You know nothing about them and nothing about me, so yet another utterly ridiculous and unfounded claim.
The question is what it actually asks, how many of the 7,000 actually died OF covid-19. What is it you're struggling to comprehend about it?
And was asked in the context of the point I made at the time, does the number justify the lockdown and the neglect of other essential health services such as cancer and coronary.
You know nothing about them and nothing about me, so yet another utterly ridiculous and unfounded claim.The question is what it actually asks, how many of the 7,000 actually died OF covid-19. What is it you're struggling to comprehend about it?And wa
The younger generation have many years in front of them, the older generation are in the twilight years, probably worked all their lives, and people who refuse to follow guidelines are putting more of them at risk. They might not have long left, but I'm sure none of them want to be struggling in an ICU bed with no loved ones around. Not talking about lockdown, talking about guidelines and restrictions, we should do whatever we can to prolong life, wether they be 20 or 80. If that means wearing a mask in a shop, so be it, if that means not having a pint after 10pm, so be it. In my view, the people who ignore those guidelines have no respect for the elder generation. Only my view of course.
The younger generation have many years in front of them, the older generation are in the twilight years, probably worked all their lives, and people who refuse to follow guidelines are putting more of them at risk. They might not have long left, but
Im not talking about silly things like mask wearing. Im talking about causing peoples livelyhoods and careers to be wrecked, people failing to get treatment for other curable illnesses like cancer, huge mental health problems etc etc.
Its delusional given the economic damage that is caused not to take into account the average victims life expectancy. Not everyone is equal, brutal choices are made every day and thats how it has to be.
Im not talking about silly things like mask wearing. Im talking about causing peoples livelyhoods and careers to be wrecked, people failing to get treatment for other curable illnesses like cancer, huge mental health problems etc etc. Its delusional
The younger generation have many years in front of them, the older generation are in the twilight years, probably worked all their lives, and people who refuse to follow guidelines are putting more of them at risk --- I don't agree with you Redrob. I think the guidelines are nonsense. If you really want to protect them stop giving financial support to healthy people who can go to work and spend the money on shielding and caring for the old and vulnerable. The government has under funded social care for decades and that's the key issue. I can't see how damaging the economy will help our old people in the future. I think masks are just a smoke screen for the government to be able to say they are acting tough. I can't see they help that much.
The younger generation have many years in front of them, the older generation are in the twilight years, probably worked all their lives, and people who refuse to follow guidelines are putting more of them at risk --- I don't agree with you Redrob. I
You miss my point. Im talking about serious problems caused for millions not a mild inconvenience of wearing a mask. This just shows the level of debate on covid. Ruining peoples futures should be more important.
You miss my point. Im talking about serious problems caused for millions not a mild inconvenience of wearing a mask. This just shows the level of debate on covid. Ruining peoples futures should be more important.
So, the media are now hinting that the vaccine (which has yet to materialise) may take 12 months to be rolled out. We could therefore be looking at early 2022 before everyone gets it. Would all the "pro lockdowners" be happy for restrictions to carry on until then?
So, the media are now hinting that the vaccine (which has yet to materialise) may take 12 months to be rolled out. We could therefore be looking at early 2022 before everyone gets it. Would all the "pro lockdowners" be happy for restrictions to car
The thing is that unless it mutates like flu does (nobody knows yet) then a vaccine should be unnecessary in 2 years as we would have all been exposed to it, if that makes sense?
The thing is that unless it mutates like flu does (nobody knows yet) then a vaccine should be unnecessary in 2 years as we would have all been exposed to it, if that makes sense?
Why would everyone want a vaccine? Anyone under 35 would need to be insane to have it unless they have an underlying condition. Any vaccine only needs to go to people who already need a flu one.
Why would everyone want a vaccine? Anyone under 35 would need to be insane to have it unless they have an underlying condition. Any vaccine only needs to go to people who already need a flu one.
BBC site today reports total 6,968 positive tests of people with symptoms. Have I missed something here, or is this more misinformation? I thought we were still testing lots of people who have no symptoms and that the total number of positive tests therefore includes both symptomatic and asymptomatic cases. Aside from this issue, we look very unlikely to hit Whitty's "this is not a prediction" of 49,000 by mid October.
BBC site today reports total 6,968 positive tests of people with symptoms. Have I missed something here, or is this more misinformation? I thought we were still testing lots of people who have no symptoms and that the total number of positive tests
Virus always mutate , it's how they work. - not really true. they may mutate but very very few mutate to a worse strain of coronovirus. No other coronovirus has mutated worse as far as I am aware. That is why flu is so difficult.
Virus always mutate , it's how they work. - not really true. they may mutate but very very few mutate to a worse strain of coronovirus. No other coronovirus has mutated worse as far as I am aware. That is why flu is so difficult.
Past viral epidemics have influenced the evolution of all life. In fact, about 8% of the human genome consists of retrovirus fragments. These genetic "fossils" are leftover from viral epidemics our ancestors survived. Most viruses are specialists. They establish long associations with preferred host species. In these relationships, the virus may not induce disease symptoms. In fact, the virus and host may benefit each other in symbiosis.
Occasionally, viruses will "emerge" or "spillover" from their original host to a new host. When this happens, the risk of disease increases. Most infectious diseases that affect humans and our food supply are the result of spillovers from wild organisms. Past coronaviruses, including the severe acute respiratory syndrome coronavirus (SARS-CoV), have jumped from bats to humans via an intermediary mammal. Some experts propose Malayan pangolins provided SARS-CoV-2 this link.
Although the original host of the SARS-CoV-2 virus hasn't been identified, we needn't be surprised if the creature appears perfectly healthy. Many other coronaviruses exist naturally in wild mammal and bird populations around the world.
Where do they keep coming from?
Human activity drives the emergence of new pathogenic (disease-causing) viruses. As we push back the boundaries of the last wild places on Earth—felling the bush for farms and plantations—viruses from wildlife interact with crops, farm animals and people.
Species that evolved separately are now mixing. Global markets allow the free trade of live animals (including their eggs, semen and meat), vegetables, flowers, bulbs and seeds – and viruses come along for the ride.
Past viral epidemics have influenced the evolution of all life. In fact, about 8% of the human genome consists of retrovirus fragments. These genetic "fossils" are leftover from viral epidemics our ancestors survived.Most viruses are specialists. The
Viruses are little more than parasitic fragments of RNA or DNA. Despite this, they are astonishingly abundant in number and genetic diversity. We don't know how many virus species there are, but there could be trillions. Virus spillover is a complex process and not fully understood. In nature, most viruses are confined to particular hosts because of specific protein "lock and key" interactions. These are needed for successful replication, movement within the host, and transmission between hosts.
For a virus to infect a new host, some or all protein "keys" may need to be modified. These modifications, called "mutations," can occur within the old host, the new one, or both.
For instance, a virus can jump from host A to host B, but it won't replicate well or transmit between individuals unless multiple protein keys mutate either simultaneously, or consecutively. The low probability of this happening makes spillovers uncommon.
To better understand how spillovers occur, imagine a virus is a short story printed on a piece of paper. The story describes:
how to live in a specific cell type, inside a specific hosthow to move to the cell next doorhow to transmit to a new individual of the same species.
The short story also has instructions on how to make a virus photocopying machine. This machine, an enzyme called a polymerase, is supposed to churn out endless identical copies of the story. However, the polymerase occasionally makes mistakes.
It may miss a word, or add a new word or phrase to the story, subtly changing it. These changed virus stories are called "mutants." Very occasionally, a mutant story will describe how the virus can live inside a totally new host species. If the mutant and this new host meet, a spillover can happen.
Viruses are little more than parasitic fragments of RNA or DNA. Despite this, they are astonishingly abundant in number and genetic diversity. We don't know how many virus species there are, but there could be trillions.Virus spillover is a complex p
I agree shiny, lock downs do not work. All they do is defer the problem. I sense that the government are trying to ride this out until a vaccine arrives, although they haven't declared it as a specific policy. What they won't tell us, or maybe they don't even want to consider the possibility, what would we do if a vaccine never materialises? Even if/when a vaccine does arrive, it may then take another 12 months to roll it out. I really hope that the nation won't put up with this nonsense for that length of time. Surely commonsense will kick in soon.
I agree shiny, lock downs do not work. All they do is defer the problem. I sense that the government are trying to ride this out until a vaccine arrives, although they haven't declared it as a specific policy. What they won't tell us, or maybe the
I don't think that's the case Ian, I think it is about getting through the flu season. Every year hospital in this country (lots of them) close their doors to sick people. The ambulances are diverted to other hospitals and patients are sat/led on gurneys just like the scenes you saw in Italy. This has never been reported fully in the past but it will be this time and they know it. The winter bed plans this year are no different than any other year but the media won't be reporting it like that. People just don't realise that flu kills virtually 30k every year in the UK.
I don't think that's the case Ian, I think it is about getting through the flu season. Every year hospital in this country (lots of them) close their doors to sick people. The ambulances are diverted to other hospitals and patients are sat/led on gur
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The ****'s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share,
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the Poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour:— The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,—
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;
'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high. His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;
'The next with dirges due in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,— Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'
Is this the poetry zone?##Lets make it a poetry forum:Elegy Written in a Country Church-YardThe curfew tolls the knell of parting day,The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,And leaves the world to darknes
In the early morning an old woman is picking blackberries in the shade. It will be too hot later but right now there’s dew.
