Oliver Goldsmith.

        Goldsmith wrote of deserted village,
        Now again reduced to tillage,
        Once happiest village of the plain,
        The place you look for it in vain,
        There but one man he doth make rich,
        While hundreds struggle in the ditch,
        His honest vicar of Wakefield,
        Forever he will pleasure yield.

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

Providential Escape.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

James Hogg.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Indian Mutiny.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Will Carleton.

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.

Song From 'The Vicar Of Wakefield'

When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is to die.

Oliver Goldsmith

James Hogg.

        The wondrous shepherd James Hogg
        Was happy with his good sheep dog,
        Meditating o'er his sweet lays
        While his fleecy flocks did graze.

        His education it came late
        After he reached to man's estate,
        While his flocks were busy feeding
        His favourite authors he was reading.

        Wondrous tales he did rehearse
        Of witches both in prose and verse,
        And he in fairy tales did glory
        Traditions of each shepherd's story.

        The shepherd he sang late and early
        Of the deeds of bold Prince Charley,
        And how the charming bonnie Flora
        Soothed the Prince when in his sorrow.

        Few songs possess so much vigor
        As his gatherin...

James McIntyre

The Joy of Being Poor

I

Let others sing of gold and gear, the joy of being rich;
But oh, the days when I was poor, a vagrant in a ditch!
When every dawn was like a gem, so radiant and rare,
And I had but a single coat, and not a single care;
When I would feast right royally on bacon, bread and beer,
And dig into a stack of hay and doze like any peer;
When I would wash beside a brook my solitary shirt,
And though it dried upon my back I never took a hurt;
When I went romping down the road contemptuous of care,
And slapped Adventure on the back - by Gad! we were a pair;
When, though my pockets lacked a coin, and though my coat was old,
The largess of the stars was mine, and all the sunset gold;
When time was only made for fools, and free as air was I,
And hard I hit and hard I lived bene...

Robert William Service

My Father Was A Farmer.

Tune - "The Weaver and his Shuttle, O."


I.

    My father was a farmer
        Upon the Carrick border, O,
    And carefully he bred me,
        In decency and order, O;
    He bade me act a manly part,
        Though I had ne'er a farthing, O;
    For without an honest manly heart,
        No man was worth regarding, O.

II.

    Then out into the world
        My course I did determine, O;
    Tho' to be rich was not my wish,
        yet to be great was charming, O:
    My talents they were not the worst,
        Nor yet my education, O;
    Resolv'd was I, at least to try,
        To mend my situation, O.

III.

    In many a way, and vain essay,
        I courted fortune's favour, O;

Robert Burns

The Good Man.

        Cheerful and happy was his mood,
        He to the poor was kind and good,
        And he oft' times did find them food,
        Also supplies of coal and wood,
        He never spake a word was rude,
        And cheer'd those did o'er sorrows brood,
        He passed away not understood,
        Because no poet in his lays
        Had penned a sonnet in his praise,
        'Tis sad, but such is world's ways.

James McIntyre

Written In London. September, 1802

O Friend! I know not which way I must look
For comfort, being, as I am, opprest,
To think that now our life is only drest
For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook,
Or groom! We must run glittering like a brook
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest:
The wealthiest man among us is the best:
No grandeur now in nature or in book
Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
This is idolatry; and these we adore:
Plain living and high thinking are no more:
The homely beauty of the good old cause
Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,
And pure religion breathing household laws.

William Wordsworth