Again, with two small children it's incredibly hard to commit yourself to anything because you're just getting interested in it and someone comes along and goes I want Thomas The Tank Engine on, and screams the place down until you put it on.
quote by Jo Brand
Added by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
The Sale of Saint Thomas
A quay with vessels moored
Thomas
To India! Yea, here I may take ship;
From here the courses go over the seas,
Along which the intent prows wonderfully
Nose like lean hounds, and tack their journeys out,
Making for harbours as some sleuth was laid
For them to follow on their shifting road.
Again I front my appointed ministry. --
But why the Indian lot to me? Why mine
Such fearful gospelling? For the Lord knew
What a frail soul He gave me, and a heart
Lame and unlikely for the large events. --
And this is worse than Baghdad! though that was
A fearful brink of travel. But if the lots,
That gave to me the Indian duty, were
Shuffled by the unseen skill of Heaven, surely
That fear of mine in Baghdad was the same
Marvellous Hand working again, to guard
The landward gate of India from me. There
I stood, waiting in the weak early dawn
To start my journey; the great caravan's
Strange cattle with their snoring breaths made steam
Upon the air, and (as I thought) sadly
The beasts at market-booths and awnings gay
Of shops, the city's comfortable trade,
Lookt, and then into months of plodding lookt.
And swiftly on my brain there came a wind
Of vision; and I saw the road mapt out
Along the desert with a chalk of bones;
I saw a famine and the Afghan greed
Waiting for us, spears at our throats, all we
Made women by our hunger; and I saw
Gigantic thirst grieving our mouths with dust,
Scattering up against our breathing salt
Of blown dried dung, till the taste eat like fires
Of a wild vinegar into our sheathèd marrows;
And a sudden decay thicken'd all our bloods
As rotten leaves in fall will baulk a stream;
Then my kill'd life the muncht food of jackals. --
The wind of vision died in my brain; and lo,
The jangling of the caravan's long gait
Was small as the luting of a breeze in grass
Upon my ears. Into the waiting thirst
Camels and merchants all were gone, while I
Had been in my amazement. Was this not
A sign? God with a vision tript me, lest
Those tall fiends that ken for my approach
[...] Read more
poem by Lascelles Abercrombie
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Thomas the Rhymer
Part First
Ancient
True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;
A ferlie he spied wi' his ee;
And there he saw a lady bright,
Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.
Her skirt was o the grass-green silk,
Her mantle o the velvet fyne,
At ilka tett of her horse's mane
Hang fifty siller bells and nine.
True Thomas he pulld aff his cap,
And louted low down to his knee:
'All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven!
For thy peer on earth I never did see.'
'O no, O no, Thomas,' she said,
'That name does not belang to me;
I am but the queen of fair Elfland,
That am hither come to visit thee.
'Harp and carp, Thomas,' she said,
'Harp and carp, along wi' me,
And if ye dare to kiss my lips,
Sure of your bodie I will be!'
'Betide me weal, betide me woe,
That weird sall never daunton me;
Syne he has kissed her rosy lips,
All underneath the Eildon Tree.
'Now, ye maun go wi me,' she said,
'True Thomas, ye maun go wi me,
And ye maun serve me seven years,
Thro weal or woe as may chance to be.'
She mounted on her milk-white steed,
She's taen True Thomas up behind,
And aye wheneer her bride rung,
The steed flew swifter than the wind.
O they rade on, and farther on -
The steed gaed swifter than the wind -
Until they reached a desart wide,
And living land was left behind.
'Light down, light down, now, True Thomas,
[...] Read more
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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The Last Rhyme Of True Thomas
The King has called for priest and cup,
The King has taken spur and blade
To dub True Thomas a belted knight,
And all for the sake o' the songs he made.
They have sought him high, they have sought him low,
They have sought him over down and lea;
They have found him by the milk-white thorn
That guards the gates o' Faerie.
'Twas bent beneath and blue above,
Their eyes were held that they might not see
The kine that grazed beneath the knowes,
Oh, they were the Queens o' Faerie!
"Now cease your song," the King he said,
"Oh, cease your song and get you dight
To vow your vow and watch your arms,
For I will dub you a belted knight.
