Donnerstag, 31. Januar 2008

Famous poems for children - famous poetry for kids

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Poetry4kids -



Jabberwocky

By Lewis Carroll

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogroves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And, hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogroves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.



Jonathan Bing

By Betrice Curtis Brown

Poor old Jonathan Bing
Went out in his carriage to visit the King,
But everyone pointed and said, "Look at that!
Jonathan Bing has forgotten his hat!"
(He'd forgotten his hat!)

Poor old Jonathan Bing
Went home and put on a new hat for the King,
But by the palace the soldier said, "Hi!
You can't see the King; you've forgotten your tie!"
(He'd forgotten his tie!)

Poor old Jonathan Bing,
He put on a beautiful tie for the King,
But when he arrived, and Archbishop said, "Ho!
You can't come to court in pajamas, you know!"

Poor old Jonathan Bing
Went home and addressed a short note to the King:
"If you please will excuse me, I won't come to tea;
For home's the best place for all people like me!"



The Story of Fidgety Philip

By Heinrich Hoffman

"Let me see if Philip can
Be a little gentleman;
Let me see if he is able
To sit still for once at table":
Thus Papa bade Phil behave;
And Mama looked very grave.

But fidgety Phil,
He won't sit still;
He wriggles,
And giggles,
And then, I declare,
Swings backwards and forwards,
And tilts up his chair
Just like any rocking-horse-
"Philip! I am getting cross!"

See the naughty, restless child
Growing still more rude and wild,
Till his chair falls over quite.
Philip screams with all his might,
Catches at the cloth, but then
That makes matters worse again.
Down upon the ground they fll,
Glasses, plates, knives, forks and all.

How Mama did fret and frown,
When she saw them tumbling down!
And Papa made such a face!
Philip is in sad disgrace.

Where is Philip, where is he?
Fairly covered up you see!
Cloth and all are lying on him;
He has pulled down all upon him.
What a terrible to-do!
dishes, glasses, snapped in two!
Here a knife, and there a fork!

Philip, this is cruel work.
Table all so bare, and ah!
Poor Papa, and poor Mama
Look quite cross, and wonder how
They shall have their dinner now.


Granpa Dropped His Glasses

By Leroy F. Jackson

Granpa dropped his glasses once
In a pot of dye,
And when he put them on again
He saw a purple sky.
Purple fires were rising up
From a purple hill,
Men were grinding purple cider
at a purple mill.
Purple Adeline was playing
With a purple doll;
Little purple dragon flies
Were crawling up the wall.
And at the supper-table
He got crazy as a loon
From eating purple apple dumplings
With a purple spoon.


Pirate Don Durk of Dowdee

By Mildred Plew Meigs

Ho, for the Pirate Don Durk of Dowdee!
He was as wicked as wicked could be,
But oh, he was perfectly gorgeous to see!
The Pirate Don Durk of Dowdee.

His conscience, of course, was as black as a bat,
But he had a floppety plume on his hat
And when he went walking it jiggled - like that!
The plume of the Pirate Dowdee.

His coat it was handsome and cut with a slash,
And often as ever he twirled his mustache
Deep down in the ocean the mermaids went splash,
Because of Don Durk of Dowdee.

Moreover, Dowdee had a purple tattoo,
And struck in his belt where he buckled it through
Were a dagger, a dirk, and a squizzamaroo,
For fierce was the Pirate Dowdee.

So feaful he was he would shoot at a puff,
And always at sea when the weather grew rough
He drank from a bottle and wrote on his cuff,
Did Pirate Don Durk of Dowdee.

Oh, he had a cutlass that swung at his thigh
And he had a parrot called Pepperkin Pye,
And a zigzaggy scar at the end of his eye
Had Pirate Don Durk of Dowdee.

He kept in a cavern, this buccaneer bold,
A curious chest that was covered with mould,
And all of his pockets were jingly with gold!
Oh jing! went the gold of Dowdee.

His consience, of course it was crook'd like a squash,
But both of his boots made a slickery slosh,
And he went throught the world with a wonderful swash,
Did Pirate Don Durk of Dowdee.

It's ture he was wicked as wicked could be,
His sins they outnumbered a hundred and three,
But oh, he was perfectly gorgeous to see,
The Pirate Don Durk of Dowdee.


The Highwayman

By Alfred Noyes


The wind was a torrent of darkness
among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon
tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight
over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman came riding,
up to the old inn door.

He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead,
a bunch of lace at his chin;
A coat of the claret velvet,
and breeches of brown doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle:
his boots were up to his thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle,
his rapier hilt a-twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
under the jeweled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered
and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
He tapped with his whip on the shutters,
but all was locked and barred,
He whistled a tune to the window,
and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot
into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard
a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim, the ostler listened;
his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness,
his hair like moldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter--
the landlord's red-lipped daughter;
Dumb as a dog he listened,
and he heard the robber say--

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart;
I'm after a prize to-night,
but I shall be back with the yellow gold
before the morning light.
Yet if they press me sharply,
and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight,
though hell should bar the way."

He stood upright in the stirrups;
he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement!
His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume
came tumbling ov'er his breast,
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh sweet black waves in the moonlight!),
Then he tugged at his reins in the moonlight,
and galloped away to the West.

He did not come in the dawning;
he did not come at noon.
And out o' the tawny sunset,
before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon
looping the purple moor,
The redcoat troops came marching--
Marching--marching--
King George's men came marching,
up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord;
they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her
to the foot of her narrow bed;.
Two of them knelt at her casement,
with muskets by their side!;
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement,
the road that he would ride.

They had bound her up at attention,
with many a sniggering jest!
hey had tied a rifle beside her,
with the barrel beneath her breast!
Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say --
"Look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight,
though hell should bar the way."

She twisted her hands behind her,
but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers
were wet with sweat or blood!
they stretched and strained in the darkness,
and the hours crawled by like years,
ill, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it!
The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it;
she strove no more for the rest;
Up, she stood up at attention,
with the barrel beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing,
she would not strive again,
For the road lay bare in the moonlight,
Blank and bare in the moonlight,
And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight
throbbed to her love's refrain.

Tlot tlot; tlot tlot! Had they heard it?
The horse-hooves, ringing clear;
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance!
Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight,
over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding
Riding, riding!
The redcoats looked to their priming!
She stood up straight and still.

Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence!
Tlot tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer!
Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment,
she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight--
Her musket shattered the moonlight--
Shattered her breast in the moonlight
and warned him--with her death.

He turned, he spurred to the West;
he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket,
drenched in her own red blood!
Not till the dawn did he hear it,
and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight,
and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman,
shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him
and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon,;
wine-red was his velvet coat
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog in the highway,
And he lay in his blood in the highway,
with the bunch of lace at his throat.

And still on a winter's night, they say,
when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon
tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road a ribbon of moonlight
over the purple moor,
The highwayman comes riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman comes riding,
up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters
and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
He taps with his whip on the shutters,
but all is locked and barred,
He whistles a tune to the window,
and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot
into her long black hair.

1 Kommentar:

Charity Childs-Gevero hat gesagt…

Oh! I love The Highwayman poem! :-)