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Small Epiphanies

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A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall

I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests,
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans,
I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a–gonna fall.

Oh, what did you see, my blue–eyed son?
Oh, what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it,
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin',
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a–bleedin',
I saw a white ladder all covered with water,
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken,
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a–gonna fall.

And what did you hear, my blue–eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin',
Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world,
Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a–blazin',
Heard ten thousand whisperin' and nobody listenin',
Heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin',
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter,
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a–gonna fall.

Oh, who did you meet, my blue–eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony,
I met a white man who walked a black dog,
I met a young woman whose body was burning,
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow,
I met one man who was wounded in love,
I met another man who was wounded with hatred,
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a–gonna fall.

Oh, what'll you do now, my blue–eyed son?
Oh, what'll you do now, my darling young one?
I'm a–goin' back out 'fore the rain starts a–fallin',
I'll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest,
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty,
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters,
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison,
Where the executioner's face is always well hidden,
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten,
Where black is the color, where none is the number,
And I'll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it,
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it,
Then I'll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin',
But I'll know my song well before I start singin',
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a–gonna fall. 
    

—Bob Dylan

I Long to Hold Some Lady

I long to hold some lady
For my love is far away,
And will not come tomorrow
And was not here today. 

There is no flesh so perfect
As on my lady's bone,
And yet it seems so distant
When I am all alone:

As though she were a masterpiece
In some castled town,
That pilgrims come to visit
And priests to copy down.

Alas, I cannot travel
To a love I have so deep
Or sleep too close beside
A love I want to keep.

But I long to hold some lady,
For flesh is warm and sweet.
Cold skeletons go marching
Each night beside my feet.
    

—Leonard Cohen

Space Oddity

Ground Control to Major Tom
Ground Control to Major Tom
Take your protein pills and put your helmet on

Ground Control to Major Tom
Commencing countdown, engines on
Check ignition and may God's love be with you

(spoken)
Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven, Six, Five, Four, Three, Two, One, Liftoff

This is Ground Control to Major Tom
You've really made the grade
And the papers want to know whose shirts you wear
Now it's time to leave the capsule if you dare

"This is Major Tom to Ground Control
I'm stepping through the door
And I'm floating in a most peculiar way
And the stars look very different today

For here
Am I sitting in a tin can
Far above the world
Planet Earth is blue
And there's nothing I can do

Though I'm past one hundred thousand miles
I'm feeling very still
And I think my spaceship knows which way to go
Tell my wife I love her very much she knows"

Ground Control to Major Tom
Your circuit's dead, there's something wrong
Can you hear me, Major Tom?
Can you hear me, Major Tom?
Can you hear me, Major Tom?
Can you....

"Here am I floating round my tin can
Far above the Moon
Planet Earth is blue
And there's nothing I can do."
    

—David Bowie

Two-ten, Six-eighteen

I've been away so long. Fought a war that's come and gone. Doesn't anybody know my name?
My sister's up and wed and mama's took to bed. Doesn't anybody know my name?

Chorus

Please tell me, if you can. What time do the trains roll in?
Two–ten, six–eighteen, ten forty–four.

The hedge is turning brown and the fence is falling down. Doesn't anybody know my name?
The girl I left behind has gone to Caroline. Doesn't anybody know my name?

Chorus

Fought that war across the sea. Almost died to keep us free. Doesn't anybody know my name?
Now I'm home and no one cares. Seems that trouble's are only theirs. Doesn't anybody know my name?

Chorus

Doesn't anybody know my name?
    

—Rod McKuen

Banks of Marble

I've travelled across this country
From shore to shining shore
And it really made me wonder
All the things I heard and saw

I saw my fellow seaman,
Standing idly by the shore
And I heard his bosses saying,
Got no work for him no more

Chorus

But the banks are made of marble
With a guard at every door
And the vaults are stuffed with silver
That we all have sweated for

I have seen the weary farmer
Just a plowing sod and loam
And I've seen the auction hammer
Beating down his home

Chorus

I've seen the weary miner,
Sweeping coal dust from his back
And I heard his children crying
Got no coal to heat our shack

Chorus (new verse)

I've seen my sisters working
Two jobs in every day
For low wages in the factory,
And at home she gets no pay

Chorus

Seen my sisters and brothers
Working throughout this mighty land
And I swore we'd get together
And united make a stand

Last Chorus

Then we'd own those banks of marble
With no guard at every door
And we'd share those vaults of silver
That we all have sweated for
And we'd share those vaults of silver
That we all have sweated for! 
    

—Les Rice

Richard Corey

WHENEVER Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good–morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king,
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head. 
    

—Edwin Arlington Robinson

Dress Rehearsal Rag

Four o'clock in the afternoon
and I didn't feel like very much.
I said to myself, Where are you golden boy,
where is your famous golden touch?
I thought you knew where
all of the elephants lie down,
I thought you were the crown prince
of all the wheels in Ivory Town.
Just take a look at your body now,
there's nothing much to save
and a bitter voice in the mirror cries,
Hey, Prince, you need a shave.
Now if you can manage to get
your trembling fingers to behave,
why don't you try unwrapping
a stainless steel razor blade?
That's right, it's come to this,
yes it's come to this,
and wasn't it a long way down,
wasn't it a strange way down?

There's no hot water
and the cold is running thin.
Well, what do you expect from
the kind of places you've been living in?
Don't drink from that cup,
it's all caked and cracked along the rim.
That's not the electric light, my friend,
that is your vision growing dim.
Cover up your face with soap, there,
now you're Santa Claus.
And you've got a gift for anyone
who will give you his applause.
I thought you were a racing man,
ah, but you couldn't take the pace.
That's a funeral in the mirror
and it's stopping at your face.
That's right, it's come to this,
yes it's come to this,
and wasn't it a long way down,
ah wasn't it a strange way down?

Once there was a path
and a girl with chestnut hair,
and you passed the summers
picking all of the berries that grew there;
there were times she was a woman,
oh, there were times she was just a child,
and you held her in the shadows
where the raspberries grow wild.
And you climbed the twilight mountains
and you sang about the view,
and everywhere that you wandered
love seemed to go along with you.
That's a hard one to remember,
yes it makes you clench your fist.
And then the veins stand out like highways,
all along your wrist.
And yes it's come to this,
it's come to this,
and wasn't it a long way down,
wasn't it a strange way down?

You can still find a job,
go out and talk to a friend.
On the back of every magazine
there are those coupons you can send.
Why don't you join the Rosicrucians,
they can give you back your hope,
you can find your love with diagrams
on a plain brown envelope.
But you've used up all your coupons
except the one that seems
to be written on your wrist
along with several thousand dreams.
Now Santa Claus comes forward,
that's a razor in his mit;
and he puts on his dark glasses
and he shows you where to hit;
and then the cameras pan,
the stand in stunt man,
dress rehearsal rag,
it's just the dress rehearsal rag,
you know this dress rehearsal rag,
it's just a dress rehearsal rag.
    

—Leonard Cohen

Born In The Usa

Born down in a dead man's town
The first kick I took was when I hit the ground
You end up like a dog that's been beat too much
Till you spend half your life just covering up

Born in the U.S.A.
I was born in the U.S.A.
I was born in the U.S.A.
Born in the U.S.A.

Got in a little hometown jam
So they put a rifle in my hand
Sent me off to a foreign land
To go and kill the yellow man

Born in the U.S.A.
I was born in the U.S.A.
I was born in the U.S.A.
I was born in the U.S.A.
Born in the U.S.A.

Come back home to the refinery
Hiring man says "Son if it was up to me"
Went down to see my V.A. man
He said "Son, don't you understand"

I had a brother at Khe Sahn fighting off the Viet Cong
They're still there, he's all gone

He had a woman he loved in Saigon
I got a picture of him in her arms now

Down in the shadow of the penitentiary
Out by the gas fires of the refinery
I'm ten years burning down the road
Nowhere to run ain't got nowhere to go

Born in the U.S.A.
I was born in the U.S.A.
Born in the U.S.A.
I'm a long gone Daddy in the U.S.A.
Born in the U.S.A.
Born in the U.S.A.
Born in the U.S.A.
I'm a cool rocking Daddy in the U.S.A.
    

—Bruce Springsteen

1952 Vincent Black Lightning

Says Red Molly, to James, "Well that's a fine motorbike.
A girl could feel special on any such like."
Says James, to Red Molly, "My hat's off to you.
It's a Vincent Black Lightning, 1952.
And I've seen you on the corners and cafes, it seems.
Red hair and black leather, my favorite color scheme."
And he pulled her on behind,
And down to Boxhill,
They'd Ride.

Says James, to Red Molly, "Here's a ring for your right hand.
But I'll tell you in earnest I'm a dangerous man;
For I've fought with the law since I was seventeen.
I've robbed many a man to get my Vincent machine.
And now I'm twenty–one years, I might make twenty–two.
And I don't mind dyin' but for the love of you.
But if fate should break my stride, then I'll give you my Vincent, To Ride."

"Come down Red Molly," called Sargent McQuade.
"For they've taken young James Aidee for Armed Robbery.
Shotgun blast hit his chest, left nothing inside.
Oh, come down, Red Molly, to his dying bedside."
When she came to the hospital, there wasn't much left.
He was runnin' out of road. He was runnin' out of breath.
But he smiled, to see her cry.
And said, "I'll give you my Vincent.
To Ride."

Said James, "In my opinion, there's nothing in this world
Beats a '52 Vincent and a Redheaded girl.
Now Nortons and Indians and Greavses won't do.
Oh, they don't have a Soul like a Vincent '52."
Well he reached for her hand and he slipped her the keys.
He said, "I've got no further use…for these.
I see Angels on Ariels in leather and chrome,
Swoopin' down from Heaven to carry me home."
And he gave her one last kiss and died.
And he gave her his Vincent.
To Ride.
    

—Richard Thompson

Sam Hall

Oh my name it is Sam Hall chimney sweep, chimney sweep 
Oh my name it is Sam Hall chimney sweep 
Oh my name it is Sam Hall and I've robbed both great and small 
And my neck will pay for all when I die, when I die 
And my neck will pay for all when I die 

I have twenty pounds in store, that's not all, that's not all 
I have twenty pounds in store, that's not all 
I have twenty pounds in store and I'll rob for twenty more 
For the rich must help the poor, so must I, so must I 
For the rich must help the poor, so must I 

Oh they took me to Cootehill in a cart, in a cart 
Oh they took me to Cootehill in a cart 
Oh they took me to Cootehill where I stopped to make my will 
Saying the best of friends must part, so must I, so must I 
Saying the best of friends must part, so must I 

Up the ladder I did grope, that's no joke, that's no joke 
Up the ladder I did grope, that's no joke 
Up the ladder I did grope and the hangman pulled the rope 
And ne'er a word I spoke, tumbling down, tumbling down 
And ne'er a word I spoke tumbling down 

Oh my name it is Sam Hall chimney sweep, chimney sweep 
Oh my name it is Sam Hall chimney sweep 
Oh my name it is Sam Hall and I've robbed both great and small 
And my neck will pay for all when I die, when I die 
And my neck will pay for all when I die 
    

—Traditional

The Parting Glass

Of all the money that e'er I had
I spent it in good company.
And all the harm that e'er I've done,
Alas it was to none but me.
And all I've done
For want of wit,
To memory now I can't recall,
So fill to me the parting glass,
Goodnight and joy be with you all.

Of all the comrades e'er I had
They're sorry for my going away,
And all the sweethearts e'er I had,
They'd wish me one more day to stay.
But since it falls into my lot
That I should rise and they should not,
I gently rise and softly call
Goodnight and joy be with you all.

If I had money enough to spend
And leisure time to sit awhile,
There is a man in this town
That surely has my heart beguiled.
His lonely eyes,
His quiet mouth,
I own he has my heart in thrall,
So fill to me the parting glass,
Goodnight and joy be with you all. 
    

—Traditional

Claude Dallas

In a land the Spanish once had called the Northern Mystery 
Where rivers run and disappear 
And the Mustang still lives free 
By the Devil's wash and the coyote hole 
In the wild Owyee Range 
Somewhere in the sage tonight 
The wind calls out his name 
Aye Aye Aye

Come gather round me buckaroos 
And the story I will tell 
The fugitive Claude Dallas 
Who just broke out jail
You might think this tale is history 
From before the West was won 
But the events that I'll describe took place in 1981 

He was born out in Virginia 
Left home when school was through 
In the deserts of Nevada 
He became a buckaroo 
He learned the ways of cattle 
He learned to sit a horse 
He always packed a pistol 
And he practiced deadly force

Then Claude he became a trapper 
He dreamed of the bygone days 
He studied bobcat logic 
In the wild and silent ways 
In the bloody runs near paradise 
In the monitors down south 
Trapping cats and coyotes 
Living hand and mouth 
Aye Aye Aye

Then Claude took to living all alone 
Out many miles from town 
A friend Jim Stevens brought supplies 
And he stayed to hang around 
That day two wardens Pogue and Elms 
Drove in to check Claude out 
They were seeking violations 
And to see what Claude's about

Now Claude had hung some venison 
Had a bobcat pelt or two 
Pogue claimed they were out of season 
He says, "Dallas you're all through"
But Dallas would not leave his camp 
He refused to go to town 
As the wind howled through the bull camp 
They stared each other down 

It's hard to say what happened next 
Perhaps we'll never know 
They were going to take Claude into jail 
And he'd vowed he'd never go 
Jim Stevens heard the gunfire 
And when he turned around 
Bill Pogue was fallin' backwards 
Conley Elms he fell face down 
Aye Aye Aye 

Jim Stevens walked on over 
There was a gun near Bill Pogue's hand 
It's hard to say who'd drawn his first 
But Claude had made his stand 
Claude said, "I'm justified Jim… 
They were going to cut me down. . . 
A man's got a right to hang some meat 
When he's livin' this far from town." 
It took 18 men and 15 months 
To finally run Claude down 
In the sage outside of paradise 
They drove him to the ground 
Convicted up in Idaho 
Manslaughter by decree 
Thirty years at maximum 
But soon Claude would break free 

There's two sides to this story 
There may be no right or wrong 
The lawman and the renegade 
Have graced a thousand songs 
So the story is an old one 
Conclusion's hard to draw 
But Claude's out in the sage tonight 
He may be the last outlaw 
Aye Aye Aye 

In a land the Spanish once had called the Northern Mystery 
Where rivers run and disappear 
And the Mustang still lives free 
By the Devil's wash and the coyote hole 
In the wild Owyee Range 
Somewhere in the sage tonight 
The wind calls out his name 
Aye Aye Aye
    

—Ian Tyson and Tom Russell

Loving Her Was Easier

I have seen the morning burning golden on the mountains in the skies.
Achin' with the feelin' of the freedom of an eagle when she flies.
Turnin' on the world the way she smiled upon my soul as I lay dying.
Healin' as the colours in the sunshine and the shadows of her eyes.


Wakin' in the mornin' to the feelin' of her fingers on my skin.
Wipin' out the traces of the people and the places that I've been.
Teachin' me that yesterday was something that I never thought of trying.
Talkin' of tomorrow and the money, love and time we had to spend.

Lovin' her was easier than anything I'll ever do again.

Comin' close together with a feelin' that I've never known before, in my time.
She ain't ashamed to be a woman, or afraid to be a friend.
I don't know the answer to the easy way she opened every door in my mind.
But dreamin' was as easy as believin' it was never gonna end.

And lovin' her was easier than anything I'll ever do again.

Oooooh.
Oooooh.
Ahhh.
    

—Kris Kristofferson

A Drinking Song

Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That's all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.
    

—Willam Butler Yeats

The Hill

Where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom, and Charley,
The weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer, the fighter?
All, all, are sleeping on the hill.

One passed in a fever,
One was burned in a mine,
One was killed in a brawl,
One died in jail,
One fell from a bridge toiling for children and wife—
All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.

Where are Ella, Kate, Mag, Lizzie, and Edith,
The tender heart, the simple soul, the loud, the proud, the happy one?—
All, all, are sleeping on the hill.

One died in shameful child–birth,
One of a thwarted love,
One at the hands of a brute in a brothel,
One of a broken pride, in a search for a heart's desire,
One after life in faraway London and Paris
Was brought to her little space by Ella and Kate and Mag—
All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.

Where are Uncle Issac and Aunt Emily,
And old Towny Kincaid and Sevigne Houghton,
And Major Walker who had talked
With veneravle men of the revolution?—
All, all, are sleeping on the hill.

They brought them dead sons from the war,
And daughters whom life had crushed,
And their children fatherless, crying—
All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.

Where is old Fiddler Jones
Who played with life all his ninety years,
Braving the sleet with bared breast,
Drinking, rioting, thinking neither of wife nor kin,
Nor gold, nor love, nor heaven?
Lo! he babbles of the fish–frys of long ago,
Of the horse–races long ago at Clary's Grove,
Of what Abe Lincoln said
One time at Springfield.
    

—Edgar Lee Masters

He Stopped Loving Her Today

He said I'll love you 'til I die
She told him you'll forget in time
As the years went slowly by 
She still preyed upon his mind

He kept her picture on his wall
Went half crazy now and then 
He still loved her through it all
Hoping she'd come back again

Kept some letters by his bed
Dated 1962
He had underlined in red
Every single I love you

I went to see him just today
Oh but I didn't see no tears
All dressed up to go away
First time I'd seen him smile in years

(Chorus)
He stopped loving her today
They placed a wreath upon his door
And soon they'll carry him away
He stopped loving her today

(Spoken)
You know she came to see him one last time
Oh and we all wondered if she would
And it kept running through my mind
This time he's over her for good

(Repeat Chorus)
    

—R. V. Braddock and C. Putman, Jr.

My Antonia

He said "Oh, my love. Oh, my Antonia"
"You with the dark eyes and palest of skin"
"Tonight I am going from Santa Maria"
"Wait for me till I'm in your arms once again."

She held me, she kissed me, begged me not to leave her
To cross on 1he mountain my fortune to win
But a letter now tells me she died of a fever
I'll never see her in this world again.

You are my sorrow, you are my splendor
You are my shelter through storm and through strife
You are the one I will always remember
All off the days of my life.

I curse the ambition that took me far from her
For a treasure not ever so fine or so fair
As the flash of her smile or the touch of her fingers
The fire in her heart and the smell of her hair.

She left me a note that cried "Do not weep for me"
"Behold you are with me as sure as the stars"
"That rise in the evening to shine down upon me"
"Behold I am with you wherever you are."

I can still hear him. he calls to me only
What once was begotten shall come to no end
But the road is so long and the nights are so lonely
My soul just to hold him in this world again.

You are my sorrow, you are my splendor
You are my shelter through storm and through strife
You are the one I will always remember
All of the days of my life.

Oh my love, Oh my Antonia
You with the dark eyes and palest of skin
How could I know thai night in Santa Maria
I'd never see you in this world again...
    

—Emmylou Harris

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow.
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe;
To you from falling hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields. 
    

—John McCrae

Jerusalem

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?

And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my bow of burning gold:
Bring me my arrows of desire:
Bring me my spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire.

I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand
Till we have build Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land. 
    

—William Blake

The Book of Revelation, Chapter 6, Verses 1 through 8

6:1 And I saw when the Lamb opened one of the seals, and I heard, as it were the noise of thunder, 
one of the four beasts saying, Come and see. 

6:2 And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given 
unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer. 

6:3 And when he had opened the second seal, I heard the second beast say, Come and see. 

6:4 And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon 
to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto
him a great sword. 

6:5 And when he had opened the third seal, I heard the third beast say, Come and see. And I 
beheld, and lo a black horse; and he that sat on him had a pair of balances in his hand. 

6:6 And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts say, A measure of wheat for a penny, 
and three measures of barley for a penny; and see thou hurt not the oil and the wine. 

6:7 And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, Come 
and see. 

6:8 And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell 
followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill 
with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth. 
    

—King James Bible

Utah Caroll

You ask me why, my little friend, I am so quiet and still; 
And why a frown sits on my brow like a storm cloud on a hill 
Rein in your pony closer, I'll tell to you a tale Of Utah Carroll, 
my partner, and his last ride on the trail. 

In the land of Mexico in the place from whence I came, 
In silence sleeps my partner in a grave without a name. 
We rode the trail together and worked cows side by side, 
Oh, I loved him like a brother, and I wept when Utah died. 

We were rounding up one morning, our work was nearly done. 
When off the cattle started on a wild frightened run. 
Now the boss's little daughter was holding in that side. 
She rushed to turn the cattle,'twas there my partner died. 

In the saddle of the pony where the boss's daughter sat, 
Utah that very morning had placed a red blanket 
That the saddle might be easier for his little friend, 
But the blanket that he placed there brought my partner's life to an end. 

When Leonora rushed in to turn the cattle, her pony gave a bound 
And the blanket slipped from beneath her and went trailing on the ground. 
Now there's nothing on a cow ranch that will make the cattle fight 
As quick as some red object would just within their sight. 

When the cattle saw the blanket there trailing on the ground 
They were maddened in a moment and they charged it with a bound.
When we cowboys saw what had happened, everyone just held our breath 
For if her pony failed her, none could save Leonora from death. 

When Leonora saw the cattle, she quickly turned her face. 
And leaned from out her saddle, caught the blanket back in place 
But in leaning lost her balance, fell before that maddened tide 
"Lie still, Leonora, I'm coming dear," were the words old Utah cried.

 About fifteen yards behind her Utah came riding fast.
 I little thought that moment that ride would be his last. 
The horse approached the maiden with sure feet and steady bounds
And he leaned from out the saddle to catch her from the ground. 

In falling from her pony, she dragged the blanket down, 
And it lay there beside her where she lay upon the ground. 
As he leaned to reach Leonora and to catch her in his arms 
I thought my partner successful and Leonora safe from harm. 

But such weight upon the cinches, they never had felt before, 
His hind cinch burst asunder, and he fell beside Leonore. 
Utah picked up the blanket, "Lie still again," he said. 
And he ran across the prairie and waved the blanket over his head. 

And thus he turned the cattle from Leonora his little friend, 
And as the cattle rushed upon him, he turned to meet his end. 
And quickly from his scabbard, Utah his pistol drew. 
He was bound to fight while dying, like a cowboy brave and true. 

His pistol flashed like lightning, the reports rang loud and clear 
As the cattle pinned down on him, he dropped the leading steer 
But they kept right on coming, my partner had to fall. 
No more he will cinch the bronco or give the cattle call. 

And when at last we reached him, there on the ground he lay, 
With cuts and wounds and bruises, his life–blood oozing away 
Oh, I tell you what, little one, it was most awful hard 
I could not ride the distance in time to save my pard. 

As I knelt down by him I knew his life was o'er, 
But I heard him faintly murmur, "Lie still, I am coming, Leonora, 
Twas on one Sunday morning, I heard the parson say, 
"I don't think your young partner will be lost on that great day.
" He was just a poor young cowboy, maybe a little wild. 
But God won't be too hard on a man who died to save a child.
    

—Traditional

Political Science

No one likes us–I don't know why 
We may not be perfect, but heaven knows we try 
But all around even our old friends put us down 
Let's drop the big one and see what happens 
We give them money–But are they grateful? 
No they're spiteful and they're hateful 
They don't respect us–so let's surprise them 
We'll drop the big one and pulverize them

Asia's crowded and Europe's too old 
Africa is far too hot 
And Canada's too cold 
And South America stole our name 
Let's drop the big one 
There'll be no one left to blame us 
We'll save Australia 
Don't wanna hurt no kangaroo 
We'll built an All American amusement park there 
They got surfin too

Boom goes London and boom Paree 
More room for you and more room for me 
And every city the whole world round 
Will just be another American town 
Oh how peaceful it will be 
We'll set everybody free 
You'll wear a Japanese kimono 
And there'll be Italian shoes for me 
They'll hate us anyhow  
So let's drop the big one now 
Let's drop the big one now 
    

—Randy Newman

Desolation Row

They're selling postcards of the hanging
They're painting the passports brown
The beauty parlor is filled with sailors
The circus is in town
Here comes the blind commissioner
They've got him in a trance
One hand is tied to the tight–rope walker
The other is in his pants
And the riot squad they're restless
They need somewhere to go
As the Lady and I look out tonight
From Desolation Row

Cinderella, she seems so easy
"It takes one to know one," she smiles
And puts her hands in her back pockets
Bette Davis style
And in comes Romeo, he's moaning
"You Belong To Me I Believe"
And someone says, "You're in the wrong place, my friend
You better leave."
And the only sound that's left
After the ambulances go
Is Cinderella sweeping up
On Desolation Row

Now the moon is almost hidden
The stars are beginning to hide
The fortunetelling lady
Has even taken all her things inside
All except for Cain and Abel
And the hunchback of Notre Dame
Everybody is making love
Or else expecting rain
And the Good Samaritan, he's dressing
He's getting ready for the show
He's going to the carnival tonight
On Desolation Row

Now Ophelia, she's 'neath the window
For her I feel so afraid
On her twenty–second birthday
She already is an old maid
To her, death is quite romantic
She wears an iron vest
Her profession's her religion
Her sin is her lifelessness
And though her eyes are fixed upon
Noah's great rainbow
She spends her time peeking
Into Desolation Row

Einstein, disguised as Robin Hood
With his memories in a trunk
Passed this way an hour ago
With his friend, a jealous monk
He looked so immaculately frightful
As he bummed a cigarette
Then he went off sniffing drainpipes
And reciting the alphabet
Now you would not think to look at him
But he was famous long ago
For playing the electric violin
On Desolation Row

Dr. Filth, he keeps his world
Inside of a leather cup
But all his sexless patients
They're trying to blow it up
Now his nurse, some local loser
She's in charge of the cyanide hole
And she also keeps the cards that read
"Have Mercy On His Soul"
They all play on penny whistles
You can hear them blow
If you lean your head out far enough
From Desolation Row

Across the street they've nailed the curtains
They're getting ready for the feast
The Phantom of the Opera
A perfect image of a priest
They're spoonfeeding Casanova
To get him to feel more assured
Then they'll kill him with self–confidence
After poisoning him with words
And the Phantom's shouting to skinny girls
"Get Outta Here If You Don't Know
Casanova is just being punished for going
To Desolation Row"

Now at midnight all the agents
And the superhuman crew
Come out and round up everyone
That knows more than they do
Then they bring them to the factory
Where the heart–attack machine
Is strapped across their shoulders
And then the kerosene
Is brought down from the castles
By insurance men who go
Check to see that nobody is escaping
To Desolation Row

Praise be to Nero's Neptune
The Titanic sails at dawn
And everybody's shouting
"Which Side Are You On?"
And Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot
Fighting in the captain's tower
While calypso singers laugh at them
And fishermen hold flowers
Between the windows of the sea
Where lovely mermaids flow
And nobody has to think too much
About Desolation Row

Yes, I received your letter yesterday
(About the time the door knob broke)
When you asked how I was doing
Was that some kind of joke?
All these people that you mention
Yes, I know them, they're quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces
And give them all another name
Right now I can't read too good
Don't send me no more letters no
Not unless you mail them
From Desolation Row 
    

—Bob Dylan

Psalm 121

1  I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills,
         from whence cometh my help. 
2  My help cometh from the LORD,
         which made heaven and earth. 
3  He will not suffer thy foot to be moved:
         he that keepeth thee will not slumber. 
4  Behold, he that keepeth Israel
         shall neither slumber nor sleep. 
5  The LORD is thy keeper:
         the LORD is thy shade upon thy right hand. 
6  The sun shall not smite thee by day,
         nor the moon by night.
7  The LORD shall preserve thee from all evil:
         he shall preserve thy soul. 
8  The LORD shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in
         from this time forth, and even for evermore.
    

—King David

The Skeleton in Armor

"Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!
Who, with thy hollow breast
Still in rude armor drest,
Comest to daunt me!
Wrapt not in Eastern balms,
But with thy fleshless palms
Stretched, as if asking alms,
Why dost thou haunt me?"

Then, from those cavernous eyes
Pale flashes seemed to rise,
As when the Northern skies
Gleam in December;
And, like the water's flow
Under December's snow,
Came a dull voice of woe
From the heart's chamber.

"I was a Viking old!
My deeds, though manifold,
No Skald in song has told,
No Saga taught thee!
Take heed, that in thy verse
Thou dosst the tale rehearse,
Else dread a dead man's curse!
For this I sought thee.

"Far in the Northern land,
By the wild Baltic's strand,
I with my childish hand,
Tamed the ger–falcon:
And with my skates fast–bound,
Skimmed the half–frozen Sound,
That the poor whimpering hound
Trembled to walk on.

"Oft to his frozen lair
Tracked I the grisly bear,
While from my path the hare
Fled like a shadow;
Oft throught the forest dark
Followed the were–wolf's bark,
Until the soaring lark
Sang from the meadow.

"But when I older grew,
Joining a corsair's crew,
O'er the dark sea I flew
With the marauders.
Wild was the life we led;
Many the souls that sped,
Many the hearts that bled,
By our stern orders.

"Many a wassail–bout
Wore the long Winter out;
Often our midnight shout
Set the cocks crowing,
As we the Berserk's tale
Measured in cups of ale,
Draining the oaken pail,
Filled to o'erflowing.

"Once as I told in glee
Tales of the stormy sea,
Soft eyes did gaze on me,
Burning yet tender;
And as the white stars shine
On the dark Norway pine,
On that dark heart of mine
Fell their soft splendor.

"I wooed the blue–eyed maid,
Yielding, yet half afraid,
And in the forest's shade
Our vows were plighted.
Under its loosened vest
Fluttered her little breast,
Like birds within their nest
By the hawk frighted.

"Bright in her father's hall
Shields gleamed upon the wall,
Loud sang the minstrels all,
Chanting his glory;
When of old Hildebrand
I asked his daughter's hand,
Mute did the minstrels stand
to hear my story.

"While the brown ale he quaffed,
Loud then the champion laughed,
And as the wind–gusts waft
The sea–foam brightly,
So the loud laugh of scorn,
Out of those lips unshorn,
From the deep drinking–horn
Blew the foam lightly.

"She was a Prince's child,
I but a Viking wild,
And though she blushed and smiled,
I was discarded!
Should not the dove so white
Follow the sea–mew's flight,
Why did they leave that night
Her nest unguarded?

"Scarce had I put to sea,
Bearing the maid with me, —
Fairest of all was she
Among the Norsemen!—
When on the white sea–strand,
Waving his armed hand,
Saw we old Hildebrand,
With twenty horsemen.

"Then launched they to the blast,
Bent like a reed each mast,
Yet we were gaining fast,
When the wind failed us;
And with a sudden flaw
Came round the gusty Skaw,
So that our foe we saw
Laugh as he hailed us.

"And as to catch the gale
Round veered the flapping sail,
Death! was the helmsman's hail,
Death without quarter!
Mid–ships with iron keel
Struck we her ribs of steel;
Down her black bulk did reel
Through the black water!

"As with his wings aslant,
Sails the fierce cormorant,
Seeking some rocky haunt,
With his prey laden,
So toward the open main,
Beating to sea again,
Through the wild hurricane,
Bore I the maiden.

"Three weeks we westward bore,
And when the storm was o'er,
Cloud–like we saw the shore
Stretching to lea–ward;
There for my lady's bower
built I the lofty tower,
Which, to this very hour,
Stands looking sea–ward.

"There lived we many years;
Time dried the maiden's tears;
She had forgot her fears,
She was a mother;
Death closed her mild blue eyes,
Under that tower she lies;
Ne'er shall the sun arise
On such another!

"Still grew my bosom then,
Still as a stagnant fen!
Hateful to me were men,
The sun–light hateful!
In the vast forest here,
Clad in my warlike gear,
Fell I upon my spear,
O, death was grateful!

"Thus, seamed with many scars,
Bursting these prison bars,
Up to its native stars
My soul ascended!
There from the flowing bowl
Deep drinks the warrior's soul,
Skoal! to the Northland! Skoal!"
—Thus the tale ended.
    

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Taxi

It was raining hard in 'Frisco, 
I needed one more fare to make my night.
A lady up ahead waved to flag me down, 
She got in at the light. 

Oh, where you going to, my lady blue, 
It's a shame you ruined your gown in the rain. 
She just looked out the window, and said 
"Sixteen Parkside Lane". 

Something about her was familiar 
I could swear I'd seen her face before, 
But she said, "I'm sure you're mistaken" 
And she didn't say anything more. 

It took a while, but she looked in the mirror, 
And she glanced at the license for my name. 
A smile seemed to come to her slowly, 
It was a sad smile, just the same. 
And she said, "How are you Harry?" 
I said, "How are you Sue? 
Through the too many miles 
and the too little smiles 
I still remember you." 

It was somewhere in a fairy tale, 
I used to take her home in my car. 
We learned about love in the back of the Dodge, 
The lesson hadn't gone too far. 
You see, she was gonna be an actress, 
And I was gonna learn to fly. 
She took off to find the footlights, 
And I took off to find the sky. 

Oh, I've got something inside me, 
To drive a princess blind. 
There's a wild man, wizard, 
He's hiding in me, illuminating my mind. 
Oh, I've got something inside me, 
Not what my life's about, 
Cause I've been letting my outside tide me, 
Over 'till my time, runs out. 

Baby's so high that she's skying, 
Yes she's flying, afraid to fall. 
I'll tell you why baby's crying, 
Cause she's dying, aren't we all. 

There was not much more for us to talk about, 
Whatever we had once was gone. 
So I turned my cab into the driveway, 
Past the gate and the fine trimmed lawns. 
And she said we must get together, 
But I knew it'd never be arranged. 
And she handed me twenty dollars, 
For a two fifty fare, she said 
"Harry, keep the change." 
Well another man might have been angry, 
And another man might have been hurt, 
But another man never would have let her go… 
I stashed the bill in my shirt. 

And she walked away in silence, 
It's strange, how you never know, 
But we'd both gotten what we'd asked for, 
Such a long, long time ago. 

You see, she was gonna be an actress 
And I was gonna learn to fly. 
She took off to find the footlights, 
And I took off for the sky. 
And here, she's acting happy, 
Inside her handsome home. 
And me, I'm flying in my taxi, 
Taking tips, and getting stoned, 
I go flying so high, when I'm stoned.
    

—Harry Chapin

Michelangelo

Last night I dreamed about you
I dreamed that you were older
You were looking like Picasso
With a scar across your shoulder
You were kneeling by the river
You were digging up the bodies
Buried long ago
Michelangelo.

Last night I dreamed about you
I dreamed you were a pilgrim
On a highway out alone to find
The mother of your children
Who were still unborn and waiting
In the wings of some desire
Abandoned long ago
Michelangelo.

Were you there at Armageddon
Was Paris really burning
Could I have been the one to pull you
From the point of no returning
And did I hear you calling out my name
Or was it forgotten long ago
Michelangelo.

Last night I dreamed about you
I dreamed that you were riding
On a blood red painted pony
Up where the heavens were dividing
And the angels turned to ashes
You came tumbling with them to earth
So Far below
Michelangelo.

Last night I dreamed about you
I dreamed that you were dying
In a field of thorn and roses
With a hawk about you crying
For the warrior slain in battle
From an arrow driven deep inside you
Long ago 
Michelangelo.

Did you suffer at the end
Would there be no one to remember
Did you banish all the old ghosts
With the terms of surrender
And could you hear me calling out your name
Well, I guess that I will never know
Michelangelo.

Last night I dreamed about you
I dreamed that you were weeping
And your tears poured down like diamonds
For a love beyond all keeping
And you caught them one by one
In a million silk bandanas that I gave you long ago
Michelangelo...
    

—Emmylou Harris and Rodney Crowell

Recompense

I have not heard lutes beckon me, nor the brazen bugles call,
But once in the dim of a haunted lea I heard the silence fall.
I have not heard the regal drum, nor seen the flags unfurled,
But I have watched the dragons come, fire–eyed, across the world.

I have not seen the horsemen fall before the hurtling host,
But I have paced a silent hall where each step waked a ghost.
I have not kissed the tiger–feet of a strange–eyed golden god,
But I have walked a city's street where no man else had trod.

I have not raised the canopies that shelter revelling kings,
But I have fled from crimson eyes and black unearthly wings.
I have not knelt outside the door to kiss a pallid queen,
But I have seen a ghostly shore that no man else has seen.

I have not seen the standards sweep from keep and castle wall,
But I have seen a woman leap from a dragon's crimson stall,
And I have heard strange surges boom that no man heard before,
And seen a strange black city loom on a mystic night–black shore.

And I have felt the sudden blow of a nameless wind's cold breath,
And watched the grisly pilgrims go that walk the roads of Death,
And I have seen black valleys gape, abysses in the gloom,
And I have fought the deathless Ape that guards the Doors of Doom.

I have not seen the face of Pan, nor mocked the Dryad's haste,
But I have trailed a dark–eyed Man across a windy waste.
I have not died as men may die, nor sin as men have sinned,
But I have reached a misty sky upon a granite wind. 
    

—Robert E. Howard

People Are Strange

People are strange when you're a stranger
Faces look ugly when you're alone
Women seem wicked when you're unwanted
Streets are uneven when you're down

When you're strange
Faces come out of the rain
When you're strange
No one remembers your name
When you're strange
When you're strange
When you're strange

People are strange when you're a stranger
Faces look ugly when you're alone
Women seem wicked when you're unwanted
Streets are uneven when you're down

When you're strange
Faces come out of the rain
When you're strange
No one remembers your name
When you're strange
When you're strange
When you're strange

When you're strange
Faces come out of the rain
When you're strange
No one remembers your name
When you're strange
When you're strange
When you're strange
    

—The Doors

Ballad of the Alamo

In the southern part of Texas
In the town of San Antone
There's a fortress all in ruins that the weeds have overgrown
You may look in vain for crosses and you'll never see a–one
But sometimes between the setting and the rising of the sun
You can hear a ghostly bugle
As the men go marching by
You can hear them as they answer
To that roll call in the sky.

Colonel Travis, Davy Crockett, and a hundred eighty more
Captain Dickinson, Jim Bowie
Present and accounted for.

Back in 1836, Houston said to Travis
"Get some volunteers and go
Fortify the Alamo."
Well the men came from Texas
And from old Tennessee
And they joined up with Travis
Just to fight for the right to be free.

Indian scouts with squirrel guns
Men with muzzle–loaders
Stood together, heel and toe
To defend the Alamo.

"You may ne'er see your loved ones,"
Travis told them that day
"Those who want to can leave now
Those who fight to the death let 'em stay."

In the sand he drew a line
With his army sabre
Out of a hundred eighty five
Not a soldier crossed the line
With his banners a–dancin'
In the dawn's golden light
Santa Anna came prancing
On a horse that was black as the night.

Sent an officer to tell
Travis to surrender
Travis answered with a shell
And a rousing rebel yell
Santa Anna turned scarlet
"Play deguello!" he roared
"I will show them no quarter
Every one will be put to the sword!"

One hundred and eighty five
Holding back five thousand
Five days, six days, eight days, ten
Travis held and held again
Then he sent for replacements
For his wounded and lame
But the troops that were coming
Never came, never came, never came…

Twice he charged and blew recall
On the fatal third time
Santa Anna breached the wall
And he killed 'em, one and all
Now the bugles are silent
And there's rust on each sword
And the small band of soldiers…

Lie asleep in the arms of the Lord…

In the southern part of Texas
Near the town of San Antone
Like a statue on his pinto rides a cowboy all alone
And he sees the cattle grazing where a century before
Santa Anna's guns were blazing and the cannons used to roar
And his eyes turn sorta misty
And his heart begins to glow
And he takes his hat off slowly…

To the men of Alamo.

To the thirteen days of glory
At the siege of Alamo...
    

—Marty Robbins

Remember The Alamo

A hundred and eighty were challenged by Travis to die. A line that he drew with his sword when the battle was nigh.
"The man who would fight to the death cross over but he who that would live better fly,"
And over the line stepped a hundred and seventy–nine.

Chorus

Hi! Up! Santa Anna, we're killing your soldiers below, so the rest of Texas will know and remember the Alamo!

Jim Bowie lay dyin', his powder was ready and dry. From flat on his back, Bowie killed him a few in reply, 
And young Davy Crockett was smilin' and laughin'. The challenge was fierce in his eye.
For Texas and freedom, a man more than willin' to die.

Chorus

A courier sent to the battlements, bloody and loud. With words of fare well in the letters he carried were proud.
"Grieve not, little darlin', my dyin' if Texas is sovereign and free. We'll never surrender and ever will liberty be!"

Chorus

Remember the Alamo! Remember the Alamo! Remember the Alamo!
    

—Jane Bowers

MacArthur's Park

Spring was never waitin' for us, dear
It ran one step ahead as we followed in the dance.
Between the parted pages and were pressed in
love's hot fevered iron, like a striped pair of pants.

Mac Arthur's Park is melting in the dark
All the sweet green icing flowin' down
Someone left the cake out in the rain
I don't think that I can take it
'Cause it took so long to bake it
And I'll never have the recipe again, again.
Oh no.

I recall the yellow cotton dress
Foaming like a wave on the ground beneath your knee
And the birds like tender babies in your hands
And the old men playing checkers by the trees.

Mac Arthur's Park is melting in the dark
All the sweet green icing flowin' down
Someone left the cake out in the rain
I don't think that I can take it
'Cause it took so long to bake it
And I'll never have the recipe again, again.
Oh no.

There would be another song for me,
for I will sing it. There would be another dream
for me, someone will bring it. I will drink the
wine while it is warm and never let you
catch me looking at the sun.
And after all the loves of my life,
after all the loves of my life,
you'll still be the one. I will take my life
into my hands and I will use it. I will win
the worship in their eyes, and I will lose it.
I iwll have the things that I desire
and my passions flow like rivers through the sky.
After all the loves of my life, 
oh after all the loves of my life,
I'll be thinking of you.
And wondering why.

Mac Arthur's Park is melting in the dark
All the sweet green icing flowin' down
Someone left my cake out in the rain
I don't think that I can take it
'Cause it took so long to bake it
And I'll never have the recipe again, again
Oh no.
    

—Jimmy Webb

The Greek Anthology: 3

All is dust and all is laughter,
All is trivial.
Chaos before and chaos after,
Unreason hatches all.
    

—Glycon

J'ai Fait Tout

J'ai fait tout, j'ai fait tout 
Ce que j'ai pu 
J'ai fait tout, j'ai fait tout 
Ce que j'ai pu

I have seen some trouble
Been around the way
Rode the streetcar of desire and I paid
And if you want a witness
I will testify
To what I saw through a wandering eye

'Cause nobody loves you like I do
Nobody loves you like I do
Nobody loves you like I do
Nobody loves you like I do 

I heard all about it 
You don't need an alibi 
There was no medicine I did not try 
You lost your Mona Lisa 
Got burned by Jezebel 
You can always draw water from my well

'Cause nobody loves you like I do
Nobody loves you like I do
Nobody loves you like I do
Nobody loves you like I do 

J'ai fait tout. j'ai fait tout, j'ai fait tout 
I will give everything I am to you 
J'ai fait tout, j'ai fait tout. 
You know it's true
J'ai fait tout, j'ai fait tout, j'ai fait tout 

You can go and leave me 
But you'll come back for more 
I know where all your old secrets are stored 
My history is written 
My heart is still pure 
You crave redemption and I got the cure 

'Cause nobody loves you like I do 
Nobody loves you like I do 
Nobody loves you like I do 
Nobody loves you like I do

J'ai fait tout, j'ai fait tout 
Ce que j'ai pu 
J'ai fait tout, j'ai fait tout 
Ce que j'ai pu

J'ai fait tout. j'ai fait tout, Ce que j'ai pu
J'ai fait tout. j'ai fait tout, Ce que j'ai pu

J'ai fait tout. j'ai fait tout, j'ai fait tout
    

—Emmylou Harris

Soldier an' Sailor Too

As I was spittin' into the Ditch aboard o' the Crocodile,
I seed a man on a man–o'–war got up in the Reg'lars' style.
'E was scrapin' the paint from off of 'er plates,
an' I sez to 'im, "'Oo are you?"
Sez 'e, "I'm a Jolly — 'Er Majesty's Jolly — soldier an' sailor too!"
Now 'is work begins by Gawd knows when, and 'is work is never through;
'E isn't one o' the reg'lar Line, nor 'e isn't one of the crew.
'E's a kind of a giddy harumfrodite — soldier an' sailor too!

An' after I met 'im all over the world, a–doin' all kinds of things,
Like landin' 'isself with a Gatlin' gun to talk to them 'eathen kings;
'E sleeps in an 'ammick instead of a cot,
an' 'e drills with the deck on a slew,
An' 'e sweats like a Jolly — 'Er Majesty's Jolly — soldier an' sailor too!
For there isn't a job on the top o' the earth the beggar don't know, nor do —
You can leave 'im at night on a bald man's 'ead, to paddle 'is own canoe —
'E's a sort of a bloomin' cosmopolouse — soldier an' sailor too.

We've fought 'em in trooper, we've fought 'em in dock,
and drunk with 'em in betweens,
When they called us the seasick scull'ry–maids,
an' we called 'em the Ass Marines;
But, when we was down for a double fatigue, from Woolwich to Bernardmyo,
We sent for the Jollies — 'Er Majesty's Jollies — soldier an' sailor too!
They think for 'emselves, an' they steal for 'emselves,
and they never ask what's to do,
But they're camped an' fed an' they're up an' fed before our bugle's blew.
Ho! they ain't no limpin' procrastitutes — soldier an' sailor too.

You may say we are fond of an 'arness–cut, or 'ootin' in barrick–yards,
Or startin' a Board School mutiny along o' the Onion Guards;
But once in a while we can finish in style for the ends of the earth to view,
The same as the Jollies — 'Er Majesty's Jollies — soldier an' sailor too!
They come of our lot, they was brothers to us;
they was beggars we'd met an' knew;
Yes, barrin' an inch in the chest an' the arm, they was doubles o' me an' you;
For they weren't no special chrysanthemums — soldier an' sailor too!

To take your chance in the thick of a rush, with firing all about,
Is nothing so bad when you've cover to 'and, an' leave an' likin' to shout;
But to stand an' be still to the Birken'ead drill
is a damn tough bullet to chew,
An' they done it, the Jollies — 'Er Majesty's Jollies —
soldier an' sailor too!
Their work was done when it 'adn't begun; they was younger nor me an' you;
Their choice it was plain between drownin' in 'eaps
an' bein' mopped by the screw,
So they stood an' was still to the Birken'ead drill, soldier an' sailor too!

