Recitations Anyone?

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Schantieman
Date: 09 Jan 03 - 07:05 AM

Yes - an excellent poem. So too are 'The Walrus and the Carpenter' and 'You are Old, Father William' from the same source.

But for a dramatic recitation you can't beat 'The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God' by J. Milton Hayes (I think) which can also be raised(?) to slapstick hilarity by the comic actions. Who was it popularised (invented?) these?

Steve

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: GUEST,Glen
Date: 09 Jan 03 - 08:25 AM

Are the classics such as the ALbert stories and "Battle of Hastings" recorded anywhere?

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: kendall
Date: 09 Jan 03 - 08:46 AM

Does anyone know Carl Sandburg's "The Old Junkman"?

I dont know it by heart, but, I think it starts; I'm glad God saw death...

If this doesn't move you, you are dead.

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Deckman
Date: 09 Jan 03 - 09:14 AM

I know that Stanley Holloway recorded at least Two of the Little Albert stories. I think they were Little Albert and the Lion, and Little Albert's return. A search might well locate an old vinyl recording. These are superb and well worth the effort. Somewhere on MUDCAT, maybe two years ago, someone posted a website that had the entire Little Albert series. I believe that the poems were composed especially for Harry Lauder. Bob

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: katlaughing
Date: 09 Jan 03 - 10:29 AM

Here's one posting which has links to a lot of the Albert monologues: clickety

Subject: Lyr Add: FOUR LANE DANCE
From: John Hardly
Date: 09 Jan 03 - 11:00 AM

I always enjoyed David Wilcox' live act. In it he almost always includes some sort of poetry in addition to his music. One of my favorites was...

FOUR LANE DANCE

The driver right in front of me is making a mistake
He's stopping on the entrance ramp, waiting for his break
The more he hits his brake, the bigger break he's going to need
When a little break is plenty if he'd just been up to speed

So I say move and you'll have your place
Don't sit waiting on the human race
Just go, you got your chance
You can't be timid in the four-lane dance

Oh and now he's got it parked there and he's looking back behind
Pleading out the window, hoping someone might be kind enough
To stop and wait and hold the traffic flow
And still he's not quite confident there's room for him to go

So I say move and you'll have your place
Don't sit waiting on the human race
Just go, you got your chance
You can't be timid in the four-lane dance

The freeway's just a lesson in the way you drive your dream
If you think you'll never make it, well than that's the way it seems
But if you thought that it'd be easy, well then easy it would be
Why just a foot between the bumpers has been room enough for me

So I say move and you'll have your place
Don't sit waiting on the human race
Just go, you got your chance
You can't be timid in the four-lane dance

Ellis Paul and Peter Mulvey often recite some of their lyric as poetry as well.

Subject: Lyr Add: WINTER IS ICUMEN IN (Ezra Pound)
From: kendall
Date: 09 Jan 03 - 09:28 PM

Winter is icumen in,
Lhude sing Goddamn,
Raineth drop and staineth slop
And how the wind doth ram!
Sing Goddamn.
Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us,
An ague hath my ham.
Freezeth river, turneth liver
Damn you, sing: Goddamn.
Goddamn Goddamn, 'tis why I am,
Goddamn.
So 'gainst the winter's balm
Sing Goddamn, damn, sing Goddamn
Sing Goddamn, sing Goddamn,
Damn!!

Ezra Pound

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Deckman
Date: 09 Jan 03 - 09:35 PM

Kendall ... an absolute classic! No one, I repeat NO ONE ... could do this as well as the late, great JOHN DWYER. (Hi Maggie). Bob

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Cluin
Date: 10 Jan 03 - 01:58 AM

But damn your eyes, man! They outgrabe!

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: alanabit
Date: 10 Jan 03 - 02:45 AM

Why has nobody recalled (and posted) the Mike Harding epic, "Napoleon's Retreat From Wigan"? I'm sure I'm not the only Mudcatter who used to have it on record - and some of you must have seen him perform it.

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Gurney
Date: 10 Jan 03 - 05:07 AM

Alanabit, if you like Mike Harding, you must love his monologue that starts "North of Oldham, south of Diggle, there's a little town called Mumps, where the tripe-mines stand, just by the wash-house wall.... I do about 30 monologues, mostly 'as performed by Stanley Holloway.' The fairly new site, monologues.co.uk will find you perhaps 150 and rising every day. And they post to Mudcat too.

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: alanabit
Date: 10 Jan 03 - 06:01 AM

I haven't heard it yet, but I am sure you are right that I would like it. I have been in Cologne for nearly twenty years now, so I am a little out of date with the UK scene!

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: clueless don
Date: 10 Jan 03 - 10:51 AM

This isn't much to go on, but I have a memory of hearing Gordon Bok do a recitation at a concert long, long ago. I really can't remember much of anything coherent about it, except that I'm quite sure it contained the line "Don't send a boy to do a man's work!" It probably had something to do with the sea, and may (or may not!) have involved a sea serpent, or dragon, or suchlike magical creature.

Does that ring a bell with anyone?

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Naemanson
Date: 10 Jan 03 - 11:38 AM

Yeah Clueless, that was the poem that Kendall posted above, The Night Charlie Tended Weir.

I do a few recitations. I have Ruth Moore's Ballad Of Three Waves and C. Fox Smith's Ships That Pass already in my head. I also learned Banjo Paterson's poem of being forced to drink some home brew but I've forgotten that one.

I like doing them but I usually perform as a member of a group and the other guys tend to dislike listening to the stories they've heard before. Plus the recitations I've been doing are fairly long and I feel self-conscious about it. Three Waves can take up to 6 1/2 minutes.

