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 among the intellectual. we find that people who deplore the level
Rrent popular songs -- although I admit they do 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 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 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 to please the true devotees
He folk song who seem to
Singing fifty verses of on top of old smokey is 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 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 direct these 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 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 song, I'd appreciate it if you would 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 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 make do with gin, gin,
We had to do with gin.

Her she could never stand,
rickety-tickety-tin,
Her mother she never stand,
And so a soup she planned.
The mother died 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 hair on fire,
And as the smoke and rose high'r,
around the funeral pyre,
a violin, -olin,
a violin.

She her brother down with stones,
Rickety-tickety-tin,
She weighted her brother down stones,
And him off to davy jones.
All they found were some bones,
And occasional 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 served him up as an 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 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 tale I prolong,
And if you do not the song,
yourselves to blame if it's too long,
You should never let me begin, begin,
You never have let me begin.