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Marching Song

Bring the comb and play upon it!
Marching, here we come!
Willie cocks his highland bonnet,
Johnnie beats the drum.

Mary Jane commands the party,
Peter leads the rear;
Feet in time, alert and hearty,
Each a Grenadier!

All in the most martial manner
Marching double-quick;
While the napkin, like a banner,
Waves upon the stick!

Here's enough of fame and pillage,
Great commander Jane!
Now that we've been round the village,
Let's go home again.

poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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The Mother's Lesson

Come hither an' sit on my knee, Willie,
Come hither an' sit on my knee,
An' list while I tell how your brave brither fell,
Fechtin' for you an' for me:
Fechtin' for you an' for me, Willie,
Wi' his guid sword in his han'.
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man!

Ye min' o' your ain brither dear, Willie,
Ye min' o' your ain brither dear,
How he pettled ye aye wi' his pliskies an' play,
An' was aye sae cantie o' cheer:
Aye sae cantie o' cheer, Willie,
As he steppit sae tall an' sae gran',
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man.

D'ye min' when the bull had ye doun, Willie,
D'ye min' when the bull had ye doun?
D'ye min' wha grippit ye fra the big bull,
D'ye min' o' his muckle red woun'?
D'ye min' o' his muckle red woun', Willie,
D'ye min' how the bluid doun ran?
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man.

D'ye min' when we a' wanted bread, Willie,
the year when we a' wanted bread?
How he smiled when he saw the het parritch an' a',
An' gaed cauld an' toom to his bed:
Gaed awa' toom to his bed, Willie,
For the love o' wee Willie an' Nan?
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man!

Next simmer was bright but an' ben, Willie,
Next simmer was bright but an' ben,
When there cam a gran' cry like a win' strang an' high
By loch, an' mountain, an' glen:
By loch, an' mountain, an' glen, Willie,
The cry o' a far forrin lan',
An' up loupit ilka brave man, Willie,
Up loupit ilka brave man.

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poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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Peter Bell, A Tale

PROLOGUE

There's something in a flying horse,
There's something in a huge balloon;
But through the clouds I'll never float
Until I have a little Boat,
Shaped like the crescent-moon.

And now I 'have' a little Boat,
In shape a very crescent-moon
Fast through the clouds my boat can sail;
But if perchance your faith should fail,
Look up--and you shall see me soon!

The woods, my Friends, are round you roaring,
Rocking and roaring like a sea;
The noise of danger's in your ears,
And ye have all a thousand fears
Both for my little Boat and me!

Meanwhile untroubled I admire
The pointed horns of my canoe;
And, did not pity touch my breast,
To see how ye are all distrest,
Till my ribs ached, I'd laugh at you!

Away we go, my Boat and I--
Frail man ne'er sate in such another;
Whether among the winds we strive,
Or deep into the clouds we dive,
Each is contented with the other.

Away we go--and what care we
For treasons, tumults, and for wars?
We are as calm in our delight
As is the crescent-moon so bright
Among the scattered stars.

Up goes my Boat among the stars
Through many a breathless field of light,
Through many a long blue field of ether,
Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her:
Up goes my little Boat so bright!

The Crab, the Scorpion, and the Bull--
We pry among them all; have shot
High o'er the red-haired race of Mars,
Covered from top to toe with scars;
Such company I like it not!

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poem by William Wordsworth
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Mary had a Little Vamp and Other Parodies after Sarah Josepha HALE

Mary had a little vamp,
whose teeth glowed white as snow,
each night from sightly vent – no cramp -
the crimson droplets flow.

Some followed her from school one day;
though stalking's 'gainst the rules;
it made goose pimples grow and stay
to see them play at ghouls.

But they were caught, their tale remains
from history well hid,
though we discovered their remains
beneath oak coffin lid.

And so blood flowed from inside out,
none dared to lingered near
when shadows shiver, hang about
until Vamps disappear.

'Why does the Vamp love Mary so? '
the eager children cry;
'Why, Mary loves the Vamp, you know, '
the teacher did reply.

Sleep-overs followed, - little Vamp
A, B, AB, O, drew
by light of Mary’s lurid lamp
new haemoglobulu.

Thus vampire Vlad made Mary glad
hark! men well-read may read,
from kid school lad to college grad, -
mark then welt's red fey bead.

