The Poetry Of William Makepeace Thackeray - Volume 3: "To love and win is the best thing. To love and lose, the next best."

By William Makepeace Thackeray

In this series we look at individual poets who have shaped and influenced their craft and cement their place in our heritage. In this third volume we look at further poetical works of the eminent English writer and poet William Makepeace Thackeray. The great author of Vanity Fair and The Luck Of Barry Lyndon was born in India in 1811. At age 5 his father died and his mother sent him back to England. His education was of the best but he himself seemed unable to apply his talents to a rigorous work ethic. After a few years of marriage his wife began to suffer from depression and over the years became detached from reality. He himself suffered from ill health later in his life and the one pursuit that kept him moving forward was that of writing and in his life time he was placed second only to Dickens. High praise indeed. In this volume, the first of three, we take in his poetical works. Many novelists consider themselves to be poets first and foremost. In reading these poems it’s easy to consider Thackeray as such. His poems range from playful to serious and all manner of emotions and themes in between. In the end his worth as a poet is self-evident.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Copyright Group
• Release date: Jan 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781783948239

Book preview

The Poetry Of William Makepeace Thackeray – Volume 3

Poetry is a fascinating use of language.  With almost a million words at its command it is not surprising that these Isles have produced some of the most beautiful, moving and descriptive verse through the centuries. 

In this series we look at individual poets who have shaped and influenced their craft and cement their place in our heritage.  In this volume we look at further poetical works of the eminent English writer and poet William Makepeace Thackeray.

The great author of Vanity Fair and The Luck Of Barry Lyndon was born in India in 1811. At age 5 his father died and his mother sent him back to England.  His education was of the best but he himself seemed unable to apply his talents to a rigorous work ethic. 

After a few years of marriage his wife began to suffer from depression and over the years became detached from reality.  He himself suffered from ill health later in his life and the one pursuit that kept him moving forward was that of writing and in his life time he was placed second only to Dickens.  High praise indeed. 

In this volume, the third of three, we conclude our look into his poetical works.  Many novelists consider themselves to be poets first and foremost.  In reading these poems its easy to consider Thackeray as such.  His poems range from playful to serious and all manner of emotions and themes in between.   In the end his worth as a poet is self-evident.

Index Of Poems

The Legend Of St. Sophia Of Kioff

The Chronicle Of The Drum

The Three Christmas Waits

The Ballad of Bouillabaisse

The Battle Of Limerick

A Woeful New Ballad Of The Protestant Conspiracy To Take The Pope’s Life

Jacob Homnium’s Hoss

The Legend Of St. Sophia Of Kioff

I.

A thousand years ago, or more,

A city filled with burghers stout,

And girt with ramparts round about,

Stood on the rocky Dnieper shore.

In armor bright, by day and night,

The sentries they paced to and fro.

Well guarded and walled was this town, and called

By different names, I'd have you to know;

For if you looks in the g'ography books,

In those dictionaries the name it varies,

And they write it off Kieff or Kioff, Kiova or Kiow.

II.

Thus guarded without by wall and redoubt,

Kiova within was a place of renown,

With more advantages than in those dark ages

Were commonly known to belong to a town.

There were places and squares, and each year four fairs,

And regular aldermen and regular lord-mayors;

And streets, and alleys, and a bishop's palace;

And a church with clocks for the orthodox—

With clocks and with spires, as religion desires;

And beadles to whip the bad little boys

Over their poor little corduroys,

In service-time, when they DIDN'T make a noise;

And a chapter and dean, and a cathedral-green

With ancient trees, underneath whose shades

Wandered nice young nursery-maids.

Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-ding-a-ring-ding,

The bells they made a merry merry ring,

From the tall tall steeple; and all the people

(Except the Jews) came and filled the pews—

Poles, Russians and Germans,

To hear the sermons

Which HYACINTH preached godly to those Germans and Poles,

For the safety of their souls.

III.

A worthy priest he was and a stout—

You've seldom looked on such a one;

For, though he fasted thrice in a week,

Yet nevertheless his skin was sleek;

His waist it spanned two yards about

And he weighed a score of