Algernon

Who played with a Loaded Gun, and, on missing his Sister was reprimanded by his Father.

Young Algernon, the Doctor's Son,
Was playing with a Loaded Gun.
He pointed it towards his Sister,
Aimed very carefully, but
Missed her!
His Father, who was standing near,
The Loud Explosion chanced to Hear,
And reprimanded Algernon
For playing with a Loaded Gun.

Hilaire Belloc

Hilaire Belloc was an Anglo-French writer and historian, known for his poetry, essays, and children's books. Born on July 27, 1870, in France, he became a British citizen and was a prominent figure in early 20th-century British literature. Belloc was a devout Catholic, which significantly influenced his writings. He was a close friend of G.K. Chesterton and shared similar views on social and political issues. Belloc passed away on July 16, 1953, leaving behind a rich legacy of literary works.

Hilaire Belloc

On Vital Statistics

Hilaire Belloc, Simple Poetry

The Catholic Sun

Hilaire Belloc, Simple Poetry

Heroic Poem In Praise Of Wine

Hilaire Belloc, Simple Poetry

Drinking Song, On the Excellence of Burgundy Wine

Hilaire Belloc, Simple Poetry

English

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George

Who played with a Dangerous Toy, and suffered a Catastrophe of considerable Dimensions

When George's Grandmamma was told
That George had been as good as gold,
She promised in the afternoon
To buy him an Immense BALLOON.
And so she did; but when it came,
It got into the candle flame,
And being of a dangerous sort
Exploded with a loud report!
The lights went out! The windows broke!
The room was filled with reeking smoke.
And in the darkness shrieks and yells
Were mingled with electric bells,
And falling masonry and groans,
And crunching, as of broken bones,
And dreadful shrieks, when, worst of all,
The house itself began to fall!
It tottered, shuddering to and fro,
Then crashed into the street below-
Which happened to be Savile Row.

Hilaire Belloc

Danger Of Fire Arms.

        For to save life one great solver
        Would be to prohibit the revolver,
        Weapon of coward and of bully,
        Who slaughter friends in their folly.

        Let now no man or any boy,
        With loaded arms ever toy,
        Showing off their manly vigor,
        Pointing to friend and pulling trigger.

        And sending bullet through their brain,
        And then exclaim in mournful strain,
        When friends with grief they are goaded,
        I did not know that it was loaded.

        Fire arms oft' times do bring woes,
        And they kill more friends than foes,
        Hunting now o'er fertile fields,
        'Tis seldom that it profit yields.

James McIntyre

Henry King

The Chief Defect of Henry King
Was chewing little bits of String.
At last he swallowed some which tied
Itself in ugly Knots inside.

Physicians of the Utmost Fame
Were called at once; but when they came
They answered, as they took their Fees,
"There is no Cure for this Disease.

"Henry will very soon be dead.''
His Parents stood about his Bed
Lamenting his Untimely Death,
When Henry, with his Latest Breath,

Cried, "Oh, my Friends, be warned by me,
That Breakfast, Dinner, Lunch, and Tea
Are all the Human Frame requires...''
With that, the Wretched Child expires.

Hilaire Belloc

Hildebrand

Who was frightened by a Passing Motor, and was brought to Reason

"Oh murder! What was that, Papa!"
"My child, It was a Motor-Car,
A most Ingenious Toy!
Designed to Captivate and Charm
Much rather than to rouse Alarm
In any English Boy.

"What would your Great Grandfather who
Was Aide-de-Camp to General Brue,
And lost a leg at Waterloo,
And Quatre-Bras and Ligny too!
And died at Trafalgar!
What would he have remarked to hear
His Young Descendant shriek with fear,
Because he happened to be near
A Harmless Motor-Car!
But do not fret about it! Come!
We'll off to Town
And purchase some!"

Hilaire Belloc

S. I. W.

        "I will to the King,
        And offer him consolation in his trouble,
        For that man there has set his teeth to die,
        And being one that hates obedience,
        Discipline, and orderliness of life,
        I cannot mourn him."
                                W. B. Yeats.



    Patting goodbye, doubtless they told the lad
    He'd always show the Hun a brave man's face;
    Father would sooner him dead than in disgrace,--
    Was proud to see him going, aye, and glad.
    Perhaps his Mother whimpered how she'd fret
    Until he got a nice, safe wound to nurse.
    Sisters would wish girls too could shoot, charge, curse, . . .
    Brothers--would send his favourite cigarette,
    Each week, month after month, they wrote the same...

Wilfred Edward Salter Owen

The Dead-Beat

    He dropped,--more sullenly than wearily,
    Lay stupid like a cod, heavy like meat,
    And none of us could kick him to his feet;
    Just blinked at my revolver, blearily;
--Didn't appear to know a war was on,
    Or see the blasted trench at which he stared.
    "I'll do 'em in," he whined, "If this hand's spared,
    I'll murder them, I will."

                                A low voice said,
    "It's Blighty, p'raps, he sees; his pluck's all gone,
    Dreaming of all the valiant, that AREN'T dead:
    Bold uncles, smiling ministerially;
    Maybe his brave young wife, getting her fun
    In some new home, improved materially.
    It's not these stiffs have crazed him; nor the Hun."

    We sent him down at last, out of the way.
    Unwoun...

Wilfred Edward Salter Owen