 St. Anthony's Sermon to the Fishes by Anonymous From the world's best poetry, Volume 9, Tragedy and Humour, Part 2 Read for LibriVox.org by Craig Franklin St. Anthony's Sermon to the Fishes St. Anthony at church was left in the lurch So he went to the ditches and preached to the fishes They wriggled their tails in the sun, glanced their scales The carps with their spawn are all hither drawn Have opened their jaws eager for each claws No sermon beside had the carp so edified Sharp-snouted pikes who keep fighting like tykes Now swam upon monius to hear St. Anthony's No sermon beside had the pikes so edified And that very odd fish who loves fast days the codfish The stockfish, I mean, at the sermon was seen No sermon beside had the cod so edified Good eels and the sturgeon, which Alderman Gorgian Went out of their way to hear preaching that day No sermon beside had the eel so edified Crabbs and turtles also who always move slow Made haste from the bottom as if the devil had got them No sermon beside had the crabs so edified Fish great and fish small, lords lackies and all Each looked at the preacher like a reasonable creature At God's word they Anthony heard The sermon now ended Each turned and descended, the pikes went on stealing The eels went on ealing Much delighted with a, but preferred the old way The crabs are backsliders The stockfish, thick-siders, the carbs are sharp-set All the sermons forget Much delighted with a, but preferred the old way End of poem This recording is in the public domain King John and the abbot of Canterbury From Percy's relics, by Anonymous From the world's best poetry, volume 9 Tragedy and humour, part 2 Readful LibriVox.org by Sonja as the narrator Craig Franklin's King John Thomas Peter as the abbot of Canterbury And the Yan-Yao as the Shepherds King John and the abbot of Canterbury From Percy's relics An ancient story I'll tell you an on Of a notable prince that was called King John And he ruled England with main and with might For he did great wrong and maintained little right And I'll tell you a story, a story so merry Concerning the abbot of Canterbury How for his housekeeping and high renown They wrote a post for him to Fair Londontown An hundred men the king did hear say The abbot kept in his house every day Every gold chains without any doubt In velvet coats waited the abbot about How now, Father Abbott, I hear it of thee Thou keepest a far better house than me And for thy housekeeping and high renown I fear thy work is treason against my crown My liege Quote the abbot I would it were known I never spend nothing But what is my own Trust your grace will do me no dear For spending of my own true-gotten gear Yes, yes, Father Abbott, thy fault it is high And now for the same thou needest must die For except thou canst answer me questions three Thy head should be smitten from thy body And first, cross the king When I'm in this stead With my crown of gold so fair on my head Among all my liegemen so noble of birth Thou must tell me to one penny what am I worth Second, tell me without any doubt How soon I may ride the whole world about And that the third question thou must not shrink But tell me here truly what I do think Oh, these are hard questions for my shallow wit Nor I cannot answer your graces yet But if you will give me but three weeks' space I'll do my endeavour to answer your grace Now three weeks' space to thee will I give And that is the longest time thou has to live For if thou dost not answer my questions three Thy lands and the livings are forfeit to me Away wrote the abbot all sad at that word And he wrote to Cambridge and Oxford But never a doctor there was so wise That could with his learning an answer devise Then home wrote the abbot of comfort so cold And he met his shepherd a-going to fold How now, my lord Abbott, you are welcome home What needs do you bring us from good king John? Sad news, sad news shepherd I must give That I have but three days more to live For if I do not answer him questions three My head will be smitten from my body The first is to tell him there in thy stead With his crown of gold so fair on his head Among all his liegemen so noble of birth To within one penny of what he is worth The second to tell him without any doubt How soon he may ride this whole world about And at the third question I must not shrink But tell him there truly what he does think Now cheer up, Sire Abbott Did you never hear yet that a fool he may learn A wise man wit lend me horse and serving men And your power and he ride to London to answer your quarrel Nay, frown not, if it hath been told unto me I am like your lordship as ever may be And if you will but lend me your gown There as none shall know us at fair London town Now horses and serving men thou shalt have With sumptuous array most gallant and brave With cross-ear and miter and rotschet and cope Fit to appear for our father the pope Now welcome, Sire Abbott The king he did say Tis well thou art come back to keep thy day For and if thou canst answer me questions three Thy life and thy living both saved shall be And first when thou seest me here in this stead With my crown of gold so fair on my head Among all my leech men so noble of birth Tell me to one penny what to my worth For thirty pence our Saviour was sold Among the false Jews, as I have been told And twenty-nine is the worth of thee For I think thou art one penny worther than he The king he left and swore by St. Bittle I did not think I had been worth so little Now secondly tell me without any doubt How soon I may ride this whole world about You must rise with the sun and ride with the same Until the next morning he rises again And then your grace need not make any doubt But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about The king he left and swore by St. June I did not think it could be gone so soon Now from the third question thou must not shrink But tell me here truly what I do think Yea, that shall I do and make your grace merry You think I'm the abbot of Canterbury But I'm as poor shepherd as plain you may see Let him come to beg pardon for him and for me The king he left and swore by the mass I'll make thee Lord Abbott this day in his place Now nay, my liege, be not in such speed Or a lack, I can neither write nor read Four nobles a week then I will give thee For this merry jest thou has shown unto me Until the old Abbott, when thou comest home Thou hast brought him a pardon from Good King John End of poem. This recording is in the public domain Glug-a-tee-glug From The Myrtle and the Vine By George Coleman the Younger From the world's best poetry, volume nine Tragedy and humour, part two Read for LibriVox.org by Leanne Yao as the narrator And Jason and Canada as the friar Glug-a-tee-glug From The Myrtle and the Vine A jolly fat friar loved liquor good store And he had drunk stoutly at supper He mounted his horse in the night at the door And sat with his face to the cropper Some rogue Quite dead to remorse Some thief whom a halter will throttle Some scoundrel has cut off the head of my horse While I was engaged at the bottle Which went glug-a-tee-glug-a-tee Glug-glug-glug The tail of the steed pointed south on the dale Tossed the friar's road home straight and level But when spurred a horse follows his nose not his tail So he scamper due north like a devil This new mode of docking The friar then said I perceive doesn't make a horse trot ill And tis cheap For he never can eat off his head While I am engaged at the bottle Which goes glug-a-tee-glug-a-tee Glug-glug-glug The steed made a stop In a pond he had got He was rather for drinking than grazing Quote the friar Tis strange headless horses should trot But to drink with their tails is amazing Turning round to sea once this phenomenon rose In the pond fell this son of a pottle Quote he The heads found For I'm under his nose I wish I were over a bottle Which goes glug-a-tee-glug-a-tee Glug-glug-glug-glug End of poem This recording is in the public domain I am a friar of Orders Grey From the opera of Robin Hood By John O'Keefe From the world's best poetry Volume 9, Tragedy and Humour, Part 2 Read for LibriBox.org by Jason in Canada I am a friar of Orders Grey I am a friar of Orders Grey And down in the valleys I take my way I pull not blackberry haw or hip Good store of venison fills my script My long bead-roll I merrily chant Wherever I walk no money I want And why I'm so plump the reason I tell Who leads a good life is sure to live well What baron or squire or knight of the shire Lives half so well as a holy friar After supper of heaven I dream But that is a pullet in clouded cream Myself by denial I mortify With a dainty bit of a warden pie I'm clothed in sack cloth for my sin With old sack wine I'm lined within A chirping cup is my mat and song And the Vesper's bell is my bowl ding dong What baron or squire or knight of the shire Lives half so well as a holy friar John O'Keefe End of poem This recording is in the public domain Not good but sure I think that I can drink With him that wears a hood Though I go bare take ye no care I nothing am a cold I stuff my skin so full within Of jolly good ale and old Back and side go bare go bare Both foot and hand go cold But belly God send thee good ale enough Whether it be new or old I love no roast but a nut-brown toast And a crab laid in the fire A little bread shall do me stead Much bread I not desire No frost nor snow nor wind I throw Can hurt me if I wold I am so wrapped and thoroughly lapped Of jolly good ale and old Back and side go bare go bare Both foot and hand go cold But belly God send thee