a bomb-breathing baby As they grope through the graveyards of creeds Under skies growing green at a groan For the grimness of God Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old And its binding is blacker than bluer Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies And the dews are the wine of the bloodshed of things Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free As a thorn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her Till the heartbeats of hell shall be hushed By a hymn from the hunt that has herried The Colonel of Kings End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Arab by Charles Stuart Calvely From the world's best poetry, Volume 9 Tragedy and Humour, Part 2 Read for LibriVox.org by Sonya The Arab On, on my brown Arab, away, away Thou hast trotted over many a mile to-day And thy true right meager hath been thy fair Since they roused the adorn from thy straw-piled lair To tread with those echo-less, unshorred feet Yon weltering flats in the noontide heat Where no palm-tree profess a kindly shade And the iron never rests on a cool grass-blade And blank is thy flank, and thy frequent cough Oh, it goes to my heart, but away, friend, off! And yet, what sculptor who saw thee stand As thou standest now on thy native strand With the wild wind ruffling thine uncombed hair And thy nostril upturned to the odorous air Would not woody to pause Till his skill might trace at leisure The lions of that eager face The collarless neck and the cold black paws And the bit-grasp tight in the massive jaws The delicate curve of the legs That seemed too slight for their burden And, oh, the gleam of that eye So sombre and yet so gay Still, away my life, Arab! Once more, away! Nay, tempt me not, Arab, again to stay Since I crave neither echo nor fun to-day For thy hand is not echo-less There they are, fun, glow-worm and echo And evening star, and thou hintest with all That thou feign wouldst shine As thou read them, these bulgy old boots of mine For thy shrink from thee, Arab Thou eatest ear-pie Thou evermore has at least one black eye There is breast on thy brow And thy swarthy use are due not to nature But handling shoes And the bit in thy mouth I regret to see Is a bit of tobacco-pipe Flea, child, flea! End of poem This recording is in the public domain The modern Hayawatha By Anonymous From the World's Best Poetry Volume 9 Tragedy and Humour Part 2 Read for LibriVox.org By foam The Modern Hayawatha He killed the noble Mujokivis Of the skin he made him mittens Made them with the fur-side inside Made them with the skin-side outside He, to get the warm-side inside Put the inside skin-side outside He, to get the cold-side outside Put the warm-side fur-side inside That's why he put the fur-side inside Why he put the skin-side outside Why he turned them inside outside End of poem This recording is in the public domain Poems received in response to an advertised call For a national anthem From the World's Best Poetry Volume 9 Tragedy and Humour Part 2 Read for LibriVox.org By Sonya as the committee Craig Franklin as H.W.L. of Cambridge And General George P.M. Phone as the Honourable Edward E. of Boston And N.P.W. Thomas Peter as John Greenleaf W. and Thomas Bailey A. Jason in Canada as Dr. Oliver Wendell H. And Leanne Yao as William Cullen B. Poems received in response to an advertised call For a national anthem National Anthem by H.W.L. of Cambridge Back in the years when Flagstaff the Dane was monarch Over the sea-rib-land of the Fleetfooted Norsemen Once they went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens Ursa, the noblest of all vikings and horsemen Musing he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon Where the aurora lapped stars in a north pole manner Wildly he started, for there in the heavens before him Fluttered and flew the original star-spangled banner Two objections are in the way of the acceptance of this anthem By the committee. In the first place, it is not an anthem at all Secondly, it is a gross plagiarism from an old Sclavonic war-song Of the primeval ages Next we quote from a National Anthem by the Honourable Edward E. of Boston Ponderous projectiles hurled by heavy hands Fill on our liberty's poor infant head ere she a stadium had well advanced On a great path that to her greatness led Her temple's propellant was shatter-end Yet, thanks to saving Grace and Washington Her incubus was from her bosom hurled And rising like a cloud-dispelling sun He took the oil with which her hair was curled To grace the hub round which revolves the world This fine production is rather heavy for an anthem And contains too much of Boston to be considered strictly national To set such an anthem to music would require a Wagner And even were it really accommodated to a tune It could only be whistled by the populace We now come to a National Anthem by John Greenleaf W. My native land, thy puritanic stock Still finds its roots firmbound in Plymouth Rock And all thy sons unite in one grand wish To keep the virtues of preserved fish Preserved fish, the deacon stern and true Told our New England what her sons should do And should they swerve from loyalty and right Then the whole land were lost indeed in night The sectional bias of this anthem renders it unsuitable For use in that small margin of the world Situated outside of New England Hence the above must be rejected Here we have a very curious National Anthem by Dr. Oliver Wendell H A diagnosis of our history proves Our native land a land its native loves Its birth a deed obstetric without peer Its growth a source of wonder far and near To love it more behold how foreign shores Sink into nothingness beside its stores Hyde Park at best though counted ultra grand The Boston