Luyện nghe bài hát The Irish Ballad

Now I'd like to turn to the folk song, 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. 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 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 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 seem to
Singing fifty verses of on top of old smokey is twice as enjoyable as twenty-five.

This type of song also has what is known technically in music as a 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 though does 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 illiteracy charm.

Oh, one more thing. one of the more important aspects of 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 appreciate it if you would leave -- now.

About a maid I'll a song,
rickety-tickety-tin,
About a maid I'll sing a
Who didn't have her long.
Not did she do them wrong,
She did ev'ryone of in, them in,
She did of them in.

One in a fit of pique,
rickety-tickety-tin,
One in a fit of pique,
She her father in the creek.
The tasted 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 she cold never stand,
And so a cyanide she planned.
The mother died with a in her hand,
And her face in a grin, a grin,
Her in a hideous 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 brother down stones,
Rickety-tickety-tin,
She her brother down with stones,
And sent him off to jones.
All they ever were some bones,
And occasional of skin, of skin,
Occasional 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 neighbors in, in,
Invited the 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 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 should never let me begin, begin,
You should never let me begin.