Red Breast

I saw one hanging on a tree,
And O his face was sad to see,--
            Misery, misery me!

There were berries red upon his head,
And in his hands, and on his feet,
But when I tried to pick and eat,
They were his blood, and he was dead;--
            Misery, misery me!

It broke my heart to see him there,
So lone and sad in his despair;
The nails of woe were through his hands,
And through his feet,--ah, misery me!

With beak and claws I did my best
To loose the nails and set him free,
But they were all too strong for me;--
            Misery, misery me!

I picked and pulled, and did my best,
And his red blood stained all my breast;
I bit the nails, I pecked the thorn,
O, never saw I thorn so worn;
But yet I could not get him free;--
            Misery, misery me!

And never since have I feared man,
But ever I seek him when I can,
And let him see the wish in me
To ease him of his misery.

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

William Arthur Dunkerley, better known by his pen name John Oxenham, was an English journalist, novelist, and poet. He was a prolific writer in the early 20th century, producing a wide range of literary works including poetry, hymns, and novels. His works often reflected Christian themes and were popular during his time. Dunkerley also contributed to the establishment of the Boys' Brigade, a notable youth organization in the UK. His legacy includes a significant contribution to both literature and social causes.

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

Lonely Brother

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham), Simple Poetry

Said The Wounded One:

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham), Simple Poetry

Judgment Day

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham), Simple Poetry

The Empty Chair

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham), Simple Poetry

English

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The Word That Was Left Unsaid

"A red rose for my helmet,
And a word before we part!
The rose shall be my oriflamme
The word shall fill my heart."
Heart, Heart, Heart of my heart--
Just a look, just a word and a look!
A look or a sign that my love shall divine
And a word for my hungering heart!

She toyed with his love and her roses;
Was it mischief or mischance?--
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And he lifted it on his lance.
Heart, Heart, Heart of my heart!
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Nor a word for my hungering heart!

She sought him among the dying,
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Poison-Seeds
Is there, in you or me,
Seed of that poison-tree
Which, in its bitter fruiting, bore
Such vintage sore
Of red calamity--
Black wine of horror and of Death,
And soul-catastrophe?
Search well and see!

Yea--search and see!
And, if there be--
Tear up its roots with zealous care,
With deep soul-probing and with prayer,
Lest, in the coming years,
Again it bear
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And ruth beyond compare.

Each soul that strips it of one evil thing
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The Last Man.
I.

'Twas in the year two thousand and one,
A pleasant morning of May,
I sat on the gallows-tree, all alone,
A channting a merry lay, -
To think how the pest had spared my life,
To sing with the larks that day!

II.

When up the heath came a jolly knave,
Like a scarecrow, all in rags:
It made me crow to see his old duds
All abroad in the wind, like flags; -
So up he came to the timber's foot
And pitch'd down his greasy bags. -

III.

Good Lord! how blythe the old beggar was!
At pulling out his scraps, -
The very sight of his broken orts
Made a work in his wrinkled chaps:
"Come down," says he, "you Newgate-bird,
And have a taste of my snaps!" -

IV.

Then down the rope, like a ta...
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On The Death Of Mrs. (Afterwards Lady) Throckmortons Bullfinch.
Ye nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red
With tears o'er hapless favourites shed,
O share Maria's grief!
Her favourite, even in his cage,
(What will not hunger's cruel rage?)
Assassin'd by a thief.

Where Rhenus strays his vines among,
The egg was laid from which he sprung;
And, though by nature mute,
Or only with a whistle blest,
Well taught he all the sounds express'd
Of flageolet or flute.

The honours of his ebon poll
Were brighter than the sleekest mole,
His bosom of the hue
With which Aurora decks the skies,
When piping winds shall soon arise,
To sweep away the dew.

Above, below, in all the house,
Dire foe alike of bird and mouse,
No cat had leave to dwell;
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William Cowper

Faithless Nelly Gray. - A Pathetic Ballad.
Ben Battle was a soldier bold,
And used to war's alarms;
But a cannon-ball took off his legs,
So he laid down his arms!

Now as they bore him off the field,
Said he, "Let others shoot,
For here I leave my second leg,
And the Forty-second Foot!"

The army-surgeons made him limbs:
Said he, - "They're only pegs:
But there's as wooden members quite,
As represent my legs!"

Now Ben he loved a pretty maid,
Her name was Nelly Gray;
So he went to pay her his devours,
When he'd devour'd his pay!

But when he called on Nelly Gray,
She made him quite a scoff;
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Epitaph On A Free But Tame Redbreast, A Favourite Of Miss Sally Hurdis.
These are not dewdrops, these are tears,
And tears by Sally shed
For absent Robin, who she fears,
With too much cause, is dead.

One morn he came not to her hand
As he was wont to come,
And, on her finger perchd, to stand
Picking his breakfast-crumb.

Alarmd, she calld him, and perplexd,
She sought him, but in vain
That day he came not , nor the next,
Nor ever came again.

She therefore raised him here a tomb,
Though where he fell, or how,
None knowsso secret was his doom,
Nor where he moulders now.

Had half a score of coxcombs died
In social Robins stead,
Poor Sallys tears had soon been dried,
Or haply never shed.

But Bob was neither rudely bold
Nor spiritlessly tame;
William Cowper