Luyện nghe bài hát The Irish Ballad

Now I'd like to turn to the folk song, has become in recent years the particularly fashionable form of idiocy among the self-styled intellectual. we find that people who deplore the level
Rrent popular songs -- although I admit they do seem to be recording almost anything these days. you heard sesue hayakawa's record of remember pearl harbor? these same people who deplore th
El of current popular songs and yet sit around enthralled singing jimmy crack corn and I don't care or green grow the rushes, oh! -- whatever that means. at any rate, for this elite I have
An ancient irish ballad, which was written a few years ago, and which is replete with all the accoutrements of this art form. in particular, it has a sort of idiotic refrain, in case ricket
Kety-tin you'll notice cropping up from time to time, running through, I add, interminable verses. the large number of verses being a feature expressly designed to please the true devotees
He song who seem to find
Singing fifty verses of on top of old smokey is twice as enjoyable as twenty-five.

This type of song has what is known technically in music as a modal tune, which means -- for the benefit of any layman who may have wandered in this evening -- that I play a wrong note ever
And then.

This song though does differ strikingly from the genuine folk ballad in that in this song the which are supposed to rhyme - actually do.

I, ah, I really should say that - I do not direct these remarks against the vast army of song lovers, but merely against that peculiar hard core who seem to equate authenticity with artisti
It and illiteracy charm.

Oh, one more thing. one of the more important aspects of public folk singing is audience participation, and this happens to be a good song for group singing. so if any of you feel like i
H me on this song, I'd appreciate it if you leave -- right now.

About a maid sing a song,
rickety-tickety-tin,
About a maid sing a song
Who have her family long.
Not only did she do wrong,
She did ev'ryone of them in, in,
She did of them in.

One in a fit of pique,
rickety-tickety-tin,
One in a fit of pique,
She drowned her in the creek.
The water bad for a week,
And we had to do with gin, with gin,
We had to make do gin.

Her mother she could stand,
rickety-tickety-tin,
Her she cold never stand,
And so a soup she planned.
The mother with a spoon in her hand,
And her in a hideous grin, a grin,
Her in a hideous grin.

She set her hair on fire,
rickety-tickety-tin,
She set her hair on fire,
And as the and flame rose high'r,
Danced around the pyre,
a violin, -olin,
a violin.

She her brother down with stones,
Rickety-tickety-tin,
She weighted her down with stones,
And him off to davy jones.
All they found were some bones,
And occasional of skin, of skin,
pieces of skin.

One day she had nothing to do,
rickety-tickety-tin,
One day when she had to do,
She cut her baby in two,
And served him up as an stew,
And invited the in, -bors in,
the neighbors in.

And when at last the police by,
rickety-tickety-tin,
And when at the police came by,
Her little she did not deny,
To do so she would had to lie,
And lying, she knew, was a sin, a sin,
Lying, she knew, was a sin.

My tragic tale, I prolong,
Rickety-tickety-tin,
My tragic I won't prolong,
And if you do not the song,
yourselves to blame if it's too long,
You should have let me begin, begin,
You never have let me begin.