Luyện nghe bài hát The Irish Ballad

Now I'd like to turn to the folk song, which has 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. have you heard sesue hayakawa's record of pearl harbor? these same people who deplore th
El of current popular 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 with all the accoutrements of this art form. in particular, it has a sort of idiotic refrain, in this case ricket
you'll notice cropping up from time to time, running through, I might add, interminable verses. the large number of verses being a feature expressly designed to please the true devotees
He folk song who seem to
Singing fifty of on top of old smokey is twice as enjoyable as singing twenty-five.

This type of song also has 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 the genuine folk ballad in that in this song the words 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 folk song lovers, but merely against that peculiar hard core who seem to equate with artisti
It and with charm.

Oh, one more thing. one of the more important aspects of public folk singing is 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 leave -- right now.

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

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

Her mother she could stand,
rickety-tickety-tin,
Her mother she cold stand,
And so a cyanide she planned.
The mother with a spoon in her hand,
And her face in a grin, a grin,
Her face in a grin.

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

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

And when at the police came by,
rickety-tickety-tin,
And when at last the police by,
Her pranks 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,
You've yourselves to blame if too long,
You should never let me begin, begin,
You never have let me begin.