Subject: Lyr Add: THE BURIAL OF TIM DUPUIS (Henry Stelfox) From: Art Thieme Date: 07 Feb 03 - 02:59 PM Bob, Yes, you are correct. I can't get away from the old books and files---although this compu-machine keeps trying to lure me astray. The dust is the smell of time passing----it's proof we were there and are now here---survived---alone---like Ishamael--"to tell thee" !! Here's another one to "tell ya". But my notations on this song/poem/recitation indicate that ROCKY MOUNTAIN HOUSE, whatever it was, was not in B.C.---it was in Alberta. Anyhow, I found thiis in 1969 while in Western Canada. There was a grand & delightful quite primitive snowstorm we camped in on the Alaska/Al-Can highway (before it was paved) after which our son Chris was born nine months later.---- I can hear BILL SABLES or DAVE de HUGUARD in Australia putting a tune to this one or the "Soiled Snowflake". Thanks to Mudcatter BOB BOLTON, Dave de Hugard's latest CD is my current favorite. (Thanks Robert.) Art Thieme THE BURIAL OF TIM DUPUIS by Henry Stelfox of Rocky Mountain House Tim Dupuis was a quarter Cree and he trapped with me in the bush, Through the winter long he whistled his song and never seemed to rush, His traps he'd set and the furs he'd get which he would stretch all at night time, In the cabin good we were warm and snug through all the long winter clime. Tim's past life had been bitter strife but what drove him north to come, I never knew for he was one of the few whose lips were sealed and mum, He'd trap all day and sing all the way, his step was light when returning, With his catch in the pack all strapped to his back and the wind through the wild was murmuring. It seemed to say, "Tim, it's another day---the leaves of your life book are burning, All too fast have you thought of your past while your hair has been snow white turning, You're 79 and the Arctic clime may cause your life to falter, Your bones have told you are growing old and your step begins to falter." Tim left the cabin one morn 'fore break o' the dawn---his step was none too steady, I said, "Tim, take care or this cold winter air will get you before you are ready" I worried all day while Tim was away; I'd noticed his health was failing, He had lots of grit and just wouldn't quit or admit that he was ailing. It was late that night when I caught sight of Tim as he returned to the cabin, His face was drawn and he looked forlorn--I coulkd see that he was all in, After he fed and retired to be, said, "Partner turn the light a bit lower For I have learnt that my candle is burnt and I've none left to burn any more." I awoke next morn with the crack o' the dawn and I could see that Tim was dead, He lay on his side his eyes open wide and one arm stretched over his head, I felt forlorn--there are things to perform; I knew I must bury Tim. There was no casket grand in that whole swampy land in which to bury him. I knew I had to get him out of his cot and store him where he'd keep, Until the ground thawed out somewhere close to plant him for his long sleep, He was already dressed for when he'd retired to rest he'd left his clothes on, He always said when he went to bed he'd be cold without 'em on. I got a good hitch with a thong of babiche around him and below his shoulder, Heaved and sweat before I could get this body where it'd be colder, I'd looked around and already found a spot where the moss was deepest, With ice underneath and moss for a wreath was for Tim the place that was safest. I packed away that human clay and bid him goodbye 'til summer, When muskegs thawed out that were here near about and I'd bury him in right manner, I felt rather sad for coyotes were bad for unearthing men near the surface, I hadn't a spade so I couldn't've made a grave deep enough for the purpose. Summer came with plenty of rain and bull frogs woke from their slumber, In knew it was time in that Acctic clime to decently bury my partner, I pushed a long pole in a deep hole where moss was scanty and slim, The footing was bad but no choice I had of a better grave for Tim. I hied me back to my winter shack to prepare my winter partner, For his long sad sleep in the muskeg deep and away from the wolves in the winter, 'Neath those glorious sights and the northern lights in the land of awe and wonder, He'd keep that way 'til judgment day in that land of ice and tundra. But the heat was bad and the flies were thick and I knew he wouldn't keep, He was the grimiest cuss I'd ever seen,---in a bath he'd never been, I figured he'd sink a lot better if I pulled the clothes off of him, So I whetted my nife (and lit my pipe) before undressing Tim. I spreadeagled Tim on the flat of his back and put him to the acid test, I poured it neat from head to feet and then took a little rest, I filled my pipe for I hated the sight and the smell of partner Tim, While from the back of his neck right down to his feet I let the acid sink in. I heaved a prayer as I hit the next layer and started his undies to undo, Wasn't so tough for the buttons dropped off---the thread had rotted in two, My eyes opened wide and I cussed his old hide for there were my pants strange to tell, As I cut off the last I was ready to gasp for Tim hated bath water like hell. My pipe had gone out and I nearly passed out when I got a whiff from his lily white skin, No time to lose and I had no booze to keep my breakfast within, The job had to get done; he'd been a good bum. I was anxious to be gone from there, I pulld him out quick near the creek and swilled him with lots of Eau D'claire. I was buckin' the wind and I often sinned when makin' remars 'bout old Tim, For he dragged like lead now that he was dead and I cussed him for not being slim, When I got across from beyond the moss I was finished with dragging old Tim, So I looked 'round and soon found the spot perfect to drop him in. I tugged and towed and sometimes blowed as I was travelin' on my skis, For that miry mass was a rotten morass that I was sometimes in to my knees, But I'd brought a chunk of lead which I tied to his head and I started to chant a requium, Thn I pushed him in with a, "Good-bye Tim," --- and the muskeg sucked him in. (Art Thieme) |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: bradfordian Date: 11 Feb 03 - 08:43 AM Not urgent, just a casual enquiry. Anyone got the words for the following?: Ballad of Bethnal Green Daniel and the Lions Den Angel of the Dangle |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: Mad Tom Date: 11 Feb 03 - 10:44 PM The album "Boys of the Lough - Live At Passim" has one of them doing "The Darling Baby", unaccompanied. I can't remember (or find) the words, but it's about this guy who has to watch the baby when his wife is called to her mother's sickbed. The baby screams it's head off until she shows up again - "He was quiet as a mouse, the wretch!" After each verse, he sings "Oh my darlin' [something-something] chum / Wait until your mummy comes / Wouldn't you like to suck your thumb / As ever a man so born." The rest is all spoken. It's a hoot. |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: GUEST Date: 12 Feb 03 - 12:42 AM Bradfordian - "Daniel and the Lions Den" - "Angel of the Dangle" are refenced in the DT and the forum.
A recitation "new" to most those under thirty is "Moose Turd Pie" by Utah Phillips.
