Luyện nghe bài hát The Irish Ballad

Now I'd 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 level
Rrent popular songs -- although I admit they do seem to be recording almost anything days. have you heard sesue hayakawa's record of remember pearl harbor? these same people who deplore th
El of current popular 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 have
An ancient irish ballad, which 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 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 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 wandered 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 words 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 authenticity with artisti
It and with charm.

Oh, one more thing. one of the more important aspects of public folk 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 I'll a song,
rickety-tickety-tin,
About a maid sing a song
Who have her family long.
Not only did she do wrong,
She did ev'ryone of 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 make do gin, with gin,
We had to make do gin.

Her she could never stand,
rickety-tickety-tin,
Her mother she cold 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 sister's on fire,
rickety-tickety-tin,
She set her sister's on fire,
And as the and flame 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 found some bones,
And occasional of skin, of skin,
pieces of skin.

One day she had nothing to do,
rickety-tickety-tin,
One day she had nothing to do,
She cut her brother in two,
And served him up as an stew,
And invited the in, -bors in,
the neighbors in.

And when at last the came by,
rickety-tickety-tin,
And when at last the came by,
Her little 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 tale I 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.