Recitations Anyone?

Subject: Lyr Add: THE MOUNTAIN WHIPPOORWILL (S V Benet)
From: Bee-dubya-ell
Date: 15 Jan 03 - 01:08 AM

My all-time favorite. John McEuen of Nitty Gritty Dirt Band has been doing it for years as a recital with banjo accompaniment.

(I copied this transcription from this site. I'm not sure they have all the words exactly right, but I'm not making any changes and I'm too tired to look for any other versions.)

THE MOUNTAIN WHIPPOORWILL
(Or, How Hill-Billy Jim Won the Great Fiddlers' Prize)
By Stephen Vincent Benet

Up in the mountains, it's lonesome all the time,
(Sof' win' slewin' thu' the sweet-potato vine.)
Up in the mountains, it's lonesome for a child,
(Whippoorwills a-callin' when the sap runs wild.)
Up in the mountains, mountains in the fog,
Everythin's as lazy as an old houn' dog.
Born in the mountains, never raised a pet,
Don't want nuthin' an' never got it yet.
Born in the mountains, lonesome-born,
Raised runnin' ragged thu' the cockleburrs and corn.
Never knew my pappy, mebbe never should.
Think he was a fiddle made of mountain laurel-wood.
Never had a mammy to teach me pretty-please.
Think she was a whippoorwill, a-skittin' thu' the trees.
Never had a brother ner a whole pair of pants,
But when I start to fiddle, why, yuh got to start to dance!
Listen to my fiddle -- Kingdom Come -- Kingdom Come!
Hear the frogs a-chunkin' "Jug o' rum, Jug o' rum!"
Hear that mountain whippoorwill be lonesome in the air,
An' I'll tell yuh how I travelled to the Essex County Fair.
Essex County has a mighty pretty fair,
All the smarty fiddlers from the South come there.
Elbows flyin' as they rosin up the bow
For the First Prize Contest in the Georgia Fiddlers' Show.
Old Dan Wheeling, with his whiskers in his ears,
King-pin fiddler for nearly twenty years.
Big Tom Sergeant, with his blue wall-eye,
An' Little Jimmy Weezer that can make a fiddle cry.
All sittin' roun', spittin' high an' struttin' proud,
(Listen, little whippoorwill, yuh better bug yore eyes!)
Tun-a-tun-a-tunin' while the jedges told the crowd
Them that got the mostest claps'd win the bestest prize.
Everybody waitin' for the first tweedle-dee,
When in comes a-stumblin' -- hill-billy me!
Bowed right pretty to the jedges an' the rest,
Took a silver dollar from a hole inside my vest,
Plunked it on the table an' said, "There's my callin' card!
An' anyone that licks me -- well, he's got to fiddle hard!"
Old Dan Wheeling, he was laughin' fit to holler,
Little Jimmy Weezer said, "There's one dead dollar!"
Big Tom Sergeant had a yaller-toothy grin,
But I tucked my little whippoorwill spang underneath my chin,
An' petted it an' tuned it till the jedges said, "Begin!"
Big Tom Sargent was the first in line;
He could fiddle all the bugs off a sweet-potato vine.
He could fiddle down a possum from a mile-high tree,
He could fiddle up a whale from the bottom of the sea.
Yuh could hear hands spankin' till they spanked each other raw,
When he finished variations on "Turkey in the Straw."
Little Jimmy Weezer was the next to play;
He could fiddle all night, he could fiddle all day.
He could fiddle chills, he could fiddle fever,
He could make a fiddle rustle like a lowland river.
He could make a fiddle croon like a lovin' woman.
An' they clapped like thunder when he'd finished strummin'.
Then came the ruck of the bob-tailed fiddlers,
The let's-go-easies, the fair-to-middlers.
They got their claps an' they lost their bicker,
An' they all settled back for some more corn-licker.
An' the crowd was tired of their no-count squealing,
When out in the center steps Old Dan Wheeling.
He fiddled high and he fiddled low,
(Listen, little whippoorwill, yuh got to spread yore wings!)
He fiddled and fiddled with a cherrywood bow,
(Old Dan Wheeling's got bee-honey in his strings).
He fiddled a wind by the lonesome moon,
He fiddled a most almighty tune.
He started fiddling like a ghost.
He ended fiddling like a host.
He fiddled north an' he fiddled south,
He fiddled the heart right out of yore mouth.
He fiddled here an' he fiddled there.
He fiddled salvation everywhere.
When he was finished, the crowd cut loose,
(Whippoorwill, they's rain on yore breast.)
An' I sat there wonderin' "What's the use?"
(Whippoorwill, fly home to yore nest.)
But I stood up pert an' I took my bow,
An' my fiddle went to my shoulder, so.
An' -- they wasn't no crowd to get me fazed --
But I was alone where I was raised.
Up in the mountains, so still it makes yuh skeered.
Where God lies sleepin' in his big white beard.
An' I heard the sound of the squirrel in the pine,
An' I heard the earth a-breathin' thu' the long night-time.
They've fiddled the rose, and they've fiddled the thorn,
But they haven't fiddled the mountain-corn.
They've fiddled sinful an' fiddled moral,
But they haven't fiddled the breshwood-laurel.
They've fiddled loud, and they've fiddled still,
But they haven't fiddled the whippoorwill.
I started off with a dump-diddle-dump,
(Oh, hell's broke loose in Georgia!)
Skunk-cabbage growin' by the bee-gum stump.
(Whippoorwill, yo're singin' now!)
My mother was a whippoorwill pert,
My father, he was lazy,
But I'm hell broke loose in a new store shirt
To fiddle all Georgia crazy.
Swing yore partners -- up an' down the middle!
Sashay now -- oh, listen to that fiddle!
Flapjacks flippin' on a red-hot griddle,
An' hell's broke loose,
Hell's broke loose,
Fire on the mountains -- snakes in the grass.
Satan's here a-bilin' -- oh, Lordy, let him pass!
Go down Moses, set my people free;
Pop goes the weasel thu' the old Red Sea!
Jonah sittin' on a hickory-bough,
Up jumps a whale -- an' where's yore prophet now?
Rabbit in the pea-patch, possum in the pot,
Try an' stop my fiddle, now my fiddle's gettin' hot!
Whippoorwill, singin' thu' the mountain hush,
Whippoorwill, shoutin' from the burnin' bush,
Whippoorwill, cryin' in the stable-door,
Sing tonight as yuh never sang before!
Hell's broke loose like a stompin' mountain-shoat,
Sing till yuh bust the gold in yore throat!
Hell's broke loose for forty miles aroun'
Bound to stop yore music if yuh don['t sing it down.
Sing on the mountains, little whippoorwill,
Sing to the valleys, an' slap 'em with a hill,
For I'm struttin' high as an eagle's quill,
An' hell's broke loose,
Hell's broke loose,
Hell's broke loose in Georgia!
They wasn't a sound when I stopped bowin',
(Whippoorwill, yuh can sing no more.)
But, somewhere or other, the dawn was growin',
(Oh, mountain whippoorwill!)
An' I thought, "I've fiddled all night an' lost,
Yo're a good hill-billy, but yuh've been bossed."
So I went to congratulate old man Dan,
-- But he put his fiddle into my han' --
An' then the noise of the crowd began!

