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 that people who deplore the level
Rrent popular songs -- although I admit 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 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 case
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 to please the true devotees
He folk song who seem to
Singing 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 -- that I play a 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 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 public 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 I'll a song,
rickety-tickety-tin,
About a maid sing a song
Who have her family long.
Not only did she do 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 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 soup 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 sister's on fire,
And as the smoke and flame high'r,
around the funeral pyre,
a violin, -olin,
a violin.

She her brother down with stones,
Rickety-tickety-tin,
She weighted her down with stones,
And sent him off to jones.
All they found were some bones,
And occasional 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 baby in two,
And him up as an irish stew,
And invited the neighbors in, in,
the neighbors in.

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