Some berries fall: those are for squirrels. Some are unripe, reserved for bears. Some go into the metal bowl. Those are for you, so you may taste them just for a moment. That’s good times: one little sweetness after another, then quickly gone.
Once, this old woman I’m conjuring up for you would have been my grandmother. Today it’s me. Years from now it might be you, if you’re quite lucky.
The hands reaching in among the leaves and spines were once my mother’s. I’ve passed them on. Decades ahead, you’ll study your own temporary hands, and you’ll remember. Don’t cry, this is what happens.
Look! The steel bowl is almost full. Enough for all of us. The blackberries gleam like glass, like the glass ornaments we hang on trees in December to remind ourselves to be grateful for snow.
Some berries occur in sun, but they are smaller. It’s as I always told you: the best ones grow in shadow.
In the early morning an old womanis picking blackberries in the shade.It will be too hot laterbut right now there’s dew.Some berries fall: those are for squirrels.Some are unripe, reserved for bears.Some go into the metal bowl.Those are for you, so
Surely this is a far more suitable poem by the great Welshman himself:
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Surely this is a far more suitable poem by the great Welshman himself:Do not go gentle into that good night,Old age should burn and rave at close of day;Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Though wise men at their end know dark is right,Because
O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That Nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest; Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:— Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings; Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realised, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, To perish never; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Nor Man nor Boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy!
Hence in a season of calm weather Though inland far we be, Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither, Can in a moment travel thither, And see the Children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
William Wordsworth
O joy! that in our embersIs something that doth live,That Nature yet remembersWhat was so fugitive!The thought of our past years in me doth breedPerpetual benediction: not indeedFor that which is most worthy to be blest;Delight and liberty, the simpl
I inhale the smoke from a burning cigarette held between two stained fingers that are not mine. I am talking to a boy too cheap to offer me more than just the one toke. His fingers are not those of a guitarist, though he tells me otherwise. He tells other lies, too, and I pretend to believe him, ignoring the plump look of youth about him, and agreeing with every word he says. He sips vodka from a flask and winces, trying hard to disguise his distaste for this, Whilst I suckle at the flask like a child on a breast, swallowing with the same ease as you might water from a tap. I ask him, again, for a smoke and again, he says no, yet, again, holds out his fingers, and expects me to toke, dependent on him. And I do, because it's all I can do.
Smokerby Lara BrownI inhale the smoke from a burning cigaretteheld between two stained fingers that are not mine.I am talking to a boy too cheap to offer me morethan just the one toke.His fingers are not those of a guitarist,though he tells me otherw
In hospital with Covid Larabrown, Went sleepwalking into the town, She could not protest, When she woke under arrest, As her **** had slipped out of her gown.
For LaraBrown:In hospital with Covid Larabrown,Went sleepwalking into the town,She could not protest,When she woke under arrest,As her **** had slipped out of her gown.
In England once there lived a big And wonderfully clever pig. To everybody it was plain That Piggy had a massive brain. He worked out sums inside his head, There was no book he hadn't read. He knew what made an airplane fly, He knew how engines worked and why. He knew all this, but in the end One question drove him round the bend: He simply couldn't puzzle out What LIFE was really all about. What was the reason for his birth? Why was he placed upon this earth? His giant brain went round and round. Alas, no answer could be found. Till suddenly one wondrous night. All in a flash he saw the light. He jumped up like a ballet dancer And yelled, 'By gum, I've got the answer! ' 'They want my bacon slice by slice 'To sell at a tremendous price! 'They want my tender juicy chops 'To put in all the butcher's shops! 'They want my pork to make a roast 'And that's the part'll cost the most! 'They want my sausages in strings! 'They even want my chitterlings! 'The butcher's shop! The carving knife! 'That is the reason for my life! ' Such thoughts as these are not designed To give a pig great peace of mind. Next morning, in comes Farmer Bland, A pail of pigswill in his hand, And piggy with a mighty roar, Bashes the farmer to the floor… Now comes the rather grisly bit So let's not make too much of it, Except that you must understand That Piggy did eat Farmer Bland, He ate him up from head to toe, Chewing the pieces nice and slow. It took an hour to reach the feet, Because there was so much to eat, And when he finished, Pig, of course, Felt absolutely no remorse. Slowly he scratched his brainy head And with a little smile he said, 'I had a fairly powerful hunch 'That he might have me for his lunch. 'And so, because I feared the worst, 'I thought I'd better eat him first.'
In England once there lived a bigAnd wonderfully clever pig.To everybody it was plainThat Piggy had a massive brain.He worked out sums inside his head,There was no book he hadn't read.He knew what made an airplane fly,He knew how engines worked and w
Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.
Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole,I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud.Under the bludgeonings of chance My he
My last one from the great Welshman. I have to feed the horses and go to bed:
The force that through the green fuse drives the flower Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees Is my destroyer. And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
The force that drives the water through the rocks Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams Turns mine to wax. And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.
The hand that whirls the water in the pool Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind Hauls my shroud sail. And I am dumb to tell the hanging man How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.
The lips of time leech to the fountain head; Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood Shall calm her sores. And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.
And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.
My last one from the great Welshman. I have to feed the horses and go to bed:The force that through the green fuse drives the flowerDrives my green age; that blasts the roots of treesIs my destroyer.And I am dumb to tell the crooked roseMy youth is b
As soon as Wolf began to feel That he would like a decent meal, He went and knocked on Grandma's door. When Grandma opened it, she saw The sharp white teeth, the horrid grin, And Wolfie said, 'May I come in?' Poor Grandmamma was terrified, 'He's going to eat me up!' she cried. And she was absolutely right. He ate her up in one big bite. But Grandmamma was small and tough, And Wolfie wailed, 'That's not enough! I haven't yet begun to feel That I have had a decent meal!' He ran around the kitchen yelping, 'I've got to have a second helping!'
Then added with a frightful leer, 'I'm therefore going to wait right here Till Little Miss Red Riding Hood Comes home from walking in the wood.'
He quickly put on Grandma's clothes, (Of course he hadn't eaten those). He dressed himself in coat and hat. He put on shoes, and after that, He even brushed and curled his hair, Then sat himself in Grandma's chair.
In came the little girl in red. She stopped. She stared. And then she said, 'What great big ears you have, Grandma.' 'All the better to hear you with,' the Wolf replied. 'What great big eyes you have, Grandma.' said Little Red Riding Hood. 'All the better to see you with,' the Wolf replied. He sat there watching her and smiled. He thought, I'm going to eat this child. Compared with her old Grandmamma, She's going to taste like caviar.
Then Little Red Riding Hood said, ' But Grandma, what a lovely great big furry coat you have on.'
'That's wrong!' cried Wolf. 'Have you forgot To tell me what BIG TEETH I've got? Ah well, no matter what you say, I'm going to eat you anyway.'
The small girl smiles. One eyelid flickers. She whips a pistol from her knickers. She aims it at the creature's head, And bang bang bang, she shoots him dead.
A few weeks later, in the wood, I came across Miss Riding Hood. But what a change! No cloak of red, No silly hood upon her head. She said, 'Hello, and do please note My lovely furry wolfskin coat.'
Little Red Riding Hood And The WolfAs soon as Wolf began to feelThat he would like a decent meal,He went and knocked on Grandma's door.When Grandma opened it, she sawThe sharp white teeth, the horrid grin,And Wolfie said, 'May I come in?'Poor Grandma
There was a guy called murphy Who rode on summat turphy Who knows what he had sniffed to get those stewards miffed. Was it talc that soothed his pain? or merely Lidocaine
There was a guy called murphyWho rode on summat turphyWho knows what he had sniffedto get those stewards miffed.Was it talc that soothed his pain?or merely Lidocaine
She pulled out the whip to show that she was master
And when she swung it he began to go faster
She started to scream at the top of her voice
For the way he made her feel her voice got so hoarse
After a thirty minute run he started to tire
For this horse was no longer young he was ready to retire
he opened her legs then hopped up on itShe gripped it tight then sat down on itHe started to move so she began to ride itShe loved the feeling cuz she enjoyed itShe pulled out the whip to show that she was masterAnd when she swung it he began to go f
The sea is calm tonight. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits; on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet is the night-air! Only, from the long line of spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land, Listen! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night.
