Vulgar words in The Complete Poetical Works of James Russell Lowell (Page 1)
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V Full oft they met, as dawn and twilight meet In northern climes; she full of growing day As he of darkness, which before her feet Shrank gradual, and faded quite away, Soon to return; for power had made love sweet To him, and when his will had gained full sway, The taste began to pall; for never power Can sate the hungry soul beyond an hour.
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And, in his sky-descended mood, Transmutes each drop of sluggish blood, 40 By touch of bravery's simple wand, To amethyst and diamond, Proving himself no bastard slip, But the true granite-cradled one, Nursed with the rock's primeval drip, The cloud-embracing mountain's son!
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'There comes Poe, with his raven, like Barnaby Rudge, Three fifths of him genius and two fifths sheer fudge, Who talks like a book of iambs and pentameters, In a way to make people of common sense damn metres, 1300 Who has written some things quite the best of their kind, But the heart somehow seems all squeezed out by the mind, Who--But hey-day!
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I ought to have known what the fellow would do,' Muttered Phoebus aside, 'for a thistle will pass Beyond doubt for the queen of all flowers with an ass; He has chosen in just the same way as he'd choose 1720 His specimens out of the books he reviews; And now, as this offers an excellent text, I'll give 'em some brief hints on criticism next.'
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All gone except their saint's religious hops, Which he kept up with more than common flourish; But these, however satisfying crops For the inner man, were not enough to nourish The body politic, which quickly drops Reserve in such sad junctures, and turns currish; 230 So Ahmed soon got cursed for all the famine Where'er the popular voice could edge a damn in.
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The author is a vulgar buffoon, and the editor a talkative, tedious old fool.
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Clang the bells in every steeple, Call all true men to disown The tradoocers of our people, The enslavers o' their own; 140 Let our dear old Bay State proudly Put the trumpet to her mouth, Let her ring this messidge loudly In the ears of all the South:-- 'I'll return ye good fer evil Much ez we frail mortils can, But I wun't go help the Devil Makin' man the cuss o' man; Call me coward, call me traiter, Jest ez suits your mean idees,-- Here I stand a tyrant hater, 151 An' the friend o' God an' Peace!'
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It must be right, fer Caleb sez it's reg'lar Anglo-Saxon, The Mex'cans don't fight fair, they say, they piz'n all the water, An' du amazin' lots o' things thet isn't wut they ough' to; Bein' they haint no lead, they make their bullets out o' copper An' shoot the darned things at us, tu, wich Caleb sez ain proper; 90 He sez they'd ough' to stan' right up an' let us pop 'em fairly (Guess wen he ketches 'em at thet he'll hev to git up airly), Thet our nation's bigger 'n theirn an' so its rights air bigger, An' thet it's all to make 'em free thet we air pullin' trigger, Thet Anglo Saxondom's idee's abreakin' 'em to pieces, An' thet idee's thet every man doos jest wut he damn pleases; Ef I don't make his meanin' clear, perhaps in some respex I can, I know thet 'every man' don't mean a nigger or a Mexican; An' there's another thing I know, an' thet is, ef these creeters, Thet stick an Anglosaxon mask onto State-prison feeturs, 100 Should come to Jaalam Centre fer to argify an' spout on 't, The gals 'ould count the silver spoons the minnit they cleared out on 't.
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An' mind your eye, be thund'rin' spry, or, damn ye, you shall ketch it!'
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Now all o' these blessin's the Wigs might enjoy, Ef they'd gumption enough the right means to imploy;[20] 110 Fer the silver spoon born in Dermoc'acy's mouth Is a kind of a scringe thet they hev to the South; Their masters can cuss 'em an' kick 'em an' wale 'em.
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'The mass ough' to labor an' we lay on soffies, Thet's the reason I want to spread Freedom's aree; It puts all the cunninest on us in office, An' reelises our Maker's orig'nal idee,' Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;-- 'Thet's ez plain,' sez Cass, 30 'Ez thet some one's an ass, It's ez clear ez the sun is at noon,' sez he.
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But even ef they caird the day, there wouldn't be no endurin' To stan' upon a platform with sech critters ez Van Buren;-- An' his son John, tu, I can't think how thet 'ere chap should dare To speak ez he doos; wy, they say he used to cuss an' swear!
