Quotes about na'ale, page 22
The Chestnut Casts His Flambeaux
The chestnut casts his flambeaux, and the flowers
Stream from the hawthorn on the wind away,
The doors clap to, the pane is blind with showers.
Pass me the can, lad; there's an end of May.
There's one spoilt spring to scant our mortal lot,
One season ruined of your little store.
May will be fine next year as like as not:
But ay, but then we shall be twenty-four.
We for a certainty are not the first
Have sat in taverns while the tempest hurled
Their hopeful plans to emptiness, and cursed
Whatever brute and blackguard made the world.
It is in truth iniquity on high
To cheat our sentenced souls of aught they crave,
And mar the merriment as you and I
Fare on our long fool's-errand to the grave.
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poem by Alfred Edward Housman
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The Deserted Village
There's a road on the hill, leads down to the plain
Where once was a village before the Black Plague,
And the old stone walls that marked off the fields
Lie hidden by the village called Tiverton Lees.
Where the gorse has flourished since the old crops died
Laid waste, un-nourished through the countryside,
And the old plough furrows ripple down through the vale
Where the farmhands idled, swilling lunchtime ale!
There are marks on the ground, along the main street
Worn smooth by the passages of carts and feet,
And the old foundations of the King's Head Inn
Lie stark, untroubled, where the men filed in.
The land lies fallow by the old cattle byres
While hearthstones, burnt, tell of warm cottage fires,
Of children, spooning at their hot pottages,
And wives, sat darning in their warm cottages.
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Grandad
Heaven's mighty sweet, I guess;
Ain't no rush to git there:
Been a sinner, more or less;
Maybe wouldn't fit there.
Wicked still, bound to confess;
Might jest pine a bit there.
Heaven's swell, the preachers say:
Got so used to earth here;
Had such good times all the way,
Frolic, fun and mirth here;
Eighty Springs ago to-day,
Since I had my birth here.
Quite a spell of happy years.
Wish I could begin it;
Cloud and sunshine, laughter, tears,
Livin' every minute.
Women, too, the pretty dears;
Plenty of 'em in it.
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poem by Robert William Service
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Don't Drink
Don't drink, boys, don't!
There is nothing of happiness, pleasure, or cheer,
In brandy, in whiskey, in rum, ale, or beer.
If they cheer you when drunk, you are certain to pay
In headaches and crossness the following day.
Don't drink, boys, don't!
Boys, let it alone!
Turn your back on your deadliest enemy-Drink!
An assassin disguised; nor for one moment think,
As some rashly say, that
true
women admire
The man who can boast that he's playing with fire.
Boys, let it alone!
No, boys, don't drink!
If the habit's begun, stop now! stop to-day!
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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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For Charity's Sake
'Oh dark-eyed maid,'
The soldier said,
'I've been wounded in many a fray,
But such a dart
As you shoot to my heart
I never felt till to-day.
Then give to me
Kisses, one, two, three,
All for dear Charity's sake.
And pity my pain,
And meet me again,
Or else my heart must break.'
Peggy was kind,
She would save the blind
Black fly that shimmered the ale,
And her quick hand stopped
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poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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Quintessential
Quintessential, least, sent, suite, site, sue, sues, use, seas;
And like a dead cow on the road,
But, try to be ylourself always.
Quintessential, unit, quiet, quest, quite, queen, seat, sea, it;
And like a dead goat on the road,
But, never give up on your dreams!
Quintessential, queens, tail, tails, tales, quail, late, sees;
And like a dead snake on the road,
But let your speech always be with love! !
And seasoned with salt.
Quintessential, quails, sail, uses, is, tine, tins, units, see;
And like the muse of love with a guide around!
But, try to learn from the right people aslways.
Quintessential, seen, sit, set, sits, sails, seal, seals, sents!
With the joy and the peace of your love;
But, life ia not always straight ahead.
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poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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An Drinaun Donn
A HUNDRED men think I am theirs when with them I
drink ale,
But their presence fades away from me and their high spirits fail
When I think upon your converse kind by the meadow
and the linn,
And your form smoother than the silk on the Mountain of O'Flynn.
Oh, Paddy, is it pain to you that I'm wasting night and day,
And, Paddy, is it grief to you that I'll soon be in the clay?
My first love with the winning mouth, my treasure you'll abide,
Till the narrow coffin closes me and the grass grows through my side.
The man who strains to leap the wall, we think him
foolish still,
When to his hand is the easy ditch to vault across at will;
The rowan tree is fine and high, but bitter its berries grow,
While blackberries and raspberries are on shrubs that blossom low.
Farewell, farewell, forever, to yon town amongst the trees;
Farewell, the town that draws me on mornings and on
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poem by Padraic Colum
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The Genesis of Gloom [Australian Variety]
Once upon a time, in days remote,
A politician bought a vote.
The price he paid is not quite clear,
But probably a pot of beer
Secured his end. But he got in;
So folk excused this venial sin.
Now if the thing had stayed right there,
We might have dodged a load of care.
But pots of beer soon failed to serve
The candidate of dash and nerve;
And, with cold cynicism, came
The urge to organise the Game.
Soon the political machine
Beheld the profit it might glean
Thro' gifts spread thro' electorates
To help the 'Outs' the 'Ins' frustrate;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Cuvinte
Sunt doar un baietel slabanog, ce inca se gandeste la fata ce l-a facut sa planga.
Imi amintesc cum atunci, in mintea ta ma aparai de cuvintele jignitoare
ale celor ce ti-au ramas prieteni,
acum cand eu nu-ti mai sunt.
Pana la urma, cred ca aveau dreptate
ca sunt prea urat pentru tine,
dar nu a fost doar atat
sunt mult mai multe lucruri
ce te fac sa te indoiesti, de iubirea mea
care infinita cat era ea
a venit prea tarziu in viata ta.
Ma indoiesc ca as fi putut face ceva mai mult pentru noi doi.
Eu nu am aur, asa cum au altii
si nu pot sa te fac regina.
In mintea mea esti doar o biata eroina, o corabie ce paraseste grabita
insula pe care a naufragiat in urma cu aproape sapte luni
intr-o noapte, cand era prea intuneric pentru stele
si de frica, te-ai lasat pacalita de sarutul meu sfios.
Eu am ramas aici, oare nu ma vezi?
Si de ce a trebuit sa-l iei si pe Vineri cu tine, nu am si eu dreptul la un prieten?
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poem by Serban Raducu Bogdan
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In Countless Droves
On July 4th
we walked to the liquor store
on Surf Avenue
in Coney Island
“What’s a good Scotch? ” I asked.
“Dewer’s White Label, ”
said the guy behind the counter.
“That’s what Alvin Goldfarb
used to drink, ” said Melvin Hopp,
“before he passed
had a twisted mind
seen him gobble a waterbug once
just to impress Ellen Cleary.”
“Was she impressed? ” I asked Melvin.
“Yeah.
Who wouldn’t be
if a guy ate a waterbug
in your honor
then said
it tasted like applesauce.”
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poem by Charles Chaim Wax
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