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I'm conservative, but I'm not a nut about it.

quote by George H. W. Bush
Added by Lucian Velea
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Lord Thomas And Fair Annet

Lord Thomas and Fair Annet
Sate a' day on a hill;
Whan night was cum, and sun was sett,
They had not talkt their fill.

Lord Thomas said a word in jest,
Fair Annet took it ill:
'A, I will nevir wed a wife
Against my ain friend's will.'

'Gif ye wull nevir wed a wife,
A wife wull neir wed yee;'
Sae he is hame to tell his mither,
And knelt upon his knee.

'O rede, O rede, mither,' he says,
'A gude rede gie to mee;
O sall I tak the nut-browne bride,
And let Faire Annet bee?'

'The nut-browne bride haes gowd and gear,
Fair Annet she has gat nane;
And the little beauty Fair Annet haes
O it wull soon be gane.'

And he has till his brother gane:
'Now, brother, rede ye mee;
A, sall I marrie the nut-browne bride,
And let Fair Annet bee?'

'The nut-browne bride has oxen, brother,
The nut-browne bride has kye;
I wad hae ye marrie the nut-browne bride,
And cast Fair Annet bye.'

'Her oxen may dye i' the house, billie,
And her kye into the byre;
And I sall hae nothing to mysell
Bot a fat fadge by the fyre.'

And he has till his sister gane:
'Now, sister, rede ye mee;
O sall I marrie the nut-browne bride,
And set Fair Annet free?'

'I'se rede ye tak Fair Annet, Thomas,
And let the browne bride alane;
Lest ye sould sigh, and say, Alace,
What is this we brought hame!'

[...] Read more

poem by Andrew Lang
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Henry And Emma. A Poem.

Upon the Model of The Nut-Brown Maid. To Cloe.

Thou, to whose eyes I bend, at whose command
(Though low my voice, though artless be my hand.
I take the sprightly reed, and sing and play,
Careless of what the censuring world may say;
Bright Cloe! object of my constant vow,
Wilt thou a while unbend thy serious brow?
Wilt thou with pleasure hear thy lover's strains,
And with one heavenly smile o'erpay his pains?
No longer shall the Nut-brown Maid be old,
Though since her youth three hundred years have roll'd:
At thy desire she shall again be raised,
And her reviving charms in lasting verse be praised.

No longer man of woman shall complain,
That he may love and not be loved again;
That we in vain the fickle sex pursue,
Who change the constant lover for the new.
Whatever has been writ, whatever said
Henceforth shall in my verse refuted stand,
Be said to winds, or writ upon the sand:
And while my notes to future times proclaim
Unconquer'd love and ever-during flame,
O, fairest of the sex, be thou my muse;
Deign on my work thy influence to diffuse:
Let me partake the blessings I rehearse,
And grant me love, the just reward of verse.

As beauty's potent queen with every grace
That once was Emma's has adorn'd thy face,
And as her son has to my bosom dealt
That constant flame which faithful Henry felt,
O let the story with thy life agree,
Let men once more the bright example see;
What Emma was to him be thou to me:
Nor send me by thy frown from her I love,
Distant and sad, a banish'd man to rove:
But, oh! with pity long entreated crown
My pains and hopes: and when thou say'st that one
Of all mankind thou lovest, oh! think on me alone.

Where beauteous Isis and her husband Thame
With mingled waves for ever flow the same,
In times of yore an ancient baron lived,
Great gifts bestowed, and great respect received.

When dreadful Edward, with successful care
Led his free Britons to the Gallic war,

[...] Read more

poem by Matthew Prior
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Im A Conservative

Pop
I used to lead a quiet life
In fact it was a bare existence
I passed out on many floors
I dont do that any more
Hello my friends
Is everybody happy?
Hey look me over
Lend me an ear
Im a conservative
I like the small black marks on my hands
Im a conservative
I like the crazy girls that I screw
Hey I know them all well
And when I run out of bread I laugh
All the way to the bank
Sometimes I pause for a drink
Conservatism aint no easy job
I smile in the mornings
I live without a care
Nothing is denied me
And nothing ever hurts
I got bored so Im making my millions
When youre conservative you get a better break
Youre always on the rigltt side
When youre conservative
You walk with pride
Pride is on your side
Pride pride pride
Is on our side
Oh boy
Pride is on our side
I like my beer
I like my bread
I love my girl
I love my head
Im in the clear man
Im in the dear
Because Im a conservative
Im a conservative
I really am
Ohyeslam
And it would mean so much to me
If you would only be like me
Yes it could mean so much to me
Hey look me over
Lend me an ear
Im a conservative

song performed by Iggy Pop
Added by Lucian Velea
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Conservative People

