The Waster Singing At Midnight. After Longfellow

Loud he sang the song Ta Phershon
For his personal diversion,
Sang the chorus U-pi-dee,
Sang about the Barley Bree.

In that hour when all is quiet
Sang he songs of noise and riot,
In a voice so loud and queer
That I wakened up to hear.

Songs that distantly resembled
Those one hears from men assembled
In the old Cross Keys Hotel,
Only sung not half so well.

For the time of this ecstatic
Amateur was most erratic,
And he only hit the key
Once in every melody.

If 'he wot prigs wot isn't his'n
Ven he's cotched is sent to prison,'
He who murders sleep might well
Adorn a solitary cell.

But, if no obliging peeler
Will arrest this midnight squealer,
My own peculiar arm of might
Must undertake the job to-night.

Robert Fuller Murray

Robert Fuller Murray was a Scottish poet known for his lyrical and expressive poetry. Born on December 26, 1863, in Roxbury, Massachusetts, he moved to Scotland at a young age. Despite a short life, ending on April 15, 1894, Murray left a significant mark with his works, which often reflected themes of nature and human emotion. His poetry is characterized by its elegance and depth of feeling. Murray's influence remained through posthumous publications and collections of his poetry.

Robert Fuller Murray

The Outcast's Farewell

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

A Birthday Gift

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

The End Of April

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

A Ballad Of The Town Water

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

English

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The Waster Singing At Midnight. After Longfellow.

    Loud he sang the song Ta Phershon
    For his personal diversion,
    Sang the chorus U-pi-dee,
    Sang about the Barley Bree.

    In that hour when all is quiet
    Sang he songs of noise and riot,
    In a voice so loud and queer
    That I wakened up to hear.

    Songs that distantly resembled
    Those one hears from men assembled
    In the old Cross Keys Hotel,
    Only sung not half so well.

    For the time of this ecstatic
    Amateur was most erratic,
    And he only hit the key
    Once in every melody.

    If "he wot prigs wot isn't his'n
    Ven he's cotched is sent to prison,"
    He who murders sleep might well
    Adorn a solitary cell.

    But, if no obliging peeler
    Will arrest th...

Robert Fuller Murray

The Voice That Sings

The voice that sings across the night
    Of long forgotten days and things,
Is there an ear to hear aright
    The voice that sings?

It is as when a curfew rings
    Melodious in the dying light,
A sound that flies on pulsing wings.

And faded eyes that once were bright
    Brim over, as to life it brings
The echo of a dead delight,
    The voice that sings.

Robert Fuller Murray

Robert Burns

I see amid the fields of Ayr
A ploughman, who, in foul and fair,
        Sings at his task
So clear, we know not if it is
The laverock's song we hear, or his,
        Nor care to ask.

For him the ploughing of those fields
A more ethereal harvest yields
        Than sheaves of grain;
Songs flush with Purple bloom the rye,
The plover's call, the curlew's cry,
        Sing in his brain.

Touched by his hand, the wayside weed
Becomes a flower; the lowliest reed
        Beside the stream
Is clothed with beauty; gorse and grass
And heather, where his footsteps pass,
        The brighter seem.

He sings of love, whose flame illumes
The darkness of lone cottage rooms;
        He feels the force,
The treacherous undertow and str...

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Two Songs Rewritten For The Tune's Sake

I

My Paistin Finn is my sole desire,
And I am shrunken to skin and bone,
For all my heart has had for its hire
Is what I can whistle alone and alone.
i(Oro, oro.!)
i(Tomorrow night I will break down the door.)
What is the good of a man and he
Alone and alone, with a speckled shin?
I would that I drank with my love on my knee
Between two barrels at the inn.
Oro, oro.!
i(Tomorrow night I will break down the door.)
Alone and alone nine nights I lay
Between two bushes under the rain;
I thought to have whistled her down that
I whistled and whistled and whistled in vain.
i(Oro, oro!)
i(To-morrow night I will break down the door.)


II

I would that I were an old beggar
Rolling a blind pearl eye,
For he cannot see my...

William Butler Yeats

A Singer Asleep

(Algernon Charles Swinburne, 1837-1909)



I

In this fair niche above the unslumbering sea,
That sentrys up and down all night, all day,
From cove to promontory, from ness to bay,
    The Fates have fitly bidden that he should be Pillowed eternally.

II

- It was as though a garland of red roses
Had fallen about the hood of some smug nun
When irresponsibly dropped as from the sun,
In fulth of numbers freaked with musical closes,
Upon Victoria's formal middle time
    His leaves of rhythm and rhyme.

III

O that far morning of a summer day
When, down a terraced street whose pavements lay
Glassing the sunshine into my bent eyes,
I walked and read with a quick glad surprise
    New words, in classic guise, -

Thomas Hardy

Adventure Of A Poet

As I was walking down the street
    A week ago,
Near Henderson's I chanced to meet
    A man I know.

His name is Alexander Bell,
    His home, Dundee;
I do not know him quite so well
    As he knows me.

He gave my hand a hearty shake,
    Discussed the weather,
And then proposed that we should take
    A stroll together.

Down College Street we took our way,
    And there we met
The beautiful Miss Mary Gray,
    That arch coquette,
Who stole last spring my heart away
    And has it yet.

That smile with which my bow she greets,
    Would it were fonder!
Or else less fond--since she its sweets
    On all must squander.
Thus, when I meet her in the streets,
    I sadly ponder,
And after her, as she r...

Robert Fuller Murray