Famous Narrative Poems

Famous Narrative Poems

Narrative Poems by Famous Poets

Narrative Poems are a form of poetry that tell stories. Narrative poems often use rhyme, meter, repetition and a captivating and dramatic story to capture the readers interest. These classic Narrative poems include such classics as The Raven By Edgar Allan Poe, Paul Revere's Ride By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Casey At The Bat and the chilling tales of the Alaska gold rush by Robert W. Service.

16 Exciting and Captivating Narrative Poems

  1. 1. Annabel Lee

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    Annabel Lee was the last poem written by Poe. Like many of Poe's poems, this one is about lost love. It was published in 1849 shortly after his death. The subject mourns the death of his young love, Annabel Lee, and blames the angels for killing her out of jealousy for their love. He has since then slept by her grave, unable to accept her death.
    Edgar Allan Poe once said that the death of a beautiful woman is "the most poetical topic in the world". In this poem, the subject's lover, Annabel Lee was killed. The subject of the poem affirms that the love between him and Annabel Lee is so strong that even death can't separate them.

    It was many and many a year ago,
       In a kingdom by the sea,
    That a maiden there lived whom you may know
       By the name of Annabel Lee;
    And this maiden she lived with no other thought
       Than to love and be loved by me.

    I was a child and she was a child,
       In this kingdom by the sea,
    But we loved with a love that was more than love—
       I and my Annabel Lee—
    With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
       Coveted her and me.

    And this was the reason that, long ago,
       In this kingdom by the sea,
    A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
       My beautiful Annabel Lee;
    So that her highborn kinsmen came
       And bore her away from me,
    To shut her up in a sepulchre
       In this kingdom by the sea.

    The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
       Went envying her and me—
    Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
       In this kingdom by the sea)
    That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
       Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

    But our love it was stronger by far than the love
       Of those who were older than we—
       Of many far wiser than we—
    And neither the angels in Heaven above
       Nor the demons down under the sea
    Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
       Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

    For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
       Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
    And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
       Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
    And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
       Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
       In her sepulchre there by the sea—
       In her tomb by the sounding sea.

    Annabel Lee By Edgar Allan Poe

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    I have always enjoyed reading the poem of Anabelle Lee. One day my grandson came home and told me he had to memorize and recite it for a 7th grade competition. I was delighted to help him. In...

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  3. 2. The Widow-Maker

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    Published in "Tote-road and Trail" Ballads of the Lumberjack in·1917, "The Widow-Maker" by Douglas Malloch uses vivid imagery in this narrative poem to captivate the reader. We witness the loose limb of a pine tree, tumbling and zigzagging, while the red stain upon the snow reveals a tragic fate. The poem engages us with its use of repetition, as the words echo in our minds, reflecting the characters' conversations and their gradual forgetting. As time passes, the poem shifts its focus to the widow, capturing her palpable emotions through the beat of her heart and the jolt of each step upon the stair. The poem masterfully blends rhyme and rhythm, taking us on an emotional journey where themes of love, regret, and forgiveness come alive.

    A loose limb hangs upon a pine three log-lengths from the ground,
    A norway tumbles with a whine and shakes the woods around.
    The loose limb plunges from its place and zigzags down below;
    And Jack is lying on his face—there's red upon the snow.

    They'll dress him in a cotton shirt, they'll cross his horny hands;
    They'll dig a hollow in the dirt within the forest lands;
    They'll put him in a wooden box; they'll wonder whence he came,
    And build a monument of rocks without a date or name.

    "He got a letter, that I know." "I wonder where it is."
    "I heard him speak not long ago about a wife of his."
    "Employment agent shipped him up he didn't have a cent."
    "He was a most peculiar pup." "He was a gloomy gent."

    And so they'll talk around the fire a little longer yet;
    But even idle tongues will tire, and even men forget.
    A season passes, and a year. "Why, yes, now thinkin' back,
    A widow-maker hit him here. We used to call him Jack."

    And far away, 'mid city streets Jack staggers down no more,
    A heart, a woman's, madly beats, each knock upon the door.
    She's back with mother in the flat. She thought she wouldn't care.
    Why does she always jump like that, each step upon the stair?

