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I did Lassie for six years and I never had anybody come up to me and say, 'It made me want to be a farmer.'

quote by June Lockhart
Added by Lucian Velea
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Bonny Lassie O!

O the evening's for the fair, bonny lassie O!
To meet the cooler air and walk an angel there,
With the dark dishevelled hair,
Bonny lassie O!

The bloom's on the brere, bonny lassie O!
Oak apples on the tree; and wilt thou gang to see
The shed I've made for thee,
Bonny lassie O!

Tis agen the running brook, bonny lassie O!
In a grassy nook hard by, with a little patch of sky,
And a bush to keep us dry,
Bonny lassie O!

There's the daisy all the year, bonny lassie O!
There's the king-cup bright as gold, and the speedwell never cold,
And the arum leaves unrolled,
Bonny lassie O!

O meet me at the shed, bonny lassie O!
With a woodbine peeping in, and the roses like thy skin
Blushing, thy praise to win,
Bonny lassie O!

I will meet thee there at e'en, bonny lassie O!
When the bee sips in the bean, and grey willow branches lean,
And the moonbeam looks between,
Bonny lassie O!

poem by John Clare
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Purple Heather

(Intro not in English)
Oh the summer time is gone
And the leaves are sweetly turning
And the wild mountain thyme
Blooms across the purple heather
Will you go, lassie. go
If you will not go with me
I will never find another
To pick wild mountain thyme
All along the purple heather
Will you go, lassie, go
Lassie, go
I will build my love a tower
by the cool crystal waters
And I'll cling to her forever
Like the ivy to the heather
Will you go, lassie, go
*And we'll go together
To pick wild mountain thyme
All along the purple heather
Will you go, lassie, go
Lassie, go
(Not in English)
Will you go, lassie, go
(*Repeat)
And we'll all go together
Tp pull wild mountain thyme
All across the purple heather
Will you go, lassie, go
Lassie, go
Lassie, go

song performed by Rod Stewart
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Bonnie Lass o' Dundee

O' a' the toons that I've been in,
I dearly love Dundee,
It's there the bonnie lassie lives,
The lass I love to see. Her face is fair, broon is her hair,
And dark blue is her e'e,
And aboon a' the lasses e'er I saw,
There's nane like her to me
The bonnie broon-hair'd lassie o' Bonnie Dundee.

I see her in my night dreams,
Wi' her bonnie blue e'e,
And her face it is the fairest,
That ever I did see;
And aboon a' the lassies e'er I eaw,
There's nane like her to me,
For she makes my heart feel lichtsome,
And I'm aye richt glad to see
The bonnie broon-hair'd lassie o' Bonnie Dundee.

Her eyes, they beam with innocence,
Most lovely for to see,
And her heart it is as free from guile,
As a child on its mother's knee;
And aboon a' the lasses e'er I saw,
There's nane like her to me,
For she aye seems so happy, And has a blythe bhnk in her e'e
The bonnie broon-hair'd lassie o' Bonnie Dundee.

The lassie is tidy in her claes,
Baith neat and clean to see;
And her body's sma and slender,
And a neat foot has she;
And aboon a' the lassies e'er I saw,
There's nane like her to me
The bonnie broon-hair'd lassie o' Bonnie Dundee.

She sings like the nightingale,
Richt merrily, or a wee lintie,
Wi' its heart fou' o' glee,
And she's as frisky as a bee;
And aboon a' the lassies e'er I saw,
There's nane like her to me
The bonnie broon-hair'd lassie o' Bonnie Dundee.

The lassie is as handsome
As the lily on the lea,
And her mou' it is as red
As a cherry on the tree;
And she's a' the world to me,
The bonnie broon-hair'd lassie

[...] Read more

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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My Highland Lassie, O

Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair,
Shall ever be my muse's care;
Their titles a' are empty show;
Gie me my Highland Lassie, O.
Within the glen sae bushy, O,
Aboon the plain sae rushy, O,
I sit me down wi' right good will,
To sing my Highland Lassie, O.

Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine,
Yon palace and yon gardens fine!
The world then the love should know
I bear my Highland Lassie, O.
Within the glen...

But fickle fortune frowns on me,
And I maun cross the raging sea;
But while my crimson currents flow
I'll love my highland Lassie, O.
Within the glen...

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range,
I know her heart will never change,
For her bosom burns with honor's glow,
My faithful highland Lassie, O.
Within the glen...

For her I'll dare the billows' roar,
For her I'll trace a distant shore,
That Indian wealth may lustre throw
Around my Highland Lassie, O.
Within the glen...

She has my heart, she has my hand,
By sacred troth and honor's band!
Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low,
I'm thine, my highland Lassie, O.
Farewell the glen sae bushy, O!
Farewell the plain sae rushy, O!
To other lands I now must go,
To sing my Highland Lassie, O!

poem by Robert Burns
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Filippo Baldinucci on the Privilege of Burial

"No, boy, we must not"—so began
My Uncle (he's with God long since),
A-petting me, the good old man!
"We must not"—and he seemed to wince,
And lost that laugh whereto had grown
His chuckle at my piece of news,
How cleverly I aimed my stone—
"I fear we must not pelt the Jews!

"When I was young indeed,—ah, faith
Was young and strong in Florence too!
We Christians never dreamed of scathe
Because we cursed or kicked the crew.
But now, well, well! The olive-crops
Weighed double then, and Arno's pranks
Would always spare religious shops
Whenever he o'erflowed his banks!

"I'll tell you"—and his eye regained
Its twinkle—"tell you something choice!
Something may help you keep unstained
Your honest zeal to stop the voice
Of unbelief with stone-throw, spite
Of laws, which modern fools enact,
That we must suffer Jews in sight
Go wholly unmolested! Fact!

"There was, then, in my youth, and yet
Is, by our San Frediano, just
Below the Blessed Olivet,
A wayside ground wherein they thrust
Their dead,—these Jews,—the more our shame!
Except that, so they will but die,
Christians perchance incur no blame
In giving hogs a hoist to stye.

"There, anyhow, Jews stow away
Their dead; and,—such their insolence,—
Slink at odd times to sing and pray
As Christians do—all make-pretence!—
Which wickedness they perpetrate
Because they think no Christians see.
They reckoned here, at any rate,
Without their host: ha, ha, he, he!

"For, what should join their plot of ground
But a good Farmer's Christian field?
The Jews had hedged their corner round
With bramble-bush to keep concealed
Their doings: for the public road

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from Pacchiarotto (1876)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Taxes On The Farmer Feeds Us All

(traditional, adapted by ry cooder)
(d) - (a) - (e)
(a) we worked through spring and winter, through (d) summer and through (a) fall
But the mortgage worked the hardest and the (e) steadiest of us all
It (a) worked on nights and sundays, it (d) worked each holiday
(e) settled down among us and it never went (a) away
The farmer comes to town with his wagon broken down
The farmer is the man who feeds us all
If you only look and see I know you will agree
That the farmer is the man who feeds us all
(a) the farmer is the man, the farmer is the man
He buys on his credit until (e) fall
Then they (a) take him by the hand
And they (d) lead him from his land
And the (e) merchant is the man who gets it (a) all
The farmer is the man, the farmer is the man
He lives on his credit until fall
With the interest rates so high
Its a wonder he dont die
But the taxes on the farmer feeds us all
Well, the banker says hes broke and the merchant stops and smoke
But they forget that its the farmer that feeds them all
It would put them to the test if the farmer took a rest
And theyd know that its the farmer that feeds them all
The farmer is the man, the farmer is the man
Lives on his credit until fall
Well, his pants are wearing thin
His condition, its a sin
cause the taxes on the farmer feeds us all

song performed by Ry Cooder
Added by Lucian Velea
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Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman
Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,--
Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!
Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre.

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.