good ale enough Whether it be new or old And tib my wife That has her life loveth well good ale to seek Full off drinks she till you may see That tears run down her cheek Then doth she trowel to me the bowl Even as a malt worm should and saith Sweetheart I took my part Of this jolly good ale and old Back and side go bare go bare Both foot and hand go cold But belly God send thee good ale enough Whether it be new or old Now let them drink till they nod and wink Even as good fellows should do They shall not miss to have the bliss Good ale doth bring men to And all poor souls that have scoured bowels Or have them lustily trowled God save the lives of them and their wives Whether they be young or old Back and side go bare go bare Both foot and hand go cold But belly God send thee good ale enough Whether it be new or old By phone as the narrator Jason in Canada as the first pilgrim And Thomas Peter as the second pilgrim The pilgrims and the peas A brace of sinners for no good Or ordered to the Virgin Mary's shrine Who at Loretto dwelt in wax stone word And in a fair white wig looked wondrous fine Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel With something in their shoes much worse than gravel In short their toes so gentle to amuse The priest had ordered peas into their shoes A nostrum famous in old Popish times For purifying souls that stunk of crimes A sort of apostolic salt Which Popish parsons for its powers exalt For keeping souls of sinners sweet Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat The knaves set off on the same day Peas in their shoes to go and pray But very different was their speed I want One of the sinners galloped on Swift as a bullet from a gun The other limped as if he had been shot One saw the Virgin soon Pecavi cried had his soul whitewashed also clever Then home again he nimbly hide Made fit with saints above to live forever In coming back however let me say He met his brother rogue about half way Hobbling with outstretched arms and bended knees Cursing the souls and bodies of the peas His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brow in sweat Deep sympathising with his groaning feet How now? The light-toed whitewashed pilgrim broke You lazy lover Odds curse it Cried the other Tis no joke My feet punts hard as any rock And now as soft as blubber Excuse me Virgin Mary that I swear As for Loretto I shall not get there No, to the devil my sinful soul must go For damn if I hadn't lost every toe But, rowers sinner, pray explain How tis that you are not in pain What power hath worked a wonder for your toes Was I just like a snail and crawling Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling Whilst nor a rascal comes to ease my woes How is that you can like a greyhound go Mary is if that not had happened, Bernier Why? Cried the other, grinning You must know that just before I ventured on my journey To walk a little more at ease I took the liberty to boil my peas End of poem, this recording is in public domain The Vicar of Bray by Anonymous From the world's best poetry volume nine Tragedy and humour part two Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter The Vicar of Bray The Vicar of Bray in Berkshire, England Was Simon Alain or Allen Who held his place from 1540 to 1588 He was a papist under the reign of Henry VIII And a Protestant under Edward VI He was a papist again under Mary And once more became a Protestant in the reign of Elizabeth When this scandal to the gown was reproached For his versatility of religious creeds And taxed for being a turncoat and an inconstant changeling As Fuller expresses it, he replied Not so neither, for if I changed my religion I am sure I kept true to my principle Which is to live and die the Vicar of Bray Disraeli In good King Charles's golden days When loyalty no harm meant A zealous high churchman was I And so I got preferment To teach my flock I never missed Kings were by God appointed And lost are those that dare resist Or touch the Lord's anointed And this is law that I'll maintain Until my dying day, sir That whatsoever King shall reign Still I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir When royal James possessed the crown And papery came in fashion That penal laws I hooted down And read the declaration The church of Rome I found would fit All well my constitution And I had been a Jesuit But for the revolution And this is law that I'll maintain Until my dying day, sir That whatsoever King shall reign Still I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir When William was our King Declare to ease the nation's grievance This new wind about I steered And swore to him allegiance Old principles I did revoke Set conscience at a distance Passive obedience was a joke A jest was non-resistance And this is law that I'll maintain Until my dying day, sir That whatsoever King shall reign Still I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir When royal Anne became our Queen The church of England's glory Another face of things was seen And I became a Tory Occasional conformist base I blamed their moderation And thought that church in danger Was by such prevarication And this is law that I'll maintain Until my dying day, sir That whatsoever King shall reign Still I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir When Georgian pudding time came Oh, and moderate men looked big, sir My principles I changed once more And so became a wig, sir And thus preferment I procured From our new faith's defender And almost every day adjured The Pope and the Pretender And this is law that I'll maintain Until my dying day, sir That whatsoever King shall reign Still I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir The illustrious house of Hanover And protest in succession These I do allegiance swear While they can keep possession For in my faith and loyalty I never more will falter And George my lawful King shall be Until the times do alter And this is law that I'll maintain Until my dying day, sir That whatsoever King shall reign Be the Vicar of Bray, sir Until his side, near his undaunted heart Was tied, with basket hilt that would Hold broth and serve for fight and dinner Both. In it he melted lead for bullets To shoot at foes and sometimes bullets To whom he bore so fell a grudge He never gave quarter to any such The transient blade, Toledo trusty For want of fighting was grown rusty And ate into itself for lack Of somebody to hue and heck The peaceful scabbard where it dwelt The rancour of its edge had felt For of the lower end too handful It had devoured, it was so manful And so much scorn to lurk in case As if it does not show its face This sort a beggar had, his page That was but little for his age And therefore waited on him so As dwarves unto night errands do It was a serviceable dodgen Either for fighting or for drudgen When it had stabbed or broke ahead It would scrape trenches or chipbread Toast, cheese or bacon, though it were To bait a mousetrap it would not care It would make clean shoes and in the earth Said leeks and onions and so forth It had been prentice to a brewer Where this and more it did endure But left a trade as many more Have lately done on the same score End of poem, this recording is in the public domain The fine old English gentleman I'll sing you a good old song Made by a good old peat Of a fine old English gentleman Who had an old estate And who kept up his old mansion At a bountiful old rate With a good old porter to relieve The old poor at his gate Like a fine old English gentleman All of the olden time His hall so old was hung around With pikes and guns and bows And swords and good old bucklers That had stirred some tough old blows To us there his worship held his state In doublet and trunk hose And quaffed his cup of good old sack To warm his good old nose Like a fine old English gentleman All of the olden time When winter's cold brought frost and snow He opened house to all And though three score and ten his years He feetly led the ball Nor was the houseless wanderer Air driven from his hall For while he feasted all the great He never forgot the small Like a fine old English gentleman All of the olden time But time, though old, is strong in flight And years rolled swiftly by And autumn's falling leaves proclaimed This good old man must die He laid him down right tranquilly Gave up life's latest sigh And mournful stillness reigned around And tears bedued each eye Like a fine old English gentleman All of the olden time Now surely this is better far Than all the new parade of theatres And fancy bowls at home and masquerade And much more economical For all his bills were paid Then leave your new vagaries quite And take up the old trade Of a fine old English gentleman All of the olden time End of poem, this recording is in the public domain Toby Tosspot Alas, what pity this that regularity Like Isaac Shove's is such a rarity But there are spilling whites in London town Termed jolly dogs, joy spirits Elias Swine, who pour in midnight revel Mump us down, making their throats A thorough fare for wine These bent thrifts, who life's pleasures And on, dozing with headaches till the afternoon Lose half man's regular estate of song By borrowing too largely of the moon One of this kidney, Toby Tosspot height Was coming from the Bedford late at night And being Bucky Plano's full of wine Although he had a tolerable notion Of aiming at progressive motion Twasn't direct, twas serpentine He worked with sinuosities Along like Monsieur Corkscrew Worming through a cork, not straight Like Corkscrew's proxy, stiff-done prong A fork At length, with