William Makepeace Thackeray

There lived a sage in days of yore,
And he a handsome pigtail wore;
But wondered much and sorrowed more,
Because it hung behind him.
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KING CANUTE was weary hearted; he had reigned for years a score,
Battling, struggling, pushing, fighting, killing much and robbing more;
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Persicos odi
Puer, apparatus;
Displicent nexae
Philyra coronae:
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Come to the greenwood tree,
Come where the dark woods be,
Dearest, O come with me!
Let us rove—O my love—O my love!
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Although I enter not,
Yet round about the spot,
Ofttimes I hover,
And near the sacred gate,
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Werther had a love for Charlotte
Such as words could never utter;
Would you know how first he met her?
She was cutting bread and butter.
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Christmas is here:
Winds whistle shrill,
Icy and chill,
Little care we:
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For the sole edification
Of this decent congregation,
Goodly people, by your grant
I will sing a holy chant --
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Beside the old hall-fire—upon my nurse's knee,
Of happy fairy days—what tales were told to me!
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Special Jurymen of England! who admire your country's laws,
And proclaim a British Jury worthy of the realm's applause;
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You've all heard of Larry O'Toole,
Of the beautiful town of Drumgoole;
He had but one eye,
To ogle ye by—
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Dear Jack, this white mug that with Guinness I fill,
And drink to the health of sweet Nan of the Hill,
Was once Tommy Tosspot's, as jovial a sot
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Returning from the cruel fight
How pale and faint appears my knight!
He sees me anxious at his side;
'Why seek, my love, your wounds to hide?
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A street there is in Paris famous,
For which no rhyme our language yields,
Rue Neuve de petits Champs its name is -
The New Street of the Little Fields;
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Ah! bleak and barren was the moor,
Ah! loud and piercing was the storm,
The cottage roof was shelter'd sure,
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Je viens revoir l'asile ou ma jeunesse
De la misere a subi les lecons.
J'avais vingt ans, une folle maitresse,
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The castle towers of Bareacres are fair upon the lea,
Where the cliffs of bonny Diddlesex rise up from out the sea:
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Before I lost my five poor wits,
I mind me of a Romish clerk,
Who sang how Care, the phantom dark,
Beside the belted horseman sits....
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No more, thou lithe and long-winged hawk, of desert-life for thee;
No more across the sultry sands shalt thou go swooping free:
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Air--"il y avait un petit navire."

There were three sailors of Bristol city
Who took a boat and went to sea.
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