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Teribus
Date: 15 Jan 03 - 07:01 AM

I am surprised that there has only been the briefest of mentions for Banjo Paterson and no mention at all of Henry Lawson - both are equals of anything written by either Service or Kipling.

Man from Snowy River
Pardon the son of Reprieve
Rio Grande
The Saltbush Bill Stories
Droving Days
The Story of Old Mongrel Grey
Final Parade
The Boss of the Admiral Lynch
Father Murphy's Horse
The Bushman's Tale

All of them absolutely terrific stories

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: JennyO
Date: 15 Jan 03 - 07:46 AM

Teribus, I did mention some of the more contemporary Australian poets a few posts back, but I actually did not mention Lawson or Patterson, which is kinda strange, because in many of the poets' breakfasts and competitions they are very prominent, and we have many fine reciters of their works. There are also a fair few parodies of these around as well, so maybe we have lost some of our appreciation of them.

As it happens, yesterday I mentioned Lawson's story of The Loaded Dog in the thread about unusual pub names, as there is a pub of that name on the way to Braidwood, as well as the Loaded Dog Folk Club at Annandale in Sydney.

As a matter of fact, I can trace my love of bush poetry to my 6th grade teacher, Mr Walker, who used to recite Lawson and Patterson to us all the time. He also told some of the stories. I particularly remember the story of The Loaded Dog because we dramatised it and put it on as a play for the school. There was this boy I had a crush on and he played Dave Regan, owner of the dog. Even when I read it now I can remember how it sounded at the end "'Ello, Da-a-ave.'Ow's the fishin' gettin' on Da-a-ave? Ah, those were the days...........

Jenny

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Naemanson
Date: 15 Jan 03 - 08:09 AM

Bee-dubya-ell, haven't I heard The Mountain Whippoorwill as a song? And I'm guessing that Marshall Tucker's Devil Went Down To Georgia is based on this poem as well. I'd never have guessed it was Stephen Vincent Benet! Great post!

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Bee-dubya-ell
Date: 15 Jan 03 - 09:37 AM

Naemanson - "The Mountain Whipoorwill" is (or at least used to be) done by John McEuen of The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. He doesn't really do it as a song. He accompanies himself on banjo while reciting it, but applies no melody to the words.

Yes, John McEuen claims that "Mountain Whipoorwill" was Charlie Daniels' inspiration for "The Devil Went Down to Georgia". He says that he played "Mountain Whipoorwill" for Charlie, Charlie loved it, and a few months later "Devil" came out. Don't know if Charlie has ever acknowledged the source.

There are at least a couple of old threads about "Mountain Whipoorwill", but something's got the 'Cat's search utilities sort of haywire and I couldn't find them.

Another recitation with banjo accompaniment is "Automobile Trip Through Alabama" as done by the New Lost City Ramblers. Joe Offer very kindly transcribed the words in THIS THREAD just a couple of days ago. BTW the gasoline brand mentioned in the piece is "Woco Pep". Joe was having a bit of a hard time with the name.

Bruce

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Naemanson
Date: 15 Jan 03 - 03:36 PM

OOPS! Marshall Tucker does not equal Charlie Daniels. Thanks for being so polite Bee-dubya-ell. And thanks for the info on the song.

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: John MacKenzie
Date: 15 Jan 03 - 04:25 PM

I have an old and very scratchy EP [remember them?]of a guy called Ron Haddrick reciting bush ballads. The ones I remember are, The Ballad of the Drover, The Man from Snowy River,and Said Hanrahan. No date on the disc, but it was issued by EMI Australia, and from the blurb, I think it must have been accompanying a book called The Australian Classics. This was issued by The Discovery Press Pty Ltd.
Giok

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: GUEST,winterbright
Date: 16 Jan 03 - 10:17 AM

Jeez... I never realized there were so many of us! (reciters)
Are there enough of us to pull together a mid-winter evening of this sort of thing -either for public or just our own consumption? I'm in the midcoast (Bath-Brunswick, Maine, 25 m. north of Portland) area and can probably get a night at the UU church or one of the libraries near here. Note: I don't always get online here at the mudcat as often as a lot of you guys, so you can email me direct if you're interested: my mudcat handle can be found @hotmail.com.

Subject: Lyr Add: TOM TWIST
From: GUEST,.gargoyle
Date: 17 Jan 03 - 07:25 PM

As rapidly as the WWW has developed it is rare to find an opportunity to post VIRGIN material from a previously published source. Google don't have this piece… nor does Grange's Index to Poetry…nor any other immediately available source. Therefore, an incantation has resurrected the spirits of my Uncle and Grandfather and my 4th Grade Teacher…..to bring you...

INDEPENDENT

FOURTH READER

CONTAINING

A PRACTICAL TREATISE ON ELOCUTION, ILLUSTRATED
WITH DIAGRAMS: SELECT AND CLASSIFIED
READINGS AND RECITATIONS; WITH
COPIOUS NOTES, AND COMPLETE
SUPPLEMENTARY INDEX.