The sea is calm tonight.The tide is full, the moon lies fairUpon the straits; on the French coast the lightGleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!Only, f
Say your prayers, little one Don't forget, my son To include everyone Tuck you in, warm within Keep you free from sin 'Til the sandman, he comes Sleep with one eye open Gripping your pillow tight Exit light Enter night
Take my hand We're off to never-never land Somethings wrong, shut the light Heavy thoughts tonight And they aren't of Snow White Dreams of war, dreams of liars Dreams of dragon's fire And of things that will bite, yeah Sleep with one eye open Gripping your pillow tight Exit light Enter night
Take my hand We're off to never-never land Now I lay me down to sleep Now I lay me down to sleep I pray the Lord my soul to keep I pray the Lord my soul to keep If I die before I wake If I die before I wake I pray the Lord my soul to take I pray the Lord my soul to…
More like it I'm off to never never land:Say your prayers, little oneDon't forget, my sonTo include everyoneTuck you in, warm withinKeep you free from sin'Til the sandman, he comesSleep with one eye openGripping your pillow tightExit lightEnter nigh
Weary men, what reap ye? – Golden corn for the stranger. What sow ye? – human corpses that wait for the avenger. Fainting forms, hunger–stricken, what see you in the offing? Stately ships to bear our food away, amid the stranger’s scoffing. There’s a proud array of soldiers – what do they round your door? They guard our masters’ granaries from the thin hands of the poor. Pale mothers, wherefore weeping -would to God that we were dead; Our children swoon before us, and we cannot give them bread. Little children, tears are strange upon your infant faces, God meant you but to smile within your mother’s soft embraces. Oh! we know not what is smiling, and we know not what is dying; We’re hungry, very hungry, and we cannot stop our crying. And some of us grow cold and white – we know not what it means; But, as they lie beside us, we tremble in our dreams. There’s a gaunt crowd on the highway – are ye come to pray to man, With hollow eyes that cannot weep, and for words your faces wan? No; the blood is dead within our veins – we care not now for life; Let us die hid in the ditches, far from children and from wife; We cannot stay and listen to their raving, famished cries – Bread! Bread! Bread! and none to still their agonies. We left our infants playing with their dead mother’s hand: We left our maidens maddened by the fever’s scorching brand: Better, maiden, thou were strangled in thy own dark–twisted tresses – Better, infant, thou wert smothered in thy mother’s first caresses. We are fainting in our misery, but God will hear our groan: Yet, if fellow – men desert us, will He hearken from His Throne? Accursed are we in our own land, yet toil we still and toil; But the stranger reaps our harvest – the alien owns our soil. O Christ! how have we sinned, that on our native plains We perish houseless, naked, starved, with branded brow, like Cain’s? Dying, dying wearily, with a torture sure and slow – Dying, as a dog would die, by the wayside as we go. One by one they’re falling round us, their pale faces to the sky; We’ve no strength left to dig them graves – there let them lie. The wild bird, if he’s stricken, is mourned by the others, But we – we die in a Christian land – we die amid our brothers, In the land which God has given, like a wild beast in his cave, Without a tear, a prayer, a shroud, a coffin or a grave. Ha! but think ye the contortions on each livid face ye see, Will not be read on judgement – day by eyes of Deity?
We are wretches, famished, scorned, human tools to build your pride, But God will take vengeance for the souls for whom Christ died Now is your hour of pleasure – bask ye in the world’s caresses; But our whitening bones against ye will rise as witnesses, From the cabins and the ditches, in their charred, uncoffin’d masses, For the Angel of the Trumpet will know them as he passes. A ghastly, spectral army, before the great God we’ll stand, And arraign ye as our murderers, the spoilers of our land.
Weary men, what reap ye? – Golden corn for the stranger.What sow ye? – human corpses that wait for the avenger.Fainting forms, hunger–stricken, what see you in the offing?Stately ships to bear our food away, amid the stranger’s scoffing.There
Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce, lend me your grey mare. All along, down along, out along lea. For I want for to go to Widecombe Fair, With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawke, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.
And when shall I see again my grey mare? All along, down along, out along lea. By Friday soon, or Saturday noon, With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawke, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.
So they harnessed and bridled the old grey mare. All along, down along, out along lea. And off they drove to Widecombe fair, With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawke, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.
Then Friday came, and Saturday noon. All along, down along, out along lea. But Tom Pearce's old mare hath not trotted home, With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawke, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.
So Tom Pearce he got up to the top o' the hill. All along, down along, out along lea. And he seed his old mare down a-making her will, With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawke, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.
So Tom Pearce's old mare, her took sick and died. All along, down along, out along lea. And Tom he sat down on a stone, and he cried With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawke, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.
But this isn't the end o' this shocking affair. All along, down along, out along lea. Nor, though they be dead, of the horrid career Of Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawke, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.
When the wind whistles cold on the moor of the night. All along, down along, out along lea. Tom Pearce's old mare doth appear ghastly white, With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawke, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.
And all the long night be heard skirling and groans. All along, down along, out along lea. From Tom Pearce's old mare in her rattling bones, With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawke, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.
Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce, lend me your grey mare.All along, down along, out along lea.For I want for to go to Widecombe Fair,With Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawke,Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all,Old Uncle Tom Co
By The Fool Since the wise men have not spoken, I speak that am only a fool; A fool that hath loved his folly, Yea, more than the wise men their books or their counting houses or their quiet homes, Or their fame in men’s mouths; A fool that in all his days hath done never a prudent thing, Never hath counted the cost, nor recked if another reaped The fruit of his mighty sowing, content to scatter the seed; A fool that is unrepentant, and that soon at the end of all Shall laugh in his lonely heart as the ripe ears fall to the reaping-hooks And the poor are filled that were empty, Tho’ he go hungry. I have squandered the splendid years that the Lord God gave to my youth In attempting impossible things, deeming them alone worth the toil.
Was it folly or grace? Not men shall judge me, but God. I have squandered the splendid years: Lord, if I had the years I would squander them over again, Aye, fling them from me! For this I have heard in my heart, that a man shall scatter, not hoard, Shall do the deed of to-day, nor take thought of to-morrow’s teen, Shall not bargain or huxter with God; or was it a jest of Christ’s And is this my sin before men, to have taken Him at His word? The lawyers have sat in council, the men with the keen, long faces, And said, `This man is a fool,’ and others have said, `He blasphemeth;’ And the wise have pitied the fool that hath striven to give a life In the world of time and space among the bulks of actual things, To a dream that was dreamed in the heart, and that only the heart could hold
O wise men, riddle me this: what if the dream come true? What if the dream come true? and if millions unborn shall dwell In the house that I shaped in my heart, the noble house of my thought? Lord, I have staked my soul, I have staked the lives of my kin On the truth of Thy dreadful word. Do not remember my failures, But remember this my faith And so I speak. Yea, ere my hot youth pass, I speak to my people and say: Ye shall be foolish as I; ye shall scatter, not save; Ye shall venture your all, lest ye lose what is more than all; Ye shall call for a miracle, taking Christ at His word. And for this I will answer, O people, answer here and hereafter, O people that I have loved, shall we not answer together?
ByThe FoolSince the wise men have not spoken, I speak that am only a fool;A fool that hath loved his folly,Yea, more than the wise men their books or their counting houses or their quiet homes,Or their fame in men’s mouths;A fool that in all his da
'Tis eight o'clock,--a clear March night, The moon is up,--the sky is blue, The owlet, in the moonlight air, Shouts from nobody knows where; He lengthens out his lonely shout, Halloo! halloo! a long halloo!
--Why bustle thus about your door, What means this bustle, Betty Foy? Why are you in this mighty fret? And why on horseback have you set Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy?
Scarcely a soul is out of bed; Good Betty, put him down again; His lips with joy they burr at you; But, Betty! what has he to do With stirrup, saddle, or with rein?
But Betty's bent on her intent; For her good neighbour, Susan Gale, Old Susan, she who dwells alone, Is sick, and makes a piteous moan As if her very life would fail.
There's not a house within a mile, No hand to help them in distress; Old Susan lies a-bed in pain, And sorely puzzled are the twain, For what she ails they cannot guess.
And Betty's husband's at the wood, Where by the week he doth abide, A woodman in the distant vale; There's none to help poor Susan Gale; What must be done? what will betide?
And Betty from the lane has fetched Her Pony, that is mild and good; Whether he be in joy or pain, Feeding at will along the lane, Or bringing ****s from the wood.
And he is all in travelling trim,-- And, by the moonlight, Betty Foy Has on the well-girt saddle set (The like was never heard of yet) Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy.
And he must post without delay Across the bridge and through the dale, And by the church, and o'er the down, To bring a Doctor from the town, Or she will die, old Susan Gale.
There is no need of boot or spur, There is no need of whip or wand; For Johnny has his holly-bough, And with a 'hurly-burly' now He shakes the green bough in his hand.
And Betty o'er and o'er has told The Boy, who is her best delight, Both what to follow, what to shun, What do, and what to leave undone, How turn to left, and how to right.
And Betty's most especial charge, Was, 'Johnny! Johnny! mind that you Come home again, nor stop at all,-- Come home again, whate'er befall, My Johnny, do, I pray you do.'
To this did Johnny answer make, Both with his head and with his hand, And proudly shook the bridle too; And then! his words were not a few, Which Betty well could understand.
And now that Johnny is just going, Though Betty's in a mighty flurry, She gently pats the Pony's side, On which her Idiot Boy must ride, And seems no longer in a hurry.
But when the Pony moved his legs, Oh! then for the poor Idiot Boy! For joy he cannot hold the bridle, For joy his head and heels are idle, He's idle all for very joy.
And while the Pony moves his legs, In Johnny's left hand you may see The green bough motionless and dead: The Moon that shines above his head Is not more still and mute than he.
His heart it was so full of glee, That till full fifty yards were gone, He quite forgot his holly whip, And all his skill in horsemanship: Oh! happy, happy, happy John.
And while the Mother, at the door, Stands fixed, her face with joy o'erflows, Proud of herself, and proud of him, She sees him in his travelling trim, How quietly her Johnny goes.
The silence of her Idiot Boy, What hopes it sends to Betty's heart! He's at the guide-post--he turns right; She watches till he's out of sight, And Betty will not then depart.
Burr, burr--now Johnny's lips they burr, As loud as any mill, or near it; Meek as a lamb the Pony moves, And Johnny makes the noise he loves, 0 And Betty listens, glad to hear it.
Away she hies to Susan Gale: Her Messenger's in merry tune; The owlets hoot, the owlets curr, And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr, As on he goes beneath the moon.
His steed and he right well agree; For of this Pony there's a rumour, That, should he lose his eyes and ears, And should he live a thousand years, He never will be out of humour.
