#1912 #AmericanWriters #RhymesOfARollingStone
The lone man gazed and gazed upon… His sweat, his blood, the wage of… But now how sweet, how doubly swee… All gay and gleamy to the campfire… The evening sky was sinister and c…
As I go forth from fair to mart With racket ringing, Who would divine that in my heart Mad larks are singing. As I sweet sympathy express,
Between the mountain and the sea I’ve made a happy landing; And here a peace has come to me That passeth understanding; A shining faith and purity
France is the fairest land on eart… Lovely to heart’s desire, And twice a year I span its girth… Its beauty to admire. But when a pub I seek each night,
Through eyelet holes I watched th… Rain of confetti fling; Their joy is lush, their laughter… For Carnival is King. Behind his chariot I pace
Think not because you raise A gleaming sword, That you will win to praise Before the Lord. And though men hail you great
Tramp, tramp, the grim road, the r… (I’ve 'ammered out this ditty with… Tramp, tramp, the dim road—we didn… And bellies that was ’oller was th… Tramp, tramp, the bad road, the bi…
They’re hanging Bill at eight o’… And millions will applaud. He killed, and so they have to kil… Such is the will of God. His brother Tom is on my bed
You’ve heard of Julot the apache,… Montmartre was their hunting—groun… A little chap just like a boy, wit… Yet there was nothing juvenile in… From head to heel as tough as stee…
Poets may praise a wattle thatch Doubtfully waterproof; Let me uplift my lowly latch Beneath a rose—tiled roof. Let it be gay and rich in hue,
I count each day a little life, With birth and death complete; I cloister it from care and strife And keep it sane and sweet. With eager eyes I greet the morn,
Hark to the Sourdough story, told… When the pipes are lit and we smok… Into the campfire glow. Rugged are we and hoary, and stati… A genooine Sourdough story
Alphonso Rex who died in Rome Was quite a fistful as a kid; For when I visited his home, That gorgeous palace in Madrid, The grinning guide—chap showed me…
On the ragged edge of the world I… And the home of the wolf shall be… And a bunch of bones on the boundl… The end of my trail . . . who know… I’m dreaming to—night in the fire—…
A bunch of the boys were whooping… The kid that handles the music—box… Back of the bar, in a solo game, s… And watching his luck was his ligh… When out of the night, which was f…