By J. MADISON WATSON,

Author of the National and the Independent Readers, Spellers and Primers: The
Hand-Book of Gymnastics: The Manual of Calisthenics: Tables, etc.

A. S. B A R N E S & C O M P A N Y
NEW YORK, 7 CHICAGO

copyright 1868, 1876, 1890

page 243, IV, 96.

TOM TWIST

TOM TWIST was a wonderful fellow,
No boy was so nimble and strong;
He could turn ten somersets backward,
And stand on his head all day long.

No wrestling, or leaping, or running,
This tough little urchin could tire;
His muscles were all gutta-percha,
And his sinews bundles of wire.

Tom Twist liked the life of a sailor,
So off, with a hop and a skip,
Hew went to a Nantucket captain,
Who took him on board of his ship,
The vessel was crowded with seamen,
Young, old, stout and slim, short and tall,
But in climbing, swinging and jumpin,
Tom Twist was ahead of them all.

He could scamper all through the rigging,
As spry and as still as a cat,
While as for a leap from the maintop
To deck, he thought nothing of that:
He danced at the end of the yard-arm,
Slept sound in the bend of a sail,
And hung by his legs from the bowsprit,
When the wind was blowing a gale.

The vessel went down in a tempest,
A thousand fathoms or more;
But Tom Twist dive under the breakers,
And, swimming five mile, got ashore.
The shore was a cannibal island,
The natives were hungry enough ;
But they felt of Tommy all over,
And found him entirely too tough.

So they put him into a boy-coop-
Just to fatten him up, you see –
But Tommy crept out, very slyly,
And climbed to the top of a tree.

The tree was the nest of a condor,
A bird with prodigious big wing,
Which live up boa-constrictors
And other digestible things.

The condor flew home in the evening,
And there lay friend Tommy so snug,
She thought she had pounced on a very
Remarkable species of bug;
She soon woke him up with her pecking,
But Tommy gave one of his springs,
And leaped on the back of the condor,
]Between her long neck and her wings.

The condor tried plunging and pitching,
But Tommy held on with firm hand,
Then off, with a scream, flew the condor,
O'er forest and ocean and land.
By and by, she got tired of her burden,
And flying quite close to the ground
Tom untwisted his legs from the creature,
And quickly slipped off with bound.

He landed all right, and feet foremost,
A little confused by his fall,
And then ascertained he had alight
On top of the great Chinese Wall.
He walked to city of Pekin,
Where he made the Chinamen grin:
He turned ten somersets backward,
And they made him a Mandarin.

The Tom had to play the Celestial
And dangle a long pigtail;
And he dined on puppies and kittens,
Till his spirits began to fail.
He sighed for his native country,
And he longed for its ham and eggs;
And in turning somersets backward
His pigtail would catch in his legs.

He sailed for his dear home and harbor.
The house of his mother he knew;
He climbed up the lightning-rod quickly,
And came down the chimney-flue.
His mother in slumber lay dreaming
That she never would see him more,
When she opened her eyes, and Tommy
Stood there in the bedroom floor!

Her nightcap flew off in amazement,
Her hair stood on end with surprise.
"What kind of ghost or a spirit
Is this that I see with my eyes?" –
"I am your most dutiful Tommy."
"I will not believe it," she said,
"Till you turn ten somersets backward,
And stand half on hour on your head."

"That thing I will do, dearest mother."
At once with a skip and a hop,
He turned the ten somersets backward,
But then was unable to stop!
The tenth took him out of the window,
His mother jumped from her bed,
To see his twentieth somerset
Take him over the kitchen shed;

Thence, across the patch of potatoes
And beyond the church on the hill'
She saw him tumbling turning
Turn and tumbling still –
Till Tommy's body diminished
In size to the head of a pin,
Spinning away in the distance
Where it still continues to spin!

Sincerely,
Gargoyle

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Deckman
Date: 17 Jan 03 - 07:46 PM

Thank you Gargoyle ... quite wonderful! Bob

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Deckman
Date: 18 Jan 03 - 07:54 PM

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Deckman
Date: 18 Jan 03 - 08:03 PM

I refreshed this thread, just as it was about to drop off into oblivian, as I just found something in my archives that amazes me. I've been going through a 50 some year collection of stuff, and I came across something I never knew I had. It is in tatters. It's printed on very old, and failing newsprint. It's a newspaper sized publication titled: " Two Hundred Populiar Recitations ... Stories and Songs." It cost 25 cents. I only have half of the cover sheet, so I can't find a date or city of origan. Looking at the material published, and the ads, I'm guessing it would be Chicago or New York, 1890 -1910. Over the next several days, I will be able to carefully unfold it and list the collection of recitations it holds. I will post this, and if someone wants one, I will post it for you. This is a fragile treasure. CHEERS, Bob

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Deckman
Date: 18 Jan 03 - 08:10 PM

To help anyone trying to date this piece, I just found an ad in this publication for "The Hoboe News" cost 10 cents, with a New York address.

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Cluin
Date: 19 Jan 03 - 11:49 AM

She offered her honour
So he honored her offer
And all evening long
He was on her and off her.

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: GUEST
Date: 19 Jan 03 - 01:02 PM

Have a look at this one and try your best north east (UK) accent.
Brad.

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Deckman
Date: 19 Jan 03 - 07:49 PM

This will be a long post. I've studied my copy of this "200 recitations." I'm going to post some of the more obscure and interesting titles, with the occasional author as listed. There are many well known poets listed, such as Robert Service, Rudyard Kipling,Longfellow, Poe. I will not list these poems as I know they are very available.

Reading it complety, I suspect that this was published in new York City, during the depression years. There are some amazing ads, including one for "Sex Secrets." SHEEUH, I thought that was a modern invention!