near four bottles in his fate He saw the moon shining on Shove's breastplate When reading Please to ring the bell And being civil beyond measure Ring it, says Toby Very well. I'll ring it with a deal of pleasure Toby, the kindest soul in all the town Gave it a jerk that almost jerked it down He waited full two minutes. No one came He waited full two minutes more Then, says Toby If he's deaf, I'm not to blame I'll pull it for the gentleman again But the first peel woke Isaac in a fright Who, quick as lightning, popping up his head Sat on his heads and tippodes in bed Pale as a parsnip, bold upright At length, he wisely to himself Does say, calming his fears Tease some fools wrong and run away When Peel II rattled in his ears Shove jumped into the middle of the floor And trembling at each breath of air that stirred He groped downstairs and opened the street door While Toby was performing Peel III Isaac eyed Toby, fearfully ascanned And saw he was a strapper, stout and tall Then put this question Pray, sir, what do you want? Says Toby I want nothing, sir, at all What nothing, sir, you've pulled my belly vow As if you jerk it off the wire Quoth Toby, gravely making him a bow I pulled it, sir, at your desire At mine? Yes, yours, I hope I've done it well High time for bed, sir, I was hastening to it But if you write up, please, to ring the bell Common politeness makes me stop and do it End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Milkmaid by Geoffrey Taylor From The World's Best Poetry, Volume 9 Tragedy and Humour, Part II Read for LibriVox.org by Jason in Canada As the narrator And Lian Yao as The Milkmaid The Milkmaid A milkmaid who poised a full pail on her head Thus mused on her prospects in life, it is said Let me see, I should think that this milk will procure 100 good eggs, or four score, to be sure Well then, stop a bit, it must not be forgotten Some of these may be broken and some may be rotten But if twenty for accident should be detached It will leave me just sixty sound eggs to be hatched Well, sixty sound eggs? No, sound chickens, I mean Of these some may die, well suppose seventeen Seventeen, not so many, so ten at the most Which will leave fifty chickens to boil or to roast But then there's their barley How much will they need? Why, they take but one grain at a time when they feed So that's a mid-trifle Now then, let us see, as a fair market price How much money there'll be Six shillings a pair, five, four, three and six To prevent all mistakes, that low price I will fix Now, what will that make? Fifty chickens, I said Fifty times three and six pence I'll ask Brother Ned But stop! Three and six pence a pair, I must sell them Well, a pair is a couple Now, then let us tell them A couple and fifty will go, oh, my poor brain Why, just a score, times and five pair will remain Twenty-five pairs of fouls Now how tiresome it is that I can't reckon up so much money as this Well, there's no use in trying, so let's give a guess I'll say twenty pounds, and it can't be no less Twenty pounds, I am certain, will buy me a cow Thirty geese and two turkeys, eight pigs and a sow Now if these turn out well, at the end of the year I shall fill both my pockets with guineas, tis clear Forgetting her burden, when this she had said The maid superciliously tossed up her head When alas for her prospects, her milk pail descended And so all her schemes for the future were ended This moral, I think, may be safely attached Reckon not on your chickens before they are hatched End of poem This recording is in the public domain Let Taylor preach upon a morning breezy How well to rise while knights and larks are flying For my part, getting up seems not so easy by half as lying What if the lark does carol in the sky Soaring beyond the sight to find him out Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly, I'm not a trout Talk not to me of bees and such like hums The smell of sweet herbs at the morning prime Only lie long enough, and bed becomes a bed of time To me, Dan Phoebus and his car are nought His steeds that pour impatiently about Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought The first turn out Write beautiful that dewy meads appear Be sprinkled by the rosy-fingered girl What then, if I prefer my pillow beer to early pearl My stomach is not ruled by other men's And grumbling for a reason quinkly begs Wherefore should master rise before the hens Have laid their eggs Why, from a comfortable pillow start To see faint flushes in the east awaken A fig, say I, for any streaky part accepting bacon An early riser, Mr. Gray has drawn Who used to haste the dewy grass among To meet the sun upon the upland lawn Well, he died young With chair-women such early hours agree And sweeps that earn betimes their bit and sup But I'm no climbing boy and need not be All up, all up So here I lie, my morning calls deferring Till something nearer to the stroke of noon A man that's fond precociously of stirring Must be a spoon End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To find a wondrous short it cannot hold you long In Islington there was a man of whom the world might say That still a godly race he ran when there he went to pray A kind and gentle heart he had to comfort friends and foes The naked every day he clad when he put on his clothes And in that town a dog was found as many dogs there be Both mongrel, puppy, welp and hound and curds of low degree This dog and man at first were friends, but what a peak began The dog to gain his private ends went mad and bit the man Around from all the neighbouring streets the wandering neighbours ran And swore the dog had lost his wits to bite so good a man The wound it seemed both sore and sad to every Christian eye And while they swore the dog was mad they swore the man would die But sooner wonder came to light that showed the robes they lied The man recovered of the bite, the dog it was that died End of home. This recording is in the public domain Old Grimes by Albert G. Green From the world's best poetry volume 9 Tragedy and humour part 2 Read for Liberbox.org by Thomas Peter Old Grimes Old Grimes is dead, that good old man There shall see him more He used to wear a long black coat All buttoned down before His heart was open as the day His feelings all were true His hair was some inclined to grey He wore it in a queue When air he heard the voice of pain His breast with pity burned The large round head upon his cane From ivory was turned Once he ever had for all He knew no base design His eyes were dark and rather small His nose was aquiline He lived at peace with all mankind In friendship he was true His coat had pocket holes behind His pantaloons were blue Unharmed the sin which earth pollutes He passed securely over He never wore a pair of boots For thirty years or more But good old Grimes is now at rest Nor fears misfortunes frown He wore a double breasted vest The stripes ran up and down He modest merit sought to find And pay it its dessert He had no malice in his mind No ruffles on his shirt His neighbours he did not abuse He was full and gay He wore large buckles on his shoes And changed them every day His knowledge hid from public gays He did not bring to view Nor make a noise town meeting days As many people do His worldly goods he never threw In trust of fortune's chances But lived as all his brothers do In easy circumstances He was stripped by anxious cares His peaceful moments ran And everybody said he was A fine old gentleman End of poem This recording is in the public domain Elegy on Madame Blaise by Oliver Goldsmith from the world's best poetry Volume 9, Tragedy and Humour Part 2 Elegy on Madame Blaise Good people all with one accord Lament from Madame Blaise Who never wanted a good word From those who spoke her praise The needy seldom passed her door And always found her kind She freely lent to all the poor Who left a pledge behind She strove the neighbourhood to please In her wondrous winning She never followed wicked ways Unless when she was sinning At church in silk and satins new With hoop of monstrous size She never slumbered in her pew But when she shut her eyes Her love was salt, I do aver By twenty bows or more The king himself has followed her When she has walked before But now her wealth and finery fled Her hangers on cut short all Her doctors found when she was dead Her last disorder mortal Let us lament in sorrow's sore For Kent Street well may say That had she lived twelve months more She had not died today The Graveyard From A Fable for Critics By James Russell Lowell From the world's best poetry volume nine Tragedy and humour part two Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter The Graveyard From A Fable for Critics Let us glance for a moment To his well worth the pains What an average graveyard contains There lie levelers leveled Duns done up themselves There are booksellers Finally laid on their shelves Horizontally there lie upright politicians Dose-a-dose with their patients sleep Faultless physicians There are slave-drivers quietly whipped underground There book-binders done up in boards Last bound Their card-players wait till the last trump be played There all the choice spirits get finally laid There the babe that's unborn is supplied with a birth There men without legs get their six feet of earth Their lawyers repose each wrapped up in his case Their seekers of office are sure of a place Their defendant and plaintiff get equally cast Their shoemakers quietly stick to the last Their brokers at length become silent as stocks Their stage-drivers sleep without quitting their box And so