He wore a scarlet cape to match
sweet Mary’s ruddy lips,
attached thereto a cup to catch
the rhesus drips he sips.

No fly-by-night awed Mary’s Vamp,
he could fear blend at need,
though sky high flight soared scary champ -
we here end batty screed.

© Jonathan Robin parody written 3 May 2007 revised 3 September 2008 - for previous version see below

Mary had a little vamp,
whose teeth were white as snow,

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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I Saw It Myself (Short Verse Drama)

Dramatis Personae: Adrian, his wife Ester, his sisters Rebecca and Johanna, his mother Elizabeth, the high priest Chiapas, the disciple Simon Peter, the disciple John, Mary Magdalene, worshipers, priests, two angels and Jesus Christ.

Act I

Scene I.- Adrian’s house in Jerusalem. Adrian has just returned home after a business journey in Galilee, in time to attend the Passover feast. He sits at the table with his wife Ester and his sisters, Rebecca and Johanna. It’s just before sunset on the Friday afternoon.

Adrian. (Somewhat puzzled) Strange things are happening,
some say demons dwell upon the earth,
others angelic beings, miracles take place
and all of this when they had put a man to death,
had crucified a criminal. Everybody knows
the cross is used for degenerates only!

Rebecca. (With a pleasant voice) Such harsh words used,
for a good, a great man brother?
They say that without charge
he healed the sick, brought back sight,
cured leprosy, even made some more food,
from a few fishes and loafs of bread…

Adrian. (Somewhat harsh) They say many things!
That he rode into Jerusalem
to be crowned as the new king,
was a rebel against the state,
even claimed to be
the very Son of God,
now that is blasphemy
if there is no truth to it!

Johanna. I met him once.
He’s not the man
that you make him, brother.
There was a strange tranquilly to Him.
Some would say a divine presence,
while He spoke of love that is selfless,
visited the sick, the poor
and even the destitute, even harlots.

Adrian. (Looks up) There you have it!
Harlots! Tax collecting thieves!
A man is know by his friends,
or so they say and probably
there is some truth to it.

Ester. Husband, do not be so quick to judge.
I have seen Him myself, have seen
Roman soldiers marching Him to the hill
to take His life, with a angry crowd
following and mocking Him.

[...] Read more

poem by Gert Strydom
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Peter Bell The Third

BY MICHING MALLECHO, Esq.

Is it a party in a parlour,
Crammed just as they on earth were crammed,
Some sipping punch-some sipping tea;
But, as you by their faces see,
All silent, and all-damned!

Peter Bell, by W. Wordsworth.

Ophelia.-What means this, my lord?
Hamlet.-Marry, this is Miching Mallecho; it means mischief.
~Shakespeare.

PROLOGUE
Pet er Bells, one, two and three,
O'er the wide world wandering be.-
First, the antenatal Peter,
Wrapped in weeds of the same metre,
The so-long-predestined raiment
Clothed in which to walk his way meant
The second Peter; whose ambition
Is to link the proposition,
As the mean of two extremes-
(This was learned from Aldric's themes)
Shielding from the guilt of schism
The orthodoxal syllogism;
The First Peter-he who was
Like the shadow in the glass
Of the second, yet unripe,
His substantial antitype.-
Then came Peter Bell the Second,
Who henceforward must be reckoned
The body of a double soul,
And that portion of the whole
Without which the rest would seem
Ends of a disjointed dream.-
And the Third is he who has
O'er the grave been forced to pass
To the other side, which is,-
Go and try else,-just like this.
Peter Bell the First was Peter
Smugger, milder, softer, neater,
Like the soul before it is
Born from that world into this.
The next Peter Bell was he,
Predevote, like you and me,
To good or evil as may come;
His was the severer doom,-

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poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Sir Peter Harpdon's End

In an English Castle in Poictou. Sir Peter Harpdon, a Gascon knight in the English service, and John Curzon, his lieutenant.

John Curzon

Of those three prisoners, that before you came
We took down at St. John's hard by the mill,
Two are good masons; we have tools enough,
And you have skill to set them working.

Sir Peter

So-
What are their names?

John Curzon

Why, Jacques Aquadent,
And Peter Plombiere, but-

Sir Peter

What colour'd hair
Has Peter now? has Jacques got bow legs?