But then he is a horse that thinks! And when he thinks, his pace is slack; Now, though he knows poor Johnny well, Yet, for his life, he cannot tell What he has got upon his back.
So through the moonlight lanes they go, And far into the moonlight dale, And by the church, and o'er the down, To bring a Doctor from the town, To comfort poor old Susan Gale.
And Betty, now at Susan's side, Is in the middle of her story, What speedy help her Boy will bring, With many a most diverting thing, Of Johnny's wit, and Johnny's glory.
And Betty, still at Susan's side, By this time is not quite so flurried: Demure with porringer and plate She sits, as if in Susan's fate Her life and soul were buried.
But Betty, poor good woman! she, You plainly in her face may read it, Could lend out of that moment's store Five years of happiness or more To any that might need it.
But yet I guess that now and then With Betty all was not so well; And to the road she turns her ears, And thence full many a sound she hears, Which she to Susan will not tell.
Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans; 'As sure as there's a moon in heaven,' Cries Betty, 'he'll be back again; They'll both be here--'tis almost ten-- Both will be here before eleven.'
Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans; The clock gives warning for eleven; 'Tis on the stroke--'He must be near,' Quoth Betty, 'and will soon be here, As sure as there's a moon in heaven.'
The clock is on the stroke of twelve, And Johnny is not yet in sight: --The Moon's in heaven, as Betty sees, But Betty is not quite at ease; And Susan has a dreadful night.
And Betty, half an hour ago, On Johnny vile reflections cast: 'A little idle sauntering Thing!' With other names, an endless string; But now that time is gone and past.
And Betty's drooping at the heart, That happy time all past and gone, 'How can it be he is so late? The Doctor, he has made him wait; Susan! they'll both be here anon.'
And Susan's growing worse and worse, And Betty's in a sad 'quandary'; And then there's nobody to say If she must go, or she must stay! --She's in a sad 'quandary'.
The clock is on the stroke of one; But neither Doctor nor his Guide Appears along the moonlight road; There's neither horse nor man abroad, And Betty's still at Susan's side.
And Susan now begins to fear Of sad mischances not a few, That Johnny may perhaps be drowned; Or lost, perhaps, and never found; Which they must both for ever rue.
She prefaced half a hint of this With, 'God forbid it should be true!' At the first word that Susan said Cried Betty, rising from the bed, 'Susan, I'd gladly stay with you.
'I must be gone, I must away: Consider, Johnny's but half-wise; Susan, we must take care of him, If he is hurt in life or limb'-- 'Oh God forbid!' poor Susan cries.
'What can I do?' says Betty, going, 'What can I do to ease your pain? Good Susan tell me, and I'll stay; I fear you're in a dreadful way, But I shall soon be back again.'
'Nay, Betty, go! good Betty, go! There's nothing that can ease my pain,' Then off she hies, but with a prayer That God poor Susan's life would spare, 0 Till she comes back again.
So, through the moonlight lane she goes, And far into the moonlight dale; And how she ran, and how she walked, And all that to herself she talked, Would surely be a tedious tale.
In high and low, above, below, In great and small, in round and square, In tree and tower was Johnny seen, In bush and brake, in black and green; 'Twas Johnny, Johnny, every where.
And while she crossed the bridge, there came A thought with which her heart is sore-- Johnny perhaps his horse forsook, To hunt the moon within the brook, And never will be heard of more.
Now is she high upon the down, Alone amid a prospect wide; There's neither Johnny nor his Horse Among the fern or in the gorse; There's neither Doctor nor his Guide.
'O saints! what is become of him? Perhaps he's climbed into an oak, Where he will stay till he is dead; Or, sadly he has been misled, And joined the wandering gipsy-folk.
'Or him that wicked Pony's carried To the dark cave, the goblin's hall; Or in the castle he's pursuing Among the ghosts his own undoing; Or playing with the waterfall.'
At poor old Susan then she railed, While to the town she posts away; 'If Susan had not been so ill, Alas! I should have had him still, My Johnny, till my dying day.'
Poor Betty, in this sad distemper, The Doctor's self could hardly spare: Unworthy things she talked, and wild; Even he, of cattle the most mild, The Pony had his share.
But now she's fairly in the town, And to the Doctor's door she hies; 'Tis silence all on every side; The town so long, the town so wide, Is silent as the skies.
And now she's at the Doctor's door, She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap; The Doctor at the casement shows His glimmering eyes that peep and doze! And one hand rubs his old night-cap.
'O Doctor! Doctor! where's my Johnny?' 'I'm here, what is't you want with me?' 'O Sir! you know I'm Betty Foy, And I have lost my poor dear Boy, You know him--him you often see;
'He's not so wise as some folks be:' 'The devil take his wisdom!' said The Doctor, looking somewhat grim, 'What, Woman! should I know of him?' And, grumbling, he went back to bed!
'O woe is me! O woe is me! Here will I die, here will I die; I thought to find my lost one here, But he is neither far nor near, Oh! what a wretched Mother I!'
She stops, she stands, she looks about; Which way to turn she cannot tell. Poor Betty! it would ease her pain If she had heart to knock again; --The clock strikes three--a dismal knell!
Then up along the town she hies, No wonder if her senses fail; This piteous news so much it shocked her, She quite forgot to send the Doctor, To comfort poor old Susan Gale.
And now she's high upon the down, And she can see a mile of road: 'O cruel! I'm almost threescore; Such night as this was ne'er before, There's not a single soul abroad.'
She listens, but she cannot hear The foot of horse, the voice of man; The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now, if e'er you can.
The owlets through the long blue night Are shouting to each other still: Fond lovers! yet not quite hob nob, They lengthen out the tremulous sob, That echoes far from hill to hill.
Poor Betty now has lost all hope, Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin, A green-grown pond she just has past, And from the brink she hurries fast, Lest she should drown herself therein.
And now she sits her down and weeps; Such tears she never shed before; 'Oh dear, dear Pony! my sweet joy! Oh carry back my Idiot Boy! 0 And we will ne'er o'erload thee more.'
A thought is come into her head: The Pony he is mild and good, And we have always used him well; Perhaps he's gone along the dell, And carried Johnny to the wood.
Then up she springs as if on wings; She thinks no more of deadly sin; If Betty fifty ponds should see, The last of all her thoughts would be To drown herself therein.
O Reader! now that I might tell What Johnny and his Horse are doing What they've been doing all this time, Oh could I put it into rhyme, A most delightful tale pursuing!
Perhaps, and no unlikely thought! He with his Pony now doth roam The cliffs and peaks so high that are, To lay his hands upon a star, And in his pocket bring it home.
Perhaps he's turned himself about, His face unto his horse's tail, And, still and mute, in wonder lost, All silent as a horseman-ghost, He travels slowly down the vale.
And now, perhaps, is hunting sheep, A fierce and dreadful hunter he; Yon valley, now so trim and green, In five months' time, should he be seen, A desert wilderness will be!
Perhaps, with head and heels on fire, And like the very soul of evil, He's galloping away, away, And so will gallop on for aye, The bane of all that dread the devil!
I to the Muses have been bound These fourteen years, by strong indentures: O gentle Muses! let me tell But half of what to him befell; He surely met with strange adventures.
O gentle Muses! is this kind? Why will ye thus my suit repel? Why of your further aid bereave me? And can ye thus unfriended leave me Ye Muses! whom I love so well?
Who's yon, that, near the waterfall, Which thunders down with headlong force, Beneath the moon, yet shining fair, As careless as if nothing were, Sits upright on a feeding horse?
Unto his horse--there feeding free, He seems, I think, the rein to give; Of moon or stars he takes no heed; Of such we in romances read: --'Tis Johnny! Johnny! as I live.
And that's the very Pony, too! Where is she, where is Betty Foy? She hardly can sustain her fears; The roaring waterfall she hears, And cannot find her Idiot Boy.
Your Pony's worth his weight in gold: Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy! She's coming from among the trees, And now all full in view she sees Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy.
And Betty sees the Pony too: Why stand you thus, good Betty Foy? It is no goblin, 'tis no ghost, 'Tis he whom you so long have lost, He whom you love, your Idiot Boy.
She looks again--her arms are up-- She screams--she cannot move for joy; She darts, as with a torrent's force, She almost has o'erturned the Horse, And fast she holds her Idiot Boy.
And Johnny burrs, and laughs aloud; Whether in cunning or in joy I cannot tell; but while he laughs, Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs To hear again her Idiot Boy.
And now she's at the Pony's tail, And now is at the Pony's head,-- On that side now, and now on this; And, almost stifled with her bliss, A few sad tears does Betty shed.
She kisses o'er and o'er again Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy; She's happy here, is happy there, She is uneasy every where; Her limbs are all alive with joy.
She pats the Pony, where or when She knows not, happy Betty Foy! The little Pony glad may be, But he is milder far than she, You hardly can perceive his joy.
'Oh! Johnny, never mind the Doctor; You've done your best, and that is all:' She took the reins, when this was said, And gently turned the Pony's head 0 From the loud waterfall.
By this the stars were almost gone, The moon was setting on the hill, So pale you scarcely looked at her: The little birds began to stir, Though yet their tongues were still.
The Pony, Betty, and her Boy, Wind slowly through the woody dale; And who is she, betimes abroad, That hobbles up the steep rough road? Who is it, but old Susan Gale?
Long time lay Susan lost in thought; And many dreadful fears beset her, Both for her Messenger and Nurse; And, as her mind grew worse and worse, Her body--it grew better.
