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About this Poem 

From Ballads and Songs (London: Cassell and Company, 1896).


The Red Flag

  Where the quivering lightning flings
    His arrows from out the clouds,
  And the howling tempest sings
    And whistles among the shrouds,
  'Tis pleasant, 'tis pleasant to ride
    Along the foaming brine—
  Wilt be the Rover's bride?
    Wilt follow him, lady mine?
  For the bonny, bonny brine.

  Amidst the storm and rack,
    You shall see our galley pass,
  As a serpent, lithe and black,
    Glides through the waving grass.
  As the vulture swift and dark,
    Down on the ring-dove flies,
  You shall see the Rovers bark
    Swoop down upon his prize.
  For the bonny, bonny prize.

  Over her sides we dash,
    We gallop across her deck—
  Ha! there's a ghastly gash
    On the merchant-captain's neck—
  Well shot, well shot, old Ned!
    Well struck, well struck, black James!
  Our arms are red, and our foes are dead,
    And we leave a ship in flames!
  For the bonny, bonny flames!

This poem is in the public domain. 

This poem is in the public domain. 

William Makepeace Thackeray

William Makepeace Thackeray, born July 18, 1811, was an English writer best known for his novels, particularly The History of Henry Esmond, Esq. (The Mershon Company Publishers, 1852) and Vanity Fair (Bradbury and Evans, 1848). While in school, Thackeray began writing poems, which he published in a number of magazines, chiefly Fraser and Punch. He died on December 24, 1863.

by this poet

  My name is Pleaceman X;
    Last night I was in bed,
  A dream did me perplex,
    Which came into my Edd.
  I dreamed I sor three Waits
    A playing of their tune,
  At Pimlico Palace gates,
    All underneath the moon.
  One puffed a hold French horn,
    And one a hold Banjo,
  And one chap seedy and torn
  The Pope he is a happy man,
  His Palace is the Vatican,
  And there he sits and drains his can:
  The Pope he is a happy man.
  I often say when I'm at home,
  I'd like to be the Pope of Rome.

  And then there's Sultan Saladin,
  That Turkish Soldan full of sin;
  He has a hundred wives at least,
  By which
  Galliant gents and lovely ladies,
    List a tail vich late befel,
  Vich I heard it, bein on duty,
    At the Pleace Hoffice, Clerkenwell.

  Praps you know the Fondling Chapel,
    Vere the little children sings:
  (Lor! I likes to hear on Sundies
    Them there pooty little things!)

  In this street there