Quotes about bales, page 4
Shearing With a Hoe
The track that led to Carmody's is choked and overgrown,
The suckers of the stringybark have made the place their own;
The mountain rains have cut the track that once we used to know
When first we rode to Carmody's, a score of years ago.
The shearing shed at Carmody's was slab and stringybark,
The press was just a lever beam, invented in the Ark;
But Mrs Carmody was cook -- and shearers' hearts would glow
With praise of grub at Carmody's, a score of years ago.
At shearing time no penners-up would curse their fate and weep,
For Fragrant Fred -- the billy-goat -- was trained to lead the sheep;
And racing down the rattling chutes the bleating mob would go
Behind their horned man from Cook's, a score of years ago.
An owner of the olden time, his patriarchal shed
Was innocent of all machines or gadgets overhead:
And pieces, locks and super-fleece together used to go
To fill the bales at Carmody's, a score of years ago.
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poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 2. The Musician's Tale; The Ballad of Carmilhan - I.
At Stralsund, by the Baltic Sea,
Within the sandy bar,
At sunset of a summer's day,
Ready for sea, at anchor lay
The good ship Valdemar.
The sunbeams danced upon the waves,
And played along her side;
And through the cabin windows streamed
In ripples of golden light, that seemed
The ripple of the tide.
There sat the captain with his friends,
Old skippers brown and hale,
Who smoked and grumbled o'er their grog,
And talked of iceberg and of fog,
Of calm and storm and gale.
And one was spinning a sailor's yarn
About Klaboterman,
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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Morning Blues of London
I see reflections in the window,
My coffee, my only friend.
Waiting for my journey to begin.
My suitcase, my only possession
Yesterday’s clothes, yesterday’s photos
Yesterday’s dreams, all packed neatly for yesterday’s man
The whistle, slowly we move off
Leaving yesterday life
As I ponder through my window,
I hear the track mocking,
“It’s all your fault”, “it’s all your fault”, “it’s all your fault”
No peace for yesterday man
We pass fields of lavender, a reminder of when love was sweet
I see fields of barley, and hay bales
Where forbidden love was born
Then ploughed fields, the furrows of betrayal
Raking through my soul
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poem by Steven Cooke
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A Song From A Sandhill
Drip, drip, drip! It tinkles on the fly—
The pitiless outpouring of an overburdened sky:
Each drooping frond of pine has got a jewel at its tip—
First a twinkle, then a sprinkle, and a drip, drip, drip.
Drip, drip, drip! They must be shearing up on high.
Can't you see the snowy fleeces that are rolling, rolling by?
How many bales, I wonder, are they branding to the clip?
P'r'aps the Boss is keeping tally with this drip, drip, drip.
Drip, drip, drip! while the sodden branches sigh:
The jovial jackass dare not laugh for fear that he should cry:
The merry magpie's melody is frozen on his lip;
He glowers at the showers, with their drip, drip, drip.
Drip, drip, drip! and one's ‘nap' is far from dry:
'Tis hard to keep the water out, however one may try:
I'd sell myself to Satan for three fingers of a nip:
There's cramps and vile rheumatics in that drip, drip, drip.
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poem by Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake
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And One For My Dame
A born salesman,
my father made all his dough
by selling wool to Fieldcrest, Woolrich and Faribo.
A born talker,
he could sell one hundred wet-down bales
of that white stuff. He could clock the miles and the sales
and make it pay.
At home each sentence he would utter
had first pleased the buyer who'd paid him off in butter.
Each word
had been tried over and over, at any rate,
on the man who was sold by the man who filled my plate.
My father hovered
over the Yorkshire pudding and the beef:
a peddler, a hawker, a merchant and an Indian chief.
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poem by Anne Sexton
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Sik Road for C.P.Sharma
Silk Road.
I will remember ‘til I die,
the crowded caravanserai
Where weary travellers spent the night
and tried to sleep until day light.
The camels voicing their complaint
would try the patience of a saint.
Our journey started in Cathay
we very slowly made our way.
With bales of silk we would exchange
for foreign treasures rare and strange.
A camel driver’s life is hard
we risked our lives for small reward.
The greedy merchants stayed at home.
It’s only fools like me that roam
and dare the dangers of the road
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Slack Time Lacks Time 1846
Here in and out near roundabout, hear Way
ignores straight, narrow card, finds flawed hard facts,
as each is all, all each, reach interacts
through, to, from, on infinite interplay
as cause, effect teach dreams deem night is day,
to ease time's flow whose band frees, sand subtracts
increasing reel of what it really lacks.
Confusion fusion kneeds, speeds need's delay,
rules schools of thought distraught have sought 'til grey,
discourse on glass half full, half empty's tacked
on city zen by banknote billfold backed,
or country bumpkin stirring curdled whey.
Mistakes may break steel lock which bars advance,
this makes hay, take real stock, hitch stars add chance.
With space-time curved, the universal flat
falls flat, dissenter from some centre point
that Euclid and/or Ptolemy appoint,
cat's whiskers once, hats raised, now rats if that,
congrats withdrawn, lines drawn, échec et mat.
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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A Sea Dialogue
Cabin Passenger:
FRIEND, you seem thoughtful. I not wonder much
That he who sails the ocean should be sad.
I am myself reflective. When I think
Of all this wallowing beast, the Sea, has sucked
Between his sharp, thin lips, the wedgy waves,
What heaps of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, pearls;
What piles of shekels, talents, ducats, crowns,
What bales of Tyrian mantles, Indian shawls,
Of laces that have blanked the weavers' eyes,
Of silken tissues, wrought by worm and man,
The half-starved workman, and the well-fed worm;
What marbles, bronzes, pictures, parchments, books;
What many-lobuled, thought-engendering brains;
Lie with the gaping sea-shells in his maw,--
I, too, am silent; for all language seems
A mockery, and the speech of man is vain.
O mariner, we look upon the waves
And they rebuke our babbling. 'Peace!' they say,--
'Mortal, be still!' My noisy tongue is hushed,
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Beowulf (Episode 20)
HROTHGAR spake, helmet-of-Scyldings: --
"Ask not of pleasure! Pain is renewed
to Danish folk. Dead is Aeschere,
of Yrmenlaf the elder brother,
my sage adviser and stay in council,
shoulder-comrade in stress of fight
when warriors clashed and we warded our heads,
hewed the helm-boars; hero famed
should be every earl as Aeschere was!
But here in Heorot a hand hath slain him
of wandering death-sprite. I wot not whither,
proud of the prey, her path she took,
fain of her fill. The feud she avenged
that yesternight, unyieldingly,
Grendel in grimmest grasp thou killedst, --
seeing how long these liegemen mine
he ruined and ravaged. Reft of life,
in arms he fell. Now another comes,
keen and cruel, her kin to avenge,
faring far in feud of blood:
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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Nostalgia
Among palm fronds and paddy fields
Stands veiled an ancient structure
Erstwhile the abode of innocence and ease
A house now left empty of its throng
Sheltering a happy brood, once it throbbed and thrived
Within whose walls, we were born and bred
Crying and whining, laughing and prattling
Pampered and cared, we grew as kids
Corrected and controlled, we grew into adults
Here we shared a thousand mingled thoughts
A hundred hopes, dreams and fears
Saw the dawn of placid summer morns
And the descent of cold winter nights.
With hurrying feet as Time treaded past
Migrated we to new terrains and climes
Like young birds out from their nests depart
To wider skies and heady heights.
Sweet home! Earthly haven!
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poem by Valsa George
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