We're most of us liars, we're 'arf of us thieves,
an' the rest are as rank as can be,
But once in a while we can finish in style
(which I 'ope it won't 'appen to me).
But it makes you think better o' you an' your friends,
an' the work you may 'ave to do,
When you think o' the sinkin' Victorier's Jollies — soldier an' sailor too!
Now there isn't no room for to say ye don't know —
they 'ave proved it plain and true —
That whether it's Widow, or whether it's ship, Victorier's work is to do,
An' they done it, the Jollies — 'Er Majesty's Jollies —
soldier an' sailor too!
    

—Rudyard Kipling

So We'll Go No More a-Roving

So we'll go no more a–roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart still be as loving,
And the moon still be as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul outwears the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a–roving
By the light of the moon. 
    

—George Gordon, Lord Byron

The Man Who Would Be King

Oh it’s time to tell the children
That it’s not about the war
It’s not about the winning,
It’s not about the score
It’s time to tell the children 
That it’s not about the rings 
That we put upon the fingers
Of the man who would be king

Oh it’s time to tell the children
That it’s not about the gold 
It’s not about the money 
Things that are bought and sold
It’s time to tell the children 
That they don’t mean a thing
Like the rings upon the fingers
Of the man who would be king

Oh it’s time to tell the children
That it’s not about the plan
To see who is the richest
Or the baddest in the land
It’s time to tell the children
That the birds upon the wing
They would never give their power
To the man who would be king
They would never give their power
To the man who would be king

Don’t you realize?
When you see the clues 
Right before your eyes 
On the evening news
Don’t you realize?
That the children know 
What the children see 
Is where the children go

Oh it’s time to tell the children
That it is about the heart 
That it is about the people 
Of this world we are apart
That it is about forgiving 
Those who stole the rings
To put upon the fingers
Of the man who would be king 
    

—John Stewart

Teach Your Children

You who are on the road
Must have a code that you can live by
And so become yourself
Because the past is just a good bye.

Teach your children well,
Their father's hell did slowly go by,
And feed them on your dreams
The one they picks, the one you'll know by.

Don't you ever ask them why, if they told you, you will cry,
So just look at them and sigh and know they love you.

And you, of tender years,
Can't know the fears that your elders grew by,
And so please help them with your youth,
They seek the truth before they can die.

Teach your parents well,
Their children's hell will slowly go by,
And feed them on your dreams
The one they picks, the one you'll know by.

Don't you ever ask them why, if they told you, you will cry,
So just look at them and sigh and know they love you.
    

—Graham Nash

The Mighty Quinn (Quinn The Eskimo)

Everybody's building the big ships and boats
Some are building monuments
Others, jotting down notes
Everybody's in despair
Every girl and boy
But when Quinn the Eskimo gets here
Everybody's gonna jump for joy
Come on without, come on within
You'll not see nothing like the mighty Quinn

I like to do just like the rest, I like my sugar sweet
But guarding fumes and making haste
It ain't my cup of meat
Everybody's 'neath the trees
Feeding pigeons on a limb
But when Quinn the Eskimo gets here
All the pigeons gonna run to him
Come on without, come on within
You'll not see nothing like the mighty Quinn

A cat's meow and a cow's moo, I can recite them all
Just tell me where it hurts you, honey
And I'll tell you who to call
There's someone on everyone's toes
But when Quinn the Eskimo gets here
Everybody's gonna want to doze
Come on without, come on within
You'll not see nothing like the mighty Quinn
    

—Bob Dylan

Enola Gay

Look out, look out from your schoolroom window!
Look up, young children, from your play!
Wave your hand at the shining airplane,
Such a beautiful sight is Enola Gay.

High above the clouds in the sunlit silence,
So peaceful here, I'd like to stay.
There's many a pilot who'd swap his pension
For a chance to fly Enola Gay.

What is that sound high above my city?
I rush outside and search the sky.
Now we are running to find the shelters,
Hearing sirens start to cry.

What will I say when my children ask me,
Where was I flying up on that day?
With trembling voice I gave the order
To the bombardier of Enola Gay.

Look out, look out from your schoolroom window;
Look up, young children, from your play.
Your bright young eyes will turn to ashes
In the blinding light of Enola Gay.

I turn to see the fireball rising.
"My God, My God," all I can say.
I hear a voice within me crying,
"My mother's name was Enola Gay."

Look out, look out from your schoolroom window;
Look up, young children, from your play.
Oh, when you see the warplanes flying,
Each one is named Enola Gay.
    

—Utah Phillips

Lord Of The Dance

I danced in the morning when the world was young 
I danced in the moon and the stars and the sun 
I came down from heaven and I danced on the earth 
At Bethlehem I had my birth 

Dance, dance, wherever you may be 
I am the lord of the dance, said he 
And I lead you all, wherever you may be 
And I lead you all in the dance, said he 

I danced for the scribes and the Pharisees 
They wouldn't dance, they wouldn't follow me 
I danced for the fishermen James and John 
They came with me so the dance went on 

Dance, dance, wherever you may be 
I am the lord of the dance, said he 
And I lead you all, wherever you may be 
And I lead you all in the dance, said he 

I danced on the Sabbath and I cured the lame 
The holy people said it was a shame 
They ripped, they stripped, they hung me high 
Left me there on the cross to die 

Dance, dance, wherever you may be 
I am the lord of the dance, said he 
And I lead you all, wherever you may be 
And I lead you all in the dance, said he 

I danced on a Friday when the world turned black 
It's hard to dance with the devil on your back 
They buried my body, they thought I was gone 
But I am the dance, and the dance goes on 

Dance, dance, wherever you may be 
I am the lord of the dance, said he 
And I lead you all, wherever you may be 
And I lead you all in the dance, said he 

They cut me down and I leapt up high 
I am the life that will never, never die 
I'll live in you if you'll live in me 
I am the Lord of the dance, said he 

Dance, dance, wherever you may be 
I am the lord of the dance, said he 
And I lead you all, wherever you may be 
And I lead you all in the dance, said he
    

—Sydney Carter

Both Sides The Tweed

What's the spring breathing jasmine and rose 
What's the summer with all its gay train 
What's the splendour of autumn to those 
Who've bartered their freedom for gain. 

Let the love of our land's sacred rights 
To the love of our people succeed 
Let friendship and honour unite 
And flourish on both sides the Tweed. 

No sweetness the senses can cheer 
Which corruption and bribery bind 
No brightness the sun can e'er clear 
For honour's the sum of the mind. 

Let virtue distinguish the brave 
Place riches in lowest degree 
Think them poorest who can be a slave 
Them richest who dare to be free.
    

—Dick Gaughan

The Boxer

I am just a poor boy.
Though my story's seldom told,
I have squandered my resistance
For a pocket full of mumbles, Such are promises
All lies and jests
Still a man hears what he wants to hear
And disregards the rest.

When I left my home
And my family,
I was no more than a boy
In the company of strangers
In the quiet of the railway station,
Running scared,
Laying low,
Seeking out the poorer quarters
Where the ragged people go
Looking for the places
Only they would know

Lie la lie …

Asking only workman's wages
I come looking for a job,
But I get no offers,
Just a come–on from the whores
On Seventh Avenue
I do declare,
There were times when I was so lonesome
I took some comfort there.

Lie la lie …

Then I'm laying out my winter clothes
And wishing I was gone,
Going home
Where the New York City winters
Aren't bleeding me,
Leading me,
Going home.

In the clearing stands a boxer,
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of ev'ry glove that laid him down
And cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame,
"I am leaving, I am leaving."
But the fighter still remains
Lie la lie..........
    

—Paul Simon

Sun is Burning in the Sky

The sun is burning in the sky
Strands of cloud are gently drifting by
In  the park the busy bees are droning
In the flowers among the trees
And the sun burns in the sky

Now the sun is in the west
Little kids lie down to take their rest
And the couples in the park
Are holding hands and waiting for the dark
And the sun is in the west

Now the sun is sinking low
Children playing know it's time to go
High above a spot appears
A little blossom blooms and then drops near
And the sun is sinking low

Now the sun has come to earth
Shrouded in a mushroom cloud of death
Death comes in a blinding flash
Of hellish heat and leaves a smear of ash
And the sun has come to earth

Now the sun has disappeared
All is darkness, anger, pain and fear
Twisted sightless wrecks of men
Go groping on their knees and cry in pain
And the sun has disappeared
    

—Ian Campbell

Hope I Don't Fall In Love With You

Well I hope that I don't fall in love with you
'Cause falling in love just makes me blue,
Well the music plays and you display your heart for me to see,
I had a beer and now I hear you calling out for me
And I hope that I don't fall in love with you.

Well the room is crowded, there's people everywhere
And I wonder, should I offer you a chair?
Well if you sit down with this old clown, take that frown and break it,
Before the evening's gone away, I think that we could make it, 
And I hope that I don't fall in love with you.

I can see that you are lonesome just like me, and it being late, 
You'd like some some company,
Well I've had two, I look at you, and you look back at me,
The guy you're with has up and split, the chair next to you's free, 
And I hope that you don't fall in love with me.
And I hope that you don't fall in love with me.

Now it's closing time, the music's fading out
Last call for drinks, I'll have another stout.
Turn around to look at you, you're nowhere to be found,
I search the place for your lost face, guess I'll have another round
And I think that I just fell in love with you.
    

—Tom Waits

Roddy McCorley

Ho! See the fleet–foot hosts of men 
Who speed with faces wan, 
From farmstead and from fisher´s cot 
Upon the banks of the Bann! 
They come with vengeance in their eyes 
Too late, too late are they 
For Rody M´Corley goes to die 
On the bridge of Toome today. 

Oh Ireland, Mother Ireland, 
You love them still the best, 
The fearless brave who fighting fall 
Upon your hapless breast: 
But never a one of all your dead 
More bravely fell in fray, 
Than he who marches to his fate 
On the Bridge of Toome today. 

Up the narrow street he stepped, 
Smiling and proud and young; 
About the hemp rope on his neck 
The golden ringlets clung, 
There´s never a tear in the blue, blue eyes, 
Both glad and clear are they 
As Rody M´Corley goes to die 
On the Bridge of Toome today. 

Ah! When he last stepped up that street, 
His shining pike in hand, 
Behind him marched in grim array 
A stalwart earnest band! 
For Antrim Town! For Antrim Town! 
He led them to the fray 
And Rody M´Corley goes to die 
On the Bridge of Toome today. 

The grey coat and its sash of green 
Were brave and stainless then; 
A banner flashed beneath the sun 
Over the marching men 
The coat hath many a rent this noon, 
The sash is torn away, 
And Rody M´Corley goes to die 
On the Bridge of Toome today. 

Oh how his pike flashed in the sun! 
Then found a foeman´s heart! 
Through furious fight, and heavy odds, 
He bore a true man´s part; 
And many a redcoat bit the dust 
Before his keen pike–play, 
But Rody M´Corley goes to die 
On the Bridge of Toome today. 

Because he loved the Motherland, 
Because he loved the Green, 
He goes to meet the martyr´s fate 
With proud and joyous mien, 
True to the last, true to the last, 
He treads the upward way 
Young Rody M´Corley goes to die 
On the Bridge of Toome today
    

—Ethna Carbery

Psalm 95

1  O come, let us sing unto the LORD:
         let us make a joyful noise to the rock of our salvation. 
2  Let us come before his presence with thanksgiving,
         and make a joyful noise unto him with psalms.
3  For the LORD is a great God,
         and a great King above all gods. 
4  In his hand are the deep places of the earth:
         the strength of the hills is his also.
5  The sea is his, and he made it:
         and his hands formed the dry land.
6  O come, let us worship and bow down:
         let us kneel before the LORD our maker.
7  For he is our God;
         and we are the people of his pasture, 
         and the sheep of his hand. 
         Today if ye will hear his voice,
8  harden not your heart, as in the provocation,
         and as in the day of temptation in the wilderness:
9  when your fathers tempted me,
         proved me, and saw my work.
10  Forty years long was I grieved with this generation,
         and said, It is a people that do err in their heart, 
         and they have not known my ways:
11  unto whom I sware in my wrath
         that they should not enter into my rest.
    

—King David

Crooked Jack

Come Irishmen both young and stern
With adventure in your soul
There are better ways to spend your days
Than in working down a hole

I was tall and true, all of 6 foot 2
But they broke me across the back
By a name I'm known and it's not my own
They call me Crooked Jack

The ganger's blue–eyed boy was I
Big Jack could do no wrong
And the reason simply was because
I could work hard hours and long

I was tall and true, all of 6 foot 2
But they broke me across the back
By a name I'm known and it's not my own
They call me Crooked Jack

I've seen men old before their time
Their faces drawn and gray
I never thought so soon would mine
Be lined the self same way

I was tall and true, all of 6 foot 2
But they broke me across the back
By a name I'm known and it's not my own
They call me Crooked Jack

I've cursed the day that I went away
To work on the hydro dams
For sweat and tears or hopes and fears
Bound up in shuttering jams

I was tall and true, all of 6 foot 2
But they broke me across the back
By a name I'm known and it's not my own
They call me Crooked Jack

They say that honest toil is good
For the spirit and the soul
But believe me boys it's for sweat and blood
That they want you down a hole

I was tall and true, all of 6 foot 2
But they broke me across the back
By a name I'm known and it's not my own
They call me Crooked Jack
    

—Traditional

Universal Soldier

He's five feet two and he's six feet four
He fights with missiles and with spears
He's all of 31 and he's only 17
He's been a soldier for a thousand years

He's a Catholic, a Hindu, an athiest, a Jain,
a Buddhist and a Baptist and a Jew
and he knows he shouldn't kill
and he knows he always will
kill you for me my friend and me for you

And he's fighting for Canada,
he's fighting for France,
he's fighting for the USA,
and he's fighting for the Russians
and he's fighting for Japan,
and he thinks we'll put an end to war this way

And he's fighting for Democracy
and fighting for the Reds
He says it's for the peace of all
He's the one who must decide
who's to live and who's to die
and he never sees the writing on the walls

But without him how would Hitler have
condemned him at Dachau
Without him Caesar would have stood alone
He's the one who gives his body
as a weapon to a war
and without him all this killing can't go on

He's the universal soldier and he
really is to blame
His orders come from far away no more
They come from him, and you, and me
and brothers can't you see
this is not the way we put an end to war.
    

—Buffy Sainte-Marie

Joan of Arc

Now the flames they followed joan of arc
As she came riding through the dark;
No moon to keep her armour bright,
No man to get her through this very smoky night.
She said, I’m tired of the war,
I want the kind of work I had before,
A wedding dress or something white
To wear upon my swollen appetite.

Well, I’m glad to hear you talk this way,
You know I’ve watched you riding every day
And something in me yearns to win
Such a cold and lonesome heroine.
And who are you? she sternly spoke
To the one beneath the smoke.
Why, I’m fire, he replied,
And I love your solitude, I love your pride.

Then fire, make your body cold,
I’m going to give you mine to hold,
Saying this she climbed inside
To be his one, to be his only bride.
And deep into his fiery heart
He took the dust of joan of arc,
And high above the wedding guests
He hung the ashes of her wedding dress.

It was deep into his fiery heart
He took the dust of joan of arc,
And then she clearly understood
If he was fire, oh then she must be wood.
I saw her wince, I saw her cry,
I saw the glory in her eye.
Myself I long for love and light,
But must it come so cruel, and oh so bright?
    

—Leonard Cohen

Tommy

I went into a public–'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red–coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music–'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook–room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier–man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool — you bet that Tommy sees! 
    

—Rudyard Kipling

There Are Some Men

There are some men 
who should have mountains 
to bear their names to time. 

Grave markers are not high enough 
or green, 
and sons go far away 
to loose the fist 
their father's hand will always seem. 

I had a friend: 
he lived and died in mighty silence 
and with dignity 
left no book, son, or lover to mourn. 

Nor is this a mourning–song 
but only a naming of this mountain 
on which I walk, 
fragrant, dark, and softly white 
under the pale of mist 
I name this mountain after him.    
    

—Leonard Cohen

Seven Spanish Angels

He looked down into the brown eyes
And said "Say a prayer for me"
She threw her arms around him
Whispered "God will keep us free"
They could hear the riders coming
He said "This is my last fight,
If they take me back to Texas,
They won't take me back alive"
There were seven Spanish angels
At the altar of the Sun
They were praying for the lovers
In the Valley of the Gun
When the battle stopped and the smoke cleared
There was thunder from the throne
And seven Spanish angels
Took another angel home

She reached down and picked his gun up
That lay smoking in his hand
She said "Father please forgive me,
I can't make it without my man"
And she knew the gun was empty
And she knew she couldn't win
But her final prayer was answered
When the rifles fired again

There were seven Spanish angels
At the altar of the Sun
They were praying for the lovers
In the Valley of the Gun
When the battle stopped and the smoke cleared
There was thunder from the throne
And seven Spanish angels
Took another angel home
    

—Eddie Setser and Troy Seals

Scarlet Ribbons (for Her Hair)

I peeked in to say goodnight and I heard my child in prayer. "Please bring me some scarlet ribbons, scarlet ribbons for my hair."

Searched all night, my heart was achin', just before the dawn was breaking.
I peeked in and on her bed in gay profusion lying there, scarlet ribbons, lovely ribbons, scarlet ribbons for her hair.

If I live to be a hundred, I will never know from where came those ribbons, lovely ribbons, scarlet ribbons for her hair.
    

—E. Danzig and J. O. Segal

God Is Alive, Magic Is Afoot

God is alive, magic is afoot
God is alive, magic is afoot
God is alive, magic is afoot
God is afoot, magic is alive
Alive is afoot, magic never died
God never sickened
Many poor men lied
Many sick men lied
Magic never weakened
Magic never hid
Magic always ruled
God is afoot, God never died
God was ruler
Though his funeral lengthened
Though his mourners thickened
Magic never fled
Though his shrouds were hoisted
The naked God did live
Though his words were twisted
The naked magic thrived
Though his death was published
Round and round the world
The heart did not believe

Many hurt men wondered
Many struck men bled
Magic never faltered
Magic always lead
Many stones were rolled
But God would not lie down
Many wild men lied
Many fat men listened
Though they offered stones
Magic still was fed
Though they locked their coffers
God was always served
Magic is afoot, God is alive
Alive is afoot

Alive is in command
Many weak men hungered
Many strong men thrived
Though they boast of solitude
God was at their side
Nor the dreamer in his cell
Nor the captain on the hill
Magic is alive
Though his death was pardoned
Round and round the world
The heart would not believe

Though laws were carved in marble
They could not shelter men
Though altars built in parliaments
They could not order men
Police arrested magic and magic went with them
Mmmmm.... for magic loves the hungry
But magic would not tarry
It moves from arm to arm
It would not stay with them
Magic is afoot
It cannot come to harm
It rests in an empty palm
It spawns in an empty mind
But magic is no instrument
Magic is the end
Many men drove magic
But magic stayed behind
Many strong men lied
They only passed through magic
And out the other side
Many weak men lied
They came to God in secret
And though they left Him nourished
They would not tell who healed
Though mountains danced before them
They said that God was dead
Though his shrouds were hoisted
The naked God did live
This I mean to whisper to my mind
This I mean to laugh within my mind
This I mean my mind to serve
Til' service is but magic
Moving through the world
And mind itself is magic
Coursing through the flesh
And flesh itself is magic
Dancing on a clock
And time itself
The magic length of God
    

—Leonard Cohen

Mac Brasel’s Farm

There is something strange in the summer sky.
Something strange in things that fly
In silver suits and almond eyes.
Something strange in the summer sky.

If Jesse Marcel was still around,
He would tell us what he found
Lying on Mac Brasel's ground.
If Jesse Marcel was still around.

Chorus

It’s as clear as a rose on a tattooed arm
What they found on Mac Brasel's farm
If you had seen in the Roswell barn
You must believe in Mac Brasel's farm
Mac Brasel's farm.

Walter Haut at the 509
Told the press,"It’s true this time.’
A saucer crashed and what they found
Was scattered all over Mac Brasel's ground.

If you believe after forty–five years
At the risk of their careers.
All of those who are still around,
Who saw the crash on Mac Brasel's ground.

Who drove the trucks and flew the planes
With things that just can’t be explained.
Who saw the faces and touched the arms
Of what they found on Mac Brasel's farm

The army speaks from secret rooms.
It was nothing more than a weather balloon.
Yet some live in fear of harm
For what they saw on Mac Brasel's farm.

Chorus

There’s a million stars in the summer sky
A million people wonder why.
That some who live in the desert sun
Seem to know that they have come.

Chorus
    

—John Stewart

Cod'ine

An' my belly is craving, I got shakin' in my head
I feel like I'm dyin' an' I wish I were dead
If I lived till tomorrow it's gonna be a long time
For I'll reel and I'll fall and rise on codine
An' it's real, an' it's real, one more time 

When I was a young man I learned not to care
Wild whiskey, confronted I often did swear
My mother and father said whiskey is a curse
But the fate of their baby is many times worse
An' it's real, an' it's real, one more time 

You'll forget your woman, you'll forget about man
Try it just once, an' you'll try it again
It's sometimes you wonder and it's sometimes you think
That I'm a–living my life with abandon to drink
An' it's real, an' it's real, one more time 

Stay away from the cities, stay away from the towns
Stay away from the men pushin' the codine around
Stay away from the stores where the remedy is found
I will live a few days as a slave to codine
An' it's real, an' it's real, one more time 

An' my belly is craving, I've got a shakin' in my head
An' I've started heating whether my body said
Steady yourself with the grains of cocaine
An' you'll end dead or you'll end up insane
An' it's real, an' it's real, one more time 

An' my belly is craving, I got shaking in my head
I feel like I'm dyin' an' I wish I were dead
If I lived till tomorrow it's gonna be a long time
For I'll reel and I'll fall and rise on codine
An' it's real, an' it's real, one more time
An' it's real, an' it's real, one more time 
    

—Buffy Sainte-Marie

Percy's Song

Bad news, bad news, come to me where I sleep
Turn, turn, turn again
Sayin' one of my friends is in trouble deep
Turn, turn, to the wind and the rain

Tell me the trouble, tell me once to my ears
Turn, turn, turn again
Joliet prison for ninety–nine years
Turn, turn, to the wind and the rain

A crash on the highway 
threw a car into a field
Turn, turn, turn again
There were four people killed 
And he was at the wheel
Turn, turn, to the wind and the rain

But I knew him as well 
As I know my own self
Turn, turn, turn again
And he wouldn't harm a life 
That belonged to someone else
Turn, turn, to the wind and the rain

That may be so said the judge 
From the side of his mouth
Turn, turn, turn again
But the witness who saw it
He left little doubt
Turn, turn, to the wind and the rain

He may, he may have
A sentence to server
Turn, turn, turn again
But ninety–nine years 
He just does not deserve
Turn, turn, to the wind and the rain

Too late, too late, for his case it is sealed
Turn, turn, turn again
A sentence, it is passed
And it can not be repealed
Turn, turn, to the wind and the rain

But he ain't no criminal 
And his crime it is none
Turn, turn, turn again
And what happened to him 
Could have happened to anyone
Turn, turn, to the wind and the rain

At that the judge jumped forward 
And his face it did freeze
Turn, turn, turn again
Sayin' would you kindly leave 
My office now please
Turn, turn, to the wind and the rain

I squinted my eyes and I stood up slow
Turn, turn, turn again
With no other choice except for me to go
Turn, turn, to the wind and the rain

I walked down the hall
And I heard his door slam
Turn, turn, turn again
I walked down the stairs 
But I did not understand
Turn, turn, to the wind and the rain

And I played my guitar 
Through the night and through the day
Turn, turn, turn again
But the only tune 
That my guitar would play was oh how cruel
The Wind and the rain
    

—Bob Dylan

If We Were Kings

wait if you could only wait for me
I'd come around
and take whatever light you'd shed then we
might come around
come what may if we were kings for the day 
could we would we light the way
and the pain I would take away could it be
how long?
I say not long
light all of their torches so they could see
we'd carry their crosses if we were kings
straight if you could just stay straight with me
I'd stay around
troubled fate I could be your saving grace
lost and found
come what may if we were kings for the day
could we would we fly away
if we were kings for the day could we guarantee
how long?
I say not long
light all of their torches so they could see
we'd carry their crosses if we were kings
give away the moon and the stars for free
we'd light up the sky when we were free
we'd carry their crosses if we were kings
if you could only wait for me
I'd come around 
    

—American Pearl

The Walrus and the Carpenter

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright —
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done —
'It's very rude of him.' she said,
'To come and spoil the fun!'

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead —
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand:
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
'If this were only cleared away,'
They said, 'it would be grand.'

'If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose,' the Walrus said,
'That they could get it clear?'
'I doubt it,' said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

'O Oysters, come and walk with us!
The Walrus did beseech.
'A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each.'

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head —
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster–bed.

Out four young Oysters hurried up.
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat —
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more —
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

'The time has come,' the Walrus said,
'To talk of many things:
Of shoes — and ships — and sealing wax —
Of cabbages — and kings —
And why the sea is boiling hot —
And whether pigs have wings.'

'But wait a bit,' the Oysters cried,
'Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!'
'No hurry!' said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

'A loaf of bread,' the Walrus said,
'Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed —
Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed.'

'But not on us!' the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
'After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!'
'The night is fine,' the Walrus said,
'Do you admire the view?'

'It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!'
The Carpenter said nothing but
'Cut us another slice—
I wish you were not quite so deaf—
I've had to ask you twice!'

'It seems a shame,' the Walrus said,
'To play them such a trick.
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!'
The Carpenter said nothing but
'The butter's spread too thick!'

'I weep for you,'the Walrus said:
'I deeply sympathize.'
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket–handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

'O Oysters,' said the Carpenter,
'You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none —
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one. 
    

—Lewis Carroll

Take a Message to Mary

These are the words of a frontier lad
Who lost his love when he turned bad: 
Take a message to Mary,
But don't tell her where I am. 
Take a message to Mary, 
But don't say I'm in a jam. 
You can tell her that I had to see the world, 
Tell her that my ship set sail. 
Vou can say she'd better not wait for me, 
But don't tell her I'm in jail, 
Oh don't tell her I'm in jail. 

Take a message to Mary, 
But don't tell her what I've done. 
Please don't mention the stagecoach, 
And the shot from a careless gun. 
You better tell her that I had to change my plans
And cancel out the wedding day, 
But please don't mention my lonely cell
Where I'm gonna pine away
Until my dying day. 

Take a message to Mary, 
But don't tell her all you know. 
My heart is aching for Mary, 
Lord knows I miss her so. 
Just tell her that I went to Timbuktu, 
Tell her that I'm searching for gold. 
You can say she better find someone new
To cherish and to hold. 
Oh Lord, this cell is cold   
    

—Felice and Boudleaux Bryant

The Last of the 5000

The story behind the painting of "The Last of 5000", from "Free Grass to Fences, The Montan Cattle Range Story" by
Robert H. Fletcher, 1960, published by the Historical Society of Montana, University Publishers Incorporated,
New Yok. The Book contains sixty two illustrations by Charles M. Russell.

Kid Russell was wintering with Jesse Phelps on the Stadler–Kaufman ranch near Utica in the Judith Basin country.
Jesse was range foreman for the outfit and Charlie Russell was the wrangler. There wasn't a thing they could do
about the weather as the cold, stormy days dragged on. Charlie would while away part of the dismal monotony with
the paints and brushes he packed around in a sock. Range cattle were taking a terrific beating. A brindle Texas
cow moped around the horse barn for what little protection it afford, and by the time Jesse got a letter from 
"K" Kaufman asking how the cattle were doing, she was pretty gaunt and about done for.

After Phelps read the letter, he tossed it over to Russell and said, "I just haven't the heart to tell him. I
don't know what to say." Next day, Charlie made a sketch on the pastboard cover of a collar–box and handed it
to Jess, who exclaimed, "Hell, that picture tells the story better than I can write it." Russell's drawing of
a forlorn, emaciated cow, standing in the dreary, storm–swept prarie with three wolves awaiting the moment when
here legs would buckle, is famous among Montan cattlemen as "Waiting for a Chinook." (The other title, "The
Last of Five Thousand," was added later.) It started Charles Marion Russell on his way to artistic fame and fortune,
and the old brindle cow was his model.

Louis Stadler and Louis Kaufman had a meat shop on Edwards Street in Helena at the time, and when the card was
received, "K" Kaufman took it across the street to show Ben Roberts at his harness shop. Roberts knew young
Russell and asked for the sketch. Kaufman gave it to him. It had no particular value a the time, jusxt a clever
drawing by a talented kid out on a ranch. Neglected, it became soiled, and it was in that condition that Wallis
Huidekoper bought it for $125 in 1913. Huidekoper had the sketch cleaned and framed by an expert, and took it
to the Russell home in Great Falls where Charlie autographed it and added the words, "This is the real thing
painted the winter of 1886 at the OH ranc." Huidekoper then had Kaufman autograph it. In the winter of 1942–43,
Major Huidekoper presented the historic little card to the Montana Stockgrowers Association and it hung on the
wall of Secretary Ed Phillips' office until 1952 when it was placed on permanent loan for exhibit in the Russell
Gallery of the Historical Society of Montana, at Helena. (Note: A later version, a large rendering of the original,
was titled, by Russell as "The Last of 5000.")
    

—Robert H. Fletcher

Hard Times

Let us pause in life's pleasures and count its many tears,
While we all sup sorrow with the poor;
There's a song that will linger forever in our ears;
Oh Hard times come again no more.

Tis the song, the sigh of the weary,
Hard Times, hard times, come again no more
Many days you have lingered around my cabin door;
Oh hard times come again no more.

While we seek mirth and beauty and music light and gay,
There are frail forms fainting at the door;
Though their voices are silent, their pleading looks will say
Oh hard times come again no more.

There's a pale drooping maiden who toils her life away,
With a worn heart whose better days are o'er:
Though her voice would be merry, 'tis sighing all the day,
Oh hard times come again no more.

'Tis a sigh that is wafted across the troubled wave,
'Tis a wail that is heard upon the shore,
'Tis a dirge that is murmured around the lowly grave,
Oh! Hard Times, come again no more
    

—Stephen Foster

White Man

Some sing of their glory
Few tell the true story
Most men they don't need it
White man he kills for it.

They took to the seas
Searching for a land that they could call Paradise
Stealing the breeze that carried them towards the sun
With lust in their eyes and a gun in their hand
They said we've found Paradise
Think of the glory look at the prize we've won.

We know who they were
They were the ones who killed their brothers
To steal from others
We know who they were
They were the ones whose sons and daughters
Are doing it still.

We know who they were
They were the ones who killed their brothers
To steal from others
We know who they were
They were the ones whose sons and daughters
Are doing it still.

And in their hearts what did they feel?
Did they think they had the right to steal
Another man's land who had no name?
O they didn't think he'd feel the pain.

So they sailed away from their own country
To another man's land far across the sea
And they stole that land from the people there
And they called that land Australia.

Why did he do it
White Man? 
Why did he do it
White Man? 
Why did he do it
White Man? 
Why did he do it

They sailed away one winter's day
To a sunlit land that was far away
And they stole that land from the people there
And they called that land America.

Why did he do it
White Man? 
Why did he do it
White Man? 
Why did he do it
White Man? 
Why did he do it
 
And in their hearts what did they feel?
Did they think they had the right to steal
Another man's land who had no name?
O they didn't think he'd feel the pain.
    

—Peter Knight

Bonny Portmore

O bonny Portmore, you shine where you stand
And the more I think on you, the more I think long
If I had you now, as I had once before
All the lords in old England would not purchase Portmore 

O bonny Portmore, I am sorry to see
Such woeful destruction of your ornament tree
For it stood on your shore for many's the long day
Till the long boats from Antrim came to float it away 

All the birds in the wood, they do bitterly weep
Saying, "Where shall we shelter, o where shall we sleep?"
For the oak and the ash, they are all cut down
And the walls of bonny Portmore they are down to the ground 
    

—Traditional

Skye Boat Song

Speed bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,
Onward, the sailors cry
Carry the lad that's born to be king
Over the sea to Skye

Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar,
Thunder clouds rend the air;
Baffled our foe's stand on the shore
Follow they will not dare

Though the waves leap, soft shall ye sleep
Ocean's a royal bed
Rocked in the deep, Flora will keep
Watch by your weary head

Many's the lad fought on that day
Well the claymore could wield
When the night came, silently lay
Dead on Culloden's field

Burned are our homes, exile and death
Scatter the loyal men
Yet, e'er the sword cool in the sheath,
Charlie will come again.
    

—Sir Harold Boulton

Highwayman

I was a highwayman. Along the coach roads I did ride
With sword and pistol by my side
Many a young maid lost her baubles to my trade
Many a soldier shed his lifeblood on my blade
The bastards hung me in the spring of twenty–five
But I am still alive.

I was a sailor. I was born upon the tide
And with the sea I did abide.
I sailed a schooner round the Horn to Mexico
I went aloft and furled the mainsail in a blow
And when the yards broke off they said that I got killed
But I am living still.

I was a dam builder across the river deep and wide
Where steel and water did collide
A place called Boulder on the wild Colorado
I slipped and fell into the wet concrete below
They buried me in that great tomb that knows no sound
But I am still around..I'll always be around..and around and around and 
around and around

I fly a starship across the Universe divide
And when I reach the other side
I'll find a place to rest my spirit if I can
Perhaps I may become a highwayman again
Or I may simply be a single drop of rain
But I will remain
And I'll be back again, and again and again and again and again..
    

—Johnny Cash

Til The Circle Is Through

The high soaring hawk
The dark awkward crow
The white gull alone on the
High rolling sea
Must make their way home
Best way that they know
No different for you and for me

We will stay where the river runs through
The range and the sky buckskin and blue
We will ride to the end
On the wings of the wind
'Til we're home and our circle is through

May the children read
May they understand what is of true value
So the truth may be known
The glory of God and the dark side of man
For one day they must ride on alone

We will stay where the river runs through
The range and the sky buckskin and blue
We will ride to the end
On the wings of the wind
'Til we're home and our circle is through

May the river flow may the salmon run
May your nights be crowned with a mantle of stars
May your pony stay sound for the work to be done
He'll get you home with your dreams and your scars

We will stay where the river runs through
The range and the sky buckskin and blue
We will ride to the end
On the wings of the wind
'Til we're home and our circle is through
    

—Ian Tyson

The Last Wolf

The last wolf hurried toward me
through the ruined city
and I heard his baying echoes
down the steep smashed warrens
of Montgomery Street and past
the few ruby–crowned highrises
left standing
their lighted elevators useless

Passing the flicking red and green
of traffic signals
baying his way eastward
in the mystery of his wild loping gait
closer the sounds in the deadly night
through clutter and rubble of quiet blocks
I heard his voice ascending the hill
and at last his low whine as he came
floor by empty floor to the room
where I sat
in my narrow bed looking west, waiting
I heard him snuffle at the door and
I watched

He trotted across the floor
he laid his long gray muzzle
on the spare white spread
and his eyes burned yellow
his small dotted eyebrows quivered

Yes, I said.
I know what they have done.
    

—Mary TallMountain

Second Cup Of Coffee

I'm on my second cup of coffee and I still can't face the day
I'm thinking of the lady who got lost along the way
And if I don't stop this trembling hand from reaching for the phone
I'll be reachin' for the bottle, Lord, before this day is done
I'm on my second cup of coffee and I still can't face the day
The room was filled with laughs as we danced the night away
But my sleep was filled with dreaming of the wrongs that I had done
And the gentle sweet reminder of a daughter and a son

Sitting alone, my friends have all gone home
You never know when they'll come droppin' in
Thinking of girls with their fingers in my curls
Too young to understand how love begins

I'm on my second cup of coffee and I still can't face the dawn
The radio is playin' a soft country song
And if I don't stop this trembling hand from reaching for the phone
I'll be reachin' for the bottle, Lord, before this day is done
    

—Gordon Lightfoot

Jimmy Newman

Get up Jimmy Newman
The morning is come
The engines are rumbling
The coffee's all brewed

Get up Jimmy Newman
There's work to be done
And why do you lie
There still sleeping

There's a waiting line forming to
Use the latrine and the sun is just
Opening the skies
Ah the breakfast they're serving
Just has to be seen
And you've only to open your eyes

Get up Jimmy Newman
My radios on
The news is all bad
But it's good for a laugh
The tent flap is loose
And the peg must be gone
And why do you lie
There still sleeping

The night nurse is gone
And the sexy one's here
And she tells us such beautiful lies
Her uniforms tight on her marvelous rear
And you've only to open your eyes

Get up Jimmy Newman
You're missing the fun
They're loading the planes Jim
It's time to go home

It's over for us
There's no more to be done
And why do you lie
There still sleeping

It's stateside for us Jim
The folks may not know
We'll let it be such a surprise

They're loading us next Jim
Were ready to go
And you've only to open your eyes

Get up Jimmy Newman
They won't take my word
I said you sleep hard
But they're shaking their heads

Get up Jimmy Newman
And show them you heard
Ah Jimmy just show
Them you're sleeping

A joke is a joke
But there's nothing to gain
Jim I'd slap you
But I'm too weak to rise

Get up dammit Jimmy
You're missing the plane
And you've only to open your eyes
    

—Tom Paxton

Blood in the Fields

The fires of L.A. still burning in the night, 
In the eyes of the children lost inside the light, 
In the cries of the people whose anger, love, and tears 
Fall prey to the justice of four–hundred years. 

Blood in the fields and the iron collar, 
Working for meals and the greenback dollar. 
The greenback dollar. 

Old Tom was as strong as a man at twenty–one, 
But they never saw his muscle till the day he tried to run; 
And when the whip finds you laughing, you're never worth the same, 
So they took him behind the haystack like the horse when she went lame. 

Blood in the fields and the iron collar, 
Working for meals and the greenback dollar. 
The greenback dollar. 

So, keep a hand on history, keep your eye on the dream, 
Freedom never came easily in this life of breaking chains, 
In this life of breaking chains. 

So, what will you do for the woman whose man is gone? 
And what will you say to the boy who buys the gun? 
And how will you turn from the nightstick that enforces? 
And sing to the child who still dreams of the pretty horses? 

Blood in the fields and the iron collar, 
Working for meals and the greenback dollar. 
Blood in the fields and the iron collar, 
Working for meals and the greenback dollar.  
    

—Dave Crossland

The Piano Has Been Drinking

The piano has been drinking, my necktie is asleep
And the combo went back to new york, the jukebox has to take a leak
And the carpet needs a haircut, and the spotlight looks like a prison break
And the telephone’s out of cigarettes, and the balcony is on the make
And the piano has been drinking, the piano has been drinking…

And the menus are all freezing, and the light man’s blind in one eye
And he can’t see out of the other
And the piano–tuner’s got a hearing aid, and he showed up with his mother
And the piano has been drinking, the piano has been drinking
As the bouncer is a sumo wrestler cream–puff casper milktoast
And the owner is a mental midget with the i.q. of a fence post
’cause the piano has been drinking, the piano has been drinking…

And you can’t find your waitress with a geiger counter
And she hates you and your friends and you just can’t get served without her
And the box–office is drooling, and the bar stools are on fire
And the newspapers were fooling, and the ash–trays have retired
’cause the piano has been drinking, the piano has been drinking
The piano has been drinking, not me, not me, not me, not me, not me
    

—Tom Waites

Ye Jacobites By Name

Ye Jacobites by name lend an ear, lend an ear 
Ye Jacobites by name lend an ear 
Ye Jacobites by name yer faults I will proclaim 
Yer doctrines I maun blame, you will hear, you will hear 
Yer doctrines I maun blame, you will hear 

Ye Jacobites by name lend an ear, lend an ear 
Ye Jacobites by name lend an ear 
Ye Jacobites by name yer faults I will proclaim 
Yer doctrines I maun blame, you will hear, you will hear 
Yer doctrines I maun blame, you will hear 

What is right, what is wrong, by the law, by the law 
What is right and what is wrong by the law 
What is right, what is wrong, the weak airm and the strong 
The short sword and the long for to draw, for to draw 
The short sword and the long for to draw 

Ye Jacobites by name lend an ear, lend an ear 
Ye Jacobites by name lend an ear 
Ye Jacobites by name yer faults I will proclaim 
Yer doctrines I maun blame, you will hear, you will hear 
Yer doctrines I maun blame, you will hear 

What makes heroic strife famed afar, famed afar 
What makes heroic strife famed afar 
What makes heroic strife, to whet the assassin's knife 
And haunt a parent's life wi bloody war, bloody war 
And haunt a parent's life wi bloody war 

Ye Jacobites by name lend an ear, lend an ear 
Ye Jacobites by name lend an ear 
Ye Jacobites by name yer faults I will proclaim 
Yer doctrines I maun blame, you will hear, you will hear 
Yer doctrines I maun blame, you will hear 

So let yer schemes alone in the State, in the State 
Let yer schemes alone in the State 
Let yer schemes alone, adore the Rising Sun 
And leave a man undone to his fate, to his fate 
And leave a man undone to his fate 

Ye Jacobites by name lend an ear, lend an ear 
Ye Jacobites by name lend an ear 
Ye Jacobites by name yer faults I will proclaim 
Yer doctrines I maun blame, you will hear, you will hear 
Yer doctrines I maun blame, you will hear 

Ye Jacobites by name lend an ear, lend an ear 
Ye Jacobites by name lend an ear 
Ye Jacobites by name yer faults I will proclaim 
Yer doctrines I maun blame, you will hear, you will hear 
Yer doctrines I maun blame, you will hear
    

—Robert Burns

The Great Mandella (the Wheel Of Life)

So I told him that he'd better shut his mouth
And do his job like a man.
And he answered "Listen, Father,
I will never kill another."
He thinks he's better
than his brother that died
What the hell does he think he's doing
To his father who brought him up right?

Chorus

Take your place on The Great Mandella
As it moves through your brief moment of time.
Win or lose now you must choose now
And if you lose you're only losing your life.

Tell the jailer not to bother
With his meal of bread and water today.
He is fasting 'til the killing's over
He's a martyr, he thinks he's a prophet.
But he's a coward, he's just playing a game
He can't do it, he can't change it
It's been going on for ten thousand years

Chorus

Tell the people they are safe now
Hunger stopped him, he lies still in his cell.
Death has gagged his accusations
We are free now, we can kill now,
We can hate now, now we can end the world
We're not guilty, he was crazy
And it's been going on for ten thousand years!

Take your place on The Great Mandella
As it moves through your brief moment of time.
Win or lose now you must choose now
And if you lose you've only wasted your life.
    

—Peter Yarrow

Lili Marleen

Underneath the lantern,
By the barrack gate
Darling I remember
The way you used to wait
T'was there that you whispered tenderly,
That you loved me,
You'd always be,
My Lilli of the Lamplight,
My own Lilli Marlene

Time would come for roll call,
Time for us to part,
Darling I'd caress you
And press you to my heart,
And there 'neath that far–off lantern light,
I'd hold you tight ,
We'd kiss good night,
My Lilli of the Lamplight,
My own Lilli Marlene

Orders came for sailing,
Somewhere over there
All confined to barracks
was more than I could bear
I knew you were waiting in the street
I heard your feet,
But could not meet,
My Lilly of the Lamplight,
my own Lilly Marlene

Resting in our billets,
Just behind the lines
Even tho' we're parted,
Your lips are close to mine
You wait where that lantern softly gleams,
Your sweet face seems
To haunt my dreams
My Lilly of the Lamplight,
My own Lilly Marlene 
    

—Tommie Connor

Suzanne

Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river
You can hear the boats go by
You can spend the night beside her
And you know that she's half crazy
But that's why you want to be there
And she feeds you tea and oranges
That come all the way from China
And just when you mean to tell her
That you have no love to give her
Then she gets you on her wavelength
And she lets the river answer
That you've always been her lover
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that she will trust you
For you've touched her perfect body with your mind.

And Jesus was a sailor
When he walked upon the water
And he spent a long time watching
From his lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain
Only drowning men could see him
He said "All men will be sailors then
Until the sea shall free them"
But he himself was broken
Long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human
He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone
And you want to travel with him
And you want to travel blind
And you think maybe you'll trust him
For he's touched your perfect body with his mind.

Now Suzanne takes your hand
And she leads you to the river
She is wearing rags and feathers
From Salvation Army counters
And the sun pours down like honey
On our lady of the harbour
And she shows you where to look
Among the garbage and the flowers
There are heroes in the seaweed
There are children in the morning
They are leaning out for love
And they will lean that way forever
While Suzanne holds the mirror
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that you can trust her
For she's touched your perfect body with her mind. 
    

—Leonard Cohen

Lord Franklin

I was homeward bound one night on the deep, 
Swinging in my hammock I fell asleep, 
I dreamed a dream and I thought it true 
Concerning Franklin and his gallant crew. 

I dreamed we neared the English shore, 
I heard a lady weep and deplore, 
She wept aloud and she seemed to say: 
Alas, that my husband is so long away. 

With a hundred seamen he sailed away 
To the frozen ocean in the month of May, 
To seek the passage around the Pole, 
Where we poor seamen do sometimes roll. 

Through cruel hardships they vainly strove, 
Their ship on mountains of ice was drove, 
Where the Eskimo in his skin canoe 
Was the only ones that ever came through. 

Now my sad burden it gives me pain, 
For my long–lost Franklin I'd cross the main. 
Ten thousand pounds I would freely give 
To say on earth that my Franklin do live. 

In Baffin's Bay where the whalefish blow, 
The fate of Franklin no man may know,
The tale of Franklin no tongue can tell, 
Lord Franklin along with his sailors do dwell. 
    