Conservative in their ways and in their thinking they do not embrace change in any way
They fear change as a threat to their existence as conservative through their lives they do stay
They resist change as if change is quite harmful as things were they wish them to remain
Their flawed values of rank and class distinction are things that they do fight hard to retain
Conservative people change not known to welcome on any change they like to have their say
They crave respect for their old ways of thinking whilst respect to those who want change they don't pay
No thanks to them that changes are occuring since they want to keep us tied to the past
They cannot accept that time brings with it changes that nothing as it was does seem to last,
Conservative people always in abundance their type never have been known to be rare
They live in Villages, Towns and in Cities you can meet their kind of person anywhere
To them change is something that should be resisted to the old ways with reverence they do cling
They fear change as much as they do fear the reaper as if indeed change were a dangerous thing
Suppose it takes all kinds to make up humanity and conservative people will always fight change
They look on people who to them are different as those who are untrustworthy and strange.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Smooth And Amiable, Opaque

Smooth and amiable, opaque,
with facades like scrims, genteel,
my friends are ones you ought to take
unseriously, and for a meal
just when you think you’ve nothing better
to do, like watching television,
or sending the White House a letter,
or working out with great precision
your taxes for another audit.
Should it be that you don’t wish
to do these things and can afford it,
invite your friends to where the fish
is tastier than what you eat
at home, and then, when you come back,
resolve that you will not repeat
such invitations till you crack,
or there is nothing on TV,
and you’re not writing letters to
the President––since you can see,
unusually, his point of view––
and you’ve heard from the IRS
that you don’t owe them––this time! ––taxes.
At times like these your friends, I guess,
won’t cause you anticlimaxes.

Inspired by an article in the NYT Book Review, by Ross Dothat, January 18,2009 (“When Buckley Met Reagan”) :
On the night that William F. Buckley met Ronald Reagan, the future president of the United States put his elbow through a plate-glass window. The year was 1961, and the two men were in Beverly Hills, where Buckley, perhaps the most famous conservative in America at the tender age of 35, was giving an address at a school auditorium. Reagan, a former Hollywood leading man dabbling in political activism — the Tim Robbins or Alec Baldwin of his day — had been asked to do the introductions. But the microphone was dead, the technician was nowhere to be found and the control room was locked. As the crowd began to grumble, Reagan coolly opened one of the auditorium windows, stepped onto a ledge two stories above the street and inched his way around to the control room. He smashed his elbow through the glass and clambered in through the broken window. “In a minute there was light in the upstairs room, ” Buckley later wrote, “and then we could hear the crackling of the newly animated microphone.” This anecdote kicks off The Reagan I Knew (Basic Books, $25) , a slight and padded reminiscence published posthumously this past autumn, nine months after Buckley’s death. As a personal portrait of the 40th president, the narrative is sketchy at best: the Reagan whom Buckley knew turns out to be the Reagan most of his friends and allies knew — amiable, smooth and ultimately opaque.
What the book does offer, though, is an expansion on the theme lurking in that opening vignette, in which the man of ideas came face to face with the man of action, and the intellectual famous for describing the world met the future president eager to change it. At its most interesting, “The Reagan I Knew” provides a case study on the relationship between intellectuals and power, and specifically on the marriage between right-wing thinkers and populist politicians that has defined the modern right from the Goldwater era to our own. This union occasioned a great deal of comment during 2008, which turned out to be an annus horribilis for conservatism, and little of it was positive. Populism’s corrosive influence on the conservative mind — or the conservative mind’s cynical manipulation of populism — was cited in briefs against Sarah Palin, against the record of George W. Bush and against the entire run of conservative governance going back to Richard Nixon. Sometimes it was liberals arguing that an earlier generation of high-minded conservatives (Buckley being the prime example) would be horrified by the anti-intellectual spirit that had overtaken their movement in the age of Bush and Palin. Sometimes it was conservatives, your David Frums and Peggy Noonans, hinting at the same. And sometimes it was left-wingers — like Rick Perlstein, in his teeming history “Nixonland” — arguing that conservatives had always been cynical manipulators of populist sentiment: the mask might have slipped a bit more in the Bush era, but beneath the genteel facade provided by wordsmiths like Buckley (or William Safire or George Will or whomever) , the modern right has been Palins all the way down.