"For I will give you a horse o' pride,
Wi' blazon and spur and page and squire;
Wi' keep and tail and seizin and law,
And land to hold at your desire."
True Thomas smiled above his harp,
And turned his face to the naked sky,
Where, blown before the wastrel wind,
The thistle-down she floated by.
"I ha' vowed my vow in another place,
And bitter oath it was on me,
I ha' watched my arms the lee-long night,
Where five-score fighting men would flee.
"My lance is tipped o' the hammered flame,
My shield is beat o' the moonlight cold;
And I won my spurs in the Middle World,
A thousand fathom beneath the mould.
"And what should I make wi' a horse o' pride,
And what should I make wi' a sword so brown,
But spill the rings o' the Gentle Folk
And flyte my kin in the Fairy Town?
"And what should I make wi' blazon and belt,
Wi' keep and tail and seizin and fee,
And what should I do wi' page and squire
That am a king in my own countrie?
[...] Read more
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Let The Children Speak
Time - way out of line
A whole nation waits outside
The rhythm of tomorrow
They can dance away their sorrows tonight
Lost - broken and scarred
Prisoner waits outside with his lone heart beating
Let the children, let the children
Let the children, let the children speak
Let the children - let the children speak
Aims - dangerous games
Their mother says one false move and we all get hurt
I feel this sense of power I feel it every hour tonight
Lets not get lazy tonight
Things could get crazy cos
One more kick and the door cracks open
Let the children, let the children
Let the children, let the children speak
Let the children, let the children
Let the children, let the children
Power to the powerless strength unto the weak
Let the children, let the children
Let the children, let the children speak
Im begging you now let the children, let the children
Let the children, let the children
Power to the powerless, strength unto the weak
Let the children, let the children
Let the children, let the children speak
Lets not get lazy tonight
Things could get crazy cos
One last kick and the door cracks open
Let the children, let the children
Let the children, let the children speak
Power to the powerless, strength unto the weak
Let the children, let the children
Let the children, let the children speak
Things could get crazy tonight
Lets not get lazy cos
One last kick and the door cracks open
Let the children, let the children
Let the children, let the children speak
Im begging you now
Let the children, let the children
Let the children, let the children
Power to the powerless, strength unto the weak
Let the children, let the children
Let the children, let the children speak
The language of this world
Lets not get lazy cos
One false move and we all get hurt
Let the children, let the children
[...] Read more
song performed by Simple Minds
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Screams Of Passion
Performed by the family
{from the family (1985)}
Woah, no. woah, yeah.
Woah, no, woah no, yeah, yeah
Theres a gentle autumn breeze
That blows whenever we be lyin
Lyin in my bed
The moon appears and disappears
U look at me, my clothes I quickly
I quickly shed
The curtains dance a minuet
Autumn plays the music baby
Come on hold my hand
Leaves are fallin velvet splash
Only u and I can under
Only u can understand
The sunlight draws a picture
Through the silky lace that hangs above your
Hangs above your door
A picture that is waving
That is seems to be with every thrust
U make me beg for more
A robin sings a masterpiece
That lives and dies unheard
For screams of passion
A sound produced by two in love (oh, two in love)
Curtains dance and autumn plays on (and on and on)
The screams of passion
All I hear in my [head/hair]
Echoing like a volcano baby
The screams of passion
Back and forth the raging seas of lust
I want u madly
Cant u tell, cant u tell
Cant u tell, cant u tell, ow!
Take me in your arms, oh baby
The crime is done
Id rather die here in your
Screams of passion (woah, hold me now, baby)
Tell me that u [want/love] me (tell me that u [want/love] me)
Is it sunday or is it passion?
The screams of passion (the screams of passion, yeah)
The screams of... the screams of...
The screams of passion (passion)
Yeah! (shhh, not so loud, baby)
Yeah! (shhh, shhh)
The screams of passion
The screams of passion
The screams of passion
The screams of... the screams of...
[...] Read more
song performed by Prince
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Brus Book XVIII
Only Berwick remains in English hands; a burgess offers to betray it]
The lordis off the land war fayne
Quhen thai wist he wes cummyn agan
And till him went in full gret hy,
And he ressavit thaim hamlyly
5 And maid thaim fest and glaidsum cher,
And thai sa wonderly blyth wer
Off his come that na man mycht say,
Gret fest and fayr till him maid thai.
