Mollie.

Mollie's frock is crimson,
    Her petticoat's of lace;
Mollie's hair is golden,
    And curls about her face.

Mollie's friends are many,
    She's off to visit one;
Mollie takes her sunshade,
    To keep away the sun.

Richard Hunter

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Richard Hunter

The Shepherdess.

Richard Hunter, Simple Poetry

Blue-Coat.

Richard Hunter, Simple Poetry

Brownie.

Richard Hunter, Simple Poetry

Mister Merryman.

Richard Hunter, 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.

My Mollie, O!

    'Twas in the summer's sweet perfume,
        When roses bloomed and holly, O,
    That in the brightness of her bloom,
        I first did meet my Mollie, O.

    Although she said for lives to love
        Was nothing but pure folly, O,
    My heart was lit with light above,
        And I true loved my Mollie, O.

    O, swift and fast the days did flee
        And seemed most bright and jolly, O,
    For evermore was near to me
        My fair and lovely Mollie, O.

    Now I doth sit through all the day
        And nurse my melancholy, O,
    For from me she has turned away,
        O, false and fickle Mollie, O!

Freeman Edwin Miller

The Sea-side Doll.

There's one doll for winter,
    When ice comes and snow;
Another for spring time,
    When primroses grow.

A dolly for dark nights,
    To take into bed;
And one for the morning,
    Till lessons are said.

But this is the dolly
    To play on the sands,
You see both a pail and
    A spade in her hands.

Richard Hunter

Peggy's the Lady of the Hall

And will she leave the lowly clowns
For silk and satins gay,
Her woollen aprons and drab gowns
For lady's cold array?
And will she leave the wild hedge rose,
The redbreast and the wren,
And will she leave her Sunday beaus
And milk shed in the glen?
And will she leave her kind friends all
To be the Lady of the Hall?

The cowslips bowed their golden drops,
The white thorn white as sheets;
The lamb agen the old ewe stops,
The wren and robin tweets.
And Peggy took her milk pails still,
And sang her evening song,
To milk her cows on Cowslip Hill
For half the summer long.
But silk and satins rich and rare
Are doomed for Peggy still to wear.

But when the May had turned to haws,
The hedge rose swelled to hips,
Peggy was missed ...

John Clare

The Ploughboy.

I wonder what he is thinking
    In the ploughing field all day.
He watches the heads of his oxen,
    And never looks this way.

And the furrows grow longer and longer,
    Around the base of the hill,
And the valley is bright with the sunset,
    Yet he ploughs and whistles still.

I am tired of counting the ridges,
    Where the oxen come and go,
And of thinking of all the blossoms
    That are trampled down below.

I wonder if ever he guesses
    That under the ragged brim
Of his torn straw hat I am peeping
    To steal a look at him.

The spire of the church and the windows
    Are all ablaze in the sun.
He has left the plough in the furrow,
    His summer day's work is done.

And I hear him carolling softly

Kate Seymour Maclean

Chloe, M.A., Ad Amantem Suam

Careless rhymer, it is true,
That my favourite colour's blue:
    But am I
To be made a victim, sir,
If to puddings I prefer
    Cambridge [pi]?

If with giddier girls I play
Croquet through the summer day
    On the turf,
Then at night ('tis no great boon)
Let me study how the moon
    Sways the surf.

Tennyson's idyllic verse
Surely suits me none the worse
    If I seek
Old Sicilian birds and bees,
Music of sweet Sophocles,
    Golden Greek.

You have said my eyes are blue;
There may be a fairer hue,
    Perhaps, and yet
It is surely not a sin
If I keep my secrets in
    Violet.

Edward James Mortimer Collins

To Mollie

O Mollie, I would I possessed such a heart;
It enchants me so gentle and true;
I would I possessed all its magical art,
Then, Mollie, I would enchant you.

Those dear, rosy lips tho' I never caressed them(?)
Are as sweet as the wild honey-dew;
Your cheeks all the angels in Heaven have blessed them,
But not one is as lovely as you.

Then give me that heart, O that innocent heart!
For mine own is cold and perdu;
It enchants me, but give me its magical art,
Then, Mollie, I will enchant you.

Hanford Lennox Gordon