PART THE FIRST

I

In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,
Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre
Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward,
Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number.
Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant,
Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates
Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows.
West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields
Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward
Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains
Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic
Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended
There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.
Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of hemlock,
Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries.
Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projecting
Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway.
There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset
Lighted the village street and gilded the vanes on the chimneys,
Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles
Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden
Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Tale VII

THE WIDOW'S TALE.

To Farmer Moss, in Langar Vale, came down,
His only daughter, from her school in town;
A tender, timid maid! who knew not how
To pass a pig-sty, or to face a cow:
Smiling she came, with petty talents graced,
A fair complexion, and a slender waist.
Used to spare meals, disposed in manner pure,
Her father's kitchen she could ill endure:
Where by the steaming beef he hungry sat,
And laid at once a pound upon his plate;
Hot from the field, her eager brother seized
An equal part, and hunger's rage appeased;
The air surcharged with moisture, flagg'd around,
And the offended damsel sigh'd and frown'd;
The swelling fat in lumps conglomerate laid,
And fancy's sickness seized the loathing maid:
But when the men beside their station took,
The maidens with them, and with these the cook;
When one huge wooden bowl before them stood,
Fill'd with huge balls of farinaceous food;
With bacon, mass saline, where never lean
Beneath the brown and bristly rind was seen;
When from a single horn the party drew
Their copious draughts of heavy ale and new;
When the coarse cloth she saw, with many a stain
Soil'd by rude hinds who cut and came again -
She could not breathe; but with a heavy sigh,
Rein'd the fair neck, and shut th' offended eye;
She minced the sanguine flesh in frustums fine,
And wonder'd much to see the creatures dine;
When she resolved her father's heart to move,
If hearts of farmers were alive to love.
She now entreated by herself to sit
In the small parlour, if papa thought fit,
And there to dine, to read, to work alone -
'No!' said the Farmer in an angry tone;
'These are your school-taught airs; your mother's

pride
Would send you there; but I am now your guide. -
Arise betimes, our early meal prepare,
And, this despatch'd, let business be your care;
Look to the lasses, let there not be one
Who lacks attention, till her tasks be done;
In every household work your portion take,
And what you make not, see that others make:
At leisure times attend the wheel, and see
The whit'ning web besprinkled on the lea;

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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Tale XXI

The Learned Boy

An honest man was Farmer Jones, and true;
He did by all as all by him should do;
Grave, cautious, careful, fond of gain was he,
Yet famed for rustic hospitality:
Left with his children in a widow'd state,
The quiet man submitted to his fate;
Though prudent matrons waited for his call,
With cool forbearance he avoided all;
Though each profess'd a pure maternal joy,
By kind attention to his feeble boy;
And though a friendly Widow knew no rest,
Whilst neighbour Jones was lonely and distress'd;
Nay, though the maidens spoke in tender tone
Their hearts' concern to see him left alone,
Jones still persisted in that cheerless life,
As if 'twere sin to take a second wife.
Oh! 'tis a precious thing, when wives are dead,
To find such numbers who will serve instead;
And in whatever state a man be thrown,
'Tis that precisely they would wish their own;
Left the departed infants--then their joy
Is to sustain each lovely girl and boy:
Whatever calling his, whatever trade,
To that their chief attention has been paid;
His happy taste in all things they approve,
His friends they honour, and his food they love;
His wish for order, prudence in affairs,
An equal temper (thank their stars!), are theirs;
In fact, it seem'd to be a thing decreed,
And fix'd as fate, that marriage must succeed:
Yet some, like Jones, with stubborn hearts and

hard,
Can hear such claims and show them no regard.
Soon as our Farmer, like a general, found
By what strong foes he was encompass'd round,
Engage he dared not, and he could not fly,
But saw his hope in gentle parley lie;
With looks of kindness then, and trembling heart,
He met the foe, and art opposed to art.
Now spoke that foe insidious--gentle tones,
And gentle looks, assumed for Farmer Jones:
'Three girls,' the Widow cried, 'a lively three
To govern well--indeed it cannot be.'
'Yes,' he replied, 'it calls for pains and care:
But I must bear it.'--'Sir, you cannot bear;
Your son is weak, and asks a mother's eye:'
'That, my kind friend, a father's may supply.'