—Traditional

Money For Nothing

Now look at them yo–yo's that's the way you do it
You play the guitar on the MTV
That ain't workin' that's the way you do it
Money for nothin' and chicks for free
Now that ain't workin' that's the way you do it
Lemme tell ya them guys ain't dumb
Maybe get a blister on your little finger
Maybe get a blister on your thumb

We gotta install microwave ovens
Custom kitchen deliveries
We gotta move these refrigerators
We gotta move these colour TV's

See the little faggot with the earring and the makeup
Yeah buddy that's his own hair
That little faggot got his own jet airplane
That little faggot he's a millionaire

We gotta install microwave ovens
Custom kitchens deliveries
We gotta move these refrigerators
We gotta move these colour TV's

I shoulda learned to play the guitar
I shoulda learned to play them drums
Look at that mama, she got it stickin' in the camera
Man we could have some fun
And he's up there, what's that? Hawaiian noises?
Bangin' on the bongoes like a chimpanzee
That ain't workin' that's the way you do it
Get your money for nothin' get your chicks for free

We gotta install microwave ovens
Custom kitchen deliveries
We gotta move these refrigerators
We gotta move these colour TV's, Lord

Now that ain't workin' that's the way you do it
You play the guitar on the MTV
That ain't workin' that's the way you do it
Money for nothin' and your chicks for free
Money for nothin' and chicks for free
    

—Dire Straights

Outside Of A Small Circle Of Friends

Look outside the window, there's a woman being grabbed
They've dragged her to the bushes and now she's being stabbed
Maybe we should call the cops and try to stop the pain
But Monopoly is so much fun, I'd hate to blow the game
And I'm sure it wouldn't interest anybody
Outside of a small circle of friends.

Riding down the highway, yes, my back is getting stiff
Thirteen cars are piled up, they're hanging on a cliff.
Maybe we should pull them back with our towing chain
But we gotta move and we might get sued and it looks like it's gonna rain
And I'm sure it wouldn't interest anybody
Outside of a small circle of friends.

Sweating in the ghetto with the (colored/Panthers) and the poor
The rats have joined the babies who are sleeping on the floor
Now wouldn't it be a riot if they really blew their tops?
But they got too much already and besides we got the cops
And I'm sure it wouldn't interest anybody
Outside of a small circle of friends.

Oh there's a dirty paper using sex to make a sale
The Supreme Court was so upset, they sent him off to jail.
Maybe we should help the fiend and take away his fine. (*)
But we're busy reading Playboy and the Sunday New York Times
And I'm sure it wouldn't interest anybody
Outside of a small circle of friends

Smoking marihuana is more fun than drinking beer,
But a friend of ours was captured and they gave him thirty years
Maybe we should raise our voices, ask somebody why
But demonstrations are a drag, besides we're much too high
And I'm sure it wouldn't interest anybody
Outside of a small circle of friends

Oh look outside the window, there's a woman being grabbed
They've dragged her to the bushes and now she's being stabbed
Maybe we should call the cops and try to stop the pain
But Monopoly is so much fun, I'd hate to blow the game
And I'm sure it wouldn't interest anybody
Outside of a small circle of friends

[ Additional verse, 1974 ]
Down in Santiago where they took away our mines
We cut off all their money so they robbed the storehouse blind
Now maybe we should ask some questions, maybe shed a tear
But I bet you a copper penny, it cannot happen here
And I'm sure it wouldn't interest anybody
Outside of a small circle of friends
    

—Phil Ochs

Sam Stone

sam stone came home to his wife and family
after serving in the conflict overseas
and the time that he served had shattered all his nerve
and left a little shrapnel in his knee
but the morphine eased the pain
and the grass grew round his brain
and gave him all the confidence he lacked
with a purple heart and a monkey on his back

Chorus

there's a hole in daddy's arm where all the money goes
jesus christ died for nothing i suppose
little pictures have big ears
don't stop to count the years
sweet songs never last too long on broken radios
sam stone's welcome home didn't last too long
he went to work when he'd spent his last dime
and sammy took to stealin' when he got that empty feelin'
for a hundred dollar habit without overtime
and the gold rolled through his veins
like a thousand railroad trains
and eased his mind in the hours that he chose
while the kids ran around wearing other peoples clothes

Chorus

sam stone was alone when he popped his last balloon
climbing walls while sitting in a chair
and they played his last request while the room smelled just like death
with an overdose hovering in the air
cause life had lost it's fun and there was nothing to be done
but trade his house that he bought on the g. i. bill
for a flag–draped casket on a local hero's hill

Chorus
    

—John Prine

Psalm 23

1  The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.
2  He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
         he leadeth me beside the still waters.
3  He restoreth my soul:
         he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
4  Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
         I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; 
         thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
5  Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:
         thou anointest my head with oil; 
         my cup runneth over.
6  Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:
         and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever. 
    

—King David

High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter–silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun–split clouds — and done a hundred things

You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.

Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew —
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high unsurpassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God. 
    

—Pilot Officer John Gillespie Magee

A Whiter Shade Of Pale

We skipped the light Fandango
Turned cartwheels 'cross the floor
I was feeling kind of seasick
But the crowd called out for more
The room was humming harder
As the ceiling flew away
When we called out for another drink
The waiter brought a tray

And so it was that later
As the Miller told his tale
That her face, at first just ghostly
Turned a whiter shade of pale

She said there is no reason
And the truth is plain to see
But I wandered through my playing cards
And would not let her be
One of sixteen vestal virgins
Who were leaving for the coast
And although my eyes were open
They might just as well 've been closed

And so it was that later
As the Miller told his tale
That her face, at first just ghostly
Turned a whiter shade of pale

And so it was that later
As the Miller told his tale
That her face, at first just ghostly
Turned a whiter shade of pale   
    

—Keith Reid and Gary Brooker

The Charge of the Light Brigade

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery–smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred. 
    

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson

New Christ Cardiac Hero

Yesterday's preacher, today's bikini beacher,
They've stolen your clerical robes and you bible's been thrown.
Your virgin red crown of thorns has turned to ivory horns
And your corner throne it has become a coroner's stone.
The crucifix you prayed on turned to jailhouse bars;
Its silver chain you left out in the rain to glow with dust
And turned to seaweed tangled in your heart,
Now how does it feel to pull out the nails and find you still can walk?
Oh, you can't feel at all from your self–imposed rack on the wall.
The tighter you drive the nails, oh, the harder you'll fall.
So come on down, come off it, sir, you're gonna get hurt.

The holy water you bathe in mingles with the sewer,
All your disciples have reclaimed their rifles and taken the cure.
Your lectures of ways are only today's poolroom jokes
Scrawled on the walls of tenement halls and bathroom bowls.
As jingle bells cry pay us well or you'll go to hell.
Freedom's chains bind your pain and tie you well,
But how could you know the gallows you hold weighs you down?
Now isn't it boss, you don't need a cross to get around.

The eyes that cried for mankind's pride are covered with shades
As the children of God trample unshod past your mindly grave.
And the new Christ hipster cardiac hero of 2,000 years past you mind
Spits at your feet, crying "We have no need of God, each of us is his own."
Yesterday's preacher, today's bikini beacher,
They've stolen your clerical robes, your Bible's been thrown
You must have a cross, but they've taken you, God, and shot you filled with dead,
So following new Christ pick up on a cycle instead.
    

—Janis Ian

Civil War IV

General Lee at Gettysburg

Come General Pickett…this has been
my fight and upon my shoulders rests the
blame. The men and officers of your
command have written the name of
Virginia as high today as it has ever been
written before.
    

—Robert E. Lee

The Ballad of the Lady Jane

There was a bonny ship and she sailed the Spanish Main
and the name that they called her by it was the Lady Jane
but she went down in a Gale with her captain and her crew
but the devil brought her up again and set her straight and true
Lady Jane

He gathered up her men and he stood them in a line
saying "Every man of you is dead, but every man is mine.
For I'm taking me a ship, for to sail the seven seas
I'm taking me a crew for to sail her where I please"
Lady Jane

and from underneath his arm he took his fiddle and his bow
and he struck a note of fire and the Jane began to glow
set your faces to the stormy seas, and bid the land farewell
the Lady Jane has set her sail and set 'em straight for hell
Lady Jane

(fiddle solo)

I'll make your daughters weep 'fore the turning of the tide
I'll make orphans of your sons and widows of your brides
and for a hundred years my boys, I'll wait for your return
and for a hundred years my boys, the Lady Jane will burn
Lady Jane

So the Lady Jane she rolled for a hundred years of more
and we heard her men lamenting as we stood upon the shore
saying "Lucky were the landsmen, but luckier were we
when we lay with the fishes at the bottom of the sea"
Lady Jane

They say you still can see her, if you pass her in the night
Her decks are all on fire, and her sails are turning bright
You can hear the fiddle playing, you can hear the sailors cry
You can hear the devil laughing as the Lady Jane goes by
Lady Jane

Upon Lady Jane will you never come again
with your captain and your crew and all your merry men
or will you sail forever far beyond this side of land
where dead men ride the rigging and the devil's in command
Lady Jane
    

—Tommy Makem

Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert … Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works ye mighty and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away. 
    

—Percy Bysshe Shelley

It's the End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)

That's great, it starts with an earthquake
Birds and snakes an aeroplane
And Lenny Bruce is not afraid
Eye of a hurricane, listen to yourself churn
World serves its own needs, dummy serve your own needs
Feed it off an aux, speak grunt no strength
The ladder starts to clatter with fear fight down height
Wire in a fire representing seven games
A government for hire and a combat site
Left of west and coming in a hurry
With the furies breathing down – your – neck
Team by team reporters baffled trumped tethered cropped
Look at that low playing, fine, then
Uh oh overflow population common food
But it'll do save yourself serve yourself
World serves its own needs listen to your heart bleed
Dummy with the rapture and the reverend and the right, right
You vitriolic patriotic slam fight bright light feeling pretty psyched

It's the end of the world as we know it
It's the end of the world as we know it
It's the end of the world as we know it
And I feel fine

Six o'clock TV hour, don't get caught in foreign towers
Slash and burn return listen to yourself churn
Locking in uniforming book–burning blood–letting
Every motive escalate, automotive 'cinerate
Light a candle light a votive
Step down, step down watch your heel crush crushed
Uh oh this means no fear cavalier renegade steer clear
A tournament, a tournament, a tournament of lies
Offer me solutions, offer me alternatives and I decline

It's the end of the world as we know it
It's the end of the world as we know it
  It's time I had some time alone
It's the end of the world as we know it
  It's time I had some time alone
And I feel fine
I feel fine

Full Refrain

It's the end of the world as we know it
  It's time I had some time alone
It's the end of the world as we know it
  It's time I had some time alone
It's the end of the world as we know it
  It's time I had some time alone
And I feel fine

The other night I dreamt of knives continental drift divide
Mountains sit in a line, Leonard Bernstein
Leonid Brezhnev, Lenny Bruce and Lester Bangs
Birthday party cheesecake jellybean boom
You symbiotic patriotic slam book neck, right?  Right

Full Refrain

It's the end of the world as we know it
It's the end of the world as we know it
It's the end of the world as we know it

It's time I had some time alone

And I feel fine
    

—REM

Little Boxes

Little boxes on the hillside, Little boxes made of tickytacky
Little boxes on the hillside, little boxes all the same
There's a green one and a pink one and a blue one and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky tacky and they all look just the same.

And the people in the houses all went to the university
Where they were put in boxes and they came out all the same,
And there's doctors and there's lawyers, and business executives
And they're all made out of ticky tacky and they all look just the same.

And they all play on the golf course and drink their martinis dry,
And they all have pretty children and the children go to school
And the children go to summer camp and then to the university
Where they are put in boxes and they come out all the same.

And the boys go into business and marry and raise a family
In boxes made of ticky tacky and they all look just the same.
    

—Malvina Reynolds

The Road Goes Ever On

The Road goes ever on and on
    Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
    And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
    Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
    And whither then? I cannot say. 
    

—J. R. R. Tolkien

Water For My Horses

As he lay dying
He said I hate you
And I hope your soul
Goes straight to hell
You think it's justice
You'll hang for murder
What degree
I'll never tell

Chorus

Need water for my horses
Is all I'm asking
You can tell the law
Which way I go
All of my dreams
Are only wind songs
Through the trees
That seldom grow

I don't mind dying
Lord I had my living
And I played it straight
When I knew the rules
She said she loved me
And I believed her
Now I'm on the run
The original fool

Chorus

If you see Jesus
Tell him I'm sorry
I did not know
What I had done
Like a dirty dog
I was drunk on whiskey
And I killed a man
Just to have a little fun

Chorus

All of my dreams
Are only wind songs
Through the trees
That seldom grow
    

—Hoyt Axton

So Long Marianne

Come over to the window, my little darling, 
I'd like to try to read your palm. 
I used to think I was some kind of Gypsy boy 
before I let you take me home. 
Now so long, Marianne, it's time that we began 
to laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again. 

Well you know that I love to live with you, 
but you make me forget so very much. 
I forget to pray for the angels 
and then the angels forget to pray for us. 

Now so long, Marianne, it's time that we began … 

We met when we were almost young 
deep in the green lilac park. 
You held on to me like I was a crucifix, 
as we went kneeling through the dark. 

Oh so long, Marianne, it's time that we began … 

Your letters they all say that you're beside me now. 
Then why do I feel alone? 
I'm standing on a ledge and your fine spider web 
is fastening my ankle to a stone. 

Now so long, Marianne, it's time that we began … 

For now I need your hidden love. 
I'm cold as a new razor blade. 
You left when I told you I was curious, 
I never said that I was brave. 

Oh so long, Marianne, it's time that we began … 

Oh, you are really such a pretty one. 
I see you've gone and changed your name again. 
And just when I climbed this whole mountainside, 
to wash my eyelids in the rain! 

Oh so long, Marianne, it's time that we began … 
    

—Leonard Cohen

A Person Who Eats Meat

A person who eats meat
wants to get his teeth into something
A person who does not eat meat
wants to get his teeth into something else
If these thoughts interest you for even a moment
you are lost 
    

—Leonard Cohen

A Study in Scarlet

"You see," he explained, "I consider that a man's brain originally is
like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture
as you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort that he
comes across, so that the knowledge which might be useful to him gets
crowded out, or at best is jumbled up with a lot of other things so
that he has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it. Now the skilful
workman is very careful indeed as to what he takes into his
brain–attic. He will have nothing but the tools which may help him in
doing his work, but of these he has a large assortment, and all in the
most perfect order. It is a mistake to think that that little room has
elastic walls and can distend to any extent. Depend upon it there comes
a time when for every addition of knowledge you forget something that
you knew before. It is of the highest importance, therefore, not to
have useless facts elbowing out the useful ones."—–Holmes
    

—Sir Author Conan Doyle

The Declaration of Arbroath 1306

For, as long as but a hundred of us remain alive, never will we on
any conditions be brought under English rule. It is in truth not for
glory, nor riches, nor honours that we are fighting, but for
freedom —– for that alone, which no honest man gives up but with life itself.
    

—Unknown

The Puddler's Tale

They neither know of night or day,
They night and day pour out their thunder,
As every ingot rolls away,
A dozen more are split asunder.
There is a sign beside the gate,
"Eleven Days" since a man lay dying,
Now every shift brings fear and hate
And shaken men in terror crying.

The molten rivers boil away,
A fiery brew hell never equaled.
To their profits the bosses pray,
And Mammon sings in his grim cathedral.
His attendants join the choir,
And heaven help us if we're shirking,
Stoke the furnace–altar fire,
And just be thankful that we're working!

Do this, then, charge the hopper high
Lest you endure the Foreman's choler,
Do this, then, drain the tankards dry,
And let us toast the almighty dollar,
That keeps us chained here before the fire
Where heat and noise set the weak–a–quaking.
At the siren's infernal cry,
The open hearth sets the ground to shaking.

Do this, then, raise the babies high
And make them shriek with love and laughter!
Do this, then, kiss your woman's eyes
And raise a song unto the rafters!
Wash the steel mill from your hair,
Heap the table 'til it's breaking,
'Nor let terror enter there
And in the hearth set the glasses breaking. 
    

—Stan Rogers

The Grave of the Hundred Dead

There's a widow in sleepy Chester
Who weeps for her only son;
There's a grave on the Pabeng River,
A grave that the Burmans shun,
And there's Subadar Prag Tewarri
Who tells how the work was done.

A Snider squibbed in the jungle,
Somebody laughed and fled,
And the men of the First Shikaris
Picked up their Subaltern dead,
With a big blue mark in his forehead
And the back blown out of his head.

Subadar Prag Tewarri,
Jemadar Hira Lal,
Took command of the party,
Twenty rifles in all,
Marched them down to the river
As the day was beginning to fall.

They buried the boy by the river,
A blanket over his face —
They wept for their dead Lieutenant,
The men of an alien race —
They made a samadh in his honor,
A mark for his resting–place.

For they swore by the Holy Water,
They swore by the salt they ate,
That the soul of Lieutenant Eshmitt Sahib
Should go to his God in state;
With fifty file of Burman
To open him Heaven's gate.

The men of the First Shikaris
Marched till the break of day,
Till they came to the rebel village,
The village of Pabengmay —
A jingal covered the clearing,
Calthrops hampered the way.

Subadar Prag Tewarri,
Bidding them load with ball,
Halted a dozen rifles
Under the village wall;
Sent out a flanking–party
With Jemadar Hira Lal.

The men of the First Shikaris
Shouted and smote and slew,
Turning the grinning jingal
On to the howling crew.
The Jemadar's flanking–party
Butchered the folk who flew.

Long was the morn of slaughter,
Long was the list of slain,
Five score heads were taken,
Five score heads and twain;
And the men of the First Shickaris
Went back to their grave again,

Each man bearing a basket
Red as his palms that day,
Red as the blazing village —
The village of Pabengmay,
And the "drip–drip–drip" from the baskets
Reddened the grass by the way.

They made a pile of their trophies
High as a tall man's chin,
Head upon head distorted,
Set in a sightless grin,
Anger and pain and terror
Stamped on the smoke–scorched skin.

Subadar Prag Tewarri
Put the head of the Boh
On the top of the mound of triumph,
The head of his son below,
With the sword and the peacock–banner
That the world might behold and know.

Thus the samadh was perfect,
Thus was the lesson plain
Of the wrath of the First Shikaris —
The price of a white man slain;
And the men of the First Shikaris
Went back into camp again.

Then a silence came to the river,
A hush fell over the shore,
And Bohs that were brave departed,
And Sniders squibbed no more;
For he Burmans said
That a kullah's head
Must be paid for with heads five score.

There's a widow in sleepy Chester
Who weeps for her only son;
There's a grave on the Pabeng River,
A grave that the Burmans shun,
And there's Subadar Prag Tewarri
Who tells how the work was done.
    

—Rudyard Kipling

The Old Triangle

A hungry feeling came o'er me stealing 
And the mice were squealing 
In my prison cell 

And the old triangle 
Went jingle jangle 
All along the banks 
Of the Royal Canal 

To begin the morning 
The warder's bawling 
"Get out of bed 
And clean up your cell" 

And the old triangle 
Went jingle jangle 
All along the banks 
Of the Royal Canal 

On a fine spring evening 
The lag lay dreaming 
The seagulls wheeling 
High above the wall 

And the old triangle 
Went jingle jangle 
All along the banks 
Of the Royal Canal 

The screw was peeping 
The lag was sleeping 
While he lay weeping 
For his girl Sal 

And the old triangle 
Went jingle jangle 
All along the banks 
Of the Royal Canal 

The wind was rising 
And the day declining 
As I lay pining 
In my prison cell 

And the old triangle 
Went jingle jangle 
All along the banks 
Of the Royal Canal 

In the female prison 
There are seventy women 
I wish it was with them 
That I did dwell 

Then the old triangle 
Could go jingle jangle 
All along the banks 
Of the Royal Canal 

The day was dying 
And the wind was sighing 
As I lay crying 
In my prison cell 

And the old triangle 
Went jingle jangle 
All along the banks 
Of the Royal Canal 
All along the banks 
Of the Royal Canal
    

—Brendan Behan

Goodnight Irene

Chorus

Irene, goodnight. Irene, goodnight Goodnight, Irene. Goodnight, Irene. I'll see you in my dreams.

Last Saturday night I got married. Me and my wife settled down.
Now, me and my wife are parted. Gonna take a little stroll downtown.

Chorus

Yeah, sometimes I live in the country and sometimes I live in town.
Yeah, and sometimes I take a great notion I'm gonna jump in the river and drown.

Chorus

Stop ramblin'. Stop that gamblin'. Stop staying out late at night.
Go home to your wife and family. Stay there by the fireside, bright.

Chorus

Goodnight, Irene. Goodnight, Irene. I'll see you in my dreams.
    

—Huddie Ledbetter and John Lomax

San Franciscan Nights

Strobe light beam, creates dreams
Walls move, minds do too
On a warm San Franciscan night

Old child , young child
Feel all right

On a warm San Franciscan night 
Angels sing, leather wings
Jeans of blue, Harley Davidson's too
On a warm San Franciscan night

Old angel, young angel
Feel all right
On a warm San Franciscan night

I wasn't born there 
Perhaps I'll die there
There's no place left to go
San Francisco

Cops face is filled with hate
Heavens above
He's on a street called "Love"
When will they ever learn?
Old cop, young cop
Feel all right
On a warm San Franciscan night

The children are cool
They don't raise fools
It's an American dream
Includes Indians too
    

—Burdon and Briggs and Weider and Jenkins and McCulloch

Bill Zeller's Suicide Note

I have the urge to declare my sanity and
justify my actions, but I assume I'll never be able to convince anyone
that this was the right decision. Maybe it's true that anyone who does
this is insane by definition, but I can at least explain my reasoning.
I considered not writing any of this because of how personal it is, but
I like tying up loose ends and don't want people to wonder why I did
this. Since I've never spoken to anyone about what happened to me,
people would likely draw the wrong conclusions.  My first memories as a
child are of being raped, repeatedly. This has affected every aspect of
my life. This darkness, which is the only way I can describe it, has
followed me like a fog, but at times intensified and overwhelmed me,
usually triggered by a distinct situation. In kindergarten I couldn't
use the bathroom and would stand petrified whenever I needed to, which
started a trend of awkward and unexplained social behavior. The damage
that was done to my body still prevents me from using the bathroom
normally, but now it's less of a physical impediment than a daily
reminder of what was done to me.  This darkness followed me as I grew
up. I remember spending hours playing with legos, having my world
consist of me and a box of cold, plastic blocks. Just waiting for
everything to end. It's the same thing I do now, but instead of legos
it's surfing the web or reading or listening to a baseball game. Most
of my life has been spent feeling dead inside, waiting for my body to
catch up.  At times growing up I would feel inconsolable rage, but I
never connected this to what happened until puberty. I was able to keep
the darkness at bay for a few hours at a time by doing things that
required intense concentration, but it would always come back.
Programming appealed to me for this reason. I was never particularly
fond of computers or mathematically inclined, but the temporary peace
it would provide was like a drug. But the darkness always returned and
built up something like a tolerance, because programming has become
less and less of a refuge.  The darkness is with me nearly every time I
wake up. I feel like a grime is covering me. I feel like I'm trapped in
a contimated body that no amount of washing will clean. Whenever I
think about what happened I feel manic and itchy and can't concentrate
on anything else. It manifests itself in hours of eating or staying up
for days at a time or sleeping for sixteen hours straight or week long
programming binges or constantly going to the gym. I'm exhausted from
feeling like this every hour of every day.  Three to four nights a week
I have nightmares about what happened. It makes me avoid sleep and
constantly tired, because sleeping with what feels like hours of
nightmares is not restful. I wake up sweaty and furious. I'm reminded
every morning of what was done to me and the control it has over my
life.  I've never been able to stop thinking about what happened to me
and this hampered my social interactions. I would be angry and lost in
thought and then be interrupted by someone saying "Hi" or making small
talk, unable to understand why I seemed cold and distant. I walked
around, viewing the outside world from a distant portal behind my eyes,
unable to perform normal human niceties. I wondered what it would be
like to take to other people without what happened constantly on my
mind, and I wondered if other people had similar experiences that they
were better able to mask.  Alcohol was also something that let me
escape the darkness. It would always find me later, though, and it was
always angry that I managed to escape and it made me pay. Many of the
irresponsible things I did were the result of the darkness. Obviously
I'm responsible for every decision and action, including this one, but
there are reasons why things happen the way they do.  Alcohol and other
drugs provided a way to ignore the realities of my situation. It was
easy to spend the night drinking and forget that I had no future to
look forward to. I never liked what alcohol did to me, but it was
better than facing my existence honestly. I haven't touched alcohol or
any other drug in over seven months (and no drugs or alcohol will be
involved when I do this) and this has forced me to evaluate my life in
an honest and clear way. There's no future here. The darkness will
always be with me.  I used to think if I solved some problem or
achieved some goal, maybe he would leave. It was comforting to identify
tangible issues as the source of my problems instead of something that
I'll never be able to change. I thought that if I got into to a good
college, or a good grad school, or lost weight, or went to the gym
nearly every day for a year, or created programs that millions of
people used, or spent a summer or California or New York or published
papers that I was proud of, then maybe I would feel some peace and not
be constantly haunted and unhappy. But nothing I did made a dent in how
depressed I was on a daily basis and nothing was in any way fulfilling.
I'm not sure why I ever thought that would change anything.  I didn't
realize how deep a hold he had on me and my life until my first
relationship. I stupidly assumed that no matter how the darkness
affected me personally, my romantic relationships would somehow be
separated and protected. Growing up I viewed my future relationships as
a possible escape from this thing that haunts me every day, but I began
to realize how entangled it was with every aspect of my life and how it
is never going to release me. Instead of being an escape, relationships
and romantic contact with other people only intensified everything
about him that I couldn't stand. I will never be able to have a
relationship in which he is not the focus, affecting every aspect of my
romantic interactions.	Relationships always started out fine and I'd
be able to ignore him for a few weeks. But as we got closer emotionally
the darkness would return and every night it'd be me, her and the
darkness in a black and gruesome threesome. He would surround me and
penetrate me and the more we did the more intense it became. It made me
hate being touched, because as long as we were separated I could view
her like an outsider viewing something good and kind and untainted.
Once we touched, the darkness would envelope her too and take her over
and the evil inside me would surround her. I always felt like I was
infecting anyone I was with.  Relationships didn't work. No one I dated
was the right match, and I thought that maybe if I found the right
person it would overwhelm him. Part of me knew that finding the right
person wouldn't help, so I became interested in girls who obviously had
no interest in me. For a while I thought I was gay. I convinced myself
that it wasn't the darkness at all, but rather my orientation, because
this would give me control over why things didn't feel "right". The
fact that the darkness affected sexual matters most intensely made this
idea make some sense and I convinced myself of this for a number of
years, starting in college after my first relationship ended. I told
people I was gay (at Trinity, not at Princeton), even though I wasn't
attracted to men and kept finding myself interested in girls. Because
if being gay wasn't the answer, then what was? People thought I was
avoiding my orientation, but I was actually avoiding the truth, which
is that while I'm straight, I will never be content with anyone. I know
now that the darkness will never leave.  Last spring I met someone who
was unlike anyone else I'd ever met. Someone who showed me just how
well two people could get along and how much I could care about another
human being. Someone I know I could be with and love for the rest of my
life, if I weren't so fucked up. Amazingly, she liked me. She liked the
shell of the man the darkness had left behind. But it didn't matter
because I couldn't be alone with her. It was never just the two of us,
it was always the three of us: her, me and the darkness. The closer we
got, the more intensely I'd feel the darkness, like some evil mirror of
my emotions. All the closeness we had and I loved was complemented by
agony that I couldn't stand, from him. I realized that I would never be
able to give her, or anyone, all of me or only me. She could never have
me without the darkness and evil inside me. I could never have just
her, without the darkness being a part of all of our interactions. I
will never be able to be at peace or content or in a healthy
relationship. I realized the futility of the romantic part of my life.
If I had never met her, I would have realized this as soon as I met
someone else who I meshed similarly well with. It's likely that things
wouldn't have worked out with her and we would have broken up (with our
relationship ending, like the majority of relationships do) even if I
didn't have this problem, since we only dated for a short time. But I
will face exactly the same problems with the darkness with anyone else.
Despite my hopes, love and compatability is not enough. Nothing is
enough. There's no way I can fix this or even push the darkness down
far enough to make a relationship or any type of intimacy feasible.  So
I watched as things fell apart between us. I had put an explicit time
limit on our relationship, since I knew it couldn't last because of the
darkness and didn't want to hold her back, and this caused a variety of
problems. She was put in an unnatural situation that she never should
have been a part of. It must have been very hard for her, not knowing
what was actually going on with me, but this is not something I've ever
been able to talk about with anyone. Losing her was very hard for me as
well. Not because of her (I got over our relationship relatively
quickly), but because of the realization that I would never have
another relationship and because it signified the last true, exclusive
personal connection I could ever have. This wasn't apparent to other
people, because I could never talk about the real reasons for my
sadness. I was very sad in the summer and fall, but it was not because
of her, it was because I will never escape the darkness with anyone.
She was so loving and kind to me and gave me everything I could have
asked for under the circumstances. I'll never forget how much happiness
she brought me in those briefs moments when I could ignore the
darkness. I had originally planned to kill myself last winter but never
got around to it. (Parts of this letter were written over a year ago,
other parts days before doing this.) It was wrong of me to involve
myself in her life if this were a possibility and I should have just
left her alone, even though we only dated for a few months and things
ended a long time ago. She's just one more person in a long list of
people I've hurt.  I could spend pages talking about the other
relationships I've had that were ruined because of my problems and my
confusion related to the darkness. I've hurt so many great people
because of who I am and my inability to experience what needs to be
experienced. All I can say is that I tried to be honest with people
about what I thought was true.	I've spent my life hurting people.
Today will be the last time.  I've told different people a lot of
things, but I've never told anyone about what happened to me, ever, for
obvious reasons. It took me a while to realize that no matter how close
you are to someone or how much they claim to love you, people simply
cannot keep secrets. I learned this a few years ago when I thought I
was gay and told people. The more harmful the secret, the juicier the
gossip and the more likely you are to be betrayed. People don't care
about their word or what they've promised, they just do whatever the
fuck they want and justify it later. It feels incredibly lonely to
realize you can never share something with someone and have it be
between just the two of you. I don't blame anyone in particular, I
guess it's just how people are. Even if I felt like this is something I
could have shared, I have no interest in being part of a friendship or
relationship where the other person views me as the damaged and
contaminated person that I am. So even if I were able to trust someone,
I probably would not have told them about what happened to me. At this
point I simply don't care who knows.  I feel an evil inside me. An evil
that makes me want to end life. I need to stop this. I need to make
sure I don't kill someone, which is not something that can be easily
undone. I don't know if this is related to what happened to me or
something different. I recognize the irony of killing myself to prevent
myself from killing someone else, but this decision should indicate
what I'm capable of.  So I've realized I will never escape the darkness
or misery associated with it and I have a responsibility to stop myself
from physically harming others.  I'm just a broken, miserable shell of
a human being. Being molested has defined me as a person and shaped me
as a human being and it has made me the monster I am and there's
nothing I can do to escape it. I don't know any other existence. I
don't know what life feels like where I'm apart from any of this. I
actively despise the person I am. I just feel fundamentally broken,
almost non–human. I feel like an animal that woke up one day in a human
body, trying to make sense of a foreign world, living among creatures
it doesn't understand and can't connect with.  I have accepted that the
darkness will never allow me to be in a relationship. I will never go
to sleep with someone in my arms, feeling the comfort of their hands
around me. I will never know what uncontimated intimacy is like. I will
never have an exclusive bond with someone, someone who can be the
recipient of all the love I have to give. I will never have children,
and I wanted to be a father so badly. I think I would have made a good
dad. And even if I had fought through the darkness and married and had
children all while being unable to feel intimacy, I could have never
done that if suicide were a possibility. I did try to minimize pain,
although I know that this decision will hurt many of you. If this hurts
you, I hope that you can at least forget about me quickly.  There's no
point in identifying who molested me, so I'm just going to leave it at
that. I doubt the word of a dead guy with no evidence about something
that happened over twenty years ago would have much sway.  You may
wonder why I didn't just talk to a professional about this. I've seen a
number of doctors since I was a teenager to talk about other issues and
I'm positive that another doctor would not have helped. I was never
given one piece of actionable advice, ever. More than a few spent a
large part of the session reading their notes to remember who I was.
And I have no interest in talking about being raped as a child, both
because I know it wouldn't help and because I have no confidence it
would remain secret. I know the legal and practical limits of
doctor/patient confidentiality, growing up in a house where we'd hear
stories about the various mental illnesses of famous people, stories
that were passed down through generations. All it takes is one doctor
who thinks my story is interesting enough to share or a doctor who
thinks it's her right or responsibility to contact the authorities and
have me identify the molestor (justifying her decision by telling
herself that someone else might be in danger). All it takes is a single
doctor who violates my trust, just like the "friends" who I told I was
gay did, and everything would be made public and I'd be forced to live
in a world where people would know how fucked up I am. And yes, I
realize this indicates that I have severe trust issues, but they're
based on a large number of experiences with people who have shown a
profound disrepect for their word and the privacy of others.  People
say suicide is selfish. I think it's selfish to ask people to continue
living painful and miserable lives, just so you possibly won't feel sad
for a week or two. Suicide may be a permanent solution to a temporary
problem, but it's also a permanent solution to a ~23 year–old problem
that grows more intense and overwhelming every day.  Some people are
just dealt bad hands in this life. I know many people have it worse
than I do, and maybe I'm just not a strong person, but I really did try
to deal with this. I've tried to deal with this every day for the last
23 years and I just can't fucking take it anymore.  I often wonder what
life must be like for other people. People who can feel the love from
others and give it back unadulterated, people who can experience sex as
an intimate and joyous experience, people who can experience the colors
and happenings of this world without constant misery. I wonder who I'd
be if things had been different or if I were a stronger person. It
sounds pretty great.  I'm prepared for death. I'm prepared for the pain
and I am ready to no longer exist. Thanks to the strictness of New
Jersey gun laws this will probably be much more painful than it needs
to be, but what can you do. My only fear at this point is messing
something up and surviving.  —–  I'd also like to address my family,
if you can call them that. I despise everything they stand for and I
truly hate them, in a non–emotional, dispassionate and what I believe
is a healthy way. The world will be a better place when they're
dead—one with less hatred and intolerance.  If you're unfamiliar with
the situation, my parents are fundamentalist Christians who kicked me
out of their house and cut me off financially when I was 19 because I
refused to attend seven hours of church a week.  They live in a black
and white reality they've constructed for themselves. They partition
the world into good and evil and survive by hating everything they fear
or misunderstand and calling it love. They don't understand that good
and decent people exist all around us, "saved" or not, and that evil
and cruel people occupy a large percentage of their church. They take
advantage of people looking for hope by teaching them to practice the
same hatred they practice.  A random example:  "I am personally
convinced that if a Muslim truly believes and obeys the Koran, he will
be a terrorist." – George Zeller, August 24, 2010.  If you choose to
follow a religion where, for example, devout Catholics who are trying
to be good people are all going to Hell but child molestors go to
Heaven (as long as they were "saved" at some point), that's your
choice, but it's fucked up. Maybe a God who operates by those rules
does exist. If so, fuck Him.  Their church was always more important
than the members of their family and they happily sacrificed whatever
necessary in order to satisfy their contrived beliefs about who they
should be.  I grew up in a house where love was proxied through a God I
could never believe in. A house where the love of music with any sort
of a beat was literally beaten out of me. A house full of hatred and
intolerance, run by two people who were experts at appearing kind and
warm when others were around. Parents who tell an eight year old that
his grandmother is going to Hell because she's Catholic. Parents who
claim not to be racist but then talk about the horrors of
miscegenation. I could list hundreds of other examples, but it's
tiring.  Since being kicked out, I've interacted with them in
relatively normal ways. I talk to them on the phone like nothing
happened. I'm not sure why. Maybe because I like pretending I have a
family. Maybe I like having people I can talk to about what's been
going on in my life. Whatever the reason, it's not real and it feels
like a sham. I should have never allowed this reconnection to happen. 
I wrote the above a while ago, and I do feel like that much of the
time. At other times, though, I feel less hateful. I know my parents
honestly believe the crap they believe in. I know that my mom, at
least, loved me very much and tried her best. One reason I put this off
for so long is because I know how much pain it will cause her. She has
been sad since she found out I wasn't "saved", since she believes I'm
going to Hell, which is not a sadness for which I am responsible. That
was never going to change, and presumably she believes the state of my
physical body is much less important than the state of my soul. Still,
I cannot intellectually justify this decision, knowing how much it will
hurt her. Maybe my ability to take my own life, knowing how much pain
it will cause, shows that I am a monster who doesn't deserve to live.
All I know is that I can't deal with this pain any longer and I'm am
truly sorry I couldn't wait until my family and everyone I knew died so
this could be done without hurting anyone. For years I've wished that
I'd be hit by a bus or die while saving a baby from drowning so my
death might be more acceptable, but I was never so lucky.  —–	To
those of you who have shown me love, thank you for putting up with all
my shittiness and moodiness and arbitrariness. I was never the person I
wanted to be. Maybe without the darkness I would have been a better
person, maybe not. I did try to be a good person, but I realize I never
got very far.  I'm sorry for the pain this causes. I really do wish I
had another option. I hope this letter explains why I needed to do
this. If you can't understand this decision, I hope you can at least
forgive me.  

Bill Zeller  

—–  Please save this letter and repost it if
gets deleted. I don't want people to wonder why I did this. I
disseminated it more widely than I might have otherwise because I'm
worried that my family might try to restrict access to it. I don't mind
if this letter is made public. In fact, I'd prefer it be made public to
people being unable to read it and drawing their own conclusions.  Feel
free to republish this letter, but only if it is reproduced in its
entirety.  
    

—Bill Zeller

The Time Warp

RIFF RAFF: It's astounding 
Time is fleeting 
Madness takes its toll 
But listen closely 
MAGENTA: Not for very much longer 
RIFF RAFF: I've got to keep control 
I remember doing the Time Warp 
Drinking, those moments when 
The blackness would hit me 
RIFF RAFF & MAGENTA: And the void would be calling 

TRANSLYVANIANS: Let's do the Time Warp again! 
Let's do the Time Warp again! 

CRIMINOLOGIST: It's just a jump to the left 
TRANSLYVANIANS: And then a step to the right 
CRIMINOLOGIST: With your hands on your hips 
TRANSLYVANIANS: You bring your knees in tight 
But it's the pelvic thrust 
That really drives you insane 
Let's do the Time Warp again! 

MAGENTA: It's so dreamy 
Oh fantasy free me 
So you can't see me 
No, not at all 
In another dimension 
With voyeuristic intentions 
Well secluded, I see all 

RIFF RAFF: With a bit of a mind flip 
MAGENTA: You're into the time slip 
RIFF RAFF: And nothing can ever be the same 
MAGENTA: You're spaced out on sensation 
RIFF RAFF: Like you're under sedation  

TRANSLYVANIANS: Let's do the Time Warp again! 
Let's do the Time Warp again! 

COLUMBIA: Well I was walking down the street 
Just having a think 
When a snake of a guy gave me an evil wink 
He shook me up, he took me by surprise 
He had a pickup truck and the devil's eyes 
He stared at me and I felt a change 
Time meant nothing never would again 

TRANSLYVANIANS: Let's do the Time Warp again! 
Let's do the Time Warp again! 

CRIMINOLOGIST: It's just a jump to the left 
TRANSLYVANIANS: And then a step to the right 
CRIMINOLOGIST: With your hands on your hips 
TRANSLYVANIANS: You bring your knees in tight 
But it's the pelvic thrust 
That really drives you insane 
Let's do the Time Warp again! 
    

—Richard O'Brien

Snowblind Friend

You say it was this morning when you last saw your good friend
Lyin' on the pavement with a misery on his brain
Stoned on some new potion he found upon the wall
Of some unholy bathroom in some ungodly hall
He only had a dollar to live on 'til next Monday
But he spent it on some comfort for his mind
Did you say you think he's blind?

Someone should call his parents, a sister or a brother
And they'll come to take him back home on a bus
But he'll always be a problem to his poor and puzzled mother
Yeah he'll always be another one of us
He said he wanted Heaven but prayin' was too slow
So he bought a one way ticket on an airline made of snow
Did you say you saw your good friend flyin' low?
Flyin' low
Dyin' slow   
    

—Hoyt Axton

Another brick in the wall

Daddy's flown across the ocean
Leaving just a memory
Snapshot in the family album
Daddy what else did you leave for me?
Daddy, what'd'ja leave behind for me?!?
All in all it was just a brick in the wall.
All in all it was all just bricks in the wall.

"You! Yes, you! Stand still laddy!" 
   
We don't need no education 
We dont need no thought control
No dark sarcasm in the classroom
Teachers leave them kids alone
Hey! Teachers! Leave them kids alone!
All in all it's just another brick in the wall.
All in all you're just another brick in the wall.

We don't need no education
We dont need no thought control
No dark sarcasm in the classroom
Teachers leave them kids alone
Hey! Teachers! Leave them kids alone!
All in all it's just another brick in the wall.
All in all you're just another brick in the wall.

"Wrong, Do it again!"
"If you don't eat yer meat, you can't have any pudding. How can you
have any pudding if you don't eat yer meat?"
"You! Yes, you behind the bikesheds, stand still laddy!"

[Sound of many TV's coming on, all on different channels]
"The Bulls are already out there"
Pink: "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrgh!"
"This Roman Meal bakery thought you'd like to know."

I don't need no arms around me
And I dont need no drugs to calm me.
I have seen the writing on the wall.
Don't think I need anything at all.
No! Don't think I'll need anything at all.
All in all it was all just bricks in the wall.
All in all you were all just bricks in the wall.
    

—Pink Floyd

If You Don't Look Around

They told me doncha go down to that city. Don't you go down to that city, I say.
For there's trouble there for sure and it's no concern of yours and it's all I have to hear them people say.

Chorus

If you don't look around, you won't see my a–goin', see me a–goin' that way.
If you don't look around, you'll have no way of knowin'. I don't think you even know what I say.

And I saw children just walkin' 'long and singin' when a voice from behind me rang through.
Then I saw an ugly man with a mad dog in his hand. He said, "Stand right there. I'll turn him loose on you."

Chorus

So don't tell me there ain't no time for singin' 'cause I don't need no empty words from you.
If they're sayin' who ain't free then they're sayin' it right to me. So, go back home. I'll wake you when we're through.
    

—John Stewart

I come and stand at every door

I come and stand at every door
But no one hears my silent dread
I knock and yet remain unseen
For I am dead, for I am dead
I’m only seven although I’ve died
In hiroshima long ago
I’m seven now as I was then
When children die they do not grow
My hair was scorched by swirling flame
My eyes grew dim, my eyes grew blind
Death came and turned my bones to dust
And that was scattered by the wind
I need no fruit, I need no rice
I need no sweet, nor even bread
I ask for nothing for myself
For I am dead, for I am dead
All that I ask is that for peace
You fight today, you fight today
So that the children of this world
May live and grow, and laugh and play
    

—Nazim Hikmet

The Lady of the Lake: Canto 1 (excerpt)

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
      Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking:
Dream of battled fields no more,
      Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our isle's enchanted hall,
      Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Fairy strains of music fall,
      Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more:
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
      Armour's clang, or war–steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here
      Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come
      At the day–break from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,
      Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here,
Here's no war–steed's neigh and champing,
Shouting clans or squadrons stamping.

Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
      While our slumbrous spells assail ye,
Dream not, with the rising sun,
      Bugles here shall sound reveillé.
Sleep! the deer is in his den;
      Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;
Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen,
      How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest; thy chase is done,
Think not of the rising sun,
For at dawning to assail ye,
Here no bugles sound reveillé.
    

—Sir Walter Scott

The Fish Cheer and Fixin' To Die Rag

Gimme an F!

F!

Gimme an I!

I!

Gimme an S!

S!

Gimme an H!

H!

What's that spell ?

FISH!

What's that spell ?

FISH!

What's that spell ?

FISH!

Yeah, come on all of you, big strong men,
Uncle Sam needs your help again.
He's got himself in a terrible jam
Way down yonder in Vietnam
So put down your books and pick up a gun,
We're gonna have a whole lotta fun. 

And it's one, two, three,
What are we fighting for ?
Don't ask me, I don't give a damn,
Next stop is Vietnam;
And it's five, six, seven,
Open up the pearly gates,
Well there ain't no time to wonder why,
Whoopee! we're all gonna die. 

Well, come on generals, let's move fast;
Your big chance has come at last.
Gotta go out and get those reds —
The only good commie is the one who's dead
And you know that peace can only be won
When we've blown 'em all to kingdom come. 

And it's one, two, three,
What are we fighting for ?
Don't ask me, I don't give a damn,
Next stop is Vietnam;
And it's five, six, seven,
Open up the pearly gates,
Well there ain't no time to wonder why
Whoopee! we're all gonna die. 

Huh! 

Well, come on Wall Street, don't move slow,
Why man, this is war au–go–go.
There's plenty good money to be made
By supplying the Army with the tools of the trade,
Just hope and pray that if they drop the bomb,
They drop it on the Viet Cong. 

And it's one, two, three,
What are we fighting for ?
Don't ask me, I don't give a damn,
Next stop is Vietnam.
And it's five, six, seven,
Open up the pearly gates,
Well there ain't no time to wonder why
Whoopee! we're all gonna die. 

Well, come on mothers throughout the land,
Pack your boys off to Vietnam.
Come on fathers, don't hesitate,
Send 'em off before it's too late.
Be the first one on your block
To have your boy come home in a box. 

And it's one, two, three
What are we fighting for ?
Don't ask me, I don't give a damn,
Next stop is Vietnam.
And it's five, six, seven,
Open up the pearly gates,
Well there ain't no time to wonder why,
Whoopee! we're all gonna die.    
    

—Joe McDonald

Eve of Destruction

The eastern world,
It is explodin', 
Violence flarin', 
Bullets loadin', 
You're old enough to kill, 
But not for votin', 
You don't believe in war, 
But what's that gun you're totin', 
And even the Jordan river has bodies floatin', 

But you tell me over and over and over again my friend, 
Ah, you don't believe we're on the eve of destruction. 

Don't you understand what I'm trying to say? 
Can't you feel the fears I'm feeling today? 
If the button is pushed, 
There's no running away, 
There'll be no one to save 
With the world in a grave, 
Take a look around you, boy, 
It's bound to scare you, boy, 

And you tell me over and over and over again my friend,  
Ah, you don't believe we're on the eve of destruction. 

