Short Poems

When you think of the hosts without No.
Who are slain by the deadly cuco.,
It's quite a mistake
Of such food to partake,
It results in a permanent slo.

Gold and all this werdis win
Is nought but Cristes rode.
I wolde ben clad in Cristes skin
That ran so longe on blode,
And gon t'is herte and taken myn in—
There is a fulsum fode.
Then yef I littel of kith or kin,
For there is alle gode.

When a woman blue, when a woman blue,She hang her little head and cry—When a woman blue, when a woman blue,She hang her little head and cry—(Hah hah hah high!)When a man get blueHe grab a railroad train and ride.

I'm go'n lay my head, I'm go'n lay my head,Down on dat railroad line—I'm go'n lay my head, I'm go'n lay my head,Down on dat railroad line—(Lah hah hah hine!)Let de train roll by,And dat'll pacify my min'

A PRETTY good firm is “Watch & Waite,”
And another is “Attit, Early & Layte;”
And still another is “Doo & Dairet;”
But the best is probably “Grinn & Barrett.”

Little Shon a Morgan, shentleman of Wales
Came riding on a nanny goat, selling of pigstails.

All things are best when first begun,
A love that 's guessed, a race unrun,
And those bright notes that in the brain
Fall brief, beginnings of the rain,
Just two or one
That splash, and to the dust belong,
And might have been a rush of song.

Hair without and hair within,
A' hair, and nae skin.

Short is my say, O stranger. Stay and read.
Not fair this tomb, but fair was she it holds.
By her name her parents called her Claudia.
Her wedded lord she loved with all her heart.
She bare two sons, and one of them she left
On earth, the other in the earth she laid.
Her speech was pleasing and her bearing gracious.
She kept house: span her wool. I have said. Farewell.

When Sunday tidings from the front
Made pale the priest and people,
And heavily the blessing went,
And bells were dumb in the steeple;
The Soldier's widow (summering sweetly here,
In shade by waving beeches lent)
Felt deep at heart her faith content,
And priest and people borrowed of her cheer.

I cannot think there's that antipathy
'Twixt puritans, and players, as some cry;
Though Lip, at Paul's, ran from his text away,
T'inveigh 'gainst players: what did he then but play?