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 people who deplore the level
Rrent popular songs -- although I admit they do seem to be recording almost anything these days. have you heard sesue hayakawa's record of remember 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 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 case
Kety-tin you'll notice cropping up from time to time, running through, I might add, interminable verses. the number of verses being a feature expressly designed to please the true devotees
He song who seem 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 technically in music as a modal tune, which means -- for the benefit of any layman who may have wandered in this evening -- I play a wrong note ever
And then.

This song though does differ strikingly 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 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 song, I'd appreciate it if you would leave -- right now.

About a maid sing a song,
rickety-tickety-tin,
About a maid sing a song
Who didn't have her 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 tasted bad for a week,
And we had to do with gin, with gin,
We had to make do gin.

Her mother she never stand,
rickety-tickety-tin,
Her mother she cold stand,
And so a cyanide she planned.
The mother died with a 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 hair 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 her brother down with stones,
And sent him off to jones.
All they found were some bones,
And pieces 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 baby in two,
And him up as an irish stew,
And the neighbors in, -bors in,
Invited the in.

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