Luyện nghe bài hát The Irish Ballad

Now I'd like to to the folk song, which 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 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 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 refrain, in this case ricket
Kety-tin you'll notice cropping up from time to time, running through, I might add, verses. the large number of verses being a feature expressly designed to please the true devotees
He song who seem to find
fifty 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 benefit of any layman who may have wandered in this -- that I play a wrong note ever
And then.

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

I, ah, I really 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 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 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 have her family long.
Not only did she do wrong,
She did ev'ryone of 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 make do gin, with gin,
We had to do with gin.

Her mother she could stand,
rickety-tickety-tin,
Her mother she never stand,
And so a cyanide 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 sister's on fire,
rickety-tickety-tin,
She set her hair on fire,
And as the smoke and flame high'r,
Danced around the pyre,
a violin, -olin,
a violin.

She weighted her brother down stones,
Rickety-tickety-tin,
She weighted her brother down stones,
And sent him off to jones.
All they ever found were bones,
And pieces 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 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 police 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,
You've yourselves to if it's too long,
You never have let me begin, begin,
You never have let me begin.