Common of Victoria's land The committee must not be blamed for rejecting The above after reading thus far For such an anthem could only be sung By a college of surgeons or a Beacon Street tea party Turn we now to a National Anthem by William Cullen B The sun sinks softly to his evening post The sun swells grandly to his morning crown Yet not a star our flag of heaven has lost And not a sunset stripe with him goes down So thrones may fall And from the dust of those new thrones may rise To totter like the last But still our country's noble planet glows While the eternal stars of heaven are fast Upon finding that this does not go well To the air of Yankee Doodle The committee feel justified in declining it It being further more prejudiced against it A suspicion that the poet has crowded an advertisement Of a paper which he edits into the first line Next we quote from a National Anthem by General George P.M. In the days that tried our fathers many years ago Our fair land achieved her freedom Blood bought, you know Shall we not defend her ever as we'd defend That fair maiden kind and tender calling us friend Yes, let all the echoes answer from hill and veil yes Let other nations hearing joy in the tale Our Columbia is a lady high-born and fair We have sworn allegiance to her touch her who dare The tone of this anthem not being devotional Enough to suit the committee It should be printed on an edition of Linn and Cambry Cankerchiefs for ladies especially Observe this National Anthem by NPW One hue of our flag is taken from the cheeks Of my blushing pet and it's stars beat time And sparkle like the studs on our chemisette Its blue is the ocean shadow that hides In her dreamy eyes and it conquers All men like her and still for a union flies Several members of the committee find that this anthem Has too much of the anachron spice to suit them We next peruse a... National Anthem Thomas Bailey A. The little brown squirrel hops in the corn The cricket quaintly sings The emerald pigeon nods his head And the shard in the river springs The dainty sunflower hangs its head On the shore of the summer sea And better far that I were dead If Mott did not love me I love the squirrel that hops in the corn And the cricket that quaintly sings And the emerald pigeon that nods his head And the shard that gaily springs Love the dainty sunflower too And mord with a snowy breast I love them all, but I love... I love... I love my country best. This is certainly very beautiful And sounds somewhat like Tannison Though it may be rejected by the committee It can never lose its value As a piece of excellent reading for children Calculated to fill the youthful mind With patriotism and natural history Beside touching the youthful heart With an emotion palpitating for all End of poem This recording is in a public domain Shedding November With its boning blast Now cubs ad strips the meadow and the lord Eaved October's early days are past And some is gawd I know not what it is To which I click that stirs the song and sorrow Yet I trust that still I sing But as the lid it's sick Because I bust Dear leaves that rustle sadly Death by feet, by lingering feet And fill by eyes with tears You bake me sad And, oh, may God be great That ye are seer The sun itself skies too early sinks Though trees are green But evergreens add ferts Gawd are the Orioles and Boblicks Those robert birds And now farewell to roses and to birds To larded fields and ding-linked streets let's eek Farewell to all articulated words I fade would speak Farewell, by cherished shrolicks of the sword Greed glades add forest shades Farewell to you With sorrow ink, heart, I wretched add for lord Bid you eek End of poem This recording is in the public domain Sneezing by Lee Hunt From the world's best poetry volume 9 Tragedy and humour part 2 Read for LibriVonx.org by Craig Franklin as the narrator And Sonia est the nose Sneezing What a moment, what a doubt All my nose is inside out All my thrilling, tickling, caustic Pyramid rhinocerosic Wants to sneeze and cannot do it How it yearns me, thrills me, stings me How with ruptuous torment rings me Now says Sneez you fool Get through it She, she, oh Tis most del is she Is she, is she, most del is she Hang it, I shall sneeze till spring Snuff is a delisious thing End of poem This recording is in the public domain To My Nose by Alfred A. Forrester Alfred Croque Will From the world's best poetry volume 9 Tragedy and humour part 2 Read for LibriVonx.org by Sonia To My Nose Nose he that never took a pinch Nose he the pleasure then switch flows Nose he the titillating joys Which My Nose knows Oh Nose, I am as proud of thee As any mountain of its snows I gaze on thee and feel that pride A Roman knows End of poem This recording is in the public domain Lapsus Callamy by James Kenneth Stephen From the world's best poetry volume 9 Tragedy and humour part 2 Read for LibriVonx.org by Sonia Lapsus Callamy to R.K. Will there never come a season Which shall rid us from the curse Of a prose which knows no reason An unmalodious verse When the world shall cease to wander At the genius of an ass And the boy's eccentric blunder Shall not bring success to pass When mankind shall be delivered From the clash of magazines And the instant shall be shivered Into countless smithereens When there stands a muzzled stripling Mute beside a muzzled bore When the radiates cease from kippling And the haggards ride no more End of poem This recording is in the public domain A Conservative by Charlotte Perkins Gilman From the world's best poetry volume 9 Tragedy and humour part 2 Read for LibriVonx.org by Thon as the narrator And Lian Yao as the butterfly A Conservative To garden beds I wandered by One bright and cheerful morn When I