    "For anger burns so quick a flame the year that you are wed.
    I said some things just as they came I never should have said.
    It takes a little time, I guess, the married life to live—
    To want your way a little less, to suffer and forgive."

    They'll dress him in a cotton shirt, they'll cross his horny hands;
    They'll dig a hollow in the dirt within the forest lands;
    They'll put him in a wooden box; they'll wonder whence he came,
    And build a monument of rocks without a date or name.

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  5. 3. The Raven

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    One of the most famous poems ever written, "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe is a delightfully spooky, dark poem. What makes this poem so remarkable? There is a certain romance in darkness and melancholy. There is something mysterious about that which is hidden and unknown. Dark poems seek to romanticize sadness and depression. There is much room for creativity in this genre.

    Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
    Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
        While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
    As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
    "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door—
                Only this and nothing more."

        Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
    And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
        Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
        From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
    For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
                Nameless here for evermore.

        And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
    Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
        So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
        "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
    Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
                This it is and nothing more."

        Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
    "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
        But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
        And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
    That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I opened wide the door;—
                Darkness there and nothing more.

        Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
    Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
        But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
        And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
    This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"—
                Merely this and nothing more.

        Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
    Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
        "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
          Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
    Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
                'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

        Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
    In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
        Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
        But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
    Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
                Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

    Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
    By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
    "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
    Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
    Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
                Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

        Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
    Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
        For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
        Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
    Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
                With such name as "Nevermore."

        But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
    That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
        Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
        Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before—
    On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."
                Then the bird said "Nevermore."

        Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
    "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store
        Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
        Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
    Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
                Of ‘Never—nevermore'."

        But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
    Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
        Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
        Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
    What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
                Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

        This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
    To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
        This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
        On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
    But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
                She shall press, ah, nevermore!

        Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
    Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
        "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
        Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
    Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
                Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

        "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
    Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
        Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
        On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
    Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"
                Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

        "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
    By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
        Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
        It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
    Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
                Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

        "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting—
    "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
        Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
        Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
    Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
                Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

        And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
    On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
        And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
        And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
    And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
                Shall be lifted—nevermore!

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  6. 4. The Ballad Of The Harp Weaver

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    Edna St. Vincent Millay was an American poet who lived from 1892-1950. This poem is about maternal love and self-sacrifice. Edna St. Vincent Millay's own mother was very sacrificial. She divorced her husband and worked as a nurse to support her children. Even though they were poor, Edna's mother was an incredible support and encouragement. She made sure her children had access to a variety of reading materials and music. This poem won Edna St. Vincent Millay the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1923. At the time, she was only the third woman to receive this honor.

    "Son," said my mother,
    When I was knee-high,
    "you've need of clothes to cover you,
    and not a rag have I.

    "There's nothing in the house
    To make a boy breeches,
    Nor shears to cut a cloth with,
    Nor thread to take stitches.

    "There's nothing in the house
    But a loaf-end of rye,
    And a harp with a woman's head
    Nobody will buy,"
    And she began to cry.

    That was in the early fall.
    When came the late fall,
    "Son," she said, "the sight of you
    Makes your mother's blood crawl,--

    "Little skinny shoulder-blades
    Sticking through your clothes!
    And where you'll get a jacket from
    God above knows.

    "It's lucky for me, lad,
    Your daddy's in the ground,
    And can't see the way I let
    His son go around!"
    And she made a queer sound.

    That was in the late fall.
    When the winter came,
    I'd not a pair of breeches
    Nor a shirt to my name.

    I couldn't go to school,
    Or out of doors to play.
    And all the other little boys
    Passed our way.

    "Son," said my mother,
    "Come, climb into my lap,
    And I'll chafe your little bones
    While you take a nap."

    And, oh, but we were silly
    For half and hour or more,
    Me with my long legs,
    Dragging on the floor,

    A-rock-rock-rocking
    To a mother-goose rhyme!
    Oh, but we were happy
    For half an hour's time!

    But there was I, a great boy,
    And what would folks say
    To hear my mother singing me
    To sleep all day,
    In such a daft way?

    Men say the winter
    Was bad that year;
    Fuel was scarce,
    And food was dear.

    A wind with a wolf's head
    Howled about our door,
    And we burned up the chairs
    And sat upon the floor.

    All that was left us
    Was a chair we couldn't break,
    And the harp with a woman's head
    Nobody would take,
    For song or pity's sake.

