Luyện nghe bài hát The Irish Ballad

Now I'd like to turn to the folk song, which has in recent years the particularly fashionable form of idiocy among the self-styled intellectual. we find that people who deplore the level
Rrent popular -- 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 same people who deplore th
El of current popular songs and yet will sit around enthralled singing jimmy crack corn and I don't care or green grow the rushes, oh! -- whatever means. at any rate, for this elite I have
An ancient irish ballad, which was written a few years ago, and which is replete all the accoutrements of this art form. in particular, it has a sort of idiotic refrain, in this case ricket
Kety-tin you'll 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 devotees
He folk song who to find
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 modal tune, which means -- for the benefit of any layman who may have wandered in evening -- that I play a wrong note ever
And then.

This song though does differ strikingly from the genuine folk ballad in that in song the words which are supposed to rhyme - actually do.

I, ah, I 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 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 song for group singing. so if any of you like joining i
H me on this song, I'd appreciate it if you would -- 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 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 drowned her in the creek.
The water bad for a week,
And we had to make do gin, with gin,
We had to do with gin.

Her mother she never stand,
rickety-tickety-tin,
Her mother she cold stand,
And so a cyanide she planned.
The died with a spoon in her hand,
And her in a hideous 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 flame high'r,
around the funeral pyre,
a violin, -olin,
a violin.

She weighted her brother down stones,
Rickety-tickety-tin,
She weighted her down with stones,
And sent him off to jones.
All they ever found 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 in, -bors in,
Invited the in.

And when at the police came by,
rickety-tickety-tin,
And when at the police 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 tale, I won't prolong,
Rickety-tickety-tin,
My tragic I won't prolong,
And if you do not the song,
You've yourselves to if it's too long,
You should have let me begin, begin,
You never have let me begin.