Quotes about na'ale, page 6
The Englishman
St George he was for England,
And before he killed the dragon
He drank a pint of English ale
Out of an English flagon.
For though he fast right readily
In hair-shirt or in mail,
It isn't safe to give him cakes
Unless you give him ale.
St George he was for England,
And right gallantly set free
The lady left for dragon's meat
And tied up to a tree;
But since he stood for England
And knew what England means,
Unless you give him bacon
You mustn't give him beans.
St George he is for England,
And shall wear the shield he wore
When we go out in armour
With battle-cross before.
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poem by G.K. Chesterton
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The Englishman
St George he was for England,
And before he killed the dragon
He drank a pint of English ale
Out of an English flagon.
For though he fast right readily
In hair-shirt or in mail,
It isn't safe to give him cakes
Unless you give him ale.
St George he was for England,
And right gallantly set free
The lady left for dragon's meat
And tied up to a tree;
But since he stood for England
And knew what England means,
Unless you give him bacon
You mustn't give him beans.
St George he is for England,
And shall wear the shield he wore
[...] Read more
poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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Pitchers of dark ale
It was evident our coordinates entered
in parallax with old dimensions affected;
hence the captain's voice unexpected,
started to sing Verdi, bass and stentor.
The destination was a port of allegiance
so, we responded to the notion veering;
Saint Nicolas was on the rudder steering,
with the ship cunning to void attendance.
Quoiled up round was our blurred scope,
in open seas we egressed, ropes to hale,
drunk by overflown pitchers of dark ale,
communicating in a woozy speech trope.
With minds numb we composed lyrics,
our hoarse voices singing to ocean naiads;
where else, sea nymphs, heard bards,
on bass gargle nonsense of sot freaks?
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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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The Country Ride
EARTH which has known so many passages
Of April air, so many marriages
Of strange and lovely atoms breeding light,
Never may find again that lost delight.
In the sharp sky, the frosty deepnesses,
There are still birds to barb the silences,
There are still fields to meet the morning on,
But those who made them beautiful have gone.
Diamonds are flung by other smoking springs,
But where is he that cropped their offerings—
The pick-purse of enchantments, riding by,
Whistling his 'Go and Be Hanged, That's Twice Good bye'?
Who such a frolic pomp of blessing made
To kiss a little pretty dairymaid. . . .
And country wives with bare and earth-burnt knees,
And boys with beer, and smiles from balconies. . . .
The greensleeve girl, apprentice-equerry,
Tending great men with slant-eye mockery:
'Then Mr Sam says, ‘Riding's hot,’ he says,
Tasting their ale and waving twopences. . . . '
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poem by Kenneth Slessor
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The Turn Of The Road
WHERE confident, calm I strode,
I walk with hesitant feet;
For at yonder turn of the road
What shall I meet?
The youth of the day has gone,
And my shadow goes before;
I know that the road runs on —
I know no more.
I have travelled a goodly way,
As one at a glance may see,
Since the East and the break o' day
Called out to me.
Though the highway be hard to miss
With its signs and stones and such,
The worst of the road is this —
It turns too much.
For a part of its length it flows
(Too brief is that stretch, alas!)
'Twixt hedges of palm and rose,
O'er fern and grass.
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poem by Roderic Quinn
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The Canterbury Tales; Epilogue
The wordes of the Hoost to the Phisicien and the Pardoner.
Oure Hooste gan to swere as he were wood;
'Harrow!' quod he, 'by nayles and by blood!
This was a fals cherl and a fals justice!
As shameful deeth as herte may devyse
Come to thise juges and hire advocatz!
Algate this sely mayde is slayn, allas!
Allas! to deere boughte she beautee!
Wherfore I seye al day, as men may see
That yiftes of Fortune and of Nature
Been cause of deeth to many a creature.
(Hir beautee was hir deeth, I dar wel sayn;
Allas, so pitously as she was slayn!)
Of bothe yiftes that I speke of now
Men han ful ofte moore harm than prow.
But trewely, myn owene maister deere,
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poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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The Morning After
When I awoke this morning
It was almost yesterday
Though it could have been tomorrow
I just really couldn't say.
My head was facing back to front
My nose seemed upside down
My eyebrows stuck together
In an imbecilic frown.
My legs had all the feeling
You'd expect from frozen peas
Which was further complicated
By the loss of both my knees.
And when I tried to focus
On a point in time and space
My eyes just fled their sockets
At a most alarming pace.
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poem by Owain Glyn
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The Bard and The Brewer
Mid the middle ages, lived a middle-aged bard,
earning middle wages spinning fables and canard.
Running short of cash one day and feeling parched and stale,
he gambled on poetic sway to win a pint of ale.
The brewer, amazonic woman, also middle-aged,
wore an inharmonic scowl, her countenance was caged.
The bard surveyed her muscled bulk, his eyes flicked left and right,
pausing at her sulky hulk and downcast mouth clamped tight.
The bard assumed a winsome charm, he'd done so half his life.
The day before, he'd fast disarmed the cake-armed baker's wife.
He said, ‘I came for ale my dear, but find my thirst suppressed'.
'From drinking in your visage clear, my needs are reassessed'.
'May I just say I'm blessed, for you are Venus in a vest'
and hope it won't transgress if I should compliment your chest'.
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poem by Diane Hine
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part. 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga of King Olaf VI. -- The Wraith Of Odin
The guests were loud, the ale was strong,
King Olaf feasted late and long;
The hoary Scalds together sang;
O'erhead the smoky rafters rang.
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.
The door swung wide, with creak and din;
A blast of cold night-air came in,
And on the threshold shivering stood
A one-eyed guest, with cloak and hood.
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.
The King exclaimed, 'O graybeard pale!
Come warm thee with this cup of ale.'
The foaming draught the old man quaffed,
The noisy guests looked on and laughed.
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang.
Then spake the King: 'Be not afraid;
Sit here by me.' The guest obeyed,
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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Piel Ballad (For the King of Piel)
king of piel, lord of ale
hear the cryer wail
be crowned this day upon piel isle
let the knights set sail
proclaim his glory
to the sea, and to the furness lands
his castle fires burn again
upon fine foudreys sands.
his jesters play, his legions march
the crowds they all do cheer
the king and queen have come at last
and with them cometh beer
come daughters come sons to the coronation
to the crowning of the king of piel
come one come all come everyone
for the legends of him are real
tis true for sure what ye have heard
in tale of folk and lore
bout strange crown and kingship passed
on down from days of yore.
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poem by Graham Eccles
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