Spinsters

There once was a lonesome, lorn spinster,
And luck had for years been ag'inst her;
    When a man came to burgle
    She shrieked, with a gurgle,
"Stop thief, while I call in a min'ster!"

Unknown

The identity of this poet is not known. Their works, which are often of significant historical or cultural value, have been attributed to 'Unknown'. This designation is commonly used when the creator of works, ranging from ancient texts to more modern writings, remains anonymous or uncredited. Despite the lack of personal details, the impact and importance of these works endure, offering insight into the eras and cultures from which they originated.

Unknown

Nursery Rhyme. CLXVII. Songs.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. CCXX. Riddles.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. CXLIII. Songs.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Husbands

Unknown , 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.

Spinsters

Here's to the Bachelor, so lonely and gay,
For it's not his fault, he was born that way;
And here's to the Spinster, so lonely and good;
For it's not her fault, she hath done what she could.

Unknown

The Journal Of A Modern Lady

IN A LETTER TO A PERSON OF QUALITY. 1728


SIR, 'twas a most unfriendly part
In you, who ought to know my heart,
Are well acquainted with my zeal
For all the female commonweal -
How could it come into your mind
To pitch on me, of all mankind,
Against the sex to write a satire,
And brand me for a woman-hater?
On me, who think them all so fair,
They rival Venus to a hair;
Their virtues never ceased to sing,
Since first I learn'd to tune a string?
Methinks I hear the ladies cry,
Will he his character belie?
Must never our misfortunes end?
And have we lost our only friend?
Ah, lovely nymphs! remove your fears,
No more let fall those precious tears.
Sooner shall, etc.

[Here several verses are omitted.]

The hound be hun...

Jonathan Swift

Spring

In the spring the housemaid's fancy
    Lightly turns from pot and pan
To the greater necromancy
    Of a young unmarried man.
You can hold her through the winter,
    And she'll work around and sing,
But it's just as good as certain
    She will marry in the spring.

Unknown

The Old Woman And Her Two Servants.

^[1]

A beldam kept two spinning maids,
Who plied so handily their trades,
Those spinning sisters down below
Were bunglers when compared with these.
No care did this old woman know
But giving tasks as she might please.
No sooner did the god of day
His glorious locks enkindle,
Than both the wheels began to play,
And from each whirling spindle
Forth danced the thread right merrily,
And back was coil'd unceasingly.
Soon as the dawn, I say, its tresses show'd,
A graceless cock most punctual crow'd.
The beldam roused, more graceless yet,
In greasy petticoat bedight,
Struck up her farthing light,
And then forthwith the bed beset,
Where deeply, blessedly did snore
Those two maid-servants tired and poor.
One oped an eye, an arm ...

Jean de La Fontaine

Nursery Rhyme. CCCCLXXXVII. Love And Matrimony.

    There was a little pretty lad,
        And he lived by himself,
    And all the meat he got
        He put upon a shelf.

    The rats and the mice
        Did lead him such a life,
    That he went to Ireland
        To get himself a wife.

    The lanes they were so broad,
        And the fields they were so narrow,
    He couldn't get his wife home
        Without a wheelbarrow.

    The wheelbarrow broke,
        My wife she got a kick,
    The deuce take the wheelbarrow,
        That spared my wife's neck.

Unknown

The Troubadour

A troubadour he played
Without a castle wall,
Within, a hapless maid
Responded to his call.

"Oh, willow, woe is me!
Alack and well-a-day!
If I were only free
I'd hie me far away!"

Unknown her face and name,
But this he knew right well,
The maiden's wailing came
From out a dungeon cell.

A hapless woman lay
Within that dungeon grim
That fact, I've heard him say.
Was quite enough for him.

"I will not sit or lie,
Or eat or drink, I vow.
Till thou art free as I,
Or I as pent as thou."

Her tears then ceased to flow,
Her wails no longer rang,
And tuneful in her woe
The prisoned maiden sang:

"Oh, stranger, as you play
I recognize your touch;
And all that I can say
Is, thank you ...

William Schwenck Gilbert