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 self-styled intellectual. we find that people who deplore the
Rrent popular songs -- I admit they 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 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 which is replete with all the accoutrements of 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 add, interminable verses. the large number of verses being a feature expressly designed to please the true devotees
He song who seem to find
Singing fifty verses of on top of old 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 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 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 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 it if you would leave -- right now.

About a maid 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 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 drowned her in the creek.
The water bad for a week,
And we had to make do gin, with gin,
We had to make do gin.

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

She weighted her brother with stones,
Rickety-tickety-tin,
She weighted her down with stones,
And him off to davy jones.
All they ever found some bones,
And occasional 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 invited the neighbors in, in,
the neighbors in.

And when at the police 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 I won't prolong,
And if you do not the song,
yourselves to blame if it's too long,
You never have let me begin, begin,
You should never let me begin.