Poetry Packet of Poems
This modern American ballad continues a long tradition by telling a story of sudden tragedy and
blood-chilling violence. The ballad is based on an actual event. On Sunday morning, September 15,
1963, in the midst of the struggle for greater civil rights for African Americans, a bomb explored in the
Sixteenth Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama. Four young girls were killed.
Ballad of Birmingham by Dudley Randal
(On the bombing of a church in Birmingham, Alabama, 1963)
"Mother dear, may I go downtown
Instead of out to play,
And march the streets of Birmingham
In a Freedom March today?"
"No, baby, no, you may not go,
For the dogs are fierce and wild,
And clubs and hoses, guns and jails
Aren't good for a little child."
"But, mother, I won't be alone.
Other children will go with me,
And march the streets of Birmingham
To make our country free."
"No, baby, no, you may not go,
For I fear those guns will fire.
But you may go to church instead
And sing in the children's choir."
She has combed and brushed her
night-dark hair,
And bathed rose petal sweet,
And drawn white gloves on her
small brown hands,
And white shoes on her feet.
The mother smiled to know that her child
Was in the sacred place,
But that smile was the last smile
To come upon her face.
For when she heard the explosion,
Her eyes grew wet and wild.
She raced through the streets of Birmingham
Calling for her child.
She clawed through bits of glass and brick,
Then lifted out a shoe.
"O, here's the shoe my baby wore,
But, baby, where are you?"
The Story Behind the Ballad--In Parting the Waters, a book that won the Pulitzer Prize for History in
1989, Taylor Branch writes about the tragedy that occurred on September 15, 1963, in Birmingham,
Alabama:
“That Sunday was the annual Youth Day at the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church, Mamie H. Grier,
superintendent of the Sunday school, stopped in at the basement ladies’ room to find four young girls
who had left Bible classes early and were talking excitedly about the beginning of the school year. All
four were dressed in white from head to toe, as this was their day to run the main service for the
adults at eleven o’clock. Grier urged them to hurry along and then went upstairs to sit in on her own
women’s Sunday school class. They were engage in a lively debate on the lesson topic, ‘The Love that
Forgives,’ when a loud earthquake shook the entire church and showered the classroom with plaster
and debris. Grier’s first though was that it was like a ticker-tape parade. Maxine McNair, a
schoolteacher sitting next to her, reflexively went stiff and was the only one to speak, ‘Oh, my
goodness!’ she said. She escaped with Grier, but the stairs down to the basement were blocked and
the large stone staircase on the outside literally had vanished. They stumbled through the gathering
noise of moans and sirens. A hysterical church member shouted to Grier that her husband had
already gone to the hospital in the first ambulance. McNair searched desperately for her only child
until finally she came upon a sobbing old man and screamed, ‘Daddy, I can’t find Denise!’ The man
helplessly replied, ‘She’s dead, baby, I’ve got one of her shoes.’ He held a girl’s white dress shoe, and
the look on his daughter’s face made him scream out, ‘I’d like to blow the whole town up!”
This ballad comes from a very old European folk tale about a murder that might have been based on a
true incident. The ballad is told in Scottish dialect. The brand that Edward is carrying is his sword and
the bluid is “blood.” Let mother and son reveal the grisly tale.
Edward, Edward by Anonymous
'WHY does your brand so drip wi' bluid,
Edward, Edward?
Why does your brand so drip wi' bluid,
And why so sad gang ye, O?'
'O I have kill'd my hawk so guid,
Mither, mither;
O I have kill'd my hawk so guid,
And I had nae mair but he, O.'
'Your hawk's bluid was never so red,
Edward, Edward;
Your hawk's bluid was never so red,
My dear son, I tell thee, O.'
'O I have kill'd my red-roan steed,
Mither, mither;
O I have kill'd my red-roan steed,
That erst was so fair and free, O.'
'Your steed was auld, and ye have got mair,
Edward, Edward;
Your steed was auld, and ye have got mair;
Some other dule ye dree, O.'
