#1912 #AmericanWriters #RhymesOfARollingStone
As I was saying . . . (No, thank… Cows weren’t allowed in the trench… As I was saying, our Colonel leap… “Come on, lads!” he shouts, “and w… Then some bally thing seemed to tr…
In the wilds of Madagascar, Dwelt… For her hand young men would ask h… Oh that Boola—boola maid She was… And —when the day was done At the… As this ditty she was cooing, Cam…
I’ve sung of Violet de Vere, that… Of Gertie of the Diamond Tooth,… And Maye Lamore,—at eighty—four… That in my wild and wooly youth I… And Klondike Kit, and Gumboot Su…
“Gather around me, children dear; The wind is high and the night is… Closer, little ones, snuggle near; Let’s seek a story of ages old; A magic tale of a bygone day,
The sunshine seeks my little room To tell me Paris streets are gay; That children cry the lily bloom All up and down the leafy way; That half the town is mad with Ma…
The Shorter Catechism I burned my fingers on the stove And wept with bitterness; But poor old Auntie Maggie strove To comfort my distress.
Obit 23rd April 1616 Is it not strange that on this com… Two titans of their age, aye of al… Together should renounce this mort… And rise like gods, unsullied and…
The woes of men beyond my ken Mean nothing more to me. Behold my world, and Eden hurled From Heaven to the Sea; A jeweled home, in fending foam
“Where is your little boy to—day?” I asked her at the gate. “I used to see him at his play, And often I would wait: He was so beautiful, so bright,
My garden hath a slender path With ivy overgrown, A secret place where once would pa… A pot all alone; I see him now with fretted brow,
This is the pay—day up at the mine… There’s money to burn in the stree… With a haggard face and a ribband… And I know at the dawn she’ll com… One for herself, to drown her sham…
I to a crumpled cabin came upon a hillside high, And with me was a withered dame As weariful as I. “It used to be our home,” she said…
I never thought that Bill could s… A proper prayer; 'Twas more in his hard—bitten way To cuss and swear; Yet came the night when Baby Ted
Of bosom friends I’ve had but sev… Despite my years are ripe; I hope they’re now enjoying Heave… Although they’re not the type; Nor, candidly, no more am I,
If you leave the gloom of London… Where all except the flag is stran… There’s a bronzed and stalwart fel… And greet you with a welcome warm… For he’s your younger brother, the…