found a new-fledged butterfly A sitting on a thorn A black and crimson butterfly All doleful and forlorn I thought that life could have no sting To infant butterflies So I gazed on this unhappy thing With wonder and surprise While sadly with his waving wing He wiped his weeping eyes Said I, but can the matter be Why weep is thou so sore With garden fare and sunlight free And flowers in goodly store But he only turned away from me And burst into a roar Cried he My legs are thin and few Where once I had a swarm Soft fuzzy fur A joy to view once capped my body warm Before these flapping wing-things grew To hamper and deform At that outrageous bug I shot The fury of mine eye Said I, in scorn all burning hot In rage and anger high You ignominous idiot Those wings are made to fly I do not want to fly Said he I only want a squirm And he drooped his wings dejectedly But still his voice was firm I do not want to be a fly I want to be a worm Oh, yesterday of unknown luck Today of unknown bliss I left my fool in red and black The last I saw was this The creature madly climbing back Into his chrysalis End of poem This recording is in the public domain Forever By Charles Stuart Calvely From the world's best poetry, volume 9 Tragedy and Humor, part 2 Read for LibriVox.org by Sonya Forever Forever This is single word Our rude forefathers deemed it too And you imagine so absurd a view Forever What abyssms of woe the world reveals What frenzy, what despair For ever, printed so, did not It looks, ah me, how trite and tame It fails to sadden or appall Or solace, it is not the same at all Oh, thou, to whom it first occurred To solder the disjointed And thou are thy native language With a word of power We bless thee, whether far or near Thy dwelling, whether dark or fair Thy kingly brow is neither here nor there But in man's hearts shall be thy throne While the great pulse of England beats Thou coiner of a word unknown to Keats And never more must printer do As men did long ago But run four into ever bidding two be one Forever, passion fraught It throws over the dim page a gloom, a glamour It's sweet, it's strange And I suppose it's grammar Forever is a single word And yet our father steamed it too Nor am I confident they aired, are you? Siege of Belgrade An Austrian army, awfully arrayed Boldly by battery besieged Belgrade Cossack commanders cannonading come Dealing destruction's devastating doom Every endeavour engineers assay For fame, for fortune-fighting, furious fray Generals against generals grapple How honours heaven-heroic hardy-hood Infuriate, indiscriminate and ill Kindred kill kinsmen, kinsmen kindred kill Labour low levels longest lofty slimes Men march mid mounds, mid moles, mid murderous minds Now noxious, noisy numbers, nothing Not of outward obstacles opposing ought Poor patriots, partly purchased, partly pressed Quite quaking, quickly quarter, quarter quest Reason returns, religious rite redounds Suvaro stops at sanguinary sounds Truth to thee, Turkey, triumph to thy train Unwise, unjust, unmerciful Ukraine Vanish vain victory, vanish victory vain Why wish we warfare, wherefore welcome Were Zerzys, Zimonys, Xanthys, Xavier Yield, yield ye youths, ye yeomen Yield your yell, Zeus's, Zorpator's, Zoroaster's zeal Attracting all, arms against axe appeal End of poem, this recording is in the public domain My Love, by Anonymous From the world's best poetry, volume nine Tragedy and humour, part two Read for liverybox.org by Leanne Yao My Love I only knew she came and went, like traplets in the poor She was a phantom of delight, and I was like a fool One kiss, dear maid, I said, and sighed Out of those lips unshawn She shook her ringlets round her head And laughed in merry scorn Ring out wild bells to the wild sky You heard them, oh my heart To swell at night by the castle clock Beloved, we must part Come back, come back! she cried in grief My eyes are dim with tears How shall I live through all the days All through a hundred years? It wasn't the prime of summer time She blessed me with her hand She strayed together, deeply blessed Into the dreaming land The laughing bridal roses blow To dress her dark brown hair My heart is breaking with my woe Most beautiful, most rare I clasped it on her sweet, cold hand The precious golden link I calmed her fears, and she was calm Drink, pretty creature, drink And so I won my Genevieve And walked in paradise The fairest thing that ever grew Between me and the skies End of poem. This recording is in the public domain Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees To point a moral or adorn a tale Full many a gem of purest ray serene Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears Like angels' visits few and far between Deck the long vista of departed years Man never is, but always to be blessed The tenth transmitter of a foolish face Like Aaron's serpent swallows up the rest And makes a sunshine in the shady place For man the hermit's side till the woman smiled To waft a feather or to drown a fly In wit a man simplicity a child With silent finger pointing to the sky But fools rush in where angels fear to tread Far out to mid the melancholy main As when a vulture on emus bread Dies of a rose in aromatic pain End of poem. This recording is in the public domain Metrical Feet by Samuel Taylor Colleridge From the world's best poetry volume nine Tragedy and humour part two Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter Metrical Feet Trokey trips from long to short From long to long in solemn sort Slows spondy stalks, strong foot Yet ill able ever to come up With dactyl tricillable Iambic's march from short to long With a leap and a bound the swift anapest's throng One syllable long, with one short at each side