The Pedlar's Song

    I tramped among the townward throng
        A sultry summer's morn:
    They mocked me loud, they mocked me long,
        They laughed my pack to scorn.
    But a likely pedlar holds his peace
        Until the reckoning's told:--
    Merrily I to market went, tho' songs were all my gold.

    At weary noon I left the town,
        I left the highway straight,
    I climbed the silent, sunlit down
        And stood by a castle gate.
    Never yet was a house too high
        When the pedlar's heart was bold:--
    Merrily I to market went, tho' songs were all my gold.

    A lady leaned from her window there
        And asked my wares to see;
    Her voice made rich the summer air,
        Richer my soul in me.
    She gave me only four little words,
        Words of a language old:--
    Merrily I from market came, for all my songs were sold.

Henry John Newbolt

Sir Henry John Newbolt was an English poet and author, famous for his ballads such as 'Vitaï Lampada'. He graduated from Oxford and was called to the bar, but he is better remembered for his literary contributions than his legal career. Newbolt served as a government advisor on military and naval literature during World War I. He was knighted in 1915 for his services to literature. Newbolt's work often reflected themes of patriotism and duty.

Henry John Newbolt

Homeward Bound

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

To Clare

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

By The Hearth-Stone

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

A Song Of Exmoor

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

English

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The Pedlar

There came a Pedlar to an evening house;
Sweet Lettice, from her lattice looking down,
Wondered what man he was, so curious
His black hair dangled on his tattered gown:
Then lifts he up his face, with glittering eyes, -
'What will you buy, sweetheart? - Here's honeycomb,
And mottled pippins, and sweet mulberry pies,
Comfits and peaches, snowy cherry bloom,
To keep in water for to make night sweet:
All that you want, sweetheart, - come, taste and eat!'

Ev'n with his sugared words, returned to her
The clear remembrance of a gentle voice: -
'And O! my child, should ever a flatterer
Tap with his wares, and promise of all joys
And vain sweet pleasures that on earth may be;
Seal up your ears, sing some old happy song,
Confuse his magic who is all mockery:

Walter De La Mare

Clare Market

In the market of Clare, so cheery the glare
Of the shops and the booths of the tradespeople there;
That I take a delight on a Saturday night
In walking that way and in viewing the sight.
For it's here that one sees all the objects that please--
New patterns in silk and old patterns in cheese,
For the girls pretty toys, rude alarums for boys,
And baubles galore while discretion enjoys--
But here I forbear, for I really despair
Of naming the wealth of the market of Clare.

A rich man comes down from the elegant town
And looks at it all with an ominous frown;
He seems to despise the grandiloquent cries
Of the vender proclaiming his puddings and pies;
And sniffing he goes through the lanes that disclose
Much cause for disgust to his sensitive nose;
And free o...

Eugene Field

Atalanta In Camden - Town

Ay, 'twas here, on this spot,
In that summer of yore,
Atalanta did not
Vote my presence a bore,
Nor reply to my tenderest talk "She had
heard all that nonsense before."

She'd the brooch I had bought
And the necklace and sash on,
And her heart, as I thought,
Was alive to my passion;
And she'd done up her hair in the style that
the Empress had brought into fashion.

I had been to the play
With my pearl of a Peri,
But, for all I could say,
She declared she was weary,
That "the place was so crowded and hot,
and she couldn't abide that Dundreary."

Then I thought "Lucky boy!
'Tis for you that she whimpers!"
And I noted with joy
Those sensational simpers:
And I said "This is scrumptious!"
a phrase I had learned from...

Lewis Carroll

Sir Hugh the Palmer

    I

    He kneeled among a waste of sands
        Before the Mother-Maid,
    But on the far green forest-lands
        His steadfast eyes were stayed,
    And like a knight of stone his hands
        He straightened while he prayed.

    "Lady, beyond all women fair,
        Beyond all saints benign,
    Whose living heart through life I bear
        In mystery divine,
    Hear thou and grant me this my prayer,
        Or grant no prayer of mine.

    "The fever of my spirit's pain
        Heal thou with heavenly scorn;
    The dust that but of dust is fain
        Leave thou in dust forlorn;
    Yea! bury love to rise again
        Meet for eternal morn.

    "So by thy grace my inward eyes
        Thy beauty still ...

Henry John Newbolt

Jongleurs.

What is the stir in the street?
Hurry of feet!
And after,
A sound as of pipes and of tabers!

Men of the conflicts and labors,
Struggling and shifting and shoving,
Pushing and pounding your neighbors,
Fighting for leeway for laughter,
Toiling for leisure for loving!
Hark, through the window and up to the rafter,
Madder and merrier,
Deeper and verier,
Sweeter, contrarier,
Dafter and dafter,
A song arises,--
A thrill, an intrusion,
A reel, an illusion,
A rapture, a crisis
Of bells in the air!

Ay, up from your work and look out of the window!
"Who are the newcomers, Arab or Hindoo?
Persians, or Japs, or the children of Isis?"
--Guesses, surmises--
Forth with you, fare
Down in the street to draw nearer and stare!<...

Bliss Carman

A New Song Of The Spring Gardens.

To the Burden of "Rogues All."


Come hither ye gallants, come hither ye maids,
To the trim gravelled walks, to the shady arcades;
Come hither, come hither, the nightingales call;--
Sing Tantarara,--Vauxhall! Vauxhall!

Come hither, ye cits, from your Lothbury hives!
Come hither, ye husbands, and look to your wives!
For the sparks are as thick as the leaves in the Mall;--
Sing Tantarara,--Vauxhall! Vauxhall!

Here the 'prentice from Aldgate may ogle a Toast!
Here his Worship must elbow the Knight of the Post!
For the wicket is free to the great and the small;--
Sing Tantarara,--Vauxhall! Vauxhall!

Here Betty may flaunt in her mistress's sack!
Here Trip wear his master's brocade on his back!
Here a hussy may ride, and a rogue take the wall;...

Henry Austin Dobson