The Curate To His Slippers.

Take, oh take those boots away,
    That so nearly are outworn;
And those shoes remove, I pray--
    Pumps that but induce the corn!
But my slippers bring again,
            Bring again;
Works of love, but worked in vain,
            Worked in vain!

Horace Smith

Horace Smith was an English poet and novelist, known for his collaboration with his brother James Smith in writing parodies. The brothers published 'Rejected Addresses' in 1812, which humorously imitated contemporary poets and became highly popular. Horace was also a friend of Percy Bysshe Shelley and wrote various works, including novels that reflect his interest in social issues and history. His writing often combined wit with a keen social conscience.

Horace Smith

Impromptu In The Assize Court, Nottingham,

Horace Smith, Simple Poetry

On Circuit.

Horace Smith, Simple Poetry

Love And Liberty.

Horace Smith, Simple Poetry

At The "Cock" Tavern.

Horace Smith, Simple Poetry

English

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    Thou Poet, who, like any lark,
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The Shoemakers

Ho! workers of the old time styled
The Gentle Craft of Leather!
Young brothers of the ancient guild,
Stand forth once more together!
Call out again your long array,
In the olden merry manner!
Once more, on gay St. Crispin's day,
Fling out your blazoned banner!
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Rap, rap! the measured sound has grown
A quick and merry clamor.
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Verses Written At Bath, On Finding The Heel Of A Shoe.

Fortune! I thank thee: gentle goddess! thanks!
Not that my muse, though bashful, shall deny
She would have thankd thee rather hadst thou cast
A treasure in her way; for neither meed
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And bowel-racking pains of emptiness,
Nor noontide feast, nor evenings cool repast,
Hopes she from thispresumptuous, though, perhaps,
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Whatever; not as erst the fabled cock,
Vain-glorious fool! unknowing what he found,
Spurnd the rich gem thou gavest him. Wherefore, ah!
Why not on me that favour (worthier sure!)
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Enough!thy blindness shall excuse the deed.
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William Cowper

O Silly Love! O Cunning Love!

    O silly love! O cunning love!
    An old maid to trepan:
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    For loving of a man.
    I cannot bake, I cannot brew,
    And, do the best I can,
    I burn the bread and chill the mash,
    Through loving of a man.

    Shrove Tuesday last I tried, and tried,
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    Through thinking of a man.
    My mistress screamed, my master swore,
    Boys cursed me in a troop;
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    Last Christmas eve, from off the spit
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Old Love

You must be very old, Sir Giles,
    I said; he said: Yea, very old!
Whereat the mournfullest of smiles
    Creased his dry skin with many a fold.

They hammer'd out my basnet point
    Into a round salade, he said,
The basnet being quite out of joint,
    Natheless the salade rasps my head.

He gazed at the great fire awhile:
    And you are getting old, Sir John;
(He said this with that cunning smile
    That was most sad) we both wear on;

Knights come to court and look at me,
    With eyebrows up; except my lord,
And my dear lady, none I see
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    Stopp'd all my blood). But tell me, John,
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The Cress-Gatherer.

Soon as the spring its earliest visit pays,
And buds with March and April's lengthen'd days
Of mingled suns and shades, and snow, and rain,
Forcing the crackling frost to melt again;
Oft sprinkling from their bosoms, as they come,
A dwindling daisy here and there to bloom;
I mark the widow, and her orphan boy,
In preparation for their old employ.
The cloak and hat that had for seasons past
Repell'd the rain and buffeted the blast,
Though worn to shreddings, still are occupied
In make-shift way their nakedness to hide;
For since her husband died her hopes are few,
When time's worn out the old, to purchase new.
Upon the green they're seen by rising sun,
To sharp winds croodling they would vainly shun,
With baskets on their arm and hazel crooks
Dragging the ...

John Clare