Amphibrachy's haste with a stately stride First and last being long, middle short Amphemouser strikes his thundering hoofs Like a proud hybrid racer End of poem. This recording is in the public domain Nocturnal Sketch Black Verse in Rhyme By Thomas Hood From the world's best poetry volume nine Tragedy and humour part two Read for LibriVox.org by Lian Yao as the narrator Sonia is the thieves And phone us the sleepers Nocturnal Sketch Black Verse in Rhyme Even is come And from the dark park, hark The signal of the setting sun, one gun And six is sounding from the chime Prime time to go and see the dreary, lane-dane slain Or hear Othello's jealous doubts spout out Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade Denying to his frantic, clutch-much touch Or else to see Duker with wide stride-ride Four horses as no other man can span Or in the small Olympic pit sit split Laughing at Liston while he quiz his fizz A non-night comes And with her wings brings things such as With his poetic tongue, young song The gas up blazes with its bright white light And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl Growl about the streets And take up pow-mow, Sal Who hastened to her nightly jobs, robs-fobs Now thieves to enter for your cash Smash, crash, past drowsy Charlie In a deep sleep, creep But frightened by policemen B3, Flea And while they're going, whisper low No go Now puss, when folks are in their beds Treads lads, and sleepers, waking, grumble Draft that cat Who in the gutter cater walls Scores, maul, some feline foe And screams in shrill ill-will Now balls of baition Of a prize-size rise in childish dreams And with a raw, gore, poor Georgie Or Charlie, or Billy, willy-nilly But nurse made in a nightmare rest Chest pressed, dreameth of one of her old flames James, games And that she hears, what faith is man's And, bands and his, from Reverend Mr. Rice Twice, thrice White ribbons flourish And a stout shout out That upward goes Nose rose, nose those bows woes End of poem This recording is in the public domain Railroad Rime by John Godfrey Sax From the world's best poetry, volume 9, Tragedy in humour, part 2 Read for LibriVox.org by Craig Franklin Railroad Rime Singing through the forests, rattling over bridges Shooting under arches, rumbling over bridges Whizzing through the mountains, buzzing all the veil Bless me, this is pleasant, riding on the rail Men of different stations, in the eye of fame Here are very quickly, coming to the same High and lowly people, birds of every feather On a common level, travelling together Gentlemen in shorts, looming very tall Gentlemen at large, talking very small Gentlemen in tights, with a lucish mean Gentlemen in grey, looking rather green Gentlemen quite old, asking for the news Gentlemen in black, in a fit of blues Gentlemen in claret, sober as a vicar Gentlemen in tweed, dreadfully in liquor Stranger on the right, looking very sunny Obviously reading something rather funny Now the smiles are thicker, wonder what they mean Faith, he's got the knicker, bock a magazine Stranger on the left, closing up his peepers Now he snores a mane, like the seven sleepers At his feet of volume, gives the explanation How the man grew stupid from association Ancient maiden lady, anxiously remarks That they must be peril, among so many sparks Rokish-looking fellow, turning to the stranger Says it's his opinion, she is out of danger Woman with her baby, sitting vis-à-vis Baby keeps a squalling, woman looks at me Asks about the distance, says it's tiresome talking Noises of the cars, are so very shocking Market woman, careful, of the precious casket Knowing eggs are eggs, tightly holds a basket Feeling that a smash, if it came would surely Send her eggs to pot, rather prematurely Singing through the forest, rattling over ridges Shooting under arches, rumbling over bridges Singing through the mountains, buzzing all the veil Bless me, this is pleasant, riding on the rail End of poem, this recording is in the public domain There is no force, however great Can stretch a chord, however fine Into a horizontal line, that shall be accurately straight End of poem, this recording is in the public domain Read for LibriVox.org by Craig Franklin But, my sweet is so arranged that they equal all the three Then you'll find that in the sequel All their angles too are equal Equal angles so to term them Each one opposite its brother Equal joys and equal sorrows Equal hopes to a sin to smother Equal, oh divine ecstatics Based on Hutton's mathematics End of poem, this recording is in the public domain From the world's best poetry, volume 9 Tragedy and tumour, part 2 Read for LibriVox.org by Leanne Yau Whereas uncertain boughs and sprays Now diverse birds are heard to sing And sundry flowers their heads upraise Hail to the coming on of spring The songs of those said birds arouse The memory of our youthful hours As green as those said sprays and boughs As fresh and sweet as those said flowers The birds are foresaid, happy pairs Love, mid the aforesaid boughs In shrines in freehold nests Themselves, their heirs, administrators and assigns Oh busiest term of Cupid's court Where tender plaintiffs' actions bring Season of frolic and of sport Hail, as aforesaid, coming spring End of poem, this recording is in the public domain The Cosmic Egg by Anonymous From the world's best poetry, volume 9 Tragedy and tumour, part 2 Read for LibriVox.org by phone Upon a rock yet uncreate Amid a chaos in Kuwait An uncreated being, Satan Beneath him rock, above him cloud And the cloud was rock, and the rock was cloud The rock then, growing soft and warm The cloud began to take a form A form chaotic, vast and vague Which issued in the Cosmic Egg Then the being uncreate On the egg did