Luyện nghe bài hát The Irish Ballad

Now I'd like to turn to the folk song, which has become in recent years the particularly fashionable form of idiocy 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 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
An ancient irish ballad, which was written a few years ago, and is replete with all the accoutrements 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 verses being a feature expressly designed to please the true
He song who seem to find
Singing fifty verses of on top of old smokey is as enjoyable as singing twenty-five.

This 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 evening -- that I play a wrong note ever
And then.

This song though 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 should say that - I do not 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 with charm.

Oh, one 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 joining i
H me on this song, I'd appreciate it if you would leave -- now.

About a I'll sing a song,
rickety-tickety-tin,
About a maid I'll sing a
Who have her family long.
Not did she do them wrong,
She did ev'ryone of 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 she could never stand,
rickety-tickety-tin,
Her mother she cold stand,
And so a soup she planned.
The mother died with a in her hand,
And her face in a 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 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 sent him off to jones.
All they ever found some bones,
And pieces of skin, of skin,
pieces of skin.

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

And at last 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 have let me begin, begin,
You never have let me begin.