Quotes about cart, page 7
Prologue To Sophonisba; Spoken at Oxford, 1680
Thespis, the first professor of our art,
At country wakes, sung ballads from a cart.
To prove this true, if Latin be no trespass,
Dicitur et plaustris vexisse poemata Thespis.
But Æschylus, says Horace in some page,
Was the first mountebank that trod the stage:
Yet Athens never knew your learned sport,
Of tossing poets in a tennis-court.
But 'tis the talent of our English nation,
Still to be plotting some new reformation;
And few years hence, if anarchy goes on,
Jack Presbyter shall here erect his throne,
Knock out a tub with preaching once a day,
And every prayer be longer than a play.
Then all your heathen wits shall go to pot,
For disbelieving of a Popish Plot;
Nor should we scape the sentence, to depart,
Even in our first original, a cart;
Your poets shall be used like infidels,
And worst, the author of the Oxford bells;
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poem by John Dryden
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Then What?
When two no longer share from day to day
love set to span eternal rainbow years,
encounter prematurely hell's harsh way
when, unprepared, warmth wanes in winter’s tears,
when morn lights up wan mourning heart apart,
when cold creeps irrespective of bright ray,
when what was wed is sudden torn apart,
when was was said can’t be explained away,
when Past’s outcast, when there’s no second start,
when all horizons darken into one,
when time’s conveyed on sodden tumbrel cart,
warp weft reft patterns warped, thread dead, undone,
when, where two played, one, sad, remains, cheeks grey -
what then … when there is nothing more to say?
27 September 1996 revised 3 December 2008 and 22 April 2009
robi03_0830_robi03_0000 SXX_DJZ
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Bottle 'O
I ain't the kind of bloke as takes to any steady job;
I drives me bottle cart around the town;
A bloke what keeps 'is eyes about can always make a bob --
I couldn't bear to graft for every brown.
There's lots of handy things about in everybody's yard,
There's cocks and hens a-runnin' to an' fro,
And little dogs what comes and barks -- we take 'em off their guard
And we puts 'em with the Empty Bottle-O!
Chorus --
So it's any "Empty bottles! Any empty bottle-O!"
You can hear us round for half a mile or so
And you'll see the women rushing
To take in the Monday's washing
When they 'ear us crying, "Empty Bottle-O!"
I'm driving down by Wexford-street and up a winder goes,
A girl sticks out 'er 'ead and looks at me,
An all-right tart with ginger 'air, and freckles on 'er nose;
I stops the cart and walks across to see.
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poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Heat
From plains that reel to southward, dim,
The road runs by me white and bare;
Up the steep hill it seems to swim
Beyond, and melt into the glare.
Upward half-way, or it may be
Nearer the summit, slowly steals
A hay-cart, moving dustily
With idly clacking wheels.
By his cart's side the wagoner
Is slouching slowly at his ease,
Half-hidden in the windless blur
Of white dust puffiing to his knees.
This wagon on the height above,
From sky to sky on either hand,
Is the sole thing that seems to move
In all the heat-held land.
Beyond me in the fields the sun
Soaks in the grass and hath his will;
I count the marguerites one by one;
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poem by Archibald Lampman
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Old Town Types No. 6 - Flash Phil
Still I've the picture of him - Flash Phil Galloway;
In a shining dog-cart driving down the road;
Spanking ponies dashing by,
Running tandem, stepping high;
Silver-plated harness where the sunlight glowed.
Everybody waved to him - Kind Phil Galloway
Bright eye, curling hair, big blond moustache.
No man, in those feckless days,
Thought to curb his reckless ways:
'Right man for the district, sir; tho' just a trifle rash.'
Flash Phil Galloway owned a station property
Left him by his father, back in sixty-nine;
Owned a stretch of sheepland, too,
Left him by his Uncle Lou;
Owned his mother's big estate along the Ballantyne
Three tidy fortunes: and Phil upon a race day
Standing for a luncheon - frills and fancy grub.
'Champagne and caviar,
Every toff a big cigar,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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song - The Primrose and the Knife
Whilst onward flows the River Cart
And forward flees time’s silent dart
The loves and hopes o’ men abide
As constant as the throbbing tide
Oor tenure here is fleeting tho’
Brief as the swirlin’ flake o’ snow
An’ dreams, oh dreams, they carry us
Beyond the stars, then bury us
The future’s sweet talk turns tae snash
A moment precious, then we’re ash
We walk a tightrope through this life
Between the primrose and the knife
Between the eagle and the louse
Between the vixen and the yowes
We’re in the wind, we’re in the wave
Bright as sunlight, dark as the cave
I’ve worn the holy cross of love
I’ve drawn the killing arrow back
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poem by Jim Hogg
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The Cab Horses' Story
Now, you wouldn't imagine, to look at me,
That I was a racehorse once.
I have done my mile in - let me see
No matter. I was no dunce.
But you'd not believe me if I told
Of gallops I did in days of old.
I was first in - ah, well! What's the good?
It hurts to recall those days
When I drew from men, as a proud horse should,
Nothing but words of praise:
Oh, the waving hats, and the cheering crowd!
How could a horse help being proud?
My owner was just as proud as I;
I was cuddled and petted and praised.
My fame was great and my price was high,
And every year 'twas raised.
Then I strained a sinew in ninety-nine,
And that's when started my swift decline.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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0021 The Advent of Commerce
December 11; and through the letterbox
falls like a heavy snowflake, the first Christmas card..
who’s so eager to draw
my mind and heart to Advent-tide?
no stamp – ah yes, of course,
it’s from Alex the paper boy,
counting his goodwill before it’s cashed,
throwing me into a moral tizzy.
My parents, who knew the circumspection
with which the poor must treat the poor,
taught me that after God and the family
had been acknowledged on Christmas Day,
‘Boxing Day’ was the time for showing gratitude
to those who’d served your family faithfully
daily or weekly – the milkman with his
unsociable hours; the paperboy
(for those who could afford a daily paper) :
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Ballad Of Betsy
Betsy now pulls the cart towards sweet home that day
Her size makes pulling baby carts as mere child's play
She's huge, a Labrador, obtained from Russian friend
Trained by cop, we'll call Tim - that isn't his real name
Tim can slug between the eyes crooks across the street
His temper's short, but long the distance he'd shoot straight
His baby, Betsy pulls in cart as they would stroll
Today could be the day, she waits maternal call
So many pats, did Tim bestow on Betsy's head
As due reward for deeds of bravery she'd made
To Betsy it's worth all to life and what it brought
And with her newborn pups, she's bound for added worth
One fateful day, as Tim was out, the stork came in,
And for Betsy it looks like Fate did show her grin,
But as her seventh pup was out, a wolf came by
It bit the baby that so loud it now did cry
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poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
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Sarah’s Special Birthday
There once was a girl named Sarah who had a special toy,
Her toy was a doll named Melodie who brought her lots of joy.
One night when Sarah fell asleep with Melodie in her hand,
Sarah started dreaming she was in a faraway land.
This land was filled with beautiful flowers, birds and butterflies,
This was the land of Krendoll where magical dolls come alive!
Then Sarah saw a shadow along side a tree,
She notices it’s Melodie as happy as can be!
Melodie is sitting on a magical unicorn, the unicorn is fair, soft and
white
The unicorn’s name is UniCandle with his horn shining bright!
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poem by Suzae Chevalier
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