Quotes about yeoman, page 3
The Haymakers’ Song
HERE’S to him that grows it,
Drink, lads, drink!
That lays it in and mows it,
Clink, jugs, clink!
To him that mows and makes it,
That scatters it and shakes it,
That turns, and teds, and rakes it,
Clink, jugs, clink!
Now here ’s to him that stacks it,
Drink, lads, drink!
That thrashes and that tacks it,
Clink, jugs, clink!
That cuts it out for eating,
When March-dropp’d lambs are bleating,
And the slate-blue clouds are sleeting,
Drink, lads, drink!
And here ’s to thane and yeoman,
Drink, lads, drink!
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poem by Alfred Austin
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On Wenlock Edge The Wood's In Trouble
On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble;
His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;
The gale, it plies the saplings double,
And thick on Severn snow the leaves.
'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger
When Uricon the city stood;
'Tis the old wind in the old anger,
But then it threshed another wood.
Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman
At yonder heaving hill would stare;
The blood that warms an English yeoman,
The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.
There, like the wind through woods in riot,
Through him the gale of life blew high;
The tree of man was never quiet:
Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I.
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poem by Alfred Edward Housman
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Welcome to the Prince of Wales
Lines written when the Prince of Wales
was about embarking for Canada, May, 1860.
In his long voyage o'er the sea,
To where doth grow the maple tree,
May he be blest with pleasant gales-
The coming man, the Prince of Wales.
The Maple grows but in good soil,
Where nature doth reward for toil.
The farmer, splitting his fence rails,
He welcome bids the Prince of Wales.
In the woods the axe is ringing,
And the yeoman merry singing ;
The song resounds o'er hills and dales -
Our future king, the Prince of Wales.
'Round the brow of our future chief
We'll weave a wreath of maple leaf,
For o'er broad Canada prevails
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poem by James McIntyre
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The Yeoman's Son
It fell about the edge of dark,
Between the sun and moon,
The yeoman's son came home again
With the mire upon his shoon -
With the red clay upon his shoon
From a furrowed field afar -
The sour and bitter clod that breaks
Beneath the share of war.
'Oh, kiss me once on the brows, mother,
And hold me to your breast;
For the long day's work is over and done,
And I go glad to rest.'
'And oh, good-bye, my father's house,
Good-bye to field and hill,
For I'll lie down in the red furrow
To sleep, and sleep my fill.'
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poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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On The Photograph Of A Corps Commander
Ay, man is manly. Here you see
The warrior-carriage of the head,
And brave dilation of the frame;
And lighting all, the soul that led
In Spottsylvania's charge to victory,
Which justifies his fame.
A cheering picture. It is good
To look upon a Chief like this,
In whom the spirit moulds the form.
Here favoring Nature, oft remiss,
With eagle mien expressive has endued
A man to kindle strains that warm.
Trace back his lineage, and his sires,
Yeoman or noble, you shall find
Enrolled with men of Agincourt,
Heroes who shared great Harry's mind.
Down to us come the knightly Norman fires,
And front the Templars bore.
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poem by Herman Melville
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Sixty-sixth Independence Day of India (in acrostic)
Indians, we all are brothers and sisters
Nation is called Bharat, our beloved Motherland
Destiny, we share a common one
Integrity of states and citizens is prime
Avarice is one thing we shun
Neighbours are beloved to us and not our foes
Industriousness is our people's goal
Nationalism is in our blood
Divisive tendencies have been suppressed always
Everyone has opportunities to development
Poverty eradication is our ultimate aim
Equality is the guiding rule
Nature is our mother and teacher
Dialogue is the key to success in resolving disputes and differences
Empowerment of women is a clarion call
Negotiation is our strong ally
Charity is our innate trait and ingrained in culture
Employment to all is the ultimate accomplishment
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poem by John Celes
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Put a Penny in the Slot
If my action's stiff and crude,
Do not laugh, because it's rude.
If my gestures promise larks,
Do not make unkind remarks.
Clockwork figures may be found
Everywhere and all around.
Ten to one, if I but knew,
You are clockwork figures too.
And the motto of the lot,
"Put a penny in the slot!"
Usurer, for money lent,
Making out his cent per cent -
Widow plump or maiden rare,
Deaf and dumb to suitor's prayer -
Tax collectors, whom in vain
You implore to "call again" -
Cautious voter, whom you find
Slow in making up his mind -
If you'd move them on the spot,
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poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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In A Dark Wood Wandering
The moans and screams of dying men;
a scene and sound surreal.
The flower of French Chivalry
cut down by English steel.
English Harry has won this day
on this wet and muddy ground.
So many high born men laid low,
but I am still around.
It was my blood that ransomed me
when others’ blood was shed.
I am the Duke of Orleans.
A poet, some have said.
In the aftermath of battle;
wounded, left to bleed.
Sir Richard Waller found me
and attended to my needs.
So today I am his prisoner,
we’ll become friends in time.
Now I am bound for England
as a “guest” of the English crown.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The mast hangs fore
The mast hangs fore, so we bear with the land,
searching a birth; I check at the the binnacle,
and boards her up; Ease the helm, bear up-cond,
Pervasive Euclidean theorems, and the pentacle.
Voices echo from the land, in acerbic acrimony,
Angels' hymns soothing sound to slowly sharpen
biting vibes in the gusts consented disharmony,
respectfully strike the Flag, Hail to mishappen.
Accented voices, still so pleasant, effectual;
Comely draw in foggy forms, eerie on distance,
invulnerable were we, to bewitched end unequal;
threatening darkness favored fog's outdistance;
Airy she fares, inside the gust, devilish wind,
to eliminate my vacancy, so I fear, to be alive,
maybe she will vanish, aphotic dame in dark lint,
in roads adept, without her dusky aura connive!
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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Perdita
She is beautiful yet, with her wondrous hair
And eyes that are stormy with fitful light,
The delicate hues of brow and cheek
Are unmarred all, rose-clear and bright;
That matchless frame yet holds at bay
The crouching bloodhounds, Remorse, Decay.
There is no fear in her great dark eyes --
No hope, no love, no care,
Stately and proud she looks around
With a fierce, defiant stare;
Wild words deform her reckless speech,
Her laugh has a sadness tears never reach.
Whom should she fear on earth? Can Fate
One direr torment lend
To her few little years of glitter and gloom
With the sad old story to end
When the spectres of Loneliness, Want and Pain
Shall arise one night with Death in their train?
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poem by Rolf Boldrewood
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