The Battle Hymn of the Republic by Julia Ward Howe and “In Flanders Fields” by John McCrae
Commonplace Book – Pages: 192-193
The Battle Hymn of the Republic by Julia Ward Howe
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the faithful lightening of His terrible swift sword:
His truth is marching on.
I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps:
His day is marching on.
I have read a fiery gospel writ in barnish’d rows of steel:
“As you deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,
Since God is marching on.”
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat:
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant my feet!
Our God is marching on!
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me:
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on.
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In Flanders Fields by John McCrae
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.
“Paul Revere’s Ride” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Commonplace Book – Pages: 189-192
Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light-
One of by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middle sex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm.”
Then he said “Good-night!” and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charleston shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore
Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,-
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay -
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.
A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river’s fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of the birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who was at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled,-
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,-
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And midnight message of Paul Revere.
More Poems 2
List of Poems (Cont.) – Click Titles to View
“Death the Leveller” by James Shirley
and “The Chariot” by Emily Dickinson
“Pennsylvania” by Carl Sandburg
and “The Latest Decalogue” by Arthur Hugh Clough
“The Battle Hymn of the Republic” by Julia Ward Howe
and “In Flanders Fields” by John McCrae
“Pennsylvania” by Carl Sandburg and “The Latest Decalogue” by Arthur Hugh Clough
Commonplace Book – Pages 189-190
Pennsylvania by Carl Sandburg
I have been in Pennsylvania
In the Monongahela and Hocking Valleys.
In the blue Susquehanna
On a Saturday morning
I saw a mounted constabulary go by,
I saw boys playing marbles.
Spring and the hills laughed.
And in places along the Appalachian chain,
I saw steel arms handling coal and iron
And I saw the white – cauliflower faces
Of miner’s wives waiting for the men to come home from the day’s work
I made color studies in crimson and violet
Over the dust and domes of culm at sunset.
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The Latest Decalogue by Arthur Hugh Clough
Thou shalt have one God only; who
Would be at the expense of two?
No graven images may be
Worshipp’d, except the currency:
Swear not at all; for, for thy curse
Thine enemy is none the worse:
At church on Sunday to attend
Will serve to keep the world thy friend:
Honor thy parents, that is, all
From whom advancement may befall:
Thou shalt not kill; but need’st not strive
Officiously to keep alive:
Do not adultery commit;
Advantage rarely comes of it:
Thou shalt not steal; an empty feat,
When it’s so lucrative to cheat:
Bear not false witness; let the lie
Have time on its own wings to fly:
Thou shalt not covet; but tradition
Approves all forms of competition.
“Death the Leveller” by James Shirley and “The Chariot” by Emily Dickinson
Commonplace Book – Pages: 187-189
Death the Leveller by James Shirley
The glories of our blood and state
And shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against Fate;
Death lays his icy hand on Kings:
Sceptre and Crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late
They stoop to Fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds!
Upon Death’s purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds.
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb:
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.
The Chariot by Emily Dickinson
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisures too,
For his civility.
We passed the school where children played,
Their lessons scarcely done;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
We passed before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground
The roof was scarcely visible
The cornice but a mound.
Since then ’tis centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses’ heads
Were toward eternity
The Prologue to “Sweeney Todd” by Stephen Sondheim
Commonplace Book – Pages: 186-187
Attend the tale of Sweeney Todd
His skin was pale and his eye was odd
He shaved the faces of gentlemen
Who never thereafter were heard of again.
He trod a path that few have trod.
Did Sweeney Todd.
The Demon Barber of Fleet Street.
He kept a shop in London town
Of fancy clients and good renown.
And what if none of their souls was saved?
They went to their maker impeccably shaved.
By Sweeney,
By Sweeney Todd.
The Demon Barber of Fleet Street.
Swing your razor wide Sweeney!
Hold it to the skies!
Freely flows the blood of those
Who moralize!
His needs were few, his room was care.
A lavabo and a fancy chair.
A mug of suds and a leather strap,
An apron a towel a pail and a mop.
Inconspicuous Sweeney was,
Quick and quiet and clean ‘e was.
Back of his smile, under his word,
Sweeney heard music that nobody heard.
Sweeney pondered and Sweeney planned
Like a perfect machine ‘e planned.
Sweeney was smooth, Sweeney was subtle,
Sweeney would blink and rats would scuttle.
Sweeney was smooth, Sweeney was subtle,
Sweeney would blink and rats would scuttle.
Inconspicuous Sweeney was,
Quick and quiet and clean ‘e was.
Attend the tale of Sweeney Todd.
