William Henry Drummond

(13 April, 1854 – 6 April, 1907 / Mohill, County Leitrim)

William Henry Drummond Poems

1. The Canadian Magpie 4/12/2010
2. The Grand Seigneur 4/12/2010
3. The Cure Of Calumette 4/12/2010
4. The Dublin Fusilier 4/12/2010
5. The Hill Of San Sebastian 4/12/2010
6. The Old Sexton 4/12/2010
7. Marie Louise 4/12/2010
8. My Little Cabane 4/12/2010
9. The Corduroy Road 4/12/2010
10. The Oyster Schooner 4/12/2010
11. Ole Docteur Fiset 4/12/2010
12. National Policy 4/12/2010
13. Mon Frere Camille 4/12/2010
14. Strathcona's Horse 4/12/2010
15. Two Hundred Years Ago 4/12/2010
16. The Habitants Jubilee Ode 4/12/2010
17. Mon Choual 4/12/2010
18. The Habitants Summer 4/12/2010
19. The Rose Delima 4/12/2010
20. The Old Pine Tree 4/12/2010
21. Maxime Labelle 4/12/2010
22. Pelang 4/12/2010
23. The Old House And The New 4/12/2010
24. When Albani Sang 4/12/2010
25. The Red Canoe 4/12/2010
26. The Canadian Country Doctor 4/12/2010
27. Spring Bereaved 3 1/4/2003
28. Bateese The Lucky Man 4/12/2010
29. Little Mouse 4/12/2010
30. The Windigo 4/12/2010
31. De Camp On De 4/12/2010
32. Donal Campbell 4/12/2010
33. Dreams 4/12/2010
34. Spring Bereaved 1 1/4/2003
35. Leetle Lac Grenier 4/12/2010
36. Ole Tam On Bord-A-Plouffe 4/12/2010
37. De Bell Of St. Michel 4/12/2010
38. Child Thoughts 4/12/2010
39. M'sieu Smit 4/12/2010
40. Doth Then The World Go Thus? 1/13/2003
Best Poem of William Henry Drummond

Little Bateese

You bad leetle boy, not moche you care
How busy you 're kipin' your poor gran'pere
Tryin' to stop you ev'ry day
Chasin' de hen aroun' de hay-
W'y don't you geev' dem a chance to lay?
Leetle Bateese!

Off on de fiel' you foller de plough
Den w'en you 're tire you scare the cow
Sickin' de dog till dey jomp the wall
So de milk ain't good for not'ing at all-
An' you 're only five an' a half dis fall,
Leetle Bateese!

Too sleepy for sayin' de prayer to-night?
Never min' I s'pose it 'll be all ...

Read the full of Little Bateese

A Lament

My thoughts hold mortal strife;
I do detest my life,
And with lamenting cries
Peace to my soul to bring
Oft call that prince which here doth monarchize:
But he, grim grinning King,
Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprise,
Late having decked with beauty's rose his tomb,
Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.

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