She turned, she tossed herself in bed, On all sides doubts and terrors met her; Point after point did she discuss; And, while her mind was fighting thus, Her body still grew better.
'Alas! what is become of them? These fears can never be endured; I'll to the wood.'--The word scarce said, Did Susan rise up from her bed, As if by magic cured.
Away she goes up hill and down, And to the wood at length is come; She spies her Friends, she shouts a greeting; Oh me! it is a merry meeting As ever was in Christendom.
The owls have hardly sung their last, While our four travellers homeward wend; The owls have hooted all night long, And with the owls began my song, And with the owls must end.
For while they all were travelling home, Cried Betty, 'Tell us, Johnny, do, Where all this long night you have been, What you have heard, what you have seen: And, Johnny, mind you tell us true.'
Now Johnny all night long had heard The owls in tuneful concert strive; No doubt too he the moon had seen; For in the moonlight he had been From eight o'clock till five.
And thus, to Betty's question, he Made answer, like a traveller bold, (His very words I give to you,) 'The **** did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, And the sun did shine so cold!' --Thus answered Johnny in his glory, And that was all his travel's story,
'Tis eight o'clock,--a clear March night,The moon is up,--the sky is blue,The owlet, in the moonlight air,Shouts from nobody knows where;He lengthens out his lonely shout,Halloo! halloo! a long halloo!--Why bustle thus about your door,What means this
Easter, 1916 I have met them at close of day Coming with vivid faces From counter or desk among grey Eighteenth-century houses. I have passed with a nod of the head Or polite meaningless words, Or have lingered awhile and said Polite meaningless words, And thought before I had done Of a mocking tale or a gibe To please a companion Around the fire at the club, Being certain that they and I But lived where motley is worn: All changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born.
That woman’s days were spent In ignorant good-will, Her nights in argument Until her voice grew shrill. What voice more sweet than hers When, young and beautiful, She rode to harriers? This man had kept a school And rode our wingèd horse; This other his helper and friend Was coming into his force; He might have won fame in the end, So sensitive his nature seemed, So daring and sweet his thought. This other man I had dreamed A drunken, vainglorious lout. He had done most bitter wrong To some who are near my heart, Yet I number him in the song; He, too, has resigned his part In the casual comedy; He, too, has been changed in his turn, Transformed utterly: A terrible beauty is born. Hearts with one purpose alone Through summer and winter seem Enchanted to a stone To trouble the living stream. The horse that comes from the road, The rider, the birds that range From cloud to tumbling cloud, Minute by minute they change; A shadow of cloud on the stream Changes minute by minute; A horse-hoof slides on the brim, And a horse plashes within it; The long-legged moor-hens dive, And hens to moor**** call; Minute by minute they live: The stone’s in the midst of all. Too long a sacrifice Can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice? That is Heaven’s part, our part To murmur name upon name, As a mother names her child When sleep at last has come On limbs that had run wild. What is it but nightfall? No, no, not night but death; Was it needless death after all? For England may keep faith For all that is done and said. We know their dream; enough To know they dreamed and are dead; And what if excess of love Bewildered them till they died? I write it out in a verse— MacDonagh and MacBride And Connolly and Pearse Now and in time to be, Wherever green is worn, Are changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born. Freedom.
Easter, 1916I have met them at close of dayComing with vivid facesFrom counter or desk among greyEighteenth-century houses.I have passed with a nod of the headOr polite meaningless words,Or have lingered awhile and saidPolite meaningless words,And th
My Land She is a rich and rare land; Oh! she’s a fresh and fair land; She is a dear and rare land– This native land of mine.
No men than her’s are braver– Her women’s hearts ne’er waver; I’d freely die to save her, And think my lot divine.
She’s not a dull or cold land; No! she’s a warm and bold land; Oh! she’s a true and old land– This native land of mine. Could beauty ever guard her, And virtue still reward her, No foe would cross her border– No friend within it pine!
Oh! she’s a fresh and fair land; Oh! she’s a true and rare land; Yes! she’s a rare and fair land– This native land of mine.
My LandShe is a rich and rare land;Oh! she’s a fresh and fair land;She is a dear and rare land–This native land of mine.No men than her’s are braver–Her women’s hearts ne’er waver;I’d freely die to save her,And think my lot divine.She
I sent the feelers out To shoot the people down. He thought the I.R.A. were dead In dear Old Belfast town, But when he got to Belfast He was seriously delayed By the Fighting First Battalion Of the Belfast Brigade.
Glory! Glory! to Old Ireland, Glory! Glory! to this island, Glory to the memory of the men who fought and fell, "No Surrender" is the war cry Of the Belfast Brigade. We have no costly tenders Nor no unsecures to show, We're at need to defend ourselves No matter where we go, We're out for our Republic, To hell with every State! "No Surrender" is the war cry Of the Belfast Brigade.
Now the soldiers came from Hollywood Equipped with English guns, They've men by the thousand Ammunition by the ton, But when they got to Belfast They were seriously delayed, By the rifles and revolvers Of the Belfast Brigade.
I sent the feelers outTo shoot the people down.He thought the I.R.A. were deadIn dear Old Belfast town,But when he got to BelfastHe was seriously delayedBy the Fighting First BattalionOf the Belfast Brigade.Glory! Glory! to Old Ireland,Glory! Glory!
Come all you young rebels And list' while I sing For the love of one's country Is a terrible thing. It banishes fear With the speed of a flame, And makes us all part of The Patriot Game. Mu name is O'Hanlon And I've just gone sixteen My home is Monaghan And there I was weened. I was taught all my life Cruel England to blame. And so I'm a part of The Patriot Game.
'Tis barely two years SinceI wandered away With the local battalion Of the bold I.R.A. I've read of our heroes And wanted the same To play out my part in The Patriot Game.
They told me how Connolly Was shot in the chair His wounds from the battle All bleeding and bare, His fine body twisted All battered and lame, They soon made him part of The Patriot Game.
This Ireland of mine Has for long been half free, Six counties are under John Bull's tyranny. And still deValera Is greatly to blame, For shirking his part in The Patriot Game. I don't mind a bit if I shoot down the police, They're lackies for war Never guardians of peace. But yet at deserters I'm never let aim Those rebels who sold out The Patriot Game.
And now as I lie with My body all holes, I think of those traitors Who bargained and sold. I'm sorry my rifle Has not done the same, For those quisslings who sold out The Patriot Game.
Come all you young rebelsAnd list' while I singFor the love of one's countryIs a terrible thing.It banishes fearWith the speed of a flame,And makes us all part ofThe Patriot Game.Mu name is O'HanlonAnd I've just gone sixteenMy home is MonaghanAnd the
It was the third of June, another sleepy, dusty Delta day I was out choppin' cotton, and my brother was balin' hay And at dinner time we stopped and walked back to the house to eat And Mama hollered out the back door, "Y'all, remember to wipe your feet!" And then she said, "I got some news this mornin' from Choctaw Ridge Today, Billie Joe MacAllister jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge"
And Papa said to Mama, as he passed around the blackeyed peas "Well, Billie Joe never had a lick of sense; pass the biscuits, please There's five more acres in the lower forty I've got to plow" And Mama said it was shame about Billie Joe, anyhow Seems like nothin' ever comes to no good up on Choctaw Ridge And now Billie Joe MacAllister's jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge
And brother said he recollected when he, and Tom, and Billie Joe Put a frog down my back at the Carroll County picture show And wasn't I talkin' to him after church last Sunday night? "I'll have another piece-a apple pie; you know, it don't seem right I saw him at the sawmill yesterday on Choctaw Ridge And now you tell me Billie Joe's jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge"
Mama said to me, "Child, what's happened to your appetite? I've been cookin' all mornin', and you haven't touched a single bite That nice young preacher, Brother Taylor, dropped by today Said he'd be pleased to have dinner on Sunday, oh, by the way He said he saw a girl that looked a lot like you up on Choctaw Ridge And she and Billie Joe was throwin' somethin' off the Tallahatchie Bridge"
It was the third of June, another sleepy, dusty Delta dayI was out choppin' cotton, and my brother was balin' hayAnd at dinner time we stopped and walked back to the house to eatAnd Mama hollered out the back door, "Y'all, remember to wipe your feet!
The Irish Republican Army Through clenched teeth will fight, So all with Irish accents Will hear "Ireland's call" and unite.
The cowboys sings of the country Mountains and farms and all that, Though he is from the city he'll wear his ten gallon hat.
The American is so proud He was born on the Fourth of July, He sings the "star spangled banner" With hand on heart as he cries.
The Australian larrikin is proud Of their beaches, forests and sun, That he is "young and free" With BBQ and beer soaked fun.
The Scotsman wears His kilt And recites what Burns may have said, About the braveheart spirit That against the Englishmen bled.
Then there's the twelve year old boy Thinks "in what can I now be proud" ?, He'll wear his football jersey With the thousands in the stand with the crowd.
These all have something in common It's the same thing that drives them all, It's all about their identity By this we all stand or fall.
The identity is the powerful force That drives all of life's decisions, To understand motivation The identity is the heart's incision.
For this we'll defend to the death For that is our fighting territory, Because it's who we are Where belief comes from, our identity.
The Irish Republican ArmyThrough clenched teeth will fight,So all with Irish accentsWill hear "Ireland's call" and unite.The cowboys sings of the country Mountains and farms and all that,Though he is from the cityhe'll wear his ten gallon hat.The Ame
The world hath conquered, the wind hath scattered like dust Alexander, Caesar, and all that shared sway. Tara is grass, and behold how Troy lieth low -- And even the English, perchance their hour will come!