He served a dark and a vengeful god.
What happened then – well that’s the play,
And he wouldn’t want us to give it away,
Not Sweeney.
“The Cremation of Sam McGee” by Robert Service
Commonplace Book – Pages 184-185
There are strange things done in the midnight son, By the men who moil for gold;
The Artic trails have their secret tales, That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge, I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows
Why he left his home in the South to roam ’round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he’d often say in him homely way that he’d “sooner live in hell.”
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven hail.
If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;
It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and “Cap” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip I guess;
And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
“It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet t’ain’t being dead – it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”
A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: “You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows – O God! how I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake Labarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May.”
And I looked at it, and thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-ium.”
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared – such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said, “I’ll just take a peep inside.”
I guess he cooked, and it’s time I looked, “…then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.
Its fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm-
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”
There are strange things done in the midnight sun, By the men who moil for gold;
The Artic trails have their secret tales, That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Labarge, I cremated Sam McGee.
“Go Catch a Falling Star” by John Donne and Excerpt from “An Essay on Man” by Alexander Pope
Commonplace Book – Pages 181-182
Go and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil’s foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy’s stinging,
And find, What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.
If thou be’st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return’st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear, No where
Lives a woman true and fair.
If thou find’st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet,
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she, Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or thee.
Excerpt From “An Essay on Man” by Alexander Pope
…Heav’n from all creatures hides the book of fate,
All but the page prescrib’d, their present state:
From brutes what men, from men what spirits know:
Or who could suffer being here below?
The lamb they riot dooms to bleed today,
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play?
Pleas’d to the last, he crops the flow’ry food,
And licks the hand just rais’d to shed his blood.
Oh blindness to the future! Kindly giv’n,
That each may fill the circle mark’d by Heav’n:
Who sees with equal eyes, as God of all,
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall,
Atoms or systems into ruin hurl’d,
And now a bubble burst, and now a world.
Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar;
Wait the great teacher Death; and God adore.
What future bliss, he gives not thee to know,
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast:
Man never is, but always too be blest:
The soul, uneasy and confin’d from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to some.
Lo! the poor Indian, whose untutor’d mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind;
His soul, proud science never taught to stray
Far as the solar walk, or milky way;
Yet simple nature to his hope has giv’n
Behind the cloud topp’d hill, an humbler heav’n;
Some safer world in depth of woods embrac’d,
Some happier island in the wat’ry waste,
Where slaves once more their native land behold
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold.
To be, contents his natural desire,
He asks no angel’s wing, no seraph’s fire;
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky…
Ode to Mulan (Northern Wei Dynasty – 386-534)
Commonplace Book – Pages: 179-181
Ji-ji, again, ji-ji,
Mulan faces the door, weaving.
You can’t hear the sound of the loom’s shuttle,
You only hear Daughter’s sighs.
They ask Daughter who’s in her thought
They ask Daughter who’s on her memory
“No one is in Daughter’s thought
No one is in Daughter’s memory.”
Last night I saw the army notices,
The Khan is calling for a great force.
The army register is in twelve scrolls,
and every scroll has Father’s name.
Father has no adult son,
Mulan has no older brother.
“Wish to buy a saddle and horse,
and serve in Father’s place.”
In the East Market she buys a steed,
In the West Market she buys a saddle and saddle blanket,
In the South Market she buys a bridle,
In the North Market she buys a long whip.
At dawn she bids farewell to Father and Mother,
In the evening she camps on the bank of the Yellow River.
She doesn’t hear the sound of Father and Mother calling for Daughter,
She only hears the Yellow River’s flowing water cry jian-jian.
At dawn she bids farewell to the Yellow River.
In the evening she arrives at the summit of Black Mountain.
She doesn’t hear the sound of Father and Mother calling for Daughter,
She only hears Mount Yan’s nomad horses cry jiu-jiu.
She goes ten thousand miles in the war machine,
She crosses mountain passes as if flying.
Northern gusts carry sound of army rattles,
Cold light shines on iron armor.
Generals die in a hundred battles,
Strong warriors return after ten years.
On her return she sees the Son of Heaven,
The Son of Heaven sits in the ceremonial hall.
Merits are recorded in twelve ranks
And grants a hundred thousand strong
The Khan asks her what she desires.
“Mulan has no use for a high officials post.
I wish to borrow a ten-thousand mile camel
To take me back home.”
Father and Mother hear Daughter is coming
They go outside the city wall, supporting each other.
When Older Sister head Younger Sister is coming
Facing the door, she puts on rouge,
When Little Brother hears Older Sister is coming
He sharpens the knife, quick, quick, for pig and sheep.
