Lyr Req: Recitations - Fed up of the same old

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Recitations......Fed up of the same old
From: Jim Dixon
Date: 06 Sep 08 - 01:02 PM

I assume "Chantilly du Champignon" is the same as Brian O'Rourke's CHANTAL DU CHAMPIGNON, a 34-verse song. (At least that's what it's called in the opening message—but I suppose it would also make a good recitation). It has already been posted—click the link.

I'm still hoping to see THE LODGER.

We already have a couple of songs with "lodger" in the title. See OUR LODGER'S SUCH A NICE YOUNG MAN and THE WIFE, THE LODGER AND I.

Someone also requested a song that begins "King Pharaoh was our lodger" but it was never found.

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Recitations......Fed up of the same old
From: katlaughing
Date: 04 Sep 08 - 11:49 PM

Rowan! Thanks for those. Chills, larfs, and chuckles!

The others posted are just great too, folks!

Subject: Lyr Add: REINCARNATION (Wallace McRae)
From: Arkie
Date: 04 Sep 08 - 10:49 PM

I guess somebody should post this. It's another staple of cowboy poetry gatherings and recited by Glenn Ohrlin locally and also at gatherings around the country. Quite a few folks are doing it these days. It might even work in Ireland with a little change here and there.

REINCARNATION
by Wallace McRae

What is reincarnation? A cowboy asked his friend.
It starts, his old pal told him, when your life comes to an end.
They wash your neck and comb your hair and clean your fingernails,
And put you in a padded box away from life's travails.

The box and you goes in a hole that's been dug in the ground.
Reincarnation starts in when you're planted neath that mound.
Them clods melt down, just like the box, and you who is inside.
And that's when you begin your transformation ride.

And in a while the grass will grow upon your rendered mound,
Until some day, upon that spot, a lonely flower is found.
And then a horse may wander by and graze upon that flower
That once was you, and now has become your vegetated bower.

Now, the flower that the horse done eat, along with his other feed,
Makes bone and fat and muscle essential to the steed.
But there's a part that he can't use and so it passes through.
And there it lies upon the ground, this thing that once was you.

And if perchance, I should pass by and see this on the ground,
I'll stop awhile and ponder at this object that I've found.
I'll think about Reincarnation and life and death and such,
And come away concludin', why, you ain't changed all that much.

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Recitations......Fed up of the same old
From: Joe_F
Date: 04 Sep 08 - 10:25 PM

http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/postings.cgi?action=reply&forum=Musing+on+Mastery&number=3&topic=000539.cgi&TopicSubject=Ogden+Nash:+The+Seven+Spiritual+Ages+of+Marmaduke+Moore&replyto=0

Subject: Lyr Add: TWO GOSSIPS (Harry (The Breaker) Morant)
From: Rowan
Date: 03 Sep 08 - 11:10 PM

Those of you who are up on Australian film may remember "Breaker Morant". The 'hero' was executed under Kitchener's orders during the Boer War; the Australians changed the rules so that no Australian soldier could be so treated by the British again. Many may know only that part of Breaker Morant's history but he was a significant poet in the 1890s.

TWO GOSSIPS
Harry (The Breaker) Morant

One fox-faced virgin, word for word,
Repeats each sland'rous thing she's heard
And sourly smiles as scandal slips
With gusto from her thin white lips.
She's bad enough! – but list a minute,
Beside her mate she isn't in it!
This latter lady, 'pon my word
Repeats things … she has never heard!


Cheers, Rowan

Subject: Lyr Add: THE YOBBO
From: Rowan
Date: 03 Sep 08 - 11:05 PM

And, if you're into social commentary

THE YOBBO
Anon.

Of course I love ya, darling, you're a really top notch bird;
When I say you're gorgeous, I mean every single word.

So ya bum is on the big side, I don't mind a bit of flab;
It just means that when I'm ready, well, there's somethin' there to grab.

So your belly isn't flat; I tell you I don't care
As long as when I cuddle ya me arms still fit round there.

No sheila who's the age you are has nice firm perky breasts.
They just gave in to gravity; I know you did your best.

I always tell the truth dear; I'd never tell ya lies.
I think it's very sexy to have dimples in ya thighs.

I swear upon me mother's grave, the moment that we met
I knew you were as good as I was ever gonna get.

No matter what you look like, I'll always love you, dear –
Now, quiet while the footy's on and fetch another beer.


Cheers, Rowan

Subject: Lyr Add: HE ISN'T LONG FOR THIS WORLD (H Lawson)
From: Rowan
Date: 03 Sep 08 - 11:03 PM

HE ISN'T LONG FOR THIS WORLD
Henry Lawson

He isn't long for this world,
His cares are nearly past;
He isn't long for this world,
He'll find his rest at last.

He isn't long for this world,
His griefs are nearly o'er;
He isn't long for this world –
He's only four foot four.


Cheers, Rowan

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Recitations......Fed up of the same o
From: Rowan
Date: 03 Sep 08 - 11:02 PM

And a couple of mournful ones

A salesman named Phipps
Anon.

They've buried a salesman named Phipps,
Who married, on one of his trips,
A widow named Block
And then died of shock,
When he found there were five little chips.

Cheers, Rowan

Subject: Lyr Add: THE BUNYIP AND THE WHISTLING KETTLE
From: Rowan
Date: 03 Sep 08 - 09:38 PM

Oh well,
if it's drama you want, rather than levity...

THE BUNYIP AND THE WHISTLING KETTLE
John Manifold

I knew a most superior camper
Whose methods were absurdly wrong,
He did not live on tea and damper
But took a little stove along.

And every place he came to settle
He spread with gadgets saving toil,
He even had a whistling kettle
To warn him it was on the boil.

Beneath the waratahs and the wattles,
Boronia and coolibah,
He scattered paper, cans and bottles,
And parked his nasty little car.

He camped, this sacrilegious stranger
(The moon was at the full that week),
Once in a spot that teemed with danger
Beside a bunyip-haunted creek.

He spread his junk but did not plunder,
Hoping to stay the weekend long;
He watched the bloodshot sun go under
Across the silent billabong.

He ate canned food without demurring,
He put the kettle on for tea.
He did not see the water stirring
Far out beside a sunken tree.

Then, for the day had made him swelter
And night was hot and tense to spring,
He donned a bathing suit in shelter,
And left the firelight's friendly ring.

