#Americans #XIXCentury #XXCentury
I lay one happy night in bed And dreamed that all the dogs were… They’d all been taken out and shot Their bodies strewed each vacant l… O’er all the earth, from Berkeley…
Daughter of God! Audacity divine Of clowns the terror and of brains… Not thou the inspirer of the rushi… Not thine of idiots the vocal droo… Thy bastard sister of the brow of…
Another Irish landlord gone to gr… Slain by the bullets of the tenant… Pray, good agrarians, what wrong r… Such foul redress? Between you an… All Ireland’s parted with an even…
One thousand years I slept beneat… My sleep in 1901 beginning, Then, by the action of some scurvy… Who happened then to recollect my… I was revived and given another in…
Precursor of our woes, historic sp… What dismal records burn upon thy… On thee I see the maculating stai… Of passengers’ commingled blood an… In this red rust a widow’s curse a…
I dreamed I stood upon a hill, an… The godly multitudes walked to and… Beneath, in Sabbath garments fitl… With pious mien, appropriately sad… While all the church bells made a…
‘What is that, mother?’ ‘The funny man, child. His hands are black, but his heart… ‘May I touch him, mother?’ ‘T were foolishly done:
I’ve sometimes wished that Ingers… To hold his tongue, nor rail again… For when he’s made a point some pi… Like Bartlett of the _Bulletin_ ‘… I brandish no iconoclastic fist,
Good Parson Dickson preached, I’… A sermon-ah, ‘twas very old And very, very, bald! ’Twas all about-I know not what It was about, nor what ‘twas not.
As time rolled on the whole world… A desolation and a darksome curse; And some one said: ‘The changes t… In the fair frame of things, from… Are wrought by strikes. The sun w…
His poems Riley says that he indi… Upon an empty stomach. Heavenly P… Feed him throat-full: for what the… Upon his empty stomach empties our…
Sleep fell upon my senses and I d… Long years had circled since my li… The world was different, and all t… Remote and strange, like noises to… And one great Voice there was; an…
His caw is a cackle, his eye is di… And he mopes all day on the lowest… Not a word says he, but he snaps h… And twitches his palsied head, as… The ultimate plume of his pride an…
For Gladstone’s portrait five tho… Were paid, 't is said, to Sir Joh… I cannot help thinking that such f… Transcended reason’s uttermost bou… For it seems to me uncommonly quee…
FITCH: 'All vices you’ve exhausted, frien… So all the papers say.' PICKERING: ‘Ah, what vile calumnies are penne…
