Poems · 287 pieces
धन
vinu mat sati hoi kaise naari pandit dekhhu ridai beechaari proti bina kaise vadhai maneh jav lag ras tab lag nahi neh saah nisatt karai jiy apanso ramayy ko mile na svapnai tan man dhan grih saupi sareeru soi sohaagni kahai kabeeru
kahu raheem ketik rahi, keti gai bihaai maaya mamta moh pari, ant chale pachhitaai
larger|besri-moti dhani tuhi ko brijhai kul jaati peebau kari tiy-adhar ko ras nidhrak din-raati
The moon was but a chin of gold A night or two ago, And now she turns her perfect face Upon the world below.
Near by the silent waters of the Mediterranean, And at the door of an old hut stood a coloured man, Whose dress was oriental in style and poor with wear, While adown his furrowed cheeks ran many a tear.
MY father was a farmer upon the Carrick border, O, And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O; He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne’er a farthing, O; For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, O.
A cat in distress, Nothing more, nor less; Good folks, I must faithfully tell ye, As I am a sinner,
Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy 'Will,' And 'Will' to boot, and 'Will' in over-plus; More than enough am I that vex'd thee still, To thy sweet will making addition thus.
O the evening's for the fair, bonny lassie O! To meet the cooler air and walk an angel there, With the dark dishevelled hair, Bonny lassie O!
HE has a hump like an ape on his back; He has of money a plentiful lack; And but for a gay coat of double his girth There is not a plainer thing on the earth
Grand rough old Martin Luther Bloomed fables-flowers on furze, The better the uncouther: Do roses stick like burrs?
Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see, Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me; In exile thy bosom shall still be my home, And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam.
What heartache -- ne'er a hill! Inexorable, vapid, vague and chill The drear sand-levels drain my spirit low. With one poor word they tell me all they know;
Ungrateful he, who pluck'd thee from thy stalk, Poor faded flow'ret! on his careless way; Inhal'd awhile thy odours on his walk, Then onward pass'd and left thee to decay.
'TIS NOT thy flowing hair of orient gold, Nor those bright eyes, like sapphire gems that glow; Nor cheek of blushing rose, nor breast of snow, The varying passions of the heart could hold:
Author Note: The story of the following ballad was related to me, when a school boy, as a fact which had really happened in the North of England. I have adopted the metre of Mr. Lewis's Alonzo and Imogene--a poem deservedly popular. I.
I crave, dear Lord, No boundless hoard Of gold and gear, Nor jewels fine,
OH well done Lord E---- n! and better done R----r! Britannia must prosper with councils like yours; Hawkesbury, Harrowby, help you to guide her, Whose remedy only must _kill_ ere it cures:
NExt Heaven my Vows to thee (O Sacred Muse! ) I offer'd up, nor didst thou them refuse. O Queen of Verse, said I, if thou'lt inspire, And warm my Soul with thy Poetique Fire,
Proem. 1.1 Although great Queen, thou now in silence lie, 1.2 Yet thy loud Herald Fame, doth to the sky 1.3 Thy wondrous worth proclaim, in every clime,
'Quid vetat et nosmet Lucilî scripta legentes Quaerere, num illius, num rerum dura negârit Versiculos natura magis factos, et euntes Mollius?' HOR. THE SATIRES OF DR JOHN DONNE, DEAN OF ST PAUL'S, VERSIFIED.
Is this a holy thing to see In a rich and fruitful land,-- Babes reduced to misery, Fed with cold and usurous hand?
October - and the skies are cool and gray O'er stubbles emptied of their latest sheaf, Bare meadow, and the slowly falling leaf. The dignity of woods in rich decay
The browns, the olives, and the yellows died, And were swept up to heaven; where they glowed Each dawn and set of sun till Christmastide, And when the land lay pale for them, pale-snowed,