Quharever he raid all the countre
10 Gaderyt in daynte him to se,
Gret glaidschip than wes in the land.
All than wes wonnyn till his hand,
Fra the Red Swyre to Orknay
Wes nocht off Scotland fra his fay
15 Outakyn Berwik it allane.
That tym tharin wonnyt ane
That capitane wes of the toun,
All Scottismen in suspicioun
He had and tretyt thaim tycht ill.
20 He had ay to thaim hevy will
And held thaim fast at undre ay,
Quhill that it fell apon a day
That a burges Syme of Spalding
Thocht that it wes rycht angry thing
25 Suagate ay to rebutyt be.
Tharfor intill his hart thocht he
That he wald slely mak covyne
With the marchall, quhays cosyne
He had weddyt till him wiff,
30 And as he thocht he did belyff.
Lettrys till him he send in hy
With a traist man all prively,
And set him tym to cum a nycht
With leddrys and with gud men wicht
35 Till the kow yet all prively,
And bad him hald his trist trewly
And he suld mete thaim at the wall,
For his walk thar that nycht suld fall.
[The marischal shows the letter to the king,
who seeks to avoid jealousy between Douglas and Moray]
Quhen the marchell the lettre saw
40 He umbethocht him than a thraw,
For he wist be himselvyn he
Mycht nocht off mycht no power be
For till escheyff sa gret a thing,
And giff he tuk till his helping
[...] Read more
poem by John Barbour
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Aunt Chloe
.
I remember, well remember,
.
That dark and dreadful day,
.
When they whispered to me, "Chloe,
.
Your children's sold away!" 1.
It seemed as if a bullet
.
Had shot me through and through,
.
And I felt as if my heart-strings
.
Was breaking right in two. 1.
And I says to cousin Milly,
.
"There must be some mistake;
.
Where's Mistus?" "In the great house crying --
.
Crying like her heart would break. 1.
"And the lawyer's there with Mistus;
.
Says he's come to 'ministrate,
.
'Cause when master died he just left
.
Heap of debt on the estate. 1.
"And I thought 'twould do you good
.
To bid your boys good-bye --
.
To kiss them both and shake their hands,
.
And have a hearty cry. 1.
"Oh! Chloe, I knows how you feel,
.
[...] Read more
poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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Lord Thomas And Fair Ellinor
Lord Thomas he was a bold forrester,
And a chaser of the kings deere;
Faire Ellinor was a fine woman,
And Lord Thomas he loved her deare.
'Come riddle my riddle, dear mother,' he sayd,
'And riddle us both as one;
Whether I shall marrye with faire Ellinor,
And let the browne girl alone?'
'The browne girl she has got houses and lands,
Faire Ellinor she has got none;
And therefore I charge thee on my blessing,
To bring me the browne girl home.'
And as it befelle on a high holidaye,
As many there are beside,
Lord Thomas he went to faire Ellinor,
That should have been his bride.
And when he came to faire Ellinor's bower,
He knocked there at the ring;
And who was so readye as faire Ellinor,
To lett Lord Thomas withinn?
'What newes, what newes, Lord Thomas,' she sayd,
'What newes dost thou bring to mee?'
'I am come to bid thee to my wedding,
And that is bad newes for thee.'
'O God forbid, Lord Thomas,' she sayd,
'That such a thing should be done;
I thought to have been the bride my selfe
And thou to have been the bride-grome.'
'Come riddle my riddle, dear mother,' she sayd,
'And riddle it all in one;
Whether I shall goe toLord Thomas his wedding,
Or whether shall tarry at home?'
'There are manye that are your friendes, daughter,
And manye a one your foe;
Therefore I charge you on my blessing,
To Lord Thomas his wedding don't goe.'
She cloathed herself in gallant attire,
And her merrye men all in greene;
And as they rid through every towne,
They took her to be some queene.
[...] Read more
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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The Brus Book XIV
[Edward Bruce goes to Ireland]
The erle off Carrik Schyr Edward,
That stoutar wes than a libard
And had na will to be in pes,
Thocht that Scotland to litill wes
5 Till his brother and him alsua,
Tharfor to purpos gan he ta
That he off Irland wald be king.
