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Rover Chronicle

The rover leaves his home
Leaving his father with right hand
Leaving his mother with left hand
Leaving his brother with right foot
Leaving his childhood with left foot

He moves forward and release the burden
Put the cushion from his back
Put the robe from his shoulder
Put the wine from his waist

The rover goes and sacrifices all
Sacrifice his fellowship
Sacrifice his lover
Sacrifice his soul

He still moves forward though lost everything
The Gods condemn him
All mothers wail over him

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poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Bill And Rover

The old black labrador Rover his muzzle it is gray
And looking at him one would know he has known a better day
His master Bill too looking gray the years on him do show
I often see them in the park they both are walking slow
Old Rover not the dog he was when he was in his prime
His end for him not far away he's running out of time
His sense of scent remains quite keen though his sight is beginning to fail
Yet he remains a friendly dog even at strangers he wags his tail
His master Bill says Rover is thirteen for a dog in years that's getting on
His prime lost in the passing time his better days are long gone
All forms of life as we know well are only born to die
That is a simple fact of life and facts do never lie
Down the gravel path of the Townpark the old dog and the old man
Walk slowly in the evening sun time has stripped them of elan.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Roamin' Free

The miser sits beside his hoard,
The lover tarries by his bride,
And he who neither may afford
Is free to roam the whole world wide.
Ye prate of cares, of plans amiss;
With voices grave and faces long;
While I - I ask of life but this
To drink, to kiss, to troll a song

And rove a-roamin', roamin' free
A-ringin' in the changes.
Why linger here to waste a tear
When joy awaits o'er the ranges?
Why tarry there to nurse a care
When golden days are over?
For far and wide, where men abide,
There's welcome for the rover.

Who seeks to earn a life of ease:
For honor, wealth, and fame exist;

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Lead Balloon

Kiss my ass! I said
And I threw my drink
Tequila trickling
Down his business suit
Must be the irish blood
Fight before you think
Turn it now
You cant cowtow
You cant undo it
Its his town
And that went down
Like a lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
He said sic her, rover
That went over
Like a lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon
An angry man is just an angry man
But an angry woman

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song performed by Joni Mitchell
Added by Lucian Velea
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Peter Bell, A Tale

PROLOGUE

There's something in a flying horse,
There's something in a huge balloon;
But through the clouds I'll never float
Until I have a little Boat,
Shaped like the crescent-moon.

And now I 'have' a little Boat,
In shape a very crescent-moon
Fast through the clouds my boat can sail;
But if perchance your faith should fail,
Look up--and you shall see me soon!

The woods, my Friends, are round you roaring,
Rocking and roaring like a sea;
The noise of danger's in your ears,
And ye have all a thousand fears
Both for my little Boat and me!

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poem by William Wordsworth
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A Knock

Black Rover and Red Rover,
The crystal ball is clear to me;
Then, i suddenly heard a knock at the door!
There she stood like the beauty of the moon,
And the heavens were opened to me and i saw the beauty of her love.
Like the expanse of dazzling crystal,
There is a bright future for me on this love.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Fickle Breeze

Sighing softly to the river
Comes the loving breeze,
Setting nature all a-quiver,
Rustling through the trees!
And the brook in rippling measure
Laughs for very love,
While the poplars, in their pleasure,
Wave their arms above!
River, river, little river,
May thy loving prosper ever.
Heaven speed thee, poplar tree,
May thy wooing happy be!

Yet, the breeze is but a rover,
When he wings away,
Brook and poplar mourn a lover!
Sighing well-a-day!
Ah, the doing and undoing
That the rogue could tell!
When the breeze is out a-wooing,

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poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Adventure

Out of the wood my White Knight came:
His eyes were bright with a bitter flame,
As I clung to his stirrup leather;
For I was only a dreaming lad,
Yet oh, what a wonderful faith I had!
And the song in my heart was never so glad,
As we took to the trail together.

"Friends and lovers, good-bye," I said;
Never once did I turn my head,
Though wickedly wild the weather
min were the rover's rags and scars,
And the rover's bed beneath the stars,
But never the shadow of prison bars,
As we ranged the world together.

Dreary and darkling was the trail,
But my Knight was clad in a gleaming mail,
And he plucked from his plume a feather.
And oh how foolishly proud was I!

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poem by Robert William Service
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The Rovers

Over the fields we go, through the sweets of the purple clover,
That letters a message for us as for every vagrant rover;
Before us the dells are abloom, and a leaping brook calls after,
Feeling its kinship with us in lore of dreams and laughter.

Out of the valleys of moonlight elfin voices are calling;
Down from the misty hills faint, far greetings are falling;
Whisper the grasses to us, murmuring gleeful and airy,
Knowing us pixy-led, seeking the haunts of faery.

The wind is our joyful comrade wherever our free feet wander,
Over the tawny wolds to the meres and meadows yonder;
The mild-eyed stars go with us, or the rain so swiftly flying,
Racing us over the wastes where the hemlocks and pines are sighing.

Across the upland dim, down through the beckoning hollow­
Oh, we go too far and fast for the feet of care to follow!
The gypsy fire in our hearts for the wilderness wide and luring;
Other loves may fail but this is great and enduring.

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poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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Border Years.

I`ve watched the trees.
Always thought they knew
More than they said.
I tried to stand
Inside another man.
But I`ve always been only me.
Well you got a Rover.
Because someone told you
The world will be over in
Ten years,
Come next tuesday.
And their best
For running away
From bombs.
Heard the creaking gate
Of an old leaking lady`s fate.
Tales.
Sat under empty days
Feeling my scars.
All that`s been learnt

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poem by Peter Vealey
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