'O I have kill'd my father dear,
Mither, mither;
O I have kill'd my father dear,
Alas, and woe is me, O!'
'And whatten penance will ye dree for that,
Edward, Edward?
Whatten penance will ye dree for that?
My dear son, now tell me, O.'
'I'll set my feet in yonder boat,
Mither, mither;
I'll set my feet in yonder boat,
And I'll fare over the sea, O.'
5
10
15
20
25
30
'And what will ye do wi' your towers and
your hall,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye do wi' your towers and your
hall,
That were so fair to see, O?'
'I'll let them stand till they down fall,
Mither, mither;
I'll let them stand till they down fall,
For here never mair maun I be, O.'
'And what will ye leave to your bairns and
your wife,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your bairns and
your wife,
When ye gang over the sea, O?'
'The warld's room: let them beg through life,
Mither, mither;
The warld's room: let them beg through life;
For them never mair will I see, O.'
'And what will ye leave to your own mither
dear,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your own mither
dear,
My dear son, now tell me, O?'
'The curse of hell from me shall ye bear,
Mither, mither;
The curse of hell from me shall ye bear:
Such counsels ye gave to me, O!'
GLOSSARY
4. gang: go
8. nae mair: no more
16. erst: before
20. dule ye dree: grief you suffer
25. whatten: what sort of
41. bairns: children
45. warldes room let them beg for thrae life: world’s space let them beg through life
35
40
45
50
55
Versions of this ballad were popular in England, Scotland, Ireland and America. It is a story of a man
come back from the dead to claim his bride. The man, a sailor, was engaged to be married, but gone
for three years the woman married someone else. Read this chilling tale of betrayal.
The Demon Lover by Anonymous
"O where have you been, my long long love,
This long seven years and mair?"
"O I'm come to seek my former vows
Ye granted me before."
She has taken up her two little babes,
Kissd them baith cheek and chin:
"O fair ye weel, my ain two babes,
for I'll never see you again."
"O hold your tongue of your former vows,
For they will breed sad strife;
O hold your tongue of your former vows,
For I am become a wife."
She set her foot upon the ship,
No mariners could she behold;
But the sails were o the taffetie,
And the masts o the beaten gold.
He turned him right and round about,
And the tear blinded his ee:
"I wad never hae trodden on Irish ground,
If it had not been for thee.
They had not sailed a league a league,
A league but barely three,
When dismal grew his countenance,
And drumlie grew his ee.
"I might hae had a king's daughter,
Far, far beyond the sea,
I might have had a king's daughter,
Had it not been for love o thee."
They had not sailed a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
Until she espied his cloven foot,
And she wept right bitterlie.
"If ye might have had a king's daughter,
Yer sel ye had to blame;
Ye might have had taken the king's daughter,
For ye kend that I was nane.
“O hold your tongue of your weeping,” says he
“Of your weeping now let me be;
I will shew you how lilies grow
On the banks of Italy.”
"If I was to leave my husband dear,
And my two babes also,
O what have you to take me to,
If with you I should go?"
"O what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills,
that the sun shines sweetly on?"
"O yon are the hills of heaven," he said,
"Where you will never win."
I hae seven ships upon the seaThe eighth brought me to landWith four-and twenty bold mariners,
And music on every hand."
"O whaten a mountain is yon," she said,
"All so dreary wi frost and snow?"
"O yon is the mountain of hell," he cried,
"Where you and I will go."
He strack the tap-mast wi his hand,
The fore-mast wi his knee,
And he brake that gallant ship in twain,
And sank her in the sea.
GLOSSARY
20.
35.
40.
59.
kend: knew
taffetie: taffeta, a fine, shiny fabric
drumlie: dark and gloomy
brake that gallant ship in twain: broke in two
Many years ago, gifts were not exchanged on the nativity—the day that commemorates the birth of
Christ. Instead, gifts were exchanged on the twelfth day after the Nativity, the day when the Wise
Men brought their gifts to the Infant. Some parts of the United States still honor this day and call it
“Old Christmas.” The setting of this ballad is Kentucky, on Old Christmas morning. The story is told
in dialogue between two characters with one speaker’s words in italics. Both characters are women.