Yeah, my blood's so mad, 
Feels like coagulatin', 
I'm sittin' here, 
Just contemplatin', 
I can't twist the truth,
It knows no regulation, 
Handful of senators don't pass legislation, 
And marches alone can't bring integration, 
When human respect is disintegratin', 
This whole crazy world is just too frustratin', 

And you tell me over and over and over again my friend,  
Ah, you don't believe we're on the eve of destruction. 

Think of all the hate 
There is in Red China! 
Then take a look around 
To Selma, Alabama! 
Ah, you may leave here, 
For four days in space, 
But when your return it's the same old place, 
The poundin' of the drums, 
The pride and disgrace, 
You can bury your dead, 
But don't leave a trace, 
Hate your next–door–neighbor, 
But don't forget to say grace, 

And tell me over and over and over and over again my friend, 
You don't believe we're on the eve of destruction. 
No, no, you don't believe we're on the eve of destruction   
    

—P. F. Sloan

He Was A Friend Of Mine

He was a friend of mine, he was a friend of mine
His killing had no purpose, no reason or rhyme
He was a friend of mine

He was in Dallas town, he was in Dallas town
From a sixth floor window a gunner shot him down
He was in Dallas town

He never knew my name, he never knew my name
Though I never met him I knew him just the same
Oh he was a friend of mine

Leader of a nation for such a precious time
He was a friend of mine
    

—McGuinn and Crosby

Coal Tattoo

Travelin' down that coal town road. Listenin' to my rubber tires whine.
Goodbye to Buckeye and white Sycamore. I'm leavin' you behind.
I've been coal miner all of my life. Layin' down track in the hole.
Gotta back like an ironwood, bit by the wind. Blood veins blue as the coal. Blood veins blue as the coal.

Somebody said, "That's a strange tattoo you have on the side of your head."
I said, "That's the blueprint left by the coal. A little more and I'd been dead.
Well, I love the rumble and I love the dark. I love the cool of the slade,
And it's on down the new road, lookin' for a job. This travelin' nook in my head.

I stood for the union and walked in the line and fought against the company.
I stood for the U. M. W. of A. Now, who's gonna stand for me?
I've got no house and I got no job, just got a worried soul
And a blue tattoo on the side of my head left by the number nine coal. Left by the number nine coal.

Some day when I'm dead and gone to heaven, the land of my dreams.
I won't have to worry on losin' my job, on bad times and big machines.
I ain't gonna pay my money away on dues or hospital plans.
I'm gonna pick coal where the blue heavens roll and sing with the angel band.
    

—Billy Edd Wheeler

The Hands of Mary Joe

Her hands lift and tend King Salmon
Cherish the skin of her child
Light as will buds
Thread a needle's invisible eye
In dim flickering lamplight
Fingers weave patterns
In violet and amber beads.

The brown–pearl hands
Etched with tiny lines
Curled into little cups
Stiffened, yet with
Delicate touch
Draw a comb of tortoise shell
Through dark–silvered hair

Hands that flowed in rhythms
Smooth as riverdrift
Attuned to daily music
Of her hidden life
Now lie folded in her lap
Trembling minutely
The hands of Mary Joe
Await
The approaching silence
    

—Mary TallMountain

Sailing to Byzantium

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees —
Those dying generations — at their song,
The salmon–falls, the mackerel–crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing–masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come. 
    

—William Butler Yeats

'39

'In the year of thirty–nine'
Assembled here the volunteers
In the days when lands were few
Here the ship sailed out into the blue and sunny morn
The sweetest sight ever seen
And the night followed day
And the story tellers say
That the score brave souls inside
For many a lonely day
Sailed across the milky seas
Never looked back never feared never cried

Don't you hear my call
Though you're many years away
Don't you hear me calling you
Write your letters in the sand
For the day I'll take your hand
In the land that our grand–children knew

'In the year of thirty–nine'
Came a ship from the blue
The volunteers came home that day
And they bring good news
Of a world so newly born
Though their hearts so heavily weigh
For the earth is old and grey
Little darlin' we'll away
But my love this cannot be
Oh so many years have gone
Though I'm older than a year
Your mothers eyes from your eyes cry to me

Don't you hear my call
Though you're many years away
Don't you hear me calling you
Write your letters in the sand
For the day I'll take your hand
In the land that our grand–children knew

Don't you hear my call
Though you're many years away
Don't you hear me calling you
All your letters in the sand
Cannot heal me like your hand
For my life still ahead pity me
    

—Brian May

Brothers In Arms

These mist–covered mountains 
Are home now for me 
But my home is the lowlands 
And always will be 
Someday you'll return to 
Your valleys and your farms 
And you'll no longer burn 
To be brothers in arms 

Through these fields of destruction 
Baptisms of fire 
I've watched all your suffering 
As the battles raged higher 
And though they did hurt me so bad 
In the fear and alarm 
You did not desert me 
My brothers in arms 

There's so many different worlds 
So many different suns 
And we have just one world 
But we live in different ones 

Now the sun's gone to hell 
And the moon's riding high 
Let me bid you farewell 
Every man has to die 
But it's written in the starlight 
And every line on your palm 
We're fools to make war 
On our brothers in arms
    

—Mark Knopfler

To His Coy Mistress

HAD we but world enough, and time,   
This coyness, Lady, were no crime   
We would sit down and think which way   
To walk and pass our long love's day.   
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side 
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide   
Of Humber would complain. I would   
Love you ten years before the Flood,   
And you should, if you please, refuse   
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow   
Vaster than empires, and more slow;   
An hundred years should go to praise   
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;   
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;   
An age at least to every part,   
And the last age should show your heart.   
For, Lady, you deserve this state,   
Nor would I love at lower rate.
  But at my back I always hear   
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;   
And yonder all before us lie   
Deserts of vast eternity.   
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound   
My echoing song: then worms shall try   
That long preserved virginity,   
And your quaint honour turn to dust,   
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave 's a fine and private place,   
But none, I think, do there embrace.   
  Now therefore, while the youthful hue   
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,   
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,   
Now let us sport us while we may,   
And now, like amorous birds of prey,   
Rather at once our time devour   
Than languish in his slow–chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all   
Our sweetness up into one ball,   
And tear our pleasures with rough strife   
Thorough the iron gates of life:   
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.   
    

—Andrew Marvell

The House of Orange

I took back my hand and I showed him the door
No dollar of mine would I part with this day
For fueling the engines of bloody cruel war
In my forefather's land far away. 
Who fled the first Famine wearing all that they owned,
Were called 'Navigators', all ragged and torn,
And built the Grand Trunk here, and found a new home
Wherever their children were born.

Their sons have no politics. None call recall
Allegiance from long generations before.
O'this or O'that name just can't mean a thing
Or be cause enough for to war.
And meanwhile my babies are safe in their home,
Unlike their pale cousins who shiver and cry
While kneecappers nail their poor Dads to the floor
And teach them to hate and to die.

It's those cruel beggars who spurn the fair coin.
The peace for their kids they could take at their will. 
Since the day old King Billy prevailed at the Boyne,
They've bombed and they've slain and they've killed.
Now they cry out for money and wail at the door
But Home Rule or Republic, 'tis all of it shame;
And a curse for us here who want nothing of war.
We're kindred in nothing but name.

All rights and all wrongs have long since blown away,
For causes are ashes where children lie slain.
Yet the damned U.D.I and the cruel I.R.A.
Will tomorrow go murdering again.
But no penny of mine will I add to the fray.
"Remember the Boyne!" they will cry out in vain,
For I've given my heart to the place I was born
And forgiven the whole House of Orange
King Billy and the whole House of Orange.
    

—Stan Rogers

When the Tigers Broke Free

It was just before dawn 
One miserable morning in black 'forty four.
When the forward commander 
Was told to sit tight 
When he asked that his men be withdrawn. 
And the Generals gave thanks 
As the other ranks held back 
The enemy tanks for a while. 
And the Anzio Beachhead 
Was held for the price 
Of a few hundred ordinary lives.

And old King George 
Sent Mother a note 
When he heard that father was gone.
It was, I recall, 
In the form of a scroll, 
With gold leaf and all.
And I found it one day 
In a drawer of old photographs, hidden away.
And my eyes still grow damp to remember 
His Majesty signed 
With his own rubber stamp.

It was dark all around.
There was frost in the ground
When the tigers broke free.
And no one survived 
From the Royal Fusiliers Company C.
They were all left behind,
Most of them dead,
The rest of them dying.
And that's how the High Command
Took my daddy from me.
    

—Roger Waters

Waiting For Saints

Out across the heartland
People on the move
Sometimes they can't win
Sometimes they can't lose
Sometimes they are hopeless
Sometimes they are blue
Sometimes they are looking 
A lot like me and you

You say you like my moves
But you don't like my style
You say you like my shoes
But you don't like my smile
You are Mister Perfect 
They don't make that kind
When I start open up your eyes
Unless you are deaf and dumb and blind

Chorus:

Are you waiting for saints
To be born in the light?
But they are not born
They just appear 
And walk out of the night

I guess you were lonely
So you fell in love
That's what you have told me
If push had come to shove
You're always disappointed 
They never measure up
Get your list of all you've missed
And come and fill your cup

Chorus:

If you knew the grass is greener
You ain't got a clue
What you got is mighty hot
And good enough for you
Why not just surrender 
It's one thing you can do
Take a friend and then you kiss
What have you got, got to lose?

Chorus:
    

—John Stewart

Amsterdam

In the port of amsterdam
There's a sailor who sings
Of the dreams that he brings
From the wide open sea

In the port of amsterdam
There's a sailor who sleeps
While the riverbank weeps
To the old willow tree

In the port of amsterdam
There's a sailor who dies
Full of beer, full of cries
In the drunken town fight

In the port of amsterdam
There's a sailor who's born
On a hot muggy morn
By the dawn's early light

In the port of amsterdam
Where the sailors all meet
There's a sailor who eats
Only fish head and tails
And he'll show you his teeth
That have rotted too soon
That can haul up the sails
That can swallow the moon
And he yells to the cook
With his arms open wide
Hey! bring me more fish
Throw it down by my side
And he once sought to belch
But he's too full to try
So he stands up and laughs
And he zips up his fly

In the port of amsterdam
You can see the sailors dance
And they're bursting their pants
Grinding women to porch
They've forgotten the tune
That their whiskey voice croaked
Splitting the night with the
Roar of their jokes
And they turn and they dance
And they laugh and they lust
Til the rancid sound of the
Accordion bursts and then
Out of the night
With their pride in their pants
And the sluts that they tow
Underneath the street lamps

In the port of amsterdam
There's a sailor who drinks
And he drinks
And he drinks
And he drinks once again
He'll drink to the health
Of the whores of amsterdam
Who've given their bodies
To a thousand other men
Yeah they bargain their virtue
Their goodness all gone
For a few dirty coins
When they just can't go on
Blows his nose to the sky
On the sea up above
And he pisses like I cry
In the port of amsterdam
In the port of amsterdam
    

—Unknown

Don Quixote

Through the woodland, through the valley
Comes a horseman wild and free
Tilting at the windmills passing
Who can the brave young horseman be
He is wild but he is mellow
He is strong but he is weak
He is cruel but he is gentle
He is wise but he is meek
Reaching for his saddlebag
He takes a battered book into his hand
Standing like a prophet bold
He shouts across the ocean to the shore
Till he can shout no more

I have come o'er moor and mountain
Like the hawk upon the wing
I was once a shining knight
Who was the guardian of a king
I have searched the whole world over
Looking for a place to sleep
I have seen the strong survive
And I have seen the lean grown weak

See the children of the earth
Who wake to find the table bare
See the gentry in the country
Riding off to take the air

Reaching for his saddlebag
He takes a rusty sword into his hand
Then striking up a knightly pose
He shouts across the ocean to the shore
Till he can shout no more

See the jailor with his key
Who locks away all trace of sin
See the judge upon the bench
Who tries the case as best he can
See the wise and wicked ones
Who feed upon life's sacred fire
See the soldier with his gun
Who must be dead to be admired

See the man who tips the needle
See the man who buys and sells
See the man who puts the collar
On the ones who dare not tell
See the drunkard in the tavern
Stemming gold to make ends meet
See the youth in ghetto black
Condemned to life upon the street

Reaching for his saddlebag
He takes a tarnished cross into his hand
Then standing like a preacher now
He shouts across the ocean to the shore
Then in a blaze of tangled hooves
He gallops off across the dusty plain
In vain to search again
Where no one will hear

Through the woodland, through the valley
Comes a horseman wild and free
Tilting at the windmills passing
Who can the brave young horseman be
He is wild but he is mellow
He is strong but he is weak
He is cruel but he is gentle
He is wise but he is meek
    

—Gordon Lightfoot

Gulf Coast Highway

Gulf coast highway, he worked the rails
He worked the rice fields with their cold dark wells
He worked the oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico
The only thing we've owned is this old house here by the road

And when he dies he says he'll catch some blackbird's wing
And we will fly away to heaven
Come some sweet blue bonnet spring

She walked through springtime when I was home
The days were sweet, our nights were warm
The seasons changed, the jobs would come
The flowers fade, and this old house felt so alone
When the work took me away

And when she dies she says she'll catch some blackbird's wing
And she will fly away to heaven
Come some sweet blue bonnet spring

Highway 90, the jobs are gone
We kept our garden, we set the sun
This is the only place on Earth blue bonnets grow
And once a year they come and go
At this old house here by the road

And when we die we say we'll catch some blackbird's wing
And we will fly away to heaven
Come some sweet blue bonnet spring

Yes when we die we say we'll catch some blackbird's wing
And we will fly away together
Come some sweet blue bonnet spring 
    

—Nanci Griffith and James Hooker and Danny Flowers

Sound Of Silence

Hello darkness, my old friend,
I've come to talk with you again,
because a vision softly creeping,
left its seeds while I was sleeping.

And the vision that was planted in my brain
still remains within the sound of silence. 

In restless dreams I walked alone
narrow streets of cobblestone
'Neath the halo of a street lamp,
I turned my collar to the cold and damp

When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
that split the night and touched the sound of silence.

And in the naked light I saw
ten thousand people, maybe more.
People talking without speaking,
people hearing without listening,

People writing songs that voices never share
and no one dare disturb the sound of silence.

"Fools" said I, "You do not know
silence like a cancer grows."
"Hear my words that I might teach you,
take my arms that I might reach you."

But my words like silent raindrops fell,
and echoed in the wells of silence.

And the people bowed and prayed
to the neon god they made.
And the sign flashed out its warning
in the words that it was forming,

and the signs said "The words of the prophets are 
written on the subway walls and tenement halls, 
and whisper'd in the sounds of silence.   
    

—Paul Simon

For Anne

With Annie gone,
Whose eyes to compare
With the morning sun?

Not that I did compare,
But I do compare
Now that she's gone.
    

—Leonard Cohen

The Art of War II:7

It is only one who is thouroughly acquainted
with the evils of war that can thoroughly
understand the profitable way of carrying it on.
    

—Sun Tsu

Cam Ye O'er Frae France

Cam ye o'er frae France? Cam ye doon by Lunnon? 
Saw ye Geordie Whelps and his bonnie woman? 
Were ye at the place ca'd the Kittle Hoosie? 
Saw ye Geordie's grace riding on a goosie? 

Geordie he's the man, there is little doubt o't; 
He's done a' he can, wha can dae withoot it? 
Doon there cam a blade linkin' like my lordie; 
He wad drive a trade at the loom o' Geordie. 

Though the claith were bad, blithely may we niffer; 
Gin we get a wab, it mak's little differ. 
We hae lost our plaid, bonnet, belt and swordie, 
Ha's and mailins braid ­ but we hae a Geordie! 

Jocky's gone tae France, and Montgomery's lady; 
There they'll learn tae dance: ­ Madam, are ye ready? 
They'll be back belive, belted, brisk and lordly; 
Brawly may they thrive tae dance a jig wi' Geordie! 

Hey for Sandy Don! Hey for Cock–a–Lorum! 
Hey for Bobbin' John, and his Hieland Quorum! 
Many's the sword and lance, swings at highland hurdie; 
How they'll skip and dance, o'er the bum o' Geordie!
    

—Traditional

The Greek Anthology: 1

Timocritus the valiant gave
His Life in war. This is his grave.
War spares the coward, not the brave.
    

—Anacreon

Little Sparrow

Little sparrow, little sparrow 
Precious fragile little thing 
Little sparrow, little sparrow 
Flies so high and feels no pain 
All ye maidens hede my warning 
Never trust the hearts of men 
They will crush you like a sparrow 
Leaving you to never mend 
They will vow to always love you 
Swear no love but yours will do 
Then they'll leave you for another 
Break your little heart in two 

Chorus: 

Little sparrow, little sparrow 
Precious fragile little thing 
Little sparrow, little sparrow 
Flies so high and feels no pain 

If I were a little sparrow 
O'er these mountains I would fly 
I would find him, I would find him 
Look into his lying eyes 
I would flutter all around him 
On my little sparrow wings 
I would ask him, I would ask him 
Why he let me love in vain 

I am not a little sparrow 
I am just the broken dream 
Of a cold false–hearted lover 
And his evil cunning scheme 

Repeat Chorus 

All ye maidens fair and tender 
Never trust the hearts of men 
They will crush you like a sparrow 
Leaving you to never mend 

Little sparrow, little sparrow 
Oh the sorrow never ends 
    

—Dolly Parton

The Renegade

Upon the hillside
Policemen were climbing
The ghosts of the nightwind
Their fantasies to tell
Dark on the snow
Where the blood drops a–drying
Slipped through cold fingers
Whiskey bottle fell

Ha–how–ya, mother
I leave you with your whiteman
I curse their church that tells us
That our fathers were wrong
And I'll hunt my own mowich
And I'll drink my own whiskey
And I'll sing until morning
The old–fashioned song

Fires of the potlatch
Are all scattered in their ashes
Ma–sat–chie–ta–ma–now–wits
The evil ones remain
And our children cannot follow
The old nor the new ways
And the poles of their fathers
Are rotting in the rain

Ha–how–ya, mother
I leave you with your white man
I curse their church that tells us
That our fathers were wrong
And I'll hunt my own mowich
And I'll drink my own whiskey
And I'll sing until morning
The old–fashioned song

Daylight came late
Over high coastal mountains
The renegade stood watching
With his rifle by his side
Then, he emptied his gun
Up into the pale yellow sunrise
And he ran down the hillside
To the place where he died

Ha–how–ya, mother
I leave you with your white man
I curse their church that tells us
That our fathers were wrong
And I'll hunt my own mowich
And I'll drink my own whiskey
And I'll sing until morning
The old–fashioned song
    

—Ian Tyson

The Stolen Child

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen–Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he's going,
The solemn–eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.
    

—William Butler Yeats

The End

This is the end, Beautiful friend
This is the end, My only friend, the end
Of our elaborate plans, the end
Of everything that stands, the end
No safety or surprise, the end
I'll never look into your eyes…again
Can you picture what will be, So limitless and free
Desperately in need…of some…stranger's hand
In a…desperate land
Lost in a Roman…wilderness of pain
And all the children are insane, All the children are insane
Waiting for the summer rain, yeah
There's danger on the edge of town
Ride the King's highway, baby
Weird scenes inside the gold mine
Ride the highway west, baby
Ride the snake, ride the snake
To the lake, the ancient lake, baby
The snake is long, seven miles
Ride the snake…he's old, and his skin is cold
The west is the best, The west is the best
Get here, and we'll do the rest
The blue bus is callin' us, The blue bus is callin' us
Driver, where you taken' us
The killer awoke before dawn, he put his boots on
He took a face from the ancient gallery 
And he walked on down the hall
He went into the room where his sister lived, and…then he
Paid a visit to his brother, and then he
He walked on down the hall, and
And he came to a door…and he looked inside
Father, yes son, I want to kill you
Mother…I want to…fuck you
C'mon baby, take a chance with us X3
And meet me at the back of the blue bus
Doin' a blue rock, On a blue bus
Doin' a blue rock, C'mon, yeah
Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill
This is the end, Beautiful friend
This is the end, My only friend, the end
It hurts to set you free
But you'll never follow me
The end of laughter and soft lies
The end of nights we tried to die
This is the end
    

—The Doors

Four Strong Winds

Chorus

Four strong winds that blow lonely, seven seas that run high, all these things that don't change, come what may,
But our good times are all gone and I'm bound for moving on. I'll look for you if I'm ever back this way.

Guess I'll go out to the mountains where there's good there in the fall. Got some friends that I can go to working for.
Still, I wish you'd change your mind if I'd ask you one more time, but we've been through that a hundred times before.

Chorus

If I get there 'fore the snow flies and if things are going good, you could meet me if I sent you down the fare.
But by then it would be winter, nothing much for you to do and the wind sure blows cold way out there.

Chorus
    

—Ian Tyson

I'll Be There

When the river of rebellion overflows, I'll be there
When the seed of discontent plants and grows, I'll be there
Watching for the sun through the dark and rainy storm
Searching for the keys to the dungeons old and worn
Let me tell you, I'll be there

When the shadow of the tyrant falls and sweeps across the land
When men would steal from others with paper in their hand
When people search for answers and the answers never come
When their troubles would be over if they thought and fought as one
Let me tell you, I'll be there

Whispering of yesterday has grown into a roar
Winds of freedom blowing out of every distant shore
When the time is ready and the call is loud and clear
Let me tell you, I'll be there

When the thunder of opression roars and crackles, I'll be there
When those who would be free are wearing shackles, I'll be there
For the day is gonna come when they'll throw away their chains
Lift their heads and raise their arms for the struggle that remains
And let me tell you, I'll be there

Whispering of yesterday has turned into a roar
Winds of freedom blowing out of every distant shore
When the time is ready and the call is loud and clear
Let me tell you, I'll be there

When the thunder of opression roars and crackles, I'll be there
When those who would be free are wearing shackles, I'll be there
For the day is gonna come when they'll throw away their chains
Lift their heads and raise their arms for the struggle that remains
And let me tell you
Let me tell you
Let me tell you
Let me tell you, I'll be there
    

—Phil Ochs

Civil War I

People who are anxious to bring on war
don't know what they are bargaining for;
they don't see all the horrors that must
accompany such an event.
    

—Stonewall Jackson

The Long Slow Decline Of Carmelita

She was born in a border town
Some 21 years ago
To a black eyed spanish beauty
Some called San Antone Rose
With a tatoo on her shoulder
And a bottle in her hand
It was a long slow decline for Carmelita
It was a long slow decline for Carmelita

She was workin' in a Soledad bar
When she took up with Manuel
He was flashing money and cocaine
Just fresh out of jail
She kissed the Virgin de Guadalupe
That she wore around her neck
It was a long slow decline for Carmelita
It was a long slow decline for Carmelita

She rode shotgun in a 69 chevy
With Manuel at the wheel
They were heading down to Brownsville
Trying to make a deal
But the bullets flew, two men fell
That was all she wrote
It was a long slow decline for Carmelita
It was a long slow decline for Carmelita

They crossed that border flying
Heading towards Monterrey
They stopped for gas at Saltillo
Just on down the way
She threw a bottle through the windshield
As it drove off in the night
It was a long slow decline for Carmelita
It was a long slow decline for Carmelita

She found work down in La Zona Rosa
Workin for Madre Miel
She turned 21 high on heroin
Just trying to stay out of jail
She pawned the Virgin de Guadalupe
And scored just one last time
It was a long slow decline for Carmelita
It was a long slow decline for Carmelita

And the spirit of Carmelita
Goes floatin' down the hall
In the Casa de Madre Miel
Her name scratched there in the hall
And no one shed a tear
No one called out here name
It was a long slow decline for Carmelita
It was a long slow decline for Carmelita

She was born in a border town
Some 21 years ago
To a black eyed spanish beauty
Some called San Antone Rose
With a tatoo on her shoulder
And a bottle in her hand
It was a long slow decline for Carmelita
It was a long slow decline for Carmelita
It was a long slow decline for Carmelita
    

—Bianca de Leon

Darcy Farrow

Where the walker runs down to the Carson Valley Plain
There lived a maiden, Darcy Farrow was her name
The daughter of old Dundee and a fair one was she
The sweetest flower that bloomed o’er the range

Her voice was as sweet as the sugar candy
Her touch was as soft as a bed of goose down
Her eyes shone bright like the pretty lights
That shone in the night out of Yerrington town

She was courted by Young Vandamere
A fine lad was he as I am to hear
He gave her silver rings and lacy things
And she promised to wed before the snows came that year

But her pony did stumble and she did fall
Her dyin’ touched the hearts of us one and all
Young Vandy in his pain put a bullet through his brain
And we buried them together as the snows began to fall

They sing of Darcy Farrow where the Truckee runs through
They sing of her beauty in Virginia City too
At dusky sundown to her name they drink a round
And to young Vandy whose love was true
    

—Steve Gillette and Tom Campbell

The Figure of Beatrice in Dante's Divine Comedy

Dante was standing near the Ponte Vecchio, a bridge that crosses the Arno River in Florence. It was just
before 1300… Dante saw Beatrice standing on the bridge. He was a young man, she even younger, and that
vision contained the whole of eternity for him.

Dante did not speak to her. He saw her very little. And then Beatrice died, carried off by plague. Dante
was stricken with the loss of his vision. She was the intermediary between his soul and Heaven itself.

Six hundred fifty years later, during World War II, the Americans were chasing the German army up the
Italian "boot." The Germans were blowing up everything of aid to the progression of the American army,
including the bridges across the Arno River. But no one wanted to blow up the Ponte Vecchio, because 
Beatrice had stood on it and Dante had written about her. So the German army made radio contact with the
Americans and, in plain language, said they would leave the Ponte Vecchio intact if the Americans would 
promise not to use it. The promise was held. The bridge was not blown up, and not one American soldier or
piece of equipment went across it. We're such hard bitten people that we need hard bitten proof of things,
and this is the most hard bitten fact I know to present to you. The bridge was spared, in a modern,
ruthless war, because Beatrice had stood upon it.
    

—Robert Johnson

Horkstow Grange

In Horkstow Grange there lived and old miser
You all do know him as I have heard say
It's him on his men that was named John Bowlin
And they fell out one market day

With a blackthorn stick old Steeleye struck him
As oft times he had threatened before
John Bowlin turned round all in a passion
And knocked old Steeleye into the floor.

Old Steeleye Span he was filled with John Bowlin
It happened to be on a market day
Old Steeleye swore with all his vengeance
He would swear his life away.

Pity them what see him suffer
Pity poor old Steeleye Span
John Bowlin's deeds they will be remembered
Pity poor old Steeleye Span
Pity poor old Steeleye Span. 
    

—Traditional

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago, 
In a kingdom by the sea 
That a maiden there lived whom you may know. 
By the name of ANNABEL LEE; 
And this maiden she lived with no other thought 
Than to love and be loved by me. 
I was a child and she was a child, 
In this kingdom by the sea; 
But we loved with a love that was more than love — 
I and my ANNABEL LEE — 
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 
Coveted her and me. 

And this is the reason that, long ago, 
In this kingdom by the sea, 
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 
My beautiful ANNABEL LEE; 
So that her highborn kinsmen came 
And bore her away from me, 
To shut her up in a sepulchre 
In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 
Went envying her and me — 
Yes! — that was the reason (as all men know, 
In this kingdom by the sea) 
That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 
chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the love 
Of those who were older than we — 
Of many far wiser than we — 
And neither the angels in heaven above, 
Nor the demons down under the sea, 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE. 

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the Beautiful ANNABEL LEE:
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the Beautiful ANNABEL LEE:
And so, all the night tide, I lay down by the side
Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride, 
In her sepulchre there by the sea — 
In her tomb by the sounding sea. 
    

—Edgar Allan Poe

A Lyke-Wake Dirge

This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
Every nighte and alle,
Fire, and sleet, and candle–lighte,
And Christe receive thye saule. 

When thou from hence away art paste,
Every nighte and alle,
To Whinny–muir thou comest at laste;
And Christe receive thye saule. 

If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,
Every nighte and alle,
Sit thee down and put them on;
And Christe receive thye saule. 

If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gavest nane,
Every nighte and alle,
The whinnes sall pricke thee to the bare bane;
And Christe receive thye saule. 

From Whinny–muir when thou mayst passe,
Every nighte and alle,
To Brigg o' Dread thou comest at laste,
And Christe receive thye saule. 

From Brigg o' Dread when thou mayst passe,
Every nighte and alle,
To Purgatory fire thou comest at last,
And Christe receive thye saule. 

If ever thou gavest meat or drink,
Every nighte and alle,
The fire sall never make thee shrinke;
And Christe receive thye saule.

If meate or drinke thou never gavest nane,
Every nighte and alle,
The fire will burn thee to the bare bane;
And Christe receive thye saule. 

This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
Every nighte and alle,
Fire, and sleet, and candle–lighte,
And Christe receive thye saule.
    

—Anonymous

The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea–washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon–hand
Glows world–wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air–bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest–tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" 
    

—Emma Lazarus

Paradise By The Dashboard Light

I. Paradise
BOY:

I remember every little thing
As if it happened only yesterday
Parking by the lake
And there was not another car in sight
And I never had a girl
Looking any better than you did
And all the kids at school
They were wishing they were me that night

And now our bodies are oh so close and tight
It never felt so good, it never felt so right
And we're glowing the the metal on the edge of a knife
Glowing like the metal on the edge of a knife
C'mon! Hold on tight!
C'mon! Hold on tight!
Though it's cold and lonely in the deep dark night
I can see paradise by the dashboard light

GIRL:

Ain't no doubt about it
We were doubly blessed
Cause we were barely seventeen
And we were barely dressed

Ain't no doubt about it
Baby got to go and shout it
Ain't no doubt about it
We were doubly blessed

BOY:

Cause we were barely seventeen
And we were barely dressed

Baby doncha hear my heart
You got it drowning out the radio
I've been wating so long
For you to come along and have some fun

And I gotta let ya know
No you're never gonna regret it
So open up your eyes I got a big surprise
It'll feel all right
Well I wanna make your motor run

And now our bodies are oh so close and tight
It never felt so good, it never felt so right
And we're glowing the the metal on the edge of a knife
Glowing like the metal on the edge of a knife
C'mon! Hold on tight!
C'mon! Hold on tight!

Though it's cold and lonely in the deep dark night
I can see paradise by the dashboard light
Paradise by the dashboard light

You got to do what you can
And let Mother Naure do the rest
Ain't no doubt about it 
We were doubly blessed
Cause we were barely seventeen
and we were barely —

we're gonna go all the way tongiht
we're gonna go all the way
and tonight the night....

RADIO BROADCAST:

Ok here we go, we got a real pressure cooker going here, 
two down, nobody on, no score, bottom of the ninth, there's 
the wind–up, and there it is, a line shot up the middle, look 
at him go. This boy can really fly! He's rounding first and 
really turning it on now, he's not letting up at all, he's 
gonna try for second; the ball is bobbled out in center, and 
here comes the throw, and what a throw! He's gonna slide in head 
first, here he comes, he's out! No, wait, safe – safe at second 
base, this kid really makes things happen out there. Batter 
steps up to the plate here's the pitch – he's going, and what 
a jump he's got, he's trying for third, here's the throw, its 
in the dirt – safe at third! Holy cow, stolen base! He's taking 
a pretty big lead out there, almost daring him to try and pick 
him off. The pitcher glances over, winds up, and it bunted, bunted 
down the third base line, the suicide squeeze is on! Here he comes, 
squeeze play, it's gonna be close, here's the throw, here's the 
play at the plate, holy cow, I think he's gonna make it!


II. Let Me Sleep On It
GIRL:

Stop right there!
I gotta know right now!
Before we go any further —!

Do you love me?
Will you love me forever?
Do you need me?
Will you never leave me?
Will you make me so happy for the rest of my life?
Will you take me away and will you make me your wife?
Do you love me?
Will you love me forever?
Do you need me?
Will you never leave me?
Will you make me so happy for the rest of my life?
Will you take me away and will you make me your wife?
I gotta know right now
Before we go any further
Do you love me !!!?
Will you love me forever !!!?

BOY:

Let me sleep on it
Baby, baby let me sleep on it
Let me sleep on it
And I'll give you an answer in the morning

Let me sleep on it
Baby, baby let me sleep on it
Let me sleep on it
And I'll give you an answer in the morning

Let me sleep on it
Baby, baby let me sleep on it
Let me sleep on it
And I'll give you an answer in the morning

GIRL:

I gotta know right now!
Do you love me?
Will you love me forever?
Do you need me?
Will you never leave me?
Will you make me so happy for the rest of my life?
Will you take me away and will you make me your wife?
I gotta know right now!
Before we go any further
Do you love me?
Will you love me forever?

BOY:

Let me sleep on it
Baby, baby let me sleep on it
Let me sleep on it
And I'll give you an answer in the morning
Let me sleep on it !!!

GIRL:

Will you love me forever?

BOY:

Let me sleep on it!! 

GIRL:

Will you love me forever?


III. Praying for the End of Time
BOY:

I couldn't take it any longer
Lord I was crazed 
And when the feeling came upon me
Like a tidal wave
I started swearing to my God and on my mother's grave
That I would love you to the end of time
I swore that I would love you to the end of time!

So now I'm praying for the end of time
To hurry up and arrive 
Cause if I gotta spend another minute with you 
I don't think that I can really survive
I'll never break my promise or forget my vow
But God only knows what I can do right now
I'm praying for the end of time
It's all that I can do
Praying for the end of time, so I can end my time with you!!!

BOY:

It was long ago and it was far away
And it was so much better than it is today

GIRL:

It never felt so good 
It never felt so right
And we were glowing like 
A metal on the edge of a knife
    

—Meatloaf

Crucifixion

And the night comes again to the circle studded sky
The stars settle slowly, in lonliness they lie
'Till the universe expodes as a falling star is raised
Planets are paralyzed, mountains are amazed
But they all glow brighter from the briliance of the blaze
With the speed of insanity, then he dies.

In the green fields a turnin', a baby is born
His cries crease the wind and mingle with the morn
An assault upon the order, the changing of the guard
Chosen for a challenge that is hopelessly hard
And the only single sound is the sighing of the stars
But to the silence and distance they are sworn

So dance dance dance
Teach us to be true
Come dance dance dance
'Cause we love you

Images of innocence charge him go on
But the decadence of destiny is looking for a pawn
To a nightmare of knowledge he opens up the gate
And a blinding revelation is laid upon his plate
That beneath the greatest love is a hurricane of hate
And God help the critic of the dawn.

So he stands on the sea and shouts to the shore,
But the louder that he screams the longer he's ignored
For the wine of oblivion is drunk to the dregs
And the merchants of the masses almost have to be begged
'Till the giant is aware, someone's pulling at his leg,
And someone is tapping at the door.

To dance dance dance
Teach us to be true
Come dance dance dance
'Cause we love you

Then his message gathers meaning and it spreads accross the land
The rewarding of his pain is the following of the man
But ignorance is everywhere and people have their way
Success is an enemy to the losers of the day
In the shadows of the churches, who knows what they pray
For blood is the language of the band.

The Spanish bulls are beaten; the crowd is soon beguiled,
The matador is beautiful, a symphony of style
Excitement is estatic, passion places bets
Gracefully he bows to ovations that he gets
But the hands that are applauding are slippery with sweat
And saliva is falling from their smiles

So dance dance dance
Teach us to be true
Come dance dance dance
'Cause we love you

Then this overflow of life is crushed into a liar
The gentle soul is ripped apart and tossed into the fire.
First a smile of rejection at the nearness of the night
Truth becomes a tragedy limping from the light
All the (canons|heavens) are horrified, they stagger from the sight
As the cross is trembling with desire.

They say they can't believe it, it's a sacreligious shame
Now, who would want to hurt such a hero of the game?
But you know I predicted it; I knew he had to fall
How did it happen? I hope his suffering was small.
Tell me every detail, I've got to know it all,
And do you have a picture of the pain?

So dance dance dance
Teach us to be true
Come dance dance dance
'Cause we love you

Time takes her toll and the memory fades
but his glory is broken, in the magic that he made.
Reality is ruined; it's the freeing from the fear
The drama is distorted, to what they want to hear
Swimming in their sorrow, in the twisting of a tear
As they wait for a new thrill parade.

The eyes of the rebel have been branded by the blind
To the safety of sterility, the threat has been refined
The child was created to the slaughterhouse he's led
So good to be alive when the eulogy is read
The climax of emotion, the worship of the dead
And the cycle of sacrifice unwinds.

So dance dance dance
Teach us to be true
Come dance dance dance
'Cause we love you

And the night comes again to the circle studded sky
The stars settle slowly, in lonliness they lie
'Till the universe expodes as a falling star is raised
Planets are paralyzed, mountains are amazed
But they all glow brighter from the briliance of the blaze
With the speed of insanity, then he died. 
    

—Phil Ochs

I Don't Want To Be A Soldier

Well, I don't wanna be a soldier mama, I don't wanna die
Well, I don't wanna be a sailor mama, I don't wanna fly
Well, I don't wanna be a failure mama, I don't wanna cry
Well, I don't wanna be a soldier mama, I don't wanna die
Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no

Well, I don't wanna be a rich man mama, I don't wanna cry
Well, I don't wanna be a poor man mama, I don't wanna fly
Well, I don't wanna be a lawyer mama, I don't wanna lie
Well, I don't wanna be a soldier mama, I don't wanna die
Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, hey!

Well, I don't wanna be a soldier mama, I don't wanna die
Well, I don't wanna be a thief now mama, I don't wanna fly
Well, I don't wanna be a churchman mama, I don't wanna cry
Well, I don't wanna be a soldier mama, I don't wanna die
Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, hey!

Oh well, I don't wanna be a soldier mama, I don't wanna die
Well, I don't wanna be a sailor mama, I don't wanna fly
Well, I don't wanna be a failure mama, I don't wanna cry
Well, I don't wanna be a soldier mama, I don't wanna die
Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no
    

—John Lennon

No Man is an Island

No man is an island,
No man stands alone,
Each man's joy is joy to me,
Each man's grief is my own.

We need one another,
So I will defend,
Each man as my brother,
Each man as my friend.

I saw the people gather;
I heard the music start.
The song that they were singing
Is ringing in my heart.

No man is an island
Way out in the blue.
We all look to the one above, 
For our strength to renew.

When I help my brother,
Then I know that I
Plant the seed of friendship
That will never die. 
    

—Joan Whitney and Alex Kramer

Rosemary's Sister

Brother of disaster, sister of our fate, do you count the tragedy we see?
And brother of confusion and sister debate, do you remember the sister of Rosemary?
The doodlebugs were flying, the blitz was at its height.
Rosemary lay sleeping with her sister, only nine.
And no one heard the one that hit– the one that blew the lid–
But Rosemary came out crying, and her sister never did.
You fly high, your dreams are all in vain;
One moment you are singing and the next you cry with pain,
And high above the heavens, in a host of angels' wings
Rosemary's sister will be dancing. 


Her mother cried all that year, as so many others did, though there were moments when she'd pull through now and then.
And the people there in Bethnel Street, in the rubble and the stone, just swept it up and started on again.
When tyranny is biting, you do your best to try to stifle all your heartaches 'til it's safe again to cry.
And when the darkness disappears and the light comes shining through, Gather all that you have left and start anew.

There's a teacher in the classroom, there's a mother in the hall. The children sit and wait for the bell to go.
And Rosemary stands watching– she has a child there of her own, and she's waiting to collect and take her home.
Sometimes in the firelight in silence where she sits her mind goes back to Bethnel Street, the darkness and the blitz,
And she's heard if there's another one then the end will be complete. Well, I wonder what they'd say in Bethnel Street.
    

—Huw Williams

My Youngest Son Came Home Today

My youngest son came home today. his friends marched with him all the way. 
The pipes and drums beat all the time as in his box of polished pine 
Like dead meat on a butcher's tray my youngest son came home today. 

My youngest son was a fine young man with a wife, a daughter and two sons. 
A man he could have lived and died 'til by a bullet's sign to fight. 
Now he's a saint or so they say, they brought their saints home today. 

Above the narrow Belfast streets an Irish sky looks down and weeps 
As children's blood in gutter stilt, in dreams of freedom unfulfilled. 
As part of freedom's price to pay my youngest son came home today. 

My youngest son came home today, his friends marched with him all the way 
The pipes and drums beat all the time as in his box of polished pine 
Like dead meat on a butcher's tray my youngest son came home today. 

And this time he is home to stay...
    

—Eric Bogle

Pastures Of Plenty

It's a mighty hard road that my poor hands have hoed. My poor feet have traveled a hot, dusty road.
Out of your dust bowls and westward we rode. Your deserts were hot and your mountains were cold.
I've wandered all over this green growing land. Wherever your crops were, I've lent you my hands.
On the edge of your city you'll see me and then, I come with the dust and I go with the wind.

California, Arizona, I've worked all your crops. Then it's North up to Oregon to gather your hops.
Dig the beets from your ground. Cut the grapes from your vines to set on your table that light sparkling wine.

Green pastures of plenty from dry desert ground from the Grand Coulee dam where the waters run down
Every state in the Union this migrant has been. I come with the dust and I go with the wind.
It's always we ramble that river and I all along your green valley, I'll work 'til I die.
And I'll travel this road until death sets me free for my pastures of plenty must always be green.

I come with the dust and I go with the wind.
    

—Woody Guthrie

Morning Again

Someone's morning begins, 
The phone in the next apartment is ringing, 
The man upstairs in the shower is singing loudly.
Someone's morning begins,
The shadows on his window are thinning,
The picture on his dresser is grinning proudly.

[Cho:]
Morning again, the sun is probably shining, 
Someone is probably finding his way.
Morning again, somebody else's day.

Someone's morning begins, 
The sound of his razor is humming and whirring, 
And somebody under the blankets is stirring and talking.
Someone's morning begins, 
I think I hear him ordering dinner,
His steps in the hall are the steps of a winner stalking.

[Cho:]

Somebody else is going for glory, 
Someone else is going far; 
I'm drinking my instant coffee 
And wondering where you are.

Someone's morning begins,
And down on the pavement the traffic is roaring, 
I make more coffee and catch myself pouring one for you.
Someone's morning begins,
The radio gives me advice with my dishes,
I'm tripping myself on the things that I wish I had done for you.

[Cho:]
    

—Tom Paxton

St. Columba's Prayer 521-597

Be thou a bright flame before me,
Be thou a guiding star above me,
Be thou a smooth path below me,
Be thou a kindly shepherd behind me,
Today, tonight and for ever.
    

—St Columba

Rest In Peace

My name it is Matthews, and I've got it made 
A memorial maker – it's a profitable trade 
I don't solicit business; there's no point in trying 
What I like about my customers – they just keep on dying 

Here lies Frederick, mourned by his wife 
He lead a blameless life 
He couldn't win the way she treated him 
His gravestone should have read 
Here lies Fred – he's better off dead 

Rest in peace, rest in peace 

My name it is Matthews, and I've got it made 
A memorial maker – it's a profitable trade 
They bring the names of husbands, they bring the names of wives 
They want me to perpetuate their awful, dreary lives 
Here lies John, run over by a bus 
He was loved by all of us 

His time on earth, what was it worth 
When all is said and done? 
Here lies John – we're rather glad he's gone. 

Rest in peace, rest in peace 

They come to me and spend all they've got 
'Cause it costs quite a lot to be remembered 
They think it is the only way 
What would the neighbors say anyway? 
It's so prestigious, even though you're not religious 

Maybe one day I will carve a stone 
Big enough for everyone 
And written there for those who care 
In letters ten feet high: 
"Here they lie who were born to die" 

Rest in peace, rest in peace 
Rest in peace, rest in peace now my friend, it's the end 
Rest in peace, rest in peace now my friend, it's the end 

My name it is Matthews, and I've got it made 
A memorial maker – it's a profitable trade 
    

—Chad Stuart

The Harlem Song

Glorious! Breathtaking! Spectacular! Relax in the grandeur of 
America's yesteryear. Harlem, land of enchanting contrasts. 
Where the romantic past touches hands with the exciting present. 
First, the pleasure of being received with warmth and genuine hospitality. 
Then, the easy adjustment to the comfort and style of superb meals, 
exotic beverages, colorful entertainment and dynamite action. Doing 
all the wonderful things that wonderful vacations are made of — at 
wonderful savings, too. Yes, come to Harlem, the happy meeting 
ground for families with large wants and small budgets. 
See colorful Harlem in New York City
Come treat yourselves: some grits and barbecue.
Bring the family to Harlem in New York City
For a summer of fun dancing to the rhythm & blues. 

And if you're lookin' for the action, this summer is your chance,
All the black folks are just dyin' to watch you sing and dance
In carefree Harlem, that's New York City
Where every soulful spade has a serenade just for you. 

Well, hi baby, how are you doing today ? 

How d'you do man, I ain't feeling so good, you know. 

What's the matter, boy ? 

Well, I was sitting around the house, you know, and me and my 
old lady sat down almost to get — all ready to have a good meal 
of watermelon and hominy grits … 

Yeah, sounds good. 

… sittin down, they were showing a whole bunch of re–runs of 
the Amos and Andy Show, you know … 

My favorite program. 

… When the TV blew up right in the middle of the program, man. 

Yeah well, what did you do, man ? 

Well, what does it look like I did man ? I came outside and ran into you, jerk! 

Well, I tell ya everything is blowin' up these days: TV's, ghettos, you know 
it's gettin' kinda rough, he he he! 

Ya, they even made a movie out of it. 

What d'they call it ? 

Blow Up. 

Hell, that's pretty funny, hey hey! 

Well, it looks like I'll be shufflin' off, y'know. 

Ya, well, with all that natural rhythm, you can probably shuffle pretty good. 

Discover glorious Harlem in New York City,
There's thrills and chills in the land of Rhythm and Blues.
Bring the family to Harlem in New York City,
You'll have fun in the sun doing what the black folks do. 

And every little pickaninny wears a great big grin
Just hanging 'round waitin' for some white folks to drop in.
But if you can't go to Harlem, that's New York City,
Maybe you'll be lucky and Harlem will come to you.
Um, gowwa, buwanna.    
    