Sincerely, |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: GUEST,.gargoyle Date: 12 Feb 03 - 12:43 AM Whoops... http://www.utahphillips.org/stuff/mooseturdpie.mp3 |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: bradfordian Date: 14 Feb 03 - 03:22 PM I'm looking for a monologue on behalf of a third party. The scenario is that it's a Vicar (Minister/Pastor etc.) reading a sermon to a couple in the process of getting married, but it is full of unintentional sexual innuendo. Anyone come across anything like this? Brad. |
Subject: ADD: The Ballad Of Yukon Jake From: Joe Offer Date: 10 Oct 04 - 03:12 AM Looks like we haven't found Brad's poem. In this thread (click), about "Face on the Barroom Floor," somebody mentioned "Hermit of Shark Tooth Shoal" (officially "The Ballad Of Yukon Jake") Turns out it hasn't been posted, so here it is from robertwservice.com, even though it isn't a Service poem. -Joe Offer- The following poem was written by Edward H. Paramore, Jr in 1921 and not Robert W. Service as many seem to think. However the writing style is very similar and has caused some confusion regarding the true author. The poem is published here as a worthy tribute to Robert W. Service's influence, style, talent, wordcraft, and of course to remind those who may be unaware that it is by Edward H.Paramore, Jr. The Ballad Of Yukon Jake Begging Robert W. Service's Pardon Oh the north countree is a hard countree Now Jacob Kaime was the Hermit's name He was just a boy and the parson's joy He longed for the bite of a Yukon night So he left his home for the hell-town Nome, Then Jacob Kaime, who had taken the name Oh, tough as a steak was Yukon Jake — But, miles away, in Keokuk, Ia., So, two weeks later, she took a freighter, He was hunting a seal for his evening meal His eight-months beard grew stiff and weird, But a hopeless rake was Yukon Jake, Now ruthless Ruth is a maid uncouth Oh, the North Countree is a rough countree, Edward H. Paramore, JR. |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: GUEST,Art Date: 07 Dec 04 - 09:53 PM refresh too good to bury |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: GUEST,Art Thieme Date: 17 Sep 05 - 12:52 AM refresh again Art |
Subject: RE: Yarn of the "Nancy Bell" From: Abby Sale Date: 25 Oct 06 - 10:23 AM Just learned of this. Great song. Been seeking a tune - is there any knowledge if Gilbert had any particular one in mind? Dave or Deckman, have you any way to let me know the tune you may have? Or anyone other? On search I seemed to find a Canadian record but I'm not sure. FYI, seems Gilbert fiddled wit the text a bit anyway, over time - this was reprinted many times. Here's a link to an 1898 version with his illustrations. Text & illustrations |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: Abby Sale Date: 25 Oct 06 - 10:58 AM The record (tape) I found a reference to is THE PRAIRIE HIGGLERS "OVER TWENTY YEARS" from, I guess, The Canadian Society for Traditional Music. Anyone know if it's sung on that? |
Subject: ADD: The Lifeboat (Sims) - recitation From: Joe Offer Date: 26 Oct 06 - 03:13 AM I came across this the other night, and really liked it. It's in a Dover book called Victorian Parlour Poetry (Edited by Michael R. Turner, 1967). The poem is by George R. Sims, who also wrote the better-known Christmas in the Workhouse. -Joe- The Lifeboat(George R. Sims)
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Subject: Lyr Add: THE BALLAD OF IDWAL SLABS From: Rowan Date: 26 Oct 06 - 04:12 AM One of my favourites comes from the days when I was one of the tigers in the Mountaineering Club at Melbourne Uni. It was always recited with music hall flourish. I'm sure you'll cope with the jargon. THE BALLAD OF IDWAL SLABS by Showell Styles I'll tell you the tale of a climber, a drama of love on the crags; a story to pluck at your heart strings, and tear your emotions to rags. He was tall, he was fair, he was handsome; John Christopher Brown was his name. The Very Severes merely him bored him to tears and he felt about girls much the same. 'Til one day, while climbing at Ogwen, he fell (just a figure of speech) for the president's beautiful daughter, named Mary Jane Smith. What a peach! Her waist was as slim as Napes Needle, her lips were as red as Red Wall; a regular tiger, she'd been up the Eiger North Wall, with no pitons at all! Now Mary had several suitors, but never a one would she take, though it seemed that she favoured one fellow, a villain named Reginald Hake. This Hake was a cad who used pitons and wore a long silken moustache, which he used, so they say, as an extra belay - but perhaps we're being too harsh. John took Mary climbing on Lliwedd, and proposed while on Mallory's Slab; it took him three pitches to do it, for he hadn't much gift of the gab. He said: "Just belay for a moment - there's a little spike close by your knee - and tell me, fair maid, when you're properly belayed, would you care to hitch up with me?" Said Mary, "It's only a toss-up between you and Reginald Hake, and the man I am going to marry must perform some great deed for my sake. I will marry whichever bold climber shall excel at the following feat; climb headfirst down Hope, without rubbers or rope, at our very next climbing club meet!" Now when Mary told the committee, she had little occasion to plead; she was as fair to behold as a jug-handle hold at the top of a hundred foot lead. The club ratified her proposal; the President had to agree. He was fond of his daughter, but felt that she oughter get married, between you and me. Quite a big crowd turned up for the contest, lined up at the foot of the slabs; the mobs came from Bangor in buses, and the nobs came from Capel in cabs. There were Fell and Rock climbers by dozens, the Rucksackand Pinnacle Club (in new hats) And a sight to remember!... an Alpine Club member in very large crampons and spats. The weather was fine for a wonder; the rocks were as dry as a bone. Hake arrived with a crowd of his backers, while John Brown strode up quite alone. A rousing cheer greeted the rivals; a coin was produced, and they tossed. "Have I won?" cried John Brown as the penny came down. "No!" hissed his rival, "You've lost!" So Hake had first go at the contest; he went up by the Ordinary Route and only the closest observer would have noticed a bulge in each boot. Head first he came down the top pitches, applying his moustache as a brake; he didn't relax till he'd passed the twin cracks, and the crowd shouted "Attaboy Hake!" At the foot of the Slabs Hake stood sneering, and draining a bottle of Scotch. " Your time was ten seconds," the President said, consulting the Treasurer's watch. Now Brown. if you'd win, you have to beat that." Our hero's sang-froid was sublime; he took one look at Mary and, light as a fairy, ran up to the top of the climb. Now though Hake had made such good going, John wasn't discouraged a bit; that he was the speedier climber even Hake would have had to admit. So, smiling as though for a snapshot, not a hair of his head out of place, our hero John Brown started wriggling down. But Look! What a change on his face! Prepare for a shock, gentle ladies; gentlemen, check the blasphemous word. For the villainy I am to speak of is such as