Tim The Dragoon (From 'Troy Town')

Be aisy an' list to a chune
That's sung of bowld Tim the Dragoon--
    Sure, 'twas he'd niver miss
    To be stalin' a kiss,
Or a brace, by the light of the moon--
                Aroon--
Wid a wink at the Man in the Moon!

Rest his sowl where the daisies grow thick;
For he's gone from the land of the quick:
    But he's still makin' love
    To the leddies above,
An' be jabbers! he'll tache 'em the thrick--
                Avick--
Niver doubt but he'll tache 'em the thrick!

'Tis by Tim the dear saints'll set sthore,
And 'ull thrate him to whisky galore:
    For they 've only to sip
    But the tip of his lip
An' bedad! they'll be askin' for more--
                Asthore--
By the powers, they'll be shoutin' 'Ancore!'

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch, born on November 21, 1863, and died on May 12, 1944, was a Cornish writer, who published under the pen name Q. His legacy includes a vast body of critical and anthological work, most notably 'The Oxford Book of English Verse 1250–1900'. Quiller-Couch was knighted in 1910 and also served as a professor of English at the University of Cambridge. His works have influenced many, including writers like Virginia Woolf.

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

Coronation Hymn

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch, Simple Poetry

Titania.

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch, Simple Poetry

Twilight.

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch, Simple Poetry

Retrospection.

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch, Simple Poetry

English

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Kenmare River.

'Tis pretty to be in Ballinderry,
    'Tis pretty to be in Ballindoon,
But 'tis prettier far in County Kerry
    Coortin' under the bran' new moon,
                Aroon, Aroon!

'Twas there by the bosom of blue Killarney
    They came by the hundther' a-coortin' me;
Sure I was the one to give back their blarney,
    An' merry was I to be fancy-free.

But niver a step in the lot was lighter,
    An' divvle a boulder among the bhoys,
Than Phelim O'Shea, me dynamither,
    Me illigant arthist in clock-work toys.

'Twas all for love he would bring his figgers
    Of iminent statesmen, in toy machines,
An' hould me hand as he pulled the thriggers
    An' scattered the thraytors to smithereens.

An' to see the Queen in her Crystial Pallus

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

Song Of The Battle Eve.

TIME--THE NINTH CENTURY.


To-morrow, comrade, we
On the battle-plain must be,
    There to conquer, or both lie low!
The morning star is up,--
But there's wine still in the cup,
    And we'll take another quaff, ere we go, boy, go;
    We'll take another quaff, ere we go.

'Tis true, in manliest eyes
A passing tear will rise,
    When we think of the friends we leave lone;
But what can wailing do?
See, our goblet's weeping too!
    With its tears we'll chase away our own, boy, our own;
    With its tears we'll chase away our own.

But daylight's stealing on;--
The last that o'er us shone
    Saw our children around us play;
The next--ah! where shall we
And those rosy urchins be?
    But--no matter--grasp thy sword and a...

Thomas Moore

Tipperary

    (New version.)

    I'm not going to Tipperary for I've better work to do,
    I am dreaming of a new device to catch each German crew;
    And when we've chased them thro' the deep, Ach Gott! what fun there'll be
    Rounding up the Teuton "subs" in the blue and vasty sea.
        So, good-bye, Tipperary! Farewell, Slieve-na-mon!
        I leave you for a season to chase the murderous Hun;
        Von Tirpitz knows their hiding-place and I'll find out, too,
        So, good-bye, Tipperary, till we've caught each pirate crew.

    Then I'll go to Tipperary with its hills of emerald green,
    Where the skies are full of splendor and each peasant girl a queen;
    Where the men know naught but honor and where duty is their goal;
    Where the shadows from the ...

Thomas O'Hagan

The Sair Stroke.

O waly, waly, my bonnie crew
    Gin ye maun bumpit be!
And waly, waly, my Stroke sae true,
    Ye leuk unpleasauntlie!

O hae ye suppit the sad sherrie
    That gars the wind gae soon;
Or hae ye pud o' the braw bird's-e'e,
    Ye be sae stricken doun?

I hae na suppit the sad sherrie,
    For a' my heart is sair;
For Keiller's still i' the bonnie Dundee,
    And his is halesome fare.

But I hae slain our gude Captain,
    That c'uld baith shout and sweer,
And ither twain put out o' pain--
    The Scribe and Treasurere.

There's ane lies stark by the meadow-gate,
    And twa by the black, black brig:
And waefu', waefu', was the fate
    That gar'd them there to lig!

They waked us soon, they warked us ...

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

Old Paul And Old Tim

When rival adorers come courting a maid,
There's something or other may often be said,
Why HE should be pitched upon rather than HIM.
This wasn't the case with Old PAUL and Old TIM.

No soul could discover a reason at all
For marrying TIMOTHY rather than PAUL;
Though all could have offered good reasons, on oath,
Against marrying either or marrying both.

They were equally wealthy and equally old,
They were equally timid and equally bold;
They were equally tall as they stood in their shoes
Between them, in fact, there was nothing to choose.

Had I been young EMILY, I should have said,
"You're both much too old for a pretty young maid,
Threescore at the least you are verging upon";
But I wasn't young EMILY. Let us get on.

No coward's blood r...

William Schwenck Gilbert

The Last Rhyme Of True Thomas

The King has called for priest and cup,
The King has taken spur and blade
To dub True Thomas a belted knight,
And all for the sake o' the songs he made.

They have sought him high, they have sought him low,
They have sought him over down and lea;
They have found him by the milk-white thorn
That guards the gates o' Faerie.

'Twas bent beneath and blue above,
Their eyes were held that they might not see
The kine that grazed beneath the knowes,
Oh, they were the Queens o' Faerie!

"Now cease your song," the King he said,
"Oh, cease your song and get you dight
To vow your vow and watch your arms,
For I will dub you a belted knight.

"For I will give you a horse o' pride,
Wi' blazon and spur and page and squire;
Wi' keep and tail and s...

Rudyard