    The night before Christmas
    I cried with cold,
    I cried myself to sleep
    Like a two-year old.

    And in the deep night
    I felt my mother rise,
    And stare down upon me
    With love in her eyes.

    I saw my mother sitting
    On the one good chair,
    A light falling on her
    From I couldn't tell where.

    Looking nineteen,
    And not a day older,
    And the harp with a woman's head
    Leaned against her shoulder.

    Her thin fingers, moving
    In the thin, tall strings,
    Were weav-weav-weaving
    Wonderful things.

    Many bright threads,
    From where I couldn't see,
    Were running through the harp-strings
    Rapidly,

    And gold threads whistling
    Through my mother's hand.
    I saw the web grow,
    And the pattern expand.

    She wove a child's jacket,
    And when it was done
    She laid it on the floor
    And wove another one.

    She wove a red cloak
    So regal to see,
    "She's made it for a king's son,"
    I said, "and not for me."
    But I knew it was for me.

    She wove a pair of breeches
    Quicker than that!
    She wove a pair of boots
    And a little cocked hat.

    She wove a pair of mittens,
    She wove a little blouse,
    She wove all night
    In the still, cold house.

    She sang as she worked,
    And the harp-strings spoke;
    Her voice never faltered,
    And the thread never broke,
    And when I awoke,--

    There sat my mother
    With the harp against her shoulder,
    Looking nineteen,
    And not a day older,

    A smile about her lips,
    And a light about her head,
    And her hands in the harp-strings
    Frozen dead.

    And piled beside her
    And toppling to the skies,
    Were the clothes of a king's son,
    Just my size.

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  7. 5. The Charge Of The Light Brigade

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    "Which guns?" they asked. Captain Nolan replied with a sweeping wave of his hand. Moments later the Light Brigade began to move. Six hundred men strong, they rode down the narrow valley in what has become a lesson taught to this very day in military academies worldwide about the importance of clear communication. The objective had been to hinder the retreat of the naval guns to the south of the battlefield. Instead, the Brigade was directed to a Russian position, which was a clear death trap. But though the orders were clearly suicidal, the men obeyed regardless and paid a heavy price. Almost half the Brigade was wiped out, and though little was accomplished strategically, the charge went down as one of the most glorious battles in British military history. News arrived in England, and while reading an account of the battle in the Times, Tennyson jotted down what has become perhaps his most famous poem.

    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.
    Theirs not to make reply,
    Theirs not to reason why,
    Theirs 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.
    Honor the charge they made!
    Honor the Light Brigade,
    Noble six hundred!

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  8. 6. Out Out

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    Out, Out by Robert Frost is a narrative poem published in a collection of poems titled Mountain Interval in 1916 when millions of young men were losing their lives on the battlefields of World War I. On an American farm a hungry young boy is cutting wood with a buzz saw. Frost uses personification with the saw and an artist's imagery to narrate as the boy loses his hand and then his life in terrible yet mundane detail.

    The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
    And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
    Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
    And from there those that lifted eyes could count
    Five mountain ranges one behind the other
    Under the sunset far into Vermont.
    And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
    As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
    And nothing happened: day was all but done.
    Call it a day, I wish they might have said
    To please the boy by giving him the half hour
    That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
    His sister stood beside them in her apron
    To tell them “Supper.” At the word, the saw,
    As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
    Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap—
    He must have given the hand. However it was,
    Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
    The boy's first outcry was a rueful laugh,
    As he swung toward them holding up the hand
    Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
    The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all—
    Since he was old enough to know, big boy
    Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart—
    He saw all spoiled. “Don’t let him cut my hand off—
    The doctor, when he comes. Don’t let him, sister!”
    So. But the hand was gone already.
    The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
    He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
    And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright.
    No one believed. They listened at his heart.
    Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it.
    No more to build on there. And they, since they
    Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.

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  9. 7. The Cremation Of Sam McGee

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    Service was inspired to write this dark and spooky narrative poem by the stories he heard from the people of the Yukon. The poem was published in his book, Songs of a Sourdough in 1907. "The Cremation of Sam McGee" has turned out to be one of Service's most famous poems.

    There are strange things done in the midnight sun
          By the men who moil for gold;
    The Arctic trails have their secret tales
          That would make your blood run cold;
    The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
          But the queerest they ever did see
    Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
          I cremated Sam McGee.

    Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
    Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
    He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
    Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

    On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
    Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
    If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
    It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

    And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
    And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
    He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
    And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

    Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
    "It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
    Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
    So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

    A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
    And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
    He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
    And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

    There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
    With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
    It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
    But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

    Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
    In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
    In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
    Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.

    And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
    And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
    The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
    And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

    Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
    It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
    And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
    Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

    Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
    Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
    The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
    And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

    Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
    And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
    It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
    And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

    I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
    But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
    I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
    I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

    And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
    And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
    It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—
    Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

    There are strange things done in the midnight sun
          By the men who moil for gold;
    The Arctic trails have their secret tales
          That would make your blood run cold;
    The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
          But the queerest they ever did see
    Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
          I cremated Sam McGee.

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  10. 8. The Spell Of The Yukon

    Famous Poem

    In 1904 while working for a Canadian bank, Robert Service was transferred to Whitehorse, a small town in the Yukon, a northern Canadian Province bordering Alaska known for its extreme cold. During the Yukon Gold Rush of 1896-1899 the town had served as a campground for some of the more than 100,000 prospectors who flooded the Yukon searching for gold. Service took part in the town's social life including reciting poetry. Eventually he started composing his own poems, many of which were narrative poems about the great gold rush. "The Spell Of The Yukon" was published in Service's first book of poetry, "Songs of a Sourdough" in 1907.

    I wanted the gold, and I sought it;
       I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.
    Was it famine or scurvy—I fought it;
       I hurled my youth into a grave.
    I wanted the gold, and I got it— 
       Came out with a fortune last fall,— 
    Yet somehow life’s not what I thought it,
       And somehow the gold isn’t all.

    No! There’s the land. (Have you seen it?)
       It’s the cussedest land that I know,
    From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it
       To the deep, deathlike valleys below.
    Some say God was tired when He made it;
       Some say it’s a fine land to shun;
    Maybe; but there’s some as would trade it
       For no land on earth—and I’m one.

    You come to get rich (damned good reason);
       You feel like an exile at first;
    You hate it like hell for a season,
       And then you are worse than the worst.
    It grips you like some kinds of sinning;
       It twists you from foe to a friend;
    It seems it’s been since the beginning;
       It seems it will be to the end.

    I’ve stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow
       That’s plumb-full of hush to the brim;
    I’ve watched the big, husky sun wallow
       In crimson and gold, and grow dim,
    Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming,
       And the stars tumbled out, neck and crop;
    And I’ve thought that I surely was dreaming,
       With the peace o’ the world piled on top.

    The summer—no sweeter was ever;
       The sunshiny woods all athrill;
    The grayling aleap in the river,
       The bighorn asleep on the hill.
    The strong life that never knows harness;
       The wilds where the caribou call;
    The freshness, the freedom, the farness—
       O God! how I’m stuck on it all.

    The winter! the brightness that blinds you,
       The white land locked tight as a drum,
    The cold fear that follows and finds you,
       The silence that bludgeons you dumb.
    The snows that are older than history,
       The woods where the weird shadows slant;
    The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery,
       I’ve bade ’em good-by—but I can’t.

    There’s a land where the mountains are nameless,
       And the rivers all run God knows where;
    There are lives that are erring and aimless,
       And deaths that just hang by a hair;
    There are hardships that nobody reckons;
       There are valleys unpeopled and still;
    There’s a land—oh, it beckons and beckons,
       And I want to go back—and I will.

    They’re making my money diminish;
       I’m sick of the taste of champagne.
    Thank God! when I’m skinned to a finish
       I’ll pike to the Yukon again.
    I’ll fight—and you bet it’s no sham-fight;
       It’s hell!—but I’ve been there before;
    And it’s better than this by a damsite—
       So me for the Yukon once more.

    There’s gold, and it’s haunting and haunting;
       It’s luring me on as of old;
    Yet it isn’t the gold that I’m wanting
       So much as just finding the gold.
    It’s the great, big, broad land ’way up yonder,
       It’s the forests where silence has lease;
    It’s the beauty that thrills me with wonder,
       It’s the stillness that fills me with peace.

