General Chat

My nearest town - and he couldn't have been more right!!!!!!!!! Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough It isn't fit for humans now, There isn't grass to graze a cow Swarm over, Death! Come, bombs, and blow to smithereens Those air-conditioned, bright canteens, Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans Tinned minds, tinned breath. Mess up the mess they call a town -- A house for ninety-seven down And once a week for half-a-crown For twenty years, And get that man with double chin Who'll always cheat and always win, Who washes his repulsive skin In women's tears, And smash his desk of polished oak And smash his hands so used to stroke And stop his boring dirty joke And make him yell. But spare the bald young clerks who add The profits of the stinking cad; It's not their fault that they are mad, They've tasted Hell. It's not their fault they do not know The birdsong from the radio, It's not their fault they often go To Maidenhead And talk of sports and makes of cars In various bogus Tudor bars And daren't look up and see the stars But belch instead. In labour-saving homes, with care Their wives frizz out peroxide hair And dry it in synthetic air And paint their nails. Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough To get it ready for the plough. The cabbages are coming now; The earth exhales. -- John Betjeman

Does this count? The man in the moon Came down too soon And asked his way to Norwich He went by the south And burnt his mouth While eating cold pease porridge. Frances

i comes from up zummerzet(someset), well i was born in somerset,but now live in tasmania australia. my new wife's family are half scottish and half london although she herself never has left australia,she loves our poems and little ditties and axcents,so please keep them comin. its a great way for all to lurn and and appreciate our homeland.

I LIVE IN A HOUSE WE GOT A MOUSE WE GOT NO CAT SO THAT IS THAT

I've never lived there but I found this poem about the village where a number of my ancestors were from. It's by a Norfolk poet but Gedney Drove End is actually in Lincolnshire very near the coast of the Wash. It looks on the map as if it is miles from anywhere. This is a great thread Sue Gedney Drove End Through Swineshead and Sutterton and Gedney I drove us down the old river-bed road That was a part of leaving Norfolk: the theory Of desolation from the road-edge—how the wind Stripped their senses into dullness, or a test Of who made who, land or man, and found Some harsh male pact that drove the sea out, But fades—a spiritual will-o’-the-wisp And the misty kids gone crazy with incest Or sucking poppy seeds: their mothers picking Stones and weeds, cheeks red-veined early; All indistinct now from hearsay or reading— A view of communities on the outside only That overlooked the canning factory and new Houses sustained by love and money: And for me a string of places I went through To get elsewhere, but still surprised By this wasteland and all the crops it grew. Cameron Self

MY COUNTRY by Dorothea Mackellar (1885 - 1968) The love of field and coppice Of green and shaded lanes. Of ordered woods and gardens Is running in your veins, Strong love of grey-blue distance Brown streams and soft dim skies I know but cannot share it, My love is otherwise. I love a sunburnt country, A land of sweeping plains, O ragged mountain ranges, Of droughts and flooding rains. I love her far horizons, I love her jewel-sea, Her beauty and her terror - The wide brown land for me! A stark white ring-barked forest All tragic to the moon, The sapphire-misted mountains, The hot gold hush of noon. Green tangle of the brushes, Where lithe lianas coil, And orchids deck the tree tops And ferns the warm dark soil. Core of my heart, my country! Her pitiless blue sky, When sick as heart, around us, We see the cattle die- But then the grey clouds gather, And we can bless again The drumming of an army, The steady, soaking rain. Core of my heart, my country! Land of the Rainbow Gold, For flood and fire and famine, She pays us back threefold- Over the thirsy paddocks, Watch, after many days, The filmy veil of greenness That thickens as we gaze. An opal-hearted country, A wilful, lavish land- All you who have not loved her, You will not understand- Though earth holds many splendours, Wherever I may die, I know to what brown country My homing thoughts will fly. ........................ AHHH yes !! cheers Laurie

LOL, Ive just written a poem about my old neighbours from hell in Coventry. Started off as a general poem called ASBO GENERATION, ended up about them! Says a lot about my ex neighbours doesn't it.....

Keats wrote this poem while he was staying in Winchester in September 1819, it was (apparently) inspired by his walks by the river - not the bit you normally see, but along the water meadows, which is still beautiful: SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease; For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river-sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. maggie

This is Jane Austen's last poem, written on July 15, 1817, only days before her death on July 18, 1817. When Winchester races When Winchester races first took their beginning It is said the good people forgot their old Saint Not applying at all for the leave of Saint Swithin And that William of Wykeham's approval was faint. The races however were fixed and determined The company came and the Weather was charming The Lords and the Ladies were satine'd and ermined And nobody saw any future alarming.-- But when the old Saint was informed of these doings He made but one Spring from his Shrine to the Roof Of the Palace which now lies so sadly in ruins And then he addressed them all standing aloof. 'Oh! subjects rebellious! Oh Venta depraved When once we are buried you think we are gone But behold me immortal! By vice you're enslaved You have sinned and must suffer, ten farther he said These races and revels and dissolute measures With which you're debasing a neighboring Plain Let them stand--You shall meet with your curse in your pleasures Set off for your course, I'll pursue with my rain. Ye cannot but know my command o'er July Henceforward I'll triumph in shewing my powers Shift your race as you will it shall never be dry The curse upon Venta is July in showers--'. Unfortunately, we no longer have the Races :o( maggie