John Curzon

Why, sir, you jest: what matters Jacques' hair,
Or Peter's legs to us?

Sir Peter

O! John, John, John!
Throw all your mason's tools down the deep well,
Hang Peter up and Jacques; they're no good,
We shall not build, man.

John Curzon

going.

Shall I call the guard
To hang them, sir? and yet, sir, for the tools,
We'd better keep them still; sir, fare you well.

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poem by William Morris
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The Widow's Party

"Where have you been this while away,
Johnnie, Johnnie?"
'Long with the rest on a picnic lay,
Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
They called us out of the barrack-yard
To Gawd knows where from Gosport Hard,
And you can't refuse when you get the card,
And the Widow gives the party.
(~Bugle~: Ta--rara--ra-ra-rara!)

"What did you get to eat and drink,
Johnnie, Johnnie?"
Standing water as thick as ink,
Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
A bit o' beef that were three year stored,
A bit o' mutton as tough as a board,
And a fowl we killed with a sergeant's sword,
When the Widow give the party.

"What did you do for knives and forks,
Johnnie, Johnnie?"
We carries 'em with us wherever we walks,
Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
And some was sliced and some was halved,
And some was crimped and some was carved,
And some was gutted and some was starved,
When the Widow give the party.

"What ha' you done with half your mess,
Johnnie, Johnnie?"
They couldn't do more and they wouldn't do less,
Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
They ate their whack and they drank their fill,
And I think the rations has made them ill,
For half my comp'ny's lying still
Where the Widow give the party.

"How did you get away -- away,
Johnnie, Johnnie?"
On the broad o' my back at the end o' the day,
Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
I comed away like a bleedin' toff,
For I got four niggers to carry me off,
As I lay in the bight of a canvas trough,
When the Widow give the party.

"What was the end of all the show,
Johnnie, Johnnie?"
Ask my Colonel, for ~I~ don't know,
Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!

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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The peter-bird

Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter,
And from the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over;
Down in the pasture the sheep hear that strange crying for Peter,
Over the meadows that call is aye and forever repeated.
So let me tell you the tale, when, where, and how it all happened,
And, when the story is told, let us pay heed to the lesson.

Once on a time, long ago, lived in the State of Kentucky
One that was reckoned a witch--full of strange spells and devices;
Nightly she wandered the woods, searching for charms voodooistic--
Scorpions, lizards, and herbs, dormice, chameleons, and plantains!
Serpents and caw-caws and bats, screech-owls and crickets and adders--
These were the guides of that witch through the dank deeps of the forest.
Then, with her roots and her herbs, back to her cave in the morning
Ambled that hussy to brew spells of unspeakable evil;
And, when the people awoke, seeing that hillside and valley
Sweltered in swathes as of mist--"Look!" they would whisper in terror--
"Look! the old witch is at work brewing her spells of great evil!"
Then would they pray till the sun, darting his rays through the vapor,
Lifted the smoke from the earth and baffled the witch's intentions.

One of the boys at that time was a certain young person named Peter,
Given too little to work, given too largely to dreaming;
Fonder of books than of chores, you can imagine that Peter
Led a sad life on the farm, causing his parents much trouble.
"Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a'ready for churning!"
"Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!"
So it was "Peter!" all day--calling, reminding, and chiding--
Peter neglected his work; therefore that nagging at Peter!

Peter got hold of some books--how, I'm unable to tell you;
Some have suspected the witch--this is no place for suspicions!
It is sufficient to stick close to the thread of the legend.
Nor is it stated or guessed what was the trend of those volumes;
What thing soever it was--done with a pen and a pencil,
Wrought with a brain, not a hoe--surely 't was hostile to farming!

"Fudge on all readin'!" they quoth; or "that's what's the ruin of
Peter!"

So, when the mornings were hot, under the beech or the maple,
Cushioned in grass that was blue, breathing the breath of the blossoms,
Lulled by the hum of the bees, the coo of the ring-doves a-mating,
Peter would frivol his time at reading, or lazing, or dreaming.
"Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a'ready for churning!"
"Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!"
"Peter!" and "Peter!" all day--calling, reminding, and chiding--
Peter neglected his chores; therefore that outcry for Peter;
Therefore the neighbors allowed evil would surely befall him--
Yes, on account of these things, ruin would come upon Peter!

