General Chat

I guess he did, Caroline, cos the only one I can recall ever remembering it all was my Dad. He was excused gardening lessons (which he hated) and given a poetry book to learn from every week. If he could recite the chosen poem to the teacher at the end of the session, he was excused the following week.

He hated gardening so consequently knew lots of poems. :-D

Show off....you googled that really didn't you... :-D :-D

Now that evokes memories; I had to learn at least part of that poem at school, as did my daughter many years later


The Highwayman


By Alfred Noyes










The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.


The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.


The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,


And the highwayman came riding—


Riding—riding—


The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.





He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,


A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.


They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.


And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,


His pistol butts a-twinkle,


His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.





Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.


He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.


He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there


But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,


Bess, the landlord’s daughter,


Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.





And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked


Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.


His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,


But he loved the landlord’s daughter,


The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.


Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—





“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,


But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;


Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,


Then look for me by moonlight,


Watch for me by moonlight,


I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”





He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,


But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand


As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;


And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,


(O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)


Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.











He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;


And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,


When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,


A red-coat troop came marching—


Marching—marching—


King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.





They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.


But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.


Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!


There was death at every window;


And hell at one dark window;


For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.





They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.


They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!


“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—


Look for me by moonlight;


Watch for me by moonlight;


I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!





She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!


She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!


They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years


Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,


Cold, on the stroke of midnight,


The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!





The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.


Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.


She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;


For the road lay bare in the moonlight;


Blank and bare in the moonlight;


And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.





Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;


Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?


Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,


The highwayman came riding—


Riding—riding—


The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.





Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!


Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.


Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,


Then her finger moved in the moonlight,


Her musket shattered the moonlight,


Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.





He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood


Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!


Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear


How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,


The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,


Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.





Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,


With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.


Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;


When they shot him down on the highway,


Down like a dog on the highway,


And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.





. . .





And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,


When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,


When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,


A highwayman comes riding—


Riding—riding—


A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.





Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.


He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.


He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there


But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,


Bess, the landlord’s daughter,


Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

I'm thinking the Highwayman is a tad older so you should be fine :-D

Allan, I know someone who had a head scan and they found nothing. :-D :-D :-D

Twasn't you, was it? :-S

I may change my name to Bess so I can climb up behind the highwayman on his horse and gallop away as in romantic times of yore (yore?).

But will he still love me, will he still like me now I'm 64 + ?

Allan has plenty of space to give he says his head is full of it.... :-D

Allan, I'd give Mr Trump plenty of space if I were you. :-0

Strewth, Dermot, leave room for us. :-0

Allan, I likes moy space. :-D

Luckily (unlike you two men), I can never remember all the verses of long poems but here's a wonderfully descriptive verse of The Highwayman. I like it so I can remember it.

And still of a winter's night they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn door.

Mr Trump consults with me :-D :-D

Listen to him.....all "It's my thread"......Power....not good for some.... :-D :-D

JoyLouise, it is my Thread and I will allocate space on an 'as needs' basis :-D :-D :-D

Gawd, Allan, leave room for us! :-0

Here's Dad's favourite - or at least one of the many he knew all the words to. I can only remember the first bit.

Jabberwocky

Twas brillig and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabes.
All mimsy were the borogroves
And the mome rates outgrabe.

Beware the jabberwock my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that snatch.
Beware the jujub bird and shun
The frumious bandersnatch.


Try typing it with the spelling corrector on. The writer has certainly beaten the person who created the corrector - they don't know it all, do they? :-D

That's a Grand One Dermot :-D :-D

See look what you started Allan......well done.....except not bland...but it's your thread....and well done Dermot :-)

Irish Political Nonsense.
In honour of Enda Kenny (TD/MP), who is the current Prime Minister of the Irish Republic. A Co.Mayo man of course - one of the lovelier Irish counties.
______________________________________________________

Enda, the local TD was elected to the Dail by a large majority vote.
He was so delighted by his win, to all his friends he wrote
A letter inviting them to come & dine with him
In the big hotel - the crowds came pouring in.

There were tall men, small men, bald men, football men, Fianna Fail men,
There were bail men, salesmen, Fine Gael men, IRA men, NFA men, GAA men.
There were CIE men, ESB men, RTE men, BBC men, ITV men & EEC men.
There were Technicians, Opticians, Physicians, Magicians, Musicians, Electricians & Dieticians.

There were postmen, host men, propose-the-toast men.
There were teachers, preachers & men who were good readers.
There were bakers, undertakers & men who were fine coffin makers.
There were waiters, slaters & men who were good eaters.
There were shopkeepers, street sweepers, men who were good sleepers,
Great collectors, team selectors & men who were good electors.

There were pit men, well fit men, jurors, rulers, chauffeurs & gofers.
There were tailors, sailors, peelers, cattle dealers, joiners & golfers.
There were single men, married men & some who brought their wives along.
The women wore tall hats, small hats, green hats, easy-clean hats,
Leather hats, knitted hats & well fitted hats.

There were single dames there, well done up ones and well brought up ones.
Some had high heels, some had low heels & some had no heels.
Some wore mini skirts, skinny skirts, high skirts & low skirts.
Some you'd think wore no skirts.
Some of these were rousers, some wore trousers.
Some could step-dance, others could not dance
And more of them sported hot pants.