you never have heard! Reg Hake had cut holes in the toes of his boots and filled up each boot with soft soap! As he slid down the climb he had covered with slime every handhold and foothold on Hope! Conceive (if you can) the tense horror that gripped the vast concourse below, when they saw Mary's lover slip downwards, like an arrow that's shot from a bow! "He's done for!" gasped twenty score voices. "Stand from under!" roared John from above. As he shot down the slope, he was steering down Hope, still fighting for life and for love! Like lightning he flew past the traverse... in a flash he had reached the Twin Cracks. The friction was something terrific---there was smoke coming out of his Daks. He bounced off the shelf at the top of pitch two, and bounded clean over its edge! A shout of "He's gone!" came from all except one and that one, of course, was our Reg. But it's not the expected that happens, in this sort of story at least, 'cause just as John thought he was finished, he found that his motion had ceased! His braces (pre-war and elastic) had caught on a small rocky knob, and so, safe and sound, he came gently to ground, 'mid the deafening cheers of the mob! "Your time was five seconds!" the President cried. "She's yours, my boy; take her, you win!" " My hero!" breathed Mary, and kissed him; while Hake gulped a bottle of gin. He tugged at his moustache and he whispered, "Aha! My advances you spurn! "Curse a chap who wins races by using his braces!" And slunk away ne'er to return. They were wed at the Church of St. Gabbro, where the Vicar, quite carried away, did a hand-traverse into the pulpit, and cried out "Let us belay!" John put the ring on Mary's finger (a snap-link it was, made of steel) and they marched to their taxis 'neath an arch of ice axes, while all the bells started to peal. The morals we draw from this story, are several, I'm happy to say: It's virtue that wins in the long run; long silken moustaches don't pay. Keep your head uppermost when you're climbing (if you must slither, be on a rope) And steer clear of the places that sell you cheap braces, and the fellow that uses soft soap! Cheers, Rowan |
Subject: Lyr Add: THE HOYLY RIG From: Flash Company Date: 26 Oct 06 - 10:51 AM WSG had the dubious honour of having The Yarn of the Nacy Bell turned down by Punch Magazine as 'Being in doubtful taste'. Way back in this thread I saw someone mention 'The Hoyly Rig'. I used to doit like this, may not be exactly Bob Robert's words, but near as I could remember:- The fishin' were bad, and me boat laid up, Though me and the lad aren't shirkers, When this bloke came into our local pub, An' he said 'I'm looking for workers!' Well, he sounded to me like some sort of a Yank, But he stood us a couple or three, And he said 'We'm buildin' a Hoyly rig, To fetch hoyl up out of the sea. Well I'd heerd these fanciful tales afore, So I asked him 'How much does it pay' 'Oh, twenty or thirty quid' sez he, 'A week' sez I 'Nay a day' Well I went on home an' I'd thought nothing more, But the missus she fusses an'frets, And she sez 'You'll mek more in a month wi' yon, Than tha will in a year wi' your nets! So, the next Monday morning, it's down to the docks, And we signed on , the young un an' mee, And went off wi' this Yank on a tug to find out If there were any hoyl in the sea. We worked on a great big platform thing, Wi' a drill going Wheeee, Wheeee, Wheeeeeee, And all the time drilling a bloody big hole, In't bottom of th' old North Sea. Well, we drilled an' we drilled for three weeks or a month, An'no sign of hoyl had we found, 'Til one day our lad looked o'er the side, An' said 'Hey Dad, the tugs gone aground!' Well I looked o'er side an'what did I see But the sea going Glug, glug, glug, And swirling away down that hole as we'd drilled, Like the bath water goin' down th' plug. Then a hiss, and a roar, and a great cloud of steam, Up out of the hole it came, And up popped the head of the Devil himself, An' said 'Hey up what's your bloody game?' 'You've put out me fire, me coals all wet, You've cooled down each oven an' hob, And Hell isn't hot, it's all soggy an' wet, You've ruined me whole bloody job!' Well, I on'y laughed an' said 'Ruined thee job? Aye, I reckon we've done that alright, And you'll never get Hell hot again if tha tries, 'Cos no bugger will give you a light!' So we done some good with our Hoyly Rig, We cooled down Hell in a hurry, So now, when you die, there's nowt else but heaven, So you lot have no need to worry! Needless to say, written before the discovery of North Sea oil! FC |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: The Sandman Date: 26 Oct 06 - 07:21 PM Fc... Not Bad. BUT The original was better. |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: Bonecruncher Date: 26 Oct 06 - 08:57 PM Thanks for that one, ROWAN. I remember it from the old "Scouting" magazine many years back, in which Showell Styles used to write. Colyn. |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: Rowan Date: 26 Oct 06 - 09:02 PM And I remember Peter Auty doing a marvellous recitation in Melbourne before he moved to Brisbane. It was not a poem but a short story; "The champion bullock driver" by Lance Skuthorpe. Auty's dry intonation was very evocative. Cheers, Rowan |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: dulcimer42 Date: 26 Oct 06 - 10:00 PM please refresh |
Subject: Lyr Add: TO MORROW From: Rowan Date: 30 Oct 06 - 07:37 PM Since Keith McKenry is about to go on tour I thought I'd post one he's well known for. To Morrow (Adapted by Keith McKenry from a song by Bob Gibson) I started on a journey, last year it was sometime, To a little town called Morrow, on a Queensland country line. Now I've never been much of a traveller, and I really didn't know That Morrow is the hardest place a bloke can try to go. I went down to the station, to get my ticket there For the next train to Morrow - I didn't have a care. Said I, "My friend, I'd like to go to Morrow and return Not later than tomorrow, for I haven't time to burn". Said he to me, "Now let me see if I have heard you right. You'd like to go to Morrow and return tomorrow night. You should have gone to Morrow yesterday, and back today, For the train that goes to Morrow is a mile upon its way. "If you had gone to Morrow yesterday - now don't you see - You could have gone to Morrow and got back today at Three, For the train today to Morrow (if the schedule is right) Today it goes to Morrow and returns tomorrow night." Said I, "Now, hang on - hold it there - can we wind that back? There is a town called Morrow on the line, now tell me that." "There is", said he, "But take from me a quiet little tip, To go from here to Morrow is a fourteen hour trip. "The train today to Morrow leaves today at Eight Thirty-five, And half past Ten tomorrow is the time it should arrive. Now travellers yesterday to Morrow - who get to Morrow today They come back again tomorrow (that is, if they don't stay)". "OK, mate", I said, "You know it all. But kindly tell me, pray, How can I get to Morrow if I leave this town today'?." Said he, "You cannot go to Morrow any more today For the train that goes to Morrow is a mile upon its way!" I was getting rather aggro. I commenced to curse and