Tharfor he send and had tretyng
With the Irschery off Irland,
10 That in thar leawte tuk on hand
Off all Irland to mak him king
With-thi that he with hard fechting
Mycht ourcum the Inglismen
That in the land war wonnand then,
15 And thai suld help with all thar mycht.
And he that hard thaim mak sic hycht
Intill his hart had gret liking
And with the consent of the king
Gadryt him men off gret bounte
20 And at Ayr syne schippyt he
Intill the neyst moneth of Mai,
Till Irland held he straucht his wai.
He had thar in his cumpany
The Erle Thomas that wes worthi
25 And gud Schyr Philip the Mowbray
That sekyr wes in hard assay,
Schyr Jhone the soullis ane gud knycht
And Schyr Jhone Stewart that wes wycht
The Ramsay als of Ouchterhous
30 That wes wycht and chevalrous
And Schyr Fergus off Ardrossane
And other knychtis mony ane.
In Wolringis Fyrth aryvyt thai
Sauffly but bargan or assay
35 And send thar schippis hame ilkan.
A gret thing have thai undretane
That with sa quhoyne as thai war thar
That war sex thousand men but mar
Schup to werray all Irland,
40 Quhar thai sall se mony thousand
Cum armyt on thaim for to fycht,
But thocht thai quhone war thai war wicht,
And forout drede or effray
In twa bataillis tuk thar way
45 Towart Cragfergus it to se.
[The Scots defeat the lords of Ulster]
[...] Read more
poem by John Barbour
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XI. Guido
You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Thomas the Rhymer
True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;
A ferlie he spied wi' his e'e;
And there he saw a ladye bright
Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.
Her skirt was o' the grass-green silk,
Her mantle o' the velvet fyne;
At ilka tett o' her horse's mane,
Hung fifty siller bells and nine.
True Thomas he pu'd aff his cap,
And louted low down on his knee
'Hail to thee Mary, Queen of Heaven!
For thy peer on earth could never be.'
'O no, O no, Thomas' she said,
'That name does not belang to me;
I'm but the Queen o' fair Elfland,
That am hither come to visit thee.
'Harp and carp, Thomas,' she said;
'Harp and carp along wi' me;
And if ye dare to kiss my lips,
Sure of your bodie I will be.'
'Betide me weal; betide me woe,
That weird shall never daunten me.'
Syne he has kiss'd her rosy lips,
All underneath the Eildon Tree.
'Now ye maun go wi' me,' she said,
'True Thomas, ye maun go wi' me;
And ye maun serve me seven years,
Thro' weal or woe as may chance to be.'
She 's mounted on her milk-white steed,
She 's ta'en true Thomas up behind;
And aye, whene'er her bridle rang,
The steed gaed swifter than the wind.
O they rade on, and farther on,
The steed gaed swifter than the wind;
Until they reach'd a desert wide,
And living land was left behind.
'Light down, light down now, true Thomas,
And lean your head upon my knee;
Abide ye there a little space,
And I will show you ferlies three.
[...] Read more
poem by anonym
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Thomas the Rhymer
True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;
A ferlie he spied wi' his e'e;
And there he saw a ladye bright
Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.
Her skirt was o' the grass-green silk,
Her mantle o' the velvet fyne;
At ilka tett o' her horse's mane,
Hung fifty siller bells and nine.
True Thomas he pu'd aff his cap,
And louted low down on his knee
'Hail to thee Mary, Queen of Heaven!
For thy peer on earth could never be.'
'O no, O no, Thomas' she said,
'That name does not belang to me;
I'm but the Queen o' fair Elfland,
That am hither come to visit thee.
'Harp and carp, Thomas,' she said;
'Harp and carp along wi' me;
And if ye dare to kiss my lips,
Sure of your bodie I will be.'
'Betide me weal; betide me woe,
That weird shall never daunten me.'
Syne he has kiss'd her rosy lips,
All underneath the Eildon Tree.
'Now ye maun go wi' me,' she said,
'True Thomas, ye maun go wi' me;
And ye maun serve me seven years,
Thro' weal or woe as may chance to be.'