He felt the water kiss and tingle.
He heard the silence – none too soon!
A ripple broke against the shingle,
And dark with blood it met the moon.

Abandoned in the the hush, the kettle
Screamed as it guessed its master's plight,
And loud it screamed, the lifeless metal,
Far into the malicious night.

Cheers, Rowan

Subject: Lyr Add: HOW GILBERT DIED (A. B. "Banjo" Paterson)
From: Arkie
Date: 03 Sep 08 - 02:20 PM

There is way to much levity in this thread. It needs some balance. Something with outlaws, betrayal and death.

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 that 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 a 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 stealthy 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, Dunn and Gilbert, stand!'
Then Gilbert reached for his rifle true
That close at his hand he kept,
He pointed it 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,
But 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 vanished among the 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 the 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.

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Recitations......Fed up of the same o
From: Rowan
Date: 02 Sep 08 - 07:26 PM

I might also add that, when I contributed to a previous thread on recitations (now listed as part of the Related threads: grouped at the head of list of postings to this thread), I noticed that there was a dearth of DIGITRAD-related items listed. Currently there are only four (none distinctively Australian, although the genre seems to be extremely well developed in Oz) and I knew there must be more, as I had posted the Oath, McArthur's Fart and Idwal Slabs on Mudcat myself.

I wanted to make sure that some of these "treasures" got a guernsey (so to speak; if you deal in popular recitations you're bound to infected with a dose of cliches) and this seemed to be a start. As Susan of DT says, there are 48 entries in the Digital Tradition (I hesitated about writing "in the DT" as "the DTs" are a frequent motif in Oz recitations) and it would be nice if some of the more famous of these were also listed.

"No pressure!" guys; I'm well aware of life's impositions on volunteers (as well as the stated origins of Mudcat and its relationship to the Digital Tradition) and am happy to wait my turn. But if I could help out in any way I would certainly try.

Cheers, Rowan

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Recitations......Fed up of the same o
From: Rowan
Date: 02 Sep 08 - 06:59 PM

G'day Foolestroupe.
I'm right with you, Robyn. Whenever I want to convey a sense of the Oz character to someone from outside Australia, I try sending them a copy of short stories that includes Lawson's "The Loaded Dog". But I've not heard anyone do it as a recitation. It's the sort of item Auty might have tackled; he hadn't done it in Melbourne and I've got no idea of his repertoire in Brisbane, where you probably had more exposure to him.

Greetings beachcomber,
You're most welcome and I hope Liam can use them. The folk scene in Oz is blessed with characters; I'm just part of the scenery, so to speak. But I've been around a while and have been exposed to a wide variety of contexts.

As you might have guessed, The Ballad of Idwal Slabs (which I've been careful not to insert into the current "Definition of a ballad" discussion) is at home among rock climbers and I was a bit of a tiger in the Melbourne uni mountaineering club; I even helped compile its songbook. That was one of my earliest recitations but the Melbourne scene had a few raconteurs and many of the items I've posted were picked up from them. I've still got a few more to trot out but they'll take a little time to digitise.

Cheers, Rowan

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Recitations......Fed up of the same o
From: The Fooles Troupe
Date: 02 Sep 08 - 08:07 AM

One of my favourites is "The Loaded Dog".

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Recitations......Fed up of the same old
From: GUEST,beachcomber
Date: 02 Sep 08 - 07:17 AM

Rowan, as we say here, You're some character!
Where do you get them ? I can hardly type for tears of laughter, I'm sure my mate will find a few good úns among your list not to mention those from all the others. Thanks very much, again, for all the posts.

Subject: Lyr Add: THE SPIDER FROM THE GWYDIR
From: Rowan
Date: 01 Sep 08 - 06:50 PM

And I'm gobsmacked that this hasn't yet turned up on Mudcat. DOn't be put off by the rumour that some bod has put a tune to it; it's much better as a recitation.

OK, I admit it's a bit local; the creek that runs through my place is a tributary of Rocky River (how original is that?) which, when joined with Booroolong Creek, becomes the Gwydir, just over the hill from the house.

THE SPIDER FROM THE GWYDIR
Anon.

By the sluggish River Gwydir
Lived a vicious redback spider;
He was just about as vicious as could be.
And the place that he was camped in
Was a rusty Jones's jam tin
In a paddock by the showground at Moree.

Near him lay a shearer snoozing;
He'd been on the grog and boozing
All the night and half the previous day,
And the 'kooking' of the kookas
And the spruiking of the spruikers
Failed to wake him from the trance in which he lay.

The a crafty looking spieler
With a dainty little sheila
Came along collecting wood to make a fire.
Said the spieler, "Here's a boozer,
And he's gonna be a loser;
If he isn't, you can christen me a liar."

"Stay here and keep nit, honey,
While I fan the mug for money,
And we'll have some little luxuries for tea."
Said the sheila, "Don't be silly!
You go home and boil the billy.
You can safely leave this mug to little me."

So she circled ever nearer
'til she reached the dopey shearer
With his pockets bulging, still asleep and snug.
But she never saw the spider
That was creepin' up beside her,
'Cos her mind was on the money and the mug.

Now the spider needed dinner,
He was daily growin' thinner;
He'd been fasting and was empty as an urn.
As she eyed the bulging pocket,
He darted like a rocket,
And he bit the spieler's sheila on the stern.

Well the sheila ran off squealin'
And her dress began unpeelin'.
As she sprinted she was feelin' quite forlorn.
On the bite one hand was pressin'
While the other was undressin'
And she reached the camp the same as she was born.

Now the shearer, pale and haggard,
Woke, and back to town he staggered,
Where he caught the train and gave the booze a rest.
And he never knew that spider,
That was camped there by the Gwydir,
Had saved him sixty smackers of the best!

Cheers, Rowan

Subject: Lyr Add: SUPERSTITION (Grahame Watt)
From: Rowan
Date: 01 Sep 08 - 06:44 PM

And I'm sure this has no particularly local references.

SUPERSTITION
Grahame Watt

I'm not superstitious by nature
And I'd never do things by half;
I always walk under a ladder,
And on Friday the thirteenth I laugh.

I've no time for black cats and gypsies;
I'm not ruled by omens and fear.
As I told you, I'm not superstitious;
Don't listen to warnings I hear.

There's only one thing I insist on,
When having a bath Sat'day night;
I always sit at the 'tap end',
But it's not superstition or spite.

