Saxe.

        The mind that's sad it doth relax
        The humor of the witty Saxe,
        He puts us in a cheerful mood,
        Mirthful as our own Tom Hood.

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

Fertile Lands And Mammoth Cheese.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Canadian Voyageurs On The Nile.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Land Clearing.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Child Made Happy.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

English

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Comic Miseries

My dear young friend, whose shining wit
    Sets all the room a-blaze,
Don't think yourself a "happy dog,"
    For all your merry ways;
But learn to wear a sober phiz,
    Be stupid, if you can,
It's such a very serious thing
    To be a funny man!

You're at an evening party, with
    A group of pleasant folks, -
You venture quietly to crack
    The least of little jokes, -
A lady doesn't catch the point,
    And begs you to explain -
Alas for one that drops a jest
    And takes it up again!

You're talking deep philosophy
    With very special force,
To edify a clergyman
    With suitable discourse, -
You think you've got him - when he calls
    A friend across the way,
And begs you'll say that funny thing
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John Godfrey Saxe I

John Skelton

What could be dafter
Than John Skelton's laughter?
What sound more tenderly
Than his pretty poetry?
So where to rank old Skelton?
He was no monstrous Milton,
Nor wrote no "Paradise Lost,"
So wondered at by most,
Phrased so disdainfully,
Composed so painfully.
He struck what Milton missed,
Milling an English grist
With homely turn and twist.
He was English through and through,
Not Greek, nor French, nor Jew,
Though well their tongues he knew,
The living and the dead:
Learned Erasmus said,
Hie 'unum Britannicarum
Lumen et decus literarum.
But oh, Colin Clout!
How his pen flies about,
Twiddling and turning,
Scorching and burning,
Thrusting and thrumming!
How it hurries with humming,
Leaping and running,

Robert von Ranke Graves

A Saxon Song

        Tools with the comely names,
        Mattock and scythe and spade,
        Couth and bitter as flames,
        Clean, and bowed in the blade,
A man and his tools make a man and his trade.

        Breadth of the English shires,
        Hummock and kame and mead,
        Tang of the reeking byres,
        Land of the English breed,
A man and his land make a man and his creed.

        Leisurely flocks and herds,
        Cool-eyed cattle that come
        Mildly to wonted words,
        Swine that in orchards roam,
A man and his beasts make a man and his home.

        Children sturdy and flaxen
        Shouting in brotherly strife,
        Like the land they are Saxon,
        Sons of a man and his wife,
For a man and his l...

Victoria Mary Sackville-West

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

Poe.

        A great enchanter too is Poe,
        His bells do so harmonious flow,
        Wondrous mystery of his raven
        On our minds is 'ere engraven,
        His wierd, wonderful romances
        Imagination oft entrances.

James McIntyre

Anacreontic

Let us, my Friends, our mirth forbear,
While yonder Censor mounts the chair:
His form erect, his stately pace,
His huge, white wig, his solemn face,
His scowling brows, his ken severe,
His haughty pleasure-chiding sneer,
Some high Philosopher declare:
Hush! let us hear him from the chair:

'Ye giddy youths! I hate your mirth;
How ill-beseeming sons of earth!
Know ye not well the fate of man?
That death is certain, life a span?
That merriment soon sinks in sorrow,
Sunshine to-day, and clouds to-morrow?
Hearken then, fools! to Reason's voice,
That bids ye mourn, and not rejoice?'

Such gloomy thoughts, grave Sage! are thine,
Now, gentle Friends! attend to mine.
        Since mortals must die,
        Since life's but a span,
       ...

Thomas Oldham