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Real Steel [Noisy Boy]

Cast: Hugh Jackman, Anthony Mackie

clip from Real Steel, directed by Shawn Levy, screenplay by John Gatins (2011)
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Allegany Camp

amazing grace circus camp
amazing grace day camp
amazing grace hallelujah jeremy camp
amazing grace jeremy camp
amazing love jeremy camp
amazing place chalet pigeon forge
amazing race church camp
amazing race games for camps
amazing race girl scout camp
amazon camp dutch lodge oven
amazon camp in sweetwater missouri
amazon cast iron dutch lodge camp
amazon dutch oven camp
amazon lodge dutch oven camp
ambassador camp at lake waccamaw nc
ambassador camp inc
ambassador chalet
ambassador chalet at doral
ambassador chalet wgc
amber bowers
amber camp lazlo
amber pow camp
amberg germany dp camp
ambition camp hockey pro
ambler baseball camp
ambleside scotland school camp
ambon pow camp
ambor island pow camp
ambor pow camp
ambulance bower
amc camp dodge
amc camp movie summer
amc camp summer theater
amc little lyford camps
amc movie camp
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amc north west camp bear mountain
amc pinkham notch camp
amc summer camp for s
amc summer camp for s 2007
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amc theater camp hill
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amcmovie camps
amelia earhart in japanese war camp

[...] Read more

poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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Brent River Bride

Flow proudly fair river,
For one who fell under
Your spell was the liver
Doc, Gershon - asunder
Found all his plans, muddled
By nymphs of the water -
He greatly befuddled
Then married the daughter
Of Count Joe of Wandle
Far south of the city
And went on to fondle
Her milk flowing titty.
I send this wet letter
To Brentische planners;
Such amour is better
Than yekkishe manners.

LRH
6.5.06 In reply to GWH's Bride of Brent of 6.5.06

Bride of Brent

Unlike Lucia from far Lammermoor,
fair Linda, hailing from far Chaumonix,
excels when she’s preparing salmon or
deep-frying spuds and spinach that aren’t gammony.

She tried to keep the frog which wooing went
outside the net she guarded as a goalie
till she became the Bride of River Brent
and played the role of Princess Rowley-Powley.

The frog, he always used to say “Heigh-ho, '
because he knew that he could never find a
more lovely princess once she’d kissed him so
he was more charmed than Chaumonix by Linda.

Inspired by Linda, who married me at the Brent Bridge Hotel in August 1996, and by “A frog he would a-wooing go”: [Old folk song].

A Frog he would a-wooing go,
Heigho! says Rowley,
Whether his mother would let him or no.
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinach,
Heigho! says Anthony Rowley.

So off he set with his opera hat,
Heigho! says Rowley,
And on the way he met with a Rat.
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinach,
Heigho! says Anthony Rowley.

[...] Read more

poem by Linda Hepner
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M'Gillviray's Dream

A Forest-Ranger's Story.

JUST nineteen long years, Jack, have passed o'er my shoulders
Since close to this spot we lay waiting the foe;
Ay, here is the mound where brave Percival moulders,
And yonder's the place where poor Norman lies low;
'Twas only a skirmish — just eight of our number
Were stretch'd on the sward when the fighting was done;
We scooped out their beds, and we left them to slumber,
The bold-hearted fellows went down with the sun.
The month was October — young Summer was peeping
Through evergreen forests where Spring, still supreme,
Spread all the rich tints that she had in her keeping
On tree, shrub, and bush, while each brooklet and stream
With babblings of joy ran along to the river —
But, hang it, old man, I am going too far;
I talk as I used to when from Cupid's quiver
Flew darts of affection my bosom to scar.
I'm not much at poetry, Jack, though I've written
Some nonsense in verse when my heart was aglow
With what they call love — have you ever been smitten
By some artful minx who deceived you? What, no?
By Jove, you've been lucky; but, Jack, I'm digressing.
Our quarters were here, under Lusk, and we made
Our camp in the church without asking a blessing;
This place is still known as the Mauku Stockade.
I'd fought with Von Tempsky along the Waikato;
I'd seen the green banks of that fair river dyed
With British blood, red as the plumes of the rata
When Spring scatters scarlet drops thick in her pride.
I cared not for danger, and fighting was pleasure,
The life of a Ranger was one of romance —
A dare-devil fool ever ready to measure
A savage's length with my rifle. 'Twas chance
That sent me among them; I lived but for glory;
My comrades were all of good mettle and true,
And one was a hero; I'll tell you his story —
God rest poor M'Gillviray — brave-hearted Hugh!
I knew him for years, Jack, and shoulder to shoulder
He stood by me often when swift leaden hail
Whizzed close to our ears. Ah! old man, I was bolder
In those valiant days than I'm now. To my tale: —

