The Book of Humorous Poetry: With Illustrations

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Wm. Collins & Sons, 1875 - 464 Seiten
 

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Seite 389 - I cannot eat but little meat, My stomach is not good ; But sure I think, that I can drink With him that wears a hood : Though I go bare, take ye no care ; I nothing am a-cold : I stuff my skin so full within Of jolly good ale and old.
Seite 435 - THE mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel ; And the former called the latter ' Little Prig '. Bun replied, ' You are doubtless very big ; But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together, To make up a year And a sphere. And I think it no disgrace 10 To occupy my place.
Seite 219 - He sent for lancewood to make the thills; The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees; The panels of whitewood, that cuts like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these; The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum...
Seite 221 - Fifty-five! This morning the parson takes a drive. Now, small boys, get out of the way! Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. "Huddup!" said the parson. Off went they. The parson was working his Sunday's text, Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed At what the -Moses - was coming next. All at once the horse stood still, Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill.
Seite 195 - Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place ; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time or tide ; — The hour approaches Tam maun ride ; That hour, o...
Seite 195 - O'er a' the ills o' life victorious! But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white — then melts for ever; Or like the borealis race That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time or tide; The hour approaches Tam maun ride; That hour, o...
Seite 310 - Fluttering spread thy purple pinions, Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart: I a slave in thy dominions; Nature must give way to art. Mild Arcadians, ever blooming Nightly nodding o'er your flocks, See my weary days consuming All beneath yon flowery rocks.
Seite 146 - Cross, hard by the way, Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay, There is a house with stairs; And there did I see coming down Such folk as are not in our town, Forty at least, in pairs.
Seite 439 - Here lies old Hobson. Death hath broke his girt, And here, alas! hath laid him in the dirt; Or else, the ways being foul, twenty to one He's here stuck in a slough, and overthrown. 'Twas such a shifter that, if truth were known, Death was half glad when he had got him down; For he had any time this ten years full Dodged with him betwixt Cambridge and The Bull.
Seite 129 - The Cataract strong Then plunges along, Striking and raging As if a war waging Its caverns and rocks among ; Rising and leaping, Sinking and creeping, Swelling and sweeping, Showering and springing, Flying and flinging, Writhing and ringing, Eddying and whisking. Spouting and frisking, Turning and twisting, Around and around With endless rebound : Smiting and fighting, A sight to delight in ; Confounding, astounding, Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.

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