“I’ll open the door to my east room,
I sit on my bed in the west room.”
I take off my wartime gown
And put on my old-time clothes.”
Facing the window she fixes the cloudlike hair on her temples,
Facing a mirror she dabs on yellow flower powder.
She goes out the door and sees her comrades.
Her comrades are all shocked.
Traveling together for twelve years
They did not know Mulan was a girl.
“The male rabbit’s feet kick up and down,
The female rabbit’s eyes are bewildered.
Two rabbits running close to the ground,
How can they tell if I am male or female?”
Poetry (Cont.)
List of Poems (Cont.) – Click Titles to View
“Annabel Lee” by Edgar Allan Poe and “221B” by Vincent Starett
“English Monarchs” by Anonymous
and “How Doth the Little Crocodile” by Lewis Carroll
“Jabberwocky” by Lewis Carroll
and Excerpt From “What Pleases the Ladies” by Voltaire
“My Library” by Lucy Maud Montgomery
and “The Grave” (13th Century)
“At the Theatre to the Lady Behind Me” by A.P. Herbert
and “Remember” by Christina Rossetti
“When I was Fair and Young…” by Elizabeth I
and “Ode to My Wife” by Anonymous
“Joan of Arc” by Leonard Cohen
“The Destruction of Sennacerib” by Lord Byron
“You are Old, Father William” by Lewis Carroll
“To the Queen of Hungary” by Voltaire
“I Am My Own Grandpa” by Dwight B. Latham and Moe Jaffe
“London Lickpenny” by Anonymous
“Ode to Mulan” (Northern Wei Dynasty – 386-534)
“Go Catch A Falling Star” by John Donne
and Excerpt From “An Essay On Man” by Alexander Pope
“The Cremation of Sam McGee” by Robert Service
The Prologue to “Sweeney Todd” by Stephen Sondheim
London Lickpenny by Unknown
Commonplace Book – Pages: 159-161
In London there I was bent,
I saw my-selfe, where trouthe should be ateynte;
Fast to Westminster-ward I went
To a man of lawe, to make my complaynt.
I sayd, for Mary’s love, that holy seynt,
Have pity on the powre, that would procede.
I would gyve sylvar, but my purs is faynt.
For lacke of money, I may not spede.*
As I thrast thrughe-out the thronge
Amonge them all, my hode was gonn;
Netheless I let not longe,
To Kyngs benche tyll I come.
Byfore a juge I kneled anon;
I prayed hym for God’s sake he would take hede.
Full rewfully to hym I gan make my mone**
For lacke of money, I may not spede.
Benethe hym sat clerks, a great rowt;
Fast they writen by one assent.
There strode up one, and cryed round about,
Richard, Robert, and one of Kent!
I wist not wele what he ment
He cried so thike *** there in dede;
There were stronge theves shamed and shent,
But they that lacked money mowght not spede.
Unto the common place* I yowde thoo
Where sat one with a sylken houde.
I dyd hym reverence as me ought to do;
I tolde hym my case, as well as I coulde,
And seyd all my goods, by nowrd and by sowde,
I am defraudyd with great falshed;
He would not geve me a mome** of his mouthe.
For lacke of money, I may not spede.
Then I went me unto the rollis***
Before the clerks of the chauncerie
There were many qui tollis
But I herd no man speke of me.
Before them I knelyd upon my kne,
Shewyd them myne evidence and they began to reade.
They seyde trewer things might there nevar be,
But for lacke of money I may not spede.
In Westminster Hall I found one
Went in a longe gowne of ray*
I crowched, I kneled before them anon;
For Mary’s love, of helpe I gan them pray
As he had to be wrothe, he voyded away
Bakward, his hand he gan me byd
I wot not what thou meanst, gan he say.
Ley downe sylvar, or here thow may not spede.
In all Westminster Hall I could nevar find a one
That for me would be, thowghe I should dye.
Without the dores** were flemings grete woon;
Upon me fast they gan to cry
And sayd, mastar, what will ye copen***or by-
Fine felt hats, spectacles for to rede?
Oh this gay gere, a great cause why
For lacke of money I might not spede.
Then to Westminster Gate I went
When the sone was at highe prime.*
Cokes to me, they toke good extent
Called me nere, for to dyne,
And proferyd me good brede, ale and wyne
A fayre clothe they began to sprede,
Rybbes of befe, both fat and fine;
But for lacke of money I might not spede.
In to London I gan me hy;
Of all the lond it bearethe the prise.
Hot pescods! One gan cry,
Strabery rype, and chery in the ryse!
