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Upon The Horse and His Rider

There's one rides very sagely on the road,
Showing that he affects the gravest mode.
Another rides tantivy, or full trot,
To show much gravity he matters not.
Lo, here comes one amain, he rides full speed,
Hedge, ditch, nor miry bog, he doth not heed.
One claws it up-hill without stop or check,
Another down as if he'd break his neck.
Now every horse has his especial guider;
Then by his going you may know the rider.

Comparison.

Now let us turn our horse into a man,
His rider to a spirit, if we can.
Then let us, by the methods of the guider,
Tell every horse how he should know his rider.
Some go, as men, direct in a right way,
Nor are they suffered to go astray;
As with a bridle they are governed,

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poem by John Bunyan
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Behold! I am not one that goes to Lectures…

Behold! I am not one that goes to Lectures or the pow-wow of
Professors.
The elementary laws never apologise: neither do I apologise.
I find letters from the Dean dropt on my table—and every one is
signed by the Dean's name—
And I leave them where they are; for I know that as long as I
stay up
Others will punctually come for ever and ever.
I am one who goes to the river,
I sit in the boat and think of 'life' and of 'time.'
How life is much, but time is more; and the beginning is
everything,
But the end is something.
I loll in the Parks, I go to the wicket, I swipe.
I see twenty-two young men from Foster's watching me, and the
trousers of the twenty-two young men,
I see the Balliol men en masse watching me.—The Hottentot
that loves his mother, the untutored Bedowee, the Cave-man
that wears only his certificate of baptism, and the shaggy
Sioux that hangs his testamur with his scalps.

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poem by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
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The Old Man's Saddest Story

We sat about the fireplace listening to the old man's tales
Of the youthful years of life he spent in lovely Alder Vale
He told some happy stories but he told some sad one's too
And the saddest story that he told I will relate to you.

'Twas the story of young Joaney Ryan who died whilst in her prime
When the fruits were ripe for picking in September's harvest time
She died at twenty three years old the valley beauty queen
And a fairer maid since her time the old man has not seen.

She was the most beautiful maid the old man ever knew
With sheeny hair of raven black and sparkling eyes of blue
Yet for all of her splendid beauty she did not show conceit
A better mannered girl than her no man could wish to meet.

Beauty it can take a woman quite a long, long way
But beauty quickly withers like the flowers that bloom in May,
You cannot judge a woman by her beauty or her dress
You can only judge a woman by the manner she possess.

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poem by Francis Duggan
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Gradual Change

I witnessed gradual change in body
Even though it was concern of nobody
I felt it so sweet and dreamt of unusual things
To be near with some one and enjoy something

My throat thickened little
The voice too became hard to settle
The mustache lines appeared on face
I was loosing my childhood trace

I could speak no one about my feelings
I was getting some unique inkling
The friends of opposite gender were appealing
I liked closeness and resorted to dealing

I had no restriction in childhood
All girls were freely paying with me from neighborhood
Now they have started keeping some distance
As it might have been told by their parents at once

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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The First Chantey

Mine was the woman to me, darkling I found her;
Haling her dumb from the camp, took her and bound her.
Hot rose her tribe on our track ere I had proved her;
Hearing her laugh in the gloom, greatly I loved her.

Swift through the forest we ran; none stood to guard us,
Few were my people and far; then the flood barred us --
Him we call Son of the Sea, sullen and swollen.
Panting we waited the death, stealer and stolen.

Yet ere they came to my lance laid for the slaughter,
Lightly she leaped to a log lapped in the water;
Holding on high and apart skins that arrayed her,
Called she the God of the Wind that He should aid her.

Life had the tree at that word (Praise we the Giver!)
Otter-like left he the bank for the full river.
Far fell their axes behind, flashing and ringing,
Wonder was on me and fear -- yet she was singing!

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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The Christmas Goose

Mr. Smiggs was a gentleman,
And he lived in London town;
His wife she was a good kind soul,
And seldom known to frown.

'Twas on Christmas eve,
And Smiggs and his wife lay cosy in bed,
When the thought of buying a goose
Came into his head.

So the next morning,
Just as the sun rose,
He jump'd out of bed,
And he donn'd his clothes,

Saying, "Peggy, my dear.
You need not frown,
For I'll buy you the best goose
In all London town."

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poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Sketch Of A Political Character

There is a race of men, who master life,
Their victory being inversely as their strife;
Who capture by refraining from pursuit;
Shake not the bough, yet load their hands with fruit;
The earth's high places who attain to fill,
By most indomitably sitting still.
While others, full upon the fortress hurled,
Lay fiery siege to the embattled world,
Of such rude arts _their_ natures feel no need;
Greatly inert, they lazily succeed;
Find in the golden mean their proper bliss,
And doing nothing, never do amiss;
But lapt in men's good graces live, and die
By all regretted, nobody knows why.

Cast in this fortunate Olympian mould,
The admirable * * * * behold;
Whom naught could dazzle or mislead, unless
'Twere the wild light of fatal cautiousness;
Who never takes a step from his own door

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poem by William Watson
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Election Aftermath

1. ANTE-ELECTIONS
Now, a cove the name of Blabb, a politician,
He's a haughty sort o' high pan-jan-dee-ram;
An' he holds a very dignified position
As the member for the districk where I am.
There is times he seems to faintly reckernise me
Jist a flutter of his flipper when we meet;
Yet, other times, his actions fair surprise me,
When with a very icy eye he eyes me,
Jist as if he never knoo me in the street.
But who am I to seek his hand to grab?
So I simply sez, 'Good mornin', Mr Blabb.'
An' passes on.
'An' I hopes you're doin' nicely, Mr Blabb.'

2. ELECTIONS

Now, a cove the name of Blabb, a politician,
Is a pal o' mine, an' most perlite, at that.
He's a candidate again for th eposition

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Preparatory Meditations - Second Series: 12

(Ezekiel 37:24. David my Servant shall be their King)

Dull, dull indeed! What, shall it e'er be thus?
And why? Are not Thy promises, my Lord,
Rich, quick'ning things? How should my full cheeks blush
To find me thus? And those a lifeless word?
My heart is heedless: unconcerned hereat:
I find my spirits spiritless and flat.

Thou court'st mine eyes in sparkling colors bright,
Most bright indeed, and soul-enamouring,
With the most shining sun, whose beams did smite
Me with delightful smiles to make me spring.
Embellished knots of love assault my mind,
Which still is dull, as if this sun n'er shined.

David in all his gallantry now comes,
Bringing, to tend Thy shrine, his royal glory,
Rich prowess, prudence, victories, sweet songs,
And piety to pencil out Thy story;

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poem by Edward Taylor
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A Visit To Sringeri

Determination cloaked me armoured
And I shut my material mind atonce
Which was done greatly resolutely
Sindhoor, ash, rakshai from forehead
Signalling all holy the spiritual road
Lighted on was my crinion

'Why not, why not you dear me'
I told myself spiritually clad
Readying for a visit to Sringeri
A journey straight to Mangalore
Winding through the heights there from
Sringeri levelled up in preaching clemency

Friday's auspice brought high favour
That opportune fortune arrived timely
A holy hall throning His Holiness,
JagathGuru ruling kind visioning keen
Thronging silks scenting strong enough
Religious jamboree incensing ritually rich

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poem by Indira Renganathan
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