I went to hear Ian MacMillan at the Birmingham Book Festival last night. He was performing verses from his latest book, which is a sort of autobiography and is centred around his mother and father. I haven't laughed so much for ages, he really is a wonderful stand up comedian as well as a very amusing poet. He was only on for about 65-70 minutes but he goes at such a pace that there was a lot packed into that time. My favourite from his output is an older poem "Ted Hughes is Elvis Presley".

The old warhorse I knew at school, and now think is hilarious and bit camp (to use Mrs K's term) goes as follows.  A cod Sussex or Mummerset accent helps

If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse's feet,
Don't go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street.
Them that ask no questions isn't told a lie.
Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!

Five and twenty ponies,
Trotting through the dark -
Brandy for the Parson,
'Baccy for the Clerk;
Laces for a lady, letters for a spy,
And watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!

Running round the woodlump if you chance to find
Little barrels, roped and tarred, all full of brandy-wine,
Don't you shout to come and look, nor use 'em for your play.
Put the brishwood back again - and they'll be gone next day!

If you see the stable-door setting open wide;
If you see a tired horse lying down inside;
If your mother mends a coat cut about and tore;
If the lining's wet and warm - don't you ask no more!

If you meet King George's men, dressed in blue and red,
You be careful what you say, and mindful what is said.
If they call you "pretty maid," and chuck you 'neath the chin,
Don't you tell where no one is, nor yet where no one's been!

Knocks and footsteps round the house - whistles after dark -
You've no call for running out till the house-dogs bark.
Trusty's here, and Pincher's here, and see how dumb they lie -
They don't fret to follow when the Gentlemen go by!

If you do as you've been told, 'likely there's a chance,
You'll be given a dainty doll, all the way from France,
With a cap of Valenciennes, and a velvet hood -
A present from the Gentlemen, along o' being good!

Five and twenty ponies,
Trotting through the dark -
Brandy for the Parson,
'Baccy for the Clerk;
Them that asks no questions isn't told a lie -

Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by.

Rudyard Kipling

Oo ah, Jim lad

One of my favourites for reciting to myself.

Edit to add my italics.  That line is so  wondefully knowing.  I'm sure it could give itself to saucy double entendre.

Inaccurate, yes, Mary, but endearingly (though probably accidentally) apposite for an ode set in an area infamous for its cavalier attitude to participles. The good shire-folk of Angus are, after all, the very souls that inflicted jamped or even jamp on our tongue in place of jumped, to mention but one celebrated example.

I loved this too, and had forgotten it completely!  Thanks for that, Mary.   

Went to hear Carol Ann Duffy reading her poems tonight at the Birmingham Book Festival. I like her stuff but I didn't join the long queue at the end to get a book signed by her. Perhaps people do it because they reckon it will be worth more signed by the author?

   ENGLAND, with all thy faults, I love thee still -
   My country! and, while yet a nook is left
   Where English minds and manners may be found,
   Shall be constrain'd to love thee. Though thy clime
   Be fickle, and thy year most part deform'd
   With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost,
   I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies,
   And fields without a flow'r, for warmer France
   With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves
   Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bow'rs.
   To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime
   Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire
   Upon thy foes, was never meant my task:
   But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake
   Thy joys and sorrows, with as true a heart
   As any thund'rer there. And I can feel
   Thy follies, too; and with a just disdain
   Frown at effeminates, whose very looks
   Reflect dishonour on the land I love.
   How, in the name of soldiership and sense,
   Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth
   And tender as a girl, all essenc'd o'er
   With odours, and as profligate as sweet;
   Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath,
   And love when they should fight; when such as these
   Presume to lay their hand upon the ark
   Of her magnificent and awful cause?

   . . .

Yes, well - despite quite a good beginning the work is by this point in terminal decline and we desist from embarrassing Members with any more of it. In fact we have decided to recommend that in future nothing of Cowper should any longer be available to the general public on account of his egregious immorality.

Poor old William Cowper was the C18 poet Victorians preferred, as sort of versified Charles Lamb, who they thought mellow and we find twee.  Victorians of course, thought Cowper was so much more sincere than the terribly frivolous Alexander Pope.

And this is my queue to quote by heart from Pope's  The Rape of the Lock.  One young lady at the court of Queen Anne advises another who is upset at a young man making a pass at her. 

Say, why are Beauties prais'd and honoured most,
The wise man's passion and the vain man's toast?
Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford,
Why angels called and angel like, adored?
But what are all these glories, all these gains
Unless good sense maintain what beauty gains?
O, if to dance all night and dress all day
Charmed small pox and kept old age at bay,
Who would not scorn the housewife's care to use,
And who would learn one earthly thing of use?

But... since, alas, frail beauty must decay,
Since curled or not curled, locks shall turn to grey,
Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade,
And she who scorns a man must die a maid,
What then remains but well our power to use,
And keep good humour still, whate'r we lose.
And trust me, dear, good humour will prevail
When airs and screams and flights and scolding fail.
Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll.
Charm strikes the sight, but merit wins the soul.

I have found myself quoting it to myself more since my locks turned to (iron) grey.  Good humour is certainly not enough to get through life, but there is the moving suggestion that it is attained at some cost.