There was an Old Man of St. Bees

There was an Old Man of St. Bees
Who was stung in the arm by a wasp.
        When asked, "Does it hurt?"
        He replied, "No, it doesn't,
But I thought all the while 'twas a hornet."

William Schwenck Gilbert

William Schwenck Gilbert was an English dramatist, librettist, poet, and illustrator best known for his collaboration with composer Arthur Sullivan, which produced fourteen comic operas, including 'H.M.S. Pinafore', 'The Pirates of Penzance', and 'The Mikado'. His works are known for their light-hearted satirical humor and have remained popular for their wit and creativity. Gilbert was also a barrister and produced several serious plays.

William Schwenck Gilbert

Don't Forget.

William Schwenck Gilbert, Simple Poetry

Ah Me!

William Schwenck Gilbert, Simple Poetry

The Martinet.

William Schwenck Gilbert, Simple Poetry

The British Tar.

William Schwenck Gilbert, 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.

The Wounded Cupid

Cupid as he lay among
Roses, by a Bee was stung.
Whereupon in anger flying
To his Mother, said thus crying;
Help! O help! your Boy's a dying.
And why, my pretty Lad, said she?
Then blubbering, replyed he,
A winged Snake has bitten me,
Which Country people call a Bee.
At which she smil'd; then with her hairs
And kisses drying up his tears:
Alas! said she, my Wag! if this
Such a pernicious torment is:
Come, tel me then, how great's the smart
Of those, thou woundest with thy Dart!

Robert Herrick

The Bee.

Now, Ellen, stop screaming and running away,
    And come here and listen to me;
Is it true, my dear daughter, I want you to say,
    That you're foolishly scared by a bee?

The bee is as frightened as you are, my dear,
    For he can't tell the way to get out;
And as for his sting, that you never need fear,
    If you do not run crying about.

If you were to catch him, why, then, I dare say
    You'd soon feel his sharp little sting;
But if you sit still at your work or your play,
    Be sure that no harm he will bring.

So wipe off these tears and never again
    Give way to so foolish a fright;
For if you indulge it 't will cost you much pain
    And no one will want you in sight.

H. P. Nichols

Eheu Fugaces!

The air is charged with amatory numbers
Soft madrigals, and dreamy lovers' lays.
Peace, peace, old heart! Why waken from its slumbers
The aching memory of the old, old days?

Time was when Love and I were well acquainted.
Time was when we walked ever hand in hand;
A saintly youth, with worldly thought untainted,
None better-loved than I in all the land!
Time was, when maidens of the noblest station,
Forsaking even military men,
Would gaze upon me, rapt in adoration
Ah, me, I was a fair young curate then!

Had I a headache? sighed the maids assembled;
Had I a cold? welled forth the silent tear;
Did I look pale? then half a parish trembled;
And when I coughed all thought the end was near!
I, had no care no jealous doubts hung o'er me
For I was lov...

William Schwenck Gilbert

Lady And Wasp.

        What stupid nonsense must the Beauty
        Endure in her diurnal duty -
        Buzzings and whispers from the stores
        Of the fatuities of bores!
        Yet such impertinence must be pleasing,
        Or Beauty would resent such teazing.
        A flap will drive a fly away,
        A frown will drive a dog to bay:
        So if the insects are persistent
        'Twas Beauty that was inconsistent!
        And if she does not know herself,
        Blame not the persecuting elf.

        It chanced upon a summer day
        That Boris in her boudoir lay -
        She the last work of God's fair creatures,
        Contemplated her faultless features.
        A wasp assailed her so reclined,
        Bred of a persecuting kind.
   ...

John Gay

Book Of Nonsense Limerick 10.

There was an Old Man in a tree,
Who was horribly bored by a Bee;
When they said, "Does it buzz?"
He replied, "Yes, it does!
"It's a regular brute of a Bee!"

Edward Lear

Sans Souci

I cannot tell what this love may be
That cometh to all but not to me.
It cannot be kind as they'd imply,
Or why do these gentle ladies sigh?
It cannot be joy and rapture deep,
Or why do these gentle ladies weep?
It cannot be blissful, as 'tis said,
Or why are their eyes so wondrous red?

If love is a thorn, they show no wit
Who foolishly hug and foster it.
If love is a weed, how simple they
Who gather and gather it, day by day!
If love is a nettle that makes you smart,
Why do you wear it next your heart?
And if it be neither of these, say I,
Why do you sit and sob and sigh?

William Schwenck Gilbert