The Lockerbie Book: Containing Poems Not in Dialect

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Bobbs-Merrill Company, 1911 - Indiana - 646 pages

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Page 3 - I cannot say, and I will not say That he is dead. He is just away! With a cheery smile and a wave of the hand He has wandered into an unknown land And left us dreaming how very fair It needs must be, since he lingers there...
Page 132 - Curly Locks! Curly Locks! wilt thou be mine? Thou shalt not wash the dishes, nor yet feed the swine,— But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam, And feast upon strawberries, sugar and cream.
Page 284 - By the driven snow-white and the living blood-red Of my bars, and their heaven of stars overhead — By the symbol conjoined of them all, skyward cast, As I float from the steeple, or flap at the mast, Or droop o'er the sod where the long grasses nod, My name is as old as the glory of God. . . . So I came by the name of Old Glory.
Page 4 - THERE! little girl; don't cry! They have broken your doll, I know ; And your tea-set blue, And your play-house, too, Are things of the long ago ; But childish troubles will soon pass by. There ! little girl ; don't cry ! There! little girl; don't cry! They have broken your slate, I know ; And the glad, wild ways Of your school-girl days Are things of the long ago; But life and love will soon come by. — There ! little girl ; don't cry ! There!
Page 283 - Old Glory : the story we're wanting to hear Is what the plain facts of your Christening were, — For your name — just to hear it, Repeat it, and cheer it, 'sa tang to the spirit As salt as a tear ; — And seeing you fly, and the boys marching by. There's a shout in the throat and a blur in the eye And an aching to live for you always — or die, If, dying, we still keep you waving on high. And so, by our love For you, floating above, And the scars of all wars and the sorrows thereof, Who gave...
Page 404 - He took the suffering human race, He read each wound, each weakness clear; And struck his finger on the place, And said : Thou ailest here, and here...
Page 140 - And, last of all, The Clown, making mirth for all the town, With his lips curved ever upward and his eyebrows ever down, And his chief attention paid to the little mule that played A tattoo on the dashboard with his heels, in the Parade. Oh! the Circus-Day Parade! How the bugles played and played! And how the glossy horses tossed their flossy manes and neighed, As the rattle and the rhyme of the tenor-drummer's time Filled all the hungry hearts of us with melody sublime!
Page 47 - This restless, curling head from off your breast, This lisping tongue that chatters constantly ; If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped, And ne'er would nestle in your palm again ; If the white feet into the grave had tripped, I could not blame you for your heartache then.
Page 55 - There's the song of the lark when the skies are clear, And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray.
Page 282 - Old Glory! say, who. By the ships and the crew. And the long, blended ranks of the Gray and the Blue, Who gave you. Old Glory, the name that you bear With such pride everywhere, As you cast yourself free to the rapturous air, And leap out full length, as we're wanting you to?

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