Old Christmas Morning by Roy Helton
"Where you coming from, Lomey Carter,
So airly over the snow?
And what's them pretties you got in your hand,
And where you aiming to go?”
"Step in, Honey: Old Christmas morning
I ain't got nothing much;
Maybe a bite of sweetness and corn bread,
A little ham meat and such.”
"But come in, Honey! Sally Anne Barton's
Hungering after your face.
Wait till I light my candle up:
Set down! There's your old place.”
“Now where you been so airly this morning?”
"Graveyard, Sally Anne.
Up by the trace in the salt lick meadows
Where Taulbe kilt my man."
“Taulbe ain't to home this morning . . .
I can't scratch up a light:
Dampness gets on the heads of the matches;
But I'll blow up the embers bright."
"Needn't trouble. I won't be stopping:
Going a long ways still."
"You didn't see nothing, Lomey Carter,
Up on the graveyard hill?”
“What should I see there, Sally Anne Barton?”
“Well, sperits do walk last night."
There were an elder bush a-blooming
While the moon still give some light.”
“Yes, elder bushes, they bloom, Old Christmas,
And critters kneel down in their straw.
Anything else up in the graveyard?”
“One thing more I saw:
I saw my man with his bead all bleeding
Where Taulbe's shot went through."
" What did he say?”
“He stooped and kissed me.”
“What did he say to you?”
"Said, Lord Jesus forguv your Taulbe;
But he told me another word;
He said it soft when he stooped and kissed me.
That were the last I heard."
"Taulbe ain't to home this morning."
"I know that, Sally Anne,
For I kilt him, coming down through the meadow
Where Taulbe kilt my man.”
"I met him upon the meadow trace
When the moon were fainting fast,
And I bad my dead man's rifle gun
And kilt him as he come past."
“But I heard two shots."
“Twas his was second:
He shot me 'fore be died:
You'll find us at daybreak, Sally Anne Barton:
I'm laying there dead at his side."
Robert Service’s classic poem published in 1907 is generally dismissed as pure fiction. However, a
Sam McGee really did exist and he worked for a transport company in Whitehorse in the Yukon
Territory. The boiler of the steamship Alice May, were the fictional Sam McGee was cremated, is
based on a derelict steamer named Olive May that was abandoned on the shore of Lake Lebarge.
Service wrote the poem around a real experience relayed to him by friend, Dr. Sugden. The doctor
went out to tend to a sick prospector, but when he arrived at the cabin he found the man dead and
frozen stiff. Sugden had no tools to bury the man so he cremated him in the Olive May’s boiler and
brought the remains back to town. Read what happens to the fictional Sam McGee.
The Cremation of Sam McGee by Robert W. Service
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 — Oh 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 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.
First published in the San Francisco Examiner on June 3, 1888, this poem tells a classic story
about baseball.
Casey at the Bat by Ernest Lawrence Thayer
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 pudd’n, while the latter was a fake;
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 despisèd, 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.
This Greek legend tells one of the best known stories of the ancient world. According to myth, King
Minos of the island of Crete wished to have a secret labyrinth build. He sent for the master
craftsman Daedalus, who brought his son, Icarus, with him. After Daedalus built a maze, the king,
fearful that his secret would be revealed, held the father and son prisoners.
The Story of Daedalus and Icarus by Ovid
Homesick for homeland, Daedalus hated Crete
And his long exile there, but the sea held him.
"Though Minos blocks escape by land or water,"
Daedalus said, "surely the sky is open,
And that's the way we'll go. Minos' dominion
Does not include the air." He turned his thinking
Toward unknown arts, changing the laws of nature.
