UVic Libraries, Creative Commons Attribution NonCommercial, https://creativecommons.org/lice nses/by-nc/4.0/.
Dickens, Charles. 'A Christmas Carol' from The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. Issue 10, Chapter 28 (December 1836): pp. 297-298. Dickens Search. Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1836-12_Pickwick_Papers_A_Christmas_Carol.
I care not for Spring; on his fickle wing,
Let the blossoms and buds be borne:
He wooes them amain with his treacherous rain,
And he scatters them ere the morn.
An inconstant elf, he knows not himself,
Nor his own changing mind an hour,
He’ll smile in your face, and, with wry grimace,
He’ll wither your youngest flower.
Let the Summer sun to his bright home run,
He shall never be sought by me;
When he’s dimmed by a cloud I can laugh aloud,
And care not how sulky he be!
For his darling child is the madness wild
That sports in fierce fever’s train;
And when love is too strong, it don’t last long,
As many have found to their pain.
A mild harvest night, by the tranquil light
Of the modest and gentle moon,
Has a far sweeter sheen, for me, I ween,
Than the broad and unblushing noon.
But every leaf awakens my grief,
As it lieth beneath the tree;
So let Autumn air be never so far,
It by no means agrees with me.
But my song I troll out, for CHRISTMAS stout,
The heart, the true, and the bold;
A bumper I drain, and with might and main
Give three cheers for this Christmas old!
We’ll usher him in with a merry din
That shall gladden his joyous heart,
And we’ll keep him up, while there’s bite or sup,
And in fellowship good, we’ll part.
In his fine honest pride, he scorns to hide
One jot of his hard-weather scars;
They’re no disgrace, for there’s much the same trace
On the cheeks of our bravest tars.
Then again I sing till the roof doth ring,
And it echoes from wall to wall –
To the stout old wight, fair welcome to-night,
As the King of the Seasons all!
The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. Issue 10, Chapter 29 (December 1836), p. 300. UVic Libraries, https://vault.library.uvic.ca/concern/file_sets/bf08b770-6776-47b5-be67-433295ac4b4a?locale=en.
UVic Libraries, Creative Commons Attribution NonCommercial, https://creativecommons.org/lice nses/by-nc/4.0/.
Brave lodgings for one, brave lodgings for one,
A few feet of cold earth, when life is done;
A stone at the head, a stone at the feet,
A rich, juicy meal for the worms to eat;
Rank grass over head, and damp clay around,
Brave lodgings for one, these, in holy ground!
UVic Libraries, Creative Commons Attribution NonCommercial, https://creativecommons.org/lice nses/by-nc/4.0/.
Dickens, Charles. 'Ode to an Expiring Frog' from The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. Issue 6, Chapter 15 (August 1836), p. 148. Dickens Search. Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1836-08-Pickwick_Papers_Ode_to_an_Expiring_Frog.
Can I view thee panting, lying
On thy stomach, without sighing?
Can I unmoved see thee dying
On a log,
Expiring frog?
Say, have fiends in shape of boys,
With wild halloo and brutal noise,
Hunted thee from marshy joys,
With a dog,
Expiring frog?
The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. Issue 15, Chapter 43 (June 1837), p. 464. UVic Libraries, https://vault.library.uvic.ca/concern/file_sets/93a0e9d2-e383-4c75-88eb-a6cdb9d29cac?locale=en.
UVic Libraries, Creative Commons Attribution NonCommercial, https://creativecommons.org/lice nses/by-nc/4.0/.
Dickens, Charles. 'Romance' from The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. Chapter 43, Number 15 (June 1837), p. 464. Dickens Search. Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1837-06-Pickwick_Papers_Romance.
Bold Turpin vunce, on Hounslow Heath,
His bold mare Bess bestrode – er;
Ven there he see’d the Bishop’s coach
A-comin’ along the road – er.
So he gallops close to the ‘orse’s legs,
And he claps his head vithin;
And the Bishop says, "Sure as eggs is eggs,
This here’s the bold Turpin!”
(CHORUS.) And the Bishop says, "Sure as eggs is eggs,
This here’s the bold Turpin!"
Says Turpin, "You shall eat your words,
With a sarse of leaden bul’let;"
So he puts a pistol to his mouth,
And he fires it down his gul-let.
The coachman, he not likin’ the job,
Set off at a full gal-lop,
But Dick put a couple of balls in his nob,
And perwailed on him to stop.
(CHORUS sarcastically.) But Dick put a couple of balls in his nob,
And perwailed on him to stop.
Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green,
That creepeth o’er ruins old!
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim:
And the mouldering dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a staunch old heart has he.
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,
To his friend the huge Oak Tree!
And slily he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The rich mould of dead men’s graves.
Creeping where grim death hath been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Whole ages have fled and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,
From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant, in its lonely days,
Shall fatten upon the past:
For the stateliest building man can raise
Is the Ivy’s food at last.
Creeping on, where time has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.