One bad me come nere and by some spice;
Pepar and saffron they gan me bede,
Clove, grayns, and flowre of rise.
For lacke of money I might not spede.
Then into Chepe** I gan me drawne,
Where I sawe stond moche people
One bad me come here, and by fine cloth of lawne***
Paris thred, coton, and umple*
I seyde there-upon I could no skyle,
I am not wont there-to in dede.
One bad me by an hewre,** my hed to hele.***
For lacke of money I might not spede.
Turn went I forth by London stone
Thrughe-out all canwike* strete.
Drapers to me they called anon;
Grete chepe of clothe, they gan me hete**
Then come there one, and cried hot shepes fete!
Risshes faire and grene, an othar began to grete;
Both melwell and makarell I gan mete,
But for lacke of money I might not spede.
Then I hied me into Estchepe.***
One cried, ribes of befe, and many a pie!
Pewtar potts they clattered on a heape.
Ther was harpe, pipe and sawtry*
Ye by cokke! Nay by cokke! Some began to cry;
Some sange of jenken and julian, to get themselves mede.
Full fayne I wold hadd of that mynstralsie,
But for lacke of money I could not spede.
Into Cornhill anon I yode
Where is moche stolne gere amonge.
I saw wher henge** myne owne hode
That I had lost in Westminster amonge the throng.
Then I beheld it with lokes full longe;
I kenned*** it as well as I dyd my crede.
To be myne owne hode agayne, me thought it wrong,
But for lacke of money I might not spede.
Then came the taverner, and take my by the sleeve,
And seyd, ser, a pint of wyn would yow assay?
Syr, Quod I, it may not greve;
For a penny may do no more then it may.
I dranke a pint, and therefore gan pay;
Sore a-hungered away I yede;
For well London lykke-peny for ones and eye,*
For lacke of money I may not spede.
Then I hyed me to Byllingesgate,
And cried wagge, wagge** yow hens!
I praye a barge man, for God’s sake,
That they would spare me myn expens.
He sayde, ryse up, man, and get the hens.
What wenist thow I will do on the my almes-dede?
Here skapethe no man, by-nethe IJ. Pens!
For lacke of money I might not spede.
Then I conveyed me into Kent,
For of the law would I medle no more;
By-caus no man to me would take extent,
I dight me to the plowe, even as I ded before.
Jhesus save London, that in Bethelem was bore,
And every trew man of law, God graunt hym souls med;
And they that be othar, God theyr state restore:
For he that lackethe money, with them he shall not spede!
Glossary
*succeed — **complaint — *** quickly — *Court of Common Pleas — ** mum — *** Court of rolls –
*striped cloth — **outside — ***barter — *9:00am — **Cheapside — ***linen — *fine gauze
**cap — ***cover — *Candlewick — **offer — ***Eastcheap — *psaltry — **hung — ***recognized
*once and for all — **move
“I Am My Own Grandpa” by Dwight B. Latham and Moe Jaffe
Commonplace Book – Pages 158-159
This made my dad my son-in-law
And changed my very life.
My daughter was my mother,
For she was my father’s wife.
To complicate the matters worse,
Although it brought me joy,
I soon became the father
Of a bouncing baby boy.
My little baby then became
A brother-in-law to Dad
And so became my uncle
Though it made me very sad.
For if he was my uncle,
Then that also made him brother
To the widow’s grown up daughter
Who, of course, was my step-mother
Father’s wife then had a son,
Who kept them on the run.
And he became my grandson
For he was my daughter’s son.
My wife is now my mother’s mother
And it makes me blue.
Because although she is my wife
She’s my grandmother too.
If my wife is my grandmother
Then I am her grandchild
And every time I think of it,
It simply drives me wild.
For now I have become
The strangest case you ever saw.
As the husband of my grandmother,
I am my own grandpa!
“To the Queen of Hungary” by Voltaire
Commonplace Book – Pages: 138-139
Princess, descended from that noble race
Which still in danger held the imperial throne,
Who human nature and thy sex dost grace,
Whose virtues even thy foes are forced to own.
The generous French, as fierce as they’re polite,
Who to true glory constantly aspire;
Whilst obstinately they against thee fight,
Thy virtue and great qualities admire.
The French and Germans leagues by wondrous ties,
Make Christendom one dismal scene of woe;
And from their friendship greater ills
Than e’er did from their longest quarrels flow.
Thus from the equator and the frozen pole,
The impetuous winds drive on with headlong force
Two clouds, which as they on each other roll,
Forth from their sable skirts the thunder force.