The morning was gloomy, and Hugh sat beside me;
We'd chumm'd in together for two years or more;
I found him a brick, and he said when he tried me
In front of the foe, “Dick, you're true to the core!”
Enough — we were friends, and in trouble or danger
We stuck by each other in camp and in fray.
How often we find in the breast of a stranger

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Bracken
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Fauconshawe

[A Ballad]

To fetch clear water out of the spring
The little maid Margaret ran,
From the stream to the castle's western wing
It was but a bowshot span ;
On the sedgy brink where the osiers cling
Lay a dead man, pallid and wan.

The lady Mabel rose from her bed,
And walked in the castle hall,
Where the porch through the western turret led
She met with her handmaid small.
'What aileth thee, Margaret ?' the lady said,
'Hast let thy pitcher fall ?

'Say, what hast thou seen by the streamlet side—
A nymph or a water sprite—
That thou comest with eyes so wild and wide,
And with cheeks so ghostly white ?'
'Nor nymph nor sprite,' the maiden cried,
'But the corpse of a slaughtered knight.'

The lady Mabel summon'd straight
To her presence Sir Hugh de Vere,
Of the guests who tarried within the gate
Of Fauconshawe, most dear
Was he to that lady ; betrothed in state
They had been since many a year.

'Little Margaret sayeth a dead man lies
By the western spring, Sir Hugh ;
I can scarce believe that the maiden lies—
Yet scarce can believe her true.'
And the knight replies, 'Till we test her eyes
Let her words gain credence due.'

Down the rocky path knight and lady led,
While guests and retainers bold
Followed in haste, for like wildfire spread
The news by the maiden told.
They found 'twas even as she had said—
The corpse had some while been cold.

How the spirit had pass'd in the moments last
There was little trace to reveal ;
On the still, calm face lay no imprint ghast,
Save the angel's solemn seal,
Yet the hands were clench'd in a death-grip fast,
And the sods stamp'd down by the heel.

[...] Read more

poem by Adam Lindsay Gordon
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Coming Home

Five minutes here, and they must steal two more!
shameful! Here have I been five mortal years
and not seen home nor one dear kindred face,
and these abominable slugs, this guard,
this driver, porters--what are they about?--
keep us here motionless, two minutes, three.--
Aha! at last!

Good! We shall check our minutes;
we're flying after them, like a mad wind
chasing the leaves it has tossed on in front.
Oh glorious wild speed, what giants' play!
and there are men who tell us poetry
is dead where railways come! Maybe 'tis true,
I'm a bad judge, I've had scant reading time
and little will to read ...... and certainly
I've not found railways in what verse I know:
but there's a whizz and whirr as trains go by,
a bullet-like indomitable rush
and then all's done, which makes me often think
one of those men who found out poetry,
and had to write the things just that they saw,
would have made some of their fine crashing lines
that stir one like the marches one knows best,
and the enemy knows best, with trains in them
as easily as chariots.

Anyhow
I've poetry and music too to-day
in the very clatter: it goes "Home, home, home."

And they'll think that sharp shriek a kinder sound
than sweetest singing, when it presently
pierces the quiet of the night and sends
its eager shrillness on for miles before
to say I'm no time distant. I can see
my mother's soft pink cheeks (like roses, pale
after a June week's blooming,) flush and wan,
and her lip quiver; I can see the girls,
restless between the hall door and the clock,
hear it and hush and lean expectant heads
to catch the rattle of the coming train;
my father, sitting pshawing by the fire
at all the fuss and waiting, half start up,
dropping his Times, forgetful just so long
that he is not impatient like the rest,
the tender foolish women, and, alert
to hide how he was tempted to fuss too,
reseat himself intent on politics;
and Hugh--I think Hugh must be there with them,

[...] Read more

poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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The Latest Decalogue after Arthur Hugh Clough

The Latest Decalogue

Worship one true God only, who would run to the expense of two?
Your ruin truly will ensue unless you heresy eschew.