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: kendall
Date: 10 Jan 03 - 01:00 PM

I have a good friend named Euclid Hanbury. He has a marvelous speaking voice, and, it is hard to imagine anyone reciting that Ezra Poun poem better than he does it.

Naemanson, how about you post the Ballad of the three green waves? It is one of Ruth's best.

Subject: Lyr Add: DER JAMMERWOCH
From: Micca
Date: 10 Jan 03 - 01:12 PM

for those with a taste for the strange, (as if Jabberwocky isnt strange enough!!!)

DER JAMMERWOCH

Es brillig war. Die schlichte Toven
Wirrten und wimmelten in Waben;
Und aller-mumSige Burggoven
Die mohmen Rath' ausgraben.


Bewahre doch vor Jammerwoch!
Die Zahne knirschen, Krallen kratzen!
Bewahr' vor Jubjub-Vogel, <
Vor Frumiosen Banderschnatzchen!


Er griff sein vorpals Schwertchen zu,
Er suchte lang das manchsam' Ding;
Dann, stehend unten Tumtum Baum,
Er an-zu-denken-fing.


Als stand er tief in Andacht auf,
Des Jammerwochen's Augen-feuer
Durch tulgen Wald mit wiffeln kam
Ein burbelnd Ungeheuer .


Eins, zwei! Eins, zwei ! Und durch und durch
Sein vorpals Schwert zerschnifer-schnuck,
Da blieb es todt! Er, kopf in Hand,
Gelaumfig zog zuruck. .


Und schlugst Du ja den Jammerwoch ?
Umarme mich, mein BOhm'sches Kind!
0 Freuden-Tag! 0 Halloo-Schlag!
Er chortelt froh-gesinnt.




Es brillig war, &c.

Macmillan's Magazine, Feb. I872

(This version of Jabberwocky appears in a letter signed
, Thomas Chatterton', and has been attributed to Dr. Robert
Scott, then Dean of Rochester.)

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: clueless don
Date: 10 Jan 03 - 02:06 PM

Thanks, Naemanson, for calling Kendall's post to my attention! That's the one. And my apologies, Kendall, for not actually reading your post before (it would have saved some embarassment on my part!)

Subject: Lyr Add: THE BALLAD OF THREE WAVES (Ruth Moore)
From: Naemanson
Date: 10 Jan 03 - 04:06 PM

Here is The Ballad Of Three Waves By Ruth Moore. It probably isn't exact to the way she wrote it. I've typed it out from memory as I perform it. It has probably evolved some differences over the years.


THE BALLAD OF THREE WAVES
By Ruth Moore

No I ain't got no dorymate, I goes by myself alone,
I can't have nobody gormin' 'round anything that's my own.

And I ain't married and I never will!
Folks and fussin's all very well for those who likes 'em so.

When I sets out to haul my traps in a good rib stavin' sea,
There ain't a soul on the face of the Earth a worryin' after me.

There was my brother, years ago, got him a wife and kid,
Worried and wore himself plumb out, being easy in what he did.

We was haulin' traps outside one time when it come on a howlin' blow,
Cold as a dog and the wind nor'east, thicker'n tar with snow.

Them was the days when we worked with sails, wan't no engines then.
I had a peapod and steered with an oar but that wasn't good enough for Hen.

He had a dory rigged up with a mast, and a mainsail without no jib,
So's he could set in the stern and steer with the tiller hugged into his rib.

Well, the wind was coming and Hen shoots up, one eye on the line of foam,
"Jarp," he yells, "What in hell'll I do? I left my compass home."

"Ya goddam fool," thinks I to myself, "Rigged up like a bloomin' yacht."
So, blasted careful, I hove him mine, "Catch!" says I, and he caught.

Now, Hen wan't no good when it come to fog, or snow squalls thicker'n sin,
But I ain't seen the rampagin' yet I could lose my bearin's in.

Well, down she come and she was a bitch, I squat at the end of my oar,
And headed into her as hard's I could and let her roar.

I wan't worried, what'd I care, I never had no wife,
And as for dyin' they's them that's worried all their lives.

So I sung all the hymn tunes I ever knowed 'cause that's the kind you can roar,
But I never heard a word that I sung though my throat got kind'a sore.

Then I looked behind and I seen three waves, followin' fast as sin,
Each of them reachin' their whiskers out to grab and wrostle me in.

Thinks I to myself, "If them gets me (Glory, Amen, Amen)
They's fish that'll have good feed tonight (Revive us again, again)."

The first wave, he was dark and deep and smooth as a coffee cup.
The next wave, he was a slash of foam like a kettle bilin' up.

But the last one, he was the whole green sea and he had a wicked eye,
And slobbering jaws and "He's the one as is longing for me!" thinks I.

So I spits over the peapod's stern and turns my back on the sea,
And in a minute I feels the rise of the first one under me.

The first one lifted us up and up, soft as a sea of oil,
The next one bit at me going by, I could see his innards boil.

Six fathom deep in the trough he made and I looks though the glass green sea,
Clear as a bell through that last wave as was towerin' over me.

The bare black bottom spread out beneath for miles and miles around,
And school on school of deep sea fish looked up without a sound.

Their eyes was buttons off dead men's coats all shiny, cold, and still,
And the first time in all my life I could feel my innards chill.

For while's I was looking, down come Hen, sunk like a chunk of lead,
As large as life and as natural only I seen he was dead.

And them big sea fish, they swayed aside with a little swirl and swish,
Then I never seen Hen no more, only the backs of fish.