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  11. 9. The Listeners

    • By Walter De La Mare

    Famous Poem

    Walter de la Mare (1873-1956), an English poet and short story writer, enjoyed writing ghost stories. “The Listeners” has a mysterious and eerie feel to it. It was published in 1912 in the poet’s second collection of poetry. A traveler knocks on the door of a house, but no one comes to the door. However, he can sense phantoms inside who listen to him. There is a sense of loneliness depicted in this poem.

    ‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,   
       Knocking on the moonlit door;
    And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
       Of the forest’s ferny floor:
    And a bird flew up out of the turret,
       Above the Traveller’s head:
    And he smote upon the door again a second time;
       ‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
    But no one descended to the Traveller;
       No head from the leaf-fringed sill
    Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
       Where he stood perplexed and still.
    But only a host of phantom listeners
       That dwelt in the lone house then
    Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight   
       To that voice from the world of men:
    Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
       That goes down to the empty hall,
    Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
       By the lonely Traveller’s call.
    And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
       Their stillness answering his cry,
    While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
       ’Neath the starred and leafy sky;
    For he suddenly smote on the door, even
       Louder, and lifted his head:—
    ‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,   
       That I kept my word,’ he said.
    Never the least stir made the listeners,
       Though every word he spake
    Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
       From the one man left awake:
    Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
       And the sound of iron on stone,
    And how the silence surged softly backward,
       When the plunging hoofs were gone.

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  12. 10. My Lost Youth

    Famous Poem

    This poem could be considered a lyrical autobiography of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s early years. He remembers his hometown and the boy he was many years ago. Even though he has grown, he can still feel like a child again by returning to his hometown of Portland, Maine (which was still part of Massachusetts when he was born in 1807). All his memories are tucked into the many places of the city. This poem has a strong sense of structure with the repetition of the last two lines of each stanza.

    Often I think of the beautiful town
          That is seated by the sea;
    Often in thought go up and down
    The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
          And my youth comes back to me.
                And a verse of a Lapland song
                Is haunting my memory still:
          "A boy's will is the wind's will,
    And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

    I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,
          And catch, in sudden gleams,
    The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
    And islands that were the Hesperides
          Of all my boyish dreams.
                And the burden of that old song,
                It murmurs and whispers still:
          "A boy's will is the wind's will,
    And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

    I remember the black wharves and the slips,
          And the sea-tides tossing free;
    And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
    And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
          And the magic of the sea.
                And the voice of that wayward song
                Is singing and saying still:
          "A boy's will is the wind's will,
    And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

    I remember the bulwarks by the shore,
          And the fort upon the hill;
    The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar,
    The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er,
          And the bugle wild and shrill.
                And the music of that old song
                Throbs in my memory still:
          "A boy's will is the wind's will,
    And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

    I remember the sea-fight far away,
          How it thundered o'er the tide!
    And the dead captains, as they lay
    In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay,
          Where they in battle died.
                And the sound of that mournful song
                Goes through me with a thrill:
          "A boy's will is the wind's will,
    And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

    I can see the breezy dome of groves,
          The shadows of Deering's Woods;
    And the friendships old and the early loves
    Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves
          In quiet neighborhoods.
                And the verse of that sweet old song,
                It flutters and murmurs still:
          "A boy's will is the wind's will,
    And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

    I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
          Across the school-boy's brain;
    The song and the silence in the heart,
    That in part are prophecies, and in part
          Are longings wild and vain.
                And the voice of that fitful song
                Sings on, and is never still:
          "A boy's will is the wind's will,
    And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

    There are things of which I may not speak;
          There are dreams that cannot die;
    There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
    And bring a pallor into the cheek,
          And a mist before the eye.
                And the words of that fatal song
                Come over me like a chill:
          "A boy's will is the wind's will,
    And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

    Strange to me now are the forms I meet
          When I visit the dear old town;
    But the native air is pure and sweet,
    And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street,
          As they balance up and down,
                Are singing the beautiful song,
                Are sighing and whispering still:
          "A boy's will is the wind's will,
    And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

    And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair,
          And with joy that is almost pain
    My heart goes back to wander there,
    And among the dreams of the days that were,
          I find my lost youth again.
                And the strange and beautiful song,
                The groves are repeating it still:
          "A boy's will is the wind's will,
    And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

