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About this Poem 

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

 

A Tragic Story

  BY ADELBERT VON CHAMISSO.

 "—'s war Einer, dem's zu Herzen gieng."

  There lived a sage in days of yore
  And he a handsome pigtail wore;
  But wondered much and sorrowed more
       Because it hung behind him.

  He mused upon this curious case,
  And swore he'd change the pigtail's place,
  And have it hanging at his face,
       Not dangling there behind him.

  Says he, "The mystery I've found,—
  I'll turn me round,"—he turned him round;
       But still it hung behind him.

  Then round, and round, and out and in,
  All day the puzzled sage did spin;
  In vain—it mattered not a pin,—
       The pigtail hung behind him.

  And right, and left, and round about,
  And up, and down, and in, and out,
  He turned; but still the pigtail stout
       Hung steadily behind him.

  And though his efforts never slack,
  And though he twist, and twirl, and tack,
  Alas! still faithful to his back
       The pigtail hangs behind him.

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

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     When fierce political debate
       Throughout the isle was storming,
     And Rads attacked the throne and state,
       And Tories the reforming,
     To calm the furious rage of each,
       And right the land demented,
     Heaven sent us Jolly Jack, to teach
      The way to be contented.

     Jack's
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  Ye pathrons of janius, Minerva and Vanius,
    Who sit on Parnassus, that mountain of snow,
  Descind from your station and make observation
    Of the Prince's pavilion in sweet Pimlico.

  This garden, by jakurs, is forty poor acres,
    (The garner he tould me, and sure ought to know;)
  And yet greatly
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  In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars,
  And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars,
  Away from the world and its toils and its cares,
  I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs.

  To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure,
  But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure;
  And