And the snake weed waving up and down, the ends all crimped and curled,
The trough between two big he-waves is the stillest place in the world.

Then foam was in my mouth like hair and a howlin' in my ears,
And I swum in the middle of that there wave for a hundred thousand years,

Till I bumped my head on the Back Shore Beach, spewed up like a goddam pill,
And that old wave went reelin' back laughin' fit to kill.

Now, a dory's made to stand the seas of any kind of gale,
But all we ever found of Hen was the top of his dinner pail.

And I said it before and I'll say it again, Hen would've saved his life,
If his mind had been on steerin' his boat instead of on his wife.

"If anything happened to me what would my poor wife do?"
Well, I never cared a hoot in hell and by gory I come through.

Nope, when I goes, I goes alone, through fire, water, and paint.
I ain't got a soul to worry about me and I don't care if I ain't.

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Deckman
Date: 10 Jan 03 - 04:12 PM

WHEW!!!! That's some mighty powerful stuff! Thanks for posting it. Bob

Subject: Lyr Add: SHIPS THAT PASS (C. Fox Smith)
From: Naemanson
Date: 10 Jan 03 - 04:41 PM

And here is C. Fox Smith's poem, Ships That Pass. I'm sure it too has evolved over the years. One thing, there is a verse I left out back when I learned it. The verse talks of the war (WWI). I left it out for a good reason (wish I could remember what it was) but now I would like to put it back in. Unfortunately I cannot find the poem anywhere. If you can would you please provide me with the missing verse?

SHIPS THAT PASS

By C. Fox Smith

There are ships that pass in the night time,
Some poet has told us how,
But a ship that passed in the day time
Is the one I'm thinking of now
Where the seas roll green from the Arctic,
And the wind cuts keen from the pole.
'Tween Rockall Bank and the Shetlands,
Up north on the long patrol.

We sighted her one day early,
The forenoon watch had begun,
There was mist, like wool, on the water,
And a glimpse of a cold pale sun.
And she came through that dim gray weather,
A thing of wonder and gleam,
From the port of the past on a bowline,
Close hauled on a wind of dream.

The rust of years was upon her,
She'd weathered many a gale.
The flag of some Spanish republic,
Went up to her peak at our hail
But I knew her, how could I help but know,
The ship that I passed my time in,
No matter how long ago.

I'd have climbed to royals blindfold,
I'd have known her spars in a crowd.
Aloft and alow, I knew her,
Brace and halyard and shroud.
From the scroll work under her stern ports,
To the paint on her figure head.
And the call "All Hands!" from her main deck,
Would have tumbled me up from the dead.

She was youth and its sorrow that passes,
Its light and laughter and joy,
The south and its small white cities,
And the carefree heart of a boy,
The farewell flash of the Fastnet,
The light you the whole way home,
The hoot of a tug at parting,
And the song of the homeward bound.

She was sun and flying fish weather,
Night and a fiddler's tune,
Palms and the warm maize yellow,
Of a low west Indian moon.
Storm in the high south latitudes,
The boom of a trade filled sail,
The anchor watch at midnight,
And the old south Spainer's tales.

Was it the lap of a wave I heard?
Or maybe the chill wind's cry?
Or a snatch of a deep sea shanty,
I knew in the years gone by.
Was it the whine of the gear in the sheaves?
Or maybe a seagull's call?
Or the ghost of my shipmate's voices,
As they tallied on to the fall.

I went through her papers duly,
And no one, I hope, could see,
A freight of the years departed,
Was the cargo she bore for me.
And I spoke with her Spanish captain,
As we searched her for contraband.
And I longed for one grip of her wheel spokes,
Like the grip of a friend's right hand.

Then I watched as her helm went over,
And her sails were sheeted home,
And under her moving forefoot,
The bubbles broke into foam,
Till she faded from sight in the grayness,
A thing of wonder and gleam,
From the port of the past on a bowline,
Close hauled o a wind of dream

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: GUEST,ClaireBear
Date: 10 Jan 03 - 05:10 PM

What a beautiful poem! Here's your missing verse:

She moved like a queen on the water,
with the grace that was hers of yore,
The sun on her shining canvas--
what had she to do with war,
With a world that is full of trouble
and seas that are stained with crime?
She came like a dream remembered,
dreamt once in a happier time.

I searched for the first line of the poem using Vivisimo. The author's name, according to the page I found, is C(icely) Fox Smith, not Smythe, and she was writing about WWI.


Claire

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: GUEST,ClaireBear
Date: 10 Jan 03 - 05:17 PM

Must learn not to post so fast. Although you might understand "Ships That Pass" perfectly without the following explanation (from the same site where I found the missing verse), I found it informative:

"Originally published in Small Craft, by C. Fox Smith, Elkin Mathews, Ltd., 1917.

"I speculate, from references to war and contraband - and the vintage of the poem - that the Cruiser Patrol was a World War I duty intended to restrict shipping of supplies to Germany. By this time, attrition was catching up with the sailing ships; no new ones were being built, and their numbers were dwindling as they were lost or destroyed.

"Meanwhile, those which were still seaworthy but not economical to run in the heavily industrialized English economy were "sold foreign", to less developed economies with labor costs - and absence of safety or loading regulations - which could turn a profit on sail. Such was the fate of this ship."

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: musicmick
Date: 11 Jan 03 - 03:05 AM

What a splendid thread. Perhaps, some of you can help me recover a few of my favorites. There was one sentimental tribute to a rural physician called "Doc Brown Has Moved Upstairs".
It's years since I heard that one. I'd love to learn the words.
I had a copy of The Bab Ballads when I was a kid. I loved called "The Fairy Curate". The last line said that the protagonist "... changed religion like a pidgeon and became a Morman." What a rhyme!.