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120 When I come out, the folks behaved mos' gen'manly an' harnsome; They 'lowed it wouldn't be more 'n right, ef I should cuss 'n' darn some: The Cunnle he apolergized; suz he, 'I'll du wut's right, I'll give ye settisfection now by shootin' ye at sight, An' give the nigger (when he's caught), to pay him fer his trickin' In gittin' the wrong man took up, a most H fired lickin',-- It's jest the way with all on 'em, the inconsistent critters, They're 'most enough to make a man blaspheme his mornin' bitters; I'll be your frien' thru thick an' thin an' in all kines o' weathers, An' all you'll hev to pay fer's jest the waste o' tar an' feathers: 130 A lady owned the bed, ye see, a widder, tu, Miss Shennon; It wuz her mite; we would ha' took another, ef ther' 'd ben one: We don't make _no_ charge for the ride an' all the other fixins.
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Esquire for quallerties o' heart an' intellec' Peculiar to Columby's sile, an' not to no one else's, Thet makes European tyrans scringe in all their gilded pel'ces, An' doos gret honor to our race an' Southun institootions:' (I give ye jest the substance o' the leadin' resolootions:) 140 'RESOLVED, Thet we revere In him a soger 'thout a flor, A martyr to the princerples o' libbaty an' lor: RESOLVED, Thet other nations all, ef sot 'longside o' us, For vartoo, larnin', chivverlry, ain't noways wuth a cuss.'
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A Baldin hain't no more 'f a chance with them new apple-corers Than folks's oppersition views aginst the Ringtail Roarers; They'll take 'em out on him 'bout east,--one canter on a rail Makes a man feel unannermous ez Jonah in the whale: 170 Or ef he's a slow-moulded cuss thet can't seem quite t' 'gree, He gits the noose by tellergraph upon the nighes' tree: Their mission-work with Afrikins hez put 'em up, thet's sartin, To all the mos' across-lot ways o' preachin' an' convartin'; I'll bet my hat th' ain't nary priest, nor all on 'em together; Thet cairs conviction to the min' like Reveren' Taranfeather; Why, he sot up with me one night, an' labored to sech purpose, Thet (ez an owl by daylight 'mongst a flock o' teazin' chirpers Sees clearer 'n mud the wickedness o' eatin' little birds) I see my error an' agreed to shen it arterwurds; 180 An' I should say, (to jedge our folks by facs in my possession,) Thet three's Unannermous where one's a 'Riginal Secession; So it's a thing you fellers North may safely bet your chink on, Thet we're all water-proofed agin th' usurpin' reign o' Lincoln.
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Now the world is a dreffle mean place, for our sins, Where ther' ollus is critters about with long pins 120 A-prickin' the bubbles we've blowed with sech care, An' provin' ther' 's nothin' inside but bad air: They're all Stuart Millses, poor-white trash, an' sneaks, Without no more chivverlry 'n Choctaws or Creeks, Who think a real gennleman's promise to pay Is meant to be took in trade's ornery way: Them fellers an' I couldn' never agree; They're the nateral foes o' the Southun Idee; I'd gladly take all of our other resks on me To be red o' this low-lived politikle 'con'my!
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Ye see, hitherto, it's our own knaves an' fools Thet we've used, (those for whetstones, an' t'others ez tools,) 200 An' now our las' chance is in puttin' to test The same kin' o' cattle up North an' out West,-- Your Belmonts, Vallandighams, Woodses, an' sech, Poor shotes thet ye couldn't persuade us to tech, Not in ornery times, though we're willin' to feed 'em With a nod now an' then, when we happen to need 'em; Why, for my part, I'd ruther shake hands with a nigger Than with cusses that load an' don't darst dror a trigger; They're the wust wooden nutmegs the Yankees perdooce, Shaky everywheres else, an' jes' sound on the goose; 210 They ain't wuth a cuss, an' I set nothin' by 'em, But we're in sech a fix thet I s'pose we mus' try 'em.
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Things wuz ripenin' fust-rate with Buchanan to nuss 'em; But the People--they wouldn't be Mexicans, cuss 'em!
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Why, ef the Republicans ever should git Andy Johnson or some one to lend 'em the wit An' the spunk jes' to mount Constitootion an' Court With Columbiad guns, your real ekle-rights sort, 130 Or drill out the spike from the ole Declaration Thet can kerry a solid shot clearn roun' creation, We'd better take maysures for shettin' up shop, An' put off our stock by a vendoo or swop.
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Things look pooty squally, it must be allowed, An' I don't see much signs of a bow in the cloud: Ther's too many Deemocrats--leaders wut's wuss-- Thet go for the Union 'thout carin' a cuss Ef it helps ary party thet ever wuz heard on, So our eagle ain't made a split Austrian bird on.