You might think it's odd that I sit there;
You might even think I'm a mug.
But the reason I sit at the tap end
Is because we can't find the damn plug!

Cheers, Rowan

Subject: Lyr Add: THE LIARS (Henry E Horne)
From: Rowan
Date: 01 Sep 08 - 06:43 PM

And, if the word "outback" is replaced with "rural", I suspect this one might find acceptance in Ireland, too.

THE LIARS
Henry E Horne

Ten boys sat in a ring and played at telling lies,
An outback pastime, with a strayed young dog for prize.
The Parson they informed, who strolled to see their fun,
The pup was for the cove who told the biggest one.

The good old man looked upon that ring of boys and sighed.
"I'm sorry to hear such thing as this," he cried.
"I never dared to tell a lie, nor even knew
Such sinful sport, my lads, when I was young like you."

Ten faces fell, not from shame, but sheer defeat;
Ten little liars dropped the game, for they were beat.
Ten boys arose – a sullen band – quite broken up;
And Jim, the judge, said, "Billy, hand the bloke the pup."

Cheers, Rowan

Subject: Lyr Add: CUTLERY (Jim Haynes)
From: Rowan
Date: 01 Sep 08 - 06:40 PM

Which reminded me of another, with a musical reference.

CUTLERY
Jim Haynes

When Asian children learn 'pianner'
In the regimented Asian manner,
Conscientiously they play
At least an hour every day
(A soon as they can walk and talk!),
A little tune called 'Knife and fork.'


Cheers, Rowan

Subject: Lyr Add: CHOPSTICKS (Col Wilson)
From: Rowan
Date: 01 Sep 08 - 06:37 PM

Beachcomber commented that the plethora of Oz references might be a bit daunting for an Irishman. Well, I think this could well deal with such reservations.

CHOPSTICKS
Col Wilson

There's a little Chinese café, down the road in my home town,
Where they serve the most exquisite Chinese food.
And I used to watch in envy as the patrons scoffed it down,
Using chopsticks, in the way I wished I could.

So I joined the 'Chopstick Users Club' to see if I could gain
The kind of chopstick expertise I'd need
To eat Chinese with chopsticks and, brother, how I trained
To use those sticks with grace, and style, and speed.

I learned the upward looping scoop, the backward twist and lunge;
The plain, the purl, the thrust, the follow-through
'Til I could manage anything, from rice to crumbs of sponge.
Then I knew the time was right for my debut.

There's a little Chinese café, down the road in my home town;
That's where I went to demonstrate my skill.
I ordered prawns and almonds and some wine to wash it down,
Quite determined not a single drop to spill.

Over-confidence, perhaps; luck wasn't on my side.
I admit, what happened wasn't nice;
About to take a mouthful, the 'sticks began their slide
And, 'spang' – the air was filled with prawns and rice.

A lady right across the room fell flat upon her back;
When asked if she was hurt, began to cry;
Accused me of delivering a cowardly attack,
For I'd hit her with an almond in the eye.

I helped her up, apologised, and then she screamed again,
And when I found why, I wished to die.
I looked where she was looking and there I saw, quite plain,
A braised king prawn stuck firmly in my fly.

Of course, she got the wrong idea and worked up to a state,
And, from the Chinese café, out she stormed,
Came back with a policeman and screamed in tones of hate,
"There's a maniac in there – and he's deformed!"

When I proved that I was normal things soon settled down,
And home I went, food-stained and battle-scarred.
There's a little Chinese café, down the road in my home town,
But I don't go there any more; I'm barred.

Cheers, Rowan

Subject: Lyr Add: HOLY DAN
From: Rowan
Date: 01 Sep 08 - 06:31 PM

Hell's teeth, Sandra! I hope I wasn't the inspiration for that one.

I did a search on Mudcat for Holy Dan but it didn't come up. It also became a chorus poem in Melbourne, so here 'tis.

HOLY DAN
Anon.

It was in the Queensland drought;
And over hill and dell,
No grass – the water far apart,
All dry and hot as hell.
The wretched bullock teams drew up
Beside a water-hole;
They'd struggled on through dust and drought
For days to reach this goal.
And though the water rendered forth
A rank, unholy stench,
The bullocks and the bullockies
Drank deep their thirst to quench.

Two of the drivers cursed and swore
As only drivers can.
The other one, named Daniel,
Best known as Holy Dan,
Admonished them and said it was
The Lord's all-wise decree;
And if they'd only watch and wait,
A change they'd quickly see.
'Twas strange that of Dan's bullocks
Not one had gone aloft,
But this, he said, was due to prayer
And supplication oft.

At last one died but Dan was calm,
He hardly seemed to care;
He knelt beside the bullock's corpse
And offered up a prayer.
"One bullock Thou has taken, Lord,
And so it seemeth best.
Thy will be done, but see my need
And spare to me the rest!"

A month went by. Dan's bullocks now
Were dying every day,
But still on each occasion would
The faithful fellow pray,
"Another Thou has taken, Lord,
And so it seemeth best.
Thy will be done, but see my need,
And spare to me the rest!"

And still they camped beside the hole,
And still it never rained,
And still Dan's bullocks died and died,
Till only one remained.
Then Dan broke down – good Holy Dan –
The man who never swore.
He knelt beside the latest corpse,
And here's the prayer he prore.

"That's nineteen Thou has taken, Lord,
And now You'll plainly see
You'd better take the bloody lot,
One's no damn good to me."
The other riders laughed so much
They shook the sky around;
The lightning flashed, the thunder roared,
And Holy Dan was drowned.

Cheers, Rowan

Subject: Lyr Add: SMELL! SMELL! HIS BREATH
From: Sandra in Sydney
Date: 01 Sep 08 - 02:00 AM

Rowan - 'Incognito' is superb, it's one of Bob Bolton's pieces & I've often asked him to recite it.

Joe started a thread on a song that could easily be a recitation SMELL! SMELL! HIS BREATH

& here 'tis

SMELL! SMELL! HIS BREATH

E'er the tea party it had begun,
I eat an onion—only one,
Folks held their noses seemed ill at ease.
Stirred to and fro, made remarks like these—

Just smell his breath, do smell his breath,
Just take one sniff, if you wish for sudden death,
Then in a rage, one big fellow cried,
Here's a cake, for heaven's sake, go outside,
And change your breath, and change your breath!

