Peter Dunne

By the Harp

"Shpeaking of Harps, sure me frind Pete
Has got the Harp of Tara beat,"
Said Mr. Dooley. "Div'l a thing
That boy can't play upon won shtring.
For all the wurrld, to hear him play
You'd think 'twas a whole orchestray.
Great Shtatesmen come from far and near
And shtop their talking, just to hear
Him harp upon the latest kinks
In politics and social jinks.
Niver was such a music sharp,
I'd orter know, sure I'm the Harp."

Oliver Herford

Oliver Herford was born in England on December 2, 1860. He was a British-born American writer, artist, and illustrator, often referred to as 'The American Oscar Wilde' for his sharp wit and humorous works. Herford authored and illustrated many books for children and adults, contributing to magazines such as "The Criterion", "Life", and "Punch". He died on July 5, 1935, in France.

Oliver Herford

Some Geese.

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

The Dove Of Peace

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

Saint Paul

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

A Mole.

Oliver Herford, 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.

Dan O'Sullivan

Dan O'Sullivan: It's your
Lips have kissed "The Blarney," sure! -
To be trillin' praise av me,
Dhrippin' swhate wid poethry! -
Not that I'd not have ye sing -
Don't lave off for anything -
Jusht be aisy whilst the fit
Av me head shwells up to it!

Dade and thrue, I'm not the man,
Whilst yer singin', loike ye can,
To cry shtop because ye've blesht
My songs more than all the resht: -
I'll not be the b'y to ax
Any shtar to wane or wax,
Or ax any clock that's woun'
To run up inshtid av down!

Whist yez! Dan O'Sullivan! -
Him that made the Irishman
Mixt the birds in wid the dough,
And the dew and mistletoe
Wid the whusky in the quare
Muggs av us - and here we air,
Three parts right, and three parts wrong,
Shpiked with be...

James Whitcomb Riley

The Harp Of Aengus

Edain came out of Midhir's hill, and lay
Beside young Aengus in his tower of glass,
Where time is drowned in odour-laden winds
And Druid moons, and murmuring of boughs,
And sleepy boughs, and boughs where apples made
Of opal and ruhy and pale chrysolite
Awake unsleeping fires; and wove seven strings,
Sweet with all music, out of his long hair,
Because her hands had been made wild by love.
When Midhir's wife had changed her to a fly,
He made a harp with Druid apple-wood
That she among her winds might know he wept;
And from that hour he has watched over none
But faithful lovers.

William Butler Yeats

The Heron Ballads. (Ballad First.)

I.

    Whom will you send to London town,
        To Parliament and a' that?
    Or wha in a' the country round
        The best deserves to fa' that?
                    For a' that, and a' that;
                    Thro Galloway and a' that;
                    Where is the laird or belted knight
                    That best deserves to fa' that?

II.

    Wha sees Kerroughtree's open yett,
        And wha is't never saw that?
    Wha ever wi' Kerroughtree meets
        And has a doubt of a' that?
                    For a' that, and a' that,
                    Here's Heron yet for a' that,
                    The independent patriot,
                    The honest man, an' a' that.

III.

    Tho' wit and worth in ...

Robert Burns

Kenmare River.

'Tis pretty to be in Ballinderry,
    'Tis pretty to be in Ballindoon,
But 'tis prettier far in County Kerry
    Coortin' under the bran' new moon,
                Aroon, Aroon!

'Twas there by the bosom of blue Killarney
    They came by the hundther' a-coortin' me;
Sure I was the one to give back their blarney,
    An' merry was I to be fancy-free.

But niver a step in the lot was lighter,
    An' divvle a boulder among the bhoys,
Than Phelim O'Shea, me dynamither,
    Me illigant arthist in clock-work toys.

'Twas all for love he would bring his figgers
    Of iminent statesmen, in toy machines,
An' hould me hand as he pulled the thriggers
    An' scattered the thraytors to smithereens.

An' to see the Queen in her Crystial Pallus

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

The Heron Ballads. (Ballad Third.)

An Excellent New Song.


Tune. "Buy broom besoms."

    Wha will buy my troggin,
        Fine election ware;
    Broken trade o' Broughton,
        A' in high repair.
        Buy braw troggin,
            Frae the banks o' Dee;
        Wha wants troggin
            Let him come to me.

    There's a noble Earl's^[1]
        Fame and high renown
    For an auld sang,
        It's thought the gudes were stown.
        Buy braw troggin, &c.

    Here's the worth o' Broughton^[2]
        In a needle's ee;
    Here's a reputation
        Tint by Balmaghie.
        Buy braw troggin, &c.

    Here's an honest conscience
        Might a prince adorn;
    Frae the downs o' Ti...

Robert Burns

The Ploughman.

Tune - "Up wi' the ploughman."


I.

    The ploughman he's a bonnie lad,
        His mind is ever true, jo,
    His garters knit below his knee,
        His bonnet it is blue, jo.
                Then up wi' him my ploughman lad,
                    And hey my merry ploughman!
                Of a' the trades that I do ken,
                    Commend me to the ploughman.

II.

    My ploughman he comes hame at e'en,
        He's aften wat and weary;
    Cast off the wat, put on the dry,
        And gae to bed, my dearie!

III.

    I will wash my ploughman's hose,
        And I will dress his o'erlay;
    I will mak my ploughman's bed,
        And cheer him late and early.

IV.

   ...

Robert Burns