IN Collins Street standeth a statute tall,

A statue tall, on a pillar of stone,

Telling its story, to great and small,

Of the dust reclaimed from the sand waste lone;

Weary and wasted, and worn and wan,

Feeble and faint, and languid and low,

He lay on the desert a dying man;

Who has gone, my friends, where we all must go.

There are perils by land, and perils by water,

Short, I ween, are the obsequies

Of the landsman lost, but they may be shorter

With the mariner lost in the trackless seas;

And well for him, when the timbers start,

And the stout ship reels and settles below,

Who goes to his doom with as bold a heart,

As that dead man gone where we all must go.

Man is stubborn his rights to yield,

And redder than dews at eventide

Are the dews of battle, shed on the field,

By a nation’s wrath or a despot’s pride;

But few who have heard their death-knell roll,

From the cannon’s lips where they faced the foe,

Have fallen as stout and steady of soul,

As that dead man gone where we all must go.

Traverse yon spacious burial ground,

Many are sleeping soundly there,

Who pass’d with mourners standing around,

Kindred, and friends, and children fair;

Did he envy such ending? ’twere hard to say;

Had he cause to envy such ending? no;

Can the spirit feel for the senseless clay,

When it once has gone where we all must go?

What matters the sand or the whitening chalk,

The blighted herbage, the black’ning log,

The crooked beak of the eagle-hawk,

Or the hot red tongue of the native dog?

That couch was rugged, those sextons rude,

Yet, in spite of a leaden shroud, we know

That the bravest and fairest are earth-worms’ food,

When once they’ve gone where we all must go.

With the pistol clenched in his failing hand,

With the death mist spread o’er his fading eyes,

He saw the sun go down on the sand,

And he slept, and never saw it rise;

’Twas well; he toil’d till his task was done,

Constant and calm in his latest throe,

The storm was weathered, the battle was won,

When he went, my friends, where we all must go.

God grant that whenever, soon or late,

Our course is run and our goal is reach’d,

We may meet our fate as steady and straight

As he whose bones in yon desert bleach’d;

No tears are needed—our cheeks are dry,

We have none to waste upon living woe;

Shall we sigh for one who has ceased to sigh,

Having gone, my friends, where we all must go?

We tarry yet, we are toiling still,

He is gone and he fares the best,

He fought against odds, he struggled up hill,

He has fairly earned his season of rest;

No tears are needed—fill our the wine,

Let the goblets clash, and the grape juice flow,

Ho! pledge me a death-drink, comrade mine,

To a brave man gone where we all must go.

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A few random poems:

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Bat’s Poetry Page – more poetry by Fledermaus

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Batty Writing – the bat’s idle chatter, thoughts, ideas and observations, all original, all fresh

Poems in English 

• Robert Burns: Sappho Redivivus: Fragment by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Pegasus At Wanlockhead: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Ode, Sacred To The Memory Of Mrs. Oswald Of Auchencruive: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Robin Shure In Hairst: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Versicles On Sign-Posts : by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Henpecked Husband: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Elegy On The Year 1788: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Poet’s Progress : A Poem In Embryo by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Written In Friars Carse Hermitage: On Nithside by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Parting Kiss: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: My Bonie Mary: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Auld Lang Syne: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: It Is Na, Jean, Thy Bonie Face: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: I Reign In Jeanie’s Bosom: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Fall Of The Leaf: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: A Mother’s Lament For the Death of Her Son.: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: O, Were I On Parnassus Hill: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Day Returns: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Epistle To Robert Graham, Esq., Of Fintry: Requesting a Favour by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Fete Champetre: by Robert Burns

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Duckduckgo – the real alternative and a search engine that actually works. Without much censorship or partisan politics.

Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.

 

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