swear. The train had gone to Morrow and had left me standing there. I decided then that - bother it! - I loathed the Queensland scrub, And I would not go to Morrow. I went back to the pub. And, while we were researching for the Trains of Teaure celebration/conference/etc, Brian Dunnett came up with the precursor to the the song/recitation above. The train that ran to Morrow By "Sou' Western" from AFULE Locomotive Journal 13 Feb 1941 Courtesy of Brian Dunnett I want a train to Morrow I must get there today for I wed tomorrow my sweetheart Elsie May. The S.M. said in 'sorrer' "You'll have to go tomorrow; you can't get there today. The train that goes to Morrow is half way on its way." Now here's a bloomin' fiver if you can find a driver to take a train to Morrow. I must be there today or all will end in sorrer if I jilt my Elsie May. The S.M. he did ponder, thought in that loco yonder they still have Puffing Fanny we can get Young Danny. "You'll run a train to Morrow We'll land him there today to wed them both tomorrow; himself and Elsie May." He rang up Pat O'Gorman the genial loco foreman "You'll run a train to Morrow with myself and Danny Fay, for a bloke the name of Morrow we must land at 12 today. Out dashed the busy foreman to hasten up the storeman to put the oil in Fanny, to call the stoker Danny. The train was duly started with guests and groom light-hearted. Paddy opened up the throttle as he sped her through the wattle She was priming like a fountain as she headed for the mountain He had her blowing at the cocks as he urged her through the "Rocks" No word was spoke by either the stoker or the driver but Paddy thought in horror if we fail to get to Morrow on this blessed wedding day all this will end in sorrer for he and Elsie May. Just around the deviation there lay old Morrow Station. They were certain of ovation Paddy thought in desperation. To run a train to Morrow to reach there on the day but not in time for Morrer to wed his Elsie May. The train arrived at noon not a moment there too soon. Had the train arrived tomorrow it would spoil the honeymoon. Now Paddy did the toastin' to mate who'd done a roastin'. The toast he gave was new Such stokers there were few should run a train to Morrow and on a wedding day. And if it's on to Morrow my mate is Danny Fay. "S.M" is Station Master Cheers, Rowan |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: GUEST,Diyabrown Date: 04 Nov 06 - 08:59 AM I am looking for lyrics for recitation or song I heard several years ago on PRM called "Uncle Harry's Thanksgiving Grace. |
Subject: Lyr Add: THE OATH OF BAD BROWN BILL From: Rowan Date: 21 May 07 - 07:20 PM Here's another that went well with Mark Noak reciting for Flying Pieman. THE OATH OF BAD BROWN BILL "Why there are no more bushrangers" Stephen Axelson; Commended, 1979 Book of the year One hundred years ago or more, a bloke named Bad Brown Bill ranged the bush from Binnaway and Bourke to Castle Hill. Gruff and tough, rude and shrewd, a scoundrel to the core, he plundered, stole, he robbed and thieved and still went out for more. A mare named Mudpie was his mount; an old but nimble nag as hard as nails, as bold as brass, but something of a wag. They bailed up every bank and pub from Broome to Cooper's Creek and bundled up the Mudgee mail; not once, but every week. They boldly stole the Queensland Mint; just took it, right or wrong. Then down the eastern coast they sailed and stuck up Wollongong. One day they caught the Governor; they took his splendid hat and made him dance a jig on it until he squashed it flat. When now and then the mounted troops rode out to track them down, Brown Bill would yell and whoop and cheer and chase them back to town. Our hero was quite sure he was the bravest of the brave; he bragged so much he nearly drove poor Mudpie to her grave. In desperation, Mudpie found the power of speech and said, "You brag, but are you bold enough to rob the ghostly dead?" This struck and stunned and sorely stung Brown Bill's enormous pride; he flew into a crimson rage. "My oath I am!" he cried. He knelt upon the stony ground And bound his fat brown head. He slowly swore an awful Oath and solemnly he said.... The Oath "Pure and simple, straight and neat, I vow I'll rob the folks I meet. Be they live, or dead and dry, I swear I'll rob the folks I spy. And, if I ever break this Oath, I'll eat my boots; I'll eat them both!" Right then and there he galloped off to find himself a ghost and that same night he saw a sight that turned his teeth to toast. He'd come across a hideous ghoul astride a rotten log; it grinned a slimy, slippery grin and breathed a damp green fog. Brown Bill stood fast beside his Oath; fair dinkum and true blue, He'd bound himself to rob this fiend, this dread, pale, jackaroo. He bit his tongue and grit his teeth and yelled courageously, "You'll stand and you'll deliver, sir; your wealth belongs to me!" Then with a whine and hiss it spoke, "Brown Bill, you've caught me fair, so come up to my camp with me; my treasure's hidden there." And, like a flash, the ghost was off away into the night. Brown Bill stood still, upon his horse, three quarters dead from fright. He hummed a hymn and shook himself and rode in hot pursuit until he reached the billabong, malodorous and mute. Gross and gruesome monster ghosts, loathesome and befouled, begrimed, beslimed and horrible, they howled and scowled and growled. They lumbered out and heaved about, a moaning, groaning throng; with dead and tuneless tongues they sang a monster welcome song. "G'day and welcome, Bad Brown Bill! Where's your smile? You're looking ill. We've got a nice surprise for you; we thought we'd make Bushranger Stew! "We'll chop and break, we'll bend and squeeze, we'll mince your nose and grind your knees. We'll boil your bones in Merry Hell. We'll eat you up! Your horse as well!" Brown Bill and Mudpie stood like stone, their faces long and grey. Their arteries were full of lead; their bones were turned to clay. Then something like a rusty spring gave way in Brown Bill's head. He ate his boots and kicked his horse and like a gale they fled. They wandered in the wilderness for forty days or so; Brown Bill just shook his head and moaned and wallowed in his woe. So Mudpie said her second line, the last she ever spoke, "You've had your day as 'Bad Brown Bill'; you're now a better bloke." They bought a schoolhouse, by and by, where bushrangers were told the story of the Oath he made and every heart turned cold. Yes, everyone who heard the tale went grey and shook with dread; they swore they'd change their wicked ways and settle down instead. So that's the reason why they say, from Perth to Kimberley, there's not a single bushranger that's left alive to see. But, sometimes, in the dead of night perhaps you'll see them still; the ghostly shapes of Mudpie and a bloke named Bad Brown Bill. Cheers, Rowan |
Subject: Lyr Add: THE BALLAD OF WILLIAM BLOAT (R Calvert) From: GUEST,CrazyEddie Date: 22 May 07 - 08:25 AM THE BALLAD OF WILLIAM BLOAT Raymond Calvert In a mean abode on the Skankill Road Lived a man named William Bloat; He had a wife, the curse of his life, Who continually got his goat. So one day at dawn, with her nightdress on He slit her bloody throat.