1/18/09

poem by Gershon Hepner
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The Nut-Brown Ale

THE nut-brown ale, the nut-brown ale,
Puts down all drink when it is stale!
The toast, the nutmeg, and the ginger
Will make a sighing man a singer.
Ale gives a buffet in the head,
But ginger under-props the brain;
When ale would strike a strong man dead
Then nutmeg tempers it again.
The nut-brown ale, the nut-brown ale,
Puts down all drink when it is stale!

poem by John Marston
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Long John Brown and Little Mary Bell

Little Mary Bell had a Fairy in a Nut
Long John Brown had the Devil in his Gut
Long John Brown lovd Little Mary Bell
And the Fairy drew the Devil into the Nut-shell
Her Fairy skipd out and her Fairy skipd in
He laughd at the Devil saying Love is a Sin
The devil he raged and the Devil he was wroth
And the devil enterd into the Young Mans broth
He was soon in the Gut of the loving Young Swain
For John eat and drank to drive away Loves pain
But all he could do he grew thinner and thinner
Tho he eat and drank as much as ten Men for his dinner
Some said he had a Wolf in his stomach day and night
Some said he had the Devil and they guessd right
The fairy skipd about in his glory Joy and Pride
And he laughd at the Devil till poor John Brown died
Then the Fairy skipd out of the old Nut shell
And woe and alack for Pretty Mary Bell
For the Devil crept in when The Fairy skipd out
And there goes Miss Bell with her fusty old Nut

poem by William Blake from Songs and Ballads (1794)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Misery

Misery
I know you got troubles but you dont have to spread it about
Misery
You moan and you groan but all of that I can live without
Well
Until you stop worrying about yourself
Youll never get anywhere with me
Ill still be hanging in there but youre still a misery
Until you learn to laugh youll never come to any parties at my house
My house
And if you go on like this the only house youll ever visit is the nut house
Nut house
Youre such a misery, why dont you learn to laugh
Look in the mirror and
Dont take yourself so seriously
Well
Dollar bills could fall from the sky
But still you wouldnt be satisfied
But Im not going to let you depress me
Until you learn to laugh youll never come to any parties at my house
My house
And if you go on like this the only house youll ever visit is the nut house
Nut house
Youre such a misery, why dont you learn to laugh
Look in the mirror and
Dont take yourself so seriously
Ah ah ah ah
Misery
Youre only happy when youre feeling totally down
Misery
I only ever see you when your chins hanging on the ground
Well
Until you learn to laugh at yourself
Youll never get anywhere with me
Im down but Im still happy but
Youre such a misery, well
Youre such a misery, well
Youre such a misery

song performed by Kinks
Added by Lucian Velea
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And truly, when you look at the Constitution and our founding fathers and their writings, the things that made this country great, you might draw those conclusions: That they were conservative. They were fiscally conservative and socially conservative.

quote by Sharron Angle
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The Nut-Brown Maid. A Poem.

Written three hundred years since.

Be it right or wrong, these men among
On women do complayne;
Affyrmynge this, how that it is
A labour spent in vaine
To love them wele; for never a dele
They love a man againe:
For lete a man do what he can
Ther favour to attayne,
Yet yf a new do them pursue,
Ther furst trew lover than
Laboureth for nought; for from her thought
He is a banishyd man.
I say not nay, but that all day
It is bothe writ and sayde
That woman's fayth is as who saythe,
All utterly decayed.
But nevertheless right good witness
I' this case might be layde,
That they love trewe, and continew,
Record the Nut-brown Mayde;
Which from her love (whan her to prove
He came to make his mone)
Wold not depart, for in her herte
She lovyd but him alone.
Than betweene us lettens discusse,
What was all the maner
Between them two: we wyl also
Telle all the peyne and fere
That she was in. Now I begynne,
So that ye me answere.
Wherefore all ye that present be
I pray ye give an eare.