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poem by Eugene Field
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De Camp On De

You 'member de ole log-camp, Johnnie, up on de Cheval Gris,
W'ere we work so hard all winter, long ago you an' me?
Dere was fourteen man on de gang, den, all from our own paroisse,
An' only wan lef' dem feller is ourse'f an' Pierre Laframboise.

But Pierre can't see on de eye, Johnnie, I t'ink it's no good at all!
An' it wasn't for not'ing, you're gettin' rheumateez on de leg las' fall!
I t'ink it's no use waitin', for neider can come wit' me,
So alone I mak' leetle visit dat camp on de Cheval Gris.

An' if only you see it, Johnnie, an' change dere was all aroun',
Ev'ryt'ing gone but de timber an' dat is all fallin' down;
No sign of portage by de reever w'ere man dey was place canoe,
W'y, Johnnie, I'm cry lak de bebé, an' I'm glad you don't come, mon vieux!

But strange t'ing's happen me dere, Johnnie, mebbe I go asleep,
As I lissen de song of de rapide, as pas' de Longue Soo she sweep,
Ma head she go biz-z-z lak de sawmeel, I don't know w'at's wrong wit' me,
But firs' t'ing I don't know not'ing, an' den w'at you t'ink I see?

Yourse'f an' res' of de boy, Johnnie, by light of de coal oil lamp,
An' you're singin' an' tolin' story, sittin' aroun' de camp,
We hear de win' on de chimley, an' we know it was beeg, beeg storm,
But ole box stove she is roarin', an' camp's feelin' nice an' warm.

I t'ink you're on boar' of de raf', Johnnie, near head of Riviere du Loup,
W'en LeRoy an' young Patsy Kelly get drown comin' down de Soo,
Wall! I see me dem very same feller, jus' lak you see me to-day,
Playin' dat game dey call checker, de game dey was play alway!

An' Louis Charette asleep, Johnnie, wit' hees back up agen de wall,
Makin' soche noise wit' hees nose, dat you t'ink it was moose on de fall,
I s'pose he's de mos' fattes' man dere 'cept mebbe Bateese La Rue,
But if I mak fonne on poor Louis, I know he was good boy too!

W'at you do over dere on your bunk, Johnnie, lightin' dem allumettes,
Are you shame 'cos de girl she write you, is dat de las' wan you get?
It's fonny you can't do widout it ev'ry tam you was goin' bed,
W'y readin' dat letter so offen, you mus have it all on de head!

Dat's de very sam' letter, Johnnie, was comin' t'ree mont' ago,
I t'ink I know somet'ing about it, 'cos I fin' it wan day on de snow.
An' I see on de foot dat letter, Philomene she is do lak dis: * * *
I'm not very moche on de school, me, but I t'ink dat was mean de kiss.

Wall! nobody's kickin' de row, Johnnie, an' if allumettes' fini,
Put Philomene off on your pocket, an' sing leetle song wit' me;
For don't matter de hard you be workin' toujours you're un bon garçon,
An' nobody sing lak our Johnnie, Kebeck to de Mattawa!

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poem by William Henry Drummond
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What's The New Mary Jane

She looks as an african queen,
She eating twelve chapattis and cream,
She tastes as mongolian lamb,
She coming from out of bahran.
What a shame mary jane
Had a pain at the party.
What a shame mary jane.
What a shame mary jane
Had a pain at the party.
She like to be married with yeti,
He grooving such cooky spaghetti,
She jumping as mexican bean
To make that her body more thin.
What a shame mary jane
Had a pain at the party.
What a shame mary jane.
What a shame mary jane
Had a pain at the party.
She catch patagonian pancake
With that one a gin party makes.
She having all the ways good contacts,
She making with apple an contract.
What a shame mary jane
Had a pain at the party.
What a shame mary jane.
What a shame mary jane
Had a pain at the party.
All together now:
What a shame mary jane
Had a pain at the party.
What a shame mary jane.
What a shame mary jane
Had a pain at the party.
She looks as an african queen,
She tastes as mongolian lamb.
What a shame mary jane
Had a pain at the party.
What a shame mary jane.
What a shame mary jane
Had a pain at the party.
What a shame mary jane
Had a pain at the party.
What a shame mary jane.
What a shame mary jane
Had a pain at the party.

song performed by Beatles
Added by Lucian Velea
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To Mary in Heaven

I.
I met thee first in May, Mary!
The flower-crowned month of May;
But now thou art away, Mary!
Away from me—away!
Thou wert that all to me, Mary!
That all on earth to me,
That I will be to thee, Mary!
In Heaven above to thee.

