Jonah and the Whale - a traditional tale

I have not been able to find a copy of this poem but a famous tale never the less one we all know. Really no suprise at the interpretation here of the whale ......

Hell In Texas

Hell in Texas
Unknown author

Oh, the Devil in hell they say he was chained,
And there for a thousand years he remained;
He neither complained nor did he groan,
But decided he'd start up a hell of his own,
Where he could torment the souls of men
Without being shut in a prison pen;
So he asked the Lord if He had any sand
Left over from making this great land.

The Lord He said, "Yes, I have plenty on hand,
But it's away down south on the Rio Grande,
And, to tell you the truth, the stuff is so poor
I doubt if 'twill do for hell any more."
The Devil went down and looked over the truck,
And he said if it came as a gift he was stuck,
For when he'd examined it carefully and well
He decided the place was too dry for a hell.

But the Lord just to get the stuff off His hands
He promised the Devil He'd water the land,
For he had some old water that was of no use,
A regular bog hole that stunk like the deuce.
So the grant it was made and the deed it was given;
The Lord He returned to His place up in heaven.
The Devil soon saw he had everything needed
To make up a hell and so he proceeded.

He scattered tarantulas over the roads,
Put thorns on the cactus and horns on the toads,
He sprinkled the sands with millions of ants
So the man that sits down must wear soles on his pants.
He lengthened the horns of the Texas steer,
And added an inch to the jack rabbit's ear;
He put water puppies in all of the lakes,
And under the rocks he put rattlesnakes.

He hung thorns and brambles on all of the trees,
He mixed up the dust with jiggers and fleas;
The rattlesnake bites you, the scorpion stings,
The mosquito delights you by buzzing his wings.
The heat in the summer's a hundred and ten,
Too hot for the Devil and too hot for men;
And all who remained in that climate soon bore
Cuts, bites, stings, and scratches, and blisters galore.

He quickened the buck of the bronco steed,
And poisoned the feet of the centipede;
The wild boar roams in the black chaparral
It's a hell of a place that we've got for a hell.
He planted red pepper beside of the brooks;
The Mexicans use them in all that they cook.

Just dine with a Greaser and then you will shout,
"I've hell on the inside as well as the out! "

On reading this poem I was struck by a thought of a demon like figure but rather than 
strong colours a delicate balance of watercolour red, orange and yellow. 
I think it worked quite well.

Miss Foggerty's Cake

As I sat in my window last evening,
The letterman brought it to me
A little gilt-edged invitation sayin'
"Gilhooley come over to tea"
I knew that the Fogarties sent it.
So I went just for old friendships sake.
The first think they gave me to tackle
Was a slice of Miss Fogarty's cake.

cho: There were plums and prunes and cherries,
There were citrons and raisins and cinnamon, too
There was nutmeg, cloves and berries
And a crust that was nailed on with glue
There were caraway seeds in abundance
Such that work up a fine stomach ache
That could kill a man twice after eating a slice
Of Miss Fogarty's Christmas cake.

Miss Mulligan wanted to try it,
But really it wasn't no use
For we worked in it over an hour
And we couldn't get none of it loose
Till Murphy came in with a hatchet
And Kelly came in with a saw
That cake was enough be the powers above
For to paralyze any man's jaws

Miss Fogarty proud as a peacock,
Kept smiling and blinking away
Till she flipped over Flanagans brogans
And she spilt the homebrew in her tay
Aye Gilhooley she says you're not eatin,
Try a little bit more for me sake
And no Miss Fogarty says I,
For I've had quite enough of your cake.

Maloney was took with the colic,
O'Donald's a pain in his head
Mc'Naughton lay down on the sofa,
And he swore that he wished he was dead
Miss Bailey went into hysterics
And there she did wriggle and shake
And everyone swore they were poisoned
Just from eating Miss Fogarty's cake!

Unknown

Get a Transfer - Unknown author

A Funny Poem with Inspiration
Get A Transfer
By Author Unknown

If you are on the Gloomy Line,
Get a transfer.
If you're inclined to fret and pine,
Get a transfer.
Get off the track of doubt and gloom,
Get on the Sunshine Track -there's room-
Get a transfer.

If you're on the Worry Train,
Get a transfer.
You must not stay there and complain,
Get a transfer.
The Cheerful Cars are passing through,
And there's lots of room for you-
Get a transfer.