Fain would I linger yet must be gone,
Leaving those custards all alone,
Sadly I find my way to the door,
Loud beats my heart as the shoe-blacks roar.—

Just smell his breath, do smell his breath
One little sniff is enough to cause sudden death,
Folks made a rush for the other side,
Hurrying, scurrying, this they cried,
Do change your breath, oh! change your breath!


sandra

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Recitations......Fed up of the same old
From: oldhippie
Date: 31 Aug 08 - 07:45 PM

Three favorites:

The Face On The Barroom Floor
Dangerous Dan McGrew
The Cremation of Sam McGee

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Recitations......Fed up of the same o
From: The Fooles Troupe
Date: 31 Aug 08 - 07:29 PM

This one is for Aussies asked unexpectedly to entertain...

This here is the wattle:
The symbol of our land.
You can stick it in a bottle,
You can hold it in your hand.
Australia! Australia! Australia!
We Love Ya!

Subject: Lyr Add: INCOGNITO
From: Rowan
Date: 31 Aug 08 - 06:50 PM

Glad you appreciated it, kat; it's one of my favourites. Peter was very good at investing it with just the right mood.

And I've just realised I've inserted a typo leading the champion to swing a bullock around rather than a whip. The relevant passage should read;
First he threw the whip up to the leaders, and then threw it back to the polers. He stepped in as though to dig the near-side pin-bullock under the arm with the handle of the whip, then stepped back and swung the big bullock-whip around. He kept on talking, and the whip kept on cracking until a little flame ran right along the top of the fence.

Don't worry about the Oz references beachcomber, the sentiments cross all borders. And here's another on an old theme.

INCOGNITO
Anon.

Every station in the country keeps a pony that was sent
Late at night to fetch a doctor or a priest,
And has lived the life of Riley since that faraway event;
But the stories don't impress me in the least.

For I once owned Incognito – what a jewel of a horse!
He was vastly better bred than many men,
But they handicapped him so savagely on e very local course
I was forced to die him piebald now and then.

For I needed all the money that a sporting life entails,
Having found the cost of living rather dear,
And my wife, the very sweetest little girl in New South Wales,
Was presenting me with children every year.

We were spreading superphosphate one October afternoon
When the missus said she felt a little sick;
We were not expecting Septimus (or Septima) so soon,
But I thought I'd better fetch the doctor quick.

So I started for the homestead with the minimum delay
Where I changed and put pomade on my moustache,
But before I reached the sliprails Incognito was away
And was heading for the township like a flash.

First he swam a flooded river, then he climbed a craggy range,
And they tell me (tho' I haven't any proof)
That he galloped through the township to the telephone exchange
Where he dialled the doctor's number with his hoof.

Yes, he notified the doctor and the midwife and the vet,
And he led them up the mountains to my door,
Where he planted, panting, pondering, in a rivulet of sweat
Till he plainly recollected something more.

Then he stretched his muzzle forward, he had something in his teeth,
Which he dropped with circumspection in his hand,
And I recognised his offering as a contraceptive sheath,
So I shot him! It was more than I could stand.

But I've bitterly repented that rash act of injured pride –
It was not the way a sportsman should behave;
So I'm making my arrangements to be buried at his side,
And to share poor Incognito's lonely grave.


Cheers, Rowan

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Recitations......Fed up of the same old
From: Maryrrf
Date: 31 Aug 08 - 07:56 AM

Sorry, meant to make a link! "The Roaring Baby"

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Recitations......Fed up of the same old
From: Maryrrf
Date: 31 Aug 08 - 07:54 AM

Here's a good one http://www.chivalry.com/cantaria/lyrics/roaring-baby.html

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Recitations......Fed up of the same old
From: katlaughing
Date: 30 Aug 08 - 08:02 PM

Rowan, that last one gave me chills. I truly wish my dad were still alive, my mom, too, so I could read them to them. Thanks.

beachcomber, I'd love to read them, too. Any chance they may be on the internet so you don't have to go to too much trouble?

thanks,

kat

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Recitations......Fed up of the same old
From: GUEST,beachcomber
Date: 30 Aug 08 - 07:54 PM

McGrath of Harlow, sure that's the very reason why my buddy picked that "Chantal du Champignon" one. It was because of that French "Gurr" that we West Waterfordians have inherited.
Joe Offer, you're kidding, right ? doesn't everyone know that particular recitation ? I would need to transcribe them both from friend Liam so bear with me. The "Lodger" is as funny as any of those that have been recently posted, with a particularly funny "twist" in the ending.
Good luck.

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Recitations......Fed up of the same old
From: McGrath of Harlow
Date: 30 Aug 08 - 05:48 PM

I don't know what Ned Kelly, or Jack Donohue, or any other wild colonial boy, would have made of the suggestion that a County Waterford accent wouldn't be good enough for Australian recitations...

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Recitations......Fed up of the same old
From: GUEST,beachcomber
Date: 30 Aug 08 - 06:40 AM

I've been laughing all morning at the "poems" you've all posted and many of the web sites'contents as well.
A shame that Rowan's offerings, hilarious though they be, have so many Australian references and, I think, would need to be recited with an Australian accent. This , unfortunately, would be a bridge too far for my loquatious friend in my "local", hailing as he does, from the far West....(of County Waterford, Ireland) Thanks nevertheless.
I now have enough material, thanks to Mudcat, to open my own little place , perhaps for Mon, Wed and Sat nights ?

Subject: Lyr Add: THE KIRK DOUGLAS GHOULIE
From: eddie1
Date: 30 Aug 08 - 05:30 AM

With Halloween not too far away, this might be appropriate. It was posted in Mudcat way back on BS: The Hairy Ghoolie of Cleckie by JennyO

THE KIRK DOUGLAS GHOULIE

Gather round and I'll tell you a story, of a castle that fills men with fear
Though it might make you feel a bit queasy, and it might make you feel a bit queer
This castle stood high in Kirk Douglas, a wee Scottish town, aye it's true,
It was haunted by ghosties and goblins, and a slimy green bogey-man too

But deep in the bowels of this castle, lived the most evil thing that could be,
It put fear in the hearts of the mighty, the "Kirk Douglas Ghoulie" was he
He was big, he was black, he was hairy, and the veins bulged out of his face,
His skin was all warpled and crinkly, but with ghoulies that's often the case.