He laid out feathers in order, first the smallest,
A little larger next it, and so continued,
The way that pan-pipes rise in gradual sequence.
He fastened them with twine and wax, at middle,
At bottom, so, and bent them, gently curving,
So that they looked like wings of birds, most surely.
And Icarus, his son, stood by and watched him,
Not knowing he was dealing with his downfall,
Stood by and watched, and raised his shiny face
To let a feather, light as down, fall on it,
Or stuck his thumb into the yellow wax,
Fooling around, the way a boy will, always,
Whenever a father tries to get some work done.
Still, it was done at last, and the father hovered,
Poised, in the moving air, and taught his son:
"I warn you, Icarus, fly a middle course:
Don't go too low, or water will weigh the wings down;
Don't go too high, or the sun's fire will burn them.
Keep to the middle way. And one more thing,
5
10
15
20
25
No fancy steering by star or constellation,
Follow my lead!" That was the flying lesson,
And now to fit the wings to the boy's shoulders.
Between the work and warning the father found
30
His cheeks were wet with tears, and his hands trembled.
He kissed his son (Good-bye, if he had known it),
Rose on his wings, flew on ahead, as fearful
As any bird launching the little nestlings
Out of high nest into thin air. Keep on,
35
Keep on, he signals, follow me! He guides him
In flight-O fatal art!-and the wings move
And the father looks back to see the son's wings moving.
Far off, far down, some fisherman is watching
As the rod dips and trembles over the water,
40
Some shepherd rests his weight upon his crook,
Some ploughman on the handles of the ploughshare,
And all look up, in absolute amazement,
At those air-borne above. They must be gods!
They were over Samos, Juno's sacred island,
45
Delos and Paros toward the left, Lebinthus
Visible to the right, and another island,
Calymne, rich in honey. And the boy
Thought This is wonderful! and left his father,
Soared higher, higher, drawn to the vast heaven,
50
Nearer the sun, and the wax that held the wings
Melted in that fierce heat, and the bare arms
Beat up and down in air, and lacking oarage
Took hold of nothing. Father! he cried, and Father!
Until the blue sea hushed him, the dark water
55
Men call the Icarian now. And Daedalus,
Father no more, called "Icarus, where are you!
Where are you, Icarus? Tell me where to find you!"
And saw the wings on the waves, and cursed his talents,
Buried the body in a tomb, and the land
60
Was named for Icarus.
Since this poem supplies the lyrics for on of the most famous and popular American folk songs, you’ve
probably heard it sung at one time or another. Carried along by the music, you may have thought it
was a sentimental love song. If so, read these verses carefully—you will be surprised.
Clementine by Percy Montross
In a cavern, in a canyon, excavating for a mine,
Lived a miner, forty - niner, and his daughter Clementine.
REFRAIN:
Oh my darling, Oh my darling, Oh my darling Clementine,
You are lost and gone forever, dreadful sorry, Clementine.
Light she was, and like a fairy, and her shoes were number nine,
Herring boxes without topses, sandals were for Clementine.
Drove she ducklings to the water every morning just at nine,
Hit her foot against a splinter, fell into the foaming brine.
Ruby lips above the water, blowing bubbles soft and fine,
Alas for me! I was no swimmer, so I lost my Clementine.
In a churchyard near the canyon, where the myrtle doth entwine,
There grow roses and other posies, fertilized by Clementine.
Then the miner, forty - niner, soon began to droop and pine,
Thought he ought to join his daughter, now he's with his Clementine.
In my dreams she still doth haunt me, robed in garments soaked in brine,
While in life I used to hug her, now she's dead I draw the line.
William Wordsworth wrote six poems about a young girl named Lucy. The mystery of the girl’s
identity has never been solved. The mention of the River Dove in England reveals that Lucy lived in
the countryside—but little else is known about her.
She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways by William Wordsworth
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove
A maid 1 whom there were none to praise
And very few to love.
A violet by the mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and oh,
The difference to me!
1maid:
a young unmarried woman