Imitated From Wordsworth

He brought a team from Inversnaid
    To play our Third Fifteen,
A man whom none of us had played
    And very few had seen.

He weighed not less than eighteen stone,
    And to a practised eye
He seemed as little fit to run
    As he was fit to fly.

He looked so clumsy and so slow,
    And made so little fuss;
But he got in behind--and oh,
    The difference to us!

Robert Fuller Murray

Robert Fuller Murray was a Scottish poet known for his lyrical and expressive poetry. Born on December 26, 1863, in Roxbury, Massachusetts, he moved to Scotland at a young age. Despite a short life, ending on April 15, 1894, Murray left a significant mark with his works, which often reflected themes of nature and human emotion. His poetry is characterized by its elegance and depth of feeling. Murray's influence remained through posthumous publications and collections of his poetry.

Robert Fuller Murray

The True Liberal

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Patriotism

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

For A Present Of Roses

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Requiem

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

English

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

The Reverend Mullineux

I'd reckon his weight as eight-stun-eight,
And his height as five-foot-two,
With a face as plain as an eight-day clock
And a walk as brisk as a bantam-cock,
Game as a bantam, too,
Hard and wiry and full of steam,
That's the boss of the English Team,
Reverend Mullineux!

Makes no row when the game gets rough,
None of your "Strike me blue!"
"Yous wants smacking across the snout!"
Plays like a gentleman out-and-out,
Same as he ought to do.
"Kindly remove from off my face!"
That's the way that he states his case,
Reverend Mullineux.

Kick! He can kick like an army mule,
Run like a kangaroo!
Hard to get by as a lawyer-plant,
Tackles his man like a bull-dog ant,
Fetches hom over too!
Didn't the public cheer and shout
Watchin' ...

Andrew Barton Paterson

Thirty Years After

Two old St. Andrews men, after a separation of nearly thirty years, meet by chance at a wayside inn.    They interchange experiences; and at length one of them, who is an admirer of Mr. Swinburne's Poems and Ballads, speaks as follows:

If you were now a bejant,
    And I a first year man,
We'd grind and grub together
In every kind of weather,
When Winter's snows were regent,
    Or when the Spring began;
If you were now a bejant,
    And I a first year man.

If you were what you once were,
    And I the same man still,
You'd be the gainer by it,
For you--you can't deny it--
A most uncommon dunce were;
    My profit would be nil,
If you were what you once were,
    And I the same man still.

If you were last in Latin,
    And I ...

Robert Fuller Murray

In The Pass Of Killicranky

Six thousand veterans practised in war's game,
Tried men, at Killicranky were arrayed
Against an equal host that wore the plaid,
Shepherds and herdsmen. Like a whirlwind came
The Highlanders, the slaughter spread like flame;
And Garry, thundering down his mountain-road,
Was stopped, and could not breathe beneath the load
Of the dead bodies. 'Twas a day of shame
For them whom precept and the pedantry
Of cold mechanic battle do enslave.
O for a single hour of that Dundee,
Who on that day the word of onset gave!
Like conquest would the Men of England see;
And her Foes find a like inglorious grave.

William Wordsworth

To C. C. C.

Oh for the nights when we used to sit
    In the firelight's glow or flicker,
With the gas turned low and our pipes all lit,
    And the air fast growing thicker;

When you, enthroned in the big arm-chair,
    Would spin for us yarns unending,
Your voice and accent and pensive air
    With the narrative subtly blending!

Oh for the bleak and wintry days
    When we set our blood in motion,
Leaping the rocks below the braes
    And wetting our feet in the ocean,

Or shying at marks for moderate sums
    (A penny a hit, you remember),
With aching fingers and purple thumbs,
    In the merry month of December!

There is little doubt we were very daft,
    And our sports, like the stakes, were trifling;
While the air of the room where ...

Robert Fuller Murray

Adventure Of A Poet

As I was walking down the street
    A week ago,
Near Henderson's I chanced to meet
    A man I know.

His name is Alexander Bell,
    His home, Dundee;
I do not know him quite so well
    As he knows me.

He gave my hand a hearty shake,
    Discussed the weather,
And then proposed that we should take
    A stroll together.

Down College Street we took our way,
    And there we met
The beautiful Miss Mary Gray,
    That arch coquette,
Who stole last spring my heart away
    And has it yet.

That smile with which my bow she greets,
    Would it were fonder!
Or else less fond--since she its sweets
    On all must squander.
Thus, when I meet her in the streets,
    I sadly ponder,
And after her, as she r...

Robert Fuller Murray

Cairnsmill Den--Tune: 'A Roving'

As I, with hopeless love o'erthrown,
With love o'erthrown, with love o'erthrown,
    And this is truth I tell,
As I, with hopeless love o'erthrown,
Was sadly walking all alone,

I met my love one morning
    In Cairnsmill Den.
One morning, one morning,
One blue and blowy morning,
I met my love one morning
    In Cairnsmill Den.

A dead bough broke within the wood
Within the wood, within the wood,
    And this is truth I tell.
A dead bough broke within the wood,
And I looked up, and there she stood.

I asked what was it brought her there,
What brought her there, what brought her there,
    And this is truth I tell.
I asked what was it brought her there.
Says she, 'To pull the primrose fair.'

Says I, 'Come, let me pu...

Robert Fuller Murray