II.
Ah! then thine eyes were mild, Mary!
Thy deep blue eyes were mild;
For thou wert then a child, Mary!
And I another child.
Thou wert that all to me, Mary!
That all on earth to me,
That I will be to thee, Mary!
In Heaven above to thee.

III.
Thy face was then so meek, Mary!
So saintly mild, so meek,
Thy lily-form seemed weak, Mary!
And mine for thine grew weak
For thou wert that to me, Mary!
That all on earth to me,
That I will be to thee, Mary!
In Heaven above to thee.

IV.
You led me through the meads, Mary!
The flower-enameled meads,
By brooks of rustling reeds, Mary!
By brooks of rustling reeds—
Where thou wert that to me, Mary!
That all on earth to me,
That I will be to thee, Mary!
In Heaven above to thee.

V.
Wherever you then went, Mary!
No matter where you went—
I followed with content, Mary!
Because you were content.
For thou wert that to me, Mary!
That all on earth to me,
That I will be to thee, Mary!
In Heaven above to thee.

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poem by Thomas Holley Chivers from Eonchs of Ruby (1851)
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Mary Jane

Now when I go to work, I work all day,
Always turns out the same.
When I bring home my hard-earned pay
I spend my money all on mary jane.
Mary jane, mary jane, lord, my mary jane.
Oh if a man should look tame now, mean and mature,
They all turn out the same.
cause they cant do nothing to make a man feel good
Like my old mary jane.
Mary jane, mary jane, lord, my mary jane.
Now I walk in the street now lookin for a friend
One that can lend me some change.
And he never questions my reason why,
cause he too loves mary jane.
Mary jane, mary jane, lord, my mary jane.
Well, I have known women that wanted no man,
Some that wanted to stay.
But I never knew what happened in this world
Till I met up with mary jane,
Mary jane, mary jane, lord my mary jane.
Oh, when Im feelin lonesome and Im feelin blue,
Theres only one way to change.
Now I walk down the street now lookin for a man,
One that knows my mary jane,
Mary jane, mary jane, lord my mary jane.

song performed by Janis Joplin
Added by Lucian Velea
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Little Liza Jane

Traditional
Where is my tambourine wait a minute I'll get your tambourine
Got my tambourine get your thing baby
What's wrong with you what is it you want
Can't forget my tambourine boy want a minute
This is a folk tune nad it's called Little Liza Jane
We get some rhythm started here and see what happens
I got a beau you ain't got none Little Liza Jean
I got a beau you ain't got none Little Liza Jean
I got a beau you ain't got none Little Liza Jean
I got a beau you ain't got none Little Liza Jean
Oh Little Liza Liza Jane oh Little Liza Liza Jean
Oh Little Liza Liza Jane oh Little Liza Liza Jean
Come my love and live with me
I will take good care of thee Little Liza Jean
Come my love and live with me
I will take good care of thee Little Liza Jean
Oh Little Liza Liza Jane oh Little Liza Liza Jean
Oh Little Liza Liza Jane oh Little Liza Liza Jean
Hambone Hammer where you've been
Down by the river making gin
I know a man that's three feet tall
Drink his liquor and has a ball
Saw him just the other day
He had a horse and a ball of hay
Little Lisa Jane Jane Little Liza
Little Lisa Jane Jane Little Liza
Little Lisa Jane Jane Little Liza
Little Liza Jean Little Liza Jean
Little Lisa Jane Jane Little Liza
Little Lisa Jane Jane Little Liza
Little Lisa Jane Jane Little Liza
Little Liza Jean Little Liza Jean
Oh Little Liza Liza Jane oh Little Liza Liza Jean
Oh Little Liza Liza Jane oh Little Liza Liza Jean
He took me to his great big town
Lots of people standing around
They were listening to a great big band
the bestest music in the land
I tell you once and tell you twice
Enjoy yourself and live your life
Little Lisa Jane Jane Little Liza
Little Lisa Jane Jane Little Liza
Little Lisa Jane Jane Little Liza
Little Liza Jean Little Liza Jean
Little Lisa Jane Jane Little Liza
Little Lisa Jane Jane Little Liza
Little Lisa Jane Jane Little Liza
Little Liza Jean Little Liza Jean
Oh Little Liza Liza Jane oh Little Liza Liza Jean