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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The Scottish Dance

I once had myself a Scottish Lassie
She then became my joy and pride
Then one-night she gave me Scottish ale
Then she became my Scottish bride

~We then danced around the table
We danced across the floor
We danced and danced all night long
And then we drank a little more~

She enjoyed to go out clubbing
Her family and mates I would meet
She was so exciting and loving
And when I grabbed her she said I was cheek...

I once had myself a Scottish Lassie
She was also my Scottish bride
She fed me Scottish eggs and Haggis
I got so sick I thought I had nearly died.

~So we danced around the table
We danced across the floor
We danced and danced all night long
And then we ate a little more.~

She took me out dancing
Where I would meet her friends and mates
She would drink and dance all night long
How I wished to go back to the states...

I once had myself a Scottish Lassie
She was also my Scottish wife
She told me she loved me with all of her heart
And together we would share the same life.

~So we danced around the table
We danced across the floor
We danced and danced all night long
And then we loved a little more~

I would take her out drinking
Every Friday and Saturday night
One thing she loved more than drinking or singing
My lassie she loved to argue and fight...

I once had myself a Scottish Lassie
But that was many years ago
I will always remember my Scottish Lassie
And the places that we use to go

[...] Read more

poem by Randy McClave
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Birks Of Aberfeldie, The

Now simmer blinks on flow'ry braes,
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays,
Come, let us spend the lightsome days
In the birks of Aberfeldie!
Bonnie lassie, will ye go,
Will ye go, will ye go,
Bonnie lassie, will ye go
To the birks of Aberfeldie?

The little birdies blithely sing,
While o'er their heads the hazels hing;
Or lightly flit on wanton wing
In the birks of Aberfeldie!
Bonnie lassie, will ye go...

The braes ascend like lofty wa's,
The foaming stream, deep-roaring, fa's,
O'er-hung wi' fragrant spreading shaws,
The birks of Aberfeldie.
Bonnie lassie, will ye go...

The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers,
White o'er the linns the burnie pours,
And, rising, weets wi' misty showers
The birks of Aberfeldie.
Bonnie lassie, will ye go...

Let Fortune's gifts at random flee,
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me,
Supremely blest wi' love and thee
In the birks of Aberfeldie.
Bonnie lassie, will ye go...

poem by Robert Burns
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The Birks Of Aberfeldy

Now simmer blinks on flow'ry braes,
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays,
Come, let us spend the lightsome days
In the birks of Aberfeldie!
Bonnie lassie, will ye go,
Will ye go, will ye go,
Bonnie lassie, will ye go
To the birks of Aberfeldie?

The little birdies blithely sing,
While o'er their heads the hazels hing;
Or lightly flit on wanton wing
In the birks of Aberfeldie!
Bonnie lassie, will ye go…

The braes ascend like lofty wa's,
The foaming stream, deep-roaring, fa's,
O'er-hung wi' fragrant spreading shaws,
The birks of Aberfeldie.
Bonnie lassie, will ye go…

The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers,
White o'er the linns the burnie pours,
And, rising, weets wi' misty showers
The birks of Aberfeldie.
Bonnie lassie, will ye go…

Let Fortune's gifts at random flee,
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me,
Supremely blest wi' love and thee
In the birks of Aberfeldie.
Bonnie lassie, will ye go…

poem by Robert Burns
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Purple Heather

Arranged by van morrison
Well the summertime has gone
And the leaves are gently turnin
And my love I wanna take you
To the place heart-a-yearnin
Will you go, lassie go
And well all go together
In the wild mountain thyme
All around the blooming heather
Will you go
And I will build my love a tower
At the foot of yonder mountain
And visit by the hour
From a lonely wooden tower
Will you go, lassie go
And well all go together
In the wild mountain thyme
All around the blooming heather
Come on
At the foot of yonder mountain
I will visit by the hour
With the lily of the valley
Go, will you go, lassie go
And well all go together
In the wild mountain thyme
All around the blooming heather
Will you go, lassie go
Will you go
Will you go, will you go
Will you go, lassie go

song performed by Van Morrison
Added by Lucian Velea
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Me & The Farmer