Insisting with sincerity in this wise world, where nothing’s free,
no carven icons cruel should we create, except our currency.

We venture here, in vapid verse, the Third Commandment to rehearse, -
swear not at all, for, for your curse, your enemy seems none the worse.

He who the Fourth Commandment penned, my sins and errors must amend,
but, Sir, on Sunday Church attend – ‘twill serve to keep the world thy friend.

Honour thy parents: that is all from whom advancement may befall.
Be prompt to run at beck and call of all who have the wherewithal.

Commandment Six now follows Five, thou shalt not kill, but none need strive
officiously to keep alive, - and thus fulfill ambition’s drive.

Of all the seven sins that sit upon thy soul when Judgement’s writ,
the last, that’s lust, do not commit – for profit seldom comes of it.

Dame Fortune’s smile you would entreat by guile to guild your golden seat?
Then do not steal – an empty feat when its so lucrative to cheat.

Bear not false witness; let the lie have time on its own wings to fly.
Allow your friend himself to tie the noose which round his neck will lie.

Covet your neighbour’s? ‘Tis sedition. In 10th Commandment’s new rendition
anticipating competition, - sedate his horse with expedition!

25 December 1977 robi3_0147_clou1_0003 PXX_EJX
Parody Arthur Hugh Clough 1819_1861 The Latest Decalogue

SEE BELOW FOR THE ORIGINAL AND OTHER PARODIES

The Latest Decalogue

Thou shalt have one God only; who
Would be at the expense of two?
No graven images may be
Worshipped, except the currency:
Swear not at all; for, for thy curse
Thine enemy is none the worse:
At church on Sunday to attend

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Real Steel

Cast: Hugh Jackman, Kevin Durand, Evangeline Lilly, Anthony Mackie, Hope Davis

trailer for Real Steel, directed by Shawn Levy, screenplay by Leslie Bohem (2011)
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Real Steel [Fight Midas]

Cast: Hugh Jackman, Dakota Goyo, Anthony Mackie

clip from Real Steel, directed by Shawn Levy, screenplay by John Gatins (2011)
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Real Steel [Bad Bet]

Cast: Hugh Jackman, Anthony Mackie

clip from Real Steel, directed by Shawn Levy, screenplay by John Gatins (2011)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Anthony Considine

OUT in the wastes of the West countrie,
Out where the white stars shine,
Grim and silent as such men be,
Rideth a man with a history—
Anthony Considine.
For the ways of men they are manifold
As their differing views in life;
Some sell themselves for the lust of gold,
And some for the lust of strife:
But this man counted the world well lost
For the love of his neighbour’s wife.

They fled together, as those must flee
Whom all men hold in blame;
Each to the other must all things be
Who cross the gulf of iniquity
And live in the land of shame.

But a light-o’-love, if she sins with one,
She sinneth with ninety-nine:
The rule holds good since the world begun—
Since ever the streams began to run
And the stars began to shine.
The rule holds still, and he found it true—
Anthony Considine.

A nobler spirit had turned in scorn
From a love that was stained with mire;
A weaker being might mourn and mourn
For the loss of his Heart’s Desire:
But the anger of Anthony Considine
Blazed up like a gaming fire

And she, with her new love, presently
Came past with her eyes ashine;
And Gad so willed it, and God knows why,
She turned and laughed as they passed hire by—
Anthony Considine.

Her laughter stung as a whip might sting;
And mad with his wounded pride
He turned and sprang with a panther’s spring,
And struck at his rival’s side:
And only the woman, shuddering,
Could tell how the dead man died!

She dared not speak—and the mystery
Is buried in auld lang syne,
But out on the wastes of the West countrie,

[...] Read more

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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The Bagman's Dog, : Mr. Peters's Story

Stant littore Puppies!-- Virgil.

It was a litter, a litter of five,
Four are drown'd and one left alive,
He was thought worthy alone to survive;
And the Bagman resolved upon bringing him up,
To eat of his bread, and to drink of his cup,
He was such a dear little cock-tail'd pup.