Do virtuous Kings such ruin then ordain?
A calm they promise, but excite a storm:
Felicity we hope for from their reign,
Whilst they with slaughter dire the earth deform.
Oh! Fleury, wise and venerable sage,
Whom good ne’er dazzles, danger ne’er alarms;
Who dost exceed the ancient Nestor’s age:
Must Europe never cease to be in arms?
Would thou couldst hold with prudent, steady hand,
Europa’s balance, shut up Janus’ shrine;
Make feuds and discords cease at thy command,
And bring from heaven Astrea, maid divine.
Would France’s treasure were dispersed no more,
But prudently within the realm applied;
Opulence to our cities to restore,
And make them flourishing on every side.
Your arts from heaven, and from the muses sprung,
When Louis brought triumphant into France;
Too long your hands are idle, lyrics unstrung,
‘Tis time to start from so profound a trance.
Your labors are of lasting glory sure,
Whilst warlike pomps, the triumph of a day,
Blaze for a moment, never long endure,
But soon like fleeting shadows pass away.
“Greensleeves” by Anonymous
Commonplace Book – Pages 134-136
Alas, my love, you do me wrong, To cast me off discourteously
2: I have been ready at your hand, To grant whatever you would crave,
3: I bought thee kerchers to thy head, That were wrought fine and gallantly
4: I bought thee petticoats of the best, The cloth so fine as might be;
5: Thy smock of silk, both fair and white, With gold embroidered gorgeously;
And I have lov-ed you so long, Delighting in your companie. – (chorus)
2: I have both waged life and land, Your love and good-will for to have. – (chorus)
3: I kept thee both boored and bed, Which cost my purse well favoredly – (chorus)
4: I gave thee jewels for thy chest, And all this cost I spent on thee. – (chorus)
5: Thy petticoat of sendal right, And these I bought thee gladly – (chorus)
6: Thy girdle of gold so red, With pearles bedecked sumptuously;
7: Thy crimson stockings all of silk, With golds all wrought above the knee;
8: Thy gown was of the grossie green, Thy sleeves of satten hanging by,
9: Thy garters fringed with the golde, And silver aglets hanging by,
10: My gayest gelding I thee gave, To ride where ever I liked thee,
6: The like no other lasses had, And yet thou wouldst not love me – (chorus)
7: Thy pumps as white as was the milk, And yet thou wouldst not love me – (chorus)
8: Why made thee be our harvest Queen, And yet thou wouldst not love me – (chorus)
9: Which made thee blithe for to beholde, And yet thou wouldst not love me – (chorus)
10: No Ladie ever was so brave, And yet thou wouldst not love me – (chorus)
11: My men were clothed all in green, And they did ever wait on thee;
12: They set thee up, they took thee downe, They served thee with humilitie,
13: For everie morning when thou rose, I sent thee dainties orderly;
14: Thou couldst desire no earthly thing, But still thou hadst it readily;
15: And who did pay for all this geare, That though didst spend when pleased thee,
16: When will I pray to God on high, That thou my constantly mayst see,
17: Greensleeves, now farewell! Adieu! God I pray to prosper thee,
11: All this was gallant to be seen, And yet thou wouldst not love me – (chorus)
12: Thy foote might not once touch the ground, And yet thou wouldst not love me – (chorus)
13: To cheare thy stomack from all woes, And yet thou wouldst not love me – (chorus)
14: Thy musicks still to play and sing, And yet thou wouldst not love me – (chorus)
15: Even I that am rejected here, And though disdainst to love me. – (chorus)
16: And that yet once before I die, Thou wilt vouchsafe to love me? – (chorus)
17: For I am still thy lover true, Come once again and love me. – (chorus)
CHORUS
Greensleeves was all my joy, Greensleeves was my delight
Greensleeves was my heart of gold, And who but my Ladie Greensleeves
“You are Old, Father William” by Lewis Carroll
Commonplace Book – Pages 133-134
“You are old, father William,” the young man said,
“And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head-
Do you think, at your age, it is right?
“In my youth,” father William replied to his son,
“I feared it might injure the brain;
But now that I’m perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again.”
“You are old,” said the youth, “as I mentioned before,
And you have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door-
Pray what is the reason for that?”
“In my youth,” said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
“I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment – one shilling a box-
Allow me to sell you a couple?”
“You are old,” said the youth, “and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the break-
Pray, how did you manage to do it?”
“In my youth,” said the father, “I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life.”
“You are old,” said the youth, “one would hardly suppose
That your eye was as steady as ever;
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose-
What made you so awfully clever?”