Me and the farmer get on fine
Through stormy weather and bottles of wine
If I pull my weight hell treat me well
But if Im late hell give me hell
And thought its all hard work no play
Farmer is a happy crook
Jesus hates him everyday
cause jesus gave and farmer took
{wont he let you go? } probably no
{wont he let you go? } probably no
{why does he treat you so? } I just dont know
{why does he treat you so? } I just dont know
Me and the farmer like brother, like sister
Getting on like hand and blister
Me and the farmer
Hes chpped down shppe, planted trees
And helped the countryside to breathe
Ripped up fields, bullied flocks
And workded his workers right around the clock
It may seem strange but hed admit
Intentions arent exactlly true
And through God loves his wife a bit
He hates the farmer through and through
{wont he let you go? } probably no
{wont he let you go? } probably no
{why does he treat you so? } I just dont know
{why does he treat you so? } I just dont know
Me and the farmer like brother, like sister
Getting on like hand and blister
Me and the farmer
All things bright and beautiful
All creatures gr3eat and small
All weve got is london zoo
cause farmer owns them all

song performed by Housemartins
Added by Lucian Velea
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Home invasion in Springs

Masked like the black criminals
that robs you of your car
and just there and there promises you death,
they arrived

with a mini bus taxi on the farm,
drove right through the farm gate
and at the front door
jumped out of the kombi

with five steps intruded into the house
to bring death to the farmer,
to rape the wife
and daughter.

The farmer heard the crash
at the gate,
he realized that it was big trouble
heard them in their own language command

to kill, while shot upon shot
was ringing from the front porch
and he though about the obliteration
of his whole family.

His wife was too far away
in the lounge busy with sewing
and he heard his daughter rushing screaming
to her mother

turned about hurried to the gun safe
and got hold of a pump action shotgun
with LG cartridges
and rushed down the hallway.

In the lounge four black criminals
aimed pistols at his daughter and wife
told them to strip themselves bare
and when they did not want to

one said to the others in his language
to kill them
while the farmer was sneaking
closer at the back of the lounge suite.

Just one glance from the farmer
made his wife and daughter fall to the ground
two shots came from the shotgun
lifting two of the gangsters right from their feet

[...] Read more

poem by Gert Strydom
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Now Im A Farmer

Ive got a spade and a pick-axe
Ive got a spade and a pick-axe
And a hundred miles square of land to churn about
And a hundred miles square of land to churn about
My old horse is weary but sincerely
My old horse is weary but sincerely
I believe that he can pull a plough
I believe that he can pull a plough
Well Ive moved into the jungle of the agriculture rumble,
Well Ive moved into the jungle of the agriculture rumble,
To grow my own food
To grow my own food
And Ill dig and plough and scrape the weeds
And Ill dig and plough and scrape the weeds
Till I succeed in seeing cabbage growing through
Till I succeed in seeing cabbage growing through
Now Im a farmer, and Im digging, digging, digging, digging, digging
Now Im a farmer, and Im digging, digging, digging, digging, digging
Now Im a farmer, and Im digging, digging, digging, digging, digging
Now Im a farmer, and Im digging, digging, digging, digging, digging
Its alarming how charming it is to be a-farming
Its alarming how charming it is to be a-farming
How calming and balming the effect of the air
How calming and balming the effect of the air
Well, I farmed for a year and grew a crop of corn
Well, I farmed for a year and grew a crop of corn
That stretched as far as the eye can see
That stretched as far as the eye can see
Thats a whole lot of cornflakes,
Thats a whole lot of cornflakes,
Near enough to feed new york till 1973
Near enough to feed new york till 1973
Cultivation is my station and the nation
Cultivation is my station and the nation
Buys my corn from me immediately
Buys my corn from me immediately
And holding sixty thousand bucks, I watch as dumper trucks
And holding sixty thousand bucks, I watch as dumper trucks
Tip new yorks corn flakes in the sea
Tip new yorks corn flakes in the sea
Now Im a farmer, and Im digging, digging, digging, digging, digging
Now Im a farmer, and Im digging, digging, digging, digging, digging
Now Im a farmer, and Im digging, digging, digging, digging, digging
Now Im a farmer, and Im digging, digging, digging, digging, digging
Its alarming how charming it is to be a-farming
Its alarming how charming it is to be a-farming
How calming and balming the effect of the air
How calming and balming the effect of the air
Now look here son
Now look here son