The Bagman taught him many a trick;
He would carry and fetch, and run after a stick,
Could well understand
The word of command,
And appear to doze
With a crust on his nose,
Till the Bagman permissively waved his hand:
Then to throw up and catch it he never would fail,
As he sat up on end, on his little cock-tail.
Never was puppy so bien instruit,
Or possess'd of such natural talent as he;
And as he grew older,
Every beholder
Agreed he grew handsomer, sleeker, and bolder.--

Time, however, his wheels we may clog,
Wends steadily still with onward jog,
And the cock-tail'd puppy's a curly-tail'd dog!
When just at the time,
He was reaching his prime,
And all thought he'd be turning out something sublime,
One unlucky day,
How, no one could say,
Whether some soft liaison induced him to stray,
Or some kidnapping vagabond coax'd him away,
He was lost to the view
Like the morning dew;
He had been, and was not -- that's all that they knew;
And the Bagman storm'd, and the Bagman swore,
As never a Bagman had sworn before;
But storming or swearing but little avails,
To recover lost dogs with great curly tails.--

In a large paved court, close by Billiter Square,
Stands a mansion old, but in thorough repair,
The only strange thing, from the general air
Of its size and appearance, is, how it got there;
In front is a short semicircular stair
Of stone steps,-- some half score,--
Then you reach the ground floor,
With a shell-pattern'd architrave over the door.

[...] Read more

poem by Richard Harris Barham
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Mack The Knife

Oh the shark, babe has such teeth, dear
And he shows them pearly white
Just a jack knife has macheath, babe
And he keeps it out of sight
You know when the shark bites with his teeth, babe
Scarlet billows start to spread
Fancy gloves though wears macheath, babe
So there's never, never a trace of red
On the sidewalk, oh sunday morning uh huh
Lies a body just oozing life
Someone's sneaking round the corner
Could that someone be mack the knife?
From a tug boat down by the river don't you know
With cement bag just droopin' on down
Oh that cement is just, it's there for the weight, dear
Five'll get you ten old Mackie's back in town
Now did ya hear about Louie miller, he disappeared, dear
After drawing out all his hard-earned cash
And now macheath spends just like a sailor
Could it be our boy's done something rash?
Now Jenny Diver, Sukey Tawdrey
Polly peachum, and old lucy brown
Oh the line forms on the right, babe
Now that mack is back in town
Jenny Diver,oh, oh Sukey Tawdrey
Polly peachum, and old lucy brown
Oh the line forms on the right, babe
Now that mackie's back in town
Look out old Mackie's back!

song performed by Westlife
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Romance of Britomarte

I'LL tell you a story ; but pass the 'jack',
And let us make merry to-night, my men.
Aye, those were the days when my beard was black—
I like to remember them now and then—
Then Miles was living, and Cuthbert there,
On his lip was never a sign of down ;
But I carry about some braided hair,
That has not yet changed from the glossy brown
That it show'd the day when I broke the heart
Of that bravest of destriers, 'Britomarte.'

Sir Hugh was slain (may his soul find grace !)
In the fray that was neither lost nor won
At Edgehill—then to St. Hubert's Chase
Lord Goring despatch'd a garrison—
But men and horses were ill to spare,
And ere long the soldiers were shifted fast.
As for me, I never was quartered there
Till Marston Moor had been lost ; at last,
As luck would have it, alone, and late
In the night, I rode to the northern gate.

I thought, as I pass'd through the moonlit park,
On the boyish days I used to spend
In the halls of the knight lying stiff and stark—
Thought on his lady, my father's friend
(Mine, too, in spite of my sinister bar,
But with that my story has naught to do)—
She died the winter before the war—
Died giving birth to the baby Hugh.
He pass'd ere the green leaves clothed the bough,
And the orphan girl was the heiress now.

When I was a rude and a reckless boy,
And she a brave and a beautiful child,
I was her page, her playmate, her toy—
I have crown'd her hair with the field-flowers wild
Cowslip and crowfoot and colt's-foot bright—
I have carried her miles when the woods were wet,
I have read her romances of dame and knight ;
She was my princess, my pride, my pet.
There was then this proverb us twain between,
For the glory of God and of Gwendoline.

She had grown to a maiden wonderful fair,
But for years I had scarcely seen her face.
Now, with troopers Holdsworth, Huntly, and Clare,
Old Miles kept guard at St. Hubert's Chase,
And the chatelaine was a Mistress Ruth,
Sir Hugh's half-sister, an ancient dame,

[...] Read more

poem by Adam Lindsay Gordon
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Dermott Donn MacMorna

ONE day you'll come to my husband's door,
Dermoit Donn MacMorna,
One day you'll come to Hugh's dark door,
And the pain at my heart will be no more,
Dermott Donn MacMorna!