Subject: Lyr Add: MEDITATION XVII (John Donne)
From: GUEST,ellenpoly
Date: 11 Jan 03 - 05:16 AM

How about John Donne,guys? This is surely his most famous recitation:

Perchance he for whom this bell tolls may be so ill as that he knows not it tolls for him; and perchance I may think myself so much better than I am, as that they who are about me and see my state may have caused it to toll for me, and I know not that. The church is catholic, universal, so are all her actions; all that she does belongs to all. When she baptizes a child, that action concerns me; for that child is thereby connected to that head which is my head too, and ingrafted into the body whereof I am a member. And when she buries a man, that action concerns me: all mankind is of one author and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated. God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice; but God's hand is in every translation, and his hand shall bind up all our scattered leaves again for that library where every book shall lie open to one another. As therefore the bell that rings a sermon calls not upon the preacher only, but upon the congregation to come, so this bell calls us all; but how much more me, who am brought so near the door by this sickness. There was a contention as far as a suit (in which piety and dignity, religion and estimation, were mingled) which of the religious orders should ring to prayers first in the morning; and it was determined that they should ring first that rose earliest. If we understand aright the dignity of this bell that tolls for our evening prayer, we would be glad to make it ours by rising early, in that application, that it might be ours as well as his whose indeed it is. The bell doth toll for him that thinks it doth; and though it intermit again, yet from that minute that that occasion wrought upon him, he is united to God. Who casts not up his eye to the sun when it rises? but who takes off his eye from a comet when that breaks out? Who bends not his ear to any bell which upon any occasion rings? but who can remove it from that bell which is passing a piece of himself out of this world? No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were. Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. Neither can we call this a begging of misery or a borrowing of misery, as though we are not miserable enough of ourselves but must fetch in more from the next house, in taking upon us the misery of our neighbors. Truly it were an excusable covetousness if we did; for affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it. No man hath affliction enough that is not matured and ripened by it, and made fit for God by that affliction. If a man carry treasure in bullion, or in a wedge of gold, and have none coined into current moneys, his treasure will not defray him as he travels. Tribulation is treasure in the nature of it, but it is not current money in the use of it, except we get nearer and nearer our home, heaven, by it. Another man may be sick too, and sick to death, and this affliction may lie in his bowels as gold in a mine and be of no use to him; but this bell that tells me of his affliction digs out and applies that gold to me, if by this consideration of another's dangers I take mine own into contemplation and so secure myself by making my recourse to my God, who is our only security.

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: GUEST,winterbright
Date: 11 Jan 03 - 03:35 PM

I am SO glad to see that this sort of thing is alive and well in other places (I assume) besides Maine where we got nothin' else t' do but sit around the wood stove of a winter's evenin' and memorize stuff.
SINSULL - Thanks for remembering my doing "Charlie Tended Weir" at the shanty sing. Kendall sure surprised me when he chimed in with Neptune's voice! Before I die, I'd like to be able to do all of A Child's Christmas in Wales, even though it's a guy piece. I also do Little Orphant Annie (The gobbuluns'll get you if you don't watch out!), more Ruth Moore, and am working on Sam Magee for the future. People 'round here always seem surprised that anyone would take the time and make the effort to MEMORIZE stuff like this. Sad commentary on poetry, people, and time in general.    PS - The next Side Door Coffee House is Friday, Jan.17 at 7:00pm at the UU Church in Brunswick,ME... open mike first set for 90 minutes, featured performer this month is Jerry Blodgett. Coming in March: JEZ LOWE! 207-373-1526 FMI.

Subject: Lyr Add: THE GOBLIN
From: Kenny B (inactive)
Date: 12 Jan 03 - 10:51 AM

Talking of Goblins......:>)

THE GOBLIN

Twas on the open moorland, the rain was beating fast
and through the dripping heather a goblin hurried past.
his eyes were green and cunning his hair extremely red,
he had a green umbrella which he held above his head.

He chanced to meet a fairy whose clothes were very wet,
as she had no umbrella he wished they'd never met.
"Please will you allow me" the little fairy cried,
"To share your green umbrella whilst walking by your side?"

"Pooh nonsense" said the goblin "Cannot you plainly see,
that under my umbrella there is only room for me!"
he laughed and went on gaily, his clothes completely dry
& left that little fairy to sit alone & cry.

but as he crossed the moorland, the wind with angry din
took hold of his umbrella, and turned it outside in.
hurrah! exclaimed the hedgehog, I am extremely glad,
I saw your rude behaviour - and it fairly made me mad.

he rolled the goblin over, then hurried back
to help the little fairy upon her homeward track.
and left the wicked goblin, to try with might and main,
to mend his green umbrella, which let in all the rain.

;>)

Subject: Lyr Add: THE FAIRY CURATE (W. S. Gilbert)
From: GUEST,.gargoyle
Date: 12 Jan 03 - 12:00 PM

THE FAIRY CURATE

by W. S. Gilbert

ONCE a fairy light and airym arried with a mortal;
Men, however, never, never pass the fairy portal.

Slyly stealing, she to Ealing made a daily journey;
There she found him, clients round him (He was an attorney).

Long they tarried, then they married. when the ceremony
Once was ended, off they wended on their moon of honey.

Twelvemonth, maybe,saw a baby (Friends performed an orgie).
Much they prized him, and baptized him by the name of Georgie.