[...] Read more

song performed by Who
Added by Lucian Velea
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zy A Mousetrap (a Fable ~ Author Unknown)

A country mouse heard a rustling noise and looked through a crack in the wall to see what might be going on. He saw the farmer and his wife opening a box. To the mouse’s great dismay the box contained a mousetrap. Alarmed the mouse rushed out to the farmyard to spread a warning. “There is a mousetrap in the house! There is a mousetrap in the house! ”

The chicken, who had been clucking and scratching the earth, raised her head and said: “Mr. Mouse I can tell this is a grave concern to you, but it is of no consequence to me. So I shall not allow myself to be bothered by it.”

The mouse turned to the pig and told him: “There is a mousetrap in the house! There is a mousetrap in the house! The pig sympathized, but said; “I am so very sorry Mr. Mouse, but there is nothing I can do about it. Be assured however, that you will be in my prayers”.

Next the mouse went to the cow and repeated his alarm: “There is a mousetrap in the house! There is a mousetrap in the house! ”. The cow looked at him and said: “Gee Mr. Mouse that’s is to bad for you, but it’s no skin off my nose”.

Mr. Mouse returned to the farmhouse head down and dejected. Left to face the mousetrap alone. That very night the loud snap of a mousetrap snapping shut was heard throughout the farmhouse.

The farmers wife got up from bed and rushed out to see what had been caught in the trap. In the darkness she did not see that it was a venomous snake which had gotten its tail caught in the trap. As she stepped near the trap the snake struck out and bit her on her foot. The farmer rushed her to the hospital where the doctors gave the only treatment available but could not guarantee a full recovery. The farmer’s wife asked to be allowed to return to the farmhouse to recuperate.

Once home the farmer’s wife continued to feel ill. She developed a fever so the farmer, hoping to make her feel well, went out to the farmyard and killed the chicken to make his wife some soup. But her sickness continued and many friends and neighbors stopped by to wish her well and offer assistance. Grateful for their concern the farmer went out to the farmyard and slaughtered the pig so that he could feed the well-wishers.

Alas the farmer’s wife continued to decline in health and after some days she passed away. Knowing that many friends and relatives would arrive for the funeral the farmer had the cow butchered so that he would have meat to feed these mourners.

The mouse could only watch from his little crack in the wall. Saddened at the loss of his farmyard friends, but knowing that he had done all he could to warn them of the danger posed by the mousetrap.

The next time you hear someone is facing a problem and shares their concern with you, Remember the story of the Mr. Mouse and the mousetrap. We are all connected in life in what may seem mysterious ways, so when one of us is threatened we are all at risk.

Author Unknown

poem by Mary Havran
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Among the Hills