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song performed by Nina Simone
Added by Lucian Velea
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Little Liza Jean

Traditional
Where is my tambourine wait a minute Ill get your tambourine
Got my tambourine get your thing baby
Whats wrong with you what is it you want
Cant forget my tambourine boy want a minute
This is a folk tune nad its called little liza jane
We get some rhythm started here and see what happens
I got a beau you aint got none little liza jean
I got a beau you aint got none little liza jean
I got a beau you aint got none little liza jean
I got a beau you aint got none little liza jean
Oh little liza liza jane oh little liza liza jean
Oh little liza liza jane oh little liza liza jean
Come my love and live with me
I will take good care of thee little liza jean
Come my love and live with me
I will take good care of thee little liza jean
Oh little liza liza jane oh little liza liza jean
Oh little liza liza jane oh little liza liza jean
Hambone hammer where youve been
Down by the river making gin
I know a man thats three feet tall
Drink his liquor and has a ball
Saw him just the other day
He had a horse and a ball of hay
Little lisa jane jane little liza
Little lisa jane jane little liza
Little lisa jane jane little liza
Little liza jean little liza jean
Little lisa jane jane little liza
Little lisa jane jane little liza
Little lisa jane jane little liza
Little liza jean little liza jean
Oh little liza liza jane oh little liza liza jean
Oh little liza liza jane oh little liza liza jean
He took me to his great big town
Lots of people standing around
They were listening to a great big band
The bestest music in the land
I tell you once and tell you twice
Enjoy yourself and live your life
Little lisa jane jane little liza
Little lisa jane jane little liza
Little lisa jane jane little liza
Little liza jean little liza jean
Little lisa jane jane little liza
Little lisa jane jane little liza
Little lisa jane jane little liza
Little liza jean little liza jean
Oh little liza liza jane oh little liza liza jean

[...] Read more

song performed by Nina Simone
Added by Lucian Velea
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Rambling, Gambling Willie

Come around you rovin gamblers and a story I will tell
About the greatest gambler, you all should know him well.
His name was will o conley and he gambled all his life,
He had twenty-seven children, yet he never had a wife.
And its ride, willie, ride,
Roll, willie, roll,
Wherever you are a-gamblin now, nobody really knows.
He gambled in the white house and in the railroad yards,
Wherever there was people, there was willie and his cards.
He had a reputation as the gamblinest man around,
Wives would keep their husbands home when willie came to town.
And its ride, willie, ride,
Roll, willie, roll,
Wherever you are a-gamblin now, nobody really knows.
Sailin down the mississippi to a town called new orleans,
Theyre still talkin about their card game on that jackson river queen.
Ive come to win some money, gamblin willie says,
When the game finally ended up, the whole damn boat was his.
And its ride, willie, ride,
Roll, willie, roll,
Wherever you are a-gamblin now, nobody really knows.
Up in the rocky mountains in a town called cripple creek,
There was an all-night poker game, lasted about a week.
Nine hundred miners had laid their money down,
When willie finally left the room, he owned the whole damn town.
And its ride, willie, ride,
Roll, willie, roll,
Wherever you are a-gamblin now, nobody really knows.
But willie had a heart of gold and this I know is true,
He supported all his children, and all their mothers too.
He wore no rings or fancy things, like other gamblers wore,
He spread his money far and wide, to help the sick and the poor.
And its ride, willie, ride,
Roll, willie, roll,
Wherever you are a-gamblin now, nobody really knows.
When you played your cards with willie, you never really knew
Whether he was bluffin or whether he was true.
He won a fortune from a man who folded in his chair.
The man, he left a diamond flush, willie didnt even have a pair.
And its ride, willie, ride,
Roll, willie, roll,
Wherever you are a-gamblin now, nobody really knows.
It was late one evenin during a poker game,
A man lost all his money, he said willie was to blame.
He shot poor willie through the head, which was a tragic fate,
When willies cards fell on the floor, they were aces backed with eights.
And its ride, willie, ride,
Roll, willie, roll,
Wherever you are a-gamblin now, nobody really knows.
So all you rovin gamblers, wherever you might be,

[...] Read more

song performed by Bob Dylan
Added by Lucian Velea
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Johnnie Courteau

Johnnie Courteau of de mountain
Johnnie Courteau of de hill
Dat was de boy can shoot de gun
Dat was de boy can jomp an' run
An'it's not very often you ketch heem still
Johnnie Courteau !

