#1912 #AmericanWriters #RhymesOfARollingStone
The songs I made from joy of eart… In wanton wandering, Are rapturous with Maytime mirth And ectasy of Spring. But all the songs I sing today
To Dawson Town came Percy Brown… A pane of glass was in his eye, an… Upon the shoulder of his coat a le… To rest his deadly rifle when it w… The which it must have often been,…
One pearly day in early May I wal… And saw, say half a mile away, a m… A dog was cowering to his will as… Upon a dozen ducks so still they s… When like a streak the dog dashed…
Come out, O Little Moccasins, an… Come out, O tiny beaded feet, and… I’ll play the old Red River reel,… Awake, O Little Moccasins, and d… Your hair was all a gleamy gold, y…
I’m just an ordinary chap Who comes home to his tea, And mostly I don’t care a rap What people think of me; I do my job and take my pay,
I guess folks think I’m mighty du… Since Jack and Jim and Joe Have hit the trail to Kingdom Com… And left me here below: Since Death, the bastard, bowled…
Some carol of the banjo, to its me… Of viol or of lute some make a son… My battered old accordion, you’re… You’ve been my friend and comforte… Round half the world I’ve trotted…
When twenty—one I loved to dream, And was to loafing well inclined; Somehow I couldn’t get up steam To welcome work of any kind. While students burned the midnight…
When you come home I’ll not be ro… To welcome you. They’ll take you to a grassy mound So neat and new; Where I’ll be sleeping—O so sound…
I have a tiny piney wood; my trees are only fifty, Yet give me shade and solitude For they are thick and thrifty. And every day to me they fling
(He speaks.) Walking, walking, oh, the joy of w… Swinging down the tawny lanes with… Striding up the green hills, throu… Swishing through the woodlands whe…
O dear little cabin, I’ve loved y… And now I must bid you good—bye! I’ve filled you with laughter, I’… And sometimes I’ve wished I could… Your walls they have witnessed a w…
I grabbed the new Who’s Who to se… My name —but it was not. Said I: “The form they posted me I filled and sent —so what?” I searched the essies," dour with…
This year an ocean trip I took, a… And like to get my money’s worth… In spite of Neptune’s nastiness I… Yet felt as fit as if we sailed up… But now that I am home again I’m…
I do not write for love of pelf, Nor lust for phantom fame; I do not rhyme to please myself, Nor yet to win acclaim: No, strange to say it is my plan,