She 's mounted on her milk-white steed,
She 's ta'en true Thomas up behind;
And aye, whene'er her bridle rang,
The steed gaed swifter than the wind.
O they rade on, and farther on,
The steed gaed swifter than the wind;
Until they reach'd a desert wide,
And living land was left behind.
'Light down, light down now, true Thomas,
And lean your head upon my knee;
Abide ye there a little space,
And I will show you ferlies three.
[...] Read more
poem by Anonymous
Added by Poetry Lover
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Thomas the Rhymer
True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;
A ferlie he spied wi' his e'e;
And there he saw a ladye bright
Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.
Her skirt was o' the grass-green silk,
Her mantle o' the velvet fyne;
At ilka tett o' her horse's mane,
Hung fifty siller bells and nine.
True Thomas he pu'd aff his cap,
And louted low down on his knee
'Hail to thee Mary, Queen of Heaven!
For thy peer on earth could never be.'
'O no, O no, Thomas' she said,
'That name does not belang to me;
I'm but the Queen o' fair Elfland,
That am hither come to visit thee.
'Harp and carp, Thomas,' she said;
'Harp and carp along wi' me;
And if ye dare to kiss my lips,
Sure of your bodie I will be.'
'Betide me weal; betide me woe,
That weird shall never daunten me.'
Syne he has kiss'd her rosy lips,
All underneath the Eildon Tree.
'Now ye maun go wi' me,' she said,
'True Thomas, ye maun go wi' me;
And ye maun serve me seven years,
Thro' weal or woe as may chance to be.'
She 's mounted on her milk-white steed,
She 's ta'en true Thomas up behind;
And aye, whene'er her bridle rang,
The steed gaed swifter than the wind.
O they rade on, and farther on,
The steed gaed swifter than the wind;
Until they reach'd a desert wide,
And living land was left behind.
'Light down, light down now, true Thomas,
And lean your head upon my knee;
Abide ye there a little space,
And I will show you ferlies three.
[...] Read more
poem by Anonymous Americas
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The Brus Book XVI
[King Robert goes to Ireland]
Quhen Schyr Edward, as Ik said ar,
Had discomfyt Richard of Clar
And of Irland all the barnage
Thris throu his worthi vasselag
5 And syne with all his men of mayn
Till Cragfergus wes cummyn agayn,
The gud erle of Murreff Thomas
Tuk leyff in Scotland for to pas,
And he him levyt with a gruching,
10 And syne him chargyt to the king
To pray him specialli that he
Cum intill Irland him to se,
For war thai bath into that land
Thai suld fynd nane suld thaim withstand.
15 The erle furth thane his way has tane
And till his schipping is he gayn
And sayllyt weill out-our the se.
Intill Scotland sone aryvit he,
Syne till the king he went in hy,
20 And he resavyt him glaidsumly
And speryt of his brodyr fayr
And of journayis that thai had thar,
And he him tauld all but lesing.
Quhen the king left had the spering
25 His charge to the gud king tauld he,
And he said he wald blythly se
Hys brother and se the affer
Off that cuntre and off thar wer.
A gret mengye then gaderyt he,
30 And twa lordys of gret bounte
The tane the Stewart Walter was
The tother James of Douglas
Wardanys in his absence maid he
For to maynteyme wele the countre,
35 Syne to the se he tuk the way
And at Lochriane in Galloway
He schippyt with all his menye,
To Cragfergus sone cummyn is he.
Schyr Edward of his come wes blyth
40 And went doun to mete him swyth
And welcummyt him with glaidsome cher,
Sa did he all that with him wer
And specially the erle Thomas
Off Murreff that his nevo was,
45 Syne till the castell went thai yar
And maid thaim mekill fest and far.
Thai sojournyt that dayis thre
And that in myrth and jolyte.
[...] Read more
poem by John Barbour
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The Brus Book X
[Preparations for battle against John of Lorn]
Quhen Thomas Randell on this wis
Wes takyn as Ik her devys
And send to dwell in gud keping
For spek that he spak to the king,
The gud king that thocht on the scaith
The dispyt and felny bath
That Jhone off Lorne had till him doyn
His ost assemblyt he then sone
And towart Lorn he tuk the way
With his men intill gud aray.