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  13. 11. Paul Bunyan

    Famous Poem

    This version of the poem is from Shel Silverstein's book of poems for children, "Where the Sidewalk Ends" published in 1974.
    A slightly different version of "Paul" is sung by Bobby Bare in his 1973 album, "Lullabys, Legends and Lies".
    He begins with an introduction, "You know, American folklore is filled with legendary characters like... Billy The Kid, Johnny Appleseed, Pecos Bill... and probably the greatest one of all has got to be Paul Bunyan, 'cause he was the meanest and the biggest and dirtiest, tobacco chewin'est, and the funkiest and the best woodchopper of all of 'em".
    Paul Bunyan is a lumberjack of huge size and strength in American folk tales. Usually included in these Tall Tales is his companion, Babe the Blue Ox, a giant creature of extraordinary strength.

    He rode through the woods on a big blue ox,
    He had fists as hard as choppin' blocks,
    Five hundred pounds and nine feet tall...that's Paul.

    Talk about workin', when he swung his axe
    You could hear it ring for a mile and a half.
    Then he'd yell "Timber!" and down she'd fall...for Paul.

    Talk about drinkin', that man's so mean
    That he'd never drink nothin' but kerosene,
    And a five-gallon can is a little bit small...for Paul.

    Talk about tough, well he once had a fight
    With a thunderstorm on a cold dark night.
    I ain't sayin' who won,
    But it don't storm at all...round here...thanks to Paul.

    He was ninety years old when he said with a sigh,
    "I think I'm gonna lay right down and die
    'Cause sunshine and sorrow, I've seen it all...says Paul.

    He says, "There ain't no man alive can kill me,
    Ain't no woman 'round can thrill me,
    And I think heaven just mught be a ball"...says Paul.

    So he died...and we cried.

    It took eighteen men just to bust the ground,
    It took twenty-four more just to lower him down.
    And we covered him up and we figured that was all...for Paul.

    But late one night the trees started shakin',
    The dogs started howlin' and the earth started quakin',
    And out of the ground with a "Hi, y'all"...comes Paul!

    He shook the dirt from off his clothes,
    He scratched his butt and wiped his nose.
    "Y'know, bein' dead wasn't no fun at all"...says Paul.

    He says, "Up in heaven they got harps on their knees,
    They got clouds and wings but they got no trees.
    I don't think that's much of a heaven at all"...says Paul.

    So he jumps on his ox with a fare-thee-well,
    He says, "I'll find out if there's trees in hell."
    And he rode away, and that was all...we ever seen...of Paul.

    But the next time you hear a "Timber!" yell
    That sounds like it's comin' from the pits of hell,
    Then a weird and devilish ghostly wail
    Like somebody's choppin' on the devil's tail,
    Then a shout, a call, a crash, a fall--
    That ain't no mortal man at all...that's Paul!

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  14. 12. The Sod House On The Prairie

    • By Ellen P. Allerton

    Famous Poem

    "The Sod House on the Prairie" by Ellen P. Allerton (1835-1893) paints a vivid picture of life on the vast prairie, where a low sod house stands as a symbol of love, hope, and heartache. Through evocative imagery and a shifting emotional tone, the poem captures the beauty and transience of joy, as well as the deep sorrow that can accompany it. The poem's exploration of the connection between place and emotion, along with its use of contrast and imagery, conveys a poignant narrative of love, loss, and the passage of time.

    A low sod house, a broad green prairie,
        And stately ranks of bannered corn;—
    'Twas there I took my dark-eyed Mary,
        And there our darling boy was born.

    The walls were low, the place was homely,
        But Mary sang from morn till night.
    The place beneath her touch grew comely;
        Her cheerful presence made it bright.

    Oh, life was sweet beyond all measure!
        No hour was dull, no day was long;
    Each task was easy, toil was pleasure,
        For love and hope were fresh and strong.

    How oft we sat at eve, foretelling
        The glories of that wide, new land!
    And gayly planned our future dwelling—
        For low sod house, a mansion grand.

    Alas! we little know how fleeting
        The joy that falls to human lot.
    While unseen hands were dirges beating,
        We smiled secure and heard them not.

    One day Death came and took my Mary;
        Another, and the baby died.
    And near the sod house on the prairie
        I laid my darlings, side by side.

