Category Archives: Lyric

BOOKS: “A Child’s Garden of Verses” by Robert Louis Stevenson

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A Child's Garden Of VersesA Child’s Garden Of Verses by Robert Louis Stevenson
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Amazon.in Page

Until recently, I was only acquainted with Stevenson as a novelist, but I had a powerful experience with his poem “The Hayloft” (included in this collection.) I was intrigued by how a poem written by a nineteenth century Scot could prove so nostalgia-inducing for me, having been a 20th century American farm-boy. So, I read the collection, and found that “The Hayloft” was only one of many examples that had such an effect. Others include: “Land of Counterpane,” “Block City,” and “Land of Nod.” The nostalgic power of the poems derives from the fact that Stevenson does a phenomenal job of capturing a child’s enthusiasm for play, and in that regard I’m sure the collection will resonate more broadly than just I, or even than just farm kids.

Afterall, there’s a lot of Stevenson’s experience that is dissimilar to mine. Besides his era and his nationality, his mentions of nurses, gardeners, and cooks is surely much different from my own upbringing, being devoid of household staff. But the book only needs to draw upon that love of play and imagination to take one back.

For a work from the nineteenth century, this collection of 50+ lyric poems has aged well. There is the occasional word like “gabies” or “whin” to send one to a dictionary, but those archaic or obsolete terms are rarities. Furthermore, the lyricism of the poems makes them easily read or sung.

I’d highly recommend this collection for poetry readers, particularly children or those looking to reexperience childhood.

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Bohemian Limerick

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There once was an artist, Bohemian,
 Who thought himself quite the comedian.
   Peers thought he lacked heart, 
   & didn't suffer for his art,
 But they suffered the farts of that Bohemian comedian.

Brittle Metal Kettle [Lyric Poem]

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What a brittle metal
   That poor, old forge did make.
   He made a little kettle,
   But about the spout did break.
 And water spilled on fire,
   And clouds of steam did rise,
   And I felt I must inquire
   If he'd felt it was wise
 To settle for a kettle 
 Made of such brittle metal?

“The Hayloft” by Robert Louis Stevenson [w/ Audio]

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Through all the pleasant meadow-side
   The grass grew shoulder-high,
 Till the shining scythes went far and wide
   And cut it down to dry.

These green and sweetly smelling crops
   They led in wagons home;
 And they piled them here in mountain tops
   For mountaineers to roam.

Here is Mount Clear, Mount Rusty-Nail,
   Mount Eagle and Mount High --
 The mice that in these mountains dwell,
   No happier are than I!

O what a joy to clamber there,
   O what a place for play,
 With the sweet, the dim, the dusty air,
   The happy hills of hay!

Rough & Tumble [Lyric Poem]

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Oh, no, no! Don’t you get your gun.
 It’s not that kind of wicked fun.
 It’s just that rough and tumble stuff
 Where one can say, “Enough ‘s enough!”
 And go your separate ways, knowing 
 That the fight is still ongoing,
 And it’ll never really be done
 ‘Cause it’d never truly begun.

Row Me into Nowhere [Lyric Poem]

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Row me into nowhere --
   The middle of the sea --
 To drift without a care
   As waves roll under me.

Row me into nowhere,
   That vacant stretch of sea,
 To watch blue skies, so fair,
   For an eternity.

Row me into nowhere;
   I'll bob upon the waves.
 Let me make it my lair:
   Free of rascals and knaves.

Row me into nowhere
   When all the good are gone;
 I'll breathe that salty air
   Until my soul moves on.

“Sympathy” by Paul Laurence Dunbar [w/ Audio]

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I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
 When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
 When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
 And the river flows like a stream of glass;
 When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
 And the faint perfume from its chalice steals --
 I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
 Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
 For he must fly back to his perch and cling
 When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
 And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
 And they pulse again with a keener sting --
 I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
 When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore, --
 When he beats his bars and he would be free;
 It is not a carol of joy or glee,
 But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
 But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings --
 I know why the caged bird sings!

“The Charge of the Light Brigade” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson [w/ Audio]

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Half a league, half a league,
   Half a league onward,
 All in the valley of Death
   Rode the six hundred.
 "Forward the Light Brigade!
   Charge for the guns!" he said:
 Into the valley of Death
   Rode the six hundred.

"Forward the Light Brigade!"
   Was there a man dismay'd?
 Not tho' the soldier knew
   Some one had blunder'd:
 Their's not to make reply,
   Their's not to reason why,
 Their's but to do and die:
   Into the valley of Death
     Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
   Cannon to left of them,
 Cannon in front of them
   Volley'd and thunder'd;
 Storm'd at with shot and shell,
   Boldly they rode and well,
 Into the jaws of Death,
   Into the mouth of Hell,
     Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
   Flash'd as they turn'd in air
 Sabring the gunners there,
   Charging an army, while
 All the world wonder'd:
    Plunged in the battery-smoke
 Right thro' the line they broke;
   Cossack and Russian
 Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
   Shatter'd and sunder'd.
 Then they rode back, but not,
   Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
   Cannon to left of them,
 Cannon behind them
   Volley'd and thunder'd;
 Storm'd at with shot and shell,
   While horse and hero fell,
 They that had fought so well
    Came thro' the jaws of Death
 Back from the mouth of Hell,
   All that was left of them,
      Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
   O the wild charge they made!
 All the world wonder'd.
   Honour the charge they made!
 Honour the Light Brigade,
   Noble six hundred!

“Now Winter Nights Enlarge” by Thomas Campion [w/ Audio]

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Now winter nights enlarge
 The number of their hours;
 And clouds their storms discharge
 Upon the air towers.
Let now the chimneys blaze
 And cups o'erflow with wine,
 Let well-turned words amaze
 With harmony divine.
Now yellow waxen lights
 Shall wait on honey love
 While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights
 Sleep's leaden spells remove.

This time doth well dispense
 With lovers' long discourse; 
 Much speech hath some defense,
 Though beauty no remorse.
All do not all things well;
 Some measures comely tread,
 Some knotted riddles tell,
 Some poems smoothly read.
The summer hath his joys,
 And winter his delights;
 Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,
 They shorten tedious nights.

Psychoanalyst Limerick

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There once was a renowned psychoanalyst
 Who found childhood events were always the catalyst.
   A patient who lived happily
   'Til a recent tragedy,
 Learned it all stemmed from thoughts as a neonatalist.