Brutal Mary.

Mary had a little lamb,
    The lamb was always buttin'
So Mary killed the little lamb
    And turned him into mutton.

Edwin C. Ranck

Edwin C. Ranck was an American lyricist noted for his work in the early 20th century. He was a prolific writer and his lyrics were often characterized by their humor and wit. One of his standout works is the poem 'The Optimist', which reflects his positive outlook on life. Beyond that, little is known about his personal life or career. He remains a somewhat obscure figure in literary history.

Edwin C. Ranck

Tale Of Three Cities.

Edwin C. Ranck, Simple Poetry

Things Worth While.

Edwin C. Ranck, Simple Poetry

Saturday On The Farm.

Edwin C. Ranck, Simple Poetry

English

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The Wolf And The Lamb

A wolf, wanting lamb for his dinner,
Growled out--"Lamb you wronged me, you sinner."
Bleated Lamb--"Nay, not true!"
Answered Wolf--"Then 'twas Ewe--
Ewe or lamb, you will serve for my dinner."

Fraud And Violence Have No Scruples

Walter Crane

John Kinsella's Lament For Mr. Mary Moore

A Bloody and a sudden end,
Gunshot or a noose,
For Death who takes what man would keep,
Leaves what man would lose.
He might have had my sister,
My cousins by the score,
But nothing satisfied the fool
But my dear Mary Moore,
None other knows what pleasures man
At table or in bed.
i(What shall I do for pretty girls)
i(Now my old bawd is dead?)
Though stiff to strike a bargain,
Like an old Jew man,
Her bargain struck we laughed and talked
And emptied many a can;
And O! but she had stories,
Though not for the priest's ear,
To keep the soul of man alive,
Banish age and care,
And being old she put a skin
On everything she said.
i(What shall I do for pretty girls)
i(Now my old bawd is dead?)

The priests have got a book t...

William Butler Yeats

The Starved

My little Lamb, what is amiss?
If there was milk in mother's kiss,
You would not look as white as this.

The wolf of Hunger, it is he
That takes away thy milk from me,
And I have much to do for thee.

If thou couldst live on love, I know
No babe in all the land could show
More rosy cheeks and louder crow.

Thy father's dead, Alas for thee:
I cannot keep this wolf from me,
That takes thy milk so bold and free.

If thy dear father lived, he'd drive
Away this beast with whom I strive,
And thou, my pretty Lamb, wouldst thrive.

Ah, my poor babe, my love's so great
I'd swallow common rags for meat,
If they could make milk rich and sweet.

My little Lamb, what is amiss?
Come, I must wake thee with a kiss,
For Death w...

William Henry Davies

Young Lambs

The spring is coming by a many signs;
The trays are up, the hedges broken down,
That fenced the haystack, and the remnant shines
Like some old antique fragment weathered brown.
And where suns peep, in every sheltered place,
The little early buttercups unfold
A glittering star or two--till many trace
The edges of the blackthorn clumps in gold.
And then a little lamb bolts up behind
The hill and wags his tail to meet the yoe,
And then another, sheltered from the wind,
Lies all his length as dead--and lets me go
Close bye and never stirs but baking lies,
With legs stretched out as though he could not rise.

John Clare

The Lambs Of Grasmere, 1860

The upland flocks grew starved and thinned:
    Their shepherds scarce could feed the lambs
Whose milkless mothers butted them,
    Or who were orphaned of their dams.
The lambs athirst for mother's milk
    Filled all the place with piteous sounds:
Their mothers' bones made white for miles
    The pastureless wet pasture grounds.

Day after day, night after night,
    From lamb to lamb the shepherds went,
With teapots for the bleating mouths
    Instead of nature's nourishment.
The little shivering gaping things
    Soon knew the step that brought them aid,
And fondled the protecting hand,
    And rubbed it with a woolly head.

Then, as the days waxed on to weeks,
    It was a pretty sight to see
These lambs with frisky heads and tails

Christina Georgina Rossetti

Baa, Baa, Black Sheep





Baa, Baa, Black Sheep.

                Baa, baa, Black Sheep,
                    Have you any wool?
                Yes, marry, have I,
                    Three bags full:



                One for my Master,
                    And one for my Dame,
                And one for the little boy
                    That lives in the lane!

Leonard Brooke