2. With a razor gash he settled her hash
3. And yet he was glad he had done what he had
4. He took the sheet from the wife's coul' feet |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: GUEST,mark Date: 21 Jun 07 - 08:51 PM there is a verse missing from the text for "the oath of bad brown bill", it occurs after the verse which ends 'malodorous and mute' .. and is: "Then slowly sliding from the trees And creeping from the deep The shapes of things long dead and gone Emerged to blink and peep" i used to recite this one when i played with an australian "bush band" back in the 80's, audiences loved it .. i remember quietening a packed pub with it one night, much to the annoyance of the publican. |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: Rowan Date: 21 Jun 07 - 09:24 PM Guest mark, thanks for addendum. Which band was it you played with? Cheers, Rowan |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: katlaughing Date: 21 Jun 07 - 10:11 PM That's a great one! Thanks, Rowan and Mark. |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: Art Thieme Date: 07 Dec 08 - 05:02 PM Any more? |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: Rowan Date: 07 Dec 08 - 06:21 PM Have you tried these yet, Art? Cheers, Rowan |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: Aeola Date: 08 Dec 08 - 06:10 PM What a great thread!! Thanks Rowan, Idwal slabs, I used to climb in that area as a lad! Memories. About the same time I recorded a monologue off the radio, missed the intro so don't know who did it but it started, ' Out of Barking Creek bell ringer's bell it was rung, when the fog,lay thick on the water,But 'tis not of the bell ringer's bell my song's sung but of the bell ringer's daughter.' Plenty of words to invoke a little audience participation. Also about the same time my mate's father used to recite ' Mary was a servant girl of great renown..... she lived in London town,,,'unfortunately I never got the words off him. If anyone can help???? |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: clueless don Date: 20 Jan 10 - 12:26 PM I recently recalled hearing a slightly naughty recitation a while back. It was, as I recall, about a scotsman who washes his kilt, but does it in such a way that it shrinks. As a result of the shrinkage, a certain feature of the scotsman's anatomy becomes visable below the kilt, so he decides to camouflage the "offending member" by dyeing it to match the kilt. The recitation ends with a statement that he is the only scotsman "wi' a tartan what-not". Anyone know it? Don |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: kendall Date: 20 Jan 10 - 01:15 PM Is anyone still interested in this thread? |
Subject: Lyr Add: GEORGE BLAKE'S ALPHABET From: RTim Date: 20 Jan 10 - 02:57 PM George Blake's Alphabet - Recitation. A covetous man is never satisfied Be wise and beware and of blotting take care Command you may your mind from play Duty, fear and love we owe to God above Every plant & flower sets forth God's power Fair words are often followed by foul deeds Get what you get honestly & use with frugality He is always poor who is never contented It's an ill dog that don't deserve a crust Judge not of things by their outward appearance Kings are seldom happy Learn to live as you would wish to die Many thinks not of living till they're near dying Never study to please others to ruin yourself Opportunity lost can never be recalled Provide against the worst and hope for the best Quiet minded men have always peace within Repentance comes too late when all is spent Some go fine and brave only to play the knave Those who do nothing will soon learn to do ill Unite in doing good Vice is always attended with sorrow Wise men are scarce Xenophon counted the wise men happy Your delight and care should be to write fair Zeal in a good cause have great applause. Collected June 1967 by Dr. George B. Gardiner from George Blake (1829 to 1916) of St. Denys, Southampton, Hampshire and recreated on my CD - George Blake's Legacy, Forest Tracks Records. Tim Radford |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: RTim Date: 20 Jan 10 - 02:59 PM Of course that should say - Collected June 1906! Tim |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: Rowan Date: 20 Jan 10 - 04:48 PM Is anyone still interested in this thread? Yup. kendall, if your voice doesn't get back to singing there are lots of recitations, both in this thread as well as this other one All the best with the op. Cheers, Rowan |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: gnu Date: 21 Jan 10 - 02:29 PM Don't know if this one was posted yet. Tommy Makem... |
Subject: ADD: The Virgin of Waikiki (Don Blanding, 1928) From: Joe Offer Date: 31 Jul 10 - 03:52 AM Somebody send me a wonderfully-illustrated copy of this one today, and I enjoyed it. Here 'tis: THE VIRGIN OF WAIKIKI (Don Blanding, 1928) Out at Waikiki by the sobbing sea, In a district rather sporty, In a banyan's shade lived a virgin maid Who was just this side of forty. She did not go to a movie show, For she had no one to take her; And she did not stray from the narrow way, Because nobody tried to make her. But I wish to state that a just that date She was Waikiki's one virgin, Though some were sure that the girl was pure Because she'd had no urgin'. But a dirty cat in a nearby flat, Whose morals were quite elastic, Laid a low-lived plan to ruin Anne, With methods sly but drastic. She stopped one day in a casual way To ask about Anne's Persian; Then said, "Oh, look at this lovely book; It's a new, uncensored version, Of Vermilion Sin by Helliner Grynn; I'm sure you'll find it stirring." With a knowing look she left the book, Despite Anne's chaste demurring. In a wicker chair, all unaware Of her neighbor's wicked scheming, Anne took a look through the borrowed book, And it set her wildly dreaming. Each gilded sin that Helliner Grynn Described with skill uncanny, Stirred a strange unrest in the withered breast Of simple virgin Annie. With a vision clear, she saw how drear Was the virtue she'd been shielding, And she longed for the charms of a lover's arms, And the joys of weakly yielding. In wild despair she tore her hair, Then cried to the stars above her: "I'll end my state of a celibate, I'll get me a hard-boiled lover." With frantic wail, she cleared the rail Of the porch with a leap gazellish, And headed straight for her neighbor's gate And the light in her eyes was hellish. "I'll steal her rouge and her high-heel shoes— The ones she wears on Mondays; And I think I'll get her pink georgette And silk embroidered undies." Before her glass, this aged lass Sat down—it was really tragic— And you would have cried as the virgin tried To work a vampire's magic. It was half-past ten when she left her den, Feeling wild and very nighty, As she boldly strode down Kalia Road In her filmy chiffon nightie. Underneath a tree at Waikiki Was a sailor drinking madly, It was rotten gin and it scorched his chin, But he needed cheering badly. For he was blue, and gin he knew Would cheer his disposition. Then he raised his eyes and to his surprise Saw a lovely apparition. "My gob, my gob!" he heard her sob, "My hero, my adorer." It was Annie there, and her frenzied stare Quite startled the man before her. He jumped to his feet for a quick retreat, But Anne, with a gesture quicker Than a bullet's hum, seized the bottle of rum And drank the remaining liquor. "Well, strike me pink," said the gob, "I think This jane is drunk or dippy; But she looks all there, and I don't care If her figure is too hippy." So he caught the maid as she dizzily swayed To his arms, and he quickly kissed her; And he heard her moan like a saxaphone As the first kiss raised a blister. Oh, I can't write of that hectic night, My description would be pallid; And, anyway, the things I'd say Don't belong to a proper ballad. But the papers say that next morning late On a beach by the broad Pacific, They found Anne dead, but the papers said That her smile was beatific. |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: kendall Date: 31 Jul 10 - 07:35 AM What it was was football was recorded by Andy Griffith back in the 60's. On the flip side was Romeo and Juliet. |