forth and so forth and so forth and so on With this kind of stuff one might endlessly go on To come to the point I may safely assert you Will find in each yard every cardinal virtue And at this just conclusion will surely arrive That the goodness of earth is more dead than alive End of poem This recording is in the public domain Faithless Nelly Gray A Pathetic Ballad by Thomas Hood From the world's best poetry, volume 9 Tragedy and humour, part 2 Read for LibriVox.org by Sonja as the narrator Craig Franklin as Ben Battle And Phon as Nelly Gray Faithless Nelly Gray A Pathetic Ballad Ben Battle was a soldier bold and used to war's alarms But a cannonball took off his legs So he laid down his arms Now as they bore him off the field said he Let others shoot for here I leave my second leg And the 42nd foot The army's surgeons made him limbs Said he There are only pegs but there is wooden members Quite as represent my legs Now Ben he loved a pretty maid Her name was Nelly Gray So he went to pay her his devours When he devoured his pay But when he called on Nelly Gray She made him quite a scoff And when she saw his wooden legs He began to take them off Oh Nelly Gray, oh Nelly Gray Is this your love so warm? The love that loves a scarlet coat Should be more uniform Said she I loved a soldier once For he was blithe and brave But I will never have a man With both legs in the grave Before you had those timber toes Your love I did allow But then you know You stand upon another footing now Oh Nelly Gray, oh Nelly Gray For all your jeering speeches At duty's call I left my legs In barrajo's speeches Why then? Said she You've lost a feat of legs in war's alarms And now you cannot wear your shoes Upon your feats of arms Oh false and fickle Nelly Gray I know why you refuse Though I've no feet Some other man is standing in my shoes I wish I near had seen your face But now along farewell For you will be my death Alas you will not be my knell Now when he went from Nelly Gray His heart so heavy got And life was such a burden grown It made him take a knot Surround his melancholy neck A rope he didn't whine And for his second time in life Enlisted in the lion One end he tied around the beam And then removed his pegs And as his legs were off Of course, he soon was off his legs And there he hung till he was dead As any nail in town For though the stress had cut him up It could not cut him down A dozen men sat on his corpse To find out why he died And they buried Ben in four crossroads With a stake in his inside End of poem This recording is in the public domain Craig Franklin is the Bosun Jason in Canada as the Waterman And Thomas Peter as Ben Young Ben, he was a nice young man A carpenter by trade And he fell in love with Sally Brown That was a lady's maid But as they fetched a walk one day They met a press scan crew And Sally she did faint away Whilst then he was brought to The Bosuns wore with wicked words Enough to shock a saint That though she did seem in a fit To us nothing but a faint Come, girl, said he Hold up your head He'll be as good as me For when your swain is in our boat A Bosun he will be So when they'd made their game of her And taken off her elf She roused and found She only was a coming to herself And is he gone? And is he gone? She cried and wept outright Then I will to the water side And see him out of sight A waterman came up to her Now young woman, said he If you weep on so You will make eye water in the sea Alas, they've taken my bow, Ben To sail with old Ben bow And her woe began to run afresh As if she'd said, gee, woe Says he They've only taken him to the tender ship, you see The tender ship, cried Sally Brown What a hardship that must be Oh, would I were a mermaid now For then I'd follow him But oh, I'm not a fish woman So I cannot swim Alas, I was not born beneath The virgin and the scales So I must curse my cruel stars And walk about in whales Now Ben had sailed to many a place That's underneath the world But in two years the ship came home And all her sails were furled But when he called on Sally Brown To see how she got on He found she'd got another Ben Whose Christian name was John Oh, Sally Brown, oh, Sally Brown How could you serve me so? I've met with many a breeze before But never such a blow Then, reading on his speckle box He heaved a heavy sigh And then began to eye his pipe And then to pipe his eye And then he tried to sing All's well But could not, though he tried His head was turned And so he chewed his pigtail Till he died His death, which happened in his birth At forty odd befell They went and told the sexton And the sexton told the bell End of poem This recording is in the public domain Orator Puff by Thomas Moore From the world's best poetry, volume nine Tragedy and Humour, part two Read for Liberfox.org by Phon as the narrator Jason in Canada as the Orator Puff Sonja as the wed And Craig Franklin as the paddy Orator Puff Mr. Orator Puff had two tones in his voice The one squeaking thus And the other down so In each sentence he uttered He gave you your choice For one half was B-alt And the rest G-below Oh-oh, Orator Puff One voice for an Orator surely enough But he still talked away Despite of cuffs and of frowns So distracting all ears With his ups and his downs That Awag once on hearing the Orator say My voice is for war Asked Which of them pray Oh-oh, Orator Puff One voice for an Orator is surely enough Railing homeward one evening Top heavy with gin And rehearsing his speech On the weight of the crown He tripped near a saw-pit And tumbled right in Thinking fun The last words as his noddle came down Oh-oh, Orator Puff One voice for an Orator is surely enough Good Lord He exclaimed in his he and she tones Help me out, help me out I have broken my bones Help you out Said a paddy who passed What a bother Oh-oh, Orator Puff One voice for an Orator is surely enough End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Gouty Merchant and the Stranger By Horace Smith 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 Stranger And Craig Franklin as the Gouty Merchant The Gouty Merchant and the Stranger In broad street building, on a winter night Snug by his parlor fire, a gouty white Set all alone, with one hand rubbing His feet rolled up in fleecy hose With the other, heat beneath his nose The public ledger, in whose columns Grubbing, he'd known All the sales of hops, ships, shops And slops, gum, galls and groceries Ginger, gin, tar, tallow Turmeric, turpentine, and tin When low, a decent personage In black, entered, and most politely Said Your footman, sir, has gone His nightly track to the king's head And left your door ajar Which I observed in passing by And thought it neighborly to give you notice Ten thousand thanks! How very few get, in time of danger Such kind attention from a stranger A shorty, that fellow's throat is Doomed to a final drop at Newgate He knows, too, the unconscionable Elf That there's no soul at home except myself Indeed Reply to stranger, looking grave Then he is a double-nave He knows that rogues and thieves by scores Nightly beset unguarded doors And see how easily might one of these Domestic foes, even beneath your very nose Perform his navish tricks Enter your room, sir Enter your room, as I have done Blow out your candles Thus and thus Pocket your silver candlesticks And walk off thus So said, so done He made no more remark nor waited for replies But marched off with his prize Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark End of poem. This recording is in the public domain The diverting history of John Gilpin Showing how he went farther than he intended And came safe home again By William Cooper From the world's best poetry, Volume 9 Tragedy and humour, Part 2 Read for LibriVox.org By Craig Franklin as the narrator Phone as Mrs Gilpin Jason in Canada as John Gilpin Lian Yao as Busy Sonia as the crowd And Thomas Peter as the calendar The diverting history of John Gilpin Showing how he went farther than he intended And came safe home again John Gilpin was a citizen of credit and renown A train-band captain equest he Of famous London town John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear Though wedded we have been These twice-ten tedious years Yet we no holiday have seen Tomorrow is our wedding day And we will then repair Unto the bell at Edmonton All in a chaise and pair My sister and my sister's child Myself and children three Will fill the chaise So you must ride on horseback after we He soon replied I do admire of womankind but one And you are she, my dearest dear Therefore it shall be done I am a linen draper bold As all the world doth know And my good friend the calendar Will lend his horse to go Quoth Mrs Gilpin That's well said And for that wine is dear We will be furnished with our own Which is both bright and clear John Gilpin kissed his loving wife O joyed was he to find That though on pleasure she was bent She had a frugal mind The morning came, the chaise was brought But yet was not allowed to drive up to the door Lest all should say that she was proud So three doors off the chaise was stayed Where they did all get in Six precious souls and all a gorg To dash through thick and thin Smack went the whip, round went the wheels Were never folks so glad The stones did rattle underneath As if cheap side were mad John Gilpin, as his horse's side Seized fast the flowing mane And up he got in haste to ride But soon came down again For saddle-tree scarce reached had he His journey to begin When turning round his head he saw Three customers come in So down he came for loss of time Although it grieved