Here's the list of some of the more obscure poems, etc.: (note, I have tried to copy the spelling accuratly)


Grifters Under The Skin;
Heaven Will Pertect he Workin' Girl;
I Have A Rendezvous With Death, by Allen Seeger;
Prosperity;
The Suicide;
Piper of Folly;
Women and Matches;
Two Sinners, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox;
The Hoboes Convention, by George Liebst;
How Did You Die, by Edmund Vance Cooke;
Pirates;
The Philosophy Of A Hoboe, by Dan O'Brien;
The Child Prayer, by Dan O'Brien;
Asleep At The switch;
The Panhandle, by Berton Braley;
Beautiful Snow, by James William Watson;
The Ace In The Hole, by Al Wilson;
The Phantom Dray, by Charles Blue;
A Hop Fiends Dream;
Bulldozed;
The Kid's Last Fight Fight, by Aaron Hoffman;
Empties Comming Back;
Ridin' On The Rods, by A. Leslie;
Life Is But A Game OF Cards;
Sister Of The Cross Of Shame;
Railroad Jack;
Lonesome Joe, by Casey Davis;
The Bo From Zanziba;
The Tramp, by C.B. Clark;
Song Of The Shirt, by Thomas Hood;
The Gila Monster Route, by Post and Norton;
Somebody's Mother;
Arizons, by Charles Brown;
The Road, by Ben (hobo) Benson;
The Hermit Of Shark Tooth Shoal;
The Hell Bound Train;
Whisperin' Bill;
Hobo Bill's Last Ride.

If any of you died in the wool reciters would like one of these poems, just PM me.

CHEERS, Bob(deckman)Nelson

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: GUEST,.gargoyle
Date: 19 Jan 03 - 10:01 PM

That is a wonderful list Deckman - I think a couple are in the DT -i.e. Hobo Bill's Last Ride http://www.mudcat.org/thread.cfm?threadid=11491

One not mentioned in this immediate thread but one of my favorites is "Face on the Bar-room Floor" it was posted by Joe Offer - http://www.mudcat.org/thread.cfm?threadid=13736#115426

Sincerely,
Gargoyle

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Ebbie
Date: 20 Jan 03 - 01:38 AM

A friend of mine, Gargoyle, does The Face, etc, and very well too, which is interesting because he is a shy, diffident man. Somehow he takes on a different persona when he does the piece.

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: bradfordian
Date: 20 Jan 03 - 03:57 PM

Here's a web site for Bernard Wrigley, a UK performer of monologues. Some great stuff on CD from the "Bolton Bullfrog"
Brad

Subject: Lyr Add: HOW GILBERT DIED (A. B. "Banjo" Paterson)
From: GUEST,Arkie
Date: 20 Jan 03 - 05:18 PM

Have certainly enjoyed this thread. Glad to see some attention to this wonderful but somewhat obscure art. As was pointed out much earlier in the thread recitations are a prominent part of the cowboy poetry gatherings and something one can enjoy for the entertainment factor even is western lore is of little interest. I think I posted this on Mudcat once before but it is appropriate here.

HOW GILBERT DIED
by A. B. "Banjo" Paterson

There's never a stone at the sleeper's head,
There's never a fence beside,
And the wandering stock on the grave may tread
Unnoticed and undenied;
But the smallest child on the Watershed
Can tell you how Gilbert died.
For he rode at dusk with his comrade Dunn
To the hut at the Stockman's Ford;
In the waning light of the sinking sun
They peered with a fierce accord.
They were outlaws both -- and on each man's head
Was a thousand pounds reward.
They had taken toll of the country round,
And the troopers came behind
With a black who tracked like a human hound
In the scrub and the ranges blind:
He could run the trail where a white man's eye
No sign of track could find.
He had hunted them out of the One Tree Hill
And over the Old Man Plain,
But they wheeled their tracks with a wild beast's skill,
And they made for the range again;
Then away to the hut where their grandsire dwelt
They rode with a loosened rein.
And their grandsire gave them a greeting bold:
"Come in and rest in peace,
No safer place does the country hold --
With the night pursuit must cease,
And we'll drink success to the roving boys,
And to hell with the black police."
But they went to death when they entered there
In the hut at the Stockman's Ford,
For their grandsire's words were as false as fair --
They were doomed to the hangman's cord.
He had sold them both to the black police
For the sake of the big reward.
In the depth of night there are forms that glide
As stealthily as serpents creep,
And around the hut where the outlaws hide
They plant in the shadows deep,
And they wait till the first faint flush of dawn
Shall waken their prey from sleep.
But Gilbert wakes while the night is dark --
A restless sleeper aye.
He has heard the sound of a sheep-dog's bark,
And his horse's warning neigh,
And he says to his mate, "There are hawks abroad,
And it's time that we went away."
Their rifles stood at the stretcher head,
Their bridles lay to hand;
They wakened the old man out of his bed,
When they heard the sharp command:
"In the name of the Queen lay down your arms,
Now, Dun and Gilbert, stand!"
Then Gilbert reached for his rifle true
That close at hand he kept;
He pointed straight at the voice, and drew,
But never a flash outleapt,
For the water ran from the rifle breech --
It was drenched while the outlaws slept.
Then he dropped the piece with a bitter oath,
And he turned to his comrade Dunn:
"We are sold," he said, "we are dead men both! --
Still, there may be a chance for one;
I'll stop and I'll fight with the pistol here,
You take to your heels and run."
So Dunn crept out on his hands and knees
In the dim, half-dawning light,
And he made his way to a patch of trees,
And was lost in the black of night;
And the trackers hunted his tracks all day,
But they never could trace his flight.
But Gilbert walked from the open door
In a confident style and rash;
He heard at his side the rifles roar,
And he heard the bullets crash.
But he laughed as he lifted his pistol-hand,
And he fired at the rifle-flash.
Then out of the shadows the troopers aimed
At his voice and the pistol sound.
With rifle flashes the darkness flamed --
He staggered and spun around,
And they riddled his body with rifle balls
As it lay on the blood-soaked ground.
There's never a stone at the sleeper's head,
There's never a fence beside,
And the wandering stock on the grave may tread
Unnoticed and undenied;
But the smallest child on the Watershed
Can tell you how Gilbert died.

Excess line breaks removed. --JoeClone, 26-Feb-03.