Man.
I am the knyght, I come by nyght
As secret as I can,
Saying, alas! thus standeth the case,
I am a banishyd man.

Woman.
And I your wylle, for to fulfylle
In this wyl not refuse,
Trusting to show, in wordis fewe,
That men have an ill use,
(To ther own shame) women to blame,

[...] Read more

poem by Matthew Prior
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As A Lad

Copper Knob or Ginger Nut
meant I’d got red hair,
and that’s what I was called
by everyone everywhere.
They also used this rhyme
with no concern or care.
And as a lad, their sense of humour
I really didn’t share.

‘Ginger Nut fell in the cut
and frightened all the fishes.
A whale came up
and swallowed him up,
and that was the end of Ginger Nut!

poem by Orlando Belo
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Star Of The County Down

In banbridge town in the county down
One morning last july,
From a boreen green came a sweet colleen
And she smiled as she passed me by.
She looked so sweet fronn her two bare feet
To the sheen of her nut brown hair.
Such a coaxing elf, sure I shook myself
For to see I was really there.
Chorus:
From bantry bay up to derry quay and
From galway to dublin town,
No maid Ive seen like the brown colleen
That I met in the county down.
As she onward sped, sure I scratched my head,
And I looked with a feelin rare,
And I says, says i, to a passer-by,
Whose the maid with the nut brown hair?
He smiled at me and he sayss, says he,
Thats the gem of irelands crown.
Its rosie mccann from the banks of the bann,
Shes the star of the county down.
Chorus:
From bantry bay up to derry ouay and
From galway to dublin town,
No maid Ive seen like the brown colleen
That I met in the county down.
At the harvest fair shell be surely there
And Ill dress in my sunday clothes,
With my shoes shone bright and my hat cocked
Right for a smile from my nut brown rose.
No pipe Ill smoke, no horse Ill yoke
Till my plough turns rust coloured brown.
Till a smiling bride, by my own fireside
Sits the star of the county down.
Chorus / repeat

song performed by Van Morrison
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Nut-Brown Maid

He. BE it right or wrong, these men among
   On women do complain;
Affirming this, how that it is
   A labour spent in vain
To love them wele; for never a dele
   They love a man again:
For let a man do what he can
   Their favour to attain,
Yet if a new to them pursue,
   Their first true lover than
Laboureth for naught; for from her thought
   He is a banished man.

She. I say not nay, but that all day
   It is both written and said
That woman's faith is, as who saith,
   All utterly decayd:
But nevertheless, right good witness
   In this case might be laid
That they love true and continue:
   Record the Nut-brown Maid,
Which, when her love came her to prove,
   To her to make his moan,
Would not depart; for in her heart
   She loved but him alone.

He. Then between us let us discuss
   What was all the manere
Between them two: we will also
   Tell all the pain in fere
That she was in. Now I begin,
   So that ye me answere:
Wherefore all ye that present be,
   I pray you, give an ear.
I am the Knight. I come by night,
   As secret as I can,
Saying, Alas! thus standeth the case,
   I am a banished man.

She. And I your will for to fulfil
   In this will not refuse;
Trusting to show, in wordes few,
   That men have an ill use--
To their own shame--women to blame,
   And causeless them accuse.
Therefore to you I answer now,
   All women to excuse--
Mine own heart dear, with you what cheer?
   I pray you, tell anone;
For, in my mind, of all mankind

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous
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The Nut-Brown Maid

He.BE it right or wrong, these men among
On women do complain;
Affirming this, how that it is
A labour spent in vain
To love them wele; for never a dele
They love a man again:
For let a man do what he can
Their favour to attain,
Yet if a new to them pursue,
Their first true lover than
Laboureth for naught; for from her thought
He is a banished man.