Ax dem along de reever
Ax dem along de shore
Who was de mos'bes'fightin'man
From Managance to Shaw-in-I-gan?
De place we're de great beeg rapide roar,
Johnnie Courteau !

Sam'tíng on ev'ry shaintee
Up on de Mekinac
Who was the man man walk de log,
W'en w'ole of de reever she's black wit'fog
An'carry de beeges'load on hees back?
Johnnie Courteau !

On de rapide you want to see heem
If de raf'she 's swingin'roun'
An'he 's yellin' 'Hooray Bateese! good
man!'
W'y de oar come double on hees han'
W'en he's makin' dat raf'go flyin'down
Johnnie Courteau !

An' Tête de Boule chief can tole you
De feller w'at save hees life
W'en beeg moose on de head, sapree!
An'den run off wit' hees Injun wife?
Johnnie Courteau !

An' he only have pike pole wit'heem
On Lac a la Tortue
W'en he meet de bear comin' down the hill
But de bear very soon is get hees fill!
An' he sole dat skin for ten dollar too,
Johnnie Courteau !

Oh he never was scare for not'ing
Lak de ole coureurs de bois,
But w'en he's getting'hees winter pay
De bes't'ing sure is kip out de way
For he's goin'right off on de Hip Hooraw!
Johnnie Courteau !

[...] Read more

poem by William Henry Drummond
Added by Poetry Lover
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Sister Helen

"Why did you melt your waxen man
Sister Helen?
To-day is the third since you began."
"The time was long, yet the time ran,
Little brother."
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Three days to-day, between Hell and Heaven!)

"But if you have done your work aright,
Sister Helen,
You'll let me play, for you said I might."
"Be very still in your play to-night,
Little brother."
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Third night, to-night, between Hell and Heaven!)

"You said it must melt ere vesper-bell,
Sister Helen;
If now it be molten, all is well."
"Even so,--nay, peace! you cannot tell,
Little brother."
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
O what is this, between Hell and Heaven?)

"Oh the waxen knave was plump to-day,
Sister Helen;
How like dead folk he has dropp'd away!"
"Nay now, of the dead what can you say,
Little brother?"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
What of the dead, between Hell and Heaven?)

"See, see, the sunken pile of wood,
Sister Helen,
Shines through the thinn'd wax red as blood!"
"Nay now, when look'd you yet on blood,
Little brother?"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
How pale she is, between Hell and Heaven!)

"Now close your eyes, for they're sick and sore,
Sister Helen,
And I'll play without the gallery door."
"Aye, let me rest,--I'll lie on the floor,
Little brother."
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
What rest to-night, between Hell and Heaven?)

"Here high up in the balcony,
Sister Helen,

[...] Read more

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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The Drummer

1
The drummer beats slowly, the drummer beats loud
As he beats of Humanity wrapped in a shroud.
Well he beats of the bone bags Dame Famine's designed
As she ravished and plagued us since dawn of mankind;
And he beats of Lord Boss letting oranges decay
While a child suffers scurvy and passes away;
And he beats of the beasts we've so needlessly slain
And of critters and creatures cast off in distain;
And he beats of combatants who're dying deceived
As the merchants of murder count profits received;
And he beats of the rape and the killing of war
And the mind blinding sorrow we blithely ignore.
He beats and he pounds till our consciences gnaw
And his fingers are battered and bloody and raw
And his hands are all broken and bleeding and raw.
2
The drummer beats slowly, the drummer beats loud
As he beats of abuse that we try to becloud.
Well he beats of the barons and princes and kings
Who have broken our backs while crushing our wings
And he beats of the bribes that the powerful make
To key politicians who fawn in their wake;
And he beats of the waifs bound and chained to machines
And of slaves in the fields and other such scenes;
And he beats of decrees stating all men are free
While ignoring the blacks and their agonised plea;
And he beats of the tyrants in clerical garb
Who have tortured with faggots and thumbscrews and barb.
He beats and he pounds till revealing the flaw
And his fingers are battered and bloody and raw
And his hands are all broken and bleeding and raw.
3
The drummer beats slowly, the drummer beats loud
As he beats of the strength of the rebels so proud.
Well he beats of the spirit the rack couldn't break,
And the flame of the flesh that was burned at the stake;
And he beats of the minds that could never be chained
By the faith that was living while ignorance reigned;
And he beats of the struggles when Spartacus rose
Having tired of shackles and slavery's woes;
And he beats of the women who'll die to be freed
And will never give up till they finally succeed;
And he beats of the progress outliving the jeers
So belying the pessimist's fatuous sneers.
He beats and he pounds till we stand back in awe
And his fingers are battered and bloody and raw
And his hands are all broken and bleeding and raw.
4
The drummer beats slowly, the drummer beats loud