“I have answered three questions, and that is enough,”
Said the father. “Don’t give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I’ll kick you down stairs.”
“The Destruction of Sennacerib” by Lord Byron
Commonplace Book – Pages 132-133
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With dew on his brow, and rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
Joan of Arc by Leonard Cohen
Commonplace Book – Pages 131-132
Now the flames they followed Joan of Arc
as she came riding through the dark;
no moon to keep her armor bright,
no man to get her through this smoky night.
She said, “I’m tired of the war,
I want the kind of work I had before,
a wedding dress or something white,
to wear upon my swollen appetite.”
“Well I’m glad to hear you talk this way,
you know I’ve watched you riding every day
and something in me yearns to win
such a cold and lonesome heroine.”
“And who are you?” she sternly spoke
to the one beneath the smoke.
“Why, I’m fire,” he replied.
“And I love your solitude, I love your pride.”
“Then fire, make your body cold,
I’m going to give you mine to hold,”
Saying this she climbed inside
to be his one, to be his only bride.
And deep into his fiery heart
he took the dust of Joan of Arc,
and high above the wedding guests
he hung the ashes of her wedding dress.
It was deep into his fiery heart
he took the dust of Joan of Arc,
and then she clearly understood
if he was fire, oh then she must be wood.
I saw her wince, I saw her cry,
I saw the glory in her eye.
Myself I long for love and light,
but must it come so cruel, and oh so bright?
“When I was Fair and Young, and Favor Graced Me” by Queen Elizabeth I and “An Ode to My Wife” by Anonymous
Commonplace Book – Pages 110-111
When I was Fair and Young, and Favor Graced Me… by Queen Elizabeth I
When I was fair and young, and favor graced me,
Of many I was sought their mistress for to be.
But I did scorn them all, and answered them therefore,
‘Go, go, seek some otherwhere
Importune me no more!’
How many weeping eyes I made to pine with woe; How many sighing hearts I have no skill to show.
Yet I the prouder grew, and answered them therefore,
‘Go, go, seek some otherwhere
Importune me no more.’
Then spake fair Venus’ son, that proud victorious boy,
And said, ‘Fine dame, since that you be so coy
I will so pluck your plumes that you shall say no more
‘Go, go, seek some otherwhere
Importune me no more.’
When he had spake these words, such charge grew in my breast
That neither night nor day since that, I could take any rest.
Then lo’ I did repent that I had said before,
‘Go, go, seek some otherwhere
Importune me no more.’
An Ode to My Wife by Anonymous
If I could just turn back the time
To when I heard you say,
That I could be your shining prince
And all the dragons slay.
I’d build a castle on the hill
So all the world could see,
The lovely princess that I chose,
To live and die with me.
If I could just turn back the time
And start my life anew,
I’d plant some roses near the paths
That I have led you through:
There’d be no thorns to pierce your heart
No tears to dim your eyes
I’d leave no stones to bruise your feet,
There’d be so sad goodbyes.
But Father Time will not turn back
The hours that passed away.
I can’t remove the thorns and rocks
From all those past gone days,
I cannot live my life again
But dragons I would slay,
If I could be your shining prince
For only one more day.
“At the Theatre: To the Lady Behind Me” by A.P. Herbert and “Remember” by Christina Rossetti
Commonplace Book – Pages 109-110
At the Theatre: To the Lady Behind Me by A.P. Herbert
Dear Madam, you have seen this play;
I never saw it till today.
You know the details of the plot,
But, let me tell you, I do not.
The author seeks to keep from me
The murderer’s identity,
And you are not a friend of his
If you keep shouting who it is.
The actors in their funny way
Have several funny things to say,
But they do not amuse me more
If you have said them just before;
The merit of the drama lies,
I understand, in some surprise;
But the surprise must now be small
Since you have just foretold it all.
The lady you have brought with you
Is, I infer, a half-wit too,
But I can understand the piece
Without assistance from your niece.
In short, foul woman, it would suit
Me just as well if you were mute;
In fact, to make my meaning plain,
I trust you will not speak again.
And may I add one human touch?-
Don’t breath upon my neck so much.
Remember by Christina Rossetti
Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann’d:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
“English Monarchs” by Anonymous and “How Doth the Little Crocodile” by Lewis Carroll
Commonplace Book – Page 105
English Monarchs by Anonymous
Willie Willie Henry Stee
Harry Dick John Harry three;
One two three Neds, Richard two
Harrys four five six…then who?