If you're on the Grouchy Track,
Get a transfer.
Just take a Happy Special back,
Get a transfer.
Jump on the train and pull the rope,
That lands you at the station of Hope-
Get a transfer.

John Maynard by Horatio Alger

JOHN MAYNARD

by: Horatio Alger (1832-1899)

'WAS on Lake Erie's broad expanse

One bright midsummer day,

The gallant steamer Ocean Queen

Swept proudly on her way.

Bright faces clustered on the deck,

Or, leaning o'er the side,

Watched carelessly the feathery foam

That flecked the rippling tide.




Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky,

That smiling bends serene,

Could dream that danger awful, vast,

Impended o'er the scene,--

Could dream that ere an hour had sped

That frame of sturdy oak

Would sink beneath the lake's blue waves,

Blackened with fire and smoke?




A seaman sought the captain's side,

A moment whispered low;

The captain's swarthy face grew pale;

He hurried down below.

Alas, too late! Though quick, and sharp,

And clear his orders came,

No human efforts could avail

To quench the insidious flame.




The bad news quickly reached the deck,

It sped from lip to lip,

And ghastly Faces everywhere

Looked from the doomed ship.

"Is there no hope--no chance of life?"

A hundred lips implore,

"But one," the captain made reply,

"To run the ship on shore."




A sailor, whose heroic soul

That hour should yet reveal,

By name John Maynard, eastern-born,

Stood calmly at the wheel.

"Head her south-east!" the captain shouts,

Above the smothered roar,--

"Head her south-east without delay!

Make for the nearest shore!"




No terror pales the helmsman's cheek,

Or clouds his dauntless eye,

As, in a sailor's measured tone,

His voice responds, "Ay! ay!"

Three hundred souls, the steamer's freight,

Crowd forward wild with fear,

While at the stern the dreaded flames

Above the deck appear.




John Maynard watched the nearing flames,

But still with steady hand

He grasped the wheel, and steadfastly

He steered the ship to land.

"John Maynard, can you still hold out?"

He heard the captain cry;

A voice from out the stifling smoke

Faintly responds, "Ay! ay!"




But half a mile! a hundred hands

Stretch eagerly to shore.

But half a mile! That distance sped

Peril shall all be o'er.

But half a mile! Yet stay, the flames

No longer slowly creep,

But gather round that helmsman bold,

With fierce, impetuous sweep.




"John Maynard!" with an anxious voice

The captain cries once more,

"Stand by the wheel five minutes yet,

And we shall reach the shore."

Through flame and smoke that dauntless heart

Responded firmly still,

Unawed, though face to face with death,--

"With God's good help I will!"




The flames approach with giant strides,

They scorch his hand and brow;

One arm, disabled, seeks his side,

Ah! he is conquered now!

But no, his teeth are firmly set,

He crushes down his pain,

His knee upon the stanchion pressed,

He guides the ship again.




One moment yet! one moment yet!

Brave heart, thy task is o'er,

The pebbles grate beneath the keel.

The steamer touches shore.

Three hundred grateful voice rise

In praise to God that he

Hath saved them from the fearful fire,

And from the engulphing sea.




But where is he, that helmsman bold?

The captain saw him reel,--

His nerveless hands released their task,

He sank beside the wheel.

The wave received his lifeless corpse,

Blackened with smoke and fire.

God rest him! Never hero had

A nobler funeral pyre!

If by Rudyard Kipling

F you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

Is this triumph and disaster clinging onto the world?

It Couldnt be done by Edgar A. Guest

It Couldn't be Done

Somebody said that it couldn’t be done,
But, he with a chuckle replied
That "maybe it couldn’t," but he would be one
Who wouldn’t say so till he’d tried.
So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
On his face. If he worried he hid it.
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

Somebody scoffed: "Oh, you’ll never do that;
At least no one has done it";
But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,
And the first thing we knew he’d begun it.
With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,
Without any doubting or quiddit,
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,
There are thousands to prophesy failure;
There are thousands to point out to you one by one,
The dangers that wait to assail you.
But just buckle it in with a bit of a grin,
Just take off your coat and go to it;
Just start to sing as you tackle the thing
That "couldn’t be done," and you’ll do it.

By Edgar A. Guest

I do love this poem .....