Georgie grew up;then he flew upto his fairy mother.
Happy meeting pleasant greeting-- kissing one another.

"Choose a calling most enthralling, I sincerely urge ye."
"Mother," said he (Rev'rence made he), "I would join the clergy.

"Give permission in addition--Pa will let me do it:
There's a living in his giving, he'll appoint me to it.

Dreams of coff'ring Easter off'ring, tithe and rent and pew-rate,
So inflame me (Do not blame me), that I'll be a curate."

She, with pleasure, said, "My treasure,'Tis my wish precisely.
Do your duty, there's a beauty; you have chosen wisely.

Tell your father I would rather as a churchman rank you.
You, in clover,I'll watch over."Georgie said, "Oh, thank you!"

Georgie scudded, went and studied, made all preparations,
And with credit (Though he said it) passed examinations.

Do not quarrel with him, moral, scrupulous digestions
But his mother, and no other, answered all the questions.)

Time proceeded; little needed Georgie's admonition:
He, elated, vindicated clergyman's position.

People round him always found him plain and unpretending;
Kindly teaching, plainly preaching--all his money lending.

So the fairy, wise and wary, felt no sorrow rising
No occasion for persuasion, warning, or advising.

He, resuming fairy pluming (That's not English, is it?)
Oft would fly up, to the sky up, pay mamma a visit.

Time progressing,Georgie's blessing grew more ritualistic
Popish scandals, tonsures--sandals-- genuflections mystic;

Gushing meetings-- bosom-beatings-- heavenly ecstatics
Broidered spencers-- copes and censers-- rochets and dalmatics.

This quandary vexed the fairy--flew she down to Ealing.
"Georgie, stop it! Pray you, drop it; hark to my appealing:

To this foolish Papal rule-ish twaddle put an ending;
This a swerve is from our service plain and unpretending."

He, replying, answered, sighing, hawing, hemming, humming,
"It's a pity-- they're so pretty; yet in mode becoming,

Mother tender, I'll surrender-- I'll be unaffected--
"Then his Bishop into his shop entered unexpected:

"Who is this, sir,--ballet miss, sir?" Said the Bishop coldly.
"'Tis my mother, and no other,"Georgie answered boldly.

"Go along, sir! You are wrong, sir,you have years in plenty
While this hussy (Gracious mussy!) Isn't two-and-twenty!"

(Fairies clever Never, never grow in visage older
And the fairy, all unwary, leant upon his shoulder!)

Bishop grieved him, disbelieved him, George the point grew warm on;
Changed religion, like a pigeon, and became a Mormon.

Sincerely,
Gargoyle

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: GUEST,.gargoyle
Date: 12 Jan 03 - 12:05 PM

Winterbright - I have some wonderful memories of recitations in Maine.

And of course the record collections of "Bert and I"

Sorry to hear that my old employer GNP has folded up opperations. I doubt that Millinokett will survive. (Once had a down close and personal meeting ((order by a judge))with their sherrif named John Doe... the telling of which events can lead into a half hour yarn.

Sincerely,
Gargoyle

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: kendall
Date: 12 Jan 03 - 12:53 PM

Good job Naemanson. You onlu missed one line,

between I aint married... andFolks and fussin' is the line, "I comes when I likes, and goes"

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: kendall
Date: 12 Jan 03 - 12:55 PM

Musicmic, I used to know Old Doc Brown, and I'll dig into my rusty memory banks and see if I can retrieve it.

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Deckman
Date: 12 Jan 03 - 02:14 PM

Hmmm? I have a question. I have an old copy of "The Bab Ballads," by W.S. Gilbert. While it does include "The Ryhme of the Nacy Bell," it does not include the "Fairy Curate." However it does include a couple of othe "Curates: tales. Question, were the "Bab Ballads" series of books? Just wondering ... Bob

Subject: Lyr Add: KATERINA AND SOCKERY (R. L. Borntrager)
From: Ebbie
Date: 12 Jan 03 - 02:56 PM

The Amish love to laugh, especially at themselves and their culture. At almost any gathering there are recitations, either handed down the generations or written for the occasion. My grandfather (1868-1963) wrote many of them and sent them to various friends and relatives. Most of what he wrote was in rhymed verse, whether in English or in dialectical German or in combination.

Here is one that is not in rhyme:

KATERINA AND SOCKERY
Approx. 1925
R. L. Borntrager

Katerina and Sockery

"I see dot most efery pody rites a story about de shickens now days, and I dink I can do dot myself. So I rite all about vat dook blace mit me last summer.

"You know, or if you don't know, den I dells you, dat Katerina ist mine frow, and one day van I koom in de house Katerina she said, Sockery (dot ist mine name) vy don't you dake some egs to de barn for de old plu hen. I dink she wants to sate. So I said I guess I vill. So I went and bicked oot some of de best egs and dook dem out to de barn for de old plu hen vitch had her nest up on de hay mow, about 5 or 6 feet up, and you see I nefer vas very pig up and down, but prety pig all de vay around de middle so I could not reach up, till I vent and got a parrel to stant on.

"So I climed myself on de parrel and van my head rise up to de nest, de old plu hen gave me such a bick dot my face run all ofer mit bloot and van I cherked back dat plasted old parrel had break and I went kershlam in de parrel. I nefer thot I could fit inside a parrel pefore, but dare I vas and it fit so tide I could not get me out efery way.

