Strength poems
/ page 168 of 186 /
Lucy Hooper
© John Greenleaf Whittier
They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead,
That all of thee we loved and cherished
Six O'Clock
© Trumbull Stickney
Now burst above the city's cold twilight
The piercing whistles and the tower-clocks:
For day is done. Along the frozen docks
The workmen set their ragged shirts aright.
The Storming of the Dargai Heights
© William Topaz McGonagall
'Twas on the 20th of November, and in the year of 1897,
That the cheers of the Gordon Highlanders ascended to heaven,
As they stormed the Dargai heights without delay,
And made the Indian rebels fly in great dismay.
The Desolate City
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
DARK to me is the earth. Dark to me are the heavens.
Where is she that I loved, the woman with eyes like stars?
Desolate are the streets. Desolate is the city.
A city taken by storm, where none are left but the slain.
The Little Match Girl
© William Topaz McGonagall
It was biting cold, and the falling snow,
Which filled a poor little match girl's heart with woe,
Who was bareheaded and barefooted, as she went along the street,
Crying, "Who'll buy my matches? for I want pennies to buy some meat!"
The Hero of Kalapore
© William Topaz McGonagall
The 27th Regiment has mutinied at Kalapore;
That was the substance of a telegram, which caused great uproar,
At Sattara, on the evening of the 8th of July,
And when the British officers heard it, they heaved a bitter sigh.
The Kerrigan Boys
© Edward Harrington
By jove its hot on the track today, my flannel is soaked with sweat.
I think Ill sit in the shade a bit and wait for the sun to set.
I know of a decent camping place by the river beyond the town,
And Id rather carry my swag through there after the sun goes down.
Hyperbion
© Walter Savage Landor
Hyperbion was among the chosen few
Of Phoebus; and men honored him awhile,
The Capture of Lucknow
© William Topaz McGonagall
'Twas near the Begum Kothie the battle began,
Where innocent blood as plentiful as water ran;
The Begum Kothie was a place of honour given to the 93rd,
Which heroically to a man they soon did begird.
The Battle of Gujrat
© William Topaz McGonagall
'Twas in the year of 1849, and on the 20th of February,
Lord Gough met and attacked Shere Sing right manfully.
The Sikh Army numbered 40,000 in strength,
And showing a front about two miles length.
The Battle of Cressy
© William Topaz McGonagall
'Twas on the 26th of August, the sun was burning hot,
In the year of 1346, which will never be forgot,
Because the famous field of Cressy was slippery and gory,
By the loss of innocent blood which I'11 relate in story.
The Battle of Abu Klea
© William Topaz McGonagall
Ye sons of Mars, come join with me,
And sing in praise of Sir Herbert Stewart's little army,
That made ten thousand Arabs flee
At the charge of the bayonet at Abu Klea.
Lines in Praise of Tommy Atkins
© William Topaz McGonagall
Success to Tommy Atkins, he's a very brave man,
And to deny it there's few people can;
And to face his foreign foes he's never afraid,
Therefore he's not a beggar, as Rudyard Kipling has said.
Grif, of the Bloody Hand
© William Topaz McGonagall
In an immense wood in the south of Kent,
There lived a band of robbers which caused the people discontent;
And the place they infested was called the Weald,
Where they robbed wayside travellers and left them dead on the field.
Calamity in London
© William Topaz McGonagall
'Twas in the year of 1897, and on the night of Christmas day,
That ten persons' lives were taken sway,
By a destructive fire in London, at No. 9 Dixie Street,
Alas! so great was the fire, the victims couldn't retreat.
Beautiful Comrie
© William Topaz McGonagall
Ye lovers of the picturesque, away, away!
To beautiful Comrie and have a holiday;
Aud bask in the sunahine and inhale the fragrant air
Emanating from the woodlands and shrubberies there.
An Address to the New Tay Bridge
© William Topaz McGonagall
Beautiful new railway bridge of the Silvery Tay,
With your strong brick piers and buttresses in so grand array,
And your thirteen central girders, which seem to my eye
Strong enough all windy storms to defy.
The Atavist
© Robert William Service
What are you doing here, Tom Thorne, on the white top-knot o' the world,
Where the wind has the cut of a naked knife and the stars are rapier keen?
Hugging a smudgy willow fire, deep in a lynx robe curled,
You that's a lord's own son, Tom Thorne -- what does your madness mean?
Athabaska Dick
© Robert William Service
'Twas the close of day and his long boat lay just over the Big Cascade,
When there came to him one Jack-pot Jim, with a wild light in his eye;
And he softly laughed, and he led Dick aft, all eager, yet half afraid,
And snugly stowed in his coat he showed a pilfered flask of "rye".
And in haste he slipped, or in fear he tripped, but -- Dick in warning roared --
And there rang a yell, and it befell that Jim was overboard.