From his bed, from his fire I'll rise,
Dermott Donn MacMorna,
From the bed of Hugh, from his fire I'll rise,
With my laugh for the pious, the quiet, the wise,
Dermott Donn MacMorna!

Lonesome, lonesome, the house of Hugh,
Dermott Donn MacMorna,
No cradle rocks in the house of Hugh;
The list'ning fire has thought of you,
Dermott Donn MacMorna!

Out of this loneliness we'll go,
Dermott Donn MacMorna,
Together at last we two will go
Down a darkening road with a gleam below,
Ah, but the winds do bitter blow,
Dermott Donn MacMorna!

poem by Padraic Colum
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The Knight Whose Armour Didn't Squeak

Of all the Knights in Appledore
The wisest was Sir Thomas Tom.
He multiplied as far as four,
And knew what nine was taken from
To make eleven. He could write
A letter to another Knight.

No other Knight in all the land
Could do the things which he could do.
Not only did he understand
The way to polish swords, but knew
What remedy a Knight should seek
Whose armour had begun to squeak.

And, if he didn't fight too much,
It wasn't that he didn't care
For blips and buffetings and such,
But felt that it was hardly fair
To risk, by frequent injuries,
A brain as delicate as his.

His castle (Castle Tom) was set
Conveniently on a hill;
And daily, when it wasn't wet,
He paced the battlements until
Some smaller Knight who couldn't swim
Should reach the moat and challenge him.

Or sometimes, feeling full of fight,
He hurried out to scour the plain,
And, seeing some approaching Knight,
He either hurried home again,
Or hid; and, when the foe was past,
Blew a triumphant trumpet-blast.

One day when good Sir Thomas Tom
Was resting in a handy ditch,
The noises he was hiding from,
Though very much the noises which
He'd always hidden from before,
Seemed somehow less....Or was it more?

The trotting horse, the trumpet's blast,
The whistling sword, the armour's squeak,
These, and especially the last,
Had clattered by him all the week.
Was this the same, or was it not?
Something was different. But what?

Sir Thomas raised a cautious ear

[...] Read more

poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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The Sycamores

In the outskirts of the village
On the river's winding shores
Stand the Occidental plane-trees,
Stand the ancient sycamores.

One long century hath been numbered,
And another half-way told
Since the rustic Irish gleeman
Broke for them the virgin mould.

Deftly set to Celtic music
At his violin's sound they grew,
Through the moonlit eves of summer,
Making Amphion's fable true.

Rise again, thou poor Hugh Tallant!
Pass in erkin green along
With thy eyes brim full of laughter,
And thy mouth as full of song.

Pioneer of Erin's outcasts
With his fiddle and his pack-
Little dreamed the village Saxons
Of the myriads at his back.

How he wrought with spade and fiddle,
Delved by day and sang by night,
With a hand that never wearied
And a heart forever light,---

Still the gay tradition mingles
With a record grave and drear
Like the rollic air of Cluny
With the solemn march of Mear.

When the box-tree, white with blossoms,
Made the sweet May woodlands glad,
And the Aronia by the river
Lighted up the swarming shad,

And the bulging nets swept shoreward
With their silver-sided haul,
Midst the shouts of dripping fishers,
He was merriest of them all.

When, among the jovial huskers
Love stole in at Labor's side
With the lusty airs of England
Soft his Celtic measures vied.

[...] Read more

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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A Neighborly Guy

Baptist churches and brotherhood
In a tired, aging town
A moribund neighborhood
Where faith and fraternity are found

Cleveland Ohio’s a rust belt town
Ordinary citizens, still work out the days
Life comes and goes, has ups and has downs
But some neighbors are different in unusual ways

Take Anthony Sowell, a neighborly guy
A smile bright as the sunrise, none brighter or quicker
Liked to sit on his porch, by and by
Sippin’ from a bottle of King Cobra Malt Liquor

Had a few girlfriends over, seemed a regular guy
Neighbors came over for barbecue at times
Always said “good mornin’ and evening” and “hi’
Scrounged up ol’ metal for nickels and dimes

Neighbors at times notice odd scents
Of dead things or spoiled meat
Seemed to be coming from beyond a fence
Of a sausage maker just down the street

But Anthony sowell, a neighborly guy
Had compliant companions who sat quietly inside
Four on the couch slowly rotting
and three on the floor where they died