Bot Jhone off Lorn off his cummyng
Lang or he come had wittering,
And men on ilk sid gadryt he
I trow twa thousand thai mycht be
And send thaim for to stop the way
Quhar the gud king behovyt away,
And that wes in an evill plas
That sa strayt and sa narow was
That twasum samyn mycht nocht rid
In sum place off the hillis sid.
The nethyr halff was peralous
For schor crag hey and hydwous
Raucht to the se doun fra the pas,
On athyr halff the montane was
Sua combrous hey and stay
That it was hard to pas that way.
I trow nocht that in all Bretane
Ane heyar hill may fundyn be.
Thar Jhone off Lorne gert his menye
Enbuschyt be abovyn the way,
For giff the king held thar away
He thocht he suld sone vencussyt be,
And himselff held him apon the se
Weill ner the pais with his galayis.
Bot the king that in all assayis
Wes fundyn wys and avisé
Persavyt rycht weill thar sutelte,
And that he neid that gait suld ga.
His men departyt he in twa
And till the gud lord off Douglas
Quham in herbryd all worschip was
He taucht the archerys everilkane
And this gud lord with him has tane
Schyr Alysander Fraser the wycht,
And Wylyam Wysman a gud knycht
And with thaim syne Schyr Androw Gray.
Thir with thar mengne held thar way
And clamb the hill deliverly
And or thai off the tother party
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poem by John Barbour
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The Brus Book IX
[The king goes to Inverurie and falls ill]
Now leve we intill the Forest
Douglas that sall bot litill rest
Till the countre deliveryt be
Off Inglis folk and thar powste,
5 And turne we till the noble king
That with the folk off his leding
Towart the Month has tane his wai
Rycht stoutly and intill gud array,
Quhar Alysander Frayser him met
10 And als his broder Symonet
With all the folk thai with thaim had.
The king gud contenance thaim made
That wes rycht blyth off thar cummyne.
Thai tauld the king off the convyne
15 Off Jhone Cumyn erle of Bouchane
That till help him had with him tane
Schyr Jhon Mowbray and other ma,
Schyr David off Brechyn alsua,
With all the folk off thar leding,
20 'And yarnys mar na ony thing
Vengeance off you, schyr king, to tak
For Schyr Jhone the Cumyn his sak
That quhylum in Drumfres wes slayn.'
The king said, 'Sa our Lord me sayn,
25 Ik had gret caus him for to sla,
And sen that thai on hand will ta
Becaus off him to werray me
I sall thole a quhile and se
On quhat wys that thai pruve thar mycht,
30 And giff it fall that thai will fycht
Giff thai assaile we sall defend,
Syne fall eftre quhat God will send.'
Eftre this spek the king in hy
Held straucht his way till Enrowry,
35 And thar him tuk sik a seknes
That put him to full hard distress.
He forbar bath drynk and mete,
His men na medicyne couth get
That ever mycht to the king availe,
40 His force gan him halyly faile
That he mycht nother rid na ga.
Then wyt ye that his men war wa,
For nane wes in that cumpany
That wald haiff bene halff sa sary
45 For till haiff sene his broder ded
Lyand befor him in that steid
As thai war for his seknes,
For all thar confort in him wes.
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poem by John Barbour
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Through the eyes of a Field Coronet (Epic)
Introduction
In the kaki coloured tent in Umbilo he writes
his life’s story while women, children and babies are dying,
slowly but surely are obliterated, he see how his nation is suffering
while the events are notched into his mind.
Lying even heavier on him is the treason
of some other Afrikaners who for own gain
have delivered him, to imprisonment in this place of hatred
and thoughts go through him to write a book.
Prologue
The Afrikaner nation sprouted
from Dutchmen,
who fought decades without defeat
against the super power Spain
mixed with French Huguenots
who left their homes and belongings,
with the revocation of the Edict of Nantes.
Associate this then with the fact
that these people fought formidable
for seven generations
against every onslaught that they got
from savages en wild animals
becoming marksmen, riding
and taming wild horses
with one bullet per day
to hunt a wild antelope,
who migrated right across the country
over hills in mass protest
and then you have
the most formidable adversary
and then let them fight
in a natural wilderness
where the hunter,
the sniper and horseman excels
and any enemy is at a lost.
