(Health warning: all these authors are dead! If you want to read something written by a living poet, check out http://www.geocities.com/Paris/LeftBank/1418/, Paul St-John Mackintosh's home page.)
Who liveth so merry in all of this land As doth the poore widdow that selleth the sand, And ever she singeth as I can guesse "Will you buy any sand, any sand, Mistris?" The Broom man maketh his living most sweet With carrying of brooms from street to street Who would desire a pleasanter thing Than all the day long do nothing but sing? The chimney-sweeper all the long day He singeth and sweepeth the soote away. Yet when he comes home, although he be weary, With his sweet wife he maketh full merry. The cobbler he sits cobbling till noone And cobbleth his shoes till they be done. Yet doth he not feare, and so doth say For he knows his work will soone decay. The merchant man doth saile on the seas And lie on the ship-board with little ease: Alwayes in doubte the rockes be neare, How can he be merry and make good cheere? The husbandman all day goeth to plow And when he comes home he serveth his sow. He moyleth and toyleth all the long yeare, How can he be merry and make good cheere? The serving man waiteth from street to street With blowing of nailes and beating his feet, And serves for forty shillings a year That 'tis impossible to make good cheere. Who liveth so merry and maketh such sport, As those that be of the poorest sort? The poorest sort wheresoever they be, They gather together by one, two or three.
What noise of viols is so sweet, As when our merry clappers ring? What mirth doth want when beggars meet? A beggar's life is for a King: Eat, drink and play, sleep when we list, Go where we will, so stocks be mist. Bright shines the Sun, play beggars play, Here's scraps enough to serve to day. The world is ours, and ours alone, For we alone have world at will; We purchase not, all is our own, Both fields and streets we beggars fill: Play beggars play, play beggars play; Here's scraps enough to serve to day. A hundred herds of black and white Upon our Gowns securely feed And yet if any dares us bite, He dies therefore as sure as Creed. Thus beggars Lord it as they please, And only beggars live at ease: Bright shines the sun, play beggars play, Here's scraps enough to serve to day.And from the same chapter, a short pious thought:
And I now remember and find that true which devout Lessius says, That poor men, and those that fast often, have much more pleasure in eating than rich men or gluttons, that always feed before their stomachs are empty of their last meat, and call for more: for by that means they rob themselves of that pleasure that hunger brings to poor men.
[To the tune of "A soldier and a Sailor".] 1. 2. You friends to reformation, And for to tell you truly, Give ear to my relation, His flesh was so unruly, For I shall now declare, Sir, He could not for his life, Sir, Before you are aware, Sir, Pass by the Draper's Wife, Sir, The matter very plain. [bis] The spirit was so faint. [bis] A Gospel Cushion thumper, This jolly handsome Quaker, Who dearly loved a bumper, As he did overtake her, And something else beside, Sir, She made his mouth to water, If he is not bely'd, Sir, And thought long to be at her, This was a holy Guide, Sir, Such, Sir, is no great matter, For the dissenting trail. Accounted by a Saint. 3. 4. Says he "My pretty Creature, The parson still more eager, Your charming handsome feature Than lustful Turk or Neger, Has set me all on fire, Took up her lower Garment, You know what I desire, And saw there was no harm in't, There is no harm in love." [bis] According to the Text. [bis] Quoth she, "If that's your Notion, For Solomon more Wiser, To preach up such Devotion, Than any dull Adviser, Such hopeful Guides as you, Sir, Had many hundred Misses Will half the world undo, Sir, And why should such as this is If you such tricks approve." [bis] Make you so sadly vext? [bis] 5. 6. The frightened female Quaker The Parson then confounded, Perceived what he would make her, To see himself surrounded, Was forced to call the Watch in, With mob and sturdy Watch-men, And stop what he was hatching, Whose duty 'tis to catch men, To spoil the light within. [bis] In Lewdness with a Punk. [bis] They came to her Assistance, He made some faint Excuses, As she did make Resistance, And all to hide Abuses, Against the Priest and Devil, In taking up the Linen, The Actors of all Evil, Against the Saint's opinion, Who were so grand Uncivil, Within her soft dominion, To tempt a Saint to Sin. Alledging he was drunk. 7. But tho' he feigned reeling, They made him pay for feeling, And Lugg'd him to a Prison, To bring him to his Reason, Which he had lost before. [bis] And thus we see how Preachers That should be Gospel Teachers How they are strangely blinded And are so fleshly minded Like Carnal men inclined To lie with any Whore.