him sore Yet loss of pence, for well he knew Would trouble him much more T'was long before the customers Were suited to their mind When Betty's screaming came downstairs The wine is left behind Good luck Yet bring it me, my leather and belt likewise In which I bear my trusty sword When I do exercise Now Mistress Gilpin, careful soul, Had two stone bottles found To hold the liquor that she loved And keep it safe and sound Each bottle had a curling ear Through which the belt he drew And hung a bottle on each side To make his balance true Then overall that he might be Equipped from top to toe His long red cloak well brushed and neat He manfully did throw Now see him mounted once again Upon his nimble steed Fall slowly pacing all the stones With caution and good heed But finding soon a smoother road Beneath his well-shod feet The snorting beast began to trot Which galled him in his seat So fair and softly John he cried But John he cried in vain That trot became a gallop soon In spite of curb and rain So stooping down as needs he must Who cannot sit upright He grasped the mane with both his hands And eek with all his might His horse, who never in that sort Had handled been before What thing upon his back had got Did wonder more and more Away went Gilpin neck or nought Away went hat and wig He little dreamt when he set out Of running such a rig The wind did blow, the cloak did fly Like streamer long and gay Till loop and button Failing both that last it flew away Then might all people well discern The bottles he had slung A bottle swinging at each side As hath been said or sung The dogs did bark, the children screamed Up flew the windows all And every soul cried out Well done! As loud as he could bawl Away went Gilpin Who but he? His fame soon spread around He carries the weight he writes a race Tis for a thousand pound And still as fast as he drew near It was wonderful to view How in a trice the turnpike men They'd gates wide open through And now as he went bowing down His reeking head full low The bottles twain behind his back Were shattered at a blow Down ran the wine into the road Most piteous to be seen Which made his horses flanks to smoke As they had basted been But still he seemed to carry weight With leaven girdle braced For all might see the bottleneck Still dangling at his waist Thus all through Mary Islington These gambles did he play Until he came unto the wash Of Edmonton so gay And there he threw the wash Around on both sides of the way Just like unto a trundling mop Or a wild goose at play At Edmonton his loving wife From the balcony spied Her tender husband Wondering much to see how he did ride Stop, stop, John Gilpin Here's the house They all at once did cry The dinner waits and we are tired Said Gilpin So am I But yet his horse was not a witt Incline to tarry there for why His owner had a house full ten miles off But where? So like an arrow's swift he flew Shot by an archer strong So did he fly Which brings me to the middle of my song Away went Gilpin Out of breath and sore against his will Till at his friend the calendars His horse at last stood still The calendar amazed to see His neighbor in such trim Lade down his pipe flew to the gate And thus accosted him What news, what news Your tidings tell Tell me you must and shall Say why bear-headed you are come Or why you come at all Now Gilpin had a pleasant witt And loved a timely joke And thus sent to the calendar In merry guise he spoke I came because your horse would come And if I well forbode My hat and wig will soon be here They are upon the road The calendar, right glad to find His friend in merry pin Returned him not to single word But to the house went in When straight he came with hat And wig a wig that flowed behind A hat not much the worse for where Each cumbly in its kind He held them up His turn thus showed his ready witt My head is twice as big as yours They therefore needs must fit But let me scrape the dirt away That hangs upon your face And stop and eat for well you may Be in a hungry case Said John It is my wedding day And all the world would stare If wife should dine at Edmonton And I should dine at where Turning to his horse he said I am in haste to dine T'was for your pleasure you came here You shall go back for mine Ah, luckless speech and bootless boast For which he paid full dear For while he spake a braying ass Did sing most loud and clear Whereat his horse did snort As he had heard a lion roar And galloped off with all his might As he had done before Away went Gilpin And away went Gilpin's hat and wig He lost them sooner than at first For why, they were too big Now Mistress Gilpin When she saw her husband posting down Into the country far away She pulled out half a crown And thus unto the youth she said That drove them to the bell This shall be yours when you bring back My husband's safe and well The youth did ride and soon did meet John coming back a main Whom in a trice he tried to stop By catching at his rein But not performing what he meant And gladly would have done The frightened steed he frightened more And made him faster run Away went Gilpin and away Went post boy at his heels The post boy's horse ride Gled to miss the lumbering of the wheels Six gentlemen upon the road The sea and Gilpin fly With post boys scampering in the rear They raised the hue and cry Stop thief, stop thief A highwayman Not one of them was mute An all and each that passed that way Did join in the pursuit And now the turnpike gates again Flew open in short space The tollman thinking as before That Gilpin rode a race And so he did and won it too For he got first to town Nor stopped till where he did get up He did again get down Now let us sing Long live the king And Gilpin long live he And when he next doth ride abroad May I be there to see End of poem This recording is in the public domain Epigrams by Samuel Taylor Coleridge From the world's best poetry Volume 9, Tragedy and Humour Part 2 Read for Liberfox.org by Phon Epigrams by S.T. Coleridge, Cologne In Cunn, a town of monks and bones And pavements fanged with murderous stones And rags and hags and hideous wenches I counted two and seventy stenches All well-defined and several stinks Ye nymphs that rain or sewers and sinks The river Rhine, it is well known Doth wash your city of Cologne But tell me, nymphs, what power divine Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine Sly Beelzebub took all occasions To try Job's constancy and patience He took his honour, took his health He took his children, took his wealth His servants, oxen, horses, cows But Cunning Satan did not take his spouse But heaven, that brings out good from evil And loves to disappoint the devil Had predetermined to restore Twofold all he had before His servants, horses, oxen, cows Short-sighted devil not to take his spouse Horse Mavius reads his hobbling verse To all and at all times And finds them both divinely smooth His voice as well as Rhine's Yet folks say Mavius is no ass But Mavius makes it clear That he's a monster of an ass An ass without an ear Swans sing before they die To her no bad thing That certain persons die Before they sing End of poem, this recording Is in the public domain The Razor Seller by Dr. John Wolcott Peter Pindar from The World's Best Poetry, Volume 9 Tragedy and Humour, Part 2 Read for LibriVox.org by Jason in Canada As the narrator Thomas Peter as Hodge And Lian Yao as the Razor Seller The Razor Seller A fellow in a market town Most musical cried Razors up and down And offered twelve for eighteen pence Which certainly seemed wondrous cheap And for the money quite a heap As every man would buy with cash and sense A country bumpkin the great offer heared Poor hodge who suffered by a broad black beard That seemed a shoe-rush stuck beneath his nose With cheerfulness the eighteen pence he paid And proudly to himself and whispers say This rascal stowed the razors, I suppose No matter if the fellow be a knave Provided that the razors shave It certainly will be a monstrous prize So home the clown with his good fortune went Smiling in heart and soul content And quickly soaked himself to ears and eyes Being well lathered from a dish or tub Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub Just like a hedger cutting furs Too was a vile Razor Then the rest he tried All were imposters Hodge sighed I wish my eighteen pence within my purse In vain to chase his beard and bring the graces He cut and dug and winced and stamped and swore Brought blood and danced, blasphemed and made rye faces And cursed each Razor's body oar and oar His muzzle formed the opposition's stuff Firm as a focsite would not lose its rough So kept it, laughing at the steel and suds Hodge in a passion stretched his angry jaws Bowing the direst vengeance with clenched claws On the vile cheek that sold the goods Razors, a mean confounded dog Not fit to scrape a hog Hodge sought the fellow, found him and begun Perhaps Master Razor oak to you tis fun That people flay themselves out of their lives You who rascal, for an hour have I been grubbing Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing With razors just like oyster knives Sarah, I tell you you're a knave To cry up razors that can't shave Friend Quoth the Razorman I'm not a knave, as for the razors you have bought Upon my soul, I never thought that they would shave Not think they'd shave Quoth Hodge with wondering eyes and voice Not much unlike an Indian yell What were they made for then, you dog? He cries Made Quoth the fellow with a smile Just so End of poem This recording is in the public domain Paper A Conversational Pleasantry