Let them then also be patriotic
into their souls,
believe in and read
out of the word of God
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poem by Gert Strydom
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Vae Victis parody Gilles Menage Thomas Hood Faithless Nellie Gray
Vae Victis
Good people all, with one accord
lament for David Wren,
who never wanted a good word –
from those his praise did pen.
He strove all of this House to please
with manners wondrous winning;
and never followed wicked ways –
except when he was sinning.
At meals, in slacks and jackets neat,
with smile of monstrous size;
he sat up straight upon his seat –
for ladies, though, he’d rise.
His love was sought, the little wren,
by twenty birds and more;
where e’er he went they followed him
to Annesley’s shady shore.
So let us sigh, in sorrow sore,
for South House well may say;
had he but slaved in school some more,
he had not sobbed today.
14 December 1969 University of Toronto, Victoria College
Parody Gilles MENAGE - The Happy Man Oliver GOLDSMITH – Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog Thomas HOOD Faithless Nellie Gray and Sally Brown
robi3_0002_mena1_0001 19691214
Faithless Ben Simon
Ben Simon was a broker bold
who’d turned his share of crashes,
the recent slump his stumps had bowled
with shares returned to ashes.
Then as they hammered him from ‘Change,
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Everybody Knows Why The Children Are Hungry
Everybody knows why the children are hungry.
Everybody knows why the poor give up dreaming
and the rich can't sleep without surveillance.
Everybody knows why this young girl can't read
and the Taliban throw acid in her face.
Everybody knows why this young boy
at twelve years old
feels about as heroic as a statistic
and looks at the future as if
he were already a has-been.
Everybody knows why there's a rifle in his hand.
Everybody knows why
there are people washed up
on the streets of our cities
as if a great ship of state had gone down
like a garbage barge off the coast of New Jersey.
Everybody knows why
women are being sexually colonized
in the Democratic Republic of the mineral-rich Congo.
Everybody knows their atrocities
like serial killers and baseball cards.
You read a lot of existentialism
that prefers existence to essence
but you still find it hard to picture the abyss
that defines being as a special case of nothingness:
look into a dead child's eyes
look into a dead child's mind
look at what she cherished about life
like a cosmology all of her own
a myth of origin
a reason for stars
rejected by the metaphysics of the flies
that gather like punctuation marks all over her eyes.
Everybody knows
why the truth is veiled in spider-webs
that are maintained like political systems
who let the few who know how to spin silk out of their ass
eat everyone.
New eyes for old lamps
here comes this year's candidates
like autumn to the ballot-box
like worms to a windfall of apples
to improve the lives of illegal immigrants
by privatizing concentration camps.
Everybody wants to stick their thumb in plum pudding
and say what a good boy am I
and everybody forgets who they stole it from
and everybody regrets that they didn't get caught
in time to do it all over again
as they address themselves like greed
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poem by Patrick White
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The King Of Brentford’s Testament
The noble King of Brentford
Was old and very sick,
He summon'd his physicians
To wait upon him quick;
They stepp'd into their coaches
And brought their best physick.
They cramm'd their gracious master
With potion and with pill;
They drench'd him and they bled him;
They could not cure his ill.
'Go fetch,' says he, 'my lawyer,
I'd better make my will.'
The monarch's royal mandate
The lawyer did obey;
The thought of six-and-eightpence
Did make his heart full gay.
'What is't,' says he, 'your Majesty
Would wish of me to-day?'
'The doctors have belabor'd me
With potion and with pill:
My hours of life are counted,
O man of tape and quill!
Sit down and mend a pen or two,
I want to make my will.
'O'er all the land of Brentford
I'm lord, and eke of Kew:
I've three-per-cents and five-per-cents;
My debts are but a few;
And to inherit after me
I have but children two.
Prince Thomas is my eldest son,
A sober Prince is he,
And from the day we breech'd him
Till now, he's twenty-three,
He never caused disquiet
To his poor Mamma or me.
'At school they never flogg'd him,
At college, though not fast,
Yet his little-go and great-go
He creditably pass'd,
And made his year's allowance
For eighteen months to last.
'He never owed a shilling.
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poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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