This ghoulie dined mainly on lassies, he'd gobble them up, have no fear,
His taste was for pretty young virgins, so he wouldn't last long around here.
One day he kidnapped a young lassie, called Kirsty MacDougall MacBlack
She was big, she was saucy and tasty, so everyone called her "Big Mac"!

Now this Kirsty she had a boyfriend, young Jock Lochnavar was his name
He was famous for tossing his caber, but he went with the girls just the same.
On hearing his Kirsty'd been kidnapped, Jock formed a plan straight away
He picked up his trusty old bagpipes and mournfully started to play

The monster it grabbed the young hero and Jock he screamed out with surprise
If you've ever been grabbed by a ghoulie, you'll know it brings tears to your eyes
The monster it squeezed the young hero, till his life started ebbing away
But Jock he clung tight to his bagpipes and eerily continued to play

The ghoulie danced high in the turrets, hypnotised by the bagpipe's strange sound
Twas played in the key "A flat Monster" as the ghoulie fell straight to the ground
Ever since that great day in Kirk Douglas, young lassies all fear no mishap
For they know all great big hairy ghoulies will always fall into Jock's trap!

Eddie

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Recitations......Fed up of the same old
From: Joe Offer
Date: 30 Aug 08 - 04:33 AM

Beachcomber, I know neither "Chantilly Du Champignon", nor "The Lodger." They may be old and tired to you, but we might like them. Would you consider posting them?
-Joe-

Subject: Lyr Add: CHAMPION BULLOCK DRIVER (Lance Skuthorpe)
From: Rowan
Date: 30 Aug 08 - 03:10 AM

Almost as recited by Peter Auty but as written by Lance Skuthorpe;

THE CHAMPION BULLOCK DRIVER

We were sitting outside old Tallwood cattle-station, in our white moleskin trousers, elastic-side boots, and cabbage-tree hats, watching two stockmen shoe a very wild brumby mare. We were all slaves to the saddle and bridle, and there was nothing too heaving or hard. The boss squatted on a new four-rail fence. There were twenty panels of this fence, strong iron bark post-and-rails. The first rails were mortised into a big iron-bark tree, and there were four No. 8 wires twisted around the butt, passed through the posts and strained very tightly to the big strainer at the other end.

As though he had dropped out of the sky there appeared on the scene a very smart-looking man carrying a red-blanket swag, a water-bag, tucker-bag, and billycan. He put them down and said, "Is the boss about?"

We all pointed to the man on the fence. The new chap took his pipe out of his mouth and walked up, a bit shy-like, and said,

"Is there any chance of a job, boss?"

"What can you do?" asked the boss.

"Well, anything amongst stock. You can't put me wrong."

"Can you ride a buckjumper?"

"Pretty good," said the young man.

"Can you scrub-dash – I mean, can you catch cattle in timber on a good horse before they're knocked up?"

"Hold my own," said the young man.

"Have you got a good flow of language?"

The young man hesitated awhile before answering this question. So the boss said,

"I mean, can you drive a rowdy team of bullocks?"

"Just into my hand," said the young man.

The boss jumped down off the fence.

"Look here," he said, "It's no good you telling me you can drive a team of bullock if you can't."

And pointing to a little grave-yard he added,

"Do you see that little cemetery over there?"

The young man pulled his hat down over his eye, looked across, and said, "Yes."

"Well," continued the boss, " there are sixteen bullock-drivers lying there. They came here to drive this team of mine."

I watched the young man's face when the boss said that to see if he would flinch; but a little smile broke away from the corner of his mouth, curled around his cheek and disappeared in his ear hole, and as the effect died away he said,

"They won't put me there."

"I don't know so much about that," said the boss.

"I'll give you a trial," the young man suggested.

"It would take too long to muster the bullocks," said the boss. "But take that bullock-whip there" – it was standing near the big ironbark – "and say, for instance, eight panels of that fence are sixteen bullocks, show me how you would start up the team."

"Right," said the young man.

Walking over he picked up the big bullock-whip and very carefully examined it to see how it was fastened to the handle. Then he ran his hand down along the whip, examining it as though he were searching for a broken link in a chain. Then he looked closely to see how the fall was fastened to the whip. After that he stood back and swung it around and gave a cheer.

First he threw the whip up to the leaders, and then threw it back to the polers. He stepped in as though to dig the near-side pin-bullock under the arm with the handle of the whip, then stepped back and swung the big bullock around. He kept on talking, and the whip kept on cracking until a little flame ran right along the top of the fence.

And he kept on talking and the whip kept on cracking until the phantom forms of sixteen bullocks appeared along the fence – blues, black and brindles. And he kept on talking and the whip kept on cracking till the phantom forms of sixteen bullock-drivers appeared on the scene. And they kept on talking and their whips kept on cracking till the fence started to walk on, and pulled the big ironbark tree down.

"That will do," said the boss.

"Not a bit of it," said the young man, "where's your woodheap?"

We all pointed to the woodheap near the old bark kitchen.

And they kept on talking and their whips kept on cracking till they made the fence pull the tree right up to the woodheap.

We were all sitting round on the limbs of the tree, and the young man was talking to the boss, and we felt sure he would get the job, when the boss called out,

"Get the fencing gear lads, and put that fence up again."

"Excuse me for interrupting, boss," said the young man, "but would you like to see how I back a team of bullocks?"

"Yes I would," said the boss.

So the young man walked over and picked up the big bullock whip again. He swung it around and called out,

"Now then, boys, all together!"

And the phantom forms of the sixteen bullock-drivers appeared on the scene again; and they kept on talking and their whips kept on cracking, till every post and rail burst out into flame, and when the flame cleared away each post and rail backed into its place, and the phantom forms of the sixteen bullock-drivers saluted the young man, then bowed and backed, and bowed and backed right into their graves, recognising him as the champion bullock driver.

Skuthorpe, L., (1946), The Champion Bullock-Driver, in 'Twenty Great Australian Stories' (J.L Waten and V. G. O'Connor, eds), pp127-130. Dolphin Publications.

Subject: Lyr Add: HOW McDOUGAL TOPPED THE SCORE (T Spencer)
From: Rowan
Date: 30 Aug 08 - 02:39 AM

Another Australian one that, as recited by Richard ("Screech") Leitch, became a chorus poem in Melbourne.