A few in the hallway
several upstairs in the bed
One in the bathroom,
on his workbench, a severed head

Anthony Sowell, a neighborly guy
was led in handcuffs through his front gate
Left his neighbors imaginations to fly
As to what was in that barbecue they ate

Anthony seemed such a neighborly guy
Some said they’d forever feel sickened
Some said they’d never eat barbecue again
Some said it tasted a little like chicken

poem by David Whalen
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When you are Old

Sonnet XXXII

Should you survive the number of my days,
Attest to buried bones and grounded hope,
Nervous, by chance, perhaps this book you'll ope,
Grave hand re-reading, when fast passed my ways.
Tender friend recall our comet blaze,
Openly with instinct's gyroscope
Mark, nurture, sight and sound, bright chromascope,
Able to distill implicit ph[r]ase.
Methinks fond thoughts might share this paraphrase:
“As rainbow bridge strips off coarse envelope
Underdeveloped were poor poet’s plays -
Death forced him far too early to elope.
E’er since he died, have other poets flourished.
Competent their works, I’ll read his, who love nourished.”

[c] Jonathan Robin

Shakespeare Sonnet XXXII
(cf Ronsard: When you are old and grey)

If thou survive my well-contented day,
When that churl death my bones with dust shall cover,
And shall by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceasèd lover,
Compare them with the bettering of the time,
And though they be outstripp’d by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rime,
Exceeded by the heights of happier men.
O! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage:
But since he died, and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'?

Quand vous serez bien vieille

Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, à la chandelle,
Assise auprès du feu, dévidant et filant,
Direz, chantant mes vers, en vous émerveillant:
'Ronsard me célébrait du temps que j'étais belle.'

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Idea Track

Dear Hugh Miller
Ive thought it through for a while but it doesnt get any easier
And three months on in this bad design wont make it feel any easier
Your grave, its your grave
Dear Hugh Miller
Its four months now from when we started and nothing feels much easier.
I sit and stare in a cork tiled room and it doesnt get much easier.
Your grave, its your grave
Pretend it works a while, its transmitted live
Pretend it works a while (you dont try)
Pretend it works a while, its transmitted live
Pretend it works a while (dont try)
Dear Hugh Miller,
its four months now from when we started and nothing feels much easier.
I sit and stare in a cork tiled room and it doesnt get much easier.
Your grave, its your grave
Pretend it works a while, its transmitted live
Pretend it works a while (you dont try)
Pretend it works a while, its transmitted live
Pretend it works a while (dont try)
Your grave, its your grave
Pretend it works a while, its transmitted live
Pretend it works a while (you dont try)
Pretend it works a while, its transmitted live
Pretend it works a while (dont try)
I dont care if I dont have an idea track, its an idea track, its an idea
I dont care if I dont have an idea track, its an idea track, its an idea
Your grave, its your grave.

song performed by Idlewild
Added by Lucian Velea
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Sir Hugh; Or The Jew's Daughter

Four-and-twenty bonny boys
Were playing at the ba,
And by it came him sweet Sir Hugh,
And he playd o'er them a'.

He kickd the ba with his right foot
And catchd it wi his knee,
And throuch-and-thro the Jew's window
He gard the bonny ba flee.

He's doen him to the Jew's castell
And walkd it round about;
And there he saw the Jew's daughter,
At the window looking out.

'Throw down the ba, ye Jew's daughter,
Throw down the ba to me!'
'Never a bit,' says the Jew's daughter,
'Till up to me come ye.'

'How will I come up? How can I come up?
How can I come to thee?
For as ye did to my auld father,
The same ye'll do to me.'

She's gane till her father's garden,
And pu'd an apple red and green;
'Twas a' to wyle him sweet Sir Hugh,
And to entice him in.

She's led him in through ae dark door,
And sae has she thro nine;
She's laid him on a dressing-table,
And stickit him like a swine.

And first came out the thick, thick blood,
And syne came out the thin;
And syne came out the bonny heart's blood;
There was nae mair within.

She's rowd him in a cake o lead,
Bade him lie still and sleep;
She's thrown him in Our Lady's draw-well,
Was fifty fathom deep.

When bells were rung, and mass was sung,
And a' the bairns came hame,
When every lady gat hame her son,
The Lady Maisry gat nane.

[...] Read more

poem by Andrew Lang
Added by Poetry Lover
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