by Benjamin Franklin From the world's best poetry, Volume 9 Tragedy and Humour, Part 2 Read for LibriVox.org by Craig Franklin Paper A Conversational Pleasantry Some wits of old Such wits of old they were Whose hints showed meaning whose illusions care By one brave stroke to mark all humankind Called clear, blank paper every infant mind Where still, as opening sends her dictates wrote Fair virtue put a seal or vice a blot The thought was happy, pertinent and true Methinks a genius might the plan pursue I, can you pardon my presumption I No wits, no genius, yet for once will try Various the paper various wants produce The wants of fashion, elegance and use Men are as various and if right I scan Each sort of paper represents some man Pray note the fob, half powder and half lace Nice as a band box where his dwelling place He's the gilt paper which apart you store And lock from vulgar hands in these grottois Mechanics, servants, farmers and so forth Are copy paper of inferior worth Less prized, more useful for your desk decreed Free to all pens and prompt at every need The wretch whom avarice bids to pinch and spare Starve, cheat and pilfer to enrich an air Is coarse brown paper such as peddlers choose To wrap up wares which better men will use Take next the miser's contrast who destroys Health, fame and fortune in a round of joys Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout, he's a true sinking paper Past all doubt The retail politician's anxious thought Deems this side always right and that's stark naught He foams with censure with applause he raves A dupe to rumours and a tool of knaves He'll want no type, his weakness to proclaim While such a thing as fool's gap has a name The hasty gentleman whose blood runs high Who picks a quarrel if you step awry Who can't adjust a hint or look endure What is he, what? Touch paper to be sure What are our poets? Take them as they fall, good, bad, rich, poor Much red, not red at all They and their works in the same class you'll find They are the mere waste paper of mankind Observe the maiden innocently sweet She's fair white paper, an unsullied sheet On which the happy man whom fate ordains May write his name and take her for his pains One instance more, own only one I'll bring It is the great man who scorns a little thing Whose thoughts, whose deeds, whose maxims are his own Formed on the feelings of his heart alone True, genuine, royal paper is his breast Of all the kind, most precious, purest, best End of poem. This recording is in the public domain Epitaph, for the tombstone erected Over the marquee of Anglesey's leg Lost at Waterloo by George Canning From the world's best poetry volume nine Tragedy and humour part two Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter Epitaph, for the tombstone erected Over the marquee of Anglesey's leg Lost at Waterloo Here rests, and let no saucy nave Presume to sneer and laugh To learn that mouldering in the grave Is laid a British calf For he who writes these lines is sure That those who read the whole Will find such laugh was premature For here too lies a soul And here five little ones repose Twin-born with other five Unheeded by their brother Toes Who are now alive. A leg and foot To speak more plain rests here Of one commanding, who though His wits he might retain Lost half his understanding, and When the guns with thunder fraught Poured bullets thick as hail Could only in his way be taught To give the foe leg bale. And now in England, just as gay As in the battle brave, goes to a route Review or play with one foot in the grave Fortune in vain here showed her spite For he will still be found Should England's sons engage in fight Resolve to stand his ground But fortune's pardon I must beg She meant not to disarm For when she lopped the hero's leg She did not seek his harm And but indulged a harmless whim Since he could walk with one She saw two legs were lost on him Who never meant to run. End of poem This recording is in the public domain Rudolph the Hedsman From This Is It by Oliver Wendell Holmes From the world's best poetry volume nine Tragedy and humour part two Read for LibriVox.org by Leanne Yao as the narrator Thomas Peter as the prisoner Drake Franklin as the Hedsman Rudolph the Hedsman from This Is It Rudolph, professor of the Hedsman's trade A like was famous for his arm and blade One day a prisoner justice had to kill Now to the block to test the artist's skill Bear armed, sword visaged, gaunt and shaggy-browed Rudolph the Hedsman rose above the crowd His falchion lightened with a sudden gleam As the pike's armor flashes in the stream He sheathed his blade, he turned as if to go The victim knelt still waiting for the blow Why strike is not performed, I murder his act The prisoner said, his voice was slightly cracked Friend, I have struck The artist straight replied Wait but one moment and yourself decide He held his snuff-box Now then, if you please The prisoner sniffed and with a crashing sneeze Rudolph his head tumbled, bowled along the floor Bounced down the steps The prisoner said no more And a poem, this recording is in the public domain Song of one eleven years in prison By George Canning from the world's best poetry Volume nine, tragedy and humour Part two, read for LibriVox.org By phone as the narrator And Thomas Peter as the prisoner Song of one eleven years in prison When air with a haggard eyes I view This dungeon that I'm rotting in I think of those companions true Who studied with me at the U University of Goettingen University of Goettingen Weeps and pulls out a blue kerchief With which he wipes his eyes And tenderly at it he proceeds Sweet kerchief, jacked with heavenly blue Which once my love sat knotting in At last till the then was true At least I thought so at the U University of Goettingen University of Goettingen At a repetition of this line Amongst his chains in cadence Barbs, barbs, alas How swift you flew Her neat post-wagon trotting in You bore Matilda from my view For low on I languished at the U University of Goettingen University of Goettingen This faded form, this pallid hue This blood my veins is clotting in My years are many, they were few When first I entered at the U University of Goettingen University of Goettingen There first for thee my passion grew Sweet, sweet Matilda Pertingen Thou art the daughter of my tutor Law professor at the U University of Goettingen University of Goettingen Sun, moon and thou they world adieu That kings and priests are plotting in Here doomed to starve on water Grewl, never shall I see The U University of Goettingen University of Goettingen During the last stanza he dashes his head Repeatedly against the walls of his prison And finally so hard as to produce a visible contusion He then throws himself on the floor in an agony The curtain drops, the music still continuing to play Till it is wholly fallen End of poem, this recording is in the public domain Little Billy by William Makepeace Thackery From the world's best poetry, volume 9 Tragedy and humour part 2 Read for LibriVox.org by Craig Franklin as the narrator Jason in Canada as Gorgian Jack Lian Yao as Gosling Jimmy And Sonia as Little Billy Little Billy, there were three sailors of Bristol City Who took a boat and went to sea But first with beef and captain's biscuits And pickled pork they loaded she There was Gorgian Jack and Gosling Jimmy And the youngster he was Little Billy Now when they'd got as far as the Equator There'd nothing left but one split pea Says Gorgian Jack to Gosling Jimmy I am extremely hungry To Gorgian Jack says Gosling Jimmy We've nothing left, us must eat we Says Gorgian Jack to Gosling Jimmy There's one other we shouldn't agree There's Little Bill, he's young and tender We're old and tough, so let's eat he Oh Billy, we're going to kill and eat you So undo the button of your shimmy When Bill received this information He used his pocket handkerchief First let me say my catechism Which my poor mother taught to me Make haste, make haste Says Gosling Jimmy While Jack pulled out his snigger's knee Billy went up to the main top-gallant mast And down he fell on his bended knee He scarce had come to the twelfth commandment When up he jumps There's land I see Jerusalem and Madagascar And North and South America There's the British flag riding at anchor With Admiral Napier KCB So when they got aboard of the admirals He hanged Fat Jack and flogged Jimmy But as for Little Bill he made him The Captain of a 73 End of poem This recording is in the public domain Captain Reese by William Schwenk Gilbert From the world's best poetry, volume 9 Tragedy and humour part 2 Read for LibriVox.org by Sonya as the narrator Craig Franklin as Captain Reese Jason in Canada as the coxswain William Lee And Thomas Peter as the boson Captain Reese Of all the ships upon the blue No ship contained a better crew Than that of worthy Captain Reese Commending of the mental peace He was adored by all his men For worthy Captain Reese R.N. did all That lay within him to promote the comfort Of his crew If ever they were dull or sad Their Captain danced to them like mad Or told to make the time pass by Draw legends of his infancy A feather bed had every man Warm slippers and hot water can Brown Windsor from the Captain's store A valet too to every four Did they with thirst in summer burn Low, seltzer jeans at every turn And on all very sultry days Cream ices handed round on trays Then current wine and ginger pops Stood handily on all the tops And also, with amusement rife A sewage rope or wheel of life New volumes came across the sea From Mr. Moody's library The