    I could not stay. My heart was weary,
        And life a load too hard to bear.
    That low sod house was dreary, dreary,
        For love and hope lay buried there.

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  15. 13. The Man He Killed

    Famous Poem

    How terrible is war? You might meet someone and kill them in war, but if you had met that same person in peace, you might have been friends and even bought him a drink or given him some money.

    Had he and I but met
        By some old ancient inn,
    We should have set us down to wet
        Right many a nipperkin!

    But ranged as infantry,
        And staring face to face,
    I shot at him as he at me,
        And killed him in his place.

    I shot him dead because--
        Because he was my foe,
    Just so: my foe of course he was;
        That's clear enough; although

    He thought he'd 'list, perhaps,
        Off-hand like--just as I--
    Was out of work--had sold his traps--
        No other reason why.

    Yes; quaint and curious war is!
        You shoot a fellow down
    You'd treat, if met where any bar is,
        Or help to half a crown.

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  16. 14. Paul Revere's Ride

    Famous Poem

    This poem recounts the night of April 18, 1775 when Paul Revere rode through Massachusetts warning of the British's arrival. While this is based on a historical event, there are some fictional aspects. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was inspired to write this poem after visiting Old North Church, where the lanterns were held that night in 1775. Longfellow's grandfather was actually Paul Revere's commander on the Penobscot Expedition in 1779.

    Listen my children and you shall hear
    Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
    On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
    Hardly a man is now alive
    Who remembers that famous day and year.

    He said to his friend, "If the British march
    By land or sea from the town to-night,
    Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
    Of the North Church tower as a signal light,-
    One if by land, and two if by sea;
    And I on the opposite shore will be,
    Ready to ride and spread the alarm
    Through every Middlesex village and farm,
    For the country folk to be up and to arm."

    Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar
    Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
    Just as the moon rose over the bay,
    Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
    The Somerset, British man-of-war;
    A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
    Across the moon like a prison bar,
    And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
    By its own reflection in the tide.

    Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
    Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
    Till in the silence around him he hears
    The muster of men at the barrack door,
    The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
    And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
    Marching down to their boats on the shore.

    Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
    By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
    To the belfry chamber overhead,
    And startled the pigeons from their perch
    On the sombre rafters, that round him made
    Masses and moving shapes of shade,-
    By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
    To the highest window in the wall,
    Where he paused to listen and look down
    A moment on the roofs of the town
    And the moonlight flowing over all.

    Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
    In their night encampment on the hill,
    Wrapped in silence so deep and still
    That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
    The watchful night-wind, as it went
    Creeping along from tent to tent,
    And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
    A moment only he feels the spell
    Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
    Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
    For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
    On a shadowy something far away,
    Where the river widens to meet the bay,-
    A line of black that bends and floats
    On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.

    Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
    Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
    On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
    Now he patted his horse's side,
    Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
    Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
    And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
    But mostly he watched with eager search
    The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
    As it rose above the graves on the hill,
    Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
    And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
    A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
    He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
    But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
    A second lamp in the belfry burns.

    A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
    A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
    And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
    Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
    That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
    The fate of a nation was riding that night;
    And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
    Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
    He has left the village and mounted the steep,
    And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
    Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
    And under the alders that skirt its edge,
    Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
    Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

    It was twelve by the village clock
    When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
    He heard the crowing of the cock,
    And the barking of the farmer's dog,
    And felt the damp of the river fog,
    That rises after the sun goes down.

    It was one by the village clock,
    When he galloped into Lexington.
    He saw the gilded weathercock
    Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
    And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
    Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
    As if they already stood aghast
    At the bloody work they would look upon.

    It was two by the village clock,
    When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
    He heard the bleating of the flock,
    And the twitter of birds among the trees,
    And felt the breath of the morning breeze
    Blowing over the meadow brown.
    And one was safe and asleep in his bed
    Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
    Who that day would be lying dead,
    Pierced by a British musket ball.

    You know the rest. In the books you have read
    How the British Regulars fired and fled,--
    How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
    From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
    Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
    Then crossing the fields to emerge again
    Under the trees at the turn of the road,
    And only pausing to fire and load.