—Joe McDonald

Flowers Never Bend With The Rainfall

Through the corridors of sleep
Past the shadows dark and deep
My mind dances and leaps in confusion.
I don't know what is real,
I can't touch what I feel
And I hide behind the shield of my illusion.

So I'll continue to continue to pretend
My life will never end,
And Flowers Never Bend With The Rainfall.

The mirror on my wall
Casts an image dark and small
But I'm not sure at all it's my reflection.
I am blinded by the light
Of God and truth and right
And I wander in the night without direction.

So I'll continue to continue to pretend
My life will never end,
And Flowers Never Bend With The Rainfall.

It's no matter if you're born
To play the King or pawn
For the line is thinly drawn 'tween joy and sorrow,
So my fantasy
Becomes reality,
And I must be what I must be and face tomorrow.

So I'll continue to continue to pretend
My life will never end,
And Flowers Never Bend With The Rainfall.
    

—Paul Simon

The Music Crept By Us

I would like to remind
the management
that the drinks are watered
and the hat–check girl
has syphilis
and the band is composed
of former SS monsters
However since it is
New Year's Eve
and I have lip cancer
I will place my
paper hat on my
concussion and dance. 
    

—Leonard Cohen

I Have a Rendezvous with Death

I HAVE a rendezvous with Death   
At some disputed barricade,   
When Spring comes back with rustling shade   
And apple–blossoms fill the air—   
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.   
   
It may be he shall take my hand   
And lead me into his dark land   
And close my eyes and quench my breath—   
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death   
On some scarred slope of battered hill,   
When Spring comes round again this year   
And the first meadow–flowers appear.   
   
God knows 'twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,   
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,   
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,   
Where hushed awakenings are dear…   
But I've a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,   
When Spring trips north again this year,   
And I to my pledged word am true,   
I shall not fail that rendezvous.   
    

—Alan Seeger

Recessional

God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far–flung battle–line,
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine —
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget — lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies;
The captains and the kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget — lest we forget!

Far–called, our navies melt away;
On dune and headland sinks the fire:
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet.
Lest we forget — lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law —
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget — lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard,
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And, guarding, calls not Thee to guard,
For frantic boast and foolish word —
The Mercy on Thy People, Lord! 
    

—Rudyard Kipling

Mother Country

There was a story in the San Francisco Chronicle that of course I forgot to save
But it was about a lady who lived in the 'good old days'
When a century was born and a century had died
And about these 'good old days' the old lady replied
"Why they were just a lot of people doing the best they could"
"Just a lot of people doing the best they could"
And then the lady said that they did it, "pretty up and walking good"

What ever happened to those faces in the old photographs
I mean, the little boys…….boys, hell they were men
Who stood knee deep in the Johnstown mud
In the time of that terrible flood
And they listened to the water, that awful noise
And then they put away the dreams that belonged to little boys

And the sun is going down for Mister Bouie 
As he's singing with his class of nineteen–two
Oh, mother country, I do love you
Oh, mother country, I do love you

I knew a man named E.A.Stuart, spelled S.T.U.A.R.T.
And he owned some of the finest horses that I think I've ever seen
And he had one favorite, a champion, the old Campaigner
And he called her "Sweetheart On Parade"
And she was easily the finest horse that the good Lord ever made
But old E.A.Stuart, he was going blind
And he said "Before I go, I gotta drive her one more time"
So people came from miles around, and they stood around the ring
No one said a word
You know, no one said a thing
Then here they come, E.A. Stuart in the wagon right behind
Sitting straight and proud and he's driving her stone blind
And would you look at her
Oh, she never looked finer or went better than today
It's E.A. Stuart and the old Campaigner, "Sweetheart On Parade"
And the people cheered
Why I even saw a grown man break right down and cry
And you know it was just a little while later that old E.A. Stuart died

And the sun it is going down for Mister Bouie
As he's singing with his class of nineteen–two
Oh mother country, I do love you
Oh mother country, I do love you 
    

—John Stewart

What sort of advice do you have for young people?

Keep your sense of humor. There is a 50–50 chance that the world can be saved.
You—yes you—might be the grain of sand that tips the scales the right way. It's
a joyful, very exciting time. Live long! 

I tell kids, don't trust the media. The media with their emphasis on fame is
helping to destroy this country, helping destroy the human race. It's the plug–in
drug. They say, "Well, if we didn't do it, somebody else would." Do you
say, "if I didn't rape this woman somebody else would?" It is stupid and it
is destructive. Our country is misgoverned largely because of the media. You
can't blame it all on the politicians. 

There are many people writing songs now. That is absolutely wonderful. Who
knows, there may be some kid in diapers and he or she might succeed in capturing
in a few dozen words what great writers have spent years trying to say. Just
the right word in the right place with the right melody behind it and the
right rhythm. It might get around the world inch by inch, and people realize
that this world is in danger, that we're in danger. That's the way "This Land
Is Your Land" got to be so well known. 
    

—Pete Seeger

The Three Bells

There's a village hidden deep in the valley
Among the pine trees half forlorn
And there on a sunny morning
Little Jimmy Brown was born

All the chapel bells were ringing
In the little valley town
And the songs that they were singing
Were for baby Jimmy Brown
Then the little congregation
Prayed for guidance from above
Lead us not into temptation,
Bless this hour of meditation
Guide him with eternal love

There's a village hidden deep in the valley
Beneath the mountains high above
And there, twenty years thereafter
Jimmy was to meet his love

All the chapel bells were ringing,
Was a great day in his life
Cause the songs that they were singing
Were for Jimmy and his wife
Then the little congregation
Prayed for guidance from above
Lead us not into temptation,
Bless oh Lord this celebration
May their lives be filled with love

From the village hidden deep in the valley
One rainy morning dark and gray
A soul winged its way to heaven
Jimmy Brown had passed away

Just a lonely bell was ringing
In the little valley town
Twas farewell that it was singing
To our good old Jimmy Brown
And the little congregation
Prayed for guidance from above
Lead us not into temptation,
May his soul find the salvation
Of thy great eternal love"
    

—Bert Reisfeld and Jean Villard

"Mad World"

All around me are familiar faces
Worn out places, worn out faces
Bright and early for their daily races
Going nowhere, going nowhere
And their tears are filling up their glasses
No expression, no expression
Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow
No tomorrow, no tomorrow
And I find it kind of funny
I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which I'm dying
Are the best I've ever had
I find it hard to tell you
'Cos I find it hard to take
When people run in circles
It's a very, very
Mad World
Children waiting for the day they feel good
Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday
Made to feel the way that every child should
Sit and listen, sit and listen
Went to school and I was very nervous
No one knew me, no one knew me
Hello teacher tell me what's my lesson
Look right through me, look right through me
    

—Tears for Fears

South Coast

Chorus

South Coast, the wild coast is lonely, you may win at the game at Jolon
But the lion still rules the barrancas and a man there is always alone.

My name is Juan Hano de Castro, my father was a Spanish grandee
But I won my wife in a card game, to hell with the lords o'er the sea
I picked up the ace, I had won her, my heart which was down at my feet
Jumped up to my throat in a hurry, like a warm summer's day she was sweet

Chorus

Her arms had to tighten around me as we rode up the hills from the South
Not a word did I hear from her that day, nor a kiss from her pretty red mouth
We came to my cabin at twilight, the stars twinkled out on the coast
She soon loved the valley, the orchard, but I knew that she loved me the most

Chorus

Then I got hurt in a landslide with crushed hip and twice–broken bone
She saddled our pony like lightning, rode off in the night all alone
The lion screamed in the barrancas, the pony fell back on the slide
My young wife lay dead in the moonlight, my heart died that night with my bride

Chorus
    

—Lillian Bos Ross and Sam Eskin and Rich Dehr

London

I wander thro' each charter'd street,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
 
In every cry of every Man,
In every Infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind–forg'd manacles I hear.
 
How the Chimney–sweeper's cry
Every black'ning Church appalls;
And the hapless Soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls.
 
But most thro' midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlot's curse
Blasts the new born Infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.
    

—William Blake

I Think Its Gonna Rain Today

Broken window, empty hallway
Pale dead moon in a sky streaked with grey
Human kindness overflowing
And I think it's gonna rain today

Scarecrows dressed in the latest style
With frozen smiles to keep love away
Human kindness overflowing
And I think its gonna rain today

Lonely, lonely
Tin can at my feet
Think I'll kick it down the street
That's no way to treat a friend

Right before me, signs implore me
Help the needy and show them the way
Human kindness overflowing
I think its gonna rain today
    

—Randy Newman

The Ballad of Little Musgrave and Lady Barnard

As it fell out on a highe holye daye,
As many bee in the yeare,
When yong men and maides together do goe
Their masses and mattins to heare,

Little Musgrave came to the church door,
The priest was at the mass;
But he had more mind of the fine women,
Then he had of our Ladyes grace.

And some of them were clad in greene,
And others were clad in pall;
And then came in my lord Barnardes wife,
The fairest among them all.

Shee cast an eye on little Musgrave
As bright as the summer sunne:
O then bethought him little Musgrave,
This ladyes heart I have wonne.

Quoth she, I have loved thee, little Musgrave,
Full long and manye a daye.
So have I loved you, ladye faire,
Yet word I never durst saye.

I have a bower at Bucklesford–Bury,
Full daintilye bedight,
If thoult wend thither, my little Musgrave,
Thoust lig in mine armes all night.


Quoth hee, I thank yee, ladye faire,
This kindness yee shew to me;
And whether it be to my weale or woe,
This night will I lig with thee.

All this beheard a litle foot–page,
By his ladyes coach as he ranne:
Quoth he, thoughe I am my ladyes page,
Yet Ime my lord Barnardes manne.

My lord Barnard shall knowe of this,
Although I lose a limbe.
And ever whereas the bridges were broke,
He layd him downe to swimme.

Asleep or awake, thou lord Barnard,
As thou art a man of life,
Lo! this same night at Bucklesford–Bury
Litle Musgrave's in bed with thy wife.

If it be trew, thou litle foote–page,
This tale thou hast told to mee,
Then all my lands in Bucklesford–Bury
I freelye will give to thee.

But an it be a lye, thou litle foot–page,
This tale thou hast told to mee,
On the highest tree in Bucklesford–Bury
All hanged shalt thou bee.

Rise up, rise up, my merry men all,
And saddle me my good steede;
This night must I to Bucklesford–Bury;
God wott, I had never more neede.


Then some they whistled, and some they sang,
And some did loudlye saye,
Whenever lord Barnardes horne it blewe,
Awaye, Musgrave, away.

Methinkes I heare the throstle cocke,
Methinkes I heare the jay,
Methinkes I heare lord Barnards horne;
I would I were awaye.

Lye still, lye still, thou little Musgrave,
And huggle me from the cold;
For it is but some shephardes boye
A whistling his sheepe to the fold.

Is not thy hawke upon the pearche,
Thy horse eating corne and haye ?
And thou a gay lady within thine armes:
And wouldst thou be awaye ?

By this lord Barnard was come to the dore,
And lighted upon a stone:
And he pulled out three silver keyes,
And opened the dores eche one.

He lifted up the coverlett,
He lifted up the sheete;
How now, how now, thou little Musgrave,
Dost find my gaye ladye sweete ?

I find her sweete, quoth little Musgrave,
The more is my griefe and paine;
Ide gladlye give three hundred poundes
That I were on yonder plaine.

Arise, arise, thou little Musgrave,
And put thy cloathes nowe on,
It shall never be said in my countree,
That I killed a naked man.

I have two swordes in one scabbarde,
Full deare they cost my purse;
And thou shalt have the best of them,
And I will have the worse.

The first stroke that little Musgrave strucke,
He hurt lord Barnard sore,
The next stroke that lord Barnard strucke,
Little Musgrave never strucke more.

With that bespake the ladye faire,
In bed whereas she laye,
Althoughe thou art dead, my little Musgrave,
Yet for thee I will praye:

And wishe well to thy soule will I,

So long as I have life;
So will I not do for thee, Barnard,
Thoughe I am thy wedded wife.

He cut her pappes from off her brest;
Great pitye it was to see
The drops of this fair ladyes bloode
Run trickling downe her knee.

Wo worth, wo worth ye, my merrye men all,
You never were borne for my goode:
Why did you not offer to stay my hande,
When you sawe me wax so woode ?

For I have slaine the fairest sir knighte,
That ever rode on a steede;
So have I done the fairest lady,
That ever ware womans weede.

A grave, a grave, Lord Barnard cryde,
To putt these lovers in;
But lay my ladye o' the upper hande,
For she comes o' the better kin. 
    

—Anonymous

Requiem

UNDER the wide and starry sky,   
Dig the grave and let me lie.   
Glad did I live and gladly die,   
And I laid me down with a will.   

This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be;   
Home is the sailor, home from sea,   
And the hunter home from the hill.   
    

—Robert Louis Stevenson

Fortunate Son

Some folks are born made to wave the flag,
Ooh, they're red, white and blue.
And when the band plays "Hail to the chief",
Ooh, they point the cannon at you, Lord,
It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no senator's son, son.
It ain't me, it ain't me; I ain't no fortunate one, no,
Yeah!

Some folks are born silver spoon in hand,
Lord, don't they help themselves, oh.
But when the taxman comes to the door,
Lord, the house looks like a rummage sale, yes,
It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no millionaire's son, no.
It ain't me, it ain't me; I ain't no fortunate one, no.

Some folks inherit star spangled eyes,
Ooh, they send you down to war, Lord,
And when you ask them, "How much should we give?"
Ooh, they only answer More! more! more! yoh,
It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no military son, son.
It ain't me, it ain't me; I ain't no fortunate one, one.
It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate one, no no no,
It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate son, no no no,
    

—J. C. Fogerty

A Great Circle

You have noticed that everything an Indian does is in a circle, and that is because
the Power of the World always works in circles, and everything tries to be round.....
  The Sky is round, and I have heard that the earth is round like a ball, and so are 
all the stars. The wind, in its greatest power, whirls. Birds make their nest in 
circles, for theirs is the same religion as ours....
  Even the seasons form a great circle in their changing, and always come back again 
to where they were. The life of a man is a circle from childhood to childhood, and so
it is in everything where power moves. 
    

—Black Elk

No Man Can Find The War

Photographs of guns and flame 
Scarlet skull and distant game
Bayonet and jungle grin
Nightmares dreamed by bleeding men
Lookouts tremble on the shore 
But no man can find the war 

Tape recorders echo scream 
Orders fly like bullet stream
Drums and cannons laugh aloud
Whistles come from ashen shroud
Leaders damn the world and roar
But no man can find the war 

Is the war across the sea?
Is the war behind the sky?
Have you each and all gone blind:
Is the war inside your mind? 

Humans weep at human death
All the talkers lose their breath
Movies paint a chaos tale
Singers see and poets wail
All the world kows the score
But no man can find the war 
    

—Tim Buckley

Civil War V

James Longstreet at Appomattox

The road was packed by
standing troops as he approached,
the men with hats off, heads and hearts
bowed down. As he passed, they raised
their heads and looked upon him
with swimming eyes. Those who could
find voice said goodbye; those who
could not speak, and were near, passed
their hands gently over the
sides of Traveller.
    

—James Longstreet

For The Fallen

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, 
England mourns for her dead across the sea. 
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, 
Fallen in the cause of the free. 

Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal 
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres, 
There is music in the midst of desolation 
And a glory that shines upon our tears. 

They went with songs to the battle, they were young, 
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. 
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted; 
They fell with their faces to the foe. 

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old: 
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. 
At the going down of the sun and in the morning 
We will remember them. 

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again; 
They sit no more at familiar tables of home; 
They have no lot in our labour of the day–time; 
They sleep beyond England's foam. 

But where our desires are and our hopes profound, 
Felt as a well–spring that is hidden from sight, 
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known 
As the stars are known to the Night; 

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust, 
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain; 
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness, 
To the end, to the end, they remain. 
    

—Laurence Binyon

There Were Roses

My song for you this evening, it's not to make you sad 
Nor for adding to the sorrows of this troubled northern land,
But lately I've been thinking and it just won't leave my mind
I'll tell you of two friends one time who were both good friends of mine.

Allan Bell from Banagh, he lived just across the fields,
A great man for the music and the dancing and the reels.
O'Malley came from South Armagh to court young Alice fair,
And we'd often meet on the Ryan Road and the laughter filled the air.

There were roses, roses There were roses
And the tears of the people ran together

Though Allan, he was Protestant, and Sean was Catholic born,
It never made a difference for the friendship, it was strong. 
And sometimes in the evening when we heard the sound of drums
We said, ``It won't divide us. We always will be one.''

For the ground our fathers plowed in, the soil, it is the same,
And the places where we say our prayers have just got different names.
We talked about the friends who died, and we hoped there'd be no more.
It's little then we realized the tragedy in store.

It was on a Sunday morning when the awful news came round.
Another killing has been done just outside Newry Town.
We knew that Allan danced up there, we knew he liked the band.
When we heard that he was dead we just could not understand.

We gathered at the graveside on that cold and rainy day,
And the minster he closed his eyes and prayed for no revenge.
All all of us who knew him from along the Ryan Road,
We bowed our heads and said a prayer for the resting of his soul.

Now fear, it filled the countryside. There was fear in every home
When a car of death came prowling round the lonely Ryan Road.
A Catholic would be killed tonight to even up the score.
``Oh, Christ! It's young O'Malley that they've taken from the door.''

``Allan was my friend,'' he cried. He begged them with his fear,
But centuries of hatred have ears that cannot hear.
An eye for an eye was all that filled their minds
And another eye for another eye till everyone is blind.

So my song for you this evening, it's not to make you sad
Nor for adding to the sorrows of our troubled northern land,
But lately I've been thinking and it just won't leave my mind.
I'll tell you of two friends one time who were both good friends of mine.

I don't know where the moral is or where this song should end,
But I wondered just how many wars are fought between good friends.
And those who give the orders are not the ones to die. 
It's Bell and O'Malley and the likes of you and I.

There were roses, roses
There were roses
    

—Tommy Sands

The Dogs Of War

Dogs of war and men of hate
With no cause, we don't discriminate
Discovery is to be disowned
Our currency is flesh and bone
Hell opened up and put on sale
Gather round and haggle
For hard cash, we will lie and deceive
Even our masters don't know the webs we weave

On world, it's a battleground
One world and they smash it down
One world one world

Invisible transfers, long distance calls
Hollow laughter in marble halls
Steps have been taken, a silent uproar
Has unleashed, the dogs of war
You can't stop what has begun
Signed, sealed, they deliver oblivion
We all have a dark side, to say the least
And dealing in death is the nature of the beast

On world, it's a battleground
One world and they smash it down
One world one world

The Dogs of War don't negotiate
The Dogs of War won't capitulate
They will take and you will give
And you must die so that they may live
You can knock at any door
But wherever you go, you know they've been there before
Well winners can lose and things can get strained
But whatever you change, you know the dogs remain

On world, it's a battleground
One world and we're going to smash it down
One world one world
    

—D.J. Gilmour and A. Moore

The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll

William Zanzinger killed poor Hattie Carroll
With a cane that he twirled around his diamond ring finger
At a Baltimore hotel society gath'rin'.
And the cops were called in and his weapon took from him
As they rode him in custody down to the station
And booked William Zanzinger for first–degree murder.
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears,
Take the rag away from your face.
Now ain't the time for your tears.

William Zanzinger, who at twenty–four years
Owns a tobacco farm of six hundred acres
With rich wealthy parents who provide and protect him
And high office relations in the politics of Maryland,
Reacted to his deed with a shrug of his shoulders
And swear words and sneering, and his tongue it was snarling,
In a matter of minutes on bail was out walking.
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears,
Take the rag away from your face.
Now ain't the time for your tears.

Hattie Carroll was a maid of the kitchen.
She was fifty–one years old and gave birth to ten children
Who carried the dishes and took out the garbage
And never sat once at the head of the table
And didn't even talk to the people at the table
Who just cleaned up all the food from the table
And emptied the ashtrays on a whole other level,
Got killed by a blow, lay slain by a cane
That sailed through the air and came down through the room,
Doomed and determined to destroy all the gentle.
And she never done nothing to William Zanzinger.
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears,
Take the rag away from your face.
Now ain't the time for your tears.

In the courtroom of honor, the judge pounded his gavel
To show that all's equal and that the courts are on the level
And that the strings in the books ain't pulled and persuaded
And that even the nobles get properly handled
Once that the cops have chased after and caught 'em
And that the ladder of law has no top and no bottom,
Stared at the person who killed for no reason
Who just happened to be feelin' that way without warnin'.
And he spoke through his cloak, most deep and distinguished,
And handed out strongly, for penalty and repentance,
William Zanzinger with a six–month sentence.
Oh, but you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears,
Bury the rag deep in your face
For now's the time for your tears. 
    

—Bob Dylan

Whose Garden Was This

Whose garden was this? It must have been lovely 
Did it have flowers? I've seen pictures of flowers 
And I'd love to have smelled one 

Tell me again, I need to know 
The forests had trees, the meadows were green 
The oceans were blue, and birds really flew 
Can you swear that was true? 

Whose garden was this? It must have been lovely 
Did it have flowers? I've seen pictures of flowers 
And I'd love to have smelled one 

Tell me again, I need to know 
The forests had trees, the meadows were green 
The oceans were blue, and birds really flew 
Can you swear that was true? 

Whose river was this? You say it ran freely 
Blue was its colour, I've seen blue in some pictures 
And I'd love to have been there 

Tell me again, I need to know 
The forests had trees, the meadows were green 
The oceans were blue, and birds really flew 
Can you swear that was true? 

Whose grey sky was this? Or was it a blue one? 
At night there were breezes, I've heard records of breezes 
And I'd love to have felt one 

Tell me again, I need to know 
The forests had trees, the meadows were green 
The oceans were blue, and birds really flew 
Can you swear that was true? 
    

—Tom Paxton

Little Gidding V

What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make and end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from. And every phrase
And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
Taking its place to support the others,
The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,
An easy commerce of the old and the new,
The common word exact without vulgarity,
The formal word precise but not pedantic,
The complete consort dancing together)
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem an epitaph. And any action
Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat
Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.
We die with the dying:
See, they depart, and we go with them.
We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.
The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew–tree
Are of equal duration. A people without history
Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails
On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel
History is now and England.
With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this
     Calling
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple–tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half–heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in–folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.
    

—T.S. Eliot

Eldorado

Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.
…
But he grew old—
This knight so bold—
And o'er his heart a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.
…
And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow—
"Shadow," said he,
"Where can it be—
This land of Eldorado?"
…
"Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,"
The shade replied—
"If you seek for Eldorado!" 
    

—Edgar Allan Poe

St. Crispin's Day speech from "Henry V"

My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin:
If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England;
God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more, methinks, would share from me,
For the best hope I have. O! do not wish one more:
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip–toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To–morrow is Saint Crispian':
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.'
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember with advantages
What feats he did this day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words,
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remebered;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to–day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentleman in England now a–bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day." 
    

—William Shakespeare

O Captain! My Captain!

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;   
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;   
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,   
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:   
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,   
Where on the deck my Captain lies,   
Fallen cold and dead.   

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;   
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the shores a–crowding;   
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;   
Here Captain! dear father!   
This arm beneath your head;   
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.   

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;   
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;   
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;   
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!   
But I, with mournful tread,   
Walk the deck my Captain lies,   
Fallen cold and dead.   
    

—Walt Whitman

Substitute

You think we look pretty good together
You think my shoes are made out of leather

But I'm a substitute for another guy
I look pretty tall, but my heels are high
The simple things you say are all complicated
I look pretty young, but I'm just backdated, yeah
Substitute, Your lies for fact
Substitute, I see right through you plastic mack
Substitute, I look all white, but my dad was black
Substitute, My fine looking shoes really made of sack

I was born with a plastic spoon in my mouth
The north side of my town, facing on eastside, faces south
And now you dare to look me in the eye
Those crocodile taers will watch you cry
But tell your problem you won't try
To work it out of tal??, Just pass it by, pass it by
Substitute, Me for him,
Substitute, My coke for gin
Substitute, you for my mom
At least I got my washing done

But I'm a substitute for another guy
I look pretty tall, but my heels are high
The simple things you say are all complicated
I look pretty young, but I'm just backdated, yeah
Substitute, Your lies for fact
Substitute, I see right through you plastic mack
Substitute, I look all white, but my dad was black
Substitute, My fine looking shoes really made of sack

I was born with a plastic spoon in my mouth
The north side of my town, facing on eastside, faces south
And now you dare to look me in the eye
Those crocodile tears will watch you cry
But tell your problem you won't try
To work it all out, Just pass it by, pass it by
Substitute, Me for him,
Substitute, My coke for gin
Substitute, you for my mom
At least I got my washing done   
    

—Peter Townshend

The War Prayer

It was a time of great and exalting excitement. The country was up in arms, the 
war was on, in every breast burned the holy fire of patriotism; the drums were 
beating, the bands playing, the toy pistols popping, the bunched firecrackers 
hissing and spluttering; on every hand and far down the receding and fading 
spread of roofs and balconies a fluttering wilderness of flags flashed in the 
sun; daily the young volunteers marched down the wide avenue gay and fine in 
their new uniforms, the proud fathers and mothers and sisters and sweethearts 
cheering them with voices choked with happy emotion as they swung by; nightly 
the packed mass meetings listened, panting, to patriot oratory which stirred the 
deepest deeps of their hearts, and which they interrupted at briefest intervals 
with cyclones of applause, the tears running down their cheeks the while; in the 
churches the pastors preached devotion to flag and country, and invoked the God 
of Battles beseeching His aid in our good cause in outpourings of fervid 
eloquence which moved every listener. It was indeed a glad and gracious time, 
and the half dozen rash spirits that ventured to disapprove of the war and cast 
a doubt upon its righteousness straightway got such a stern and angry warning 
that for their personal safety's sake they quickly shrank out of sight and 
offended no more in that way. 

Sunday morning came — next day the battalions would leave for the front; 
the church was filled; the volunteers were there, their young faces alight with 
martial dreams — visions of the stern advance, the gathering momentum, the 
rushing charge, the flashing sabers, the flight of the foe, the tumult, the 
enveloping smoke, the fierce pursuit, the surrender! Then home from the war, 
bronzed heroes, welcomed, adored, submerged in golden seas of glory! With the 
volunteers sat their dear ones, proud, happy, and envied by the neighbors and 
friends who had no sons and brothers to send forth to the field of honor, there 
to win for the flag, or, failing, die the noblest of noble deaths. The service 
proceeded; a war chapter from the Old Testament was read; the first prayer was 
said; it was followed by an organ burst that shook the building, and with one 
impulse the house rose, with glowing eyes and beating hearts, and poured out 
that tremendous invocation 

God the all–terrible! Thou who ordainest! Thunder thy clarion and lightning thy 
sword!

Then came the "long" prayer. None could remember the like of it for passionate 
pleading and moving and beautiful language. The burden of its supplication was, 
that an ever–merciful and benignant Father of us all would watch over our noble 
young soldiers, and aid, comfort, and encourage them in their patriotic work; 
bless them, shield them in the day of battle and the hour of peril, bear them in 
His mighty hand, make them strong and confident, invincible in the bloody onset; 
help them to crush the foe, grant to them and to their flag and country 
imperishable honor and glory — 

An aged stranger entered and moved with slow and noiseless step up the main 
aisle, his eyes fixed upon the minister, his long body clothed in a robe that 
reached to his feet, his head bare, his white hair descending in a frothy 
cataract to his shoulders, his seamy face unnaturally pale, pale even to 
ghastliness. With all eyes following him and wondering, he made his silent way; 
without pausing, he ascended to the preacher's side and stood there waiting. 
With shut lids the preacher, unconscious of his presence, continued with 
his moving prayer, and at last finished it with the words, uttered in fervent 
appeal, "Bless our arms, grant us the victory, O Lord our God, Father and 
Protector of our land and flag!" 

The stranger touched his arm, motioned him to step aside — which the 
startled minister did — and took his place. During some moments 
he surveyed the spellbound audience with solemn eyes, in which burned an uncanny 
light; then in a deep voice he said: 

"I come from the Throne — bearing a message from Almighty God!" The words 
smote the house with a shock; if the stranger perceived it he gave no attention. 
"He has heard the prayer of His servant your shepherd, and will grant it if such 
shall be your desire after I, His messenger, shall have explained to you its 
import — that is to say, its full import. For it is like unto many of the 
prayers of men, in that it asks for more than he who utters it is aware of 
— except he pause and think. 

"God's servant and yours has prayed his prayer. Has he paused and taken thought? 
Is it one prayer? No, it is two — one uttered, the other not. Both have 
reached the ear of Him Who heareth all supplications, the spoken and the 
unspoken. Ponder this — keep it in mind. If you would beseech a blessing 
upon yourself, beware! lest without intent you invoke a curse upon a neighbor at 
the same time. If you pray for the blessing of rain upon your crop which needs 
it, by that act you are possibly praying for a curse upon some neighbor's crop 
which may not need rain and can be injured by it. 

"You have heard your servant's prayer — the uttered part of it. I am 
commissioned of God to put into words the other part of it — that part 
which the pastor — and also you in your hearts — fervently prayed 
silently. And ignorantly and unthinkingly? God grant that it was so! You heard 
these words: 'Grant us the victory, O Lord our God!' That is sufficient. the 
whole of the uttered prayer is compact into those pregnant words. Elaborations 
were not necessary. When you have prayed for victory you have prayed for many 
unmentioned results which follow victory — must follow it, cannot help but 
follow it. Upon the listening spirit of God fell also the unspoken part of the 
prayer. He commandeth me to put it into words. Listen! 

"O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth to battle 
— be Thou near them! With them — in spirit — we also go forth 
from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God, 
help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to 
cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to 
drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in 
pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; 
help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; 
help us to turn them out roofless with little children to wander unfriended the 
wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun 
flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with 
travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it — for 
our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract 
their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their 
tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet! We ask it, in 
the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the 
ever–faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with 
humble and contrite hearts. Amen. 

(After a pause.) "Ye have prayed it; if ye still desire it, speak! The messenger 
of the Most High waits!" 

It was believed afterward that the man was a lunatic, because there was no sense 
in what he said. 
    

—Mark Twain

Working Class Hero

As soon as you're born they make you feel small
By giving you no time instead of it all
Till the pain is so big you feel nothing at all
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be 

They hurt you at home and they hit you at school
They hate you if you're clever and they despise a fool
Till you're so fucking crazy you can't follow their rules
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be 

When they've tortured and scared you for twenty odd years
Then they expect you to pick a career
When you can't really function you're so full of fear
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be 

Keep you doped with religion and sex and TV
And you think you're so clever and classless and free
But you're still fucking peasants as far as I can see
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be 

There's room at the top they are telling you still
But first you must learn how to smile as you kill
If you want to be like the folks on the hill
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be 
If you want to be a hero well just follow me
If you want to be a hero well just follow me 
    

—John Lennon

Eisenhower warned us...

A vital element in keeping the peace is our military establishment. Our arms must be mighty, ready for
instant action, so that no potential aggressor may be tempted to risk his own destruction.
Our military organization today bears little relation to that known by any of my predecessors
in peacetime, or indeed by the fighting men of World War II or Korea. Until the latest of our world
conflicts, the United States had no armaments industry. American makers of plowshares could, with
time and as required, make swords as well. But now we can no longer risk emergency improvisation of
national defense; we have been compelled to create a permanent armaments industry of vast proportions.
Added to this, three and a half million men and women are directly engaged in the defense establishment.
We annually spend on military security more than the net income of all United States corporations.
This conjunction of an immense military establishment and a large arms industry is new in the American 
experience. The total influence — economic, political, even spiritual — is felt in every city, every
State house, every office of the Federal government. We recognize the imperative need for this development.
Yet we must not fail to comprehend its grave implications. Our toil, resources and livelihood are all
involved; so is the very structure of our society. In the councils of government, we must guard against
the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the militaryindustrial complex.
The potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power exists and will persist. We must never let the
weight of this combination endanger our liberties or democratic processes. We should take nothing for granted.
Only an alert and knowledgeable citizenry can compel the proper meshing of the huge industrial and
military machinery of defense with our peaceful methods and goals, so that security and liberty may
prosper together. Akin to, and largely responsible for the sweeping changes in our industrial–military
posture, has been the technological revolution during recent decades. In this revolution, research has
become central; it also becomes more formalized, complex, and costly. A steadily increasing share is
conducted for, by, or at the direction of, the Federal government. Today, the solitary inventor, tinkering
in his shop, has been overshadowed by task forces of scientists in laboratories and testing fields. In
the same fashion, the free university, historically the fountainhead of free ideas and scientific discovery,
has experienced a revolution in the conduct of research. Partly because of the huge costs involved, a
government contract becomes virtually a substitute for intellectual curiosity. For every old blackboard
there are now hundreds of new electronic computers. The prospect of domination of the nation's scholars
by Federal employment, project allocations, and the power of money is ever present and is gravely to be regarded.
Yet, in holding scientific research and discovery in respect, as we should, we must also be alert to the equal
and opposite danger that public policy could itself become the captive of a scientific technological elite.
It is the task of statesmanship to mold, to balance, and to integrate these and other forces, new and old,
within the principles of our democratic system — ever aiming toward the supreme goals of our free society.
    

—Dwight D. Eisenhower, 1961

After All These Years

I heard you saw her again last evening
I heard you'd been with her for two or three days
I still have her picture taped to my mirror
Does she still look the same after all these years?

I remember her as the most beautiful woman
Was her hair still blonde were here eyes still blue?
Were they soft and gentle or filled with tears?
Does she still look as hurt after all these years?

I lost track of here way back in the Sixties
I even hear that she had tried suicide
There were rumors the government killed her career
Did she still look as scared after all these years?

Will they ever uncover her terrible secret?
And untangle the mystery of her life?
Will they ever know why she disappeared?
Was she still as gone after all these years?

Was she still as alluring still as seductive?
Could she still drive you crazy by the look on her face?
Did she still have a whisper you could hear 'cross an ocean?
Was she still a scandal still a disgrace?

Was she still as impossible still as voluptuous?
Still as helpless and full of fears?
Was she still as provacative still as compelling?
Was she still as late after all these years?
    

—T-Bone Burnett

Bohemian Rhapsody

Is this the real life–
Is this just fantasy–
Caught in a landslide–
No escape from reality–
Open your eyes
Look up to the skies and see–
I'm just a poor boy,I need no sympathy–
Because I'm easy come,easy go,
A little high,little low,
Anyway the wind blows,doesn't really matter to me,
To me

Mama,just killed a man,
Put a gun against his head,
Pulled my trigger,now he's dead,
Mama,life had just begun,
But now I've gone and thrown it all away–
Mama ooo,
Didn't mean to make you cry–
If I'm not back again this time tomorrow–
Carry on,carry on,as if nothing really matters–

Too late,my time has come,
Sends shivers down my spine–
Body's aching all the time,
Goodbye everybody–I've got to go–
Gotta leave you all behind and face the truth–
Mama ooo– (any way the wind blows)
I don't want to die,
I sometimes wish I'd never been born at all–

I see a little silhouetto of a man,
Scaramouche,scaramouche will you do the Fandango–
Thunderbolt and lightning–very very frightening me–
Galileo,Galileo,
Galileo Galileo
Galileo figaro–Magnifico–
But I'm just a poor boy and nobody loves me–
He's just a poor boy from a poor family–
Spare him his life from this monstrosity–
Easy come easy go–,will you let me go–
Bismillah! No–,we will not let you go–let him go–
Bismillah! We will not let you go–let him go
Bismillah! We will not let you go–let me go
Will not let you go–let me go
Will not let you go let me go
No,no,no,no,no,no,no–
Mama mia,mama mia,mama mia let me go–
Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me,for me,for me–

So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye–
So you think you can love me and leave me to die–
Oh baby–Can't do this to me baby–
Just gotta get out–just gotta get right outta here–

Nothing really matters,
Anyone can see,
Nothing really matters–,nothing really matters to me,

Any way the wind blows....
    

—Freddie Mercury

The Dutchman

The Dutchman's not the kind of man
To keep his thumb jammed in the dam, that holds his dreams in.
But that's a secret only Margaret knows.
When Amsterdam is golden, 
In the morning Margaret brings him breakfast, she believes him.
He thinks the tulips bloom beneath the snow
He's as mad as he can be, but Margaret only sees that sometimes.
Sometimes she sees her unborn children in his eyes.

Chorus

Let us go to the banks of the ocean
Where the walls rise above the Zuyder Zee.
Long ago I used to be a young man
And dear Margaret remembers that for me.

The Dutchman still wears wooden shoes
His cap and coat are patched with love that Margaret sowed in
Sometimes he thinks he's still in Rotterdam
He watches tugboats down canals
And calls out to them when he thinks he knows the captain.
Till Margaret comes to take him home again
Through unforgiving streets a tripping though she holds his arm
Sometimes he thinks that he's alone and calls her name.

Chorus

The windmills swirl the wintering
She winds his muffler tighter, place it in the kitchen
And the tea with whiskey keep away the dew
He sees her for a moment, calls her name
She makes his bed up humming some old love song
She learned it when the tune was very new
He hums a line or two, they hum together in the night
The Dutchman falls asleep and Margaret blows the candle out

Chorus 
    

—Michael P. Smith

Hobo's Lullaby

Go to sleep you weary hobo
Let the towns drift slowly by
Can't you hear the steel rail humming
That's a hobo's lullaby

Do not think about tomorrow
Let tomorrow come and go
Tonight you're in a nice warm boxcar
Safe from all the wind and snow

I know the police cause you trouble
They cause trouble everywhere
But when you die and go to heaven
You won't find no policemen there

I know your clothes are torn and ragged
And your hair is turning grey
Lift your head and smile at trouble
You'll find happiness some day

So go to sleep you weary hobo
Let the towns drift slowly by
Don't you feel the steel rail humming
That's a hobo's lullaby
    

—Goebel Reeves

On Passing the New Menin Gate

Who will remember, passing through this Gate,  The unheroic Dead who fed the guns?
Who shall absolve the foulness of their fate, –  Those doomed, conscripted, unvictorious ones?
Crudely renewed, the Salient holds its own.
Paid are its dim defenders by this pomp;  Paid, with a pile of peace–complacent stone,  The armies who endured that sullen swamp.
 
Here was the world's worst wound. And here with pride  'Their name liveth for evermore' the Gateway claims.
Was ever an immolation so belied
As these intolerably nameless names?
Well might the Dead who struggled in the slime  Rise and deride this sepulchre of crime.
    

—Siegfried Sassoon

All I Really Want to Do

I ain't lookin' to compete with you,
Beat or cheat or mistreat you,
Simplify you, classify you,
Deny, defy or crucify you.
All I really want to do
Is, baby, be friends with you.

No, and I ain't lookin' to fight with you,
Frighten you or uptighten you,
Drag you down or drain you down,
Chain you down or bring you down.
All I really want to do
Is, baby, be friends with you.

I ain't lookin' to block you up
Shock or knock or lock you up,
Analyze you, categorize you,
Finalize you or advertise you.
All I really want to do
Is, baby, be friends with you.

I don't want to straight–face you,
Race or chase you, track or trace you,
Or disgrace you or displace you,
Or define you or confine you.
All I really want to do
Is, baby, be friends with you.

I don't want to meet your kin,
Make you spin or do you in,
Or select you or dissect you,
Or inspect you or reject you.
All I really want to do
Is, baby, be friends with you.

I don't want to fake you out,
Take or shake or forsake you out,
I ain't lookin' for you to feel like me,
See like me or be like me.
All I really want to do
Is, baby, be friends with you.
    

—Bob Dylan

Four Green Fields

"What did I have?", said the fine old woman 
"What did I have?", this proud old woman did say 
"I had four green fields, each one was a jewel 
But strangers came and tried to take them from me 
I had fine, strong sons, they fought to save my jewels 
They fought and died and that was my grief", said she 

"Long time ago", said the fine old woman 
"Long time ago", this proud old woman did say 
"There was war and death, plundering and pillage 
My children starved by mountain, valley and sea 
And their wailing cries, they shook the very heavens 
My four green fields ran red with their blood", said she 

"What have I now?", said the fine old woman 
"What have I now?", this proud old woman did say 
"I have four green fields, one of them's in bondage 
In strangers hands that tried to take it from me 
But my sons have sons, as brave as were their fathers 
My fourth green field will bloom once again", said she
    

—Tommy Makem

The Soldier

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. 
    

—Rupert Brooke

Wrecking Ball

My life's an open book
You read it on the radio
We got nowhere to hide
We got nowhere to go
But if you still decide
That you want to take a ride
Meet me at the wrecking ball
Wrecking ball
Wear something pretty and white
And we'll go dancin' tonight
Meet me at the wrecking ball
Wrecking ball
Wear something pretty and white
And we'll go dancin' tonight.

I see your smoky eyes
Right across the bar
I've seen that look before
Shining from star to star
Though I can't take that chance
If you got time for one dance
Meet me at the wrecking ball
Wrecking ball
Wear something pretty and white
And we'll go dancin' tonight
Meet me at the wrecking ball
Wrecking ball
Wear something pretty and white
And we'll go dancin' tonight.

The restless line of cars
Goes stretchin' down the road
But I won't telephone
'Cause you might say hello
What is it makes me feel this way?
What is it makes me want to say
Meet me at the wrecking ball
Wrecking ball
Wear something pretty and white
And we'll go dancin' tonight
Meet me at the wrecking ball
Wrecking ball
Wear something pretty and white
And we'll go dancin' tonight.
    

—Neil Young

The Gettysburg Address

"Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, 
conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now 
we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation or any nation so conceived 
and so dedicated can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have 
come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting–place for those who here gave 
their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should 
do this. But in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow 
this ground. The brave men, living and dead who struggled here have consecrated it far above 
our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note nor long remember what we say here, 
but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living rather to be dedicated here to 
the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather 
for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead 
we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that
we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, that this nation under God 
shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the 
people shall not perish from the earth." 
    

—Abraham Lincoln

The Days of '49

Oh, it's here you see old Tom Moore, a relic of former days,
A bummer, too, they call me now, but what do I care for praise?
For my heart is filled with the days of yore, and oft do I repine,
For the days of old, the days of gold, the days of '49,
For the days of old, the days of gold, the days of '49.

I had comrades, too, a saucy crew, hard cases I must confess,
But they were brave and true, my boys, as hunters from the West.
They would stand a pinch and never flinch, and never fret nor whine,
But like good old bricks, they stood the kicks in the days of '49,
In the days of old, the days of gold, the days of '49.

There was Poker Bill, the fellow who was fond of playing tricks,
At a poker game he was always there and heavy, too, with bricks.
He'd ante a slug, or call for a draw or go you a handful blind,
But in the game of death he lost his breath, in the days of '49,
In the days of old, the days of gold, the days of '49.

There was Monte Pete, I'll not forget the luck he always had,
He'd deal for you both night and day, as long as you had a scad.
One night a pistol laid him out; 'twas his layout in fine,
For it caught Pete sure and dead in the door in the days of '49,
In the days of old, the days of gold, the days of '49.

There was New York Jake, the butcher boy, who was fond of getting tight,
And whenever he was on a spree was spoiling for a fight.
One day he ran against a knife in the hands of old Bob Kline,
And over Jake we held a wake, in the days of '49,
In the days of old, the days of gold, the days of '49.

There was Buffalo Bill, who could out–roar a buffalo bull, you bet,
He roared all day and he roared all night, and I guess he's roaring yet.
One night he fell in a prospect hole; 'twas a roaring bad design,
For in that hole, he roared out his soul, in the days of '49,
In the days of old, the days of gold, the days of '49.

There was old Lame Jess, a hated old case, who never would repent.
Jess never missed a single meal, and he never paid a cent.
But poor old Jess, like all the rest, to death did at last resign
For in his bloom, he went up the flume, in the days of '49,
In the days of old, the days of gold, the days of '49.

Now of all the comrades I had back then, not one remains to boast;
They have left me here in my misery, like some poor wandering ghost.
And as I go from place to place, folks call me a traveling sign,
Saying, "There's Tom Moore, a bummer sure, from the days of '49,
From the days of old, the days of gold, the days of '49. 
    

—Traditional

Hurt

I hurt myself today
To see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
The only thing that's real
The needle tears a hole
The old familiar sting
Try to kill it all away
But I remember everything
What have I become? 
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end
You could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt
I wear my crown of s**t
On my liar's chair
Full of broken thoughts
I cannot repair
Beneath the stain of time
The feeling disappears
You are someone else
I am still right here
What have I become? 
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end
You could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt
If I could start again
A million miles away
I would keep myself
I would find a way
    

—Trent Reznor

Comin' Back To Me

The summer had inhaled
And held its breath too long.
The winter looked the same,
As if it had never gone,
And through an open window,
Where no curtain hung,
I saw you, I saw you,
Coming back to me.

One begins to read between
The pages of a look.
The sound of sleepy music,
And suddenly, you're hooked.
I saw you, I saw you,
Coming back to me.

You came to stay and live my way,
Scatter my love like leaves in the wind.
You always say that you won't go away,
But I know what it always has been,
It always has been.

A transparent dream
Beneath an occasional sigh…
Most of the time,
I just let it go by.
Now I wish it hadn't begun.
I saw you, I saw you,
Coming back to me.

Strolling the hill,
Overlooking the shore,
I realize I've been here before.
The shadow in the mist
Could have been anyone—
I saw you, I saw you,
Coming back to me.

Small things like reasons
Are put in a jar.
Whatever happened to wishes,
Wished on a star?
Was it just something
That I made up for fun?
I saw you, I saw you,
Coming back to me.
    