Well, some were sat eating, others were up & down greeting.
There were all kinds of nice cakes, ice cakes, sliced cakes & spice cakes.
With soup, we got brown rolls, some of them were round rolls.

Talk about munching & crunching & drinking,
There was no time for thinking.
The soup bowls were soon collected
and the next ones well selected.
We got ham & lamb, salmon & tomatoes in a bowl.
We got red sauce like lamb’s jam & potatoes in a roll.
There were rashers & canapés & carrots by the score.

We got roast beef & minced meat & cocks’ legs galore.
We had whiskey & brandy, tonic wine & shandy
Cherry wine & sherry wine & all sorts of berry wine.
We got fruit cocktail & peaches & then came the speeches.
Oh, manful shouting; they never heard such spouting
for the things that could happen, you never heard such clapping.

It was his intention to give everyone a pension
and there's no need to mention that went down very well.
All the bog land he'd drain & make a good playground
and plough up the lay land for potatoes we'd sell.

England would buy them & their chip shops would fry them
Or else we would dry them & wrap them up well.

Ah, but you know the TDs how they blow like a breeze.
They would empty the seas when an election is near.
They'd clap like the thunder & they'd hide every blunder.
But then they'd get lazy & take it quiet easy.

They'd drive you just crazy if you took any heed.
But they are all just the same & it's damn hard to blame them;
You wouldn't dare name them for there isn't much need.

:-D :-D :-D

One...no way is that bland
Two....well done
Three....hardly an empty head Allan!

And I have one of Edward Lear's poems going through mine about the Dong with a luminous nose;



When awful darkness and silence reign


Over the great Gromboolian plain,


Through the long, long wintry nights; —


When the angry breakers roar


As they beat on the rocky shore; —


When Storm-clouds brood on the towering heights


Of the Hills of the Chankly Bore: —





Then, through the vast and gloomy dark,


There moves what seems a fiery spark,


A lonely spark with silvery rays


Piercing the coal-black night, —


A Meteor strange and bright: —


Hither and thither the vision strays,


A single lurid light.





Slowly it wander, — pauses, — creeps, —


Anon it sparkles, — flashes and leaps;


And ever as onward it gleaming goes


A light on the Bong-tree stems it throws.


And those who watch at that midnight hour


From Hall or Terrace, or lofty Tower,


Cry, as the wild light passes along, —


"The Dong! — the Dong!


"The wandering Dong through the forest goes!


"The Dong! the Dong!


"The Dong with a luminous Nose!"





Long years ago


The Dong was happy and gay,


Till he fell in love with a Jumbly Girl


Who came to those shores one day.


For the Jumblies came in a sieve, they did, —


Landing at eve near the Zemmery Fidd


Where the Oblong Oysters grow,


And the rocks are smooth and gray.


And all the woods and the valleys rang


With the Chorus they daily and nightly sang, —


"Far and few, far and few,


Are the lands where the Jumblies live;


Their heads are green, and the hands are blue


And they went to sea in a sieve.





Happily, happily passed those days!


While the cheerful Jumblies staid;


They danced in circlets all night long,


To the plaintive pipe of the lively Dong,


In moonlight, shine, or shade.


For day and night he was always there


By the side of the Jumbly Girl so fair,


With her sky-blue hands, and her sea-green hair.


Till the morning came of that hateful day


When the Jumblies sailed in their sieve away,


And the Dong was left on the cruel shore


Gazing — gazing for evermore, —


Ever keeping his weary eyes on


That pea-green sail on the far horizon, —


Singing the Jumbly Chorus still


As he sate all day on the grassy hill, —


"Far and few, far and few,


Are the lands where the Jumblies live;


Their heads are green, and the hands are blue


And they went to sea in a sieve.





But when the sun was low in the West,


The Dong arose and said;


— "What little sense I once possessed


Has quite gone out of my head!" —


And since that day he wanders still


By lake and dorest, marsh and hills,


Singing — "O somewhere, in valley or plain


"Might I find my Jumbly Girl again!


"For ever I'll seek by lake and shore


"Till I find my Jumbly Girl once more!"





Playing a pipe with silvery squeaks,


Since then his Jumbly Girl he seeks,


And because by night he could not see,


He gathered the bark of the Twangum Tree


On the flowery plain that grows.


And he wove him a wondrous Nose, —


A Nose as strange as a Nose could be!


Of vast proportions and painted red,


And tied with cords to the back of his head.


— In a hollow rounded space it ended


With a luminous Lamp within suspended,


All fenced about


With a bandage stout


To prevent the wind from blowing it out; —


And with holes all round to send the light,


In gleaming rays on the dismal night.





And now each night, and all night long,


Over those plains still roams the Dong;


And above the wail of the Chimp and Snipe


You may hear the squeak of his plaintive pipe


While ever he seeks, but seeks in vain


To meet with his Jumbly Girl again;


Lonely and wild — all night he goes, —


The Dong with a luminous Nose!


And all who watch at the midnight hour,


From Hall or Terrace, or lofty Tower,


Cry, as they trace the Meteor bright,


Moving along through the dreary night, —


"This is the hour when forth he goes,


"The Dong with a luminous Nose!


"Yonder — over the plain he goes;


"He goes!


"He goes;


"The Dong with a luminous Nose!"

Sorry JoyLouise that's not bland for sure.....now I have that song going through my head...... :-( :-)