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Deckman
Date: 20 Jan 03 - 05:30 PM

Oh M'GAWD! COWBOY POETRY! Sheeuh! Here goes another 200 posts. (Nelson, you idiot. What have you started?) says Bob, hanging his head!). Actually, Baxtor Black alone is worth 200 posts. CHEERS, Bob

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: JennyO
Date: 20 Jan 03 - 10:39 PM

Australian poetry of this type, such as the poetry of Patterson and Lawson, is not cowboy poetry, it is called Bush Poetry.

We have stockmen, farmers, shearers, squatters, swaggies etc - but no cowboys!

Jenny

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Deckman
Date: 20 Jan 03 - 10:53 PM

Hi JennieO ... I knew that I'm a big lover of Banjo Patterson and Henry Lawson. Bob

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: GUEST
Date: 20 Jan 03 - 11:53 PM

JennyO - You plunk "Australian Cowboy" into Google and you will find 61,000 versions from poetry, to rodeo riders, from Stetsons to stock-shows.

Me thinks the lady protesteth too much.

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Arkie
Date: 21 Jan 03 - 12:08 AM

I had no intention of implying that How Gilbert Died was considered cowboy poetry, just happened to mention both. But that aside, there is an interest in Australian poetry and song among many of the folk and performers who are found at western poetry gatherings and one is likely to hear a bit of bush poetry and songs.

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Deckman
Date: 21 Jan 03 - 01:17 AM

It's a BIG wide wonderful world! And the more I learn, I learn just how much I don't know, and the more things seem to change, the more they repeat themselves. Why I say this is because I was just remembering something a friend told me 15 years ago. He's a wrangler from Idaho (USA) that moved to Australia some 20 years ago. He said that he felt instantly at home there, what with the songs and the story telling (to say nothing of the beer and the girls). Another friend, a lady, told me of the cowboys she encountered on the Patagonia, in Argentina. Very similiar life styles, adventures, romances, songs and tales. As I said, it's a BIG wide wonderful world! CHEERS, Bob

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: JennyO
Date: 21 Jan 03 - 02:25 AM

I just had a look at some of those websites, and I don't think the people who call it cowboy poetry are Australian.

Maybe some of the rodeo riders call themselves cowboys, because they associate themselves with the American rodeo scene, but as far as I know, they don't write poetry. Correct me if I'm wrong.

I know a lot of bush poets and they aren't cowboys. more likely these days that they live in the city or at least a country town, and just love that style of poetry, and are trying to keep the genre alive. In fact many of them write about urban subjects in the bush poetry style.

One who calls himself 'Blue the Shearer' is a good example. His real name is Col Wilson and he is an ex public servant. He writes about such things as the problems of using a chainsaw, or backing a trailer, or negotiating roundabouts, as well as the more usual bush-type subjects, and always in a humorous vein.

As for the more traditional ones, many were written about life in the bush and the outback, and there certainly are parallels between that and the American experience. However the men who rode horses and rounded up the cattle called themselves stockmen, not cowboys.

It's only a difference in terminology that I am talking about. Not all that important really.

Subject: Lyr Add: BRONCO TWISTER'S PRAYER (Bruce Kiskaddon)
From: GUEST,Arkie
Date: 21 Jan 03 - 01:31 PM

There are many authentic cowboys doing poetry as well as part time cowboys and others from different walks of life who have an affinity for the cowboy subject matter which is about as varied as other forms of poetry. One poem that has wide circulation was written, I think by Waddie Mitchell, but is done by scads of reciters is "The Bra" which describes a cowboy's shopping trip into town with instructions from his wife to purchase this particular undergarment. I have it on a tape which has escaped from its place on the shelf and has eluded capture for close to six months. The poem I am posting is from one of the authentic cowboys who, I was told by someone, did not begin to write until he was no longer a working wrangler.

THE BRONCO TWISTER'S PRAYER
Bruce Kiskaddon

It was a little grave yard
   on the rolling foot hill plains:
That was bleached by the sun in summer,
   swept by winter's snows and rains;
There a little bunch of settlers
   gathered on an autumn day
'Round a home made lumber coffin,
   with their last respects to pay.
Weary men that wrung their living
   from that hard and arid land,
And beside them stood their women;
   faded wives with toil worn hands.
But among us stood one figure
   that was wiry, straight and trim.
Every one among us know him.
   'Twas the broncho twister, Jim.
Just a bunch of hardened muscle
   tempered with a savage grit,
And he had the reputation
   of a man that never quit.
He had helped to build the coffin,
   he had helped to dig the grave;
And his instinct seemed to teach him
   how he really should behave.
Well, we didn't have a preacher,
   and the crowd was mighty slim.
Just two women with weak voices
   sang an old time funeral hymn.
That was all we had for service.
   The old wife was sobbing there.
For her husband of a life time,
   laid away without prayer.
She looked at the broncho twister,
   then she walked right up to him.
Put one trembling arm around him and said,
   "Pray. Please won't you Jim?"
You could see his figure straighten,
   and a look of quick surprise
Flashed across his swarthy features,
   and his hard dare devil eyes.
He could handle any broncho,
   and he never dodged a fight.
'Twas the first time any body ever saw
   his face turn white.
But he took his big sombrero
   off his rough and shaggy head,
How I wish I could remember what
   that broncho peeler said.
No, he wasn't educated.
   On the range his youth was spent.
But the maker of creation
   know exactly what he meant.
He looked over toward the mountains
   where the driftin' shadows played.
Silence must have reined in heaven
   when they heard the way Jim prayed.
Years have passed since that small funeral
   in that lonely grave yard lot.
But it gave us all a memory, and a lot
   of food for thought.
As we stood beside the coffin,
   and the freshly broken sod,
With that reckless broncho breaker
   talkin' heart to heart with God.
When the prayer at last was over,
   and the grave had all been filled,
On his rough, half broken pony,
   he rode off toward the hills.
Yes, we stood there in amazement
   as we watched him ride away,
For no words could ever thank him.
   There was nothing we could say.
Since we gathered in that grave yard,
   it's been nearly fifty years.
With their joys and with their sorrows,
   with their hopes and with their fears.
But I hope when I have finished,
   and they lay me with the dead,
Some one says a prayer above me,
   like that broncho twister said.