incubate And thus became the incubator And of the egg did allocate And thus became the alligator And the incubator was potentate But the alligator was potentator End of poem, this recording is in the public domain The Hen by Matthias Claudius Translated anonymously from the German From the world's best poetry, volume 9 Tragedy and tumour, part 2 Read for LibriVox.org by Sonja as the narrator Thomas Peter as the turkey cock And Phon as the hen The hen A famous hen's my story's theme Which never was known to tire of laying eggs But then she'd scream so loud over every egg To it seem the house must be on fire A turkey cock who ruled the walk A wiser bird and older could bear no more So oft its dog right to the hen And told her Madam, that scream I apprehend Adds nothing to the matter It surely helps the egg know it Then lay your egg and done with it I pray you, madam, as a friend Cease that superfluous clatter You know not how it goes through my head Hm, very likely Madam said, then proudly putting forth a leg An educated barnyard fowl You know no more than any owl The noble privilege and praise Of authorship in modern days I'll tell you why I do it First you perceive a lady egg And then review it End of poem This recording is in the public domain Ode to the Rock by William John Courtauld From the world's best poetry, volume 9 Tragedy and humour, part 2 Read for LibriVox.org by Sonya as the narrator And phone as the astrolabe Ode to the Rock O unhatched bird, so high preferred As porter of the pole Of beakless things who have no wings Exact, no heavy toll If this my song its theme should wrong The theme itself is sweet Let others rhyme the unborn time I sing the obsolete And first I praise the noble traits Of birds preceding Noah The giant clan whose meat was man Thy norness, apterics, moa These by hints we get from Prince Of feathers and of feet Excelled in wits the later tits And so are obsolete I sing each race whom with his place In their primeval woods While gospel aid inspires free trade To traffic with their goods With normand yukes, the stills yukes In breeding might compete But where man talk, the tomahawk Will soon grow obsolete I celebrate each perished state Great cities plough to loam Caldean kings, the bulls with wings Dead Greece and dying Rome The druids Rhine may shelter swine Or stack the farmer's peat This does mean moth treat finest cloth Mean man, the obsolete Shall not be said of theory's dead Figure and phrase that bend all ways Done scotus like to twist them Averia's thought and what was taught In Salamanca's seed, scions and oaks And showers of frogs, sea serpents obsolete Pillion and pack have left their track Dead is the telly hoe Steam rails cut down each festive crown Of the old world and slow Jack in the green no more is seen Nor maypole in the street No mamas play on Christmas day St. George is obsolete O fancy, why has thou let thy So many a frolic fashion? Doubled in hoes and powdered bows Where are thy songs whose passion Turn sought to fire in night and squire While hearts of ladies beat? Where thy sweet style, ours Ours ear while, all this is obsolete In overn low potatoes grow Upon volcanoes old The moon they say had her young day Though now her heart is cold Even so our earth, sorrow and mirth Seasons of snow and heat Checked by her tides in silence glides To become obsolete The astrolabe of every babe Reads in its fatal sky Man's largest room is the low tomb Ye all are born to die Therefore this steam, O bird, I deem The noblest we may treat The final course of nature's laws Is to grow obsolete End of poem This recording is in the public domain Motherhood by Charles Steward Calverly from the world's best poetry, volume nine Tragedy and Humour, part two read for Liberfox.org by Thon as the narrator and Lian Yao as Alice Motherhood She laid it where the sun beams full unscanned upon the broken wool without a tear, without a groan cast near a mighty stone which some rude swain had happily cast thither in sport long ages past and time with mosses had ore laid and fenced with many a tall grass-blade and all about bid roses bloom and violets shed their soft perfume There in its cool and quiet bend she set her burden down and fled nor flung all eager to escape one glance upon the perfect shape that lay still warm and fresh and fair but motionless and soundless there No human eye had marked her pass across the linden shadowed grass ere yet the minster clock chimed seven only the innocent birds of heaven the magpie and the rook whose nest swings as the elm-tree waves his crest and the life-cricket and the whore and huge-limbed hound that guards the door looked on when as a summer wind that passing leaves no trace behind all unappearled barefoot all she ran to that old ruined wall to leave upon the chilled dank earth for, ah, she never knew its worth mid hemlock rank and fern and ling and dews of night that precious thing and then it might have lain forlorn from morn to eve, from eve to morn but that by some wild impulse led the mother ere she turned and fled one moment stood erect and high then poured into the silent sky a cry so jubilant, so strange that Alice, as she strove to range her rebel ringlets at her glass sprang up and gazed across the grass shook back those curls so fair to see clapped her soft hands in childish glee and shrieked her sweet face all aglow her very limbs with rapture shaking my hen has laid an egg, I know and only hear the noise she's making End of poem This recording is in the public domain Disaster by Charles Stuart Calverly from the world's best poetry, volume 9 Tragedy and Humour, part 2 read for LibriVox.org by phone Disaster It was ever thus from childhood's hour my fondest hopes would not decay I never