A Poem by Anonymous

    Hub a dub dub,
    Three men in a tub;
And who do you think they be?
    The butcher, the baker,
    The candlestick-maker;
Turn ’em out, knaves all three!

A Poem by Anonymous

Sylvia, sweet as morning air,
Do not drive me to despair:
Long have I sighed in vain,
Now I am come again,
    Will you be mine or no, no-a-no, –
    Will you be mine or no?

Simon pray leave off your suit,
For of your courting you’ll reap no fruit,
I would rather give a crown
Than be married to a clown;
    Go for a booby, go, no-a-no, –
    Go, for a booby, go.

Curly locks! curly locks! wilt thou be mine?
Thou shalt not wash dishes, nor yet feed the swine;
But sit on a cushion and sow a fine seam,
And feed upon strawberries, sugar, and cream!

A Poem by Anonymous

Can you make me a cambric shirt,
    Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
Without any seam or needlework?
    And you shall be a true lover of mine.

Can you wash it in yonder well,
    Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
Where never sprung water, nor rain ever fell?
    And you shall be a true lover of mine.

Can you dry it on yonder thorn,
    Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
Which never bore blossom since Adam was born?
    And you shall be a true lover of mine.

Now you have ask’d me questions three,
    Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
I hope you’ll answer as many for me,
    And you shall be a true lover of mine.

Can you find me an acre of land,
    Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
Between the salt water and the sea sand?
    And you shall be a true lover of mine.

Can you plough it with a ram’s horn,
    Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
And sow it all over with one pepper-corn?
    And you shall be a true lover of mine.

Can you reap it with a sickle of leather,
    Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
And bind it up with a peacock’s feather?
    And you shall be a true lover of mine.

When you have done and finish’d your work,
    Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;
Then come to me for your cambric shirt,
    And you shall be a true lover of mine.

A Poem by Anonymous

“Madam, I am come to court you,
If your favour I can gain.”
“Ah, Ah!” said she, “you are a bold fellow,
If I e’er see your face again!”

“Madam, I have rings and diamonds,
Madam, I have houses and land,
Madam, I have a world of treasure,
All shall be at your command.”

“I care not for rings and diamonds,
I care not for houses and lands,
I care not for a world of treasure,
So that I have but a handsome man.”

“Madam, you think much of beauty,
Beauty hasteneth to decay,
For the fairest of flowers that grow in summer
Will decay and fade away.”

A Poem by Anonymous

Jack Sprat could eat no fat,
His wife could eat no lean;
And so, betwixt them both, you see,
They lick’d the platter clean.

A Poem by Anonymous

Here’s to the world, the merry old world,
To its days both bright and blue;
Here’s to our future, be it what it may,
And here’s to my best – that’s you!

A Poem by Anonymous

Here’s to the soldier and his arms,
    Fall in, men, fall in;
Here’s to woman and her arms,
    Fall in, men, fall in!

A Poem by Anonymous

“You have heard,” said a youth to his sweetheart, who stood
     While he sat on a corn-sheaf, at daylight’s decline,
“You have heard of the Danish boy’s whistle of wood;
     I wish that the Danish boy’s whistle were mine!”

“And what would you do with it? tell me,” she said,
     While an arch smile play’d over her beautiful face.
“I would blow it,” he answered, “and then my fair maid
     Would fly to my side, and would there take her place.”

“Is that all you wish for? Why, that may be yours
     Without any magic,” the fair maiden cried;
“A favour so slight one’s good-nature secures;”
     And she playfully seated herself by his side.

“I would blow it again,” said the youth; “and the charm
     Would work so, that not even modesty’s check
Would be able to keep from my neck your white arm.”
     She smiled, and she laid her white arm round his neck.

“Yet once more I would blow, and the music divine
     Would bring me a third time an exquisite bliss
You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine
     And your lips, stealing past it, would give me a kiss.”

The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee,
    “What a fool of yourself with the whistle you’d make!
For only consider how silly ‘twould be
    To sit there and whistle for what you might take.”

A Poem by Anonymous

One morning when Spring was in her teens,
    A morn to a poet’s wishing,
All tinted in delicate pinks and greens,
    Miss Bessie and I went fishing.

I in my rough and easy clothes,
    With my face at the sun-tan’s mercy;
She with her hat tipped down to her nose,
    And her nose tipped, vice versa.

I with my rod, my reel, and my hooks,
    And a hamper for lunching recesses;
She with the bait of her comely looks,
    And the seine of her golden tresses.

So we sat us down on the sunny dike,
    Where the white pond-lilies teeter,
And I went to fishing like quaint old Ike,
    And she like Simon Peter.

All the noon I lay in the light of her eyes,
    And dreamily watched and waited,
But the fish were cunning and would not rise,
    And the baiter alone was baited.

And when the time of departure came,
    My bag hung flat as a flounder;
But Bessie had neatly hooked her game,
    A hundred-and-fifty-pounder.