Subject: Lyr Add: BATTLE OF BILLINGSGATE (recitation) From: Jim Carroll Date: 31 Jul 10 - 08:26 AM Not sure whether the term 'recitation is the same elsewhere as it is in Ireland. Most of the examples here are poems - recitations in Ireland don't necessarily rhyme - most of them don't. This is typical of what we have here - included on the double CD of songs from West Clare, 'Around The Hills of Clare. The reciter, Patrick Lynch has a large repertoire of them. Jim Carroll 23-1 BATTLE OF BILLINGSGATE (recitation) Patrick Lynch; Mount Scott, Mullagh. Rec. 22 July 2003. In O'Connell's time in Dublin, there lived a woman by the name of Biddy Moriarty who owned a huckster's stall in one of the quays almost opposite the Four Courts. She was a virago of the worst order; very able with her fists but even more formidable with her tongue. From one end of Dublin to the other, she was notorious for her powers of abuse, and indeed, even in the provinces, some of Mrs Moriarty's language had passed into currency. The Dictionary of Dublin slang had been considerably enlarged by her, and her voluble impudence had almost become proverbial. Now some of O'Connell's friends decided that O'ConncIl could beat her at the use of her own weapons. Of this, however, O'Connell was not too sure, as lie had listened once or twice to a few minor specimens of her Billingsgate. It was mooted once where the young Kerry barrister could encounter her, and some of the company rather too freely ridiculed the idea of O'ConncIl being able for the famous Madam Moriarty. Now O'ConncIl never liked to be made little of, so then and there he professed himself ready for the encounter and he even backed himself in the match. Bets were offered and taken, and it was decided that the contest should take place at once. So the party immediately adjourned to the huckster's stall, and there was the woman herself superintending the sale of some small ware, a parly of loungers and ragged idlers from about, because by now Biddy, in her own way, was one of the sights of Dublin. O'Connell began the attack. "Mow much do you want for the walking stick Mrs erm - erm - erm - erm - what's your name?" "Moriarty is the name sir, and a fine one it is; have you anything to say agin it? It's one and sixpence for th'ould walking stick and, throth sure, 'tis as cheap as dirt." "One and sixpence for an old walking stick; whew - why you're nothing short of an impostor to go charging eighteen pence for an ould stick that cost you tuppence." "Tuppence, tuppence your grandmother; are you saying 'tis cheating the people I am? Impostor yourself." "Oh, I object", says O'Connell, "as I am a gentleman." "Gentleman; hee-hee, gentleman, gentleman", says Biddy, "the likes of you a gentleman? Why you potato-faced pippin-sneezer, when did a Madagascar monkey like you ever pick up enough common, Christian decency to lose your old Kerry brogue?" "Easy now, easy now-", says O'Connell, in imperturbable good humour, "don't go choking yourself on such fine words, you whiskey-drinking old parallelogram." "What's that you called me, you murdering villain?" roared Biddy. "1 called you", says O'Connell, "a parallelogram, and a Dublin judge and jury will swear 'tis no libel." "Oh hanam 'on Diabhal*! Oh holy St Bridget! That an honest woman like me should stand here and be called one of them parally - parally - par-ally bellygrums to her face; I'm none of your parally bellygrums, you rascally gallows-bird; you cowardly, sneaking, plate-licking blaggard." "Oh no", says O'Connell, "and I suppose you'll deny you keep a hypotenuse in your house." '"Tis a lie for you", says Biddy, "I never heard such a thing." "But sure", says O'Connell, "all your neighbours know, not only do you keep a hypotenuse, but you have two diameters locked up in your garret and you take them out for a walk every Sunday." "Oh, by all the saints, you hear that for talk, from one who claims to be a gentleman. Why, the divil fly away with you, you mitcher** from Munster, and make celery sauce of your rotten limbs, you mealy-mouthed tub-o-guts." "Arrah; you can't deny the charge", says O'Connell, "you heartless old heptagon." "Why, you nasty little tinker's apprentice", says Biddy, "If you don't mind your mouth I'll - I'll - I'll - I'll ..." But here, here boys she gasped for breath, unable to hawk up any more words. But O'Connell carried on the attack. "While I have a tongue in my head I'll abuse you, you most inimitable poritory; look at her boys; there she stands; a convicted perpendicular in petticoats, and there's contamination in her circumference and she trembles with guilt right down to the extremities of her corollaries. Ah, you're found out, you rectilineal antecedent of an equiangular old hag; you porter-swiping similitude of a bisection of a vortex." Poor old Biddy was dumbfounded, and she only reached behind her on the shelf and took hold of a skillet and took aim at O'Connell's head. So O'Connell beat a hasty retreat. But it was agreed by one and all that O'Connell had won the battle of Billingsgate. * Hanam 'on Diabhal - Your soul to the Devil. ** Mitcher - truant. Daniel O'Connell, (1775-1847), political leader and leading opponent of The Act of Union, was renowned for his quick wit and his debating abilities and is said to have featured in the Irish oral tradition more than any other historical figure. An excellent and extremely entertaining account of the folklore surrounding O'Connell is to be found in folklorist Rionach Ui Ogain's exhaustive work on him. Patrick learned this from a Miltown Malbay man, Marty Malley. Ref: Immortal Dan, Rionach Ui Ógain, Geography Publications, n.d. |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: Joe_F Date: 31 Jul 10 - 06:10 PM For a rare recent writer of recitations, look up Mike Agranoff. Some of them are on his records, and five are in a booklet _Jake, the Captain and Other Heroes_ (1988; seems to be out of print). |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: Joe_F Date: 31 Jul 10 - 06:22 PM Another bawdy imitation Service poem is "The Castration of Sam McGee". The one by C. Wayne Lammers is apparently independent of the one (evidently written by an engineer) that I learned much earlier at Caltech in 1956. I may get around to typing it up. * An oddity: The bawdy song "The Harlot of Jerusalem" ("Kafoozalem") was current as a recitation in my high school (Putney, VT, ca. 1952). In it, Kafoozalem had become Methuselah! |
