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 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 songs and yet will 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 might add, interminable verses. the number of verses being a feature expressly designed to please the true devotees
He folk who seem to find
Singing verses of on top of old smokey is twice as enjoyable as singing twenty-five.

This type of song also has what is known technically in music as a modal tune, which means -- for the 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 rhyme - do.

I, ah, I really should say - I do not direct these remarks against the vast army of folk 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 singing is audience participation, and this happens to be a good song for group singing. so if any of you feel like joining i
H me on this song, I'd appreciate it if you would -- right now.

a maid I'll sing a song,
rickety-tickety-tin,
About a I'll sing a song
Who didn't her family long.
Not did she do them wrong,
She did of them in, them in,
She did of them 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 make do with gin, gin,
We had to make do gin.

Her mother she never 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 face in a grin, a grin,
Her in a hideous grin.

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

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

One day when she had to do,
rickety-tickety-tin,
One day she had nothing to do,
She cut her baby in two,
And him up as an irish stew,
And the neighbors 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 tragic tale, I prolong,
Rickety-tickety-tin,
My tragic tale I prolong,
And if you do not the song,
You've yourselves to blame if too long,
You should have let me begin, begin,
You should never let me begin.