"HOW McDOUGAL TOPPED THE SCORE"
Thomas E. Spencer (1845-1910)

A peaceful spot is Piper's Flat. The folk that live around,
They keep themselves by keeping sheep and turning up the ground;
But the climate is [erotic] erratic, and the consequences are
the struggle with the elements is everlasting war.

We plough, and sow, and harrow, then sit down and pray for rain,
And then we all get flooded out and have to start again.
But the folk are now rejoicing as they ne'er rejoiced before,
For we've played Molongo cricket, and McDougal topped the score!

Molongo had a head on it, and challenged us to play
A single innings match for lunch; the losing team to pay.
We were't great guns at cricket, but we couldn't well say, "No!"
So we all began to practise, and we let the reaping go.

We scoured the Flat for ten miles round to muster up our men,
But when the list was totalled we could only number ten.
Then up spoke big Tim Brady: he was always slow to speak,
And he said, "What price McDougal, who lives down at Cooper's Creek?"

So we sent for old McDougal, and he stated in reply
That he'd never played at cricket, but he'd half a mind to try.
He couldn't come to practice, he was getting in his hay,
But he guessed he'd show the beggars from Molongo how to play.

Now, McDougal was a Scotchman, and a canny one at that,
So he started in to practise with a paling for a bat.
He got Mrs Mac. to bowl him, but she couldn't run at all,
So he trained his sheep-dog, Pincher, how to scout and fetch the ball.

Now, Pincher was no puppy; he was old, and worn, and grey;
But he understood McDougal and, accustomed to obey,
When McDougal cried out "Fetch it!" he would fetch it in a trice,
But, until the word was "Drop it!" he would grip it like a vice.

And each succeeding night they played until the light grew dim;
Sometimes McDougal struck the ball; sometimes the ball stuck him!
Each time he struck, the ball would plough a furrow in the ground,
And when he missed, the impetus would turn him three times round.

The fatal day at length arrived; the day that was to see
Molongo bite the dust, or Piper's Flat knocked up a tree!
Molongo's captain won the toss, and sent his men to bat,
And they gave some leather-hunting to the men of Piper's Flat.

When the ball sped where McDougal stood, firm planted in his track,
He shut his eyes, and turned him round, and stopped it - with his back!
The highest score was twenty-two, the total sixtysix,
When Brady sent a yorker down and scattered Johnson's sticks.

Then Piper's Flat went in to bat, for glory and renown,
But, like the grass before the scythe, our wickets tumbled down.
"Nine wickets down for seventeen, with fifty more to win!"
Our captain heaved a heavy sigh, and sent McDougal in.

"Ten pounds to one you'll lose it!" cried a barracker from town;
But McDougal said, "I'll tak' it mon!" and planted the money down.
Then he girded up his moleskins in a self-reliant style,
Threw off his hat and boots, and faced the bowler with a smile.

He held the bat the wrong side out and Johnson, with a grin,
Stepped lightly to the bowling crease, and sent a "wobbler" in;
McDougal spooned it softly back, and Johnson waited there,
But McDougal, crying "Fetch it!" started running like a hare.

Molongo shouted "Victory! He's out as sure as eggs!"
When Pincher darted through the crowd, and ran through Johnson's legs.
He seized the ball like lightning; then he ran behind a log,
And McDougal kept on running, while Molongo chased the dog!

They chased him up, they chased him down, they chased him round, and then
He darted through a slip-rail as the scorer shouted "Ten!"
McDougal puffed; Molongo swore; excitement was intense;
As the scorer marked down twenty, Pincher cleared a barbed-wire fence.

"Let us head him!" shrieked Molongo. "Brain the mongrel with a bat!"
"Run it out! Good ol' McDougal!" yelled the men of Piper's Flat.
And McDougal kept on jogging, and then Pincher doubled back,
And the scorer counted "Forty!" as they raced across the track.

McDougal's legs were going fast, Molongo's breath was gone,
But still Molongo chased the dog; McDougal struggled on.
When the scorer shouted 'Fifty!" then they knew the chase could cease;
And McDougal gasped out "Drop it!" as he dropped within his crease.

Then Pincher dropped the ball. As instinctively, he knew
Discretion was the wiser plan, he disappeared from view.
And as Molongo's beaten men, exhausted, lay around
We raised McDougal shoulder high, and bore him from the ground.

We bore him to McGinniss's,where lunch was ready laid,
And filled him up with whiskey punch, for which Molongo paid.
We drank his health in bumpers; we cheered him three times three,
And when Molongo got it's breath, Molongo joined the spree.

And the critics say they never saw a cricket match like that,
When McDougal broke the record in a game at Piper's Flat.
And the folk are jubilating as they never did before;
For we played Molongo cricket; and McDougal topped the score!

Cheers, Rowan

Subject: Lyr Add: THE SPOTTED ASS (Stephanie Davis)
From: katlaughing
Date: 29 Aug 08 - 10:57 PM

Helps if you do this one with w drawl:

THE SPOTTED ASS
Stephanie Davis

She was out, she explained, from Manhattan,
Had long wanted to visit the West.
"Well, ma'am, mighty glad you did make it,"
He said, pulling his Skoal from his vest.

They'd both chanced to sit at Gert's counter,
This chic, couth, and cultured young lass
And the old packer, Roy, who said, "I'm from Dubois.
I'm here to show my spotted ass!"

She patted her lips with her napkin.
No words came to mind apropos,
So she sniffed and she coughed, held her eyebrows aloft,
And ventured a tentative "Oh?"

"Well, I don't mean to sound like I'm braggin',"
He said as he pinched off a chew,
"But last year mine won Confirmation
And placed in Agility, too!

"'Course it takes time and trainin'," he added,
"That well-muscled look don't come free.
But for balance and workin' in tandem,
Mine's the pair, ma'am, that you oughta see."

"Really!" she managed to sputter
While smoothing her hair into place.
Her manicured nails drummed her Gucci—
If only she'd thought to pack Mace!

But just then, Gert came by with coffee
And said, "I'll be right with ya, hon."
And the New Yorker part of her rallied—
This little exchange was not done.

She inhaled and straightened her shoulders.
A street-hardened gleam filled her eyes,
Then forcing a smile, she leaned toward him
And said in a voice world-wise:

"We've clubs in New York for such...hobbies.
I went once with my friend, Elaine.
All sizes and shapes pranced before us
In black leather harness and chain.