—Marty Balin

He was lame

He was lame
as a 3 legged dog
screamed as he came
through the fog

If you are the light
give me a light
buddy
    

—Leonard Cohen

Bat Out Of Hell

The sirens are screaming and the fires are howling
Way down in the valley tonight
There's a man in the shadows with a gun in his eye
And a blade shining oh so bright
There's evil in the air and there's thunder in the sky
And a killer's on the bloodshot streets
And down in the tunnel where the deadly are rising
Oh I swear I saw a young boy
Down in the gutter
He was starting to foam in the heat
Oh baby you're the only thing in this whole world
That's pure and good and right
And wherever you are and wherever you go
There's always gonna be some light
But I gotta get out
I gotta break it out now
Before the final crack of dawn
So we gotta make the most of our one night together
When it's over you know
We'll both be so alone

Like a bat out of hell
I'll be gone when the morning comes
When the night is over
Like a bat out of hell I'll be gone gone gone
Like a bat out of hell I'll be gone when the morning comes
When the day is done
And the sun goes down
And the moonlight's shining through
Then like a sinner before the gates of heaven
I'll come crawling on back to you

I'm gonna hit the highway like a battering ram
On a silver black phantom bike
When the metal is hot and the engine is hungry
And we're all about to see the light
Nothing ever grows in this rotten old hole
And everything is stunted and lost
And nothing really rocks
And nothing really rolls
And nothing's ever worth the cost
And I know that I'm damned if I never get out
And maybe I'm damned if I do
But with any other beat I got left in my heart
You know I'd rather be damned with you
If I gotta be damned you know I wanna be damned
Dancing through the night with you
If I gotta be damned you know I wanna be damned
Gotta be damned you know I wanna be damned
If Gotta be damned you know I wanna be damned
Dancing through the night
Dancing through the night
Dancing through the night with you

Oh baby you're the only thing in this whole world
That's pure and good and right
And wherever you are and wherever you go 
There's always gonna be some light
But I gotta get out
I gotta break it out now
Before the final crack of dawn
So we gotta make the most of our one night together
When it's over you know 
We'll both be so alone

Like a bat out of hell
I'll be gone when the morning comes
When the night is over
Like a bat out of hell I'll be gone
Like a bat out of hell I'll be gone when the morning comes
But when the day is done
And the sun goes down
And the moonlight's shining through
Then like a sinner before the gates of heaven
I'll come crawling on back to you
Then like a sinner before the gates of heaven
I'll come crawling on back to you

I can see myself
Tearing up the road
Faster than any other boy has ever gone
And my skin is rough but my soul is ripe
And no one's gonna stop me now
I gotta make my escape
But I can't stop thinking of you
And I never see the sudden curve until it's way too late
I never see the sudden curve until it's way too late

Then I'm dying on the bottom of a pit in the blazing sun
Torn and twisted at the foot of a burning bike
And I think somebody somewhere must be tolling a bell
And the last thing I see is my heart
Still beating
Breaking out of my body
And flying away
Like a bat out of hell

Then I'm dying at the bottom of a pit in the blazing sun
Torn and twisted at the foot of a burning bike
And I think somebody somewhere must be tolling a bell
And the last thing I see is my heart
Still beating
Still beating
Breaking out of my body and flying away
Like a bat out of hell
Like a bat out of hell
Like a bat out of hell
Like a bat out of hell
Like a bat out of hell
Like a bat out of hell
    

—Meatloaf

One Sky Above Us

Whenever the white man treats the Indian as they treat 
each other, then we will have no more wars. We shall 
all be alike — brothers of one father, and one mother, 
with one sky above us and one country around us, and 
one government for all. Then the Great Spirit who rules 
above will smile upon this land, and all people may be 
one people. Hin–mah–too–yah–lat–kekht has spoken for 
his people. 
    

—Chief Joseph

The Town I Loved So Well

In my memory I will always see 
the town that I have loved so well 
Where our school played ball by the gasyard wall 
and we laughed through the smoke and the smell 
Going home in the rain, running up the dark lane 
past the jail and down behind the fountain 
Those were happy days in so many, many ways 
in the town I loved so well 

In the early morning the shirt factory horn 
called women from Creggan, the Moor and the Bog 
While the men on the dole played a mother's role, 
fed the children and then trained the dogs 
And when times got tough there was just about enough 
But they saw it through without complaining 
For deep inside was a burning pride 
in the town I loved so well 

There was music there in the Derry air 
like a language that we all could understand 
I remember the day when I earned my first pay 
And I played in a small pick–up band 
There I spent my youth and to tell you the truth 
I was sad to leave it all behind me 
For I learned about life and I'd found a wife 
in the town I loved so well 

But when I returned how my eyes have burned 
to see how a town could be brought to its knees 
By the armoured cars and the bombed out bars 
and the gas that hangs on to every tree 
Now the army's installed by that old gasyard wall 
and the damned barbed wire gets higher and higher 
With their tanks and their guns, oh my God, what have they done 
to the town I loved so well 

Now the music's gone but they carry on 
For their spirit's been bruised, never broken 
They will not forget but their hearts are set 
on tomorrow and peace once again 
For what's done is done and what's won is won 
and what's lost is lost and gone forever 
I can only pray for a bright, brand new day 
in the town I loved so well
    

—Phil Coulter

Over the Hills and Far Away

Hark now the drums beat up again
For all true soldier gentlemen
So let us list and march I say
And go over the hills and far away

Over the hills, and o'er the main
To Flanders, Portugal and Spain
Queen Anne commands and we'll obey
And go over the hills and far away

There's twenty shillings on the drum
For him that with us freely comes
'Tis volunteers shall win the day
Over the hills and far away

Chorus

Come gentlemen that have a mind
To serve a queen that's good and kind
Come list and enter in to pay
And go over the hills and far away

Chorus

And we shall live more happy lives
Free of squalling brats and wives
Who nag and vex us every day
So its over the hills and far away

Chorus

Prentice Tom may well refuse
To wipe his angry master's shoes
For now he's free to run and play
Over the hills and far away

Chorus

No more from sound of drum retreat
When Marlborough and Galway beat
The French and Spaniards every day
Over the hills and far away.

Chorus
    

—Traditional

Pilgrim Chapter 33

See him wasted on the sidewalk in his jacket and his jeans,
Wearin' yesterday's misfortunes like a smile—
Once he had a future full of money, love, and dreams,
Which he spent like they was goin' outa style—
And he keeps right on a'changin' for the better or the worse,
Searchin' for a shrine he's never found—
Never knowin' if believin' is a blessin' or a curse,
Or if the goin' up was worth the comin' down—

Chorus

He's a poet, he's a picker—
He's a prophet, he's a pusher—
He's a pilgrim and a preacher, and a problem when he's stoned—
He's a walkin' contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction,
Takin' ev'ry wrong direction on his lonely way back home.

He has tasted good and evil in your bedrooms and your bars,
And he's traded in tomorrow for today—
Runnin' from his devils, Lord, and reachin' for the stars,
And losin' all he's loved along the way—
But if this world keeps right on turnin' for the better or the worse,
And all he ever gets is older and around—
From the rockin' of the cradle to the rollin' of the hearse,
The goin' up was worth the comin' down—

Chorus

He's a poet, he's a picker—
He's a prophet, he's a pusher—
He's a pilgrim and a preacher, and a problem when he's stoned—
He's a walkin' contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction,
Takin' ev'ry wrong direction on his lonely way back home.

There's a lotta wrong directions on that lonely way back home.
    

—Kris Kristofferson

Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds

Picture yourself in a boat on a river
With tangerine trees and marmalade skies
Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly
A girl with kaleidoscope eyes

Cellophane flowers of yellow and green
Towering over your head
Look for the girl with the sun in her eyes
And she's gone

Lucy in the sky with diamonds

Follow her down to a bridge by a fountain
Where rocking horse people eat marshmallow pies
Everyone smiles as you drift past the flowers
That grow so incredibly high

Newspaper taxis appear on the shore
Waiting to take you away
Climb in the back with you head in the clouds
And you're gone

Lucy in the sky with diamonds

Picture yourself on a train in a station
With plasticine porters with looking glass ties
Suddenly someone is there at the turnstile
The girl with kaleidoscope eyes
    

—John Lennon and Paul McCartney

The Fields of Athenry

By a lonely prison wall 
I heard a young girl calling 
Micheal they are taking you away 
For you stole Trevelyn's corn 
So the young might see the morn. 
Now a prison ship lies waiting in the bay. 

Low lie the Fields of Athenry 
Where once we watched the small free birds fly. 
Our love was on the wing we had dreams and songs to sing 
It's so lonely 'round the Fields of Athenry. 

By a lonely prison wall 
I heard a young man calling 
Nothing matter Mary when your free, 
Against the Famine and the Crown 
I rebelled they ran me down 
Now you must raise our child with dignity. 

Low lie the Fields of Athenry 
Where once we watched the small free birds fly. 
Our love was on the wing we had dreams and songs to sing 
It's so lonely 'round the Fields of Athenry. 

By a lonely harbor wall 
She watched the last star falling 
As that prison ship sailed out against the sky 
Sure she'll wait and hope and pray 
For her love in Botany Bay 
It's so lonely 'round the Fields of Athenry. 

Low lie the Fields of Athenry 
Where once we watched the small free birds fly. 
Our love was on the wing we had dreams and songs to sing 
It's so lonely 'round the Fields of Athenry. 
    

—Pete St. John

Deeper Well

The sun burned hot, it burned my eyes
Burned so hot I thought I'd died
Thought I'd died and gone to hell
Lookin' for the water from a deeper well
I went to the river but the river was dry
I fell to my knees an I looked to the sky
I looked to the sky and the spring rain fell
I saw the water from a deeper well

Well…lookin for the water from a deeper well
Well…lookin for the water from a deeper well

I was ready for love I was ready for the money
Ready for the blood and ready for the honey
Ready for the winnin', ready for the bell
Lookin' for the water from a deeper well
I found some love and I found some money
Found that blood would drip from the honey
Found I had a thirst that I could not quell
Lookin' for the water from a deeper well

Well…lookin for the water from a deeper well
Well…lookin for the water from a deeper well

Well I did it for kicks and I did it for faith
I did it for lust and I did it for hate
I did it for need and I did it for love
Addiction stayed on tight like a glove
So I ran with the moon and I ran with the night
And the three of us were a terrible sight
Nipple to the bottle to the gun to the cell
To the bottom of a hole of a deeper well

Well…lookin for the water from a deeper well
Well…lookin for the water from a deeper well

I rocked with the cradle and I rolled with the rage
I shook those walls and I rattled that cage
I took my trouble down a deadend trail
Reachin' out a hand for a holier grail
Hey there mama did you carry that load
Did you tell your baby 'bout the bend in the road
'Bout the rebel yell 'bout the one that fell
Lookin' for the water from a deeper well

Well…lookin for the water from a deeper well
Well…lookin for the water from a deeper well
    

—Emmylou Harris

Della And The Dealer

It was Della and the Dealer and a dog named Jake and a cat named Kalamazoo 
Left the city in a pickup truck gonna make some dreams come true 
Yeah they rolled out west where the wild sun sets and the coyote bays at the moon 
Della and the Dealer and a dog named Jake and a cat named Kalamazoo 

If that cat could talk what tales he'd tell 
About Della and the Dealer and the dog as well 
But the cat was cool and he never said a mumblin' word 

Down Tucson way there's a small cafe where they play a little cowboy tune 
And the guitar picker was a friend of mine by the name of Randy Boone 
Yeah Randy played her a sweet love song and Della got a fire in her eyes 
The Dealer had a knife and the dog had a gun and the cat had a shot of Rye 
If that cat could talk… 

Yeah the Dealer was a killer he was eveil and mean 
And he was jealous of the fire in her eyes 
He snorted his coke through a century note and swore that Boone would die 
And the stage was set when the lights went out there was death in Tucson town 
Two shadows ran for the bar backdoor and one stayed on the ground 

If that cat could talk… 
If that cat could talk… 

Two shadows ran from the bar that night and dog and cat ran too 
And the tires got hot on the pickup truck as down the road they flew 
It was Della and her lover and a dog named Jake and a cat named Kalamazoo 
Left Tucson in a pickup truck gonna make some dreams come true 

Yeah yeah yeah if that cat could talk… 
If that cat could talk… 
If that cat could talk...
    

—Hoyt Axton

I Believe If I Lived My Life Again

Chorus:

I believe if I lived my life again
I'd still be here with you
I believe if I lived my life again
I'd still be here with you

You know I think if lady luck was blind
That old sun would never shine
And I believe if death really held a knife
We'd all be beggars of life

Sometimes I wish that I could close my eyes
To some things I don't want to see
But I believe if you lived your life again
You'd still be here with me

I'll never see the ending of my mind
Everything will have a time
Why should I ask for things that I don't need
Or pretty lies to hide my greed
    

—Utah Phillips

Dock of the Bay

Sittin' in the mornin' sun, I'll be sittin' till the evening's done
Watchin' the ships roll in, then I watch 'em roll away again
Sittin' on the dock of the bay, watchin' the tide roll away
Sittin' on the dock of the bay wastin' time…

I left my home in Georgia, headed for the 'Frisco Bay
I've got nothin' to live for, looks like nothing's gonna come my way, yeah…
Sittin' on the dock of the bay, watchin' the tide roll away
Sittin on the dock of the bay wastin' time…

Looks like nothing's ever gonna change, everything still remains the same
I can't do what ten people want me to, so I guess I'll remain the same
Oh, sittin' on a roll in my bones, this loneliness won't leave me alone
Two thousand miles I've roamed, just to make this dock my home, yeah…
I'm sittin' on the dock of the bay, watchin' the tide roll away
Sittin on the dock of the bay wastin' time…
I left my home in Georgia, headed for the 'Frisco Bay
Sittin' here restin' my bones, this loneliness won't leave me alone, yeah…
Two thousand miles I've roamed, just to make this dock my home, yeah…
Sittin' on the dock of the bay, watchin' the tide roll away
Sittin on the dock of the bay wastin' time…   
    

—Steve Cropper and Otis Redding

Paradise

When I was a child my family would travel
Down to Western Kentucky where my parents were born
And there's a backwards old town that's often remembered
So many times that my memories are worn.

Chorus

And daddy won't you take me back to Muhlenberg County
Down by the Green River where Paradise lay
Well, I'm sorry my son, but you're too late in asking
Mister Peabody's coal train has hauled it away

Well, sometimes we'd travel right down the Green River
To the abandoned old prison down by Adrie Hill
Where the air smelled like snakes and we'd shoot with our pistols
But empty pop bottles was all we would kill.

Chorus

Then the coal company came with the world's largest shovel
And they tortured the timber and stripped all the land
Well, they dug for their coal till the land was forsaken
Then they wrote it all down as the progress of man.

Chorus

When I die let my ashes float down the Green River
Let my soul roll on up to the Rochester dam
I'll be halfway to Heaven with Paradise waitin'
Just five miles away from wherever I am.

Chorus
    

—John Prine

Auld Lang Syne

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne!
 
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
 
And surely ye'll be your pint stowp!
And surely I'll be mine!
And we'll tak a cup o'kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
 
We twa hae run about the braes,
And pou'd the gowans fine;
But we've wander'd mony a weary fit,
Sin' auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
 
We twa hae paidl'd in the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar'd
Sin' auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
 
And there's a hand, my trusty fere!
And gie's a hand o' thine!
And we'll tak a right gude–willie waught,  
For auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
    

—Robert Burns

Another Train

The beginning is now and will always be 
You say you lost your chance, then fate brought you defeat 
but that means nothing, you look so sad 
You've been listening to those who say you missed your chance 
 
There's another train, there always is 
Maybe the next one is yours 
Get up and climb aboard another train  

You feel you're done there's no such thing 
although you're standing on your own your own breath is king 
The beginning is now don't turn around 
Regrets of bad mistakes will only drain you 

There's another train, there always is 
Maybe the next one is yours 
Get up and climb aboard another train 

We crawl in the dark sometimes and think too much 
Then we fill our heads with crazy things that only break our hearts 
and I know you've seen what the earth can do 
When it's dragging down another load of worrisome fools 
 
There's another train, there always is 
Maybe the next one is yours 
Get up and climb aboard another train  

I know it's hard when you feel confused 
You can crown yourself with fear now you feel you cannot move 
You're building worlds that don't exist 
Imagination plays the worst tricks  

There's another train, there always is 
Maybe the next one is yours 
Get up and climb aboard another train 
There always is 
Maybe the next one is yours 
Get up and climb aboard another train  
    

—Pete Morton

New York Mining Disaster 1941

In the event of something happening to me,
there is something I would like you all to see.
It's just a photograph of someone that I knew.

Have you seen my wife, Mr. Jones?
Do you know what it's like on the outside?
Don't go talking too loud, you'll cause a landslide, Mr. Jones.

I keep straining my ears to hear a sound.
Maybe someone is digging underground,
or have they given up and all gone home to bed,
thinking those who once existed must be dead.

Have you seen my wife, Mr. Jones?
Do you know what it's like on the outside?
Don't go talking too loud, you'll cause a landslide, Mr. Jones.

In the event of something happening to me,
there is something I would like you all to see.
It's just a photograph of someone that I knew.

Hvae you seen my wife, Mr. Jones?
Do you know what it's like on the outside?
Don't go talking too loud, you'll cause a landslide, Mr. Jones.
    

—Bee Gees

A Toast to Those Who Are Gone

Many's the hour I've lain by my window
and thought of the people who carried the burden
Who marched in the strange fields in search of an answer
And ended their journeys an unwilling hero

Here's a song to those who are gone with never a reason why
And a toast of the wine at the end of the line
And a toll of the bell for the next one to die

Back in the coal fields of old Harlan county
Some talked of the union, some talked of good wages
And they lined them up in the dark of the forest
And shot them down without asking no questions

Here's a song to those who are gone with never a reason why
And a toast of the wine to the end of the line
And a toll of the bell for the next one to die

And over the ocean, to the red Spanish soil
came the lincoln brigade with their dreams of a victory
But they fell in the fire of Germany's bombing
And they fell 'cause no one would hear their sad warning

Here's a song to those who are gone with never a reason why
And a toast of the wine at the end of the line
And a toll of the bell for the next one to die

In old Alabama, in old Mississippi
Two states of the union so often found guilty
They came on the busses, they came on the marches
And they lay in the jails or they fell by the highway

Here's a song to those who are gone with never a reason why
And a toast of the wine at the end of the line
And a toll of the bell for the next one to die

The state it was texas, the town it was Dallas
In the flash of a rifle a life was soon over
And nobody thought of the past million murders
And the long list of irony had found a new champion

Here's a song to those who are gone with never a reason why
And a toast of the wine at the end of the line
And a toll of the bell for the next one to die
    

—Phil Ochs

Funeral Of The King

Like a rodeo bull in a child ballet
He lived his life in danger
I could tell one thing
By the songs he'd sing
That love was not a stranger

Chorus

To the man
The leader of the band
Playing at the funeral
Of the king

You could see him run
In the morning sun
And some say he was flying
But when he sang his eyes
Were clear and he
Had no fear of dying

Chorus

Hail to the chief
And soldier blue
I sing to the stars
Like I sing to you

There's a whole lot of love
In a woman's eyes
Whole lot of pain
In a rich man's eyes
Money can't buy you love
Money can't buy you love

There's a whole lot of love
In a woman's eyes
Whole lot of pain
In a rich man's eyes
Money can't buy you love
Money can't buy you love

Like a rodeo bull in a child ballet
He lived his life in danger
I could tell one thing
By the songs he'd sing
That love was not a stranger

Chorus

You could see him run
In the morning sun
And some say he was flying
But when he sang his eyes
Were clear and he
Had no fear of dying

Chorus

Hail to the chief
And soldier blue
I sing to the stars
Like I sing to you

There's a whole lot of love
In a woman's eyes
Whole lot of pain
In a rich man's eyes
Money can't buy you love
Money can't buy you love

Money can't buy you love
Money can't buy you love
Money can't buy you love
Money can't buy you love
Money can't buy you love
Money can't buy you love
    

—Hoyt Axton

The Faded Coat of Blue

My brave lad sleeps in his faded coat of blue;
In a lonely grave unknown lies the heart that beat so true
He sank faint and hungry among the famish'd brave
And they laid him sad and lonely within his nameless grave

No more the bugle calls the weary one,
Rest, noble spirit,
In thy grave unknown! I'll find you and know you,
Among the good and true,
When a robe of white is giv'n for the faded coat of blue

He cried, "Give me water and just a little crumb,
And my mother she will bless you thro' all the years to come;
Oh! tell my sweet sister, so gentle, good and true,
That I'll meet her up in heaven, in my faded coat of blue."

No more the bugle calls the weary one,
Rest, noble spirit,
In thy grave unknown! I'll find you and know you,
Among the good and true,
When a robe of white is giv'n for the faded coat of blue

Long, long years have vanished, and though he comes no more,
Yet my heart will startling beat with each footfall at my door;
I gaze o'er the hill where he waved a last adieu,
But no gallant lad I see, in his faded coat of blue.

No more the bugle calls the weary one,
Rest, noble spirit,
In thy grave unknown! I'll find you and know you,
Among the good and true,
When a robe of white is giv'n for the faded coat of blue

No more the bugle calls the weary one,
Rest, noble spirit,
In thy grave unknown! I'll find you and know you,
Among the good and true,
When a robe of white is giv'n for the faded coat of blue
    

—Traditional

Some Day Soon

I am a young man, so you'll know, my age is twenty–one. I come from out in southern Colorado.
Just home from the service and I'm looking for my fun. Some day soon, she's goin' with me, some day soon.
Some day soon, goin' with me, some day soon.

Her daddy, he can't stand me 'cause I'm with the rodeo. Her mother says that I would leave her cryin',
She would follow me right down the toughest row to hoe. Some day soon, she's goin' with me, some day soon.
Some day soon, goin' with me, some day soon.

Hey, when I visit her pa ain't got one good word to say, but I can't help thinkin' he was just as wild in his day.
So blow you old blue Northern, come on, blow me back to her. I'm drivin' in tonight from California,
And I love that damned old rodeo just as much as I love her. Some day soon, she's goin' with me, some day soon.
Some day soon, goin' with me, some day soon.

Hey, when I visit her pa ain't got one good word to say, but I can't help thinkin' he was just as wild in his day.
So blow you old blue Northern, come on, blow me back to her. I'm drivin' in tonight from California,
And I love that damned old rodeo as much as I love her. Some day soon, she's goin' with me, some day soon.
Some day soon, goin' with me, some day soon. (Some day soon.) (Repeat last line and fade)
    

—Ian Tyson

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle, moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead
Put crepe bows round the white necks of public doves
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East, my West
My working week and my Sunday rest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song
I thought love would last forever; I was wrong
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
    

—W.H. Auden

Letter To His Wife (1861)

My very dear Sarah:

The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days — perhaps tomorrow. Lest
I should not be able to write you again, I feel impelled to write lines that may fall under
your eye when I shall be no more.

Our movement may be one of a few days duration and full of pleasure — and it may be one 
of severe conflict and death to me. Not my will, but thine O God, be done. If it is necessary 
that I should fall on the battlefield for my country, I am ready. I have no misgivings about, 
or lack of confidence in, the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or 
falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans upon the triumph of the 
Government, and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood 
and suffering of the Revolution. And I am willing — perfectly willing — to lay down all my 
joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt.

But, my dear wife, when I know that with my own joys I lay down nearly all of yours, and 
replace them in this life with cares and sorrows — when, after having eaten for long years 
the bitter fruit of orphanage myself, I must offer it as their only sustenance to my dear little 
children — is it weak or dishonorable, while the banner of my purpose floats calmly and 
proudly in the breeze, that my unbounded love for you, my darling wife and children, 
should struggle in fierce, though useless, contest with my love of country?

I cannot describe to you my feelings on this calm summer night, when two thousand men 
are sleeping around me, many of them enjoying the last, perhaps, before that of death — and 
I, suspicious that Death is creeping behind me with his fatal dart, am communing with God, 
my country, and thee.

I have sought most closely and diligently, and often in my breast, for a wrong motive in 
thus hazarding the happiness of those I loved and I could not find one. A pure love of my 
country and of the principles I have often advocated before the people and "the name of 
honor that I love more than I fear death" have called upon me, and I have obeyed.

Sarah, my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me to you with mighty cables that 
nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a 
strong wind and bears me irresistibly on with all these chains to the battlefield.

The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I 
feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them so long. And hard it is for me 
to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when God willing, we might 
still have lived and loved together, and seen our sons grow up to honorable manhood 
around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something 
whispers to me — perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar — that I shall return to 
my loved ones unharmed. If I do not, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and 
when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name.

Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and 
foolish I have oftentimes been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot 
upon your happiness, and struggle with all the misfortune of this world, to shield you and 
my children from harm. But I cannot. I must watch you from the spirit land and hover near 
you, while you buffet the storms with your precious little freight, and wait with sad patience 
till we meet to part no more.

But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, 
I shall always be near you; in the garish day and in the darkest night — amidst your 
happiest scenes and gloomiest hours — always, always; and if there be a soft breeze upon 
your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my 
spirit passing by.

Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again.

As for my little boys, they will grow as I have done, and never know a father's love and 
care. Little Willie is too young to remember me long, and my blue–eyed Edgar will keep my 
frolics with him among the dimmest memories of his childhood. Sarah, I have unlimited 
confidence in your maternal care and your development of their characters. Tell my two mothers 
his and hers I call God's blessing upon them. O Sarah, I wait for you there! Come 
to me, and lead thither my children.

Sullivan   
    

—Major Sullivan Ballou

Silver Tounged Devil and I

I took myself down to the Tally Ho Tavern
To buy me a bottle of beer
I sat myself down by a tender young maiden
Who's eyes were as dark as her hair
And while I was searching from bottle to bottle
For something un–foolish to say
That silver tounged devil just slipped from the [Em]shadows
And smilingly stole her away

Chorus

I said girl don't you know he's a devil
He's everything that I ain't
Hiding intentions of evil under the smile of a saint
All he's good for is getting in trouble
And slipping his share of the blame
And some people swear he's my double
And some even say we're the same
But the silver–tounged devil's got nothing to lose
And I'll only live 'till I die
We take our own chances and pay our own dues
The silver tounged devil and I

Like all the young ladies who've laid down beside him
She knew in her heart that he lied
But nothing that I could have said could have saved her
No matter how hard that I tried
'Cause she'll offer her soul up to darkness and danger
Of a world that she's never known
And open her arms at the smile of a stranger
Who'll love her and leave her alone
    

—Kris Kristofferson

Diamonds On The Soles Of Her Shoes

(A–wa a–wa) o kodwa u zo–nge li–sa namhlange 
(A–wa a–wa) si–bona kwenze ka kanjani 
(A–wa a–wa) amanto mbazane ayeza 
She's a rich girl 
She don't try to hide it 
Diamonds on the soles of her shoes 

He's a poor boy 
Empty as a pocket 
Empty as a pocket with nothing to lose 
Sing ta na na 
Ta na na na 
She got diamonds on the soles of her shoes 
Ta na na 
Ta na na na 
She got diamonds on the soles of her shoes 
Diamonds on the soles of her shoes 
Diamonds on the soles of her shoes 
Diamonds on the soles of her shoes 
Diamonds on the soles of her shoes 

People say she's crazy 
She got diamonds on the soles of her shoes 
Well that's one way to lose these 
Walking blues 
Diamonds on the soles of your shoes 

She was physically forgotten 
And then she slipped into my pocket 
With my car keys 
She said you've taken me for granted 
Because I please you 
Wearing these diamonds 

And I could say oo oo oo 
As if everybody knows 
What I'm talking about 
As if everybody here would know 
Exactly what I was talking about 
Talking about diamonds on the soles of her shoes 

She makes the sign of a teaspoon 
He makes the sign of a wave 
The poor boy changes clothes 
And he puts on after–shave 
To compensate for his ordinary shoes 

And she said honey take me dancing 
But they ended up by sleeping 
In a doorway 
By the bodegas and the lights on 
Upper Broadway 
Wearing diamonds on the soles of their shoes 

And I could say oo oo oo 
And everybody here would know 
What I was talking about 
I mean everybody here would know exactly 
What I was talking about 
Talking about diamonds 

People say I'm crazy 
I got diamonds on the soles of my shoes 
Well that's one way to lose 
These walking blues 
Diamonds on the soles of my shoes 

Ta na na 
Ta na na na 
(Repeat to fade out)
    

—Paul Simon and Joseph Shabalala

Because of a Dancer

Because of a Dancer,
The moon's on my shoulder
Because of a Dancer,
I'm waltzing through time
And part of the answer
Is that I'm getting no older
Because of the a Dancer,
I am holding the line.

Because of a Dancer,
I'm playing with angels
Because of a Dancer,
They have turned on the light
Because of a Dancer,
Oh I know where the rain goes
Because of a Dancer,
I am feeling alright.

Chorus

And if it all comes down,
To the whim of an angel,
And if it all comes down,
To the toss of a coin
And as we all go around,
We all get entangled,
Because of a Dancer,
The circle is joined.

Because of a Dancer,
I'm laughing at shadows
Because of a Dancer,
And all of the good times
Because of a Dancer,
There is no bastinado
Because of a Dancer,
I'm waltzing through time.

Chorus 
    

—John Stewart

The City in the Sea

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time–eaten towers that tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.

No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night–time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently—
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free—
Up domes— up spires— up kingly halls—
Up fanes— up Babylon–like walls—
Up shadowy long–forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers—
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.

There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol's diamond eye—
Not the gaily–jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass—
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far–off happier sea—
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.

But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave— there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrust aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide—
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow—
The hours are breathing faint and low—
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence. 
    

—Edgar Allan Poe

Ibrahim

Hey Ibrahim, tell me what do you think of Australia?
Do our beautiful desert sunsets fill you with wonder?
As the sky catches fire, and the trees and the mountains change colour
But I guess the view from this side of the barbed–wire's much better

So Ibrahim, can you tell me, why did you come here?
What dream were you chasing and what did you hope to find here?
Did you flee from your own native land because your life was in danger?
Or were the reasons much more mundane, just poverty and hunger?

Wrong path, wrong choice, wrong creed, wrong culture
Wrong place, wrong time, wrong dream and wrong colour

You see Ibrahim, there's something I've been meaning to tell you
Being hungry and poor bestows no special status upon you
We won't send you back, if you can prove they'd imprison or kill you
But if you're just going back home to starve, I'm afraid we can't help you

You see Ibrahim, you've become a bit of a problem
This world's full of refugees fleeing poverty, war and oppression
So to take in queue–jumpers like you, well it's out of the question
It would give the world's hungry and poor the wrong impression

Wrong path, wrong choice, wrong creed, wrong culture
Wrong place, wrong time, wrong dream and wrong colour

I'm afraid Ibrahim, it's time to be totally candid
You had Buckley's chance* right from the moment you landed
Already to many a threat and a danger you were branded
And all because you follow the prophet Mohammed

You didn't count Ibrahim, on political opportunism
Our leaders knew that to many Australians, the very word "Muslim"
Meant Al–Quaeda, Hammas, the Taliban, and terrorism
And that's why you and your family are locked up in prison.

Wrong path, wrong choice, wrong creed, wrong culture
Wrong place, wrong time, wrong dream and wrong colour

So Ibrahim, tell me what do you think of Australia?
Do our beautiful desert sunsets fill you with wonder?
As the sky catches fire, and the trees and the mountains change colour
But I guess the view from this side of the barbed–wire's much better
Yes I guess the view from this side of the barbed–wire's much better

NOTE:
"Buckley's Chance" – Australian colloquialism meaning "no chance whatsoever".
The phrase came into use in the 1890's, although it's origins are now uncertain.
    

—Eric Bogle

Scots wha hae

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victorie.
 
Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front of battle lour;
See approach proud Edward's power –
Chains and slaverie!
 
Wha will be a traitor's knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha's sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!
 
Wha for Scotland's King and Law,
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Free–man stand, or free–man fa'?
Let him follow me!
 
By oppression's woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!
 
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!
Let us do, or die!
    

—Robert Burns

Cranes Over Hiroshima

The baby blinks her eyes as the sun falls from the sky
She feels the stings of a thousand fires as the city around her dies
Some sleep beneath the rubble, some wake to a different world
From the crying babe will grow a laughing girl

Ten summers fade to autumn, ten winters' snows have passed
She's a child of dreams and dances, she's a racer strong and fast
But the headaches come ever more often and the dizziness always returns
And the word that she hears is leukemia and it burns

Refrain
Cranes over Hiroshima, white and red and gold
Flicker in the sunlight like a million vanished souls
I will fold these cranes of paper to a thousand one by one
And I'll fly away when I'm done

Her ancestors knew the legend – if you make a thousand cranes
From squares of colored paper, it will take the pain away
With loving hands she folds them, six hundred forty–four
Till the morning her stumbling fingers can't fold anymore

Refrain

Her friends did not forget her – crane after crane they made
Until they reached a thousand and laid them upon her grave
People from everywhere gathered, together a prayer they said
And they wrote the words in granite so none can forget

This is our cry, this is our prayer, peace in the world (3x)
This is our cry, this is our prayer, peace in the world
   No more Hiroshima, no more Nagasaki
This is our cry, this is our prayer, peace in the world
This is our cry, this is our prayer, peace in the world
   Sing a song of peace, dream a dream of peace in the world
This is our cry, this is our prayer, peace in the world
This is our cry
    

—Fred Small

Green Fields Of France

Well, how do you do, Private William McBride, 
Do you mind if I sit down here by your graveside? 
And rest for awhile in the warm summer sun, 
I've been walking all day, and I'm nearly done. 
And I see by your gravestone you were only 19 
When you joined the glorious fallen in 1916, 
Well, I hope you died quick and I hope you died clean 
Or, Willie McBride, was it slow and obscene? 

Did they Beat the drum slowly, did the play the pipes lowly? 
Did the rifles fir o'er you as they lowered you down? 
Did the bugles sound The Last Post in chorus? 
Did the pipes play the Flowers of the Forest? 

And did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind 
In some loyal heart is your memory enshrined? 
And, though you died back in 1916, 
To that loyal heart are you forever 19? 
Or are you a stranger without even a name, 
Forever enshrined behind some glass pane, 
In an old photograph, torn and tattered and stained, 
And fading to yellow in a brown leather frame? 

The sun's shining down on these green fields of France; 
The warm wind blows gently, and the red poppies dance. 
The trenches have vanished long under the plow; 
No gas and no barbed wire, no guns firing now. 
But here in this graveyard that's still No Man's Land 
The countless white crosses in mute witness stand 
To man's blind indifference to his fellow man. 
And a whole generation who were butchered and damned. 

And I can't help but wonder, no Willie McBride, 
Do all those who lie here know why they died? 
Did you really believe them when they told you "The Cause?" 
Did you really believe that this war would end wars? 
Well the suffering, the sorrow, the glory, the shame 
The killing, the dying, it was all done in vain, 
For Willie McBride, it all happened again, 
And again, and again, and again, and again.
    

—Eric Bogle

Now I'm Easy

For nearly sixty years I've been a cockie  
Of droughts and fires and floods I've lived through plenty  
This country's dust and mud have seen my tears and blood  
But it's nearly over now and now I'm easy 

I married a fine girl when I was twenty  
She died in giving birth when she was thirty  
No flying doctor then just a gentle old black gen
But it's nearly over now and now I'm easy 

She left me with two sons and a daughter  
And a bone dry farm whose soil cried out for water  
Though me care was rough and ready, they grew up fine and steady  
But it's nearly over now and now I'm easy 

Me daughter married young and went her own way  
Me sons lie buried by the Burma railway
So on this land I've made me home, I've carried on alone  
But it's nearly over now and now I'm easy 

Oh, city folks these days despise the cockie  
Saying with subsidies and dole we've had it easy  
But there's no drought or starving stock on the sewered suburban block  
But it's nearly over now and now I'm easy 

For nearly sixty years I've been a cockie  
Of droughts and fires and floods I've lived through plenty  
This country's dust and mud have seen my tears and blood  
But it's nearly over now and now I'm easy  But it's nearly over now and now I'm easy 
    

—Eric Bogle

The Band Played Waltzing Matilda

When I was a young man I carried me pack 
And I lived the free life of the rover 
From the Murray's green basin to the dusty outback 
I waltzed my Matilda all over 
Then in 1915 my country said: Son, 
It's time to stop rambling, there's work to be done 
So they gave me a tin hat and they gave me a gun 
And they sent me away to the war 

And the band played Waltzing Matilda 
When the ship pulled away from the quay 
And amid all the tears, flag waving and cheers 
We sailed off for Gallipoli 

It well I remember that terrible day 
When our blood stained the sand and the water 
And how in that hell they call Suvla Bay 
We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter 
Johnny Turk, he was ready, he primed himself well 
He rained us with bullets, and he showered us with shell 
And in five minutes flat, we were all blown to hell 
He nearly blew us back home to Australia 

And the band played Waltzing Matilda 
When we stopped to bury our slain 
Well we buried ours and the Turks buried theirs 
Then it started all over again 

Oh those that were living just tried to survive 
In that mad world of blood, death and fire 
And for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive 
While around me the corpses piled higher 
Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over head 
And when I awoke in me hospital bed 
And saw what it had done, I wished I was dead 
I never knew there was worse things than dying 

Oh no more I'll go Waltzing Matilda 
All around the green bush far and near 
For to hump tent and pegs, a man needs both legs 
No more waltzing Matilda for me 

They collected the wounded, the crippled, the maimed 
And they shipped us back home to Australia 
The armless, the legless, the blind and the insane 
Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla 
And when the ship pulled into Circular Quay 
I looked at the place where me legs used to be 
And thank Christ there was no one there waiting for me 
To grieve and to mourn and to pity 

And the Band played Waltzing Matilda 
When they carried us down the gangway 
Oh nobody cheered, they just stood there and stared 
Then they turned all their faces away 

Now every April I sit on my porch 
And I watch the parade pass before me 
I see my old comrades, how proudly they march 
Renewing their dreams of past glories 
I see the old men all tired, stiff and worn 
Those weary old heroes of a forgotten war 
And the young people ask "What are they marching for?" 
And I ask myself the same question 

And the band plays Waltzing Matilda 
And the old men still answer the call 
But year after year, their numbers get fewer 
Someday, no one will march there at all 

Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda 
Who'll come a–Waltzing Matilda with me? 
And their ghosts may be heard as they march by the billabong 
So who'll come a–Waltzing Matilda with me? 
    

—Eric Bogle

What is thee going to be? Rufus Jones to Warren McCulloch-- 1918

In the fall of 1917, I entered Haverford College with two strings to my bow – facility
in Latin and a sure foundation in mathematics. I "honored" in the latter and was seduced by it.
That winter Rufus Jones called me in. "Warren," said he, "what is thee going to be?" And I 
said, "I don't know." "And what is thee going to do?" And again I said, "I have no idea; but 
there is one question I would like to answer: What is a number, that a man may know it, and 
a man, that he may know a number?" He smiled and said, "Friend, thee will be busy as long as 
thee lives." I have been, and that is what we are here about.

Cuando McCulloch entró en el Havenford College allá por 1917 y le llevaron a la presencia
del filósofo Rufus Jones éste le preguntó: "¿Qué es lo que te gustaría ser?", "No lo sé" 
contestó McCullock, "¿Qué vas a hacer entonces?" volvió a inquirir Jones, y nuevamente 
contestó "No lo sé, pero hay una pregunta que me gustaría contestar: qué es un número que 
un hombre puede conocerlo, y qué es un hombre, que puede conocer lo que es un número", a lo 
que el filósofo sonriendo le contestó: "Amigo, vas a estar muy ocupado durante el resto de tu vida". 
    

—Warren McCulloch

Fire And Rain

Just yesterday morning they let me know you were gone
Susanne the plans they made put an end to you
I walked out this morning and I wrote down this song 
I just can't remember who to send it to

I've seen fire and I've seen rain
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I'd see you again

Won't you look down upon me, Jesus
You've got to help me make a stand
You've just got to see me through another day
My body's aching and my time is at hand
And I won't make it any other way

Oh, I've seen fire and I've seen rain
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I'd see you again
 
Been walking my mind to an easy time my back turned towards the sun
Lord knows when the cold wind blows it'll turn your head around
Well, there's hours of time on the telephone line to talk about things
to come
Sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on the ground

Oh, I've seen fire and I've seen rain
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I'd see you, baby, one more time again, now

Thought I'd see you one more time again
There's just a few things coming my way this time around, now
Thought I'd see you, thought I'd see you fire and rain, now
    

—James Taylor

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream–and not make dreams your master;
If you can think–and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn–out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch–and–toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings–nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And–which is more–you'll be a Man, my son!
    

—Rudyard Kipling

Young Roddy Mccorley

Oh, see the fleet foot hosts of men who speed with faces wan
From farm stead and from thresher's cot along the banks of Ban.
They come with vengeance in their eyes, too late, too late are they,
For young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the Bridge of Toome today!

Up the narrow street he stepped, smiling and proud and young.
About the hemp rope on his neck, the golden ringlets clung.
There's never a tear in his blue eyes, both glad and bright are they,
As young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the Bridge of Toome today!

When he last stepped up that street his shining pike in hand
Behind him marched in grim array a stalwart earnest band.
For Antrim Town! For Antrim Town! He led them to the fray,
As young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the Bridge of Toome today!

There's never a one of all who die more bravely fell in fray
Than he who marches to his fate on the Bridge of Toome today.
True to the last, true to the last, he treads the upward way
And young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the Bridge of Toome today!
As young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the Bridge of Toome today!
    

—Pat Clancy

The Tomb of Pan

"Seeing," they said, "that old–time Pan is dead, let us now 
make a tomb for him and a monument, that the dreadful 
worship of long ago may be remembered and avoided by all." 
   So said the people of the enlightened lands.  And they 
built a white and mighty tomb of marble.  Slowly it rose 
under the hands of the builders and longer every evening 
after sunset it gleamed with rays of the departed sun. 
   And many mourned for Pan while the builders built; many 
reviled him.  Some called the builders to cease and to weep 
for Pan and others called them to leave no memorial at all 
of so infamous a god.  But the builders built on steadily. 
   And one day all was finished, and the tomb stood there 
like a steep sea–cliff.  And Pan was carved thereon with 
humbled head and the feet of angels pressed upon his neck. 
And when the tomb was finished the sun had already set, but 
the afterglow was rosy on the huge bulk of Pan. 
   And presently all the enlightened people came, and saw 
the tomb and remembered Pan who was dead, and all deplored 
him and his wicked age.  But a few wept apart because of the 
death of Pan. 
   But at evening as he stole out of the forest, and slipped 
like a shadow softly along the hills, Pan saw the tomb and 
laughed. 
    

—Lord Dunsany

At the Battle of the Little Big Horn

I called to my men: “This is a good day to die: follow me.”…As 
we rushed upon them the [soldiers] dismounted to fire, but they 
did very poor shooting. They held their horse's reins on one arm while 
they were shooting, but their horses were so frightened that they 
pulled the men all around and a great many of their shots went 
up into the air and did us no harm. 
    

—Low Dog

The Volunteer

Here lies the clerk who half his life had spent 
Toiling at ledgers in a city grey, 
Thinking that so his days would drift away 
With no lance broken in life's tournament: 
Yet ever 'twixt the books and his bright eyes 
The gleaming eagles of the legions came, 
And horsemen, charging under phantom skies, 
Went thundering past beneath the oriflamme. 

And now those waiting dreams are satisfied; 
From twilight to the halls of dawn he went; 
His lance is broken; but he lies content 
With that high hour, in which he lived and died. 
And falling thus, he wants no recompense, 
Who found his battle in the last resort; 
Nor needs he any hearse to bear him hence, 
Who goes to join the men of Agincourt. 
    

—Herbert Asquith

The Witch of the Westmorland

Pale was the wounded knight, that bore the rowan shield
Loud and cruel were the raven's cries that feasted on the field
Saying "Beck water cold and clear will never clean your wound
There's none but the witch of the Westmoreland can make thee hale and soond"

So turn, turn your stallion's head 'til his red mane flies in the wind
And the rider of the moon goes by and the bright star falls behind
And clear was the paley moon when his shadow passed him by
below the hills were the brightest stars when he heard the owlet cry

Saying "Why do you ride this way, and wherefore came you here?"
"I seek the Witch of the Westmorland that dwells by the winding mere"
And it's weary by the Ullswater and the misty brake fern way
Til throught the cleft in the Kirkstane Pass the winding water lay

He said "Lie down, by brindled hound and rest ye, my good grey hawk
And thee, my steed may graze thy fill for I must dismount and walk,
But come when you hear my horn and answer swift the call
For I fear ere the sun will rise this morn ye will serve me best of all"

And it's down to the water's brim he's born the rowan shield
And the goldenrod he has cast in to see what the lake might yield
And wet she rose from the lake, and fast and fleet went she
One half the form of a maiden fair with a jet black mare's body

And loud, long and shrill he blew til his steed was by his side
High overhead the grey hawk flew and swiftly did he ride 
Saying "Course well, my brindled hound, and fetch me the jet black mare
Stoop and strike, my good grey hawk, and bring me the maiden fair"

She said "Pray, sheathe thy silvery sword. Lay down thy rown shield
For I see by the briny blood that flows you've been wounded in the field"
And she stood in a gown of the velvet blue, bound round withh a silver chain
And she's kissed his pale lips once and twice and three times round again

And she's bound his wounds with the goldenrod, full fast in her arms he lay
And he has risen hale and sound with the sun high in the day
She said "Ride with your brindled hound at heel, and your good grey hawk in hand
There's none can harm the knight who's lain with the Witch of the Westmorland."
    

—Archie Fisher

My Country 'tis Of Thy People You're Dying

Now that your big eyes have finally opened,
Now that you're wondering how must they feel,
Meaning them that you've chased across America's movie screens.
Now that you're wondering how can it be real
That the ones you've called colorful, noble and proud
In your school propaganda
They starve in their splendor?
You've asked for my comment I simply will render:
My country 'tis of thy people you're dying.

Now that the longhouses breed superstition
You force us to send our toddlers away
To your schools where they're taught to despise their traditions.
You forbid them their languages, then further say
That American history really began
When Columbus set sail out of Europe, then stress
That the nation of leeches that conquered this land
Are the biggest and bravest and boldest and best.
And yet where in your history books is the tale
Of the genocide basic to this country's birth,
Of the preachers who lied, how the Bill of Rights failed,
How a nation of patriots returned to their earth?
And where will it tell of the Liberty Bell
As it rang with a thud 
O'er Kinzua mud,
And of brave Uncle Sam in Alaska this year?

My country 'tis of thy people you're dying.

