Absolutely badass old poems

Cafe Society
101

Fell like a cannon-shot,
Burst like a thunderbolt,
Crash’d like a hurricane,
Broke thro’ the mass from below,
Drove thro’ the midst of the foe,
Plunged up and down, to and fro,
Rode flashing blow upon blow,
Brave Inniskillens and Greys
Whirling their sabres in circles of light!
And some of us, all in amaze,
Who were held for a while from the fight,
And were only standing at gaze,
When the dark-muffled Russian crowd
Folded its wings from the left and the right,
And roll’d them around like a cloud,–
O, mad for the charge and the battle were we,
When our own good redcoats sank from sight,
Like drops of blood in a dark-gray sea,
And we turn’d to each other, whispering, all dismay’d,
‘Lost are the gallant three hundred of Scarlett’s Brigade!’

– from “The Charge of the Heavy Brigade at Balaclava,” by Tennyson

102

The Battle in Sir Walter Scott’s Marmion is pretty awesome.

If you read a lot of kidlit, you probably know that Anne of Green Gables goes completely fangirl over these lines.

103

Make sure you check out Noyes’ The Highwayman, though hell should bar the way. Bonus points if you’ve ever loved a landlord’s daughter <3.

104

My Man!! (Negatory on part 2 of your post, though.) :smiley: and :frowning:

105

Oedipus, don’t leave us hanging!
Out of all the poems tracked, which
Verse, we are all demanding,
shall be scribed upon your back?

106

Robert Browning’s How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix. Like the Midnight Ride of Paul Revere, but with more dead horses.

107

Speaking of Robert Browning, I always thought his poem Prospice was pretty badass.

*I was ever a fighter, so – one fight more,
The best and the last!
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forebore,
And bade me creep past.

No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers
The heroes of old,
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life’s arrears
Of pain, darkness and cold.*

108

Clipper Ships and Captains by Rosemary and Stephen Vincent Benet
There was a time before our time,
It will not come again,
When the best ships still were wooden ships
But the men were iron men.

Read the rest of it:

http://www.constitutional.net/099.html

109

According to some, EN was thought up by Noel Coward and chums of his, in the course of a drunken evening in Paris…

110

I’d recommend “Naseby” by Thomas Babbington Macaulay: in the words supposedly of a zealous Parliamentarian soldier who had taken part in that victory for the Parliament side in the English Civil War. Some sample verses:
Oh ! Wherefore come ye forth in triumph from the north,
With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red?
And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout?
And whence be the grapes of the winepress that you tread?

Oh ! Evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,
And crimson was the juice of the winepress that we trod:
For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong
Who sate in the high places, and slew the saints of God.

They are here – they rush on – they are broken – we are gone –
Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast.
O Lord, put forth thy might ! O Lord, defend the right !
Stand back to back, in God’s name ! And fight it to the last !

Stout Skippen hath a wound – the centre hath given ground –
Hark ! Hark ! What means the trampling of horsemen in our rear?
Whose banner do I see, boys? 'Tis he ! thank God ! 'tis he, boys !
Bear up another minute ! Brave Oliver is here !

Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row:
Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dikes,
Our curassiers have burst on the ranks of the accurst,
And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes.
IMO stirring stuff, whichever side (if either) one favours in that conflict. (I can think of one SDMB participant, extremely anti-Parliamentarian, who might well not agree there.)

111

The last few stanzas of the traditional ballad “The Death of Young Andrew” (Martin Carthy’s version).

And up they rose these seven brothers
And they chased him deep into Wales
There they caught him by such a wile
That now he must tell no more such tales

For there he stood this young Andrew
Like any fox they ringed him round
Crying We’ve not come for our father
But for the sister you done down

Two of them they broke his legs
And two of them broke his collar bone
And two of them broke his two arms
They leaned him back all against a stone

And up and rose the eldest one
Saying See the pity we show thee
For you ne’er shed our sister’s blood
So we’ll not do that unto thee

And they took up their father’s gold
And they laid it out in young Andrew’s sight
Saying, Guard this well ye young Andrew
Defend it well from the wolves tonight

And they have left this young Andrew
As naked as the day he’s born
Saying Men have stripped you to the skin
But the wolves will strip you to the bone

A similar sort of thing ny Kipling:

Heriot’s Ford

“WHAT’S that that hirples at my side?”
The foe that you must fight, my lord.
“That rides as fast as I can ride?”
*The shadow of your might, my lord. *

“Then wheel my horse against the foe!”
*He’s down and overpast, my lord.
You war against the sunset-glow,
The judgment follows fast, my lord! *

“Oh who will stay the sun’s descent?”
King Joshua he is dead, my lord.
“I need an hour to repent!”
’Tis what our sister said, my lord.

