The Three Drinkers.

Blacksmith Green had three strong sons,
    With bread and beef did fill 'em,
Now John and Ned are perished and dead,
    But plenty remains of William.

John Green was a whiskey drinker,
    The Land of Cakes supplied him,
Till at last his soul flew out by the hole
    That the fierce drink burned inside him.

Ned Green was a water drinker,
    And, Lord, how Ned would fuddle!
He rotted away his mortal clay
    Like an old boot thrown in a puddle.

Will Green was a wise young drinker,
    Shrank from whiskey or water,
But he made good cheer with headstrong beer,
    And married an alderman's daughter.

Robert von Ranke Graves

Robert von Ranke Graves was a British poet, historical novelist, critic, and classicist. His father was Alfred Perceval Graves, a distinguished Irish poet and figure in the Gaelic revival. Known for his war poetry, love poems, and scholarly works, he created a lasting literary legacy, including his interpretations of the Greek myths. Graves was also a soldier in World War I, an experience that profoundly influenced his writing.

Robert von Ranke Graves

Double Red Daisies

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

To E.M., A Ballad Of Nursery Rhyme.

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

Baloo Loo For Jenny.

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

Marigolds

Robert von Ranke Graves, 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.

Strong Beer

"What do you think
The bravest drink
Under the sky?"
"Strong beer," said I.

"There's a place for everything,
Everything, anything,
There's a place for everything
Where it ought to be:
For a chicken, the hen's wing;
For poison, the bee's sting;
For almond-blossom, Spring;
A beerhouse for me."

"There's a prize for every one
Every one, any one,
There's a prize for every one,
Whoever he may be:
Crags for the mountaineer,
Flags for the Fusilier,
For English poets, beer!
Strong beer for me!"

"Tell us, now, how and when
We may find the bravest men?"
"A sure test, an easy test:
Those that drink beer are the best,
Brown beer strongly brewed,
English drink and English food."

Oh, never choose as Gi...

Robert von Ranke Graves

Beer.

In those old days which poets say were golden -
(Perhaps they laid the gilding on themselves:
And, if they did, I'm all the more beholden
To those brown dwellers in my dusty shelves,
Who talk to me "in language quaint and olden"
Of gods and demigods and fauns and elves,
Pans with his pipes, and Bacchus with his leopards,
And staid young goddesses who flirt with shepherds:)

In those old days, the Nymph called Etiquette
(Appalling thought to dwell on) was not born.
They had their May, but no Mayfair as yet,
No fashions varying as the hues of morn.
Just as they pleased they dressed and drank and ate,
Sang hymns to Ceres (their John Barleycorn)
And danced unchaperoned, and laughed unchecked,
And were no doubt extremely incorrect.

Yet do I think their t...

Charles Stuart Calverley

Bedfordshire Ballad. - II.

    "ONE GLASS OF BEER."

    Ne quid nimis.


    Tom Smith was the son of a Bedfordshire man;
    (The Smiths, we all know, are a numerous clan)
    He was happy and healthy and handsome and strong,
    And could sing on occasion a capital song.

    His father had once been a labourer poor,
    But had always contrived to keep want from the door;
    And by work and by thrift had enough in his pocket
    To rent a small farm from his landlord, and stock it.

    He died: Tom succeeded: the ladies all said
    It was high time he went to the Church to be wed;
    And Sarah and Clara, and Fanny and Bess,
    Confessed if he "offer'd" perhaps they'd say "Yes."

    But Tom fixed his eyes on the Miller's young daughter,
    And was only...

Edward Woodley Bowling

The General Elliott

He fell in victory's fierce pursuit,
    Holed through and through with shot,
A sabre sweep had hacked him deep
    Twixt neck and shoulderknot....

The potman cannot well recall,
    The ostler never knew,
Whether his day was Malplaquet,
    The Boyne or Waterloo.

But there he hangs for tavern sign,
    With foolish bold regard
For cock and hen and loitering men
    And wagons down the yard.

Raised high above the hayseed world
    He smokes his painted pipe,
And now surveys the orchard ways,
    The damsons clustering ripe.

He sees the churchyard slabs beyond,
    Where country neighbours lie,
Their brief renown set lowly down;
    His name assaults the sky.

He grips the tankard of brown ale
    Tha...

Robert von Ranke Graves

John Barleycorn: A Ballad.

I.

    There were three kings into the east,
        Three kings both great and high;
    And they hae sworn a solemn oath
        John Barleycorn should die.

II.

    They took a plough and plough'd him down,
        Put clods upon his head;
    And they ha'e sworn a solemn oath
        John Barleycorn was dead.

III.

    But the cheerful spring came kindly on,
        And show'rs began to fall;
    John Barleycorn got up again,
        And sore surpris'd them all.

IV.

    The sultry suns of summer came,
        And he grew thick and strong;
    His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears
        That no one should him wrong.

V.

    The sober autumn enter'd mild,
        When he grew...

Robert Burns

The Cellar Door

By the old tavern door on the causey there lay
A hogshead of stingo just rolled from a dray,
And there stood the blacksmith awaiting a drop
As dry as the cinders that lay in his shop;
And there stood the cobbler as dry as a bun,
Almost crackt like a bucket when left in the sun.
He'd whetted his knife upon pendil and hone
Till he'd not got a spittle to moisten the stone;
So ere he could work--though he'd lost the whole day--
He must wait the new broach and bemoisten his clay.

The cellar was empty, each barrel was drained
To its dregs--and Sir John like a rebel remained
In the street--for removal too powerful and large
For two or three topers to take into charge.
Odd zooks, said a gipsey, with bellows to mend,
Had I strength I would just be for helping a friend...

John Clare