Daffodils William Wordsworth. I wander'd lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once i saw a crowd, A host , of golden daffodils ; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw i at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but they outdid the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay , In such a jocund company: I gazed- and gazed- but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch i lie In vancant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

Wendy, I didn't know that was inspired by Winchester. You live and learn! Ann glos

My Ain Folk

Far frae my hame I wander, but still my thoughts return,
To my ain folk ower yonder, in the sheiling by the burn.
I see the cosy ingle, and the mist abune the brae:
And joy and sadness mingle, as I list some auld-world lay.
And it's oh! but I'm longin' for my ain folk,
Tho' they be but lowly, puir and plain folk:
I am far beyond the sea, but my heart will ever be,
At home in dear auld Scotland, wi' my ain folk.

0' their absent ane they're telling, the auld folk by the fire:
And I mark the swift tears welling, as the ruddy flame leaps high'r.
How the mither wad caress me, were I but by her side:
Now she prays that Heav'n will bless me, tho' the stormy seas divide.

And it's oh! but I'm longin' for my ain folk,
Tho' they be but lowly, puir and plain folk:
I am far beyond the sea, but my heart will ever be
At home in dear auld Scotland, wi' my ain folk

Bill Frae Tayport Scotland.

Lovely Bill :-).

Thanks Susan. Here's anither.

The Scottish Blue Bells :

Let the proud Indian boast of his jesamine bowers,
His pastures of perfume and rose cover'd dells;
While humbly I sing of those wild little flowers,
The bluebells of Scotland, the Scottish bluebells.
Wave, wave, your dark plumes, ye proud sons of the mountain,
For brave is the chieftain your prowess who quells,
And dreadful your wrath as the foam flashing fountain,
That calms its wild waves 'mid the Scottish bluebells.

Chorus:
Then strike the loud harp to the land of the river,
The mountain, the valley with all their wild spells,
And shout in the chorus for ever and ever,
The bluebells of Scotland, the Scottish bluebells.

Sublime are your hills when the young day is beaming,
And green are your groves with their cool crystal wells;
And bright are your broadswords like morning dews gleaming
On bluebells of Scotland, on Scottish bluebells.
Awake, ye light fairies, that trip o'er the heather;
Ye mermaids arise from your coralline cells;
Come forth with your chorus all chanting together
The bluebells of Scotland, the Scottish bluebells.

Bill in Oz

The Boy in the Train

Whit wey does the engine say 'Toot-toot'?
Is it feart to gang in the tunnel?
Whit wey is the furnace no pit oot
When the rain gangs doon the funnel?
What'll I hae for my tea the nicht?
A herrin', or maybe a haddie?
Has Gran'ma gotten electric licht?
Is the next stop Kirkcaddy?

There's a hoodie-craw on yon turnip-raw!
An' seagulls! - sax or seeven.
I'll no fa' oot o' the windae, Maw,
Its sneckit, as sure as I'm leevin'.
We're into the tunnel! we're a' in the dark!
But dinna be frichtit, Daddy,
We'll sune be comin' to Beveridge Park,
And the next stop's Kirkcaddy!

Is yon the mune I see in the sky?
It's awfu' wee an' curly,
See! there's a coo and a cauf ootbye,
An' a lassie pu'in' a hurly!
He's chackit the tickets and gien them back,
Sae gie me my ain yin, Daddy.
Lift doon the bag frae the luggage rack,
For the next stop's Kirkcaddy!

There's a gey wheen boats at the harbour mou',
And eh! dae ya see the cruisers?
The cinnamon drop I was sookin' the noo
Has tummelt an' stuck tae ma troosers. . .
I'll sune be ringin' ma Gran'ma's bell,
She'll cry, 'Come ben, my laddie',
For I ken mysel' by the queer-like smell
That the next stop's Kirkcaddy!

Livin' in a Land Downunder....

Traveling in a fried-out combie
On a hippie trail head full of zombie
I met a strange lady, she made me nervous
And she took me in and gave me breakfast

And she said, "Do you come from a land down under?
Where women glow and men plunder?
Can't you hear, can't you hear the thunder?
You better run, you better take cover"

Buying bread from a man in Brussels
He was six foot four and full of muscle
I said, "Do you speak my language?"
He just smiled and gave me a Vegemite sandwich

And he said, "I come from a land down under
Where beer does flow and men chunder
Can't you hear, can't you hear the thunder?
You better run, you better take cover", yeah

Dying in a den in Bombay
With a slack jaw and not much to say
I said to the man, "Are you trying to tempt me
Because I come from the land of plenty?"

