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 these days. have you heard sesue hayakawa's record of remember pearl harbor? these 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 devotees
He folk who seem to find
Singing fifty verses of on top of old smokey is as enjoyable as singing twenty-five.

This type of song 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 -- that I play a wrong note ever
And then.

This song though does differ strikingly from the genuine folk ballad in 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 authenticity artisti
It and illiteracy 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 song for group singing. so if any of you feel joining i
H me on this song, I'd appreciate it if you leave -- right now.

About a maid sing a song,
rickety-tickety-tin,
About a I'll sing a song
Who didn't have her 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 her father 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 could stand,
rickety-tickety-tin,
Her mother she cold stand,
And so a soup she planned.
The died 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 around the pyre,
a violin, -olin,
a violin.

She weighted her down with stones,
Rickety-tickety-tin,
She weighted her down with stones,
And him off to davy 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 when she had 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 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 tale, I won't prolong,
Rickety-tickety-tin,
My tragic I won't prolong,
And if you do not the song,
You've to blame if it's too long,
You should have let me begin, begin,
You should have let me begin.