Upon Gander. Epig.

Since Gander did his pretty youngling wed,
Gander, they say, doth each night piss a-bed:
What is the cause? Why, Gander will reply,
No goose lays good eggs that is trodden dry.

Robert Herrick

Robert Herrick was a 17th-century English lyric poet and cleric. He is known for his book of poems, "Hesperides," which includes the carpe diem poem "To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time." His works are noted for their clarity, simplicity, and musical quality. Herrick was also a vicar of Dean Prior in Devon, despite being ejected during the English Civil War and later reinstated.

Robert Herrick

Of Love.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

His Winding-sheet

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

To Julia In The Temple.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

On Himself

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

English

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James McIntyre

The Unusual Goose And The Imbecilic Woodcutter

A woodcutter bought him a gander,
Or at least that was what he supposed,
As a matter of fact, 'twas a slander
As a later occurrence disclosed;
For they locked the bird up in the garret
To fatten, the while it grew old,
And it laid there a twenty-two carat
Fine egg of the purest of gold!

There was much unaffected rejoicing
In the home of the woodcutter then,
And his wife, her exuberance voicing,
Proclaimed him most lucky of men.
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She said, "and of practical use,
For this fowl doesn't lay any old egg,
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Twas this creature's habitual custom,
This laying of superfine eggs,
And they made it their practice to dust 'em
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Guy Wetmore Carryl

Hen's Nest

Among the orchard weeds, from every search,
Snugly and sure, the old hens nest is made,
Who cackles every morning from her perch
To tell the servant girl new eggs are laid;
Who lays her washing by, and far and near
Goes seeking all about from day to day,
And stung with nettles tramples everywhere;
But still the cackling pullet lays away.
The boy on Sundays goes the stack to pull
In hopes to find her there, but naught is seen,
And takes his hat and thinks to find it full,
Shes laid so long so many might have been.
But naught is found and all is given oer
Till the young brood come chirping to the door.

John Clare

Upon Tooly.

The eggs of pheasants wry-nosed Tooly sells,
But ne'er so much as licks the speckled shells:
Only, if one prove addled, that he eats
With superstition, as the cream of meats.
The cock and hen he feeds; but not a bone
He ever picked, as yet, of anyone.

Robert Herrick

Upon Gubbs. Epig.

Gubbs calls his children kitlings: and would bound,
Some say, for joy, to see those kitlings drown'd.

Robert Herrick

His Grange, Or Private Wealth

Though clock,
To tell how night draws hence, I've none,
A cock
I have to sing how day draws on:
I have
A maid, my Prue, by good luck sent,
To save
That little, Fates me gave or lent.
A hen
I keep, which, creeking day by day,
Tells when
She goes her long white egg to lay:
A goose
I have, which, with a jealous ear,
Lets loose
Her tongue, to tell what danger's near.
A lamb
I keep, tame, with my morsels fed,
Whose dam
An orphan left him, lately dead:
A cat
I keep, that plays about my house,
Grown fat
With eating many a miching mouse:
To these
A Trasy I do keep, whereby
I please
The more my rural privacy:
Which are
But toys, to give my heart some ease:
Where care
None is, slight things do li...

Robert Herrick