"And van I see I could not get out efery way I hollered Katerina Katerina. And van she koom and see me stick in de parrel up to my armholes, my face all ofer mit bloot and egs, by golly she just laid on de hay and lafed and lafed till I got so mad I said vy you lay dere and laf like an old vooly, vy don't you come and pull me out. Den she set up and said, vipe off your chin Sockery and bull your vest down. Den she laid back and split herself more dan ever, as mad as I was I thot to myself, Katerina she spakes pretty good inglish but I said to her with my greatest dignitude, Katerina vill you pul me out dis parrel. So she see dot I looked prety red, so she said of cors I vil den she laid me and de parrel on de side and roled me to de house and I dook hold of de door sil and she dook hold of de parrel and puled. But de first pul she made I yelled Dunner and blitzen stop dot by golly, der is nails in de parrel. You see ven I vent in de nails bent down now van I koom out dey stick in me all de vay around.

"Vel to make a short story along, I told Katerina to go and dell neighbor Hansman to bring a hand saw and saw dis parrel all de vay around me off. Vel he koom and almost split himself mit laf too but he rolled me and de parrel ofer and ofer and sawed de parrel all de way around off. Now I got up mit half a parrel stuck up to my armholes, den Katerina she says, Wait Wait, Sockery, till I get a patern of dot new overskirt you have on. But I didn't say a vort. I just got my nife and vitled off de hoops and sling dot confounded old parrel in de vootpile.

"Presently ven I koom in de house Katerina she said, Sockery vy don't you dake some egs to de barn for de old plue hen. Den I said in my deepest tone of voice, Katerina if efer you say dot vort to me anymore I vill get a pil of diforcement from you. She tell to me jiminy grecious but she did not say dot vort to me any more. Now ven I step on a parrel I don't step on it. I get a poy to stant on."

Ebbie

Subject: Lyr Add: OLD DOC BROWN (R. E. Winsett)
From: kendall
Date: 12 Jan 03 - 07:20 PM

He was just an old country doctor
In a little Kentucky town;
Fame and fortune had passed him by
But we never saw him frown
As day by day in his kindly way
He served us one and all,
And, many a patient forgot to pay
Although, Doc's fees were small.

So, when the depression hit our town
And drained each meager purse
The scanty income of old Doc Brown
Just went from bad to worse.
He had to sell his office furniture,
He couldn't pay his rent,
So, to a dusty room over a livery stable
Doc Brown and his satchel went.
There he kept on helpng folks get well
And his heart was just pure gold;
But, anyone with eyes could see
That Doc was getting old.
Then one day he didn't answer
When they knocked upon his door
And old Doc Brown was lying down
But his sould was no more
They found him there in that old black suit
On his face a smile of content
But all the money they found on him
Was a quarter and copper cent.
Then they opened up his ledger
And what they saw gave their hearts a pull,
Beside each debtors name, old Doc had writ these words,
"Paid in full."
The funeral procession, it wasn't much
For grace and pomp and style
But those wagon loads of mourners
They stretched out for more than a mile.
For the depression had hit our little town hard,
Each man carried a load,
So some just picked the wild flowers
As they passed along the road.
We wanted to give him a monument,
Kinda figured we owed him one,
For he's made our town a better place for all the good he's done
But monuments cost money, so, we did the best we could
And on his grave we gently placed
A monument of wood.
We pulled up that old hitching post
Where Doc had nailed his sign
We painted it white, and to all of us it certainly did look fine.
..................(missing line.........
Except Jones the undertaker, he did mighty well,
Donating an old iron casket that he'd never been able to sell.
Now, the rains and snows have washed away
Our white trimmins of paint,
And there aint nothing left but Doc's old sign
And that is getting faint,
Still, when summer breezes and twinkling stars
Caress our sleeping town
And the pale moon shines through Kentucky pines
On the grave of old Doc Brown
We can still see that old hitching post
As if in answer to our prayers
Mutely telling the whole wide world,
DOC BROWN HAS MOVED UPSTAIRS

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Deckman
Date: 12 Jan 03 - 10:00 PM

As I said when I started this thread, I thought about it for several days over the holidays. I didn't know how interested you would be, and as I have wondered previously: "what if I give a party and no one comes?" But the quality, and the quantity of these contributions are simply wonderful. Thank you all. CHEERS, Bob

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Beccy
Date: 12 Jan 03 - 10:04 PM

My fav is "A Shropshire Lad" by A.E. Housman

"...And I have been to Ludlow Fair and left my necktie God knows where..."

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: musicmick
Date: 12 Jan 03 - 10:50 PM

Kendall, you have my undying thanks. I've been looking for "Old Doc Brown" for forty years. I'm glad i gave you a good review for your CD.
Boy, wouldn't I feel like a schmuck if I hadn't like it.
Someone asked about the Bab Ballads. Before W.S.Gilbert became rich and famous writing operettas with Sir Arthur Sullivan, he wrote, and illustrated, a collection of comic verses. He signed them "Bab" (I'm not sure why). If you can, you should get ahold of these poems. They represent Gilberts best work as a satirist and as the master of unusual rhyme. He was one fine illustator, too.

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: kendall
Date: 13 Jan 03 - 12:26 AM

Musicmic, I would still have responded with your request for lyrics, because, one has nothing to do with the other. There is another line that won't come to me...

...why, nearly half the folks in my hometown,
Yes, I'm one of them too,
Were ushered in by old Doc Brown
When we made our first debut.

My brother may have that lp. I'll ask, and maybe get those missing lines.

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Shields Folk
Date: 13 Jan 03 - 04:16 AM

I'm suprised no one has mentioned my favourite:

Sam Sam pick up thy musket!

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Naemanson
Date: 13 Jan 03 - 10:45 AM

Kendall, that line dropped out in the typing not the recitation. That stanza wouldn't make much sense without it. Thanks for pointing it out.

