The Who knows the Unknown Poet Test

Okay! This is the "ringer" in the group. What we want to know here, is who is the author of this doggerel supposed to be. (it was a letter to a newspaper, published 120 years ago or so)

I'm not a butcher.

I'm not a Yid.

Nor yet a foreign skipper.

But I'm your own light hearted friend.

Yours truly..........................

Yet on they went through mire like pitch

Till they came to a fine and spacious ditch

Well camoflaged from planes and Zeps

Where soldiers stood on firing steps

And a Major sat on a wooden bench;

And the Sergeant whispered, "First line trench!"

And of swordsmen twenty and three

And his greased black ship through the waves did slip

T'was the sleekest craft at sea

Yet it helped him naught

When he was caught

By magic.......

I'd be greatful for all that I've got

For each new year would net me a seven cent raise

Whether I need it or not

And shadows wander to and fro,

And everywhere there's in the air

A hush that's deep and solemn;

Then is the time good men and true

With View Halloo pursue the gnu;

(The safest spot to put your shot

is through the spinal column).

Like the beating of the storm waves on the stern and distant shore.

"Kill him! kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand;

And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

my mirrored room, my secret life

it's lonely here,

there's no one left to torture

As Reilly crushed a louse

And Flynn roared out in thunderous tone

Four more here! On the house!

A poem on her 17th Birthday.

Lend us a couple of bob till Thursday.

I'm absolutely skint.

But I'm expecting a postal order

and I can pay you back as soon as it comes.

Sent up her tale of men;

The foot are fourscore thousand,

The horse are thousands ten.

Before the gates of Sutrium

Is met the great array.

And proud was Lars Porsena

Upon the trysting day.

Light goes the weather-wind and the feathered starling.

Down along under Hill, shining in the sunlight,

Waiting on the doorstep for the cold starlight,

There my pretty lady is, River-woman's daughter,

Slender as the willow-wand, clearer than the water.

They bid you send your sword."

And he answered, "Grapple her stern and bow.

They have asked for our steel?

They shall have it now;

Out cutlasses and board!"

Great Chieftan o' the Puddin-race!

Aboon them a' ye tak your place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm:

Weel are ye wordy of a grace

As lang's my arm.

"There was a ship," quoth he.

"Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!"

Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!

Drink and the devil had done for the rest

Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!"

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

Nothing beside remains: round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

I wandered lonely as a clod,

Just picking up old rags and bottles,

When onward on my way I plod,

I saw a host of axolotls;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

A sight to make a man's blood freeze.

Some had handles, some were plain;

They came in blue, red pink, and green.

A few were orange in the main;

The damndest sight I've ever seen.

The females gave a sprightly glance;

The male ones all wore knee-length pants.

Now oft, when on the couch I lie, The doctor asks me what I see.

They flash upon my inward eye And make me laugh in fiendish glee.

I find my solace then in bottles,

And I forget them axolotls.

When a man grows old and his balls grow cold,

And the tip of his prick turns blue;

When it bends in the middle like a one-string fiddle,

He can tell you a tale or two.

We wrapped 'em all in a mains'l tight

With twice ten turns of a hawser's bight

And we heaved 'em over and out of sight,

With a Yo-Heave-Ho! and a fare-you-well

And a sudden plunge in the sullen swell

Ten fathoms deep on the road to hell,

Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!

By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

I cremated Sam McGee.