She.I say not nay, but that all day
It is both written and said
That woman's faith is, as who saith,
All utterly decayd:
But nevertheless, right good witnèss
In this case might be laid
That they love true and continue:
Record the Nut-brown Maid,
Which, when her love came her to prove,
To her to make his moan,
Would not depart; for in her heart
She loved but him alone.

He.Then between us let us discuss
What was all the manere
Between them two: we will also
Tell all the pain in fere
That she was in. Now I begin,
So that ye me answere:
Wherefore all ye that present be,
I pray you, give an ear.
I am the Knight. I come by night,
As secret as I can,
Saying, Alas! thus standeth the case,
I am a banished man.

She.And I your will for to fulfil
In this will not refuse;
Trusting to show, in wordes few,
That men have an ill use—
To their own shame—women to blame,
And causeless them accuse.
Therefore to you I answer now,
All women to excuse—
Mine own heart dear, with you what cheer?
I pray you, tell anone;
For, in my mind, of all mankind

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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My Heart Is Like A Withered Nut!

MY heart is like a withered nut,
Rattling within its hollow shell;
You cannot ope my breast, and put
Any thing fresh with it to dwell.
The hopes and dreams that filled it when
Life's spring of glory met my view,
Are gone! and ne'er with joy or pain
That shrunken heart shall swell anew.

My heart is like a withered nut;
Once it was soft to every touch,
But now 'tis stern and closely shut;--
I would not have to plead with such.
Each light-toned voice once cleared my brow,
Each gentle breeze once shook the tree
Where hung the sun-lit fruit, which now
Lies cold, and stiff, and sad, like me!

My heart is like a withered nut--
It once was comely to the view;
But since misfortune's blast hath cut,
It hath a dark and mournful hue.
The freshness of its verdant youth
Nought to that fruit can now restore;
And my poor heart, I feel in truth,
Nor sun, nor smile shall light it more!

poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Lord Thomas and Fair Annet

Lord Thomas and fair Annet
Sat all day on a hill
When night was come and sun was set
They had not talked their fill.

Lord Thomas said a word in haste
And Annet took it ill;
I winna wed a dowerless maid
Against my parents' will

You're come of the rich, Thomas,
And I'm come of the poor
I'm o'er low to be your bride
And I winna be your whore

O fair Annet, O fair Annet
This night you've said me no
But long or ever this day month
I'll make your heart right woe

Come riddle my riddle dear mother, he said
Come riddle it all in one
Whether I will take fair Annet
Or bring the brown girl home

The nut-brown maid has gold and gear
Fair Annet she has none
And the little beauty fair Annet has
O it will soon be gone

Sheep will die in cots, mother
And oxen die in byre
And what's this world's wealth to me
An I get not my heart's desire

Where will I get a pretty little boy
That'll run my errands soon
That will run to fair Annet's bower
And bid her to my wedding

She mauna put on the black, the black
Nor yet the dowie brown
But the scarlet so red, and the kerchief so white
And her bonny locks hanging down

She has called her maries to her bower
To lay gold in her hair
Where'er you put a plait before
See you lay ten times more

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Samba Loco

Bah-pooh-bah-pooh, bop...
Bah-doodo.
Bah-pooh-bah-pooh, bop...
Bah-doodo.
Bah-pooh-bah-pooh, bop...
Bah-doodo.
Aaaaahhhh...
Aaaaahhhh,
Samba loco, baby.
I'm a samba dancing nut!
I love that Latin beat so much...
And the strutting done when I do my stuff.

Samba loco, baby.
I'm a samba dancing nut!
I love that Latin beat so much...
And the strutting done when I do my stuff.

I've got to groove my middle.
Swivel hips and tease.
I've got to be that swift foot hero,
With a rhythm felt that heats...
Everything that sways the beat.

Samba loco, baby.
Bah-dada.
I want to feverize the streets.
With a rhumba samba shown,
Grooving easily.

Bah-pooh-bah-pooh, bop...
Bah-doodo.
Bah-pooh-bah-pooh, bop...
Bah-doodo.
Bah-pooh-bah-pooh, bop...
Bah-doodo.
Aaaaahhhh...
Aaaaahhhh,
Samba loco, baby.
I'm a samba dancing nut!
I love that Latin beat so much...
And the strutting done when I do my stuff.