[...] Read more

poem by Terry O'Leary
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The First Grenadier of France

'Twas in a certain regiment of French Grenadiers,
A touching and beautiful custom was observed many years;
Which was meant to commemorate the heroism of a departed comrade,
And when the companies assembled for parade,
There was one name at roll call to which no answer was made

It was that of the noble La Tour d'Auvergne,
The first Grenadier of France, heroic and stern;
And always at roll call the oldest sergeant stepped forward a pace,
And loudly cried, "Died on the field of battle," then fell back into his place.

He always refused offers of high promotion,
Because to be promoted from the ranks he had no notion;
But at last he was in command of eight thousand men,
Hence he was called the first Grenadier of France, La Tour d'Auvergne.

When forty years of age he went on a visit to a friend,
Never thinking he would have a French garrison to defend,
And while there he made himself acquainted with the country.
But the war had shifted to that quarter unfortunately.

But although the war was there he felt undaunted,
Because to fight on behalf of France was all he wanted;
And the thought thereof did his mind harass,
When he knew a regiment of Austrians was pushing on to occupy a narrow pass.

They were pushing on in hot haste and no delaying,
And only two hours distant from where the Grenadier was staying,
But when he knew he set off at once for the pass,
Determined if 'twere possible the enemy to harass.

He knew that the pass was defended by a stout tower,
And to destroy the garrison the enemy would exert all their power;
But he hoped to be able to warn the French of their danger,
But to the thirty men garrisoned there he was quite a stranger.

Still the brave hero hastened on, and when he came there,
He found the thirty men had fled in wild despair;
Leaving their thirty muskets behind,
But to defend the garrison to the last he made up his mind.

And in searching he found several boxes of ammunition not destroyed,
And for a moment he felt a little annoyed;
Then he fastened the main door, with the articles he did find,
And when he had done so he felt satisfied in mind.

Then he ate heartily of the provisions he had brought,
And waited patiently for the enemy, absorbed in thought;
And formed the heroic resolution to defend the tower,
Alone, against the enemy, while he had the power.

[...] Read more

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Mary Mary Magdalene

Mary Mary Magdalene,
what do all those stories mean?
Mary, Mary, is it true,
Jesus had a thing for you?

Mary, Mary – He lay with you?
Mary, Mary, tell me true
Mary, Mary, red hair wild,
did He leave you great with child?

Mary, was your love so steady,
that you had had His kids already?
Mary, Mary, at the Cross,
did it feel a gain or loss?

Mary, Mary – on that third day,
what was it like with the stone rolled away?
Mary, Mary, running there with love,
what did you think when He rose above?

Mary, Mary – what was it like, after?
Were there tears or joyful laughter?
Mary, Mary – the kids you had –
did they turn out like their Dad?

Mary, Mary, whore redeemed,
did it work out like you dreamed?
Mary, Mary – your afterlife –
was it mostly love, or mostly strife?

Mary, Mary, were you worshipped or despised
As Mary’s daughter-in-law, Mrs. Christ?
Mary, Mary, did you stay,
or feel you had to take the kids away?

Mary, Mary, with so much love,
did you, too, rise to heaven above?
Mary, Mary, in the sky,
all we ask are the reasons why…

Mary, Mary Magdalene,
What is really true? What does it really mean?

poem by Michael Shepherd
Added by Poetry Lover
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