What It Is To Be A Mother (John Hartley Poems)
A'a, dear! what a life has a mother! At leeast, if they're hamper'd like me,Thro' mornin' to neet ther's some bother, An' ...
A'a, dear! what a life has a mother! At leeast, if they're hamper'd like me,Thro' mornin' to neet ther's some bother, An' ...
What a lot ov advice ther is wasted;-- What praichin is all thrown away;--Young fowk lang for pleasures untasted, An its little ...
I'm thist a little cripple boy, an' never goin' to growAn' get a great big man at all!--'cause Aunty told ...
They say 'at its a waste o' brass--a nasty habit too,--A thing 'at noa reight-minded chap wod ivver think to ...
AH! who can imagine what plague and what bothersHe feels, who sits down to write verses for others!His pen must ...
Aw wodn't gie a penny piece To be a millionaire,For him 'at's little cattle, is The chap wi' little care.Jewels may flash ...
Though Houris are handsome, though lovely the place-- More lovely perhaps than our own country seat-- I never could see, in the ...
She hastens out and scarcely pins her clothesTo hear the news and tell the news she knows;She talks of sluts, ...
Alone. For Jack has gone away, To hide his head in proofs and letters;And left me here to spend the ...
Strong extreme speed, that the brain hurries with, Further than trees, and hedges, and green grass Whitened by distance,-further than ...
The winds that blow about the world (Said Old George Jones)See here all hope to ruin hurled,See there triumphant flags ...
On the rugged water shedAt the top of the bridle trackWhere years ago, as the old men say,The splitters went ...
I read that he lost a suitcase full of manuscripts on atrain and that they never were recovered.I can't match ...
The trees in time have something else to do besides their treeing. What is it. I'm a starving to death ...
Here among long-discarded cassocks, Damp stools, and half-split open hassocks, Here where the vicar never looks I nibble through old ...
It bothers me: the genital smell of the bay drifting toward me on the T stop, the train circling the ...
SMOKE of the fields in spring is one, Smoke of the leaves in autumn another. Smoke of a steel-mill roof ...
No longer torn by what she knows And sees within the eyes of others, Her doubts are when the daylight ...
Touch it: it won't shrink like an eyeball, This egg-shaped bailiwick, clear as a tear. Here's yesterday, last year --- ...
The day you died I went into the dirt, Into the lightless hibernaculum Where bees, striped black and gold, sleep ...
I Happy are men who yet before they are killed Can let their veins run cold. Whom no compassion fleers ...
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