The world hath conquered, the windhath scattered like dustAlexander, Caesar, and all that sharedsway.Tara is grass, and behold how Troylieth low --And even the English, perchance theirhour will come!
shiny new shoes please 02 Oct 20 19:44 In essence lockdown won't work
So what strategy should we be deploying in this global pandemic that has officially killed 1 million ( but more likely double that). Given that the number of people getting infected isn't dropping.?
shiny new shoes please 02 Oct 20 19:44 In essence lockdown won't workSo what strategy should we be deploying in this global pandemic that has officially killed 1 million ( but more likely double that). Given that the number of people getting infe
I was born on a Dublin street where the Royal drums do beat And the loving English people walked all over us And every single every night when me dad would come home tight He'd invite the neighbors out with this chorus
Come out you Black and Tans, come out and fight me like a man Show your wife how you won medals down in Flanders Tell her how the IRA made you run like hell away From the green and lovely lanes of Killashandra
Come tell us how you slew them poor Arabs two by two Like the Zulus they had knives and bows and arrows Oh, how you bravely faced one with your sixteen pounder gun And you frightened all natives to the marrow
Come out you Black and Tans, come out and fight me like a man Show your wife how you won medals down in Flanders Tell her how the IRA made you run like hell away From the green and lovely lanes of Killashandra
Come let me hear you tell how you slammed the great Pernell And thought him well and truly persecuted Where are the smears and jeers that you proudly let us hear When our heroes of '16 were executed?
Come out you Black and Tans, come out and fight me like a man Show your wife how you won medals down in Flanders Tell her how the IRA made you run like hell away From the green and lovely lanes of Killashandra
Oh, come out you British Huns, come out and fight without your guns Show your wife how you won medals up in Derry You murdered sixteen men and you'll do the same again So get out of here and take our bloody army
Come out you Black and Tans, come out and fight me like a man Show your wife how you won medals down in Flanders Tell her how the IRA made you run like hell away From the green and lovely lanes of Killashandra
Come out you Black and Tans, come out and fight me like a man Show your wife how you won medals down in Flanders Tell her how the IRA made you run like hell away From the green and lovely lanes of Killashandra
I was born on a Dublin street where the Royal drums do beatAnd the loving English people walked all over usAnd every single every night when me dad would come home tightHe'd invite the neighbors out with this chorusCome out you Black and Tans, come o
I've been a wild rover for many's the year and I've spent all my money on whiskey and beer. But now I'm returning with gold in great store and I never will play the wild rover no more
And it's no, nay, never, no, nay, never, no more will I play the wild rover no, never, no more
I went into an ale-house I used to frequent and I told the landlady my money was spent. I asked her for credit, she answered me nay, Such "a custom like yours I can have any day
I took from my pocket ten sovereigns bright and the landlady's eyes opened wide with delight. She said I'd have whiskey and wines of the best and the words that she told me were only in jest.
I'll go home to my parents, confess what I've done, and I'll ask them to pardon their prodigal son. And when they've caressed me as oft' times before then I never will play the wild rover no more
I've been a wild rover for many's the yearand I've spent all my money on whiskey and beer.But now I'm returning with gold in great storeand I never will play the wild rover no moreAnd it's no, nay, never,no, nay, never, no morewill I play the wild ro
As I was goin' over the Cork and Kerry mountains I saw Captain Farrell and his money he was countin' I first produced my pistol and then produced my rapier I said stand and deliver or the devil he may take ya
I took all of his money and it was a pretty penny I took all of his money yeah and I brought it home to Molly She swore that she'd love me, no never would she leave me But the devil take that woman yeah for you know she tricked me easy
Musha ring dum a doo dum a da Whack for my daddy-o Whack for my daddy-o There's whiskey in the jar-o
Being drunk and weary I went to Molly's chamber Takin' my money with me, but I never knew the danger For about six or maybe seven in walked Captain Farrell I jumped up, fired off my pistols and I shot him with both barrels
Musha ring dum a doo dum a da Whack for my daddy-o Whack for my daddy-o There's whiskey in the jar-o
Now some men like the fishin' and some men like the fowlin' And some men like ta hear, ta hear the cannon ball a roarin' Me I like sleepin', specially in my Molly's chamber But here I am in prison, here I am with a ball and chain yeah
Musha ring dum a doo dum a da Whack for my daddy-o Whack for my daddy-o There's whiskey in the jar-o
Whiskey in the jar-o Musha ring dum a doo dum a da Musha ring dum a doo dum a da Hey, musha ring dum a doo dum a da Musha ring dum a doo dum a da
As I was goin' over the Cork and Kerry mountainsI saw Captain Farrell and his money he was countin'I first produced my pistol and then produced my rapierI said stand and deliver or the devil he may take yaI took all of his money and it was a pretty p
Phil Lynott hated this song - and in their later gigs, refused to play it. Saw them in Leicester on their Live and Dangerous tour. One of the best concerts I ve ever attended.
Phil Lynott hated this song - and in their later gigs, refused to play it.Saw them in Leicester on their Live and Dangerous tour. One of the best concerts I ve ever attended.
Go on home British Soldiers Go on home Have you got no ****g homes of your own For 800 years we've fought you without fear And we will fight you for 800 more
If you stay British Soldiers If you stay You'll never ever beat the IRA For the 14 men in Derry Are the last that you will bury So take a tip And leave us bloody be
So Go on home British Soldiers Go on home Have you got no ****g homes of your own For 800 years we've fought you without fear And we will fight you for 800 more
We're not British, we're not Saxon we're not English We're Irish and proud we are to be So **** your Union Jack We want our country back We want to see old Ireland free once more
So Go on home British Soldiers Go on home Have you got no ****g homes of your own For 800 years we've fought you without fear And we will fight you for 800 more
We'll fight them British Soldiers for the cause We'll never bow to Soldiers because Troughout our history We were born to be free So get out British bastards leave us be
So Go on home British Soldiers Go on home Have you got no ****g homes of your own For 800 years we've fought you without fear And we will fight you for 800 more
Go on home British Soldiers Go on home Have you got no ****g homes of your own For 800 years we've fought you without fear And we will fight you for 800 more Yes, we will fight you for 800 more!
Go on home British Soldiers Go on homeHave you got no ****g homes of your ownFor 800 years we've fought you without fearAnd we will fight you for 800 moreIf you stay British Soldiers If you stayYou'll never ever beat the IRAFor the 14 men in DerryAre
My only son was shot in Dublin, Fighting for his country bold, He fought for Ireland,and Ireland only, The harp the shamrock,green white and gold,
The first I met was a grey haired father, Searching for his only son, I said old man,sure it's no use searching, For up to heaven,your son has gone.
The old man cried out broken hearted, Bending low I heard him say, I knew my son was too kind hearted, I knew my son would never yield.
The last I met was a dying rebel, Kneeling or I heard him say, God bless my home,in dear Cork City, God bless the cause for which I die.
My only son was shot in Dublin,Fighting for his country bold,He fought for Ireland,and Ireland only,The harp the shamrock,green white and gold,The first I met was a grey haired father,Searching for his only son,I said old man,sure it's no use searchi
Did they beat the drum slowly did they play the fife lowly, did they sound the death march as they lowered you down did the band play the last post and chorus, did the pipes play the "Flowers of the Forest"
Well how do you do young Willie McBride? do you mind if I sit down here by your graveside and rest for a while 'neath the warm summer sun I've been walkin' all day and I'm nearly done I see by your gravestone you were only nineteen when you joined the great fallen of 1916 Well I hope you died quick and I hope you died clean Willie McBride was it slow and obscene CHORUS
And the beautiful wife or the sweetheart for life in some faithful heart are you forever enshrined and although you died back in 1916 in that faithful heart are you forever nineteen? or are you a stranger without even a name enshrined forever behind a glass pane in an ould photograph torn tattered and stained, fading to yellow in a brown leather frame? CHORUS
Now the sun shines down on the green fields of France a warm summer wind makes the red poppys dance The trences have vanished under the plows, there's no gas no barbed wire, there's no guns firing now but here in this graveyard it's still No Man's land, the countless white crosses stand mute in the sand for man's blind indifference to his fellow man, to a whole generation that was butchered and damned CHORUS
Now Willie McBride I can't help wonder why Do those who lie here do they know why they died Did they really beleive when they answered the call did they really believe that this war would end wars Forever this song of suffereing and shame the killing the dying was all done in vain for young Willie McBride it's all happened again, and again, and again, and again and again
Did they beat the drum slowly did they play the fife lowly,did they sound the death march as they lowered you downdid the band play the last post and chorus,did the pipes play the "Flowers of the Forest"Well how do you do young Willie McBride?do you
So what strategy should we be deploying in this global pandemic that has officially killed 1 million ( but more likely double that). Given that the number of people getting infected isn't dropping.? Ignore it because globaly 1 million is a ridiculously small number and when you take into consideration the age of those dying its even less significant.
So what strategy should we be deploying in this global pandemic that has officially killed 1 million ( but more likely double that). Given that the number of people getting infected isn't dropping.? Ignore it because globaly 1 million is a ridiculou
I see the boys of summer in their ruin Lay the gold tithings barren, Setting no store by harvest, freeze the soils; There in their heat the winter floods Of frozen loves they fetch their girls, And drown the cargoed apples in their tides.