    So through the night rode Paul Revere;
    And so through the night went his cry of alarm
    To every Middlesex village and farm,--
    A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
    A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
    And a word that shall echo for evermore!
    For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
    Through all our history, to the last,
    In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
    The people will waken and listen to hear
    The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
    And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

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  17. 15. Casey At The Bat

    Famous Poem

    Ernest Lawrence Thayer worked for a newspaper, and "Casey at the Bat" was written as part of his column in 1888. It did not gain a lot of attention at first. DeWolf Hooper, a comic actor, recited "Casey at the Bat" 15,000 times over the next 50 year, increasing its popularity. This is the most famous baseball poem that has been written.
    "Love has its sonnets galore. War has its epics in heroic verse. Tragedy its sombre story in measured lines. Baseball has Casey at the Bat." - Albert Spalding

    The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
    The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
    And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
    A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

    A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
    Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
    They thought, "If only Casey could but get a whack at that--
    We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat."

    But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
    And the former was a lulu, while the latter was a cake;
    So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
    For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.

    But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
    And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;
    And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
    There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

    Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
    It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
    It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
    For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

    There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
    There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face.
    And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
    No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

    Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
    Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;
    Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
    Defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

    And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
    And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
    Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped--
    "That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one!" the umpire said.

    From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
    Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
    "Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand;
    And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

    With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
    He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
    He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
    But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two!"

    "Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
    But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
    They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
    And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

    The sneer has fled from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
    He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
    And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go.
    And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

    Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
    The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
    And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout;
    But there is no joy in Mudville--great Casey has struck out

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  18. 16. Song About Old Troll

    Famous Poem

    J. R. R. Tolkien is famous for his fantasy novels The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings. This poem was sung by Sam Gamgee in The Lord of the Rings. Audio clips can be found of J. R. R. Tolkien singing this song himself.

    Troll sat alone on his seat of stone,
    And munched and mumbled a bare old bone;
    For many a year he had gnawed it near,
    For meat was hard to come by.
    Done by! Gum by!
    In a cave in the hills he dwelt alone,
    And meat was hard to come by.

    Up came Tom with his big boots on.
    Said he to Troll: "Pray, what is yon?
    For it looks like the shin o' my nuncle Tim,
    As should be a-lyin' in graveyard.
    Caveyard! Paveyard!
    This many a year has Tim been gone,
    And I thought he were lyin' in graveyard."

    "My lad," said Troll, "this bone I stole.
    But what be bones that lie in a hole?
    Thy nuncle was dead as a lump o' lead,
    Afore I found his shinbone.
    Tinbone! Thinbone!
    He can spare a share for a poor old troll,
    For he don't need his shinbone."

    Said Tom: "I don't see why the likes o' thee
    Without axin' leave should go makin' free
    With the shank or the shin o' my father's kin;
    So hand the old bone over!
    Rover! Trover!
    Though dead he be, it belongs to he;
    So hand the old bone over!"

    "For a couple o' pins," says Troll, and grins,
    "I'll eat thee too, and gnaw thy shins.
    A bit o' fresh meat will go down sweet!
    I'll try my teeth on thee now.*
    Hee now! See now!
    I'm tired o' gnawing old bones and skins;
    I've a mind to dine on thee now."

    *[as read by Tolkien on the tape:]
    Thee'll be a nice change from thine nuncle.
    Sunkle! Drunkle!
    I'm tired of gnawing old bones and skins;
    Thee'll be a nice change from thine nuncle."

    But just as he thought his dinner was caught,
    He found his hands had hold of naught.
    Before he could mind, Tom slipped behind
    And gave him the boot to larn him.
    Warn him! Darn him!
    A bump o' the boot on the seat, Tom thought,
    Would be the way to larn him.

    But harder than stone is the flesh and bone
    Of a troll that sits in the hills alone.
    As well set your boot to the mountain's root,
    For the seat of a troll don't feel it.
    Peel it! Heal it!
    Old Troll laughed, when he heard Tom groan,
    And he knew his toes could feel it.

    Tom's leg is game, since home he came,
    And his bootless foot is lasting lame;
    But Troll don't care, and he's still there
    With the bone he boned from it's owner.
    Doner! Boner!
    Troll's old seat is still the same,
    And the bone he boned from its owner!

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    This poem reminds me of times reading this with my dad. Thank you for publishing this poem!

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