What is our life? A play of passion, Our mirth the music of division, Our mother's wombs the tiring houses be Where we are dressed for this short Comedy; Heaven the judicious sharp Spectator is, That sits and marks still who doth act amiss; Our graves that hide us from the searching Sun Are like drawn curtains when the play is done; Thus march we playing to our latest rest, Only we die in earnest, that's no jest.
If you were Life, my darling, And I your love were Death, We'd shine and snow together Ere March made sweet the weather With daffodil and starling And hours of fruitful breath; If you were Life, my darling, And I your love were Death. If you were Queen of pleasure And I were King of pain We'd hunt down Love together, Pluck out his flying-feather, And teach his feet a measure, And find his mouth a rein; If you were Queen of pleasure And I were King of pain.
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 kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
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 clouds by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it 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 dissever 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 sepulchre there by the sea -
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sere -
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir -
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
Here once, through an alley Titanic,
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul -
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll -
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole -
They groan as they roll down mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.
Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere -
Our memories were treacherous and sere -
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year -
(Ah night of all nights of the year!)
We noted not the dim lake of Auber -
(Though once we had journeyed down here) -
Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
And now as the night was senescent
And star-dials pointed to morn -
As the star-dials hinted of morn -
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn -
Astarte's bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.
And I said - "She is warmer than Dian:
She rolls through an ether of sighs -
She revels in an ether of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies
And has come past the stars of the Lion
To point us the path to the skies -
To the Lethean peace of the skies -
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes -
Come up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes."
But Psyche, uplifting her finger
Said - "Sadly this star I mistrust -
Her pallor I strangely mistrust: -
Oh hasten! - oh, let us not linger!
Oh, fly! - let us fly! - for we must."
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings until they trailed in the dust -
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust -
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.
I replied - "This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its Sibyllic splendor is beaming
With Hope and in Beauty tonight: -
See! - it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright -
We safely may trust to a gleaming
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."
Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom -
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tomb -
By the door of a legended tomb;
And I said - "What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?"
She replied - "Ulalume - Ulalume -
'T is the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"
Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crisped and sere -
As the leaves that were withering and sere.
And I cried - "It was surely October
On this very night of last year
That I journeyed - I journeyed down here -
That I brought a dread burden down here -
On this night of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon has tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber -
This misty mid region of Weir -
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."
Aber Freund! wir kommen zu spät. Zwar leben die Götter, Aber über dem Haupt droben in anderer Welt. Endlos wirken sie da und scheinens wenig zu achten, Ob wir leben, so sehr schonen die Himmlischen uns. Denn nicht immer vermag es ein schwaches Gefäss sie zu fassen, Nur zu Zeiten erträgt göttlicher Fülle der Mensch. Traum von ihnen ist drauf das Leben. Aber das Irrsal Hilft, wie Schlummer, und stark machet die Not und die Nacht, Bis dass Helden genug in der ehernen Wiege gewachsen, Herzen an Kraft, wie sonst, ähnlich den Himmlischen sind. Donnernd kommen sie drauf. Indessen dünket mir öfters, Besser zu schlafen, wie so ohne Genossen zu sein. So zu harren, und was zu tun indes und zu sagen, Weiss ich nicht, und wozu Dichter in dürftiger Zeit. Aber sie sind, sagst du, wie des Weingotts heilige Priester, Welche von Lande zu Land zogen in heiliger Nacht.
Schon winkt der Wein im goldnen Pokale Doch trinkt noch nicht, erst sing ich euch ein Lied! Das Lied vom Kummer soll auflachend in die Seele euch klingen. Wenn der Kummer naht, liegen wüst die Gärten der Seele, Welkt hin und stirbt die Freude, der Gesang. Dunkel ist das Leben, ist der Tod. Herr dieses Hauses! Dein Keller birgt die Fülle des goldenen Weins! Hier, diese Laute nenn ich mein! Die Laute schlagen und die Gläser leeren, Das sind die Dinge, die zusammenpassen. Ein voller Becher Weins zur rechten Zeit Ist mehr wert als alle Reiche dieser Erde! Dunkel ist das Leben, ist der Tod. Das Firmament blaut ewig, und die Erde Wird lange fest stehen und aufblühn im Lenz. Du aber, Mensch, wie lang lebst denn du? Nicht hundert Jahre darfst du dich ergötzen An all dem morschen Tande dieser Erde! Seht dort hinab! Im Mondschein auf dem Gräbern Hockt eine wild-gespenstische Gestalt - Ein Aff' ist's! Hört ihr, wie sein Heulen Hinausgellt in den süßen Duft des Lebens! Jetzt nehmt den Wein! Jetzt ist es Zeit, Genossen! Leert eure goldnen Becher zu Grund! Dunkel ist das Leben, ist der Tod.