These boys of light are curdlers in their folly, Sour the boiling honey; The jacks of frost they finger in the hives; There in the sun the frigid threads Of doubt and dark they feed their nerves; The signal moon is zero in their voids.
I see the summer children in their mothers Split up the brawned womb's weathers, Divide the night and day with fairy thumbs; There in the deep with quartered shades Of sun and moon they paint their dams As sunlight paints the shelling of their heads.
I see that from these boys shall men of nothing Stature by seedy shifting, Or lame the air with leaping from its heats; There from their hearts the dogdayed pulse Of love and light bursts in their throats. O see the pulse of summer in the ice. II
But seasons must be challenged or they totter Into a chiming quarter Where, punctual as death, we ring the stars; There, in his night, the black-tongued bells The sleepy man of winter pulls, Nor blows back moon-and-midnight as she blows.
We are the dark derniers let us summon Death from a summer woman, A muscling life from lovers in their cramp From the fair dead who flush the sea The bright-eyed worm on Davy's lamp And from the planted womb the man of straw.
We summer boys in this four-winded spinning, Green of the seaweeds' iron, Hold up the noisy sea and drop her birds, Pick the world's ball of wave and froth To choke the deserts with her tides, And comb the county gardens for a wreath.
In spring we cross our foreheads with the holly, Heigh ho the blood and berry, And nail the merry squires to the trees; Here love's damp muscle dries and dies Here break a kiss in no love's quarry, O see the poles of promise in the boys. III
I see you boys of summer in your ruin. Man in his maggot's barren. And boys are full and foreign to the pouch. I am the man your father was. We are the sons of flint and pitch. O see the poles are kissing as they cross.
more from Dylan:II see the boys of summer in their ruinLay the gold tithings barren,Setting no store by harvest, freeze the soils;There in their heat the winter floodsOf frozen loves they fetch their girls,And drown the cargoed apples in their tides.
So what strategy should we be deploying in this global pandemic that has officially killed 1 million ( but more likely double that). Given that the number of people getting infected isn't dropping.? Ignore it
Genius! Why doesn`t the medical profession listen to the supreme wisdom that can be found on a betting forum?......ignore it and everything will be fine.
So what strategy should we be deploying in this global pandemic that has officially killed 1 million ( but more likely double that). Given that the number of people getting infected isn't dropping.? Ignore itGenius! Why doesn`t the medical professio
What yours? because mine was fact. Do you know what % 1 million of this population is and what mentally stupid risk averse initiatives we would have to implement to avoid such a minute risk in life. Its 1 70th of a % and even 2 million is one 35th of a percent. Put it in some sort of perspective if you went to a school with a 1000 pupils and one of them or any of their many relatives died in a car crash would you stop driving or do anything different. Your stupid statement about 1 million people reflects the lack of perspective people have with this virus.
What yours? because mine was fact. Do you know what % 1 million of this population is and what mentally stupid risk averse initiatives we would have to implement to avoid such a minute risk in life. Its 1 70th of a % and even 2 million is one 35th of
And here is fake profile Lara with a vitue signalling selfish remark.
In hospital with Covid Larabrown, Went sleepwalking into the town, She could not protest, When she woke under arrest, As her c0ck had slipped out of her gown.
And here is fake profile Lara with a vitue signalling selfish remark.In hospital with Covid Larabrown,Went sleepwalking into the town,She could not protest,When she woke under arrest,As her c0ck had slipped out of her gown.
The animal I really dig, Above all others is the pig. Pigs are noble. Pigs are clever, Pigs are courteous. However, Now and then, to break this rule, One meets a pig who is a fool. What, for example, would you say, If strolling through the woods one day, Right there in front of you you saw A pig who'd built his house of STRAW? The Wolf who saw it licked his lips, And said, "That pig has had his chips." "Little pig, little pig, let me come in!" "No, no, by the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin!" "Then I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house in!"
The little pig began to pray, But Wolfie blew his house away. He shouted, "Bacon, pork and ham! Oh, what a lucky Wolf I am!" And though he ate the pig quite fast, He carefully kept the tail till last. Wolf wandered on, a trifle bloated. Surprise, surprise, for soon he noted Another little house for pigs, And this one had been built of TWIGS!
"Little pig, little pig, let me come in!" "No, no, by the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin!" "Then I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house in!"
The Wolf said, "Okay, here we go!" He then began to blow and blow. The little pig began to squeal. He cried, "Oh Wolf, you've had one meal! Why can't we talk and make a deal? The Wolf replied, "Not on your nelly!" And soon the pig was in his belly.
"Two juicy little pigs!" Wolf cried, "But still I'm not quite satisfied! I know how full my tummy's bulging, But oh, how I adore indulging." So creeping quietly as a mouse, The Wolf approached another house, A house which also had inside A little piggy trying to hide. "You'll not get me!" the Piggy cried. "I'll blow you down!" the Wolf replied. "You'll need," Pig said, "a lot of puff, And I don't think you've got enough." Wolf huffed and puffed and blew and blew. The house stayed up as good as new. "If I can't blow it down," Wolf said, I'll have to blow it up instead. I'll come back in the dead of night And blow it up with dynamite!" Pig cried, "You brute! I might have known!" Then, picking up the telephone, He dialed as quickly as he could The number of red Riding Hood.
"Hello," she said. "Who's speaking? Who? Oh, hello, Piggy, how d'you do?" Pig cried, "I need your help, Miss Hood! Oh help me, please! D'you think you could?" "I'll try of course," Miss Hood replied. "What's on your mind...?" "A Wolf!" Pig cried. "I know you've dealt with wolves before, And now I've got one at my door!"
"My darling Pig," she said, "my sweet, That's something really up my street. I've just begun to wash my hair. But when it's dry, I'll be right there."
A short while later, through the wood, Came striding brave Miss Riding Hood. The Wolf stood there, his eyes ablaze, And yellowish, like mayonnaise. His teeth were sharp, his gums were raw, And spit was dripping from his jaw. Once more the maiden's eyelid flickers. She draws the pistol from her knickers. Once more she hits the vital spot, And kills him with a single shot. Pig, peeping through the window, stood And yelled, "Well done, Miss Riding Hood!"
Ah, Piglet, you must never trust Young ladies from the upper crust. For now, Miss Riding Hood, one notes, Not only has two wolfskin coats, But when she goes from place to place, She has a PIGSKIN TRAVELING CASE.
The animal I really dig, Above all others is the pig. Pigs are noble. Pigs are clever, Pigs are courteous. However, Now and then, to break this rule, One meets a pig who is a fool. What, for example, would you say, If strolling through the woods one day, Right there in front of you you saw A pig who'd built his house of STRAW? The Wolf who saw it licked his lips, And said, "That pig has had his chips." "Little pig, little pig, let me come in!" "No, no, by the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin!" "Then I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house in!"
The little pig began to pray, But Wolfie blew his house away. He shouted, "Bacon, pork and ham! Oh, what a lucky Wolf I am!" And though he ate the pig quite fast, He carefully kept the tail till last. Wolf wandered on, a trifle bloated. Surprise, surprise, for soon he noted Another little house for pigs, And this one had been built of TWIGS!
"Little pig, little pig, let me come in!" "No, no, by the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin!" "Then I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house in!"
The Wolf said, "Okay, here we go!" He then began to blow and blow. The little pig began to squeal. He cried, "Oh Wolf, you've had one meal! Why can't we talk and make a deal? The Wolf replied, "Not on your nelly!" And soon the pig was in his belly.
"Two juicy little pigs!" Wolf cried, "But still I'm not quite satisfied! I know how full my tummy's bulging, But oh, how I adore indulging." So creeping quietly as a mouse, The Wolf approached another house, A house which also had inside A little piggy trying to hide. "You'll not get me!" the Piggy cried. "I'll blow you down!" the Wolf replied. "You'll need," Pig said, "a lot of puff, And I don't think you've got enough." Wolf huffed and puffed and blew and blew. The house stayed up as good as new. "If I can't blow it down," Wolf said, I'll have to blow it up instead. I'll come back in the dead of night And blow it up with dynamite!" Pig cried, "You brute! I might have known!" Then, picking up the telephone, He dialed as quickly as he could The number of red Riding Hood.
"Hello," she said. "Who's speaking? Who? Oh, hello, Piggy, how d'you do?" Pig cried, "I need your help, Miss Hood! Oh help me, please! D'you think you could?" "I'll try of course," Miss Hood replied. "What's on your mind...?" "A Wolf!" Pig cried. "I know you've dealt with wolves before, And now I've got one at my door!"
"My darling Pig," she said, "my sweet, That's something really up my street. I've just begun to wash my hair. But when it's dry, I'll be right there."
A short while later, through the wood, Came striding brave Miss Riding Hood. The Wolf stood there, his eyes ablaze, And yellowish, like mayonnaise. His teeth were sharp, his gums were raw, And spit was dripping from his jaw. Once more the maiden's eyelid flickers. She draws the pistol from her knickers. Once more she hits the vital spot, And kills him with a single shot. Pig, peeping through the window, stood And yelled, "Well done, Miss Riding Hood!"
Ah, Piglet, you must never trust Young ladies from the upper crust. For now, Miss Riding Hood, one notes, Not only has two wolfskin coats, But when she goes from place to place, She has a PIGSKIN TRAVELING CASE.