PRELUDE
ALONG the roadside, like the flowers of gold
That tawny Incas for their gardens wrought,
Heavy with sunshine droops the golden-rod,
And the red pennons of the cardinal-flowers
Hang motionless upon their upright staves.
The sky is hot and hazy, and the wind,
Vying-weary with its long flight from the south,
Unfelt; yet, closely scanned, yon maple leaf
With faintest motion, as one stirs in dreams,
Confesses it. The locust by the wall
Stabs the noon-silence with his sharp alarm.
A single hay-cart down the dusty road
Creaks slowly, with its driver fast asleep
On the load’s top. Against the neighboring hill,
Huddled along the stone wall’s shady side,
The sheep show white, as if a snowdrift still
Defied the dog-star. Through the open door
A drowsy smell of flowers-gray heliotrope,
And white sweet clover, and shy mignonette—
Comes faintly in, and silent chorus lends
To the pervading symphony of peace.
No time is this for hands long over-worn
To task their strength; and (unto Him be praise
Who giveth quietness!) the stress and strain
Of years that did the work of centuries
Have ceased, and we can draw our breath once more
Freely and full. So, as yon harvesters
Make glad their nooning underneath the elms
With tale and riddle and old snatch of song,
I lay aside grave themes, and idly turn
The leaves of memory’s sketch-book, dreaming o’er
Old summer pictures of the quiet hills,
And human life, as quiet, at their feet.

And yet not idly all. A farmer’s son,
Proud of field-lore and harvest craft, and feeling
All their fine possibilities, how rich
And restful even poverty and toil
Become when beauty, harmony, and love
Sit at their humble hearth as angels sat
At evening in the patriarch’s tent, when man
Makes labor noble, and his farmer’s frock
The symbol of a Christian chivalry
Tender and just and generous to her
Who clothes with grace all duty; still, I know
Too well the picture has another side,—
How wearily the grind of toil goes on
Where love is wanting, how the eye and ear
And heart are starved amidst the plenitude

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poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Lassie Come Home

Lonely boy
Gazing on the afternoon
People drifting cross the surface of the twilight day
Theres a little yellow man standing by the railway station
Painting portraits on the brickwalls of billie holloway
Lovely lady smile, dance, my dear, Im only operating on lassie come home
This was authentic you, she spoke, this was authentic you who blew me cold
She had no chance to realize, it hit her straight between the eyes, so Ive been told
In the park, shes giving out some photographs
On which shes giving out some photos of what she hands around
They videoed a ghost tonite, she said before I turned it off
It rode an orange paper bike and left without a sound
Keep on riding, sir, open up the door and shout it out
Lassie come home, come home
This was authentic you, she spoke, this was authentic you who blew, who blew me cold
I had no chance to realize, it hit her straight between the eyes, so Ive been told
Lonely girl
Dancing in a music hall
Lightning struck her silver starship and turned it into stone
And now shes falling all the time into that void beyond her grey eyes
Somewhere a telephone is ringing but nobodys at home
Hello, junkie sweetheart
Listen now, this is your captain calling
Your captain is dead
Keep on riding, sir, open up the door and shout it out, shout it out, shout it out shout it out
Lassie come home
This is your captain calling
Were falling all the time
All the time
Lassie come home
Gold/1982

song performed by Alphaville
Added by Lucian Velea
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Like Her Mum

She's just like her mum
Her dad did say,
As we sat and spoke for a bit.
So sad are the things
That she has done to you,
In my heart there is another candle unlit.
My poor little lassie
She has done it again
That son, is why that I am crying,
As what she has done to you
Was also done to me before,
And I too, felt like dying.
Her Mum whom I loved
With all of my heart
Did to me the very same things.
She went behind my back
More than once in our life
Then forgot about me and our rings.
All these excuses that she gave
And all the times that she lied
Finally came, and caught up with her.
Now she walks in her shame
From day unto day,
Never knowing what has, occurred.
But my poor young lassie
I pity her so
And the life that she is trying to live,
She will blame all of her faults
On her Mum and maybe even me
And now probably you, I do believe.
Inside of my own heart
As to me, her dad did speak
There are many candles that are unlit,
From the sadness that she caused
And the pain that she had dealt
My heart has became an empty pit.
And sadly I know one day
And it will be because of my Lassie
The candles will be gone, and I will had cried,
And this you will know my son
When my light and sunshine are gone
Of course so will I, as I will had died.
She is just like her Mum
Again her dad did say
As we had just finished our talk,
I can see it in her eyes
And I hear it when she speaks
I can even see it in her walk.
I feel so very sorry for you
What you have seen and what you have felt

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poem by Randy McClave
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