Times and Saturday Review Beguiled the leisure of the crew Kind-hearted Captain Reese R.N. Was quite devoted to his men In point of fact, good Captain Reese Beatified the mental peace One summer eve at half past ten He said, addressing all his men Come tell me please what I can do To please and gratify my crew By any reasonable plan I'll make you happy if I can My own convenience count as nil It is my duty and I will Then up and answered William Lee The kind Captain's coxswain he A nervous shy, low-spoken man He cleared his throat and thus began You have a daughter, Captain Reese Ten female cousins and a niece Amar, if what I'm told is true Is my sister's and an aunt or two Now somehow, sir, it seems to me More friendly like weshall should be If you united of them to unmarried Members of the crew If you'd ameliorate our life Let each select from them a wife And as for nervous me, old pal Give me your own enchanting gal Good Captain Reese, that worthy man I quite agree, he said Oh Bill, it is my duty and I will My daughter, that enchanting girl Has just been promised to an earl And all my other family to peers Of various degree But what do Dukes and Fye count to The happiness of all my crew The word I give you all I'll fulfill It is my duty and I will As you desire it shall befall I'll settle thousands on you all And I shall be, despite my horde The only bachelor on board The boson of the mental peace He blushed and spoke to Captain Reese Oh, beg your honours, leave He said If you would wish to go in wed I have a widowed mother who Would be a very thing for you She long has loved you from afar She waters for you, Captain Orre The captain saw the dame that day Addressed her in his playful way And did it want a wedding ring? It was a tempting nickel-sing Well, well, the chaplain I will seek Will all be married this day week At yonder church upon the hill It is my duty and I will The sisters, cousins, aunts, and niece And widowed ma of Captain Reese Attended there as they were bid It was their duty, and they did End of poem This recording is in the public domain Craig Franklin is the old sailor And Lian Yao as the cook The yarn of the Nancy Bell From the Bad Ballads It was on the shores that round our coast From deal to ramsgate span That I found alone on a piece of stone An elderly naval man His hair was weedy, his beard was long And weedy and long was he Heard this white on the shore recite In a singular minor key Oh, I am a cook and a captain-bold And the mate of the Nancy Brigg And the Boson Tite and the Midship Might And the crew of their captain's gig And he shook his fist and he tore his hair Till I really felt afraid For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking And so I simply said Oh, elderly man, it's little I know Of the duties of men of the sea And I'll eat my hand if I understand How you can possibly be At once a cook and a captain-bold And the mate of the Nancy Brigg And a Boson Tite and a Midship Might And the crew of their captain's gig Then he gave a hitch to his trousers Which is a trick all seamen-larn And having got rid of a thumping quid He spun this painful yarn To his in the good ship Nancy Bell That we sail to the Indian Sea And there are a reef we came to grief Which has often occurred to me And pretty nigh all the crew was drowned There was seventy-seven a soul And only ten of the Nancy's men Said here to the muster-ole There was me and a cook And the captain-bold and the mate of the Nancy Brigg And the Boson Tite and a Midship Might And the crew of the captain's gig For a month we neither whittles nor drink Till a hungry-wheated fill So we drawed a lot an accordion shot The captain for our meal The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate And a delicate dish he made Then our appetite with the Midship Might And the seventy-seven survivors stayed And then we murdered the Boson Tite And he much resembled Pig Then we whittled free to the cook-a-me Of the crew of the captain's gig Then only the cook-a-me was left And the delicate question Which of us two goes to the kettle of rose And we argued it out as sick For I loved that cook as a brother I did And the cook he worshipped me And we'd both be blow'd if we'd either be stowed In the other chap's hold, you see I'll be each of you dines off me Says Tom Yes, that says I, you'll be I'm boiled if I die, my friend, quote I, and Exactly so Quote he Says he Dear James To murder me were a foolish thing to do For don't you see that you can't cook me While I can And will cook you So he boils the water and takes the salt And the pepper in portions, true Which he'd never forgot And some chopped shallot And some sage and parsley, too Come here And he stirred it round and round and round And he sniffed at the foaming froth When I ups with his heels And smothers his squeals in the scum Of the boiling broth Says he With a proper pride Which his smiling features tell Twill soothing bee of I let you see How extremely nice you'll smell And he stirred it round and round and round And he sniffed at the foaming froth When I ups with his heels And smothers his squeals in the scum Of the boiling broth And I eat that cook in a week or less And as I eating bee The last of his chops Why I almost drops For a vessel in sight I see And I never laugh And I never smile And I'll never lock nor play But I sit and croak in a single joke I have which is to say Oh, I am a cook and a captain Bored in the mate of the Nancy Brigg And a boast and tight and a midship mites And the crew of the captain's gig End of poem This recording is in the public domain The art of bookkeeping By Thomas Hood From the world's best poetry volume nine Tragedy in humour part two Read for LibriVarx.org By Thomas Peter The art of bookkeeping How hard when those who do not wish to lend Thus lose their books Are sneered by anglers Folks that fish with literary hooks Who call and take some favourite tome But never read it through They thus complete their set at home By making one at you I, of my spencer, quite bereft Last winter saw was shaken Of lamb I've got a quarter left Nor could I save my bacon And then I saw my crab at last Like Hamlet backward go And as the tide was ebbing fast Of course I lost my row Hamlet served to knock me down Which makes me thus a talker And once when I was out of town My Johnson proved a walker While studying over the fire one day My Hobbes amidst the smoke They bore my comb and clean away And carried off my coke They picked my lock To me far more than Brahma's patent worth And now my loss is hide at claw Without a home on earth If once a book you let them lift Another they conceal That though I caught them stealing swift As swiftly went my steel Hope is not now upon my shelf Where late he stood elated But what is strange My Pope himself is excommunicated My little suckling in the grave Is sunk to swell the ravage And what was Crusoe's fate to save It was mine to lose A savage Even Glover's works I cannot put My frozen hands upon Though ever since I lost my foot My bunion has been gone My foil with cotton went oppressed My tailor too must fail To save my goldsmith from arrest In vain I offered bail I prior sought But could not see the hood So late in front And when I turned to hunt for Lee Oh, where was my Lee hunt? I tried to laugh, old care to tickle Yet could not tickle touch And then a lack I missed my nickel And surely nickel's much It is quite enough for my griefs to feed My sorrows to excuse To think I cannot read my read Nor even use my hues My classics would not quite lie A thing so fondly hoped Like Dr. Primrose I may cry My livy has eloped My life is ebbing fast away I suffer from these shocks And though I fixed a lock on grey There's grey upon my locks I'm far from young I'm growing pale I see my butler fly And when they ask about my ale Tis Burton, I reply They still have made me slight returns And thus my griefs divide For oh, they cured me of my burns And eased my ack inside But all I think I shall not say Nor let my anger burn For as they never found me gay They have not left me stern End of poem This recording is in the public domain Addressed to the Toothake by Robert Burns From the world's best poetry, Volume 9 Tragedy and Humour, Part 2 Read for LibriVox.org by Leanne Yao Addressed to the Toothake My curse upon thy venom stang That shoots my tortured gums along And through my logs geese money a twang With gnawing vengeance Tearing my nerves with bitter pang Like racking engines When fever's burn Or egg freezes Romantics gnaw or colic squeezes Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us With pitying moan But thee, thou hella diseases I mocks are grown A down my beard the slavers trickle I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle As round the fire the gigglets keckle To see me lope While raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their dup O'er the numerous human duels Ilarists, daft bargains, cutty stools Or worthy friends riked in the mools Sad sight to see The tricks are knaves of fascia fools Thou barest the gree Where ere that place be priests cahail When cah the tones are misery yell And rancid plagues their numbers tell In dreffel raw Thou, toothache Surely barest the bow Among them all O thou grief mischief-making sheil And surely mickles much Till daft munkind of danceriel In gore shoo-thick Gah the face of Scotland's wheel Of fowlman's toothache End of poem This recording is in the public domain To the terrestrial globe By a miserable wretch By William Schwank Gilbert From the world's best poetry Volume 9 Tragedy and Humour Part 2 Read for