Luyện nghe bài hát The Irish Ballad

Now I'd like to turn to the 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 anything these days. have you 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 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
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 folk song who seem to
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 wandered in this -- that I play a wrong note ever
And then.

This song though does differ strikingly from the genuine folk 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 illiteracy charm.

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

About a I'll 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 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 water bad for a week,
And we had to do with gin, with 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 sister's on fire,
rickety-tickety-tin,
She set her sister's on fire,
And as the smoke and rose high'r,
Danced the funeral pyre,
a violin, -olin,
a violin.

She weighted her brother with stones,
Rickety-tickety-tin,
She weighted her brother down stones,
And him off to davy jones.
All they ever were some bones,
And pieces of skin, of skin,
Occasional 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 police by,
rickety-tickety-tin,
And when at the police came 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 tale I won't prolong,
And if you do not the song,
You've yourselves to blame if too long,
You never have let me begin, begin,
You never have let me begin.