Edwards four five, Dick the bad,
Harrys (twain), Ned six (the lad);
Mary, Bessie, James you Ken,
Then Charlie, Charlie, James again…
Will and Mary, Anna Gloria,
Georges four, Will four Victoria;
Edward seven next, and then
Came George the fifth in nineteen ten;
Ned the eighth soon abdicated
Then George six was coronated;
After which was Elizabeth
And that’s all folks until her death.
How Doth the Little Crocodile by Lewis Carroll
How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!
How cheerfully he seems to grin,
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcome little fishes in,
With gently smiling jaws!
“Annabel Lee” by Edgar Allan Poe and “221B” by Vincent Starrett
Commonplace Book – Pages 101-102
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulcher
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me
Yes! that was the reason
(as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we
Of many far wiser than we
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever disever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In the sepulcher there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
“221B” by Vincent Starrett
Here dwell together still two men of note
Who never lived and so can never die:
How very near they seem, yet how remote
That age before the world went all awry.
But still the game’s afoot for those with ears
Attuned to catch the distant view-halloo:
England is England yet, for all our fears-
Only those things the heart believes are true.
A yellow fog swirls past the window-pane
As night descends upon this fabled street:
A lonely hansom splashes through the rain,
The ghostly gas lamps fail at twenty feet.
Here, though the world explode, these two survive,
And it is always eighteen ninety-five.
“Apples Trees” by Myrrdin Wyllt and “The Sick Bed of Cuchulainn” by Anonymous
Commonplace Book – Pages 91-92
‘Apple Trees’ by Myrrdin Wyllt
Sweet appletree that luxuriantly grows!
Food I used to take at is base to please a fair maid,
When, with my shield on my shoulder, and my sword on my thigh,
I slept all alone in the woods of Celyddon.
Hear, O Little pig! Now apply thyself to reason,
And listen to birds whose notes are pleasant,
Sovereigns across the sea will come on Monday;
Blessed will the Cymry be from that design.
Sweet appletree, which grows by the riverside!
With respect to it, the Keeper will not thrive on its splendid fruit,
While my reason was not aberrant, I used to be around its stem,
With a fair sportive maid, a paragon of splendid form.
With a fair sportive maid, a paragon, of splendid form.
Ten years and forty, as the toy of lawless ones,
Have I been wandering in gloom and among sprites…
Sweet appletree , and a tree of crimson hue,
which grew in concealment in the wood of Celyddon;
They sought for their fruit, it will be in vain,
Until Cadwaldyr comes form the conference of Rhyd Rheon,
And Cynon to meet him advances upon the Saxons;
The Cymry will be victorious, glorious will be their leader.
All shall have their rights, and the Brython will rejoice,
Sounding the horns of gladness, and chanting the song of peace and happiness!
The Sick-bed of Cuchulainn
I went in the twinkling of an eye
Into a marvellous country where I had been before.
I reached a cairn of twenty armies,
And there I found Labraid of the long hair.
I found him sitting on the cairn,
A great multitude of arms about him.
On his head his beautiful hair
Was decked with an apple of gold.
Although the time was long since my last visit
He recognized me by my five-fold purple mantle.
Said he, ‘Wilt thou come with me
Into the house where dwells Failbe the Fair?’
At the door toward the West,
On the side toward the setting sun,
There is a troop of grey horses with dappled manes,
And another troop of horses, purple-brown,
At the door toward the East
Are three trees of purple glass.
From their tops a flock of birds sing a sweet drawn-out song
For the children who live in the royal stronghold.
At the entrance to the enclosure is a tree
From whose branches comes beautiful and harmonious music.
It is a tree of silver, which the sun illuminates;
it glistens like gold.
There is a cauldron of invigorating mead,
For the use of the inmates of the house.
It never grows less; it is a custom
That it should be full forever.
There is a woman in the noble palace.
There is no woman like her in Erin.
When she goes forth you see her fair hair.
She is beautiful and endowed with many gifts.
“Over the Hills and Far Away” by Unknown and “Louis Napoleon” by Oscar Wilde
Commonplace Book – Pages 99-101
O’er the Hills and Far Away by Unknown
O’er the hills and o’er the main
Through Flanders, Portugal and Spain.
King George commands and we obey
Over the hills and far away.
It’s forty shillings on the drum
To those who volunteer to come,
To ‘list and fight the foe today
Over the hills and far away.
Through smoke and fire and shot and shell
And to the very walls of hell,
But we shall stand and we shall stay
Over the hills and far away.
If I should fall to rise no more,
As many comrades did before,
Ask the pipes and drums to play
Over the hills and far away.
Louis Napoleon by Oscar Wilde
Eagle of Austerlitz! where were thy wings
When far away upon a barbarous strand,
In fight unequal, by an obscure hand,
Fell the last scion of thy brood of Kings!
