#EnglishWriters
In tattered old slippers that toas… And a ragged old jacket perfumed w… Away from the world, and its toils… I’ve a snug little kingdom up four… To mount to this realm is a toil,…
On Brady’s tower there grows a fl… It is the loveliest flower that bl… At Castle Brady there lives a lad… (And how I love her no one knows)… Her name is Nora, and the goddess…
Although I enter not, Yet round about the spot, Ofttimes I hover, And near the sacred gate, With longing eyes I wait,
‘Your Molly has never been false,… Since the last time we parted at… When I said that I would continue… And I gave you the ’bacco-box mar… When I passed a whole fortnight b…
O SIGNOR BRODERIP, you are… You wexis us little horgin-boys wh… How dare you talk of Justice, and… To pussicute us horgin-boys, you s… Though you set in Vestminster sur…
Aux gens atrabilaires Pour exemple donne, En un temps de miseres Roger-Bontemps est ne. Vivre obscur a sa guise,
With ganial foire Thransfuse me loyre, Ye sacred nympths of Pindus, The whoile I sing That wondthrous thing,
Returning from the cruel fight How pale and faint appears my knig… He sees me anxious at his side; ‘Why seek, my love, your wounds to… Or deem your English girl afraid
A humble flower long time I pined Upon the solitary plain, And trembled at the angry wind, And shrunk before the bitter rain. And oh! ’twas in a blessed hour
Dear Lucy, you know what my wish… I hate all your Frenchified fuss: Your silly entrées and made dishes Were never intended for us. No footman in lace and in ruffles
Air—"il y avait un petit navire.” There were three sailors of Brist… Who took a boat and went to sea. But first with beef and captain’s… And pickled pork they loaded she.
A street there is in Paris famous… For which no rhyme our language yi… Rue Neuve de petits Champs its na… The New Street of the Little Fie… And there’s an inn, not rich and s…
Winter and summer, night and morn, I languish at this table dark; My office window has a corn– er looks into St. James’s Park. I hear the foot-guards’ bugle-horn…
Part I. At Paris, hard by the Maine barri… Whoever will choose to repair, Midst a dozen of wooden-legged war… May haply fall in with old Pierre…
You’ve all heard of Larry O’Tool… Of the beautiful town of Drumgool… He had but one eye, To ogle ye by— Oh, murther, but that was a jew’l!