The animal I really dig,Above all others is the pig.Pigs are noble. Pigs are clever,Pigs are courteous. However,Now and then, to break this rule,One meets a pig who is a fool.What, for example, would you say,If strolling through the woods one day,Rig
“And as to being in a fright, Allow me to remark That Ghosts have just as good a right In every way, to fear the light, As Men to fear the dark.”
“No plea,” said I, “can well excuse Such cowardice in you: For Ghosts can visit when they choose, Whereas we Humans ca’n’t refuse To grant the interview.”
He said “A flutter of alarm Is not unnatural, is it? I really feared you meant some harm: But, now I see that you are calm, Let me explain my visit.
“Houses are classed, I beg to state, According to the number Of Ghosts that they accommodate: (The Tenant merely counts as weight, With Coals and other lumber).
Lewis Carroll“And as to being in a fright,Allow me to remarkThat Ghosts have just as good a rightIn every way, to fear the light,As Men to fear the dark.”“No plea,” said I, “can well excuseSuch cowardice in you:For Ghosts can visit when the
There once was a man from Peru. Who dreamed he was eating his shoe. He woke up at night. With a terrible fright. To find out his dream had come true! Our school trip was a special occasion. But we never reacher our destination. Instead of the zoo. I was locked in the loo. of the toilet at the service station! An elderly man called Keith. Mislaid his set of false teeth. They'd been laid on a chair. He'd forgot they were there. Sat down, and was bitten beneath. When I'm old and mankey. I'll never use a hanky. I'll wee on plants. and soil my pants! All doggies go to heaven - or so I've been told. They run and play along the streets of Gold. Why is heaven such a doggie-delight? Why, because there's not a single cat in sight! That's not my age; it's just not true. My heart is young; the time just flew. I'm staring at this strange old face, And someone else is in my place! I am a dog. And you are a flower. I lift my leg up. And give you a shower! Funny poem about eating honey I eat my peas with honey. I've done it all my life. It makes the peas taste funny. But it keeps them on the knife! She fell into the bath tub. she fell into the sink. she fell into the rasberry jam. and came out pink! Roses are red. Violets are blue. God made me pretty. What happened to you!
There was a young lady of Kent. Whose nose was most awfully bent. She followed her nose, One day, I suppose, And no one knows which way she went. If I were a furry bear. And had a furry tummy. I'd climb into a honey jar And make my tummy yummy! Funny poem about a boy from spain There once was a child in Spain. Who loved to play in the rain. One day he tripped. And broke his hip. Now he is in serious pain. Last night at dinner we had some fish, and though I tried, I did not finish. My mother told me while I chewed, brains loved fish over all other food. She avoided my eye contact, and ticked my work in green. But she knew trhat her body smells, were foul and quite obscene. My dog is quite hip. Except when he takes a dip. He looks like a fool, when he jumps in the pool, and reminds me of a sinking ship.
There once was a man from Peru.Who dreamed he was eating his shoe.He woke up at night.With a terrible fright.To find out his dream had come true!Our school trip was a special occasion.But we never reacher our destination.Instead of the zoo.I was lock
poems getting a bit tiring tbh lads , just my opinion tho
you cant blame boris , mans a lazy oppertunist its common knowledge
he was the only tory the public knew , at a time the tory party were almost going extinct if you remember
like the donald boris is a sales tactic , both worked btw and remarkably alighn
poems getting a bit tiring tbh lads , just my opinion tho you cant blame boris , mans a lazy oppertunist its common knowledge he was the only tory the public knew , at a time the tory party were almost going extinct if you remember like the donald bo
As we gather in the chapel here in old Kilmainham Jaill I think about these past few weeks, oh will they say we've failed? From our school days they have told us we must yearn for liberty Yet all I want in this dark place is to have you here with me
Oh Grace just hold me in your arms and let this moment linger They'll take me out at dawn and I will die With all my love I place this wedding ring upon your finger There won't be time to share our love for we must say goodbye
Now I know it's hard for you my love to ever understand The love I shared for these brave men, the love for my dear land But when glory called me to his side down in the GPO I had to leave my own sick bed, to him I had to go
Oh, Grace just hold me in your arms and let this moment linger They'll take me out at dawn and I will die With all my love I'll place this wedding ring upon your finger There won't be time to share our love for we must say goodbye
Now as the dawn is breaking, my heart is breaking too On this May morn as I walk out, my thoughts will be of you And I'll write some words upon the wall so everyone will know I loved so much that I could see his blood upon the rose.
Oh, Grace just hold me in your arms and let this moment linger They'll take me out at dawn and I will die With all my love I'll place this wedding ring upon your finger There won't be time to share our love for we must say goodbye For we must say goodbye
As we gather in the chapel here in old Kilmainham JaillI think about these past few weeks, oh will they say we've failed?From our school days they have told us we must yearn for libertyYet all I want in this dark place is to have you here with meOh G
Oh, father why are you so sad On this bright Easter morn’ When Irish men are proud and glad Of the land that they were born? Oh, son, I see in mem’ries few Of far off distant days When being just a lad like you I joined the IRA
Where are the lads that stood with me When history was made? A Ghra Mo Chroi, I long to see The boys of the old brigade
From hills and farms a call to arms Was heard by one and all And from the glen came brave young men To answer Ireland’s call ‘T wasn’t long ago we faced a foe The old brigade and me And by my side they fought and died That Ireland might be free
Where are the lads that stood with me When history was made? A Ghra Mo Chroi, I long to see The boys of the old brigade
Oh, father why are you so sadOn this bright Easter morn’When Irish men are proud and gladOf the land that they were born?Oh, son, I see in mem’ries fewOf far off distant daysWhen being just a lad like youI joined the IRAWhere are the lads that st
The Foggy Dew" is a product of the political situation in Ireland in the aftermath of the Easter Rising and World War I.
Approximately 210,000 Irishmen joined up and served in the British forces during the war.[7] This created mixed feelings for many Irish people, particularly for those with nationalist sympathies. While they broadly supported the British war effort, they also felt that one of the moral justifications for the war, "the freedom of small nations" like Belgium and Serbia, should also be applied to Ireland, which at that time was under British rule.[8] The 1915 Gallipoli slaughter of the young and mainly middle-class Irishmen who had joined up in response to John Redmond's call turned many people against the war.
In 1916, Irish patriots led by James Connolly and Patrick Pearse, taking advantage of Britain being occupied by World War I, seized some of the major buildings in Dublin including the General Post Office, while others came out in Ashbourne and Galway in the Easter Rising.
The brutal response to the Rising, and the execution of its leaders that followed, marked a turning point for many Irish people. The public revulsion at the executions added to the growing sense of alienation from the British Government.[8]
Canon O'Neill reflected this alienation when he wrote The Foggy Dew commemorating the few hundred brave men who had risen out against what was then the most powerful empire in the world. In 1919, he[9] attended the first sitting of the new Irish Parliament, Dáil. The names of the elected members were called out, but many were absent. Their names were answered by the reply faoi ghlas ag na Gaill – "locked up by the foreigner".
"The Foggy Dew"
It was down the glen one Easter morn to a city fair rode I. Their armoured lines of marching men in squadrons passed me by. No fife did hum nor battle drum did sound it's dread tattoo. But the Angelus bell o'er the Liffey swell rang out through the foggy dew.
Right proudly high over Dublin Town they hung out the flag of war. 'Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky than at Sulva or Sud El Bar. And from the plains of royal Meath strong men came hurrying through. While Britannia's Huns, with their long range guns sailed in by the foggy dew.
'Twas England bade our Wild Geese go that small nations might be free. But their lonely graves are by Silva's waves or the fringe of the Great North Sea. Oh, had they died by Pearse's side or fought with Cathal Brugh. Their names we will keep where the ****s sleep 'neath the shroud of the foggy dew.
But the bravest fell, and the solemn bell rang mournfully and clear. For those who died that Eastertide in the springing of the year. And the world did gaze, in deep amaze, at those stout hearted men, but few. Who bore the fight that freedom's light might shine through the foggy dew.
Back to the glen I rode again and my heart with grief was sore. For I parted with those valiant men whom I never would see no more. And to and fro in my dreams I will go And I'd kneel and I'd pray for you, For slavery fled, O glorious dead, When you fell in the foggy dew.
The Foggy Dew" is a product of the political situation in Ireland in the aftermath of the Easter Rising and World War I.Approximately 210,000 Irishmen joined up and served in the British forces during the war.[7] This created mixed feelings for many
It's been seven hours and fifteen days Since you took your love away I go out every night and sleep all day Since you took your love away
Since you've been gone I can do whatever I want I can see whomever I choose I can eat my dinner in a fancy restaurant But nothing I said nothing can take away these blues
'Cause nothing compares Nothing compares to you
It's been so lonely without you here Like a bird without a song Nothing can stop these lonely tears from falling Tell me, baby, where did I go wrong
I could put my arms around every boy I see But they'd only remind me of you I went to the doctor and guess what he told me? Guess what he told me? He said, "Girl, you better try to have fun no matter what you do," But he's a fool
'Cause nothing compares Nothing compares to you
All the flowers that you planted, mama, in the back yard All died when you went away I know that living with you, baby, was sometimes hard But I'm willing to give it another try
Nothing compares Nothing compares to you Nothing compares Nothing compares to you Nothing compares Nothing compares to you
It's been seven hours and fifteen daysSince you took your love awayI go out every night and sleep all daySince you took your love awaySince you've been gone I can do whatever I wantI can see whomever I chooseI can eat my dinner in a fancy restaurantB