On Torture: A Public Singer

Torture will give a dozen pence or more
To keep a drab from bawling at his door.
The public taste is quite a different thing
Torture is positively paid to sing.

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

The Dromedary

Hilaire Belloc, Simple Poetry

Because My Faltering Feet

Hilaire Belloc, Simple Poetry

Heretics All

Hilaire Belloc, Simple Poetry

English

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Béranger's "Ma Vocation"

Misery is my lot,
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Eugene Field

A Song Of Singers

Singers all along the street,
Singing every kind of song -
One man's song is honey-sweet,
One man's song is hammer-strong;
Yet, however sweet the singing,
However strong the hammer-swinging, -
All the bees are round that honey
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Singers all along the street -
One sings Love and one sings Death,
Roses sings one and little feet,
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Singers singing down the street,
I believe there is a song,
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'Mid the iron of the city.

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All...

Richard Le Gallienne

The Music-Grinders

There are three ways in which men take
One's money from his purse,
And very hard it is to tell
Which of the three is worse;
But all of them are bad enough
To make a body curse.

You're riding out some pleasant day,
And counting up your gains;
A fellow jumps from out a bush,
And takes your horse's reins,
Another hints some words about
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It's hard to meet such pressing friends
In such a lonely spot;
It's very hard to lose your cash,
But harder to be shot;
And so you take your wallet out,
Though you would rather not.

Perhaps you're going out to dine, -
Some odious creature begs
You'll hear about the cannon-ball
That carried off his pegs,
And says it is a dreadful thing
For men to lose thei...

Oliver Wendell Holmes

The Voiceless

We count the broken lyres that rest
Where the sweet wailing singers slumber,
But o'er their silent sister's breast
The wild-flowers who will stoop to number?
A few can touch the magic string,
And noisy Fame is proud to win them: -
Alas for those that never sing,
But die with all their music in them!

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Whose song has told their hearts' sad story, -
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The cross without the crown of glory
Not where Leucadian breezes sweep
O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow,
But where the glistening night-dews weep
On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.

O hearts that break and give no sign
Save whitening lip and fading tresses,
Till Death pours out his longed-for wine
Slow-dropped fr...

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The Singer In The Prison

O sight of shame, and pain, and dole!
O fearful thought a convict Soul!

Rang the refrain along the hall, the prison,
Rose to the roof, the vaults of heaven above,
Pouring in floods of melody, in tones so pensive, sweet and strong, the like whereof was never heard,
Reaching the far-off sentry, and the armed guards, who ceas'd their pacing,
Making the hearer's pulses stop for extasy and awe.

O sight of pity, gloom, and dole!
O pardon me, a hapless Soul!

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Walt Whitman

Upon A Hoarse Singer.

Sing me to death; for till thy voice be clear,
'Twill never please the palate of mine ear.

Robert Herrick