Samba loco, baby.
Bah-dada.
Feverize-the-streets.
Ba h-dada
With a rum-ba number samba shown.
And a groove that's easily to reach.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Shepherd's Week : Thursday; or, The Spell

Hobnelia.
Hobnelia, seated in a dreary vale,
In pensive mood rehears'd her piteous tale,
Her piteous tale the wind in sighs bemoan,
And pining echo answers groan for groan.
I rue the day, a rueful day I trow,
The woful day, a day indeed of wo!
When Lubberkin to town his cattle drove,
A maiden fine bedight he hap'd to love;
The maiden fine bedight his love retains,
And for the village he forsakes the plains.
Return, my Lubberkin, these ditties hear;
Spells will I try, and spells shall ease my care.
'With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.'
When first the year, I heard the cuckoo sing,
And call with welcome note the budding spring,
I straightway set a running with such haste,
Deborah that won the smock scarce ran so fast.
'Till spent for lack of breath quite weary grown,
Upon a rising bank I sat adown,
Then doff'd my shoe, and by my troth I swear,
Therein I spy'd this yellow frizzled hair,
As like to Lubberkin's in curl and hue,
As if upon his comely pate it grew.
'With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.'
At eve last midsummer no sleep I sought,
But to the field a bag of hemp-seed brought,
I scatter'd round the seed on every side,
And three times in a trembling accent cried,
'This hemp-seed with my virgin hand I sow,
Who shall my true-love be, the crop shall mow.'
I straight look'd back, and if my eyes speak truth,
With his keen scythe behind me came the youth.
'With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.'
Last Valentine, the day when birds of kind
Their paramours with mutual chirpings find;
I rearly rose, just at the break of day,
Before the sun had chas'd the stars away,
A-field I went, amid the morning dew,
To milk my kine (for so should huswifes do)
Thee first I spy'd, and the first swain we see,
In spite of fortune shall our true-love be;
See, Lubberkin, each bird his partner take,
And canst thou then thy sweet-hear dear forsake?
'With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.'
Last May-day fair I search'd to find a snail

[...] Read more

poem by John Gay
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Poor Marguerite

Swift, o'er the wild and dreary waste
A NUT-BROWN GIRL was seen to haste;
Wide waving was her unbound hair,
And sun-scorch'd was her bosom bare;
For Summer's noon had shed its beams
While she lay wrapp'd in fev'rish dreams;
While, on the wither'd hedge-row's side,
By turns she slept, by turns she cried,
"Ah ! where lies hid the balsam sweet,
"To heal the wounds of MARGUERITE?"

Dark was her large and sunken eye
Which wildly gaz'd upon the sky;
And swiftly down her freckled face
The chilling dews began to pace:
For she was lorn, and many a day,
Had, all alone, been doom'd to stray,
And, many a night, her bosom warm,
Had throbb'd, beneath the pelting storm,
And still she cried, "the rain falls sweet,
"It bathes the wounds of MARGUERITE."

Her garments were by briars torn,
And on them hung full many a thorn;
A thistle crown, she mutt'ring twin'd,
Now darted on,--now look'd behind--
And here, and there, her arm was seen
Bleeding the tatter'd folds between;
Yet, on her breast she oft display'd
A faded branch, that breast to shade:
For though her senses were astray,
She felt the burning beams of day:

She felt the wintry blast of night,
And smil'd to see the morning light,
For then she cried, "I soon shall meet
"The plighted love of MARGUERITE."

Across the waste of printless snow,
All day the NUT-BROWN GIRL would go;
And when the winter moon had shed
Its pale beams on the mountain's head,
She on a broomy pillow lay
Singing the lonely hours away;
While the cold breath of dawnlight flew
Across the fields of glitt'ring dew:--
Swift o'er the frozen lake she past
Unmindful of the driving blast,
And then she cried "the air is sweet--
"It fans the breast of MARGUERITE."

[...] Read more

poem by Mary Darby Robinson
Added by Poetry Lover
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The radical of one century is the conservative of the next. The radical invents the views. When he has worn them out the conservative adopts them.

Mark Twain in Notebook (1935)
Added by Lucian Velea
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