The Retort.

Old Nick, who taught the village-school,
    Wedded a maid of homespun habit;
He was as stubborn as a mule,
    She was as playful as a rabbit.

Poor Jane had scarce become a wife,
    Before her husband sought to make her
The pink of country-polished life,
    And prim and formal as a Quaker.

One day the tutor went abroad,
    And simple Jenny sadly missed him;
When he returned, behind her lord
    She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him!

The husband's anger rose!--and red
    And white his face alternate grew!
"Less freedom, ma'am!"--Jane sighed and said,
    "OH, DEAR!    I DIDN'T KNOW 'TWAS YOU!"

George Pope Morris

George Pope Morris was an American editor, poet, and songwriter. Born on October 10, 1802, he made significant contributions to American literature and music. Morris co-founded and edited the New York Evening Mirror, where he published works by Edgar Allan Poe and others. He is perhaps best known for his song "Woodman, Spare That Tree!" and his role in the early 19th-century literary scene. Morris died on July 6, 1864, leaving behind a legacy of editorial and creative work that influenced many American writers and musicians.

George Pope Morris

Love Thee, Dearest!

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

The Cottager's Welcome.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Fragment of an Indian Poem.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

English

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The Colonel.

The Colonel!--Such a creature!
    I met him at the ball!--
So fair in form and feature,
    And so divinely tall!
He praised my dimpled cheeks and curls,
    While whirling through the dance,
And matched me with the dark-eyed girls
    Of Italy and France!

He said, in accents thrilling--
    "Love's boundless as the sea;
And I, dear maid, am willing
    To give up all for thee!"
I heard him--blushed--"Would ask mamma"--
    And then my eyes grew dim!
He looked--I said, "Mamma--papa--
    I'd give up all for him!"

My governor is rich and old;
    This well the Colonel knew.
"Love's wings," he said, "when fringed with gold,
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I thought his 'havior quite the ton,
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Phoebe's Wooing.

"Phoebe! Phoebe! Where is the chit?
When I want her most she's out of the way.
Child, you're running a long account
Up, to be squared on Judgment-day.

"Where have you been? and what have you there?"
"To the pasture for buttercups wet with dew."
"My patience! I think you are out of your wits;
I wonder what good will buttercups do?

"There's pennyroyal you might have got,-
It might have been useful to you or me,
But I never heard, in all my life,
Of buttercup cordial or buttercup tea.

"I want you to stay and mind the bread,
I've just put two loaves in the oven to bake;
When they are clone take them carefully out,
And put in their place this loaf of cake,

"While I run over to Widow Brown's;
Her son, from the mines, has just got back.

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The Cunning Woman

On all Arcadia's sunny plain,
On all Arcadia's hill,
None were so blithe as BILL and JANE,
So blithe as JANE and BILL.

No social earthquake e'er occurred
To rack their common mind:
To them a Panic was a word
A Crisis, empty wind.

No Stock Exchange disturbed the lad
With overwhelming shocks
BILL ploughed with all the shares he had,
JANE planted all her stocks.

And learn in what a simple way
Their pleasures they enhanced
JANE danced like any lamb all day,
BILL piped as well as danced.

Surrounded by a twittling crew,
Of linnet, lark, and thrush,
BILL treated his young lady to
This sentimental gush:

"Oh, JANE, how true I am to you!
How true you are to me!
And how we woo, and how we coo!
So fond a pai...

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The Bacchanal

Beside a cottage-door,
    Sang Ella at her wheel;
Ruthven rode o'er the moor,
    Down at her feet to kneel:
A spotted palfrey gay
    Came ambling at his side,
To bear the maid away
    As his affianced bride.

A high-born noble he,
    Of stately halls secure;
A low-born peasant she,
    Of parentage obscure.
How soft the honeyed words
    He breathes into her ears!--
The melody of birds!
    The music of the spheres!

With love her bosom swells,
    Which she would fain conceal--
Her eyes, like crystal wells,
    Its hidden depths reveal.
While liquid diamonds drip
    From feeling's fountain warm,
Flutters her scarlet lip--
    A rose-leaf in a storm!

As from an April sky
    The rain-clouds fli...

George Pope Morris

The Pastor's Daughter.

An ivy-mantled cottage smiled,
    Deep-wooded near a streamlet's side,
Where dwelt the village-pastor's child,
    In all her maiden bloom and pride.
Proud suitors paid their court and duty
To this romantic sylvan beauty:
Yet none of all the swains who sought her,
Was worthy of the pastor's daughter.

The town-gallants crossed hill and plain,
    To seek the groves of her retreat;
And many followed in her train,
    To lay their riches at her feet.
But still, for all their arts so wary,
From home they could not lure the fairy.
A maid without a heart they thought her,
And so they left the pastor's daughter.

One balmy eve in dewy spring
    A bard became her father's guest:
He struck his harp, and every string
    To love vibrated in h...

George Pope Morris

A Quiet Life And A Good Name

TO A FRIEND WHO MARRIED A SHREW. 1724

NELL scolded in so loud a din,
That Will durst hardly venture in:
He mark'd the conjugal dispute;
Nell roar'd incessant, Dick sat mute;
But, when he saw his friend appear,
Cried bravely, "Patience, good my dear!"
At sight of Will she bawl'd no more,
But hurried out and clapt the door.
    Why, Dick! the devil's in thy Nell,
(Quoth Will,) thy house is worse than Hell.
Why what a peal the jade has rung!
D - n her, why don't you slit her tongue?
For nothing else will make it cease.
Dear Will, I suffer this for peace:
I never quarrel with my wife;
I bear it for a quiet life.
Scripture, you know, exhorts us to it;
Bids us to seek peace, and ensue it.
    Will went again to visit Dick;
And entering in t...

Jonathan Swift