Excess line breaks removed. --JoeClone, 26-Feb-03.

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Ebbie
Date: 21 Jan 03 - 05:43 PM

Arkie, I would like to hear more of that bronco twister! Reminds me of the many mythical figures in our literature.

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: GUEST,Damsel
Date: 22 Jan 03 - 06:13 PM

The Queen she came to Dublin, to help her to revive.
She asked the Lord ????. to take her for a drive.

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: clueless don
Date: 23 Jan 03 - 11:43 AM

WARNING: this is REALLY obscure!

I am remembering a recitation I saw on television, in the days leading up to the Super Bowl (this is a championship game of American football - some of you may have heard of it :) ) back in the 70's. I think it must have been just before Super Bowl IX, because the recitation, by Grandpa Jones, described the events of Super Bowl VIII, involving the Miami Dolphins and Minnesota Vikings. Mr. Jones described the events from the point of view of a wide-eyed visitor not familiar with the game - for example, he referred to the Dolphins as "fish", and MAY have referred to the Vikings as "cows", or something like that. He noted that one of the "fish" had "Ca-Zonk" written on his uniform (that would have been running back Larry Csonka), and said that it was appropriate because he ca-zonked the other team (Mr. Csonka had a very good game that day, and was named most valuable player of the day.) And so forth. It was possibly inspired by the famous Andy Griffith recitation "What it was, was football."

I don't know who wrote it (I suppose it might have been Grandpa Jones himself, though that is not certain), but I really loved it and would love to hear it again!

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: GUEST,Cailin
Date: 23 Jan 03 - 08:19 PM

Can any one assist me in a recitation called THE OLD SCHOOL CLOCK please. It starts, Fond memories rush over my mind just now of faces and friends of the past.

Subject: Lyr Add: BALLAD OF THE HARP-WEAVER (Edna Millay)
From: GUEST,.gargoyle
Date: 26 Jan 03 - 01:10 AM

Another grand soul harking from Maine and the first woman to win the Pulitzer Prize for poetry. Not familiar with it...but...I heard this one recited tonight....and it is good...but a little mushy.

THE BALLAD OF THE HARP-WEAVER

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Son, said my mother,
When I was knee-high,
You've need of clothes to cover you,
And not a rag have I.
There's nothing in the house
To make a boy breeches,
Nor shears to cut a cloth with,
Nor thread to take stitches.

There's nothing in the house
But a loaf-end of rye,
And a harp with a woman's head
Nobody will buy,
And she began to cry.

That was in the early fall.
When came the late fall,
Son, she said, the sight of you
Makes your mother's blood crawl,

Little skinny shoulder blades
Sticking through your clothes!
And where you'll get a jacket from
God above knows.

It's lucky for me, lad,
Your daddy's in the ground,
And can't see the way I let
His son go around!
And she made a queer sound.

That was in the late fall.
When the winter came,
I'd not a pair of breeches
Nor a shirt to my name.

I couldn't go to school,
Or out of doors to play.
And all the other little boys
Passed our way.

Son,"said my mother,
Come, climb into my lap,
And I'll chafe your little bones
While you take a nap.

And, oh, but we were silly
For half an hour or more,
Me with my long legs
Dragging on the floor,

A-rock-rock-rocking
To a Mother Goose rhyme!
Oh, but we were happy
For half an hour's time!

But there was I, a great boy,
And what would folks say
To hear my mother singing me
To sleep all day,
In such a daft way?

Men say the winter
Was bad that year;
Fuel was scarce,
And food was dear.

A wind with a wolf's head
Howled about our door,
And we burned up the chairs
And sat upon the floor.

All that was left us
Was a chair we couldn't break,
And the harp with a woman's head
Nobody would take,
For song or pity's sake.

The night before Christmas
I cried with the cold,
I cried myself to sleep
Like a two-year-old.

And in the deep night
I felt my mother rise,
And stare down upon me
With love in her eyes.

I saw my mother sitting
On the one good chair,
A light falling on her
From I couldn't tell where,

Looking nineteen,
And not a day older,
And the harp with a woman's head
Leaned against her shoulder.

Her thin fingers, moving
In the thin, tall strings,
Were weav-weav-weaving
Wonderful things.

Many bright threads,
From where I couldn't see,
Were running through the harp strings
Rapidly,

And gold threads whistling
Through my mother's hand.
I saw the web grow,
And the pattern expand.

She wove a child's jacket,
And when it was done
She laid it on the floor
And wove another one.

She wove a red cloak
So regal to see,
She's made it for a king's son,
I said, and not for me.
But I knew it was for me.

She wove a pair of breeches
Quicker than that!
She wove a pair of boots
And a little cocked hat.

She wove a pair of mittens,
She wove a little blouse,
She wove all night
In the still, cold house.

She sang as she worked,
And the harp strings spoke;
Her voice never faltered,
And the thread never broke.
And when I awoke,

There sat my mother
With the harp against her shoulder,
Looking nineteen,
And not a day older,

A smile about her lips,
And a light about her head,
And her hands in the harp strings
Frozen dead.

And piled up beside her
And toppling to the skies,
Were the clothes of a king's son,
Just my size.

Sincerly,
Gargoyle

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Deckman
Date: 26 Jan 03 - 04:07 AM

WHEW! Thanks

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Arkie
Date: 27 Jan 03 - 12:56 AM

Johnny Cash has recorded the Harp Weaver. A moving piece.

Subject: Lyr Add: DEACON'S MASTERPIECE (Oliver W Holmes)
From: GUEST,.gargoyle
Date: 27 Jan 03 - 07:43 PM

I mentioned the subject to a fellow elocutionist and he brought forth this dandy.

THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE

or

The Wonderful One-Hoss Shay

(A Logical Story)

Copyright 1858, 1877, 1886, and 1890, by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
Copyright, 1891,
BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.