Poor boy! thou shalt not flaunt thy cloak of red,
Or ride in state through Paris in the van
Of thy returning legions, but instead
Thy mother France, free and republican
Shall on thy dead and crownless forehead place
The better laurels of a soldier’s crown,
That not dishonoured should thy soul go down
To tell the mighty Sire of thy race
That France hath kissed the mouth of liberty,
And found it sweeter than his honied bees,
And that the giant wave Democracy
Breaks on the shores where Kings lay couched at ease.
‘Der Vampir’ by Heinrich August Ossenfelder and Facts on Death
Commonplace Book – Pages 63-64
Der vampir
My dear young maiden clingeth
Unbending, fast and firm
To all the long-held teaching
Of a mother ever true;
As in vampire unmortal
Folk on the Theyse’s portal
Heyduck-like do believe
But my Christian thou dost dally,
And wilt my loving parry
Till I myself avenging
To a vampire’s health a-drinking
Him toast in pale tockay
And as softly thou art sleeping.
To thee shall I come creeping
And thy life’s blood drain away.
And so shalt thou be trembling
For thus I shall be kissing
And death’s threshold thou’lt be crossing
With fear, in my cold arms.
And last shall I thee question
Compared to such instruction
What are a mother’s charms?
Facts on Death
- In as little as 10 years, the skin of a corpse begins to sag and turn to liquid, the bones only remain whole for a few 100 years.
- By 800 B.C., cremation became common.
Sarcophagus: A stone coffin, often inscribed or decorated with sculpture. From the Greek “sarx” meaning “flesh”, and phagein meaning “to eat”, which refers to the limestone that was thought to decompose the flesh of corpses interred within it.
Catacombs: An underground, often labyrinthine, cemetery consisting of chambers or tunnels with recesses for graves.
- ‘Cemetery’ is derived from the Greek ‘κοιμητήριον’ for ‘dormitory’, a place where one sleeps.
- By 600 B.C., cremation spread to the Roman Empire, and it became popular for hygenic concerns.
Crypt: An underground vault or chamber, especially one beneath a church that is used as a burial place.
- By 400 A.D. a cremation’s remains were damned and Constantine declared burning the dead to be pagan.- Those who couldn’t be buried in the church, were buried in mass graves or ‘potter’s fields’
- It was during the plagues of early Europe that churches began to move cemeteries out of the church and into the church yard to bury all the dead
Necropolis: A cemetery, especially a large and elaborate one belonging to an ancient city. From the Greek “νεκρόπολις” – nekropolis, meaning “city of the dead”
- In some European cemeteries, you had to pay a fee for a specific time after your death and when your time was up, your bones were grind to dust and were replaced with another’s bones.
- In the 1830s, the United States became to make cemeteries more appealing for visitors
- The Riverside Cemetery in California can provide space for 1,400,000 bodies
- 1848: The Fist Company came up with a steel, air-tight model for a coffin
Ossuary: A chest, building, well, or site made to serve as a resting place for human remains. The greatly reduced space taken up by an ossuary means that it is possible to store the remains of many more people in a single tomb than if the original coffins were left as is.
- Early markers were simple wooden crosses, as crosses were a sign of death even before Christianity.
- The graveyard in Okinawa, Japan is the most densely populated in the world, containing 189,000 bodies, honoring WWII dead.
- New Orleans’ graveyards are the most with above ground tombs, due to the city being below sea-level
Burial vault: A usually private, structural underground tomb. A crypt may be used as a burial vault.
- 1838: The American Civil War caused New Orleans’ graveyards to overflow, so an unused racetrack was turned into the Metairie Cemetery, with street signs.
- The Greeks were fond of sleeping in tombs, to better hear the advice of the dead.
- 1920s: The automobile was finally considered dignified enough for a funeral procession
Grave field: A cemetery with a notable lack of above-ground structures, buildings, or grave markers.
- 1938: The Victoria-style hearse was introduced
- Crystal Car Company: each day, only five hearses are made
Tumulus: Ancient burial place where bodies were placed in stone or wooden vaults, over which large mounds of soil were heaped.
- Dating to 1876 and built on Gallows Hill in Washington, Pa., the LeMoyne Crematory was the first such facility to be built in the United States. (Been there! Very cool place ^^)
- Cremation are performed in computer-controlled chambers, after the container is loaded in, burners are activated and the heat reaches 1800 degrees for over 1.5 hours
Cairn: Ancient burial place where bodies were placed in stone or wooden vaults, over which a pile of stones was placed.
