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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
BADMINTON, by ALFRED COMYNS LYALL Poet's Biography First Line: Hardly a shot from the gate we stormed Last Line: God smite their souls to the depths of hell.' Subject(s): Badminton | |||
Hardly a shot from the gate we stormed, Under the Moree battlement's shade; Close to the glacis our game was formed, There had the fight been, and there we played. Lightly the demoiselles tittered and leapt, Merrily capered the players all; North, was the garden where Nicholson slept, South, was the sweep of a battered wall. Near me a Musalman, civil and mild, Watched as the shuttlecocks rose and fell; And he said, as he counted his beads and smiled, 'God smite their souls to the depths of hell.' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BADMINTON TO YOU by TOM SAVAGE MEDITATIONS OF A HINDU [OR, HINDOO] PRINCE [AND SKEPTIC] by ALFRED COMYNS LYALL IRELAND; WRITTEN FOR THE ART AUTOGRAPH DURING IRISH FAMINE by SIDNEY LANIER MARY DONNELLY by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM ON WORDSWORTH by DAVID HARTLEY COLERIDGE THE CAGED GOLDFINCH by THOMAS HARDY FLOATING HEARTS by GEORGE BRADFORD BARTLETT |
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