PREFACE

. . . ."The Wonderful One-Hoss Shay" is a perfectly intelligible conception, whatever material difficulties it presents. It is conceivable that a being of an order superior to humanity should so understand the conditions of matter that he could construct a machine which should go to pieces, if not into its constituent atoms, at a given moment of the future. The mind may take a certain pleasure in this picture of the impossible. The event follows as a logical consequence of the presupposed condition of things.

There is a practical lesson to be got out of the story. Observation shows us in what point any particular mechanism is most likely to give way. In a wagon, for instance, the weak point is where the axle enters the hub or nave. When the wagon breaks down, three times out of four, I think, it is at this point that the accident occurs. The workman should see to it that this part should never give way; then find the next vulnerable place, and so on, until he arrives logically at the perfect result attained by the deacon.

The localities referred to are those with which I am familiar in my drives about Essex County.

O. W. H.

July, 1891

---

The Deacon's Masterpiece

or

The Wonderful One-hoss Shay

(A Logical Story)

HAVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss-shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then, of a sudden, it--ah, but stay
I 'll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits,--
Have you ever heard of that, I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five,
Georgius Secundus was then alive,--
Snuffy old drone from the German hive;
That was the year when Lisbon-town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss-shay.

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always somewhere a weakest spot,--
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,--lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will,--
Above or below, or within or without,--
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,
A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out.

But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do)
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell you,"
He would build one shay to beat the town
'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry roun';
It should be so built that it couldn' break down!
--"Fur," said the Deacon, "t 's mighty plain
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;
'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,
Is only jest
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That could n't be split nor bent nor broke,--
That was for spokes and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees,
The panels of whitewood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;
The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"
Last of its timber,--they could n't sell 'em,

Never an axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide
Found in the pit when the tanner died.
That was the way he "put her through."
"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she 'll dew."
Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!

Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,
Children and grandchildren--where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss-shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!

EIGHTEEN HUNDRED;--it came and found
The Deacon's Masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred increased by ten;--
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came;--
Running as usual; much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive,
And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.

Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.

In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it.--You 're welcome.--No extra charge.)

FIRST OF NOVEMBER,--the Earthquake-day.--
There are traces of age in the one-hoss-shay--
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing local, as one may say.
There could n't be,--for the Deacon's art
Had made it so like in every part
That there was n't a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whippletree neither less nor more,
And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore,
And spring and axle and hub encore,
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be worn out!

First of November, 'Fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss-shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Huddup!" said the parson. --Off went they.

The parson was working his Sunday's text,--
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the--Moses--was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill
--First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill,--
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,--
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!

--What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you 're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once,--
All at once, and nothing first,--
Just as bubbles do when they burst.

End of the wonderful one-hoss-shay.
Logic is logic. That's all I say.

Sincerely,
Gargoyle

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Deckman
Date: 27 Jan 03 - 09:03 PM

AHHHHHH! There's a phrase from the past ... elocutionist! Did you know that "elocution" was a subject taught in grammer school in earlier days in America. I am fortunate enough to have my Grand Father's, AND my Mother's elocution notebooks from their school days. What is it? ... you might ask? I'm sure there will be much better definitions posted soon, but for me, "elocution" is the art of the spoken word" envolving diction, emoting, acting, and above all, passion! CHEERS, Bob(deckman)Nelson

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: bradfordian
Date: 02 Feb 03 - 06:55 PM

Saw Will Noble & John Cocking tonight (Sun) & Will recited some material from the pen of KEVIN COLLIER.
It is excellent humorous stuff. Here's Kevins web site http://easyweb.easynet.co.uk/goldkeep/Bards/
You can see some samples if you click on the list at the left hand side of the screen.

Regards Brad.

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Compton
Date: 03 Feb 03 - 10:56 AM

A very quick one,once performed by Max Miller (remember him?)
There was a cow from Huddersfield,
But no milk would she yield.
The reason that she wouldn't yield,
She didn't like her 'Udders feeled !

...there'll never be another, lady !

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Schantieman
Date: 03 Feb 03 - 12:02 PM

I used to have elocution lessons when I was about 10. No idea why now, but as it involved girly things like acting I wasn't very keen. AND we did an exerpt from Tom Sawyer in American accents which is, I'm sure, not what my parents were hoping for!

Steve

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: fogie
Date: 03 Feb 03 - 01:03 PM

Don't let this thread go down till I've had chance to read the rest tomorrow

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Deckman
Date: 03 Feb 03 - 06:56 PM

Hey fogie ... neat song title "Don't Let This Thread Go Down" What key is it in? CHEERS, Bob

Subject: Lyr Add: THE MADAM STOOD IN HER PARLOR WHEN A ...
From: Art Thieme
Date: 03 Feb 03 - 10:38 PM

I don't know where I got this---but it's in my file along with stuff I brought back from trying to drive to Alaska over thirty years ago. We lost 2 of our 4 cylinders near Whitehorse and had to turn around.------------Art Thieme
---------------------------------------------------------------------

The Madam stood in her parlor when a knock was heard at her door,
The girls all gathered 'round her to display their stock and store,
She peered through the panel grill like a panther stalks a deer,
And with a quick respond to the cute little blonde she whispered in her ear,

"He is fresh from the hobo jungles, dear, with a great big roll of hay,
So stick right close beside him and make the sucker pay,
I sent my spotter down last night to watch the boats arrive,
And my taxi driver picked him up in an east-end bootleg dive.

He'll be my guest while you get dressed in your finest evening frock,
His tonsils anoint in a cocktail joint but bank his roll in your sock,
Offer your charms to lure him---make sure of your feminine wit,
But get his jack and then come back. It's a 50-50 split."

"Hello, dis place!" said Micky O'Shea, as the Madam ushered him in,
"I'll down me sum of the good ol' rum 'cause I know you're drinkin' gin,
Here's to the ladies--bless 'em--and here's to the rum---drink her down,
Skol! Fill 'em up! Bottoms up you Wobs. There's plenty more liquor in town.