“Oh do not slay me in my sins!”
*You’re safe awhile with us, my lord. *
“Nay, kill me ere my fear begins!”
*We would not serve you thus, my lord. *

“Where is the doom that I must face?”
*Three little leagues away, my lord. *
“Then mend the horses’ laggard pace!”
We need them for next day, my lord.

“Next day—next day! Unloose my cords!”
Our sister needed none, my lord.
*You had no mind to face our swords,
And—where can cowards run, my lord? *

“You would not kill the soul alive?”
’Twas thus our sister cried, my lord.
“I dare not die with none to shrive.”
But so our sister died, my lord.

“Then wipe the sweat from brow and cheek.”
*It runnels forth afresh, my lord. *
“Uphold me—for the flesh is weak.”
*You ’ve finished with the Flesh, my lord! *

112

Also on the subject of tall ships:

The Tea Clipper
Kathleen Tardif

O fair she was to look on, as some spirit of the sea.
When she raced from China homeward, with her freight of fragrant tea
And the shining swift bonito and the wide-winged albatross
Claimed kinship with the clipper beneath the Southern Cross.

Close-hauled, with shortened canvas, swift and plunging she could sweep
Through the gale that rose to bar her wild pathway across the deep;
And before the gale blew over, half her drenched and driven crew,
To the tune of Reuben Ranzo, hoisted topsail yards anew.

From the haven of the present she has cleared and slipped away,
Loaded deep and running free for the port of yesterday.
And the cargo that she carried, ah! it was not China tea.
She took with her all the glamour and the romance of the sea.

113

Man, this thread has really brought up a great, nostalgic feeling. When I was a kid, I had some big book of poetry, and many of these poems were in there. I especially loved The Highwayman, and can even recall the picture of the girl tied to the bedpost with the gun. That was some pretty heavy reading for a six-year-old.

114

Many of my favorites already mentioned. I’ll add:

All that is gold does not glitter
by J.R.R. Tolkien

All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.

Washington’s Monument, February 1885
by Walt Whitman

Ah, not this marble, dead and cold:
Far from its base and shaft expanding–the round zones circling,
comprehending,
Thou, Washington, art all the world’s, the continents’ entire–not
yours alone, America,
Europe’s as well, in every part, castle of lord or laborer’s cot,
Or frozen North, or sultry South–the African’s–the Arab’s in his tent,
Old Asia’s there with venerable smile, seated amid her ruins;
(Greets the antique the hero new? ‘tis but the same–the heir
legitimate, continued ever,
The indomitable heart and arm–proofs of the never-broken line,
Courage, alertness, patience, faith, the same–e’en in defeat
defeated not, the same)
Wherever sails a ship, or house is built on land, or day or night,
Through teeming cities’ streets, indoors or out, factories or farms,
Now, or to come, or past–where patriot wills existed or exist,
Wherever Freedom, pois’d by Toleration, sway’d by Law,
Stands or is rising thy true monument.

O Captain! My Captain!
by Walt Whitman

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

Sea Fever
by John Masefield

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking,

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

In Prison Cell I Sadly Sit
by Harry Harbord “Breaker” Morant (last poem)

In prison cell I sadly sit,
A dammed crestfallen chappie,
And own to you I feel a bit–
A little bit – unhappy.

It really ain’t the place nor time
To reel off rhyming diction;
But yet we’ll write a final rhyme
While waiting crucifixion.

No matter what end they decide
Quick-lime? or boiling oil? sir
We’ll do our best when crucified
To finish off in style, sir!

But we bequeath a parting tip
For sound advice of such men
Who come across in transport ship
To polish off the Dutchmen.

If you encounter any Boers
You really must not loot ‘em,
And, if you wish to leave these shores,
For pity’s sake, don’t shoot ‘em.

And if you’d earn a D.S.O.,
Why every British sinner
Should know the proper way to go
Is: Ask the Boer to dinner.

Let’s toss a bumper down our throat
Before we pass to heaven,
And toast: “The trim-set petticoat
We leave behind in Devon.”

Epitaph to the Spartans at Themopylae
by Simonides

Go tell them in Sparta, passerby,
That here, obedient to their laws, we lie.

115

Stephen Crane - its all free verse though. I think Stephen Crane is about the perfect angsty teenager poet.

In the Desert
BY STEPHEN CRANE

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, “Is it good, friend?”
“It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;

“But I like it
“Because it is bitter,
“And because it is my heart.”

or War Is Kind

Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These men were born to drill and die.
The unexplained glory flies above them,
Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom –
A field where a thousand corpses lie.

Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,
Raged at his breast, gulped and died,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

Swift blazing flag of the regiment,
Eagle with crest of red and gold,
These men were born to drill and die.
Point for them the virtue of slaughter,
Make plain to them the excellence of killing
And a field where a thousand corpses lie.

Mother whose heart hung humble as a button
On the bright splendid shroud of your son,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

116

THE LAST HERO
G.K. Chesterson

The wind blew out from Bergen from the dawning to the day,
There was a wreck of trees and fall of towers a score of miles away,
And drifted like a livid leaf I go before its tide,
Spewed out of house and stable, beggared of flag and bride.
The heavens are bowed about my head, shouting like seraph wars.
With rains that might put out the sun and clean the sky of stars,
Rains like the fall of ruined seas from secret worlds above,
The roaring of the rains of God none but the lonely love.
Feast in my hall, O foemen, and eat and drink and drain,
You never loved the sun in heaven as I have loved the rain.

The chance of battle changes—so may all battle be;
I stole my lady bride from them, they stole her back from me.
I rent her from her red-roofed hall, I rode and saw arise
More lovely than the living flowers the hatred in her eyes.
She never loved me, never bent, never was less divine;
The sunset never loved me; the wind was never mine.
Was it all nothing that she stood imperial in duresse?
Silence itself made softer with the sweeping of her dress.
O you who drain the cup of life, O you who wear the crown,
You never loved a woman’s smile as I have loved her frown.

The wind blew out from Bergen from the dawning to the day,
They ride and run with fifty spears to break and bar my way,
I shall not die alone, alone, but kin to all the powers.
As merry as the ancient sun and fighting like the flowers.
How white their steel, how bright their eyes! I love each laughing knave.
Cry high and bid him welcome to the banquet of the brave.
Yea, I will bless them as they bend and love them where they lie,
When on their skulls the sword I swing falls shattering from the sky.
The hour when death is like a light and blood is like a rose,—
You never loved your friends, my friends, as I shall love my foes.

Know you what earth shall lose to-night, what rich, uncounted loans,
What heavy gold of tales untold you bury with my bones?
My loves in deep dim meadows, my ships that rode at ease,
Ruffling the purple plumage of strange and secret seas.
To see this fair earth as it is to me alone was given,
The blow that breaks my brow to-night shall break the dome of heaven.
The skies I saw, the trees I saw after no eyes shall see.
To-night I die the death of God; the stars shall die with me:
One sound shall sunder all the spears and break the trumpet’s breath:
You never laughed in all your life as I shall laugh in death.

117

[Moderating]

Just a reminder, by the way, to not post copyrighted material. The past couple of posts are both old enough to be public domain, so that’s not a problem, but I don’t want anyone getting the wrong impression from them and posting the full text of a poem that’s still in copyright.

118

Kipling The Sea Wife

There dwells a wife by the Northern Gate,
And a wealthy wife is she;
She breeds a breed o’ rovin’ men
And casts them over sea.

And some are drowned in deep water,
And some in sight o’ shore,
And word goes back to the weary wife
And ever she sends more.

For since that wife had gate or gear,
Or hearth or garth or bield,
She willed her sons to the white harvest,
And that is a bitter yield.

She wills her sons to the wet ploughing,
To ride the horse of tree,
And syne her sons come back again
Far-spent from out the sea.

The good wife’s sons come home again
With little into their hands,
But the lore of men that ha’ dealt with men
In the new and naked lands;

But the faith of men that ha’ brothered men
By more than easy breath,
And the eyes o’ men that ha’ read wi’ men
In the open books of death.

Rich are they, rich in wonders seen,
But poor in the goods o’ men;
So what they ha’ got by the skin o’ their teeth
They sell for their teeth again.

For whether they lose to the naked life
Or win to their hearts’ desire,
They tell it all to the weary wife
That nods beside the fire.

Her hearth is wide to every wind
That makes the white ash spin;
And tide and tide and 'tween the tides
Her sons go out and in;

(Out with great mirth that do desire
Hazard of trackless ways,
In with content to wait their watch
And warm before the blaze);

And some return by failing light,
And some in waking dream,
For she hears the heels of the dripping ghosts
That ride the rough roof-beam.

Home, they come home from all the ports,
The living and the dead;
The good wife’s sons come home again
For her blessing on their head!

119

William H. Davies, “The Two Children.” Really creepy.

120

Ooooooo wow. Thank you for that. I live for these sorts of poems.