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 of idiocy among the self-styled intellectual. we find that people who deplore the level
Rrent popular songs -- although I admit 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 jimmy 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, 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 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 folk song who 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 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 - 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 with 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 for group singing. so if any of you feel like joining i
H me on this song, I'd appreciate it if you leave -- right now.

About a maid I'll a song,
rickety-tickety-tin,
About a I'll sing a song
Who didn't her family long.
Not only did she do wrong,
She did of them in, them in,
She did of them 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 do with 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 with a spoon in her hand,
And her in a hideous 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,
Danced the funeral pyre,
a violin, -olin,
a violin.

She weighted her down with stones,
Rickety-tickety-tin,
She weighted her brother down stones,
And him off to davy jones.
All they ever found were 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 brother in two,
And him up as an irish stew,
And invited the neighbors in, in,
the neighbors in.

And when at the police came by,
rickety-tickety-tin,
And at last the police came by,
Her little 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,
You've yourselves to blame if too long,
You should have let me begin, begin,
You should have let me begin.