The Collected Poems of T.E. Brown

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Macmillan and Company, Limited, 1900 - 736 pages
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Page 138 - GENTLE Jesus, meek and mild, Look upon a little child, Pity my simplicity, Suffer me to come to thee.
Page 699 - A GARDEN is a lovesome thing, God wot! Rose plot, Fringed pool, Ferned grot — The veriest school Of peace; and yet the fool Contends that God is not — Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool? Nay, but I have a sign: Tis very sure God walks in mine.
Page 738 - POETICAL WORKS. Edited, with a Revised Text and Notes, by WD CHRISTIE, MA, Trinity College, Cambridge.
Page 142 - And lodgins of coorse, for I never could stand Them Sailors' Homes, for a man is a man, And a bell for dinner and a bell for tay, . .-> And a bell to sing and a bell to pray, And a bell for this and a bell for that, And "Wipe your feet upon the mat!
Page 739 - Mr. Kipling's powers as a story-teller are evidently not diminishing. We advise everybody to buy * Many Inventions,' and to profit by some of the best entertainment that modern fiction has to offer.
Page 700 - twas close at hand — But — land, ho ! land. Dost hear the bells of my sweet land, Dost hear the kine, dost hear the merry birds ? No voice, 'tis true, no spoken words, No tongue that thou may'st understand — Yet is it land, ho ! land. It's clad in purple mist, my land, In regal robe it is apparelled, A crown is set upon its head, And on its breast a golden band — Land, ho ! land. Dost...
Page 738 - Morte d'Arthur. — SIR THOMAS MALORY'S BOOK OF KING ARTHUR AND OF HIS NOBLE KNIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE. The original Edition of CAXTON, revised for Modern Use. With an Introduction by Sir EDWARD STRACHEY, Bart. pp. xxxvii., 509. ' 'It is with perfect confidence that we recommend this edition of the old romance to every class of readers.
Page 83 - And fill thee with Himself instead. But thou art all replete with very thou, And hast such shrewd activity, That, when He comes, He says — " This is enow Unto itself— 'Twere better let it be : It is so small and full, there is no room for Me.
Page 111 - Began a pullin of Betsy about ; And he worried the wench till her shoulders were bare, And he slipped the knot of her beautiful hair, And down it come, as you may say, Just like a shower of golden spray, Blown this way and that by a gamesome breeze, And a rip-rip-ripplin down to her knees.
Page 63 - Ripe orange, brushed From an o'erladen tree, chance-crushed And bruised and battered on the street, And yet so merry and so sweet! Ah, child, don't scoff — Yes, yes, I see — you lovely wretch, be off! It must have been of such women, too, that he wrote So...

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