LibriVox.org by Jason in Canada To the terrestrial globe By a miserable wretch Roll on, thou ball, roll on Through pathless realms of space, roll on What thou I'm in a sorry case What thou I cannot meet my bills What thou I suffer two fakes ills What thou I swallow countless pills Never you mind, roll on Roll on, thou ball, roll on Through seas of inky air, roll on It's true I've got no shirts to wear It's true my butcher's bill is due It's true my prospect's all look blue But don't let that unsettle you Never you mind, roll on It rolls on William Schwank Gilbert End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Nose and the Eyes by William Cooper From the world's best poetry Volume 9 Tragedy and Humour Part 2 Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter as the narrator And Lian Yao as the tongue The Nose and the Eyes Between nose and eyes a strange contest arose The spectacles set them unhappily wrong The point in dispute was, as all the world knows To whom the said spectacles ought to belong So tongue was the lawyer and argued the cause With a great deal of skill and a wig full of learning While chief baron ear sat to balance the laws So famed for his talent and nicely discerning In behalf of the nose it will quickly appear And your lordship He said Will undoubtedly find that the nose has the spectacles Always to wear, which amounts to possession Time out of mind Then holding the spectacles up to the court Your lordship observes They are made with a straddle As wide as the ridge of the noses In short, designed to sit close to it Just like a saddle Again, would your lordship a moment supposed To the case that has happened and may happen again That the visage all countenants had not a nose Pray, who would, or who could wear spectacles then On the whole it appears, and my argument shows With a reasoning the court will never condemn The spectacles, plainly, were made for the nose And the nose was, as plainly, intended for them Then shifting aside, as a lawyer knows how He pleaded again in behalf of the eyes But what were his arguments few people know For the court did not think them equally wise So his lordship decreed, with a grave, solemn tone Decisive and clear, without one if or but That whenever the nose put his spectacles on By daylight or candlelight Eyes should be shut End of poem This recording is in the public domain We are little airy creatures All of different voice and features One of us in glass is set One of us you'll find in jet To other you may see in tin And the fourth a box within If the fifth you should pursue It can never fly from you End of poem This recording is in the public domain Part 2 Read for liveryvox.org by Lian Yao On with Castle Home of the Percy's high-born race Home of their beautiful and brave A like their birth and burial place Their cradle and their grave Still sternly o'er the castle gate Their house's lion stands in state As in his proud departed hours And warriors frown in stone on high And feudal banners flout to the sky Above his princely towers A gentle hill its side inclines Lovely in England's fadeless green To meet the quiet stream Which winds through this romantic scene As silently and sweetly still As when at evening on that hill While summer's wind blew soft and low Seated by gallant Hotspur's side His Catherine was a happy bride A thousand years ago I wandered through lofty halls Trud by the Percy's of old fame And traced upon the chapel walls Each high, heroic name From him who once is standard set Where now, o'er mosque and minaret Glitter the sultan's crescent moons To him who, when a younger son Fought for King George at Lexington A major of dragoons That last half stanza It has dashed from my warm lips The sparkling cup The lighter o'er my eye-beam flashed The power that bore my spirit up Above this banknote-wild is gone And all wicks but a market-town And this, alas, its market-day And beasts and borderers throng the way Oxen and bleeding lambs and lots Northumbrian boars and plattered scots Men in the coal and cattle-line From teaviot's bard in hero-land From royal Burweck's beach of sand From Wooler, Moorpeth, Hexham And Newcastle upon Tyne These are not the romantic times So beautiful in Spence's rhymes So dazzling to the dreaming boy Ours are the days of fact, not fable Of nights, but not of the round table Of Bailey Jarvey, not Rob Roy This is what our president, Monroe, has called The era of good-feeling The Highlander, the bitterest foe To modern laws has felt their blow Consented to be taxed and vote And put on pantaloons and coat And leave off cattle-stealing Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt The Douglas and Red Herrings And noble name and cultured land Palace and park and vassal band Are powerless to the notes of hand Of Rothschild's or the Bearings The Age of Bargaining, said Burk, has come Today the Turb and Turk Sleep, Richard, of the Lionheart Sleep on, nor from your sermons start Is England's friend and fast ally The Muslim tramples on the Greek And on the Cross and Altarstone And Christendom looks tamely on And hears the Christian maiden shriek And sees the Christian father die And not a sabre-blow is given For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven By Europe's craven chivalry You'll ask if yet the Percy lives In the armed pomp of feudal state The present representatives of Hotspur And his gentle Kate Are some half-dozen serving men In a drab coat of William Penn A chambermaid, whose lip and eye And cheek and brown hair bright and curling Spoke nature's aristocracy And one half-groom, half-Saniskor Who bowed me through court, bower and hall From dungeon keep to turret wall For ten and six pence sterling End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Latest Stecolog by Arthur U. Clough From the world's best poetry, volume 9 Tragedy and humour, part 2 Read for LibriVox.org by Sonya The Latest Stecolog Thou shalt have one God only Who would be at the expense of two? No graven images may be worshipped Safe in the currency Swear not at all, sins for thy curse Thine enemy is none the worse At church on Sunday to attend Will serve to keep the world thy friend Honor thy parents, that is All from whom advancement may befall Thou shalt not kill, but needs not Strive officiously to keep alive A adultery it is not fit Or safe for woman to commit Thou shalt not steal, an empty feed When this is lucrative to cheat Bear not false witness, let the lie Have time on its own wings to fly Thou shalt not covet, but tradition Approves all forms of competition End of poem This recording is in the public domain The New Church Organ by Will Carlton From the world's best poetry volume 9 Tragedy and Humour part 2 Read for LibriVox.org by Sonya The New Church Organ They've got a brand new organ zoo For all their fuss and search They've done just as they said they do And fetched it into church Their bound to critter shall be seen And on the preacher's right They've hoisted up their new machine In everybody's sight They've got a chorister and choir Again my voice and vote For it was never my desire To praise the Lord by note I've been a sister good and true For five and thirty year I've done what seemed my part to do And prayed my duty clear I've sung the hymns both slow and quick Just as the preacher read And twice when Deacon Tubbs was sick I took the fork and led And now their bold new fangled ways Is coming all about And I, right in my latter days I'm fairly crowded out Today the preacher, good old dear With tears all in his eyes Read I can read my title clear To mansions in the skies I always liked that blessed hymn I suppose I always will It somehow gratifies my whim In good old Ortonville But when that choir got up to sing I couldn't catch a word They sung the most dark Gonnad's thing a body ever heard Some worldly chaps were standing near And when I see them grin I bid farewell to every fear And boldly waded in I thought I'd chase the tune along And try it with all my might But though my voice is good and strong I couldn't steer it right When they was high then I was low And also contra-wise And I too fast or they too slow To mansions in the skies And after every verse you know They played a little tune I didn't understand and so I started in too soon I pitched a purdy middle and high And fetched a lusty tone But oh, alas! I found that I was singing there alone They laughed a little, I am told But I had done my best And not a wave of trouble Rolled across my peaceful breast And sister Brown I could but look She sits right front of me She never was no singing-book And never went to be But then she always tried to do The best she could, she said She understood the time right through And kept it with her head But when she tried this morning Oh, I had to laugh or cough It kept her head bobbing so It even almost come off And Deacon Tubbs, he all broke down As one might well suppose He took one look at sister Brown And meekly scratched his nose He looked his hymn-book through and through And laid it on the seat And then the pensive sigh he drew And looked completely beat And when they took another bout He didn't even rise But drawed his red bandana out And wiped his weeping eyes I've been a sister Good and true for five and thirty years I've done what seemed my part to do And prayed my duty clear But death will stop my voice I know For he is on my trek And some day I'll to meet and go And never more come back And when the folks get up to sing Whenever that time shall be I do not want no patent thing A squealing over me End of poem This recording is in the public domain