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Ther' 's times when I'm unsoshle ez a stone, An' sort o' suffercate to be alone,-- I'm crowded jes' to think thet folks are nigh, An' can't bear nothin' closer than the sky; Now the wind's full ez shifty in the mind Ez wut it is ou'-doors, ef I ain't blind, An' sometimes, in the fairest sou'west weather, 120 My innard vane pints east for weeks together, My natur' gits all goose-flesh, an' my sins Come drizzlin' on my conscience sharp ez pins: Wal, et sech times I jes' slip out o' sight An' take it out in a fair stan'-up fight With the one cuss I can't lay on the shelf, The crook'dest stick in all the heap,--Myself.
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Nescio an ille Polardus duplefveoribus ortus, Sed reputo potius de radice poorwitemanorum; Fortuiti proles, ni fallor, Tylerus erat Præsidis, omnibus ab Whiggis nominatus a poor cuss; Et nobilem tertium evincit venerabile nomen.
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Ez for their l'yalty, don't take a goad to 't, But I do' want to block their only road to 't 170 By lettin' 'em believe thet they can git Mor'n wut they lost, out of our little wit: I tell ye wut, I'm 'fraid we'll drif' to leeward 'thout we can put more stiffenin' into Seward; He seems to think Columby'd better ect Like a scared widder with a boy stiff-necked Thet stomps an' swears he wun't come in to supper; She mus' set up for him, ez weak ez Tupper, Keepin' the Constitootion on to warm, Tell he'll eccept her 'pologies in form: 180 The neighbors tell her he's a cross-grained cuss Thet needs a hidin' 'fore he comes to wus; 'No,' sez Ma Seward, 'he's ez good 'z the best, All he wants now is sugar-plums an' rest;' 'He sarsed my Pa,' sez one; 'He stoned my son,' Another edds, 'Oh wal, 'twuz jes' his fun.'
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30 An hour they pitch their shifting tents In thoughts, in feelings, and events; Beneath the palm-trees, on the grass, They sing, they dance, make love, and chatter, Vex the grim temples with their clatter, And make Truth's fount their looking-glass.
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The summer day he spent in questful round, And many a reed he marred, but never found A conjuring-spell to free the imprisoned sound; At last his vainly wearied limbs he laid Beneath a sacred laurel's flickering shade, And sleep about his brain her cobweb wound.
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His language has no word, we growl, for Home; But he can find a fireside in the sun, Play with his child, make love, and shriek his mind, By throngs of strangers undisprivacied.
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And they could build, if not the columned fane That from the height gleamed seaward many-hued, Something more friendly with their ruder skies: The gray spire, molten now in driving mist, Now lulled with the incommunicable blue; The carvings touched to meaning new with snow, Or commented with fleeting grace of shade; The statues, motley as man's memory, Partial as that, so mixed of true and false, 290 History and legend meeting with a kiss Across this bound-mark where their realms confine; The painted windows, freaking gloom with glow, Dusking the sunshine which they seem to cheer, Meet symbol of the senses and the soul, And the whole pile, grim with the Northman's thought Of life and death, and doom, life's equal fee,-- These were before me: and I gazed abashed, Child of an age that lectures, not creates, Plastering our swallow-nests on the awful Past, 300 And twittering round the work of larger men, As we had builded what we but deface.
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A PARABLE An ass munched thistles, while a nightingale From passion's fountain flooded all the vale.
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_Cussedness_, meaning _wickedness, malignity_, and _cuss_, a sneaking, ill-natured fellow, in such phrases as 'He done it out o' pure cussedness,' and 'He is a nateral cuss,' have been commonly thought Yankeeisms.
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_Cursydnesse_, in the same sense of malignant wickedness, occurs in the Coventry Plays, and _cuss_ may perhaps claim to have come in with the Conqueror.
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'Not worth a cuss,' though supported by 'not worth a damn,' may be a mere corruption, since 'not worth a _cress_' is in 'Piers Ploughman.'
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Cumberland in his Memoirs tells us that when, in the midst of Admiral Rodney's great sea-fight, Sir Charles Douglas said to him, 'Behold, Sir George, the Greeks and Trojans contending for the body of Patroclus!' the Admiral answered, peevishly, 'Damn the Greeks and damn the Trojans!
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they're quickly fled, A legend that grew in the forest's hush, A lily thou wast when I saw thee first, A poet cannot strive for despotism, A presence both by night and day, A race of nobles may die out, A stranger came one night to Yussouf's tent, About the oak that framed this chair, of old, Alike I hate to be your debtor, Along a river-side, I know not where, Amid these fragments of heroic days, An ass munched thistles, while a nightingale, 'And how could you dream of meeting?'
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Parable, A (An ass munched thistles, while a nightingale).