And he said, "Oh, you come from a land down under?"
(Oh yeah, yeah)
"Where women glow and men plunder?
Can't you hear, can't you hear the thunder?"
(Oh)
"You better run, you better take cover"

'Cause we are livin' in a land down under
Where women glow and men plunder
(Yeah)
Can't you hear, can't you hear the thunder?
(Thunder)
You better run, you better take cover

Livin' in a land down under
Where women glow and men plunder
Can't you hear, can't you hear the thunder?
(Ooh yeah)
Then I run and then I take cover
(Yeah)

We are livin' in a land down under
Where women glow and men plunder
Can't you, can't you hear the thunder?
Then I run then I take cover

Livin' in a land down under
(Livin' in a land down under)



:-D :-D :-D :-D

Scottish Emigrant's Farewell :

It was written in 1878 and it was first sung on St Andrew's Day (November 30) that year at a Highland Society function.
McCormick an Australian Composer ?, stole it for the Australian Government . and called it ADVANCE AUSTRALIA FAIR . She then added the Australian words by Banjo Paterson an Australian Yobbo. This stolen version was renamed "Advance Australia Fair". and was sung by a choir of 10,000 at the inauguration of the Commonwealth of Australia in 1901. In 1907, the Australian Government awarded McCormick £100 for (stealing it)
Oops , composing it.

Original words:

Fareweel, fareweel my native hame,
Thy lonely glens an' heath-clad mountains,
Fareweel thy fields o' storied fame,
Thy leafy shaws an' sparkling fountains,
Nae mair I'll climb the Pentland's steep,
Nor wander by the Esk's clear river,
I seek a hame far o'er the deep,
My native land, fareweel forever.


Tho' far frae thee, my native shore,
An' toss'd on life's tempestuous ocean;
My heart, aye Scottish to the core,
Shall cling to thee wi' warm devotion,
An' while the wavin' heather grows,
An' onward rows the windin' river,
The toast be Scotland's broomy knowes,
Her mountains, rocks, an' glens forever.

Bill in Oz

Some girls used to kiss and run
Never knew what they had done
Some girls always wasted time
Keep you hanging on the line
Some loved horses and always stayed at home
But the Stainsby (") girls loved the Rolling Stones

Now some had games that you had to play
Making rules along the way
Strange attractions newly found
Pride and passion kicked around
Some girls stole your heart
Like most girls do
But a Stainsby girls could break it in two

And I fell in love, I fell in love
I fell in love with a Stainsby girl

Deepest water Stainsby blue
Running straight, running true
Names and faces fade away
Memories here to stay

And I fell in love, I fell in love
I fell in love with a Stainsby girl

(*) Stainsby, Middlesborough

(Chris Rea)

TAYPORT:

All ye pleasure-seekers, where’er ye be,
I pray ye all be advised by me,
Go and visit Tayport on the banks o’ the Tay,
And there ye can spend a pleasant holiday.

The village and its surroundings are magnificent to be seen,
And the shops on the High Street are tidy and clean,
And the goods, I’m sure, would please the Queen,
They cannot be surpassed in Edinburgh or Aberdeen.

And the villagers’ gardens are lovely to be seen,
There sweet flowers grow and gooseberries green.
And the fragrant air will make you feel gay
While viewing the scenery there on the banks of the Tay.

Scotscraig is an ancient and a most charming spot,
And once seen by visitors will never be forgot.
’Twas there that Archbishop Sharp lived long ago,
And the flower-garden there is a very grand show.

The flower beds there are very beautiful to see,
They surpass the Baxter Park flower beds in Dundee,
And are all enclosed in a round ring,
And there the bee and the butterfly are often on the wing.

Scotscraig farm-house is magnificent to see
With its beautiful rich fields of wheat and barley,
And the farm-house steading is certainly very fine,
And the scenery is charming in the summer time.

The Serpentine Walk is a secluded spot in Scotscraig wood,
And to be walking there ‘twould do one’s heart good.
There the lovers can enjoy themselves in its shady bowers
By telling tales of love to wile away the tedious hours.

There innocent rabbits do sport and play
During the livelong summer day
Amongst the ivy and shrubberies green,
And screened all day from the sun’s sheen.

Then, lovers of the picturesque, off and away
To the village of Tayport on the banks o’ the Tay,
And ramble through Scotscraig wood,
It will, I’m sure, do your bodies good.

And, as ye walk along the Serpentine Walk,
With each other ye can have a social talk,
And ye will hear the birds singing away,
Which will make your hearts feel light and gay.

And while walking underneath the branches of the trees,
Ye will hear the humming of the bees.
Therefore, pleasure-seekers, make no delay,
But visit Scotscraig wood on a fine summer day.

There visitors can be shaded from the sun in the summer time,
While walking along the secluded Serpentine,
By the spreading branches of the big trees,
Or from the undergrowth ivy, if they please.

Do not forget to visit the old Tower,
Where Archbishop Sharp spent many an hour,
Viewing the beautiful scenery for miles away
Along the bonnie banks o’ the silvery Tay.

McGonagall