Baloo Loo For Jenny.

Sing baloo loo for Jenny
    And where is she gone?
Away to spy her mother's land,
    Riding all alone.

To the rich towns of Scotland,
    The woods and the streams,
High upon a Spanish horse
    Saddled for her dreams.

By Oxford and by Chester,
    To Berwick-on-the-Tweed,
Then once across the borderland
    She shall find no need.

A loaf for her at Stirling,
    A scone at Carlisle,
Honeyed cakes at Edinbro',
    That shall make her smile.

At Aberdeen clear cider,
    Mead for her at Nairn,
A cup of wine at John o' Groats,
    That shall please my bairn.

Sing baloo loo for Jenny,
    Mother will be fain
To see her little truant child
    Riding home again.

Robert von Ranke Graves

Robert von Ranke Graves was a British poet, historical novelist, critic, and classicist. His father was Alfred Perceval Graves, a distinguished Irish poet and figure in the Gaelic revival. Known for his war poetry, love poems, and scholarly works, he created a lasting literary legacy, including his interpretations of the Greek myths. Graves was also a soldier in World War I, an experience that profoundly influenced his writing.

Robert von Ranke Graves

Strong Beer

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

Nine O'Clock.

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

I Wonder What It Feels Like To Be Drowned?

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

The Cottage

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

A Song For Two Children.

"Make a song, father, a new little song,
        All for Jenny and Nancy."
    Balow lalow or Hey derry down,
        Or else what might you fancy?

    Is there any song sweet enough
        For Nancy and for Jenny?
    Said Simple Simon to the pieman,
        "Indeed I know not any."

"I've counted the miles to Babylon,
        I've flown the earth like a bird,
    I've ridden cock-horse to Banbury Cross,
        But no such song have I heard."

"Some speak of Alexander,
        And some of Hercules,
    But where are there any like Nancy and Jenny,
        Where are there any like these?"

Robert von Ranke Graves

The Lass Of Ballochmyle.

Tune - "Miss Forbes's Farewell to Banff."


I.

    'Twas even, the dewy fields were green,
        On every blade the pearls hang,
    The zephyr wanton'd round the bean,
        And bore its fragrant sweets alang:
    In ev'ry glen the mavis sang,
        All nature listening seem'd the while,
    Except where greenwood echoes rang
        Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle!

II.

    With careless step I onward stray'd,
        My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy,
    When musing in a lonely glade,
        A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy;
    Her look was like the morning's eye,
        Her air like nature's vernal smile,
    Perfection whisper'd passing by,
        Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle!

III.

Robert Burns

Old English Lullaby

Hush, bonnie, dinna greit;
Moder will rocke her sweete,--
Balow, my boy!
When that his toile ben done,
Daddie will come anone,--
Hush thee, my lyttel one;
Balow, my boy!

Gin thou dost sleepe, perchaunce
Fayries will come to daunce,--
Balow, my boy!
Oft hath thy moder seene
Moonlight and mirkland queene
Daunce on thy slumbering een,--
Balow, my boy!

Then droned a bomblebee
Saftly this songe to thee:
"Balow, my boy!"
And a wee heather bell,
Pluckt from a fayry dell,
Chimed thee this rune hersell:
"Balow, my boy!"

Soe, bonnie, dinna greit;
Moder doth rock her sweete,--
Balow, my boy!
Give mee thy lyttel hand,
Moder will hold it and
Lead thee to balow land,--
Balow, my boy!

Eugene Field

Young Jenny

The cockchafer hums down the rut-rifted lane
Where the wild roses hang and the woodbines entwine,
And the shrill squeaking bat makes his circles again
Round the side of the tavern close by the sign.
The sun is gone down like a wearisome queen,
In curtains the richest that ever were seen.

The dew falls on flowers in a mist of small rain,
And, beating the hedges, low fly the barn owls;
The moon with her horns is just peeping again,
And deep in the forest the dog-badger howls;
In best bib and tucker then wanders my Jane
By the side of the woodbines which grow in the lane.

On a sweet eventide I walk by her side;
In green hoods the daisies have shut up their eyes.
Young Jenny is handsome without any pride;
Her eyes (O how bright!) have the hue of the skies.<...

John Clare

The Braes O' Ballochmyle.

Tune - "The Braes o' Ballochmyle."


I.

    The Catrine woods were yellow seen,
        The flowers decay'd on Catrine lea,
    Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green,
        But nature sicken'd on the e'e.
    Thro' faded groves Maria sang,
        Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while,
    And ay the wild-wood echoes rang,
        Fareweel the Braes o' Ballochmyle!

II.

    Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,
        Again ye'll nourish fresh and fair;
    Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers,
        Again ye'll charm the vocal air.
    But here, alas! for me nae mair
        Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile;
    Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr,
        Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle!

Robert Burns

The Doo'ucot Up The Braes

Beside the doo'cot up the braes
    The fields slope doon frae me,
An fine's the glint on blawin' days
    O' the bonnie plains o' sea.

Below's my mither's hoosie sma',
    The smiddy by the byre
Whaur aye my feyther dings awa'
    And my brither blaws the fire.

For Lachlan lo'es the smiddy's reek,
    An' Geordie's but a fule
Wha' drives the plough his breid to seek,
    And Rob's to teach the schule;

He'll haver roond the schulehoose wa's,
    And ring the schulehoose bell,
He'll skelp the scholars wi' the tawse
    (I'd like that fine mysel'!)

They're easy pleased, my brithers three -
    I hate the smiddy's lowe,
A weary dominie I'd be,
    An' I canna thole the plough.

But by the doo'cot up the braes
...

Violet Jacob