And, ClaireBear, where in the poem does that verse go? I can see at least two places it would fit. If it weren't a formal poem it wouldn't matter to me but Ms Smith deserves to have her work preserved.

Yes, I knew the author was a woman. Note that the two works I do are by women and are in a genre that used to be the domain of men, at least when those women were writing. I like to point that out when I do them.

I am currently working on The Ballad Of The Mermaid, also by Ruth Moore. And I want to learn The Ballad Of Blasphemous Bill by Robert Service.

This is a great thread. There's some great stuff out there. I'd love to hear some of it performed. I'd never have thought of doing John Donne. And while I've heard The Ryhme Of The Nancy Bell no one around here does any other of Gilbert's early work.

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: clueless don
Date: 13 Jan 03 - 10:54 AM

Yes, there are some of the Sam Small recitations on my two Stanley Holloway LP's, such as "Sam, pick up tha' musket" and "Beat the retreat on your (or was it "thy"?) drum."

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: GUEST,ClaireBear
Date: 13 Jan 03 - 11:54 AM

Naemanson, my apologies; of course you need to know where the verse goes! My error shows me up for the neophyte that I am. Plus, I was too lazy to make a blue clicky for you, but that I can remedy forthwith, herewith: Ships That Pass

Thanks again for posting the poem. Since I'm a chantey/nautical music performer, I'm always eager for new "things of the sea." And since there aren't a lot of women in that scene (at least not around here), it always cheers me to find something in the genre that was written by a fellow distaffer.

Claire

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Naemanson
Date: 13 Jan 03 - 12:10 PM

No need to apologize, Claire. I appreciate the verse. As it happens I did stick it into the wrong place. It's nice to get it into the right place.

Where is "around here"? In Maine there are plenty of women sailing, both for leisure and professionally. There are women as captains, mates, and crew members on the big cruise schooners. I have one friend in Portsmouth, NH, with her captain's license.

And the crew I sing with (Roll & Go) has always included women. There is a need to have women singing this music and keepiung the traditions alive. There are some great woman singers in Portsmouth, NH, singing this stuff including our own Jeri who has a wonderful voice and great delivery.

And there are women working as riggers and crew members at Mystic Seaport in Connecticut as well.

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: GUEST,ClaireBear
Date: 13 Jan 03 - 12:23 PM

San Francisco -- and I was talking specifically about the sea music scene, not sailing in general. I'm not alone by any means, but most of the women sea music performers I know concentrate on forebitters & such, not chanteys per se. I have a fairly gutsy voice and a good low range, so chanteys work well for me.

I'm the short one in the skirt in the Dogwatch Nautical Band (the one with the dulcimers and the really odd* concertina).

Claire

*McCann system duet -- not that I can actually *play* duets; I've never gotten truly comfortable with the left hand fingering

Subject: Lyr Add: FAIR CRACK OF THE WHIP (Murray Hartin)
From: JennyO
Date: 13 Jan 03 - 11:44 PM

There are quite a few versions of "The barrel of bricks" originally by Gerard Hoffnung, some spoken and some in song form. That always goes down well.

In Australia, there is a very active "bush poetry" scene, and many writers, as well as performers, of this. These include Blue the Shearer, Murray Hartin, Mark Gliori, Warren (Arch) Bishop, Rhymin' Simon and Campbell the Swaggie, to name just a few. Campbell's performances have to be seen to be believed! At every folk festival there are "poets' breakfasts" where anyone is invited to perform their favourite piece. There are also competitions which attract a huge interest, not just for poetry, but for storytelling (woolly yarns). I have performed a fair bit at poets' breakfasts, even written a few, but one of my favourites, which always works well, is this:

            "FAIR CRACK OF THE WHIP" - by Murray Hartin.

Mick he was a bushman, he was up there with the best,
He'd been in the saddle nearly all his life,
But lately things had changed, his thoughts had rearranged,
Yes, it was time that Michael found himself a wife.

So he was givin' up the one-night stands and givin' up the booze,
He'd settle down and get himself employed
And with a sad touch of remorse he sold his faithful horse,
No more the saddle life would he enjoy.

Now the object of his fancy was the local schoolgirl miss,
She was pretty, she was delicate and frail.
Mick fell in head-first,
The kind of love? It was the worst
That womenfolk can foster in a male.

He wasn't takin' any chances, he was playin' all his cards
And Elizabeth McGee she was the stake,
He did all he could to win her,
He would take her out to dinner
And on Sundays they'd go walkin' by the lake.

Then finally the night arrived that Mick had waited for
When Elizabeth invited him to tea.
He showered, combed his hair, and he had this speech prepared,
"Elizabeth, will you marry me?"

You see he knew he had to marry this young girl from the south,
She was cute and kind and every mother's dream,
Her hands were soft and gentle, she was sweet and sentimental
And her eyes they sparkled with a magic gleam.

So they shared a lovely dinner and Mick was most polite,
Although thoughts of marriage occupied his head,
So he was very much inspired when she casually enquired
"Would you like to see the etchings by my bed?"

"I'll slip into something comfortable, you go into the room,
Take your drink and why not lie down for awhile."
And while she didn't look satanic, young Mick began to panic
When he saw the wicked nature of her smile.

Then she burst back through the door! Wearing leather head to toe!
She had stilettoes on and pistols at her hip!
Towards Michael she was prowling,
She was grunting! She was growling!
And in her hand she held a nine-foot whip!

For Elizabeth McGee was different you see,
By day she was an angel from above,
But by night she was a witch, an evil, nasty ... person
Who substituted punishment for love.