loved a tree or flower which was the first to fade away The garden where I used to delve short frocked still yields me pinks in plenty The pear tree that I climbed at twelve I see still blossoming at twenty I never nursed a dear gazelle but I was given a pericate how I did nurse him if unwell his imbecile but lingers yet he's green with an enchanting tuft he melts me with a small black eye he'd look inimitable stuffed and knows it but he will not die I had a kitten, I was rich in pets but all too soon my kitten became a full-sized cat by which I've more than once been scratched and bitten and when for sleep her limbs she curled one day beside her untouched plateful and glided calmly from the world I freely owned that I was grateful and then I bought a dog, a queen ah, tiny, dear departing pug she lives but she has passed sixteen and scarce can crawl across the rug I loved her beautiful and kind delighted in her pert bow-wow but now she snaps if you don't mind to her lunacy to love her now I used to think should air mishap betide my crumpled visage to tie in shape with prowling thief or trap or coarse bull terrier I should die but ah, disasters have their use and life might even be too sun-shiny nor would I make myself a goose if some big dog should swallow tiny End of poem, this recording is in the public domain Lines, written in an album by Willis Gaylord from the world's best poetry volume 9 Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter Lines, written in an album A farmer's daughter, during the rage for albums handed to the author an old account-book ruled for pounds, shillings, and pens and requested a contribution This world is seen as dark as sticks where hope is scarce with two and six our joys are born so fleeting hence that they are dear at 18 pence and yet to stay here most are willing although they may not have one shilling End of poem, this recording is in the public domain On the Brink, by Charles Stuart Corvall from the world's best poetry volume 9 Tragedy and humour part 2 Read for LibriVox.org by Leanne Yau On the Brink I watched her as she stooped to pluck a wild flower in her hair to twine and wished that it had been my luck to call her mine a nun I heard her rate with mad mad words her babe within its cot and felt particularly glad that it had not I knew, such subtle brains of men that she was uttering what she shouldn't and I thought that I would hide and then I thought I wouldn't few could have gazed upon that face those pouting coral lips and chided a radimentless in my place had done as I did for wrath with which our bosoms glow is chained there oft by beauty's spell and more than that I did not know the widow well so the harsh phrase passed unapproved still mute, oh brothers, was it sin I drank unutterably moved her beauty in and to myself I murmured low as on her upturned face and dress the moonlight fell would she say no by chance or yes she stood so calm so like a ghost betwixt me and that magic moon that I already was almost a finished coon but when she caught a droidly up and soothed with smiles a little daughter and gave it, if I'm right, a sup of barley water and crooning still the strange sweet law which only mother's tongues can utter snowed with deft hand the sugar oar its bread and butter and kissed it clingingly ah why don't women do these things in private I felt that if I had lost her I should not survive it and from my mouth the words nigh flew the past, the future, I forgot him oh if you'd kiss me as you do that thankless atom but this thought came here yet I spake and froze the sentence on my lips they are who marry wise that make those little slips it came like some familiar rhyme some copy to my boy had set and that's perhaps the reason I'm unmarried yet would she have owned how pleased she was and told her love with widows pride I never found out that I never tried be kind to babes and beasts and birds hearts may be hard though lips are choral and angry words are angry words and that's the moral End of poem This recording is in the public domain Leah as the girl from Kalamazoo Thone as the girl from New York Lian Yao as the girl from Philadelphia and Thomas Peter as the girl from Boston The V-A-S-E From the maddening crowd they stand apart the maidens for and the work of art and none might tell from sight alone in which had culture right this grown The Gotham millions fair to see the Philadelphia pedigree the Boston mind of Azure Hugh or the soulful soul from Kalamazoo for all loved art in a seemly way with an earnest soul and a capital A long they worshipped but no one broke the sacred stillness until up spoke the western one from the nameless place who blushingly said what a lovely vase over three faces a sad smile flew and they edged away from Kalamazoo but Gotham's haughty soul was stirred to crush the stranger with one small word deathly hiding reproof in praise she cries tis indeed a lovely vase but brief her unworthy triumph when the lofty one from the home of Penn with the consciousness of two grand papa's exclaims it is quite a lovely vase and glances round with an anxious thrill awaiting the word of Beacon Hill but the Boston maid smiles courteously and gently murmurs oh pardon me I did not catch your remark because I was so entranced with that charming vase Diaz Erit Praigelida Sinistro Cumbostonia End of poem this recording is in the public domain Larks and Nightingales by Nathan Haskell Dall from the world's best poetry volume 9 tragedy and humour part 2 read for liveryvox.org by Lian Yao Larks and Nightingales alone I sit at eventide twilight glory pales and ear the meadows far and wide chant bensive bebelinks one might say nightingales song sparrows warble on the tree I hear the pearling brook