"We ogled and cheered on our favorites,*
Mine being two twins, Chip and Dale.
Not many were what you'd call spotted.
In fact, most were really quite—pale."

"Albinos!" he gasped. "Weren't you lucky!
Why, I've only seen one in my life,
A cute little thing that could bray on command—
Belonged to the minister's wife!

"She was proud of it, too, let me tell ya;
And much as her husband allowed,
She showed it at fairs and conventions
And afterward posed for the crowd!"

"Uncanny!" she answered. "I just read
A story in Cosmo on this.
It was called 'The Bare Facts: An Intimate Look
At Today's Exhibitionist.'

"It interviewed novice and expert,
Showed scenes from the old Moulin Rouge,
Quoted a noted consultant
Who said they can grow to be huge!"

"Oh, they're popular all right," he nodded.
"I hear Oprah's got herself a pair,
And last year out on the campaign trail,
Our governor kissed his fair share!"

"I must say," she replied, "it's intriguing,
This subculture you belong to.
And I hate to admit, but those spots upon yours are, well,
Something I'd quite like to view!"

"Ma'am, I'd be honored," he answered.
"My trailer's parked just outside.
What say you and me postpone breakfast
And I show you one well-spotted hide?"

"Why not?" she said, after a short pause.
"There can't be much harm in one glance.
This could be one exciting vacation,
And to think poor Elaine went to France!"

And, so out the café they headed,
And though no one witnessed a thing,
Roy left town that day with a shiner
And his prize-winning ass—in a sling!

"Tourists!" he said to his packer friend Ted.
"That's one bunch it's best to let be.
But should you get tangled with one, for gosh sakes,
Don't breathe a word 'bout your stud fee!

"Think of 'em as a coiled rattler—
Don't be fooled by their manners and class.
And when one 'em starts in to swingin' her purse,
Duck first and then cover yer ass!"

[*or "We threw dollar bills at our favorites--"]

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Need a few Good recitation suggestions.
From: katlaughing
Date: 29 Aug 08 - 10:53 PM

Arkie, thanks for those!!!

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Need a few Good recitation suggestions.
From: Gurney
Date: 29 Aug 08 - 07:45 PM

'Monologues' on a search engine will find lots of sites. 'Make 'em Laugh' is my English favourite, run by Paul, a Mudcatter.

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Need a few Good recitation suggestions.
From: GUEST,beachcomber
Date: 29 Aug 08 - 07:32 PM

A Hundred Thousand Thanks to all who took the time to post. Apologies for initiating two threads but I started this one in the mistaken belief that the earlier one had been passed by.Quite embarassing.
Thanks again though.

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Need a few Good recitation suggestions.
From: catspaw49
Date: 29 Aug 08 - 04:25 PM

I'd suggest "Row,Row,Row,Your Boat".......with great passion and feeling. Guaranteed to bring a tear and its not too long.   Ah, the sheer beauty and feeling of those words..............gives me a boner just thinking about it.

Spaw

Subject: Lyr Add: THE BRONCHO TWISTER'S PRAYER (B Kiskaddon
From: Arkie
Date: 29 Aug 08 - 04:21 PM

One more:

THE BRONCHO TWISTER'S PRAYER (sometimes called the Broncho Twister)

   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.

Subject: Lyr Add: BUYING A BRA (Bill Hirschi)
From: Arkie
Date: 29 Aug 08 - 04:16 PM

Here is one of the poems that might be heard at a cowboy gathering.

BUYING A BRA
By Bill Hirschi

You know, I've never been much for shopping
In fact I try to stay away from town -
Except when shipping time comes,
I ain't easily found.

But the day came when I had to go
And I left the kids with Ma.
But before I left, she asked me,
"Would you pick me up a bra?"

Without thinkin' I said "sure,"
How tough could that job be?
I bent down and kissed her
and said, "I'll be back by three."

Well, when I done the things I needed
I started to regret
Ever offering to buy that thing,
I was working up a sweat.

I crossed the street to the ladies shop
With my hat pulled over my eyes,
I wasn't takin' any chances
On bein' recognized.

I walked right up to the sales clerk
I didn't hem or haw.
I told the lady right straight out,
"Ma'am, I'm here to buy a bra."

From behind I heard some snickers
So I turned around to see
At least fifteen women in the store,
And they's all gawkin' at me!

"What kind would you be looking for?"
"Well," I just scratched my head.
I'd only seen one kind before
"Thought bras was bras," I said.

She gives me a disgusted look
"Well sir, that's where you're wrong.
Come with me," I heard her say,
And like a dog, I tagged along.

She took me down this alley
Where bras was on display.
Well I thought my jaw'd hit the floor
When I seen that lingerie.

They had all these different styles
That I'd not seen before -
I thought that I'd go crazy
'fore I left that women's store.

They had bras you wear for eighteen hours,
And bras that cross your heart.
There was bras that lift and separate,
And that was just the start.

They had bras that made you feel
Like you weren't wearing one at all.
And bras that you can train in
When you start off when you're small.

Well, I finally made my mind up
Picked a black and lacy one.
I told the lady,
"Bag it up," And figured I was done.

But then she asked me for the size.
I didn't hesitate.
I knew them measurements by heart,
"Six and seven eighths."

"Six and seven eighths, well sir,
That really isn't right."
"Oh yes ma'am, I'm positive,
I just measured them last night."

I thought that she'd go into shock,
Musta took her by surprise.
When I told her that my wife's bust
Was the same as my hat size.

"That's what I use to measure with,
I figured it was fair;
But If I'm wrong I'm sorry ma'am."
This drew another stare.

By now a crowd had gathered
And they's all crackin' up.
When the lady asked to see my hat,
To measure for the cup.

When she finally had it figured
I gave the gal her pay
I turned to leave the store,
Tipped my hat and said, "Good day."

My wife heard the whole story
'fore I ever made it home.
She'd talked to fifteen women
Who'd called her on the phone.

She was still a-laughin'
But by then I didn't care.
Now she don't ask and I don't shop
For no more women's underwear.

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Need a few Good recitation suggestions.
From: Arkie
Date: 29 Aug 08 - 04:11 PM

The link below will take you to monologues by Marriott Edgar. It includes Albert and the Lion and quite a few others. These are mostly of a humorous nature.