Well she chased him 'round the house
With her whips and chains and spikes,
She tortured him until his hide was raw
And being realistic, Mick was somewhat masochistic
For all that he could say to her was "More!"

She kept him there for days but Mick had finally had enough,
He busted free and bolted for his life,
He couldn't see for quids how he could think of raisin' kids
With this schizophrenic creature as his wife.

So he sold his city clothes, went and got his horse,
Packed his swag and headed for the scrub,
But his tale of woe got out when he'd had one too many shouts
And he told his mates about it at the pub.

Now the boys all get a laugh when they see their old mate, Mick,
Chasin' cattle through the saltbush and the bracken,
They can see his face for miles, how he flinches - then he smiles
Every time the whips they start a-crackin'!

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: musicmick
Date: 14 Jan 03 - 01:31 AM

Thanks, Kendall. There was a verse in the earlier part of "Old Doc Brown" that mentioned the sign but I dont remember it.

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Dave Bryant
Date: 14 Jan 03 - 05:56 AM

A TOAST - I got it from John Foreman.


Here's to the breezes
That blow in the treezes
And lift Lady's chemises
Up above their kneezes
And show us what teases
And Pleases and Squeezes
........And gives us diseases

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Uncle_DaveO
Date: 14 Jan 03 - 10:12 AM

The version of that that I learned in high school was:

"The breezes, the breezes,
They blow through the treeses
They blow the girls' skirtses
Above the girls' kneeses.
The college man seeses
And does what he pleases
And spreads the diseases
Oh Jeezes, Oh Jeezes!

Slightly different

Dave Oesterreich

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: bradfordian
Date: 14 Jan 03 - 02:24 PM

Ballad of Blasphemous Bill

Subject: RE: Recitations Anyone?
From: Naemanson
Date: 14 Jan 03 - 04:08 PM

Thanks, maybe that is what I needed to get off my duff and start on Blasphemous Bill.

Subject: Lyr Add: T'ORDNANCE AT BURTON
From: bradfordian
Date: 14 Jan 03 - 06:56 PM

Here is a traditional British monologue often recited at Fox Hunt suppers in the Yorkshire / Lancashire borders. Like the Stanley Holloway monologues, I'm sure it benefits from the north of England accent. It requires the subtle nuances and attention to pauses and timing. T'Ordance, meaning The Ordinance is pronounced Tordnance likewise wherever you see t'. Enjoy.

T'ORDNANCE AT BURTON

I'm ringing up me curtain upon an ancient scene.
As when t'redcoits came to Burton, to measure t' land for t' queen.
They turned up in fine weather, one summer out o' t' blue.
A score altogether, an' one in charge o' t' crew.

A sergeant, such a pusher, an' just as full o' swank,
As t' Emporer o' Russia, or t' boss o' t' Penny Bank.
So every neet in t' local, yon sergeant could be seen,
Impressin' all the locals, with 'is "paper from the queen."

Her majesty had sent 'im for to measure up 'er land.
And to that end she had sent 'im wi' a paper from 'er hand.
Victoria's bit o' velum, a big red seal it bore,
An' evry neet 'e'd tell 'em, as tall as t' neet afore,

How at a palace pageant, 'er majesty 'ad said
"Stand forth that spiended sergeant" and forrad 'e were led.
'Er majesty confided, "Our maps must be all true,
And so I have decided to give the task to you.

This gives you right of entry to every man's estate,
The yeomanry, the gentry, the humble and the great."
So one bright June mornin' yon redcoits in a swarm,
Without a word of warnin' descended on Slant Farm.

Now t' tenant, Billy Pogson, 'e waved a warnin' stick
"Clear off or I'll set t' dogs on" he shouted double quick.
But the sergeant showed 'is permit, an' said "We're 'ere to stay.
This document, old hermit, gives us the right of way."

Its paragraphs Billy fingered, with military zeal,
And lovingly 'e lingered upon its royal seal
"Oh, alreight" said Billy, 'umbled by what 'ad been revealed
"But just tek care" 'e grumbled, "Keep out o' t' bottom field"

Said t' sergeant quite unheedful, "We'll go where we think fit
And if we find it needful, we'll tramp all over it"
Well, twenty minutes later, t' sergeant cock-a~hoop
Observed by one spectator, led in 'is loyal troop.

They marched in fine and dandy, so splendid to be seen,
Wi' chains an' tackle ready for t' measure t' land for t' queen.
Then farmer Pogson viewing from t'other side o' t' wall,
Thowt, "There'll be trouble brewin' when ol' Shylock sees 'em all."

Bad tempered Shylock layed there, dozin' in t' long grass,
Beneath the old elm trees, 'till 'e 'eard yon redcoits pass.
It made old Billy shiver, that first tremendous roar,
For surely no bull 'ad ever seen so much red before.

He raised up on 'is forelegs, and let forth a second cry,
At which two score of legs across the field did fly.
Now, by my simple schoolin', beyond a shadow of a doubt,
There's no gansayin' t' rulin' , t' first un in is last un out.

And wherefore when they started, t' sergeant were at there 'ead,
Now they'd all departed, 'e were at the back instead!
Still buttoned up an' buckled, 'e puffed away at t' rear,
And farmer Pogson chuckled and gave a hearty cheer,

As 'e watched the sergeant caper, and like a rabbit run.
Just one piece of advice Billy offered, 'avin' 'is bit of fun,
And 'e shouts "Thi paper man; show 'im thi paper!!!!"

Regards Brad.

HTML line breaks added. --JoeClone, 26-Feb-03.