and from the old man's ear the leaf flies slow the coring crow in England twer a rook the last faint golden beams of day still glow on cottage pains and on their lingering homeward way walk weary labouring men oh would that we had swains from farmyards down fair rural glades come sounds of tinkling bells and songs of merry brown milkmaids sweeter than aureals yes thank you Philomels I could sit here till morning came all through the night hours dark until I saw the sun's bright flame and heard the tickety alas we have no lark we have no lees no larks no rooks no swains no nightingales no singing milkmaids no rucks the poet does his best it is the rhyme that fails end of poem this recording is in the public domain of blue china by andrew lang from the world's best poetry volume 9 tragedy and humour part 2 read filibrivox.org by lian yao of blue china there's a joy without kanker or kark there's a pleasure eternally new testiglote on the gaze and the mark of china that's ancient and blue unchipped all this entries through it has passed since the chime of it to rang and they fashioned it figure and hue in the reign of the emperor huang these dragons their tails you remark into bunches of ghillie flowers grew when Noah came out of the ark did these lie and wait for his crew they snorted they snapped and they slew they were mighty a fin and a fang and their portrait celestials drew in the reign of the emperor huang there's a pot with a cot in a park in a park with a peach blossoms blue while the lovers elurped in the dark lived died and were changed into two bright birds that eternally flew through the boughs of the may as they sang tis a tale was undoubtedly true in the reign of the emperor huang envoy come snarl at my ecstasies do kind critic your tongue has a tang but a sage never heeded a shrew in the reign of the emperor huang end of poem this recording is in the public domain a riddle the letter H by Catherine Fanshawe from the world's best poetry volume 9 tragedy in humour part 2 read for LibriVox.org by Craig Franklin a riddle the letter H Tours in heaven pronounced and was muttered in hell and echo caught faintly the sound as it fell on the confines of earth it was permitted to rest and the depths of the ocean its presence confessed to be found in the sphere when tis riven asunder be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder it was allotted to man with his earliest breath attends him at birth and awaits him in death presides all his happiness honour and health is the prop of his house and the end of his wealth in the heaps of the miser tis hoarded with care but is sure to be lost on his prodigal air it begins every hope every wish it must bound with the husbandment toils and with monarchs is crowned without it the soldier the seamen may roam but woe to the wretch who expels it from home in the whispers of conscience its voice will be found nor in the whirlwind of passion be drowned it will not soften the heart but though death be the year it will make it acutely and instantly here yet in shade let it rest like a delicate flower ah breath on it softly it dies in an hour end of poem this recording is in the public domain A Threnody by George Thomas Lannigan from the world's best poetry volume 9 tragedy and humour volume 2 read for liberfox.org by phone as the narrator and Sonia as the skeptics A Threnody the acound of SWAT is dead London papers what what what what's the news from SWAT sad news bad news comes by the cable lead through the Indian Ocean's bed through the Persian Gulf the Red Sea and the Med Deterranean he's dead the acound is dead for the acound I mourn who wouldn't he strove to disregard the message stern but he acudent dead dead dead sorrow SWATs SWATs were held with acound blood SWATs whom he had often led onward to a gory bed onward to a gory bed or to victory as the case might be sorrow SWATs tears shed shed tears like water your great acound is dead that's what's the matter mourn city of SWAT your great acound is not but laying midworms through rot his mortal part alone his soul was caught because he was a good acound up to the bosom of Mahoon though earthy walls his frames surround forever hallowed be the ground and skeptics mock the lonely mound and say he's now of no acound his soul is in the skies the azure skies that bend above his loved metropolis of SWAT he sees with larger other eyes a thwart all earthly message a thwart all earthly mysteries he knows what's SWAT let SWAT bury the great acound with a noise of mourning and of lamentation let SWAT bury the great acound with the noise of the mourning of the SWATish nation fallen is at length its tower of strength its sun is dimmed air it had nooned is the great acound the great acound of SWAT is not end of poem this recording is in the public domain for communion of souls where the deep Mississippi meanders or the distance has catcher and rolls I know, for in Maine I will find thee a sweetly sequestrated nook where the far winding scudu-wapscuses conjoins with the scudu-wapscook their wonder too beautiful rivers with many a winding and crook the one is the scudu-wapscuses the other the scudu-wapscook as sweetest of horns though unmentioned in geography atlas or book how fair is the scudu-wapscuses when joining the scudu-wapscook our court shall be close by the waters within that sequestrated nook reflected in scudu-wapscuses and mirrored in scudu-wapscook you shall sleep to the music of leaflets by zephyrs in wantonness shook and dream of the scudu-wapscuses and perhaps of the scudu-wapscook when awaked by the hens and the roosters each morn you shall joyously look on the junction of scudu-wapscuses with the soft gliding scudu-wapscook your food shall be fish from the