Marriott Edgar

Robert Service wrote a number of poems or recitations many of which can be found at the link below. Some of his works such as the Cremation of Sam McGee are fairly well known. I particularly like The Ballad of Hardluck Henry.

Robert Service

The growing interest in cowboy poetry and recitations has opened up a vast, amusing, interesting, and pithy field or works that may be specifically or loosely associated with cowboy culture.   A little searching should turn up some rewarding pieces. I will post a couple in succeeding threads.

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Recitations......Fed up of the same old
From: McGrath of Harlow
Date: 29 Aug 08 - 02:42 PM

Here's one I wrote that often goes down well, which I posted on the Mudcat a few years back - Young Colin

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Recitations......Fed up of the same old
From: kendall
Date: 29 Aug 08 - 01:36 PM

Recitation is about all I can do these days, and, John Masefield's LOCH ARCRAY is my favorite.

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Recitations......Fed up of the same old
From: GUEST,beachcomber
Date: 29 Aug 08 - 01:25 PM

Oh Jeeez, great stuff lads, thanks all.
Sorry about the 2nd thread , due to some mishap I couldn't find this one this morning? thought it had "passed on"

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Need a few Good recitation suggestion
From: GUEST,Patmike
Date: 29 Aug 08 - 11:16 AM

There is a new book, just published, by Fintan Vallely and Tim Lyons. It is called,"Sing Up" and contains dozens of humourous songa and recitations including 3 by Brian O'Rourke who wrote "Chantal de Champignon". It is published in Ireland by The Dedalus Press. All the material may be found at www.singup.eu

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Need a few Good recitation suggestion
From: Uncle_DaveO
Date: 29 Aug 08 - 10:30 AM

Try "Jabberwocky"! I've had a good time reciting it, with incidental acting, on several occasions.

Dave Oesterreich

Subject: Lyr Add: THE OILY RIG (Bob Roberts)
From: GUEST,Suffolk Miracle
Date: 29 Aug 08 - 09:59 AM

From Bob Roberts. Don't know if he wrote it. An East Anglian accent helps, but may not be mandatory.

THE OILY RIG

The fishing was bad and the boats laid up,
But me and the boy weren't shirkers,
And a bloke came into our pub one night
And said he wanted workers.

Well he talked like a bit of a Yank I thought,
But he stood us a drink or three,
And said he was building a hoily rig
In the middle of the old North Sea.

He said there was work for all out there
With gas as well as oil
And all he needed was us local lads
Just to do the actual toil.

"How much'd we get?" I ventured to ask,
Cos I've heard those tales before.
He said "A thousand quid." "Is that a month?"
"No - a week: and maybe more."

So I went back home and I told the wife;
But I've heard those tales before;
And I couldn't see no good would come
Of drilling holes offshore.

I'd rather go out on the boat with the boy;
But the old girl started to fret.
She said, "You'll get more in a month out there
Than a whole bloody year with your nets."

So we went along and took the job -
Me and the boy and the tug:
I thought we might get something
If only some beer in the mug.

We worked on a duzzy great platform thing
With a drill that went WEE WEE WEE
And we drilled a duzzy great big hole
In the middle of the old North Sea.

But there weren't no gas, there weren't no oil;
Not a single drop we found.
Then one day the boy he says to me
"Dad, the boat's aground!"

Well, I had a look and the boy was right.
The water was leaving the tug
And going down that hole we made
Like down a bathroom plug.

That looked just like a desert, boy!
It would make a man afraid -
The last of the sea going GLUG GLUG GLUG
Down that duzzy great hole we made.

Just then a hiss and a cloud of steam
Right out of that hole it came
And up there came the Devil himself
Saying "Hoi! What's the bloody game?

You've buggered all my furnaces
And put my fires out,
And Hell's all cold and sodden wet
You pudding headed lout!

Damn you and your hoily rig -
It'd make an angel sob -
If I don't get my fire alight
I'll lose my bloody job!"

So we did some good with our hoily rig -
We doused Hell in a hurry.
And now when you die there's only Heaven
So there ain't no need to worry.

Subject: ADD: Adventures of Isabel (Ogden Nash) -recitation
From: Joe Offer
Date: 29 Aug 08 - 03:23 AM

Now, I suppose you ought to realize that my audiences tend to be on the young side. Here's another one I like to do:

Adventures Of Isabel
(Ogden Nash)

Isabel met an enormous bear,
Isabel, Isabel, didn't care;
The bear was hungry, the bear was ravenous,
The bear's big mouth was cruel and cavernous.
The bear said, Isabel, glad to meet you,
How do, Isabel, now I'll eat you!
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry.
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She washed her hands and she straightened her hair up,
Then Isabel quietly ate the bear up.

Once in a night as black as pitch
Isabel met a wicked old witch.
The witch's face was cross and wrinkled,
The witch's gums with teeth were sprinkled.
Ho, ho, Isabel! the old witch crowed,
I'll turn you into an ugly toad!
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry,
She showed no rage and she showed no rancor,
But she turned the witch into milk and drank her.

Isabel met a hideous giant,
Isabel continued self reliant.
The giant was hairy, the giant was horrid,
He had one eye in the middle of his forhead.
Good morning, Isabel, the giant said,
I'll grind your bones to make my bread.
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She nibled the zwieback that she always fed off,
And when it was gone, she cut the giant's head off.

Isabel met a troublesome doctor,
He punched and he poked till he really shocked her.
The doctor's talk was of coughs and chills
And the doctor's satchel bulged with pills.
The doctor said unto Isabel,
Swallow this, it will make you well.
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She took those pills from the pill concocter,
And Isabel calmly cured the doctor

Subject: ADD: Mooses Come Walking (Arlo Guthrie)
From: Joe Offer
Date: 29 Aug 08 - 02:37 AM

Gee, I'm enjoying these. This one is a bit shorter, but certainly profound:

MOOSES COME WALKING
(Arlo Guthrie)

Mooses come walking over the hill
Mooses come walking, they rarely stand still
When mooses come walking they go where they will
When mooses come walking over the hill

Mooses look into your window at night
They look to the left and they look to the right
The mooses are smiling, they think it's a zoo
And that's why the mooses like looking at you

So, if you see mooses while lying in bed
It's best to just stay there pretending you're dead
The mooses will leave and you'll get the thrill
Of seeing the mooses go over the hill

©1993 Arloco Music, Inc. (ASCAP)
source: http://arlo.net/