The Fall Of Jock Gillespie

This fell when dinner-time was done
'Twixt the first an' the second rub
That oor mon Jock cam' hame again
To his rooms ahint the Club.

An' syne he laughed, an' syne he sang,
An' syne we thocht him fou,
An' syne he trumped his partner's trick,
An' garred his partner rue.

Then up and spake an elder mon,
That held the Spade its Ace
God save the lad! Whence comes the licht
"That wimples on his face?"

An' Jock he sniggered, an' Jock he smiled,
An' ower the card-brim wunk:
"I'm a' too fresh fra' the stirrup-peg,
"May be that I am drunk."

"There's whusky brewed in Galashils
"An' L. L. L. forbye;
"But never liquor lit the lowe
"That keeks fra' oot your eye.

"There's a third o' hair on your dress-coat breast,
"Aboon the heart a wee?"
"Oh! that is fra' the lang-haired Skye
"That slobbers ower me."

"Oh! lang-haired Skyes are lovin' beasts,
"An' terrier dogs are fair,
"But never yet was terrier born,
"Wi' ell-lang gowden hair!

"There's a smirch o' pouther on your breast,
"Below the left lappel?"
"Oh! that is fra' my auld cigar,
"Whenas the stump-end fell."

"Mon Jock, ye smoke the Trichi coarse,
"For ye are short o' cash,
"An' best Havanas couldna leave
"Sae white an' pure an ash.

"This nicht ye stopped a story braid,
"An' stopped it wi' a curse.
"Last nicht ye told that tale yoursel'
"An' capped it wi' a worse!

"Oh! we're no fou! Oh! we're no fou!
"But plainly we can ken
"Ye're fallin', fallin' fra the band
"O' cantie single men!"

An' it fell when siris-shaws were sere,
An' the nichts were lang and mirk,
In braw new breeks, wi' a gowden ring,
Oor Jocke gaed to the Kirk!

Rudyard

Rudyard Kipling was an English journalist, short-story writer, poet, and novelist. He was born in British India, which inspired much of his work. His notable works include the novels 'The Jungle Book,' 'Kim,' and the poem 'If—.' Kipling was one of the most popular writers in the United Kingdom in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. He received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1907, making him the youngest recipient of the award.

Rudyard

The City Of Brass

Rudyard , Simple Poetry

A Counting-Out Song

Rudyard , Simple Poetry

My Boy Jack

Rudyard , Simple Poetry

Mary's Son

Rudyard , 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.

Halloween.[1]

    "Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,
    The simple pleasures of the lowly train;
    To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
    One native charm, than all the gloss of art."

Goldsmith.


    Upon that night, when fairies light
        On Cassilis Downans^[2] dance,
    Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze,
        On sprightly coursers prance;
    Or for Colean the rout is ta'en,
        Beneath the moon's pale beams;
    There, up the Cove,^[3] to stray an' rove
        Amang the rocks an' streams
        To sport that night.

    Amang the bonnie winding banks
        Where Doon rins, wimplin', clear,
    Where Bruce^[4] ance rul'd the martial ranks,
        An' shook his Carrick spear,

Robert Burns

Jeemsie Miller

There's some that mak' themsels a name
Wi' preachin', business, or a game,
There's some wi' drink hae gotten fame
    And some wi' siller:
I kent a man got glory cheap,
For nane frae him their een could keep,
Losh! he was shapit like a neep,
    Was Jeemsie Miller!

When he gaed drivin' doon the street
Wi' cairt an' sheltie, a' complete,
The plankie whaur he had his seat
    Was bent near double;
And gin yon wood had na been strang
It hadna held oor Jeemsie lang,
He had been landit wi' a bang,
    And there'd been trouble.

Ye could but mind, to see his face,
The reid mune glowerin' on the place,
Nae man had e'er sic muckle space
    To haud his bonnet:
An owre yon bonnet on his brow,
Set cockit up owre Jeemsie's pow,
Th...

Violet Jacob

The Holy Fair.

    A robe of seeming truth and trust
        Did crafty observation;
    And secret hung, with poison'd crust,
        The dirk of Defamation:
    A mask that like the gorget show'd,
        Dye-varying on the pigeon;
    And for a mantle large and broad,
        He wrapt him in Religion.

Hypocrisy A-La-Mode.


    Upon a simmer Sunday morn,
        When Nature's face is fair,
    I walked forth to view the corn,
        An' snuff the caller air.
    The rising sun owre Galston muirs,
        Wi' glorious light was glintin';
    The hares were hirplin down the furs,
        The lav'rocks they were chantin'
        Fu' sweet that day.

    As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad,
        To see a scene sae gay,
    Three hizzie...

Robert Burns

Tam O' Shanter. - A Tale.

    "Of brownys and of bogilis full is this buke."

Gawin Douglas


    When chapman billies leave the street,
    And drouthy neebors neebors meet,
    As market-days are wearing late,
    An' folk begin to tak' the gate;
    While we sit bousing at the nappy,
    An' gettin' fou and unco happy,
    We think na on the lang Scots miles,
    The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,
    That lie between us and our hame,
    Where sits our sulky sullen dame,
    Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
    Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

    This truth fand honest Tam O' Shanter,
    As he frae Ayr ae night did canter,
    (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
    For honest men and bonny lasses.)
    O Tam! hadst thou but been ...

Robert Burns

The Twa Jocks

Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska tae Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye:
"That's whit I hate maist aboot fechtin' - it makes ye sae deevilish dry;
Noo jist hae a keek at yon ferm-hoose them Gairmans are poundin' sae fine,
Weel, think o' it, doon in the dunnie there's bottles and bottles o' wine.
A' hell's fairly belchin' oot yonner, but oh, lad, I'm ettlin' tae try. . . ."
"If it's poose she'll be with ye whateffer," says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye.

Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska: "Whit price fur a funeral wreath?
We're dodgin' a' kinds o' destruction, an' jist by the skin o' oor teeth.
Here, spread yersel oot on yer belly, and slither along in the glaur;
Confoond ye, ye big Hielan' deevil! Ye don't realize there's a war.
Ye think that ye're back in Dunvegan, and herdin' the wee...

Robert William Service

The Horkey. A Provincial Ballad.

In the descriptive ballad which follows, it will be evident that I have endeavoured to preserve the style of a gossip, and to transmit the memorial of a custom, the extent or antiquity of which I am not acquainted with, and pretend not to enquire.

In Suffolk husbandry the man who, (whether by merit or by sufferance I know not) goes foremost through the harvest with the scythe or the sickle, is honoured with the title of "Lord," and at the Horkey, or harvest-home feast, collects what he can, for himself and brethren, from the farmers and visitors, to make a "frolick" afterwards, called "the largess spending." By way of returning thanks, though perhaps formerly of much more, or of different signification, they immediately leave the seat of festivity, and with a very long and repeated shout of "a largess," the number of sho...

Robert Bloomfield