waters drawn forth on the point of a hook from murmuring scudu-wapscuses or wandering scudu-wapscook you shall quough the most sparkling of water drawn forth from a silvery brook which flows to the scudu-wapscuses and then to the scudu-wapscook and you shall preside at the banquet and I will wait on the escook and we'll talk of the scudu-wapscuses and sing of the scudu-wapscook let others sing loudly of Seiko of Kwardi and Tata Magush of Canabacaces and Kuako of Konish and Bakhtush of Nashwok and Maga-Gwadavik or memory-memory-cook there's none like the scudu-wapscuses accepting the scudu-wapscook End of poem This recording is in the public domain Goodreader If you ere have seen when Phoebus hastens to his pillow the mermaids with their tresses green dancing upon the western billow If you have seen a twilight dim when the lone spirits vesper him floats wild along the winding shore the fairy train, their ringlets weave glancing along the spangled green If you have seen all this and more God bless me What a deal you've seen End of poem This recording is in the public domain End of poem This recording is in the public domain Mind then the rays round her soft, thiebent issues all will be, as she says when that dead past reissues matters not what nor where Hark to the moon's dim cluster How was her heavy hair Lithe as a feather duster matters not when nor when flitterty chibbit sound makes the song not sense thus I inhibit End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Baker's Tale From the Hunting of the Snark by Charles Ludwig Dodgen Lewis Carroll from the world's best poetry, Volume 9 Tragedy and Humour, Part 2 Read for LibriVox.org by Sonya as the narrator Phone as the Bellman Thomas Peter as the Baker and Craig Franklin as the Baker's Uncle The Baker's Tale From the Hunting of the Snark They roused him with muffins They roused him with eyes They roused him with mustard and cress They roused him with gem and judicious advice They set him conundrums to guess When at length he set up and was able to speak his sad story he offered to tell and the Bellman cried Silence! Not even a shriek Silence! Not even a shriek Silence! Not even a shriek Not even a shriek and excitedly tingled his bell There was silent supreme not a shriek, not a scream scarcely even a howl or a groan scarcely even a howl or a groan as the man they called hoe told his story of woe in an anti-Diluvian tone My father and mother were honest though poor Skip all that cried the Bellman in haste If it once become dark there is no chance of a snark we have hardly a minute to waste I skip forty years set the baker in tears and proceed without further remark to the day when you took me aboard of your ship to help you in hunting the snark A dear uncle of mine after whom I was named remarked when I paid him farewell Oh, skip your dear uncle The Bellman exclaimed as he angrily tingled his bell He remarked to me then Said that mildest of men If your snark be a snark that is right fetch it home by all means you may serve it with greens and it's handy for striking a light you may seek it with dimbles and seek it with care you may hunt it with forks and hope, you may threaten the railway share you may charm it with smiles and soap That's exactly the method the Bellman bowled in a hasty parenthesis cried That's exactly the way I have always been told that the capture of snarks should be tried But oh, beamish nephew beware of the day if your snark be a boujom for then never be met with a game It is this it is this that oppresses my soul when I think of my uncle's last words and my heart is like nothing so much as a bowl brimming over with quivering curds it is this it is this We have had that before the Bellman indignantly said and the baker replied Let me say it once more it is this it is this that I dread I engage with the snark every night after dark in a dreamy delirious fight I serve it with greens in those shadowy scenes and I use it for striking a light But if ever I meet with a boujom that day in a moment of this I am sure and suddenly vanish away and the notion I cannot endure End of poem This recording is in a public domain Jabberwocky by Charles Lottwich Dodgerton Lewis Carroll from the world's best poetry volume 9 Tragedy and humour part 2 read fellowrivox.org by Leanne Yow as the narrator and Craig Franklin as the father Jabberwocky twas brillig and the slithy toves de joie and gimbal in the wave all mimsy were the borogoves and the moan rats outgrave Beware the Jabberwock my son the jaws that bite the claws that catch Beware the jump jump bird and shun the froomiest mendisnatch He took his warpaw sword in hand long tie in the mankson foe he sought so rested he by the tum-tum tree and stood a while in thought and as an offish thought he stood the Jabberwock with eyes of flame came whiffling through the tullogy wood and burbled as it came one two, one two and through and through the warpaw blade went Snickersnack he left it dead and with its head he went galomphing back and hast thou slain the Jabberwock come to my arms my beamish boy oh Fremches Day Caloo Calay he chortled in his joy twas brillig and the slithy toves de joie and gimbal in the wave all mimsy were the borogoves and the moan rats outgrave end of poem this recording is in the public domain for a novel of whole canes after Kipling by Robert Bridges Draw from the world's best poetry volume 9 tragedy and humour part 2 read for LibriVox.org by Sonya for a novel of whole canes after Kipling he sits in a sea-green grotto with a bucket of lurid paint and draws the thing as it isn't for the guard of things as they ain't end of poem this recording is in the public domain end of the world's best poetry volume 9 tragedy and humour part 2