Female Revenge.

"Revenge is sweet, especially to women." - Byron.


        I heard Bill say to-day, Mary,
        That you are a charming fairy,
        And that to town he'd give you drive,
        But just as sure as you're alive,
        He does intend to have the bliss,
        Of stealing from your lips a kiss.

        I'll let him drive me now, Jane,
        His efforts they will all be vain,
        I hate him, and I him defy,
        And anger flashed from her eye,
        The monster's wiles I will defeat,
        Peck of strong onions I will eat.

James McIntyre

James McIntyre was a Canadian poet, most notable for his poetry concerning cheese, cheese-making, dairying, and dairy products. Often referred to as 'The Cheese Poet,' McIntyre's work is celebrated for its earnestness and unintentional humor, making him both a beloved and an infamous figure in literary circles. He emigrated from Scotland to Canada in 1851 and settled in Ingersoll, Ontario, where he became a successful businessman and community leader.

James McIntyre

United By Steel Rails.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Tennyson.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Tramp And Fish.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Poetry.

James McIntyre, 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.

Righteous Anger

    The lanky hank of a she in the inn over there
    Nearly killed me for asking the loan of a glass of beer:
    May the devil grip the whey-faced slut by the hair,
    And beat bad manners out of her skin for a year.

    That parboiled imp, with the hardest jaw you will see
    On virtue's path, and a voice that would rasp the dead,
    Came roaring and raging the minute she looked at me,
    And threw me out of the house on the back of my head!

    If I asked her master he'd give me a cask a day;
    But she, with the beer at hand, not a gill would arrange!
    May she marry a ghost and bear him a kitten, and may
    The High King of Glory permit her to get the mange.

James Stephens

The Rival

I determined to find out whose it was -
The portrait he looked at so, and sighed;
Bitterly have I rued my meanness
    And wept for it since he died!

I searched his desk when he was away,
And there was the likeness - yes, my own!
Taken when I was the season's fairest,
    And time-lines all unknown.

I smiled at my image, and put it back,
And he went on cherishing it, until
I was chafed that he loved not the me then living,
    But that past woman still.

Well, such was my jealousy at last,
I destroyed that face of the former me;
Could you ever have dreamed the heart of woman
    Would work so foolishly!

Thomas Hardy

Sher Afzul

This was the tale Sher Afzul told to me,
While the spent camels bubbled on their knees,
And ruddy camp-fires twinkled through the gloom
Sweet with the fragrance from the Sinjib trees.

I had a friend who lay, condemned to death
In gaol for murder, wholly innocent,
Yet caught in webs of luckless circumstance; -
Thou know'st how lies, of good and ill intent,

Cluster like flies around a justice-court,
Wheel within wheel, revolving screw on screw; -
But from his prison he escaped and fled,
Keeping his liberty a night or two

Among the lonely hills, where, shackled still,
He braved a village, seeking for a file
To loose his irons; alas! he lost his life
Through the base sweetness of a woman's smile.

Lovely she was, and young, who gave the yout...

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson

A Ramble In St. James's Park

Much wine had passed, with grave discourse
Of who f*cks who, and who does worse
(Such as you usually do hear
From those that diet at the Bear),
When I, who still take care to see
Drunkenness relieved by lechery,
Went out into St. James's Park
To cool my head and fire my heart.
But though St. James has th' honor on 't,
'Tis consecrate to prick and c*nt.
There, by a most incestuous birth,
Strange woods spring from the teeming earth;
For they relate how heretofore,
When ancient Pict began to whore,
Deluded of his assignation
(Jilting, it seems, was then in fashion),
Poor pensive lover, in this place
Would frig upon his mother's face;
Whence rows of mandrakes tall did rise
Whose lewd tops f*cked the very skies.
Each imitative branch does twine<...

John Wilmot

Love Letters of a Violinist. Letter XI. Faith.



Letter XI. Faith.


I.

    Now will I sing to God a song of praise,
    And thank the morning for the light it brings,
    Aye! and the earth for every flower that springs,
    And every tree that, in the jocund days,
    Thrills to the blast. My voice I will upraise
    To thank the world for every bird that sings.


II.

    I will unpack my mind of all its fears,
    I will advance to where the matin fires
    Absorb the hills. My hopes and my desires
    Will lead me safe; and day will have no tears
    And night no torture, as i...

Eric Mackay

Vengeance.

I

Let it sink, let it sink
On the pungent-petaled pink
    By those poppy puffs;
Fairy-fashioned downiness,
Light, weak moth in furry dress
    Of white fluffy stuffs.


II

Where the thin light slipping sweet
Dimples prints of Fairy feet
    On the white-rose blooms,
One dim blossom delicate
Droops a face all pale with hate,
    Dead with sick perfumes.


III

And I read the riddle wove
In this rose's course of love
    For the fickle pink: -
Thou the rose's phantom art
Stealing to the pink's false heart
    Vampire-like to drink.

Madison Julius Cawein