Hear how the bargain was made for the West:
With her shivering children in zero degrees,
Blankets for your land, so the treaties attest,
Oh well, blankets for land is a bargain indeed,
And the blankets were those Uncle Sam had collected
From smallpox–diseased dying soldiers that day.
And the tribes were wiped out and the history books censored,
A hundred years of your statesmen have felt it's better this way.
And yet a few of the conquered have somehow survived,
Their blood runs the redder though genes have paled.
From the Gran Canyon's caverns to craven sad hills
The wounded, the losers, the robbed sing their tale.
From Los Angeles County to upstate New York
The white nation fattens while others grow lean;
Oh the tricked and evicted they know what I mean.

My country 'tis of thy people you're dying.

The past it just crumbled, the future just threatens;
Our life blood shut up in your chemical tanks.
And now here you come, bill of sale in your hands
And surprise in your eyes that we're lacking in thanks
For the blessings of civilization you've brought us,
The lessons you've taught us, the ruin you've wrought us —
Oh see what our trust in America's brought us.

My country 'tis of thy people you're dying.

Now that the pride of the sires receives charity,
Now that we're harmless and safe behind laws,
Now that my life's to be known as your "heritage,"
Now that even the graves have been robbed,
Now that our own chosen way is a novelty —
Hands on our hearts we salute you your victory,
Choke on your blue white and scarlet hypocrisy
Pitying the blindness that you've never seen
That the eagles of war whose wings lent you glory
They were never no more than carrion crows,
Pushed the wrens from their nest, stole their eggs, changed their story;
The mockingbird sings it, it's all that he knows.
"Ah what can I do?" say a powerless few
With a lump in your throat and a tear in your eye —
Can't you see that their poverty's profiting you.

My country 'tis of thy people you're dying. 
    

—Buffy Sainte-Marie

Quotations from The Revelations of Divine Love

But I did not see sin. I believe it has no substance or real existence. It can
only be known by the pain it causes. This pain is something, as I see it, which
lasts but a while. It purges us and makes us know ourselves, so that we ask for
mercy. It is true that sin is the cause of all this pain, but all shall be well;
and all shall be well; and all manner of thing shall be well. These words were 
said most tenderly, with never a hint of blame either to me or to any of those 
to be saved. It would be most improper of me therefore to blame God for my sin, 
since he does not blame me for it.
    

—Julian of Norwich

Bad to the Bone

On the day I was born, the nurses all gathered 'round
And they gazed in wide wonder, at the joy they had found
The head nurse spoke up, and she said leave this one alone
She could tell right away, that I was bad to the bone
Bad to the bone
Bad to the bone
B–B–B–B–Bad to the bone
B–B–B–B–Bad
B–B–B–B–Bad
Bad to the bone

I broke a thousand hearts, before I met you
I'll break a thousand more baby, before I am through
I wanna be yours pretty baby, yours and yours alone
I'm here to tell ya honey, that I'm bad to the bone
Bad to the bone
B–B–B–Bad
B–B–B–Bad
B–B–B–Bad
Bad to the bone

I make a rich woman beg, I'll make a good woman steal
I'll make an old woman blush, and make a young woman squeal
I wanna be yours pretty baby, yours and yours alone
I'm here to tell ya honey, that I'm bad to the bone
B–B–B–B–Bad
B–B–B–B–Bad
B–B–B–B–Bad
Bad to the bone
    

—George Thorogood

A Twentieth Century Fox

Well, she's fashionably lean
And she's fashionably late
She'll never wreck a scene
She'll never break a date
But she's no drag
Just watch the way she walks

She's a twentieth century fox
She's a twentieth century fox
No tears, no fears
No ruined years, no clocks
She's a twentieth century fox, oh yeah

She's the queen of cool
And she's the lady who waits
Sent to manless school
It never hesitates
She won't waste time
On elementary talk

'Cause she's a twentieth century fox
She's a twentieth century fox
Got the world locked up
Inside a plastic box
She's a twentieth century fox, oh yeah
Twentieth century fox, oh yeah
Twentieth century fox
She's a twentieth century fox
    

—The Doors

Seven Curses

Old Reilly stole a stallion
But they caught him and they brought him back
And they laid him down on the jailhouse ground
With an iron chain around his neck.

Old Reilly's daughter got a message
That her father was goin' to hang.
She rode by night and came by morning
With gold and silver in her hand.

When the judge he saw Reilly's daughter
His old eyes deepened in his head,
Sayin', "Gold will never free your father,
The price, my dear, is you instead."

"Oh I'm as good as dead," cried Reilly,
"It's only you that he does crave
And my skin will surely crawl if he touches you at all.
Get on your horse and ride away."

"Oh father you will surely die
If I don't take the chance to try
And pay the price and not take your advice.
For that reason I will have to stay."

The gallows shadows shook the evening,
In the night a hound dog bayed,
In the night the grounds were groanin',
In the night the price was paid.

The next mornin' she had awoken
To know that the judge had never spoken.
She saw that hangin' branch a–bendin',
She saw her father's body broken.

These be seven curses on a judge so cruel:
That one doctor will not save him,
That two healers will not heal him,
That three eyes will not see him.

That four ears will not hear him,
That five walls will not hide him,
That six diggers will not bury him
And that seven deaths shall never kill him.
    

—Bob Dylan

Ramblin Boy

He was a pal and a friend always 
We rambled round in the hard ol' days 
He never cared if I had no dough 
We rambled round in the rain and snow 

So here's to you my ramblin' boy 
May all your rambles bring you joy 
So here's to you my ramblin' boy 
May all your rambles bring you joy 

In Tulsa town we chanced to stray 
We thought we'd try to work one day 
The boss says he had room for one 
Says my old pal, "We'd rather bum" 

So here's to you my ramblin' boy 
May all your rambles bring you joy 
So here's to you my ramblin' boy 
May all your rambles bring you joy 

Late one night in a jungle camp 
The weather was cold and it was damp 
He got the chills, and he got them bad 
They took the only friend I ever had 

So here's to you my ramblin' boy 
May all your rambles bring you joy 
So here's to you my ramblin' boy 
May all your rambles bring you joy 

He left me here to ramble on 
My ramblin' pal is dead and gone 
If when we die we go somewhere 
I'll bet you a dollar he's ramblin' there 

So here's to you my ramblin' boy 
May all your rambles bring you joy 
So here's to you my ramblin' boy 
May all your rambles bring you joy 
    

—Tom Paxton

Bread And Fishes

As I went a walkin' one mornin' in spring 
I met with some travelers in an old country lane 
One was an old man, the second a maid, 
And the third was a young boy who smiled as he said

Chorus

We've the wind in the willows, 
And the birds in the sky, 
We've a bright sun to warm us, 
Where ever we lie
We have bread and fishes and a jug of red wine 
To share on our journey with all of mankind

I sat down beside them, 
The flowers all around, 
And we ate on a mantle spread out on the ground 
They told me of prophets and princes and kings 
And they spoke of the one god who knows everything

I asked them to tell me their name and their race 
So I might remember their kindness and grace
My name is Joseph, this is Mary my wife 
And this is our young son, our pride and delight 
We travel the whole world, by land and by sea 
To tell all the people how they might be free 
Like the

Sadly, I left them, in an old country lane 
For I knew that I never would see them again 
One was an old man, the second a maid 
And the third was a young boy who smiled as he said 
We've the wind....
    

—Alan Bell

With God on Our Side

Oh my name it is nothin'
My age it means less
The country I come from
Is called the Midwest
I's taught and brought up there
The laws to abide
And that land that I live in
Has God on its side.

Oh the history books tell it
They tell it so well
The cavalries charged
The Indians fell
The cavalries charged
The Indians died
Oh the country was young
With God on its side.

Oh the Spanish–American
War had its day
And the Civil War too
Was soon laid away
And the names of the heroes
I's made to memorize
With guns in their hands
And God on their side.

Oh the First World War, boys
It closed out its fate
The reason for fighting
I never got straight
But I learned to accept it
Accept it with pride
For you don't count the dead
When God's on your side.

When the Second World War
Came to an end
We forgave the Germans
And we were friends
Though they murdered six million
In the ovens they fried
The Germans now too
Have God on their side.

I've learned to hate Russians
All through my whole life
If another war starts
It's them we must fight
To hate them and fear them
To run and to hide
And accept it all bravely
With God on my side.

But now we got weapons
Of the chemical dust 
If fire them we're forced to
Then fire them we must
One push of the button
And a shot the world wide
And you never ask questions
When God's on your side.

In a many dark hour
I've been thinkin' about this
That Jesus Christ
Was betrayed by a kiss
But I can't think for you
You'll have to decide
Whether Judas Iscariot
Had God on his side.

So now as I'm leavin'
I'm weary as Hell
The confusion I'm feelin'
Ain't no tongue can tell
The words fill my head
And fall to the floor
If God's on our side
He'll stop the next war.
    

—Bob Dylan

One Tin Soldier

Listen children to a story
That was written long ago
'Bout a kingdom on a mountain
And the valley folk below

On the mountain was a treasure
Buried deep beneath a stone
And the valley people swore they'd
Have it for their very own

Chorus

Go ahead and hate your neighbor
Go ahead and cheat a friend
Do it in the name of heaven
You can justify it in the end
There won't be any trumpets blowing
Come the judgment day
On the bloody morning after
One tin soldier rides away

So the people of the valley
Sent a message up the hill
Asking for the buried treasure
Tons of gold for which they'd kill

Came an answer from the kingdom
With our brothers we will share
All the secrets of the mountain
All the riches buried there

Chorus

Now the valley cried in anger
Mount your horses draw your sword
And they killed the mountain people
So they got their just reward

Now they stood beside the treasure
On the mountsin dark and red
Turned the stone and looked beneath it
Peace on earth was all it said

Chorus
    

—Coven

Everybody Knows

Everybody knows that the dice are loaded
Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed
Everybody knows that the war is over
Everybody knows the good guys lost
Everybody knows the fight was fixed
The poor stay poor, the rich get rich
That's how it goes
Everybody knows

Everybody knows that the boat is leaking
Everybody knows that the captain lied
Everybody got this broken feeling
Like their father or their dog just died

Everybody talking to their pockets
Everybody wants a box of chocolates
And a long stem rose
Everybody knows

Everybody knows that you love me baby
Everybody knows that you really do
Everybody knows that you've been faithful
Ah give or take a night or two
Everybody knows you've been discreet
But there were so many people you just had to meet
Without your clothes
And everybody knows

Everybody knows, everybody knows
That's how it goes
Everybody knows

Everybody knows, everybody knows
That's how it goes
Everybody knows

And everybody knows that it's now or never
Everybody knows that it's me or you
And everybody knows that you live forever
Ah when you've done a line or two
Everybody knows the deal is rotten
Old Black Joe's still pickin' cotton
For your ribbons and bows
And everybody knows

And everybody knows that the Plague is coming
Everybody knows that it's moving fast
Everybody knows that the naked man and woman
Are just a shining artifact of the past
Everybody knows the scene is dead
But there's gonna be a meter on your bed
That will disclose
What everybody knows

And everybody knows that you're in trouble
Everybody knows what you've been through
From the bloody cross on top of Calvary
To the beach of Malibu
Everybody knows it's coming apart
Take one last look at this Sacred Heart
Before it blows
And everybody knows

Everybody knows, everybody knows
That's how it goes
Everybody knows

Oh everybody knows, everybody knows
That's how it goes
Everybody knows
    

—Leonard Cohen

From The Charwoman’s Shadow

And there came upon him at last those mortal tremors that are about the end of
all earthly journeys. He hastened then. And before the human destiny overtook him
he saw one morning, clear where the dawn had been, the luminous rock of the bastions
and glittering rampart that rose up sheer from the frontier of the Country Beyond
Moon’s Rising. This he saw though his eyes were dimming now with fatigue and his
long sojourn on earth; yet if he saw dimly he heard with no degree of uncertainty
the trumpets that rang out from those battlements to welcome him after his sojourn,
and all that followed him gave back the greeting with such cries as once haunted
valleys at certain times of the moon. Upon those battlements and by the opening
gates were gathered the robed Masters that had trafficked with time and dwelt awhile
on Earth, and handed the mysteries on, and had walked round the back of the grave
by the way that they knew, and were even beyond damnation. They raised their hands
and blessed him.

And now for him, and the creatures that followed after, the gates were wide that
led through the earthward rampart of the Country Beyond Moon’s Rising. He limped
towards it with all his magical following. He went therein, and the Golden Age was
over.
    

—Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett, Lord Dunsany

First We Take Manhattan

They sentenced me to twenty years of boredom
For trying to change the system from within
I'm coming now, I'm coming to reward them
First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin

I'm guided by a signal in the heavens
I'm guided by this birthmark on my skin
I'm guided by the beauty of our weapons
First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin

I'd really like to live beside you, baby
I love your body and your spirit and your clothes
But you see that line there moving through the station?
I told you, I told you, told you, I was one of those

Ah you loved me as a loser, but now you're worried that I just
might win
You know the way to stop me, but you don't have the discipline
How many nights I prayed for this, to let my work begin
First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin

I don't like your fashion business mister
And I don't like these drugs that keep you thin
I don't like what happened to my sister
First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin

I'd really like to live beside you, baby …

And I thank you for those items that you sent me
The monkey and the plywood violin
I practiced every night, now I'm ready
First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin

I am guided

Ah remember me, I used to live for music
Remember me, I brought your groceries in
Well it's Father's Day and everybody's wounded
First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin
    

—Leonard Cohen

Carry It On

There's a man by my side walking
There's a voice within me talking
There's a voice within me saying

Carry it on, Carry it on

They will tell their empty stories
Send their dogs to bite our bodies
They will lock us up in prison

Carry it on, Carry it on

When you can't go on any longer
Take the hand of your brother
Every victory brings another

Carry it on, Carry it on
Carry it on, Carry it on
    

—Gil Turner

Blessing of Peace-Healing

Deep peace I breathe into you,
O weariness, here:
O ache, here!
Deep peace, a soft white dove to you;
Deep peace, a quiet rain to yuou;
Deep peace, an ebbing wave to you!
Deep peace, red wind of the east from you;
Deep peace, grey wind of the west to you;
Deep peace, dark wind of the north from you;
Deep peace, blue wind of the south to you!
Deep peace, pure red of the flame to you;
Deep peace, pure white of the moon to you;
Deep peace, pure gree of the grass to you;
Deep peace, pure brown of the earth to you;
Deep peace, pure grey of the dew to you,
Deep peace, pure blue of the sky to you!
Deep peace of the running wave to you,
Deep peace of the flowing air to you,
Deep peace of the quiet earth to you,
Deep peace of the sleeping stones to you,
Deep peace of the Yellow Shepherd to you,
Deep peace of the Wandering Shepherdess to you,
Deep peace of the Flock of Stars to you,
Deep peace of the Son of Peace to you,
Deep peace from the heart of Mary to you,
And from Bridget of the Mantle,
Deep peace, deep peace!
    

—Anonymous

Spancil Hill

Last night as I lay dreaming of pleasant days gone by 
My mind being bent on rambling to Ireland I did fly 
I stepped on board a vision and I followed with the wind 
And I shortly came to anchor at the cross of Spancil Hill 

It being the 23rd June the day before the fair 
When lreland's sons and daughters in crowds assembled there 
The young and the old, the brave and the bold their journey to fulfill 
There were jovial conversations at the fair of Spancil Hill 

I went to see my neighbors to hear what they might say 
The old ones were all dead and gone and the young one's turning grey 
I met with the tailor Quigley, he's a bould as ever still 
Sure he used to make my britches when I lived in Spancil Hill 

I paid a flying visit to my first and only love 
She's as white as any lily and as gentle as a dove 
She threw her arms around me saying "Johnny, I love you still" 
Oh she's Ned the farmers daughter and the flower of Spancil Hill 

I dreamt I held and kissed her as in the days of yore 
She said, "Johnny you're only joking like many's the time before" 
The cock he crew in the morning he crew both loud and shrill 
And I awoke in California, many miles from Spancil Hill. 
    

—Dr. Tony Locknan

The Long Black Veil

Ten years ago on a cold, dark night there was someone killed in the Townhall light.
There were few at the scene but they all agreed that the slayer who ran looked a lot like me.
Nobody knows. Nobody sees. Nobody knows but me.

The judge said, "Son, what is your alibi? If you were somewhere else then you won't have to die."
I spoke not a word though it meant my life for I'd been in the arms of my best friend's wife.
She walks these hills in a long black veil. She visits my grave when the night winds wail.
Nobody knows. Nobody sees. Nobody knows but me.

The scaffold was high and eternity near. She stood in the crowd and shed not a tear.
But sometimes at night when the cold wind moans in a long black veil she cries o'er my bones.
She walks these hills in a long black veil. She visits my grave when the night winds wail.
Nobody knows. Nobody sees. Nobody knows but me. Nobody knows but me.
    

—Marijohn Wilkin and Danny Dill

One Of Us

If God had a name, what would it be 
And would you call it to His face 
If you were faced with Him in all His glory 
What would you ask if you had just one question 

Yeah, yeah, God is great 
Yeah, yeah, God is good 
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah 

What if God was one of us 
Just a slob like one of us 
Just a stranger on the bus 
Trying to make His way home 

If God had a face, what would it look like 
And would you want to see 
If seeing meant that you would have to believe 
In things like Heaven and in Jesus and the Saints 
And all the Prophets and… 

Yeah, yeah, God is great 
Yeah, yeah, God is good 
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah 

What if God was one of us 
Just a slob like one of us 
Just a stranger on the bus 
Trying to make His way home 

Tryin' to make His way home 
Back up to Heaven all alone 
Nobody callin' on the phone 
'Cept for the Pope maybe in Rome 

Yeah, yeah, God is great 
Yeah, yeah, God is good 
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah 

What if God was one of us 
Just a slob like one of us 
Just a stranger on the bus 
Trying to make His way home 

Just tryin' to make his way home 
Like a holy rolling stone 
Back up to Heaven all alone 
Just tryin' to make his way home 
Nobody callin' on the phone 
'Cept for the Pope maybe in Rome
    

—Joan Osborne

Christmas in the Trenches

Oh my name is Francis Tolliver, I come from Liverpool
Two years ago the war was waiting for me after school
From Belgium and to Flanders, Germany to here
I fought for King and country I love dear.

Twas Christmas in the trenches and the frost so bitter hung
The frozen fields of France where still no Christmas songs were sung
Our families back in England were toasting us that day
There brave and glorious lads so far away.

I was lying with my mess mates on the cold and rocky ground
When across the lines of battle came a most peculiar sound
Says I now listen up me boys, each soldier strained to hear
As one young German voice sang out so clear.

He's singing bloody well you know, my partner says to me
Soon one by one each German voice joined in in harmony
The cannons rested silent and the gas cloud rolled no more
As Christmas brought us respite from the war.

As soon as they were finished and a reverent pause was spent
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen struck up some lads from Kent
The next thing sang was Stille Nach tis Silent Night says I
And in two tongues one song filled up that sky

There's someone coming towards us now the front line sentry said
All sights were fixed on one lone figure trudging from their side
His truce flag like a Christmas Star shone on the plane so bright
As he bravely trudged unarmed into the night.

Then one by one on either side, walked in to No Mans Land
With neither gun nor bayonet, we met there hand to hand
We shared some secret brandy and we wished each other well
And in a flare lit football game we gave them hell.

We traded chocolates, cigarettes and photographs from home
These sons and father far away from families of their own
Ton Sanders played the squeeze box and they had a violin
This curious and unlikely band of men.

Soon daylight stole upon us and France was France once more
With sad farewells we each began to settle back to war
But the question haunted every heart that lived that wonderous night
Whose family have I fixed within my sights.

Twas Christmas in the trenches and the frost so bitter hung
The frozen fields of France were warmed, the songs of peace were sung
For the walls they'd kept between us to exact the work of war
Had been crumbled and were gone forever more.

Oh my name is Francis Tolliver, from Liverpool I dwell
Each Christmas comes since World War I have learned its lesson well
For the one who calls the shots won't be among the dead and lame
And on each end of the rifle we're the same.
    

—John McCutcheon

Poor Old Soldier

Oh you poor old soldier what will you become,
When there's no one left marching to the beat of your drum?
You fought all the battles and survived every one
Old soldier march on, march on.

Will you join all the wounded old soldiers like you
And reflect on the glory like old soldiers do?
Will you tell of your comrades as they tell of you?
Old soldier march on, march on.

Will you re–live each battle with toy tin soldiers
So that those who were lost can survive?
Will you still see their eyes under dark smokey skies?
All the comrades who kept you alive?

Oh you poor old soldier what will you become,
When there's no one left marching to the beat of your drum?
Will the band still be playing as you lay down your gun?
Old soldier march on, march on,
Old soldier march on, march on.

Never a soldier to run from the enemy. Always a soldier to take the front line.
Brave to the end without comrade or friend. March on, dear friend of mine.
    

—Peter Knight

Come Take A Trip In My Airship

Once, I loved a sailor. 
Once, a sailor loved me. 
But he was not a sailor, 
that sailed on the wide blue sea. 
He, sailed in an airship; 
Sailed like a bird on the wind; 
And every evening at midnight, 
he would come to my window and sing: 

Chorus: 
Come take a Trip in my Airship, 
come sail away to the stars! 
We'll travel to Venus, 
we'll sail away to Mars! 
No one will see while we're kissing 
No one will know as we swoon. 
So come take a Trip in my Airship, 
and we'll visit the Man in the Moon! 

One night while sailing away from the crowds, 
we passed by the Milky White Way. 
While idly drifting, watching the stars, 
he asked if I'd name the day! 
Just by the Dipper, I gave him my heart, 
the sun shone on our honeymoon. 
We swore to each other, we never would part, 
and we'd teach all the babies this tune. 
    

—Natalie Merchant

No More Songs

Hello, hello, hello
Is there anybody home?
I've only called to say
I'm sorry.
The drums are in the dawn,
and all the voices gone.
And it seems that there are no more songs.

Once I knew a girl
She was a flower in a flame
I loved her as the sea sinks/sings(?) sadly
Now the ashes of the dream
Can be found in the magazines.
And it seems that there are no more songs.

Once I knew a sage/saint(?)
who sang upon the stage
He told about the world,
His lover.
A ghost without a name,
Stands ragged in the rain.
And it seems that there are no more songs.

The rebels they were here
They came beside the door
They told me that the moon was bleeding
Then all to my suprise,
They took away my eyes.
And it seems that there are no more songs.

A (scar, star)?? is in the sky,
It's time to say goodbye.
A whale is on the beach,
He's dying.
A white flag in my hand,
And a white bone in the sand.
And it seems that there are no more songs.

Hello, hello, hello
Is there anybody home?
I've only called to say
I'm sorry.
The drums are in the dawn,
and all the voices gone.
And it seems that there are no more songs.

It seems that there are no more songs.
It seems that there are no more songs.
    

—Phil Ochs

Desperados Waiting For The Train

I played the Red River Valley.
He'd sit in the kitchen and cry.
Run his fingers through seventy years of livin'.
"I wonder, Lord, has every well I've drilled gone dry?".
We were friends, me and this old man,
Like desperados waitin' for a train.
Desperados waitin' for a train.

Well, he's a drifter an' a driller of oil wells.
And an old school man of the world.
He taught me how to drive his car when he w's too drunk to.
Oh, and he'd wink and give me money for the girls.
An' our lives were like, some old Western movie,
Like desperados waitin' for a train.
Like desperados waitin' for a train.

An' from the time that I could walk, he'd take me with him,
To a bar called the Green Frog Cafe.
An' there was old men with beer guts and dominos.
Oh, an they're lying 'bout their lives while they played.
An' I was just a kid, that they all called his sidekick,
Like desperados waitin' for a train.
Like desperados waitin' for a train.

One day I looked up and he's pushin' eighty.
An' he's brown tobacco stains all down his chin.
Well, to me he's one of the heroes of this country,
So why's he all dressed up like them old men?
He's drinkin' beer and playin' Moon and Forty–two.
Like a desperado waitin' for a train.
Like a desperado waitin' for a train.

An' then the day before he died, I went to see him,
I was grown and he was almost gone.
So we just closed our eyes and dreamed us up a kitchen,
And sang another verse to that old song.
Come on, Jack, that son–of–a–bitch is comin'.
We're like desperados waitin' for a train
Like desperados waitin' for a train.
Like desperados waitin' for a train.
Like desperados waitin' for a train.
    

—Guy Clark

The Pusher

You know I smoked a lot of grass,Oh Lord
And I popped a lot of pills
But I never did touch nothing
That my spirit couldn't kill
You know I see a lot of people walkin' round
Here with tombstones in their eyes
'Cause the pusher don't care
Child if you live or if you die
God damn on the pusher, yea yea
I said God damn him
God damn him, pusher man

You know the dealer
I said the dealer is a man
With lots of love racks in his hand
But the pusher is a monster
Good God, oh Lord he's my natural man
You know the dealer
The dealer takes a nickel lord
And sells you lots of sweet dreams
And lord knows we need lots a sweet dreams

But here comes the pusher
Takes your body and leaves your mind a screen
God damn on the pusher
I said God damn the pusher
He's not a natural man
You know the dealer takes a nickel
And he sells a box of sweet dreams
But he pusher takes your body
He takes your body
He takes your body
And he leaves your mind a screen
God damn him

God damn him, God damn him
God damn him, God damn the pusher
If I were the president, hear me, of this land
I'd declare totale war on the pusher man
Gimme now, now
I'd shoot him if he stands
I'd cut him if he runs yea
I'd kill him with my Bible
My razor and my gun
God damn him, God damn him
Oh, the pusher
God damn the pusher man   
    

—Hoyt Axton

The Lady of Shalott

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many–tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken–sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to tower'd Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village–churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd–lad,
Or long–hair'd page in crimson clad,
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed:
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

A bow–shot from her bower–eaves,
He rode between the barley–sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red–cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick–jewell'd shone the saddle–leather
The helmet and the helmet–feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war–horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal–black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water–lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

In the stormy east–wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks 
complaining
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
'The Lady of Shalott'.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance—
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right—
The leaves upon her falling light—
Thro' the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat–head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darken'd wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water–side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden–wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead–pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross'd themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."
    

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Time To Ring Some Changes

This old house is a–tumbling down
The walls are gone but the roof is sound
The landlord's deaf, he can never be found
It's time to ring some changes

They'll arrest you, son, if you just stand still
They'll ask you to pose with your hand in the till
They'll ask you to die when you've written your will
It's time to ring some changes

Time to ring some changes, time to ring some changes
Time to ring some changes, time to ring some changes

Oh you earn your money for your daily bread
But the bread's gone up, so you need more money
The money's gone down, better borrow instead
It's time to ring some changes

Now the politicians, they look so smug
They say "Tell the truth" then they give you a shrug
You might find the truth swept under the rug
It's time to ring some changes

Time to ring some changes, time to ring some changes
Time to ring some changes, time to ring some changes

Now listen here to the self–made man
He says "Why can't you, if I can?
Can't you push buttons? Can't you make plans?"
Time to ring some changes

Oh I'm going to tear this mansion down
Get my feet back on the ground
Penny for penny and pound for pound
It's time to ring some changes

Time to ring some changes, time to ring some changes
Time to ring some changes, time to ring some changes
Time to ring some changes, time to ring some changes
Time to ring some changes, time to ring some changes
    

—Richard Thompson

I Want to Be Sedated

Twenty–twenty–twenty–four hours to go
I wanna be sedated
Nothing to do, no where to go, oh
I wanna be sedated

Just get me to the airport, put me on a plane
Hurry hurry hurry, before I go insane
I can't control my fingers, I can't control my brain
Oh no oh oh oh oh

Refrain

Just put me in a wheelchair, get me on a plane
Hurry hurry hurry, before I go insane
I can't control my fingers, I can't control my brain
Oh no oh oh oh oh

Refrain

Just put me in a wheelchair, get me to the show
Hurry hurry hurry, before I go loco
I can't control my fingers, I can't control my toes
Oh no oh oh oh oh

Refrain

Just put me in a wheelchair, get me to the show
Hurry hurry hurry, before I go loco
I can't control my fingers, I can't control my toes
Oh no oh oh oh oh

Ba–ba–baba, baba–ba–baba, I wanna be sedated
Ba–ba–baba, baba–ba–baba, I wanna be sedated
Ba–ba–baba, baba–ba–baba, I wanna be sedated
Ba–ba–baba, baba–ba–baba, I wanna be sedated 
    

—The Ramones

Sahra Cynthia Sylvia Stout Would Not Take The Garbage Out

Sahra Cynthia Sylvia Stout
Would not take the garbage out!
She'd scour the pots and scrape the pans,
Candy the yams and spice the hams,
And though her daddy would scream and shout,
She simply would not take the garbage out.
And so it piled up to the ceilings:
Coffee grounds, potato peelings,
Brown bananas, rotten peas,
Chunks of sour cottage cheese.
It filled the can, it covered the floor,
It cracked the window and blocked the door
With bacon rinds and chicken bones,
Drippy ends of ice cream cones,
Prune pits, peach pits, orange peel,
Gloopy glumps of cold oatmeal,
Pizza crusts and withered greens,
Soggy beans and tangerines,
Crusts of black burned buttered toast,
Gristly bits of beefy roasts…
The garbage rolled on down the hall,
It raised the roof, it broke the wall…
Greasy napkins, cookie crumbs,
Globs of gooey bubble gum,
Cellophane from green baloney,
Rubbery blubbery macaroni,
Peanut butter, caked and dry,
Curdled milk and crusts of pie,
Moldy melons, dried–up mustard,
Eggshells mixed with lemon custard,
Cold French fries and rancid meat,
yellow lumps of Cream of Wheat.
At last the garbage reached so high
That finally it touched the sky.
And all the neighbors moved away,
And none of her friends would come to play.
And finally Sahra Cynthia Stout said,
"OK, I'll take the garbage out!"
But then, of course, it was too late…
The garbage reached across the state,
From New York to the Golden Gate.
And there, in the garbage she did hate,
Poor Sahra met an awful fate,
That I cannot right now relate
Because the hour is much too late.
But children, remember Sahra Stout
And always take the garbage out! 
    

—Shel Silverstein

Cops Of The World

Come, get out of the way, boys
Quick, get out of the way
You'd better watch what you say, boys
Better watch what you say
We've rammed in your harbor and tied to your port
And our pistols are hungry and our tempers are short
So bring your daughters around to the port
'Cause we're the Cops of the World, boys
We're the Cops of the World

We pick and choose as please, boys
Pick and choose as please
You'd best get down on your knees, boys
Best get down on your knees
We're hairy and horny and ready to shack
We don't care if you're yellow or black
Just take off your clothes and lie down on your back
'Cause we're the Cops of the World, boys
We're the Cops of the World

Our boots are needing a shine, boys
Boots are needing a shine
But our Coca–cola is fine, boys
Coca–cola is fine
We've got to protect all our citizens fair
So we'll send a battalion for everyone there
And maybe we'll leave in a couple of years
'Cause we're the Cops of the World, boys
We're the Cops of the World

Dump the reds in a pile, boys
Dump the reds in a pile 
You'd better wipe of that smile, boys
Better wipe off that smile
We'll spit through the streets of the cities we wreck
We'll find you a leader that you can't elect
Those treaties we signed were a pain in the neck
'Cause we're the Cops of the World, boys
We're the Cops of the World

Clean the johns with a rag, boys
Clean the johns with a rag
If you like you can use your flag, boys
If you like you can use your flag
We've got too much money we're looking for toys
And guns will be guns and boys will be boys
But we'll gladly pay for all we destroy
'Cause we're the Cops of the World, boys
We're the Cops of the World

Please stay off of the grass, boys
Please stay off of the grass
Here's a kick in the ass, boys
Here's a kick in the ass
We'll smash down your doors, we don't bother to knock
We've done it before, so why all the shock?
We're the biggest and toughest kids on the block
'Cause we're the Cops of the World, boys
We're the Cops of the World

When we butchered your son, boys
When we butchered your son
Have a stick of our gum, boys
Have a stick of our buble–gum
We own half the world, oh say can you see
The name for our profits is democracy
So, like it or not, you will have to be free
'Cause we're the Cops of the World, boys
We're the Cops of the World.
    

—Phil Ochs

The Pearl

O the dragons are gonna fly tonight
They're circling low and inside tonight
It's another round in the losing fight
Out along the great divide tonight.

We are aging soldiers in an ancient war
Seeking out some half remembered shore
We drink our fill and still we thirst for more
Asking if there's no heaven what is this hunger for?

Our path is worn our feet are poorly shod
We lift up our prayer against the odds
And fear the silence is the voice of God.
And we cry allelujah, allelujah
We cry allelujah.

Sorrow is constant and the joys are brief
The seasons come and bring no sweet relief
Time is a brutal but a careless thief
Who takes our lot but leaves behind the grief.

It is the heart that kills us in the end
Just one more old broken bone that cannot mend
As it was now and ever shall be amen
And we cry allelujah, allelujah
We cry allelujah.

So there'll be no guiding light for you and me
We are not sailors lost out on the sea
We were always headed toward eternity
Hoping for a glimpse of Gaililee.

Like falling stars from the universe we are hurled
Down through the long loneliness of the world
Until we behold the pain become the pearl
Cryin' allelujah, allelujah
We cry allelujah.

And we cry allelujah, allelujah
We cry allelujah...
    

—Emmylou Harris

Mr. Tambourine Man

Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to.
Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
In the jingle–jangle morning I'll come followin' you.

Though I know that evenin's empire has returned into sand,
Vanished from my hand,
Left me blindly here to stand but still not sleeping.
My weariness amazes me, I'm branded on my feet,
I have no one to meet
And the ancient empty street's too dead for dreaming.

Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, etc.

Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin' ship,
My senses have been stripped, my hands can't feel to grip,
My toes too numb to step, wait only for my boot heels
To be wanderin'.
I'm ready to go anywhere, I'm ready for to fade
Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way,
I promise to go under it.

Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, etc.

Though you might hear laughin', spinnin', swingin' madly across the sun,

It's not aimed at anyone, it's just escapin' on the run
And but for the sky there are no fences facin'.
And if you hear vague traces of skippin' reels of rhyme
To your tambourine in time, it's just a ragged clown behind
I wouldn't pay it any mind, it's just a shadow you're
Seeing' that he's chasing

Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, etc. 
    

—Bob Dylan

The Last Of The Great Whales

My soul has been torn from me 
And I am bleeding 
My heart it has been rent 
And I am crying 
All the beauty around me fades 
And I am screaming 
I am the last of the great whales 
And I am dying 

Last night I heard the cry 
Of my last companion 
The roar of the harpoon gun 
And then I was alone 
I thought of the days gone by 
When we were thousands 
But I know that I soon must die 
The last leviathan 

This morning the sun did rise 
Crimson in the north sky 
The ice was the colour of blood 
And the winds they did sigh 
I rose for to take a breath 
It was my last one 
From a gun came the roar of death 
And now I am done 

And so since time began
We have been hunted
Through oceans that were our home
We have been haunted
From Eskimoes in canoes
To mighty whalers
Still you ignored our plea,
None came to save us

Oh now that we are all gone 
There's no more hunting 
The big fellow is no more 
It's no use lamenting 
What race will be next in line? 
All for the slaughter 
The elephant or the seal 
Or your sons and daughters 

My soul has been torn from me 
And I am bleeding 
My heart it has been rent 
And I am crying 
All the beauty around me fades 
And I am screaming 
I am the last of the great whales 
And I am dying
    

—Andy Barnes

Calvary

FRIENDLESS and faint, with martyred steps and slow,  
Faint for the flesh, but for the spirit free,  
Stung by the mob that came to see the show,  
The Master toiled along to Calvary;  
We gibed him, as he went, with houndish glee,
Till his dimned eyes for us did overflow;  
We cursed his vengeless hands thrice wretchedly, 
And this was nineteen hundred years ago.  
  
But after nineteen hundred years the shame  
Still clings, and we have not made good the loss
That outraged faith has entered in his name.  
Ah, when shall come love’s courage to be strong!  
Tell me, O Lord—tell me, O Lord, how long  
Are we to keep Christ writhing on the cross!  
    

—Edwin Arlington Robinson

From Meditation 17

Nunc lento sonitu dicunt, Morieris.
(Now this bell tolling softly for another,
says to me, Thou must die.)

Perchance he for whom this bell tolls may be so ill as that he knows not it tolls
for him; and perchance I may think myself so much better than I am, as that they
who are about me and see my state, may have caused it to toll for me, and I know
not that. The church is catholic, universal, so are all her actions; all that she does
belongs to all. When she baptizes a child, that action concerns me, for that child
is thereby connected to that head which is my head too, and ingrafted into that
body whereof I am a member. And when she buries a man, that action concerns
me. All mankind is of one author and is one volume; when one man dies, one 
chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language, and 
every chapter must be so translated. God employs several translators; some 
pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice; 
but God's hand is in every translation, and his hand shall bind up all our scattered 
leaves again for that library where every book shall lie open to one another. As 
therefore the bell that rings to a sermon calls not upon the preacher only, but 
upon the congregation to come, so this bell calls us all; but how much more me, 
who am brought so near the door by this sickness. 

There was a contention as far as a suit (in which piety and dignity, religion and 
estimation, were mingled) which of the religious orders should ring to prayers first 
in the morning; and it was determined that they should ring first that rose earliest.
If we understand aright the dignity of this bell that tolls for our evening prayer, we
would be glad to make it ours by rising early, in that application, that it might be
ours as well as his whose indeed it is. The bell doth toll for him that thinks it doth;
and though it intermit again, yet from that minute that that occasion wrought upon 
him, he is united to God. Who casts not up his eye to the sun when it rises? But
who takes off his eye from a comet when that breaks out? Who bends not his ear
to any bell which upon any occasion rings? But who can remove it from that bell 
which is passing a piece of himself out of this world? No man is an island, entire 
of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be 
washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as
well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were. Any man's death diminishes
me because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom
the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. . . . 
    

—John Donne

221B

Here dwell together still two men of note
Who never lived and so can never die:
How very near they seem, yet how remote
That age before the world went all awry.
But still the game's afoot for those with ears
Attuned to catch the distant view–halloo:
England is England yet, for all our fears—
Only those things the heart believes are true.

A yellow fog swirls past the window–pane
As night descends upon this fabled street:
A lonely hansom splashes through the rain,
The ghostly gas lamps fail at twenty feet.
Here, though the world explode, these two survive,
And it is always eighteen ninety–five.
    

—Vincent Starrett

Farewell to Sicily

The pipie is dozie, the pipie is fey
He wullnae come roun for his vino the day
The sky owre Messina is unco an gray
An aa the bricht chaumers are eerie

Farweill ye banks o Sicily
Fare ye weill ye valley an shaw
There's nae Jock will mourn the kyles o ye
Puir bliddy swaddies are wearie

Farweill ye banks o Sicily
Fare ye weill ye valley an shaw
There's nae hame can smoor the wiles o ye
Puir bliddy swaddies are wearie

Then doun the stair an line the watterside
Wait yer turn the ferry's awa
Then doun the stair an line the watterside
Aa the bricht chaumers are eerie 

The drummie is polisht, the drummie is braw
He cannae be seen for his wabbin ava
He's beezed himsell up for a photie an aa
Tae leave wi his Lola, his dearie 

Farweill ye banks o Sicily
Fare ye weill ye sheilin an haa
We'll aa mind shebeens an bothies
Whaur kind signorinas were cheerie

Farweill ye banks o Sicily
Fare ye weill ye sheilin an haa
We'll aa mind shebeens an bothies
Whaur Jock made a date wi his dearie 

Then tune the pipes an drub the tenor drum
Leave yer kit this side o the waa
Then tune the pipes an drub the tenor drum
Aa the bricht chaumers are eerie
    

—Hamish Henderson

Homeward Bound

I'm sitting in the railway station. 
Got a ticket to my destination. 
On a tour of one–night stands my suitcase and guitar in hand. 
And ev'ry stop is neatly planned for a poet and a one–man band. 
Homeward bound, 
I wish I was, 
Homeward bound, 
Home where my thought's escaping, 
Home where my music's playing, 
Home where my love lies waiting 
Silently for me. 

Ev'ry day's an endless stream 
Of cigarettes and magazines. 
And each town looks the same to me, the movies and the factories 
And ev'ry stranger's face I see reminds me that I long to be, 
Homeward bound, 
I wish I was, 
Homeward bound, 
Home where my thought's escaping, 
Home where my music's playing, 
Home where my love lies waiting 
Silently for me. 

Tonight I'll sing my songs again, 
I'll play the game and pretend. 
But all my words come back to me in shades of mediocrity 
Like emptiness in harmony I need someone to comfort me. 
Homeward bound, 
I wish I was, 
Homeward bound, 
Home where my thought's escaping, 
Home where my music's playing, 
Home where my love lies waiting 
Silently for me. 
Silently for me.
    

—Paul Simon

MARITA

MARITA
PLEASE FIND ME
I'M ALMOST 30
    

—Leonard Cohen

Both Sides Now

Rolls and flows of angel hair,
Ice cream castles in the air,
Feather canyons everywhere,
I've looked at clouds that way.
But now they only block the sun.
They rain, they snow on everyone.
So many things I would've done
But clouds got in my way.

I've looked at clouds from both sides now,
From up and down and still somehow
It's clouds' illusions I recall.
I really don't know clouds at all.
Moons and Junes and ferris wheels,
The dizzy, dancing way you feel
As every fairy tale comes real.
I've looked at love that way.
But now it's just another show.
Leave 'em laughin' when you go.
But if you care, don't let em' know
Don't give yourself away.

I've looked at love from both sides now
From give and take and still somehow
It's love's illusions I recall.
I really don't know love at all.

Tears and fears and feeling proud,
Say "I love you" right out loud.
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I've looked at life that way.
But now old friends are acting strange.
They shake their heads and say I've changed.
But something's lost when somethings gained
Living everyday.

I've looked at life from both sides now
From win and lose and still somehow
It's life's illusions I recall.
I really don't know life at all.
    

—Neil Diamond

Master Song

I believe you heard your master sing 
when I lay sick in bed. 
I suppose he told you everything 
I keep locked in my head. 
Your master took you travelling, 
well at least that's what you said. 
O love did you come back to bring 
your prisoner wine and bread? 
 
You met him at a nightclub where 
they take your clothes at the door. 
He was just a numberless man of a pair 
who has just come back from the war. 
And you wrap his quiet face in your hair 
and he hands you the apple core. 
and he touches your mouth now so suddenly bare 
of the kisses you had on before. 

He gave you a German Shepherd to walk 
with a collar of leather and nails, 
He never once made you explain or talk 
about all of the little details, 
such as who had a worm and who had a rock, 
and who had you through the mails. 
Now your love is a secret all over the block, 
and it never stops when he fails. 
 
And he took you up in his air–o–plane, 
which he flew without any hands, 
and you cruised above the ribbons of rain 
that drove the crowd from the stands. 
Then he killed the lights on a lonely Lane 
where an ape with angel glands, 
erased the final wisps of pain
with the music of rubber bands. 
 
And now I hear your master sing, 
you pray for him to come. 
His body is a golden string 
that your body is hanging from. 
His body is a golden string, 
my body is growing numb. 
O love I hear your master sing, 
your shirt is all undone. 

Will you kneel beside the bed 
we polished long ago, 
before your master chose instead 
to make my bed of snow? 
Your hair is wild your knuckles red 
and you're speaking much too low. 
I can't make out what your master said 
before he made you go. 
 
I think you're playing far too rough 
For a lady who's been to the moon; 
I've lain by the window long enough 
you get used to an empty room. 
Your love is some dust in an old man's cuff 
who is tapping his foot to a tune, 
and your thighs are a ruin and want too much, 
Let's say you came back too soon. 

I loved your master perfectly 
I taught him all he knew. 
He was starving in a mystery 
like a man who is sure what is true. 
And I sent you to him with my guarantee 
I could teach him something new, 
and I taught him how you would long for me 
no matter what he said no matter what you'd do. 
    

—Leonard Cohen

You Will Burn

One night as you sleep in your goose feather bed
We will be kneeling at your bedside
We'll pray for your soul like the good Lord said
Let all be forgiven let none be denied

Then one night as you sleep in your goose feather bed
We will be standing at your bedside
Your bones will be broken and your blood will be shed
Your eyes will be taken and your hands will be tied

Then we'll take you to the forest
Where none will hear your cry
And we'll cut down the Sycamore and Broom
And it's there we will forgive you
And it's there we'll watch you die
Like a dancing silhouette against the moon

And you will burn, you will burn
We will purify your soul in the fire, in the fire
And your spirit will live forever
It will rise, it will rise
From the ashes and the embers in your eyes, in your eyes
And your spirit will live forever

Praise the Lord
Another soul is saved
Praise the Lord
Praise the Lord

One night as you sleep in your goose feather bed
We will be kneeling at your bedside
We'll pray for your soul like the good Lord said
Let all be forgiven let none be denied

Then one night as you sleep in your goose feather bed
We will be standing at your bedside
Your home will be burning and your child will be dead
Your eyes will be taken and your hands will be tied

Then we'll take you to the forest
Where none will hear your cry
And we'll cut down the Sycamore and Broom
And it's there we will forgive you
And it's there we'll watch you die
Like a dancing silhouette against the moon

And you will burn, you will burn
We will purify your soul in the fire, in the fire
And your spirit will live forever
It will rise, it will rise
From the ashes and the embers in your eyes, in your eyes
And your spirit will live forever

Praise the Lord
Another soul is saved
Praise the Lord
Praise the Lord

Praise the Lord
Another soul is saved
Praise the Lord
Praise the Lord
    

—Peter Knight

Once the Striped Quagga

Look upon my face.
Its like shall soon be gone:
Flotsam of yet another race
Jettisoned, this trace.
While time still is,
I write. Someone may hear
Below the roar of cities
My unstressed Athabascan tones.

Hung on my wall, their faces
framed in silver; I can see
That my twin great–nieces
Resemble me, although
Slant black eyes are subtly tamed,
Cheekbones flattened.
Their blood carries tiny banners
to reinstruct the genes.

Like Ihalmiut, Khmer, Hohokam,
Like the Hanged Man, suspended—–
We pass through mortal change:
Our features subside,
Bleach, soften, dissolve…
Just as when film runs backward
Almost forgotten landscapes
Thread away to nothing.