Subject: Lyr Add: THE GOLDEN GUITAR From: kendall Date: 01 Aug 10 - 04:18 PM THE GOLDEN GUITAR I walked into a honkey tonk the other night down in New Orleans. Up above the bar hung a big guitar, like none I'd ever seen. The neck was set with diamonds, and although the strings were old, Like kings of sound, they wound around six keys of solid gold. A man stepped up beside me; his breath was strong of wine. He said, "That guitar once belonged to a real close pal of mine. He used to play it right here; it was '45, I think. I could tell you quite a story if you'd care to buy me a drink." Well, possessed by every weakness that makes a man a fool, I bought a round and he drank it down, then he sat back on his stool. "I remember now," he said. "It was '45, alright. he'd just returned from the great war, that's where he lost his sight. "His buddies gave him that guitar; at the time it was simple and plain. He added the gold and jewels as he played his way to fame. He was playing a job in Shreveport on the night he received the call: 'Come on up to the Grand Ol' Opry, the greatest show of all.' "I was driving him to Nashville; it was misty and freezing rain. The whistle blew and the signals flashed, but I swear, Mister, I never saw that train. I heard the Doctor say just after he's used his knife, 'You're lucky, son; it was only your arm; it could have been your life.' "But he died that night; life just demanded more than he could give. I think he could have made it but he just lost his will to live. But, this earth's loss is Heaven's gain, 'cause tonight he's still a star. he plays with a band of angels; that's my son's golden guitar." Sure it's kinda hokey in places, but that line, ..life just demanded more than he could give.. always gets to me. Been there, done it. |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: olddude Date: 01 Aug 10 - 04:38 PM Kendall that is an awesome lyric ... OH YEA .... Here is Bill Anderson The Golden Guitar |
Subject: Edgar Guest The Three Bares? From: GUEST,Edgar Guest Date: 31 Jan 11 - 01:53 PM I am trying to find the poem which has within some of the following: "..she got 'em clean alright then wondered what she'd do with all that bucket full of explosive residue..." I thought it was from a poem by Edgar Guest entitled "The Three Bares". I performed it once at a speech meet but can't find it anywhere....Thanks |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: GUEST,Vecchio Date: 23 Oct 11 - 12:46 AM I recall some WW2 army people reciting a saga about "Doth go but forty years since we set sail from Plymouth" the followed a tale of landing on "the goddam isle, meeting the King bloody sot, the queen voluptuous bitch etc" rather bawdy. Antone know it? |
Subject: Lyr Add: THE JUNK MAN (Carl Sandburg) From: keberoxu Date: 08 Dec 15 - 07:45 PM Love the James Weldon Johnson dramatic reading. A poster asked after, "I am glad God saw Death..." and I don't see that you got an answer. Here is what I could find. Author: Carl Sandburg collection: Chicago Poems: dated 1916 poem title: THE JUNK MAN I am glad God saw Death and gave Death a job taking care of all who are tired of living: When all the wheels of a clock are worn and slow and the connections loose And the clock goes on ticking and telling the wrong time from hour to hour And people around the house joke about what a bum clock it is, How glad the clock is when the big Junk Man drives his wagon Up to the house and puts his arms around the clock and says: "You don't belong here, You gotta come Along with me," How glad the clock is then, when it feels the arms of the Junk Man close around it and carry it away. New York: Henry Holt and Company |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: kendall Date: 08 Dec 15 - 09:59 PM I have a book titled the Collected verse of A.B. Paterson (Banjo Patterson. Thanks again, Roger. Another book called Old Bush songs, Australian classics |
Subject: Lyr Add: THE OWL-CRITIC (James Thomas Fields) From: GUEST,.gargoyle Date: 09 Dec 15 - 01:37 AM From the Fifth Reader 1899. THE OWL-CRITIC By James Thomas Fields (1817–1881) A Lesson to Fault-finders "WHO stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop: The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop; The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading The Daily, the Herald, the Post, little heeding The young man who blurted out such a blunt question; 5 Not one raised a head or even made a suggestion; And the barber kept on shaving. "Don't you see, Mister Brown," Cried the youth, with a frown, "How wrong the whole thing is, 10 How preposterous each wing is, How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is— In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 'tis! I make no apology; I've learned owl-eology. 15 I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections, And cannot be blinded to any deflections Arising from unskillful fingers that fail To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail. Mister Brown! Mister Brown! 20 Do take that bird down, Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!" And the barber kept on shaving. "I've studied owls, And other night fowls, 25 And I tell you What I know to be true: An owl cannot roost With his limbs so unloosed; No owl in this world 30 Ever had his claws curled, Ever had his legs slanted, Ever had his bill canted, Ever had his neck screwed Into that attitude. 35 He can't do it, because 'Tis against all bird-laws Anatomy teaches, Ornithology preaches An owl has a toe 40 That can't turn out so! I've made the white owl my study for years, And to see such a job almost moves me to tears! Mister Brown, I'm amazed You should be so gone crazed 45 As to put up a bird In that posture absurd! To look at that owl really brings on a dizziness; The man who stuffed him don't half know his business!" And the barber kept on shaving. 50 "Examine those eyes. I'm filled with surprise Taxidermists should pass Off on you such poor glass; So unnatural they seem 55 They'd make Audubon scream, And John Burroughs laugh To encounter such chaff. Do take that bird down; Have him stuffed again, Brown!" 60 And the barber kept on shaving. "With some sawdust and bark I would stuff in the dark An owl better than that; I could make an old hat 65 Look more like an owl Than that horrid fowl, Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather. In fact, about him there's not one natural feather." Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch, 70 The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch, Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic (Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic, And then fairly hooted, as if he should say: "Your learning's at fault this time, anyway; 75 Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray. I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good-day!" And the barber kept on shaving. Sincerely, Gargoyle One of our childhood favorites....memorized on Chesunkook Lake Maine. |
