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

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 Torture: A Public Singer

Hilaire Belloc, Simple Poetry

Ballade To Our Lady Of Czestochowa

Hilaire Belloc, Simple Poetry

Algernon

Hilaire Belloc, 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.

To Hilaire Belloc

For every tiny town or place
God made the stars especially;
Babies look up with owlish face
And see them tangled in a tree:
You saw a moon from Sussex Downs,
A Sussex moon, untravelled still,
I saw a moon that was the town's,
The largest lamp on Campden Hill.

Yea; Heaven is everywhere at home
The big blue cap that always fits,
And so it is (be calm; they come
To goal at last, my wandering wits),
So is it with the heroic thing;
This shall not end for the world's end,
And though the sullen engines swing,
Be you not much afraid, my friend.

This did not end by Nelson's urn
Where an immortal England sits--
Nor where your tall young men in turn
Drank death like wine at Austerlitz.
And when the pedants bade us mark
What cold mecha...

Gilbert Keith Chesterton

The Motor Car Dumpy Book

The Motor Car Dumpy Book.


This is the old gentleman who used to walk in front of steam-driven carriages on the King's highway. He carried in his hand a red flag which he waved.





This is the traction-engine which always came behind the old gentleman, and made such a dreadful noise. If the roads were good it could travel four miles in one hour.

This is the old gentleman getting out of the way of a motor car.

Thomas William Hodgson Crosland

Priscilla

Jerry MacMullen, the millionaire,
Driving a red-meat bus out there -
How did he win his Croix de Guerre?
Bless you, that's all old stuff:
Beast of a night on the Verdun road,
Jerry stuck with a woeful load,
Stalled in the mud where the red lights glowed,
Prospect devilish tough.

"Little Priscilla" he called his car,
Best of our battered bunch by far,
Branded with many a bullet scar,
Yet running so sweet and true.
Jerry he loved her, knew her tricks;
Swore: "She's the beat of the best big six,
And if ever I get in a deuce of a fix
Priscilla will pull me through."

"Looks pretty rotten right now," says he;
"Hanged if the devil himself could see.
Priscilla, it's up to you and me
To show 'em what we can do."
Seemed that Prisci...

Robert William Service

To The Motorist

    My dear Sir, -
    When men have nightmares, they dream about you.
    I myself have been chased over the tops of pinnacles
    By flaming-eyed Panhards and Durkopps
    In my sleep.
    Nor is this all,
    For if one brings oneself
    To read reports of the proceedings of police courts
    One finds that the average citizen
    Gets more or less chased by you sir,
    In his waking moments.
    The Police I know, sir, seldom speak the truth:
    They remember so well the day
    When a horseless carriage had to be taken through the street
    At the speed of a funeral march,
    And with a red flag in front of it,
    That the spectacle of an affable motorist
    Bowling through a Surrey village
    To the tune of six miles an hour
    Sh...

Thomas William Hodgson Crosland

The Motor Car

The motor car is sullen, like a thing that should not be;
The motor car is master of Smart Society.
Twas born of sweated genius and collared by a clown;
Twas planned by Retribution to ride its riders down.
And straight for Caesars Column,
It runs to Caesars Column,
Last section, Caesars Column
To ride its riders down!

The motor car is shame-struck, for greed and misery,
For mad and hopeless self-lust, and the sins that need not be.
The motor car is vicious, for its conscience makes it so,
It aye would smash the victims while it runs the riders low.
And straight for Caesars Column,
Its goal is Caesars Column,
It longs for Caesars Column
To lay its riders low.

The motor car is maddened like a horse thats had a fright,
The shameful day b...

Henry Lawson

The Lay Of The Motor-Car

We're away! and the wind whistles shrewd
In our whiskers and teeth;
And the granite-like grey of the road
Seems to slide underneath.
As an eagle might sweep through the sky,
So we sweep through the land;
And the pallid pedestrians fly
When they hear us at hand.

We outpace, we outlast, we outstrip!
Not the fast-fleeing hare,
Nor the racehorses under the whip,
Nor the birds of the air
Can compete with our swiftness sublime,
Our ease and our grace.
We annihilate chickens and time
And policemen and space.

Do you mind that fat grocer who crossed?
How he dropped down to pray
In the road when he saw he was lost;
How he melted away
Underneath, and there rang through the fog
His earsplitting squeal
As he went, Is that he or a d...

Andrew Barton Paterson