Now trot out the girls for my choosin' for my flesh is seared with the flame,
That has burned in man since the world began. (O, need I mention it's name?)"
Now dearie," the Madam intruded, I know you're rarin' to go,
That roll you pack of the hard-earned jack is a mighty big wad o' dough.

Just be advised by one who is wise to the ways of the huntress clan,
Steer clear of the harlot, the woman in scarlet, she is out to fleece you, man.
So let me make you acquainted with the right kind of gal to squire,
She's honest and true---she'll see ya through. Shake hands with Molly McGuire."

"What a woman! My God! What a woman."--thought the man from the log-jammed streams,
I'd follow her track to hell and back, she's the girl of my fanciful dreams.
I've lain all alone in the forest with boughs for a bed,
With the towering pines up above me and the murmuring winds overhead.

And I've heard her voice in that stillness, and she has come like a nymph before dawn,
To soothe my soul with her fondness. With the stars and the night she'd be gone.
And often I fancied I'd seen her in those big deep pools of blue,
Where the cataract leaps in the river, I've heard her laughter there too,
And now, just to think she's beside me, God it's hard to believe,
"Come honey, let's head for a nightclub," said the blond little daughter of eve.

Ten thousand drums and a big brass band, strange animals purple and red,
Were climbing the walls with ten-pound mauls and a-thumping 'em down on his head,
A circus of serpents performing in a bathtub full of champagne,
They were long---they were lean, they were purple and green and writhing around in his brain.

A woman---a marvel of beauty--a form like a sculptor's dream,
With rippling laughter in her eyes like the moon on a mountain stream,
Was calling him close to her bosom, was enticing him to her embrace,
But always her image would vanish and the floor would wallop his face.

Now, was it a horrible nightmare, or the jims from the liquid fire,
Had the Madam not made him acquainted with a girl named Molly McGuire?
He seemed to remember a roadhouse where the twinkling bright lights shone,
Then, sudden, he ran through his pockets---his roll---my God--! It was gone.

How cold were the streets of the city, how barren and friendless, how bare,
How lightly the now it fluttered, pure white, on that turbulent air,
How soon were the flakes soiled in the gutter, their emblem of purity stained,
Like the maiden whose visage he'd conjured in the forest where solitude reigned.

He was heading right back to his little log shack on the north-bound boat that night,
How he's spent that day it was hard to say, but he seemed to remember a fight,
Battered and bruised and badly used and nursing a big blackened eye,
While many a dame of skidroad fame was waving her love good bye.

When the steward tapped him on the shoulder and beckoned him on with a sigh,
"If you're Micky O'Shea, then follow me. You're wanted in stateroom nine."
It was Molly McGwire, his heart's desire, that opened the stateroom door,
She said with a grin, "Come on right in, you're blocking the corridor.

You'll think I'm tricky, but listen, Micky," said the blond as she opened her purse,
"Last night on a spree we saw a J. P. and you took me for better or worse.
And here's the whole of your hard earned roll that you gave me to hold for you,
And now I'm your wife you can bet your life I'll always be honest and true."

There's a house in the city that's built on the sins of the Devil ordained,
Where the snowflakes drift in the gutter, their emblem of purity stained,
There's a little log shack in the forest where these two kindled a light,
And snowdrifts gleam in the valley, untrodden, untarnished and white.

Some obvious typos corrected. --JoeClone, 26-Feb-03.

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Art Thieme
Date: 03 Feb 03 - 10:44 PM

sorry for not proofreading before I sent it off.

Art

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Deckman
Date: 04 Feb 03 - 05:00 AM

Hi Art! My GOSH, that's an amazing piece. I don't think I've ever seen anything it's equal. Thanks for posting it! CHEERS, Bob

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Dave Bryant
Date: 04 Feb 03 - 06:07 AM

I've been looking for a poem called the "Oily Rigs" by the late Bob Roberts who was the skipper of "Cambria", which was about the last sailing barge to continue trading. I started a thread and it's in the unanswered requests. It's a humourous poem about how an offshore drilling rig goes so far down that it floods Hell. I can remember the following fragments from the end of it.


....and the last of the sea goin' glug, glug, glug,
Down this bloody great hole we'd made.

......and there was the face of the devil himself,
Saying, "What's the bloody game ?".

"You've put out all my furnaces
- you'd make an angel sob,
- I'll never get Hell hot again
- I've lost my bleedin' job !"

So we done some good with our Oily Rig
'Coz we doused Hell in a flurry
So now when you die there's only Heaven
So there ain't no need to worry.

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Naemanson
Date: 04 Feb 03 - 02:54 PM

Dave, I've seen that somewhere. I wonder where. I'll have to go check my cassettes. I might have it.

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Art Thieme
Date: 04 Feb 03 - 09:29 PM

Friends Of Fiddlers Green had that on an LP. Might've been from Front Hall Records (Andy Spence)

Art Thieme

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Art Thieme
Date: 06 Feb 03 - 09:48 PM

It's Art--back again. I just found this notation in the next file from where I'd put the above posted poem. Seems it's from a book called BUNKHOSE BALLADS and it was written by Robert E. Swanson.
Another notation I made was

"THEY HAD NO POET --- AND THEY DIED"-----not sure why I wrote that down.

Also---"As a youth of Vancouver Island's East Wellington, Bob Swanson went into the woods pulling whistle for John Coburn in 1919. He became a turn sawmill engineer, chief engineer, civil engineer and mechanical superintendant at Victoria Lumber Company in Chamainus. Since 1940 he has been inspector of railways for British Columbia---borrowed for rhe war years by the Crown in the airplane spruce program. His personal friendship with Robert W. Service may or may not have helped develop his attitude for writing verse---the fact remaining that Robert F. Swanson is noted as Canada's rhymster of the woods."

Seems I picked this up somewhere called ROCKY MOUNTAIN HOUSE in B.C. As I said, it was 30 years back. Might've been near Dome Glacier----but maybe not.

Art Thieme

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Deckman
Date: 06 Feb 03 - 11:42 PM

Hi Art! I've been going though a lot of old volumes also. Have you noticed, as I have, that even the dust smells good! CHEERS, Bob