Subject: Lyr Add: THE CASTRATION OF SAM MCGEE From: GUEST,Bradfordian Date: 10 Aug 19 - 12:48 PM THE CASTRATION OF SAM MCGEE. By C. Wayne Lammers There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who mole for gold There are stories there That will curl your hair And make your blood run cold But the strangest sight In the arctic night I ever chanced to see Was that night on the varge of Lake LaBarge When We castrated Sam McGee It was well into fall as I recall And the weather was starting to blow The chill in the air Would freeze in our hair And turn it white as snow And the pecker-poll trees With icicles for leaves Had bent their backs with the strain And the search for gold had left us as cold As the freezing, drizzling rain It was late one night by an oil lamp's light With only the stars on guard In a leaky old tent With the center pole bent We all were playing cards There was Tommy Glen, from Oregon And, as best I can recall, A man named Kent, Who did relent He had no home at all There was Tom Cartee from Tennessee But the man I remember best Was Injin Joe, who, wouldn't you know Was worst than all the rest Some said his home Was way up in Nome Where he took him an Eskimo wife And then one day Or, so they say, He killed her with an Ulu knife As I started to say, on that fateful day Sam's luck was running bad Which he proclaimed With heartfelt pain "The worst he'd ever had" He bet his Soul And all his gold On the last hand he could play And Injin Joe smiled, oh so slow And said, "I think I'll raise" Old Sam turned pale and started to wail "I've nothing left to bet!" And Injin Joe, with his eyes aglow Said, "You ain't finished yet" He picked up his pile And, all the while He slowly let it fall And my blood ran cold When he said, "All my gold, I'll bet against your Balls" Sam started to sweat and with deep regret Took a sneak-peak at his hand As Injin Joe let his thumb run slow On the Ulu knife, and then Sam McGee Sitting next to me Said, "By God, I'll Call" Then giving a nod And caressing his cods Said, "Let them pasteboards fall" "Take it slow," cried Injin Joe "It's a serious game we play You called my bet But I do regret I haven't seen your stakes!" "For goodness sakes, It's not his stakes," Cartee said to us all "He won't relent I do lament He wants to see Sam's Balls!" Breathes there a man with steady hand Who has wagered both his Cods Who won't complain the petty pain Of peeks and pokes and nods In spite of his fright He was quite a sight, But the gold shone in his eyes Sam swallowed hard And dropped his cards As he began to rise He slipped the rope with fervent hope, That held his baggy jeans We started to stare As he trembled there, His pants around his knees The lump in his throat was tight as a rope As he let his underwear fall And Injin Joe Leaned forward, slow, To inspect Sam's dangling Balls "It's a marvelous pair that you’ve got there" Injin Joe exclaimed Then he started to cry With a tear in his eye As he told us of his pain "I was drunk one night and started a fight With my wife, as I recall, And I paid the price From her Ulu knife When she cut off both my Balls!" "With this same knife I killed my wife" Said Injin Joe to Sam "And I’ll confess I can not rest Without a pair of them. So I’ll bet my Soul and all my gold And if you lose this time, I want you to know I'll still have my gold And your Balls will then be mine!" What a gruesome sight in the Arctic night Sam's Balls were hanging low Then he swallowed hard And picked up his cards And spread 'em out—reeeal slooooow The Injin grinned and spread his—then, As quick as a deer in the fall He made a slice With the Ulu knife And cut off both Sam’s Balls Sam screamed and cried, I thought he'd died The way he carried on And all that night By the oil lamp's light He cursed and kicked and moaned But Injin Joe Was all aglow As he stroked Sam's grizzly Cods With a far-away stare that would chill the air Said, "I've got a pair, By God!" The weeks went by and the Arctic sky Began to lighten slow Our band turned west to Sam's protest With thoughts of Spring and gold Sam's Balls were dried And securely tied Round the neck of Injin Joe And they dangled there, That gruesome pair, Wherever he would go Old Sam would stare at the severed pair A teardrop in his eye And he swore to God He'd get some Cods, someday, by and by Now, the trail was rough And the men were tough But the mountains reached the sky And as we climbed Sam fell behind And then we heard him cry On a weathered knoll that was far below We saw his face turn pale Then he fell on his knees By a pecker-poll tree That grew beside the trail We ran below in the knee-deep snow To Sam's persistent call And we found a cave On that fateful day With an entrance exceedingly small As we peered in the hole, that was dark and cold We saw an Eskimo's bones And we wondered there In the cold, still air If this had been his home But Injin Joe, who was in the know Said this was a burial place Then he gave out a groan That was sort of a moan And a smile came on his face At the back of the hole was a pile of gold That was all a man could haul And Injin Joe Crawling forward slow Got stuck and started to squall He squirmed and tried to get inside The gold shone in his eyes But, try as he might The hole was too tight To admit his massive thighs We called on Sam to make the try Since he was exceptionally small But we failed to spy The gleam in his eye That said he'd have it all Now some might say It was just his way Of getting even and all And who could blame him, after all, We'd cut off both his balls The last we heard of Sam that day As he slipped through a back hole in the cave Was his rounding laugh As he made his dash And drug the gold away Twas not a place To say the least For a righteous man to be And we all swore to hunt him down He'd never more be free It was early fall, as I recall Before we chanced to meet We'd stumbled down To a Gold Rush town To Libate our defeat In the back of the saloon On a fancy chair Surrounded by ladies of the night Sat Sam McGee from Tennessee What a magnificent sight We found him in the Golden Spur Surrounded by wealth untold The opulence there Still curls my hair And makes my blood run cold We could only stare at his flippant air With all the wealth we'd dreamed Then he opened his coat And around his neck Two Golden Balls swung free On that fateful night, we paid the price For Castrating Sam McGee And I wonder now Just who has the pair The Castrated, or the Cas-tra-tee Still, all in all It was quite a haul But I remember the way he'd squalled He may have got the best of us But at least I still have my balls |
Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone? From: Stilly River Sage Date: 20 Dec 23 - 11:54 AM I'm bringing this old thread back to share a poem that might be turned into a song (it suggests it itself!) The source is a poet in the midst of the Hamas/Israel conflict right now, A Poet In Times of War. It clearly could be a recitation also. Poet Aurora Levins Morales has a patreon account that supports some of her work. As happens with poetry, it applies to Ukraine, to Yemen, to so many places. The beginning of her essay before the poem reads: For a few minutes, on October 7, when all I knew was that Palestinians had broken through and flown over the wall around Gaza, I felt hopeful. I imagined an uprising focused on taking over the points of control that dominate Palestinian life, retaking public spaces, creating visibility for a suffering hidden from or ignored by much of the world. I imagined something large numbers of people could get behind, that might shift the balance toward justice. Summons Last night I dreamed ten thousand grandmothers from the twelve hundred corners of the earth walked out into the gap one breath deep between the bullet and the flesh between the bomb and the family. They told me we cannot wait for governments. There are no peacekeepers boarding planes. There are no leaders who dare to say every life is precious, so it will have to be us. They said we will cup our hands around each heart. We will sing the earth’s song, the song of water, a song so beautiful that vengeance will turn to weeping, the mourners will embrace, and grief replace every impulse toward harm. Ten thousand is not enough, they said, so, we have sent this dream, like a flock of doves into the sleep of the world. Wake up. Put on your shoes. You who are reading this, I am bringing bandages and a bag of scented guavas from my trees. I think I remember the tune. Meet me at the corner. Let’s go. |
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