Luyện nghe bài hát The Irish Ballad

Now I'd like to turn to the folk song, which has become in recent the particularly fashionable form of idiocy among the self-styled intellectual. we find that people who deplore the level
Rrent songs -- although I admit they do seem to be recording almost anything these days. have you heard sesue hayakawa's record of remember pearl harbor? these same people who deplore th
El of current popular songs and yet will sit around enthralled singing jimmy crack corn and I 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 of this art form. in particular, it has a sort of idiotic refrain, in this case ricket
Kety-tin you'll notice cropping up from time to time, running through, I might add, interminable verses. the large number of being a feature expressly designed to please the true devotees
He folk song who seem to
Singing verses of on top of old smokey is twice as enjoyable as singing 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 words which are supposed to - actually do.

I, ah, I really should say that - I do not direct these remarks against the vast army of folk song lovers, but merely against that peculiar hard who seem to equate authenticity with artisti
It and with 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 for group singing. so if any of you feel like joining i
H me on this song, I'd appreciate it if you would leave -- now.

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

One in a fit of pique,
rickety-tickety-tin,
One in a fit of pique,
She her father 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 mother she never stand,
And so a cyanide she planned.
The died with a spoon in her hand,
And her in a hideous grin, a grin,
Her face in a grin.

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

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

One day when she had to do,
rickety-tickety-tin,
One day when she had to do,
She cut her baby in two,
And him up as an irish stew,
And invited the in, -bors in,
Invited the in.

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

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