Once the striped quagga lived,
And the tender hyrax
Populous as Bengal Tiger,
Princely golden cat whose destiny
Hangs in the scales with ours:
Trees, beast,
Other Life–things who will
Inescapably surrender.

Sever the flesh from my bones.
Hang them above a fireplace,
Frame the mounted head
In arctic fur
Or exotic plumage
Such as is seen only in zoos or
Left captive in rapidly dwindling
Rainforests.
    

—Mary TallMountain

Romeo And Juliet, Act 3, Scene 2

And, when he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of Heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.
    

—William Shakespeare

The Curious Incident Of The Dog In The Nighttime

Inspector Gregory: "Is there any other point to which you would wish to draw my attention?
Holmes: "To the curious incident of the dog in the nighttime."
Inspector Gregory: "The dog did nothing in the nighttime."
Holmes: "That was the curious incident."
—Sherlock Holmes from The Silver Blaze
    

—Sir Author Conan Doyle

Sequel

So here she's actin' happy inside her handsome home
And me, I'm flyin' in my taxi, takin' tips and gettin' stoned.

I got into town a little early.
Had eight hours to kill before the show.
First I thought about heading up north of the bay
Then I knew where I had to go.

I thought about taking a limousine
Or at least a fancy car.
But I ended up taking a taxi
'Cause that's how I got this far.

You see, ten years ago it was the front seat
Drivin' stoned and feelin' no pain.
Now here I am straight and sittin' in the back
Hitting Sixteen Parkside Lane.

The driveway was the same as I remembered
And a butler came and answered the door.
He just shook his head when I asked for her
And said "She doesn't live here anymore."

But he offered to give me the address
That they were forwarding her letters to.
I just took it and returned to the cabbie
And said "I got one more fare for you."

And so we rolled back into the city
Up to a five–story old brownstone
I rang the bell that had her name on the mailbox.
The buzzer said somebody's home.

And the look on her face as she opened the door
Was like an old joke told by a friend.
It'd taken ten more years but she'd found her smile
And I watched the corners start to bend.

And she said, "How are you Harry?
Haven't we played this scene before?"
I said "It's so good to see you, Sue
Had to play it out just once more."
Play it out just once more".

She said "I've heard you flying high on my radio"
I answered "It's not all it seems"
That's when she laughed and she said, "It's better sometimes
When we don't get to touch our dreams."

That's when I asked her where was that actress
She said "That was somebody else"
And then I asked her why she looked so happy now
She said "I finally like myself; at last I like myself."

So we talked all through that afternoon
Talking about where we'd been
We talked of the tiny difference
Between ending and starting to begin.
We talked because talking tells you things
Like what you really are thinking about.
But sometimes you can't find what you're feeling
Till all the words run out.

So I asked her to come to the concert.
She said "No, I work at night."
I said, "We've gotten too damn good at leaving, Sue"
She said, "Harry, you're right."

Don't ask me if I made love to her
Or which one of us started to cry
Don't ask me why she wouldn't take the money that I left
If I answered at all I'd lie.

So I thought about her as I sang that night
And how the circle keeps rolling around.
How I act as I'm facing the footlights
And how she's flying with both feet on the ground.

I guess it's a sequel to our story
From the journey 'tween heaven and hell
With half the time thinking of what might have been
and half thinkin' just as well.

I guess only time will tell.
    

—Harry Chapin

High and Lonesome

I was walkin' down the alley with hunger inside
And a brand new twenty dollar bill
I ought to go on home and turn out the light
But I just ain't got the will
So I headed on down the to Alvarado's place
It was a black door on the right
And there was Nasty Nick and Carmelita and James
Standing in the bare bulb light

Chorus
And I was high and lonesome
And I was high and lonesome

I got skeletons in my closets
That are spilling out in the hall
I got a pain in my belly and an achin' inside
That would make a grown man crawl
I been dancing with the devil
I been sleepin' with the dead
I got a fog like San Francisco
Rollin' round my head

Chorus
And I was high and lonesome
And I was high and lonesome
    

—Bianca de Leon

The Waste Land

Part 1 – Burial of the Dead

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the arch–duke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight.  And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.  


What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish?  Son of man, 
You canot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water.  Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handfull of dust.
	Frish weht der Wind
	Der Heimat zu
	Mein Irisch Kind,
	Wo weilest du?
'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
They called me the hyacinth girl.'
—Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,
Your arms full and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed'und leer das Meer.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one–eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see.  I do not find
The Hanged Man.  Fear death by water. 
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you.  If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.

Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying:  'Stetson!
'You who were with me in the ships at Mylae
'That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
'Has it begun to sprout?  Will it bloom this year?
'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
'O keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,
'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
'You!  hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frere!'

Part 2 – A Game of Chess

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of seven–branched candleabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion.
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfume
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, vondused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended
In fattening the prolonged candle–flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea–wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the colored stone
In which sad light a carved dolphin swam
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
'Jug Jug' to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footstpes shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.

'My nerves are bad t–night.  Yes, bad. Stay with me.
'Speak to me.  Why do you never speak?  Speak.
  'What are you thinking of?  What thinking?  What?
'I never know what you are thinking.  Think.'

I think we are in rat's alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.

'What is that noise?'
	The wind under the door.
'What is that noise now?  What is the wind doing?'
	Nothing again nothing.
		'Do 
'You know nothing?  Do you see nothing? Do you remember
'Nothing?'
  I remember
Those pearls that were his eyes.
'Are you alive, or not?  Is there nothing in your head?'
		But
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It's so elegant
So intelligent
'What shall I do now?  What shall I do?'
'I shall rush out as I am, walk the street
'With my hair down, so.  What shall we do to–morrow?
'What shall we ever do?
	The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.

When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said—
I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself,
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get yourself some teeth.  He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.
And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He's been in the army for four years, he wants a good time
And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something o' that, I said.
Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can't.
But if Albert makes off, it won't be for lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her thirty–one.)
I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She had five already and nearly died of young George.)
The chemist said it would be all right, but I've never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you don't want children?
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it—
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
Goodnight Bill.  Goodnight Lou.  Goodnight May.  Goodnight.
Ta ta.  Goodnight.  Goodnight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

Part 3 – The Fire Sermon

The river's tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
Clutch and sink into the wet bank.  The wind
Crosses the brown land, unheard.  The nymphs are departed.
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
And their friends, the loitering heirs of City directors;
Departed, have left no addresses.
By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept…
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
But at my back in a cold blast I hear
The ratttle of bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.

A rat crept softly through vegetation
Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
While I was fishing in the dull canal
On a winter evening round behind the gashouse
Musing upon the king my brother's wreck
And the king my father's death before him.
White bodies naked on the low damp ground
And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
Rattled by the rat's foot only, year to year.
But at my back from time to time I hear
The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
And on her daughter
They wash their feet in soda water
Et O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!

Twit twit twit 
Jug jug jug jug jug jug 
So rudely forc'd
Tereu

Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter noon
Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants
C.i.f. London: documents at sight,
Asked me in demotic French
To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food; in tins.
Out of the window perilously spread
Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays,
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest—
I too awaited the expected guest.
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare,
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
The time is now propitious, as he guesses,
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
Endeavours to engage her in caresses
Which are still unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at one;
Exploring hands rencounter no defence;
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference.
(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted on this same divan or bed;
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
And walked amongh the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows one final patronising kiss,
And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit…

She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed love;
Her brain allows one–half formed thought to pass:
'Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over.'
When lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces about her room again, alone,
She smooths her hair with automatic hand,
And puts a record on the gramaphone.

'This music crept by me upon the waters'
And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
O City city, I can sometimes hear
Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,
The pleasant whining of a mandolin
And a clatter and a chatter from within
Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
Of Magnus Martyr hold
Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.

	The river sweats
	Oil and tar
	The barges drift
	With the turning tide
	Red sails
	Wide
	To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.
	The barges wash
	Drifting logs
	Down Greenwich reach
	Past the Isle of Dogs.
		Weialala leia
		Wallala leialala


	Elizabeth and Leicester
	Beating oars
	The stern was formed
	A gilded shell
	Red and gold
	The brisk swell
	Rippled both shores
	Southwest wind
	Carried down stream
	The peal of bells
	White towers
		Weialala leia
		Wallala leialala

	'Trams and dusty trees
	Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew
	Undid me.  By Richmond I raised my knees
	Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.'

	'My feet are Moorgate, and my heart
	Under my feet.  After the event
	He wept.  He promisd "a new start."
	I made no comment.  What should I resent?'

	'On Margate Sands.
	I can connect
	Nothing with nothing.
	The broken fingernails of dirty hands.
	My people humble people who expect
	Nothing.'
		la la

	To Carthage then I came
	
	Burning burning burning burning
	O Lord Thou pluckest me out
	O Lord Thou pluckest

	burning

Part 4 – Death by Water

Phelbas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell
And the profit and loss.
		A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers.  As he rose and fell
He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering whirpool.
		Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

Part 5 – What the Thunder Said

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying
Prison and palace and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience

Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road
The road winding above among the mountains
Which are mountains of rock without water
If there were water we should stop and drink
Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
If there were only water amongst the rock
Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit
There is not even slience in the mountains
But dry sterile thunder without rain
There is not even solitude in the mountains
But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
From doors of mudcracked houses
		If there were water
And no rock
If there were rock
And also water
And water
A spring
A pool among the rock
If there were the sound of water only
Not the cicada 
And dry grass singing
But sound of water over a rock
Where the hermit–thrush sings in the pine trees
Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop
But there is no water

Who is the third who walks always beside you?
When I count, there are only you and I together
But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I do not know whether a man or a woman
—But who is that on the other side of you?

What is that sound high in the air
Murmur of maternal lamentation
Why are those hooded hordes swarming
Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth
Ringed by the flat horizon only
What is the city over the mountains
Cracks and reforms and burst in the violet air
Falling towers
Jerusalem Athens Alexandria
Vienna London
Unreal

A woman drew her long black hair out tight
And fiddled whisper music on those strings
And bats with baby faces in the violet light
Whistled, and beat their wings
And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
And upsdie down in air were towers
Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells

In this decayed hole among the mountains
In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
There is an empty chapel, on the wind's home.
It has no windows, and the door swings,
Dry bones can harm no one.
Only a cock stood on the rooftree
Co co rico co co rico
In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
Bringing rain
Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves
Waited for rain, while the black clouds
Gathered far distant, over Himavant.
The jungle crouched, humped in silence.
Then spoke the thunder
DA
Datta: what have we give?
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment's surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficient spider
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In our empty rooms
DA
Dayadhvam: I have heard the key
Turn in the door once and turn once only
We think of the key, each in his prison
Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours
Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus
DA
Damyata: The boat responded
Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar
The sea was calm, your heart would have responded
Gaily, when invited, beating obedient
To controlling hands
		I sat upon the shore
Fishing, with arid plain behind me
Shall I at least set my lands in order?
London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down
Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina
Quando fiam uti chelidon—O swallow swallow
Le Prince d'Aquitaine a la tour abolie
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
Why then Ile fit you.  Hieronymo's mad againe.
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
	Shantih		shantih		shantih
    

—T.S. Eliot

Sea Fever

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, 
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, 
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, 
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking. 

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide 
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; 
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, 
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea–gulls crying. 

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, 
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife; 
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow–rover, 
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over
    

—John Masefield

I am become Death

If the radiance of a thousand suns
were to burst forth at once in the sky,
that would be like the splendour of the Mighty One.

I am mighty, world–destroying Time.

Bhagavad Gita, trans. Swami Nikhilananda, chapter 11, sections 12 and 32, pp. 256, 261 (1944).

A variation of this translation flashed through the mind of J. Robert
Oppenheimer as he stood in the control room at the explosion of the 
first atomic bomb at Los Alamos, New Mexico, July 16, 1945:

“If the radiance of a thousand suns
were to burst into the sky 
that would be like 
the splendor of the Mighty One and I am become Death, the shatterer of worlds."

—Current Biography Yearbook, 1964, p. 331. 
    

—Bhagavad Gita

Isabel

I lie in this cage in full public gaze
And I don't give a pin for all their scorn
For I've crowned my lover king
Such glorious days I've seen
Give me the chance I'd do it all again.

Robbie my love you've the heart of a dove
Only Scotland could raise such a man
On the wild mountain side
I have lain down by your side
In spite of the bitter wind and rain.

The soft southern dogs have never scaled the heights
They cower in their comfort secure.
But he has dared it all
And he's risked the fearsome fall
Surely God will crown the brave and sure.

At proud Bannockburn their cringing hearts did turn
From his noble and daring campaign
I watched from a distant hill
And my heart flies with him still
Though my body may be caged and disdained.

He's as bold as a ram, he's as gentle as a lamb
He's a man that could never be denied
He is generous and gay
But he's changeable as day
And for just one hour with him I'd gladly die.
    

—Traditional

Hal-an-Tow

Hal–an–tow, jolly rumble–o
We were up long before the day, O
To welcome in the summer sun, to welcome in the May, O
For summer is a coming in and winter's gone away, O

Robin Hood and Little John, they both have gone to fair, O
And we shall to the merry green wood to hunt the buck and hare, O

Hal–an–tow, jolly rumble–o
We were up long before the day, O
To welcome in the summer sun, to welcome in the May, O
For summer is a coming in and winter's gone away, O

And where are all the Spaniards who made so great a boast, O?
They shall eat the feathered goose and we shall eat the roast, O

Hal–an–tow, jolly rumble–o
We were up long before the day, O
To welcome in the summer sun, to welcome in the May, O
For summer is a coming in and winter's gone away, O

Do not scorn to wear the horn that was the crest when you were born,
Your father's father wore it and your father wore it too.

Hal–an–tow, jolly rumble–o
We were up long before the day, O
To welcome in the summer sun, to welcome in the May, O
For summer is a coming in and winter's gone away, O

God bless Aunt Mary Moses and all her power and might, O
And send us peace in England, send peace by day and night, O

Hal–an–tow, jolly rumble–o
We were up long before the day, O
To welcome in the summer sun, to welcome in the May, O
For summer is a coming in and winter's gone away, O
    

—Traditional

Out of Distant Time

all night I expected her approach
at dawn the mandala moon slipped away
late in the tense sunset I heard
banshee wind roar beyond the valley

neighbors lock themselves in
glass patio doors slam
white faces press the windowpanes
caged behind the walls

she straddles the huddled mesas
clouds of her ochre–streaked hair
swirl across the rainless desert
like first arctic snow of tribal memory

I raise my face to feathered sleet
summon my ancestors  drums pound
we clap our hands to her slow dance
as she prowls thirst saguaros

in my parka I flatten to the outer door
breathless in her awesome presence
my hair rises in the pulsate air
fast my heart  veins swift with blood

ochre threads billow over the near hill
she sings of the Distant Time
voices of my People chant
drums answer

she murmurs  whisks the eaves
wet ochre strands brush my cheeks
I am filled with her air
and she scatters blessed rain

she dances on behind little red mountains
drums roll and fade
the People vanish into Distant Time
we have celebrated
the innocence of sacred Earth
    

—Mary TallMountain

Twelve--Thirty (Young Girls Are Coming To The Canyon)

I used to live in New York City
Everything there was dark and dirty
Outside my window was a steeple
With a clock that always said twelve—thirty

Young girls are coming to the canyon
And in the mornings I can see them walkin'
I can no longer keep my blinds drawn
And I can't keep myself from talkin'

At first so strange to feel so friendly
To say "Good mornin'" and really mean it
To feel these changes happenin' in me
But not to notice till I feel it

Young girls are coming to the canyon
And in the mornings I can see them walkin'
I can no longer keep my blinds drawn
And I can't keep myself from talkin'

Cloudy waters cast no reflection
Images of beauty lie there stagnant
Vibrations bounce in no direction
But lie there shattered into fragments

Young girls are coming to the canyon
And in the mornings I can see them walkin'
I can no longer keep my blinds drawn
And I can't keep myself from talkin'   
    

—John Phillips

When I'm Gone

There's no place in this world where I'll belong when I'm gone
I won't know the right from the wrong when I'm gone
You won't find me singing on this song when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here 
I won't see the flowing of the time when I'm gone
The joys of love will not be mine when I'm gone
My pen won't pour a lyric rhyme when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here 

I won't breath the bracing air when I'm gone
I won't be worried about my cares when I'm gone
Can't be asked to do my share when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here 

I won't be running from the rain when I'm gone
Won't even suffer from the pain when I'm gone
Can't say who's to praise and who's to blame when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here 

I won't see the golden of the sun when I'm gone
The evenings and the mornings will be one when I'm gone
Can't be singing louder than the guns when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here 

My days won't be dances of delight when I'm gone
The sands will be shifting from my sight when I'm gone
Can't add my name into the fight when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here 

And I won't be laughing at the lies when I'm gone
I won't question where or when or why when I'm gone
Can't live proud enough to die when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here 
    

—Phil Ochs

After the Goldrush

Well, I dreamed I saw the knights in armour coming
Saying something about a queen
There were peasants singing and drummers drumming
And the archer split the tree
There was a fanfare blowing to the sun
That was floating on the breeze
Look at Mother Nature on the run in the nineteen seventies (2X)

I was lying in a burned out basement
With the full moon in my eyes
I was hoping for replacement
When the sun burst through the sky
There was a band playing in my head
And I felt like getting high
I was thinking about what a friend had said, I was hoping it was a lie
Thinking about what a friend had said, I was hoping it was a lie

Well, I dreamed I saw the silver spaceships flying
In the yellow haze of the sun
There were children crying and banners flying
All around the chosen ones
All in a dream, all in a dreamn the loading had begun
Flying Mother Nature's silver seed to a new home in the sun
Flying Mother Nature's silver seed to a new home in the sun
    

—Neil Young

Bang The Drum Slowly

I meant to ask you how to fix that car
I always meant to ask you about the war
And what you saw across a bridge too far
Did it leave a scar

Or how you navigated wings of fire and steel        
Up where heaven had no more secrets to conceal
And still you found the ground beneath your wheels
How did it feel

Bang the drum slowly play the pipe lowly
To dust be returning from dust we begin
Bang the drum slowly I'll speak of things holy
Above and below me world without end

I meant to ask you how when everything seemed lost
And your fate was in a game of dice they tossed
There was still that line that you would never cross
At any cost

I meant to ask you how you lived what you believed
With nothing but your heart up your sleeve
And if you ever really were deceived
By the likes of me

Bang the drum slowly play the pipe lowly
To dust be returning from dust we begin
Bang the drum slowly I'll speak of things holy
Above and below me world without end

Gone now is the day and gone the sun
There is peace tonight all over Arlington
But the songs of my life will still be sung
By the light of the moon you hung

I meant to ask you how to plow that field
I meant to bring you water from the well
And be the one beside you when you fell
Could you tell

Bang the drum slowly play the pipe lowly
To dust be returning from dust we begin
Bang the drum slowly I'll speak of things holy
Above and below me world without end
    

—Emmylou Harris and Guy Clark

The World Turned Upside-Down

In 1649 to St. George's Hill
A ragged band they called the Diggers came to show the people's will
They defied the landlords, they defied the laws
They were the dispossessed reclaiming what was theirs

We come in peace, they said, to dig and sow
We come to work the lands in common and make the waste ground grow
This earth divided we will make whole
So it may be a common treasury for all

The sin of property we do disdain
No man has any right to buy or sell the earth for private gain
By theft and murder they took the land
Now everywhere the walls spring up at their command

They make the laws to chain us well
The clergy dazzle us with heaven, or they damn us into hell
We will not worship the God they serve,
a God of greed who feeds the rich while poor folk starve

We work and eat together, we need no swords
We will not bow to masters, nor pay rent to the lords
Still we are free, though we are poor
Ye Diggers all, stand up for glory, stand up now!

From the men of property the orders came
They sent the hired men and troopers to wipe out the Diggers' claim
Tear down their cottages, destroy their corn
They were dispersed – only the vision lingers on

Ye poor take courage, ye rich take care
This earth was made a common treasury for everyone to share
All things in common, all people one
They came in peace – the order came to cut them down
    

—Leon Rosselson

McPherson's Lament

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, farewell, farewell to thee 
McPherson's life will no be long on yonder gallows tree 

Sa rantingly, sa wantingly, and sa dauntingly gaed he 
He played a tune and he danced around below the gallows tree 

There's some come here for to see me hung, and some to buy my fiddle 
But before that I do part with her, I'll break her through the middle 

He took his fiddle in both of his hands, and he broke it o'er a stone 
Saying: "There's no other hand shall play on thee when I am dead and gone" 

Sa rantingly, sa wantingly, and sa dauntingly gaed he 
He played a tune and he danced around below the gallows tree 

The reprieve was coming o'er the Brig of Banff, to set McPherson free 
But they put the clock a quarter before, and they hanged him from a tree 

Sa rantingly, sa wantingly, and sa dauntingly gaed he 
He played a tune and he danced around below the gallows tree
    

—Traditional

Seven Come

On the far north side of heaven
Is a place where angels gather
And they prepare for holy war
And they prepare for holy war

And if you listen well
You can hear the gates of hell
And the tear filled eye of God comes looking down
Aye the tear filled eye of God comes looking down

I can see a flaming dragon 
That rules five holy mountains
And the phoebe phoenix cries out seven come
Ah the phoebe phoenix cries out seven come

And I can hear the sound
Of heaven falling down
And it sounds like seven dragons beating drums
Oh it sounds like seven dragons beating drums

Well what you gonna do good people
When the sky starts raining fire
When you gonna pray good people
All in that final hour
Just before the angels
When the skies turn dark
And you looking for salvation
And you cannot find the ark again
What are you going to do
Or is it too hard to think about

Red eyed demons with their sighs 
Blowing bugles spitting fire
And they all a crying life and thinking death
They all a crying life and thinking death

I can hear the sound of seven trumpets
Coming out of heaven
And the tear filled eye of God comes looking down
The tear filled eye of God comes looking down
    

—Hoyt Axton

All The Good People

This is a song for all the good people 
All the good people who touched up my life. 
This is a song for all the good people 
People I'm thankin' my stars for tonight. 

This is a verse for all the good women * 
Who knew what I needed was something they had 
Food on the table, a heart that was able 
Able to keep me just this side of sad. 

This is a song for all the good fellows 
Who shared up my time, some good and some bad 
We drank in the kitchen and shared no competition 
Each knowing the other was a good friend to have 

This is a song for all the good people 
All the good people who touched up my life. 
Some helped in small ways, and some helped in hallways 
And some always told me you're doin' all right. 

This is a song I sing for my lady 
For my lady who puts up with me 
My ramblin' and roamin', my late night come–homin' 
She is the sunshine that flows down on me. 

This is a verse for the pickers and singers 
Whose songs and whose voices have blended with mine 
On the back steps and stages, for hugs and for wages, 
It's some kind of sharing and some kind of fine. 
    

—Ken Hicks

Jabberwocky

'Twas brillig and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxnome foe he sought —
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker–snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe. 
    

—Lewis Carroll

Send In The Marines

When someone makes a move
Of which we don't approve,
Who is it that always intervenes?
U.N. and O.A.S., They have their place, I guess,
But first – send the Marines!

We'll send them all we've got,
John Wayne and Randolph Scott;
Remember those exciting fighting scenes?
To the shores of Tripoli,
But not to Mississippoli,
What do we do? We send the Marines!

For might makes right,
And till they've seen the light,
They've got to be protected,
All their rights respected,
Till somebody we like can be elected.
Members of the corps
All hate the thought of war;
They'd rather kill them off by peaceful means.
Stop calling it aggression,
Ooh, we hate that expression!
We only want the world to know
That we support the status quo.
They love us everywhere we go,
So when in doubt,
Send the Marines!
    

—Tom Lehrer

Thomas The Rhymer

True Thomas sat on Huntley bank
And he beheld a lady gay
A lady that was brisk and bold
Come riding o'er the ferny brae

Her skirt was of the grass green silk,
Her mantle of the velvet fine
At every lock of her horse's mane
Hung fifty silver bells and nine

True Thomas, he pulled off his cap
And bowed him low down to his knee
`All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven
Your like on earth I ne'er did see.'

`No, no Thomas she said
That name does not belong to me
I am the queen of fair Elfland
And I have come to visit thee.'

`You must go with me Thomas she said,
True Thomas you must go with me
And must serve me seven years
Through well or woe, as chance may be.'

Chorus
 
Hark and carp, come along with me,
Thomas the Rhymer
Hark and carp, come along with me,
Thomas the Rhymer
Hark and carp, come along with me,
Thomas the Rhymer
Hark and carp, come along with me,
Thomas the Rhymer 
She turned about her milk white steed
And took Thomas up behind
And aye whenever her bridle rang
Her steed flew swifter than the wind

For forty days and forty nights
They rode through red blood to the knee
And they saw neither sun nor moon
But heard the roaring of the sea

And they rode on and further on
Further and swifter than the wind
Until they came to a desert wide
And living land was left behind

`Don't you see yon narrow, narrow road
So thick beset with thorns and briars?
That is the road to righteousness
Though after it but few enquire.'

`Don't you see yon broad, broad road
That lies across the lily leaven?
That is the road to wickedness
Though some call it the road to heaven.'

`Don't you see yon bonnie, bonnie road
That lies across the ferny brae?
That is the road to fair Elfland
Where you and I this night must go.'

Chorus
    

—Traditional

Six Pack of Misery

It was young love in morning.
It was fireworks in night.
It was baby I didn't mean to.
I swear I'll treat you right.
It was Jesus in the daytime.
It was Judas in the night.
I got a six pak of misery,
A colt 45,
And I ain't afraid of dying.

I loved that man so dearly.
Like Mary MKagdalen.
I thought he walked on water.
I thought he cound not sin.
I never saw it coming.
It was a right hook to the chin.
I got a six pak of misery,
A colt 45 and I ain't afraid of dying.

Now if you see me coming,
You better hold your mouth strait.
You better say your prayers,
Or you'll be looking at the pearly gates.
I know he had it coming,
I know it was his fate.
I got a six pak of misery,
A colt 45,
And I ain't afraid of dying.
    

—Bianca de Leon

Twa Corbies

As I was walking all alane
I heard twa corbies makin' mane
And one ontae the other did say
Where will we gang and dine the day
Where will we gang and dine the day

In ahind yon oul fail dyke
I wot there lies a new slain knight
Naebody kens that he lies there
But his hawk and hound and his lady fair
His hawk and hound and his lady fair

His hawk is tae the hunting gane
His hound to bring a wild fowl hane
His wife has taken another mate
So we can make our dinner sweet
We can make our dinner sweet

And you can sit on his white breast bone
And I'll pick out his bonny blue e'en
And with a lock of his yellow hair
We'll theek our nest when it grows bare *
We'll theek our nest when it grows bare

And many's a one for him makes mane
Naebody kens where he has gane
Through his white bones when they grow bare
The wind shall blow forever mare
The wind shall blow forever mare
    

—Traditional

Paint It Black

I see a red door and I want it painted black
no colors anymore, I want them to turn black
I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes
I have to turn my head until my darkness goes

I see a line of cars and they are painted black
with flowers and my love both never to come back
I see people turn their heads and quickly look away
like a new born baby it just happens every day

I look inside myself and see my heart is black
I see my red door and it's heading into black
maybe then I'll fade away and not have to face the facts
it's not easy facing up when your whole world is black

I wanna see it painted painted, painted black, oh baby
I wanna see it painted painted, painted black, oh baby

No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue
I could not foresee this thing happening to you
If I look hard enough into the setting sun
my love will laugh with me before the morning comes

I wanna see it painted, painted black, oh
black as night, black as coal
I wanna see the sun blotted from the sky
painted, painted, painted black oh baby
painted painted, painted black
    

—Vanessa Carlton

Now That I've Taken My Life

Now that I've taken my life, hiding the damp remains,
Scouring the stubborn stains erasing them carefully.
Breaking the dreams of a life and interring them prayerfully
My telephone never stops ringing,
Now that I've taken my life.

It was a foolish life I know, ivory towered and quite out of touch.
It was a life that had to go, I guess I won't miss it much.
For the solid gold women are standing in line,
And dangling a solid gold key.
The very best hostesses pour me my wine,
Introducing their daughters to me.

Now that I've taken my life, pleading reality,
Mumbling morality, and losing the child I was.
Smiling my youth to the wall and recalling how wild I was.
I'm a very popular man,
Now that I've taken my life

It was a foolish life I know, ivory towered and quite out of touch.
It was a life that had to go, I guess I won't miss it much.
For the solid gold women are standing in line,
And dangling a solid gold key.
The very best hostesses pour me my wine,
Introducing their daughters to me.

Now that I've taken my life, remembering the April air,
My hands in a curs'ry prayer my eyes on the crowd outside.
The music is merry, the laughter is comfortably loud outside.
And the laughter I'm hearing is mine,
Now that I've taken my life

It was a foolish life I know, ivory towered and quite out of touch.
It was a life that had to go, I guess I won't miss it much.
For the solid gold women are standing in line,
And dangling a solid gold key.
The very best hostesses pour me my wine,
Introducing their daughters to me.
    

—Tom Paxton

The Rising of the Moon

"OH, THEN tell me, Shawn O'Farrall,
Tell me why you hurry so?"
"Hush, ma bouchal, hush and listen;"
And his cheeks were all a–glow:
"I bear orders from the Captain—
Get you ready quick and soon;
For the pikes must be together
At the Rising of the Moon."

"Oh, then tell me, Shawn O'Farrall
Where the gathering is to be?"
"In the oul' spot by the river
Right well known to you and me;
One word more—for signal token
Whistle up the marching tune,
With your pike upon your shoulder,
At the Rising of the Moon."

Out from many a mud–wall cabin
Eyes were watching through the night:
Many a manly chest was throbbing
For the blessed warning light;
Murmurs passed along the valley
Like the Banshee's lonely croon,
And a thousand blades were flashing
At the Rising of the Moon.

There, beside the singing river,
That dark mass of men were seen—
Far above the shining weapons
Hung their own beloved green.
Death to every foe and traitor!
Forward! strike the marching tune,
And hurrah, my boys, for freedom!
'Tis the Rising of the Moon."

Well they fought for poor Old Ireland,
And full bitter was their fate;
(Oh! what glorious pride and sorrow
Fill the name of Ninety–Eight!)
Yet, thank God, e'en still are beating
Hearts in manhood's burning noon,
Who would follow in their footsteps
At the Rising of the Moon. 
    

—Anonymous

Barbara Allen

In Scarlet town, where I was born,
There was a fair maid dwellin',
Made every youth cry Well–a–day!
Her name was Barbara Allen.

All in the merry month of May,
When the green buds they were swellin',
Young Jemmy Grove on his death–bed lay,
For love of Barbara Allen

He sent his men down to her then,
To the town where she was dwelling:
"O haste and come to my master dear,
Gin ye be Barbara Allen."

So slowly, slowly rase she up,
And slowly she came nigh him,
And when she drew the curtains by—
"Young man, I think you're dyin'."

"O it's I am sick and very very sick,
And 'tis a' for Barbara Allen." —
"O the better for me ye'se never be,
Tho your heart's blood were a–spillin'!.

"O dinna ye mind, young man," said she,
"When the red wine ye were fillin',
That ye made the healths gae round and round,
And slighted Barbara Allen?"

He turned his face unto the wall,
And death was with him dealin':
"Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all,
And be kind to Barbara Allen!"

And slowly, slowly raise she up,
And slowly, slowly left him,
And sighing said she could not stay,
Since death of life had reft him.

As she was walkin o'er the fields
She heard the dead–bell knellin',
And every jow that the dead–bell geid,
Cried, "Woe to Barbara Allen!"

"O mother, mother, make my bed!
O make it saft and narrow:
My love has died for me today,
I'll die for him to–morrow."

"Farewell", she said, "ye virgins all,
And shun the fault I fell in:
Henceforward take warning by the fall
Of cruel Barbara Allen." 
    

—Anonymous

Pancho and Lefty

Living on the road, my friend,
Is gonna keep you free and clean,
Now you wear your skin like iron,
Your breath as hard as kerosene.
You weren't your mama's only boy,
But her favorite one it seems —
She began to cry when you said goodbye,
And sank into your dreams. 
Pancho was a bandit boy,
His horse was fast as polished steel.
He wore his gun outside his pants
For all the honest world to feel.
Pancho met his match, you know,
On the deserts down in Mexico.
Nobody heard his dying words,
Ah, but that's the way it goes. 

All the Federales say
They could have had him any day,
They only let him slip away
Out of kindness, I suppose. 

Lefty, he can't sing the blues
All night long like he used to.
The dust that Pancho bit down south
Ended up in Lefty's mouth.
The day they laid poor Pancho low,
Lefty split for Ohio
Where he got the bread to go,
There ain't nobody knows 

The poets tell how Pancho fell,
And Lefty's living in cheap hotels.
The desert's quiet, Cleveland's cold,
And so the story ends we're told.
Pancho needs your prayers, it's true,
But save a few for Lefty too.
He only did what he had to do,
And now he's growing old   
    

—Townes Van Zandt

Men of Harlech

Men of Harlech, march to glory, Victory is hov'ring o'er ye,
Bright eyed freedom stands before ye, Hear ye not her call?
At your sloth she seems to wonder, Rend the sluggish bonds asunder,
Let the war cry's deaf'ning thunder, Ev'ry foe appal.

Echoes loudly waking, Hill and valley shaking;
'Till the sound spreads wide around, The Saxon's courage breaking;
Your foes on ev'ry side assailing, Forward press with heart
unfailing,
Till invaders learn with quailing, Cambria ne'er can yield.

Thou who noble Cambria wrongest, Know that freedom's cause is
strongest
Freedom's courage lasts the longest, Ending but with death!
Freedom countless hosts can scatter, Freedom stoutest mail can
shatter,
Freedom thickest walls can batter, Fate is in her breath.

See they now are flying! Dead are heaped with dying!
Over might has triumphed right, Our land to foes denying;
Upon their soil we never sought them, Love of conquest hither brought
them,
But this lesson we have taught them, Cambria ne'er can yield 
    

—John Oxenford

The Last of the Light Brigade

There were thirty million English who talked of England's might,
There were twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night.
They had neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade;
They were only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade.

They felt that life was fleeting; they knew not that art was long,
That though they were dying of famine, they lived in deathless song.
They asked for a little money to keep the wolf from the door;
And the thirty million English sent twenty pounds and four!

They laid their heads together that were scarred and lined and grey;
Keen were the Russian sabres, but want was keener than they;
And an old Troop–Sergeant muttered, "Let us go to the man who writes
The things on Balaclava the kiddies at school recites."

They went without bands or colours, a regiment ten–file strong,
To look for the Master–singer who had crowned them all in his song;
And, waiting his servant's order, by the garden gate they stayed,
A desolate little cluster, the last of the Light Brigade.

They strove to stand to attention, to straighten the toil–bowed back;
They drilled on an empty stomach, the loose–knit files fell slack;
With stooping of weary shoulders, in garments tattered and frayed,
They shambled into his presence, the last of the Light Brigade.

The old Troop–Sergeant was spokesman, and "Beggin' your pardon," he said,
"You wrote o' the Light Brigade, sir. Here's all that isn't dead.
An' it's all come true what you wrote, sir, regardin' the mouth of hell;
For we're all of us nigh to the workhouse, an, we thought we'd call an' tell.

"No, thank you, we don't want food, sir; but couldn't you take an' write
A sort of 'to be continued' and 'see next page' o' the fight?
We think that someone has blundered, an' couldn't you tell 'em how?
You wrote we were heroes once, sir. Please, write we are starving now."

The poor little army departed, limping and lean and forlorn.
And the heart of the Master–singer grew hot with "the scorn of scorn."
And he wrote for them wonderful verses that swept the land like flame,
Till the fatted souls of the English were scourged with the thing called Shame.

O thirty million English that babble of England's might,
Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food to–night;
Our children's children are lisping to "honour the charge they made—"
And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade! 
    

—Rudyard Kipling

Everybody's Been Burned

Everybody's been burned before
Everybody knows the pain
Anyone in this place
Can tell you to your face
Why you shouldn't try to love someone

Everybody knows it never works
Everybody knows and me
I know that door that shuts
Just before you get to the dream
You see…

I know all too well
How to turn, how to run
How to hide behind 
A bitter wall of blue
But you die inside
If you choose to hide
So I guess instead, I'll love you   
    

—David Crosby

Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep

Do not stand at my grave and weep. 
I am not there. I do not sleep. 
I am a thousand winds that blow; 
I am a diamond's glint on snow. 
I am the sunlight on ripened grain; 
I am the gentle autumn's rain. 
When you awaken in the morning's hush, 
I am the swift uplifting rush 
of quiet birds in circled flight. 
I am the soft star that shines at night. 
Do not stand at my grave and cry, 
I am not there. 
I did not die. 
    

—Anonymous

Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts

The festival was over, the boys were all plannin' for a fall,
The cabaret was quiet except for the drillin' in the wall.
The curfew had been lifted and the gamblin' wheel shut down,
Anyone with any sense had already left town.
He was standin' in the doorway lookin' like the Jack of Hearts.

He moved across the mirrored room, "Set it up for everyone," he said,
Then everyone commenced to do what they were doin' before he turned their heads.
Then he walked up to a stranger and he asked him with a grin,
"Could you kindly tell me, friend, what time the show begins?"
Then he moved into the corner, face down like the Jack of Hearts.

Backstage the girls were playin' five–card stud by the stairs,
Lily had two queens, she was hopin' for a third to match her pair.
Outside the streets were fillin' up, the window was open wide,
A gentle breeze was blowin', you could feel it from inside.
Lily called another bet and drew up the Jack of Hearts.

Big Jim was no one's fool, he owned the town's only diamond mine,
He made his usual entrance lookin' so dandy and so fine.
With his bodyguards and silver cane and every hair in place,
He took whatever he wanted to and he laid it all to waste.
But his bodyguards and silver cane were no match for the Jack of Hearts.

Rosemary combed her hair and took a carriage into town,
She slipped in through the side door lookin' like a queen without a crown.
She fluttered her false eyelashes and whispered in his ear,
"Sorry, darlin', that I'm late," but he didn't seem to hear.
He was starin' into space over at the Jack of Hearts.

"I know I've seen that face before," Big Jim was thinkin' to himself,
"Maybe down in Mexico or a picture up on somebody's shelf."
But then the crowd began to stamp their feet and the house lights did dim
And in the darkness of the room there was only Jim and him,
Starin' at the butterfly who just drew the Jack of Hearts.

Lily was a princess, she was fair–skinned and precious as a child,
She did whatever she had to do, she had that certain flash every time she smiled.
She'd come away from a broken home, had lots of strange affairs
With men in every walk of life which took her everywhere.
But she'd never met anyone quite like the Jack of Hearts.

The hangin' judge came in unnoticed and was being wined and dined,
The drillin' in the wall kept up but no one seemed to pay it any mind.
It was known all around that Lily had Jim's ring
And nothing would ever come between Lily and the king.
No, nothin' ever would except maybe the Jack of Hearts.

Rosemary started drinkin' hard and seein' her reflection in the knife,
She was tired of the attention, tired of playin' the role of Big Jim's wife.
She had done a lot of bad things, even once tried suicide,
Was lookin' to do just one good deed before she died.
She was gazin' to the future, riding on the Jack of Hearts.

Lily washed her face, took her dress off and buried it away.
"Has your luck run out?" she laughed at him, "Well, I guess you must
have known it would someday.
Be careful not to touch the wall, there's a brand–new coat of paint,
I'm glad to see you're still alive, you're lookin' like a saint."
Down the hallway footsteps were comin' for the Jack of Hearts.

The backstage manager was pacing all around by his chair.
"There's something funny going on," he said, "I can just feel it in the air."
He went to get the hangin' judge, but the hangin' judge was drunk,
As the leading actor hurried by in the costume of a monk.
There was no actor anywhere better than the Jack of Hearts.

Lily's arms were locked around the man that she dearly loved to touch,
She forgot all about the man she couldn't stand who hounded her so much.
"I've missed you so," she said to him, and he felt she was sincere,
But just beyond the door he felt jealousy and fear.
Just another night in the life of the Jack of Hearts.

No one knew the circumstance but they say that it happened pretty quick,
The door to the dressing room burst open and a cold revolver clicked.
And Big Jim was standin' there, ya couldn't say surprised,
Rosemary right beside him, steady in her eyes.
She was with Big Jim but she was leanin' to the Jack of Hearts.

Two doors down the boys finally made it through the wall
And cleaned out the bank safe, it's said that they got off with quite a haul.
In the darkness by the riverbed they waited on the ground
For one more member who had business back in town.
But they couldn't go no further without the Jack of Hearts.

The next day was hangin' day, the sky was overcast and black,
Big Jim lay covered up, killed by a penknife in the back.
And Rosemary on the gallows, she didn't even blink,
The hangin' judge was sober, he hadn't had a drink.
The only person on the scene missin' was the Jack of Hearts.

The cabaret was empty now, a sign said, "Closed for repair,"
Lily had already taken all of the dye out of her hair.
She was thinkin' 'bout her father, who she very rarely saw,
Thinkin' 'bout Rosemary and thinkin' about the law.
But, most of all she was thinkin' 'bout the Jack of Hearts. 
    

—Bob Dylan

Aqualung

Sitting on a park bench — 
eyeing ittle girls with bad intent. 
Snot running down his nose — 
greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes. 
Drying in the cold sun — 
Watching as the frilly panties run. 
Feeling like a dead duck — 
spitting out pieces of his broken luck. 
Sun streaking cold — 
an old man wandering lonely. 
Taking time 
the only way he knows. 
Leg hurting bad, 
as he bends to pick a dog–end — 
he goes down to the bog 
and warms his feet. 

Feeling alone — 
the army's up the rode 
salvation à la mode and 
a cup of tea. 
Aqualung my friend — 
don't start away uneasy 
you poor old sod, you see, it's only me. 
Do you still remember 
December's foggy freeze — 
when the ice that 
clings on to your beard is 
screaming agony. 
And you snatch your rattling last breaths 
with deep–sea–diver sounds, 
and the flowers bloom like 
madness in the spring. 
    

—Jethro Tull

Nineteenth Nervous Breakdown

You're the kind of person you meet at certain dismal, dull affairs
Center of a crowd, talking much too loud, running up and down the stairs
Well, it seems to me that you have seen too much in too few years
And though you've tried you just can't hide your eyes are edged with tears 

You better stop, look around
Here it comes, here it comes, here it comes, here it comes
Here comes your nineteenth nervous breakdown 

When you were a child you were a treated kind
But you were never brought up right
You were always spoiled with a thousand toys but still you cried all night
Your mother who neglected you owes a million dollars tax
And your father's still perfecting ways of making ceiling wax 

You better stop, look around
Here it comes, here it comes, here it comes, here it comes
Here comes your nineteenth nervous breakdown
Oh, who's to blame, that girl's just insane
Well, nothing I do don't seem to work
It only seems to make the matters worse. Oh, please 

You were still in school when you had that fool who really messed your mind
And after that you turned your back on treating people kind
On our first trip I tried so hard to rearrange your mind
But after awhile I realized you were disarranging mine 

You better stop, look around
Here it comes, here it comes, here it comes, here it comes
Here comes your nineteenth nervous breakdown
Oh, who's to blame, that girl's just insane
Well, nothing I do don't seem to work
It only seems to make the matters worse. Oh, please 

When you were a child you were treated kind
But you were never brought up right
You were always spoiled with a thousand toys but still you cried all night
Your mother who neglected you owes a million dollars tax
And you father's still perfecting ways of making sealing wax 

You better stop, look around
Here it comes, here comes your nineteenth nervous breakdown 
    

—Rolling Stones

Harry Wilmans

I was just turned twenty–one,
And Henry Phipps, the Sunday–school superintendent,
Made a speech in Bindle's Opera House.
"The honor of the flag must be upheld," he said,
"Whether it be assailed by a barbarous tribe of Tagalogs
Or the greatest power in Europe."
And we cheered and cheered the speech and the flag
        he waved
As he spoke.
And I went to the war in spite of my father
And followed the flag till I saw it raised
By our camp in a rice field near Manila,
And all of us cheered and cheered it.
But there were flies and poisonous things;
And there was the deadly water,
And the cruel heat,
And the sickening, putrid food;
And the smell of the trench just back of the tents
Where the soldiers went to empty themselves;
And there were the whores who followed us, full of
        syphilis;
And beastly acts between ourselves or alone,
With bullying, hatred, degradation amonu us,
And days of loathing and nights of fear
To the hour of the charge through the steming swamp,
Following the flag,
Till I fell with a scream, shot through the guts.
Now there's a flag over me in Spoon River!
A flag! A flag!
    

—Edgar Lee Masters

Black Girl (In The Pines)

Black girl, black girl, don't lie to me
Tell me where did you sleep last night?
In the pines, in the pines, where the sun never shines
And I shivered the whole night through

Black girl, black girl, where will you go?
I'm goin' where the cold wind blows
In the pines, in the pines, where the sun never shines
I will shiver the whole night through

My husband was a railroad man
Killed a mile and a half from here
His head was found in the driver's wheel
And his body haven't never been found

Black girl, balck girl, where will you go
I'm goin' where the cold wind blows
You caused me to weep and you caused me to moan
You caused me to leave my home 
    

—Huddie Ledbetter

The Song of Wandering Aengus

I WENT out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth–like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a–flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun. 
    

—William Butler Yeats

Me And Bobby Mcgee

Busted flat in Baton Rouge
Headin' for the train
Feelin' nearly faded as my jeans
Bobby thumbed a diesel down
Just before it rained
Took us all away to New Orleans
I took my harpoon out of my dirty red bandana
And was blowin' sad while Bobby sang the blues
With those windshield wipers slappin' time
And Bobby clappin' hands we finally
Sung up every song that driver knew
Freedom's just another word
For nothin' left to lose
Nothin' ain't worth nothin
But it's free
Feelin' good was easy Lord
When Bobby sang the blues
Feelin' good was good enough for me
Good enough for me and Bobby McGee

From the coalmines of Kentucky
To the California sun
Bobby shared the secrets of my soul
Standin' right beside me Lord
Through every thing I done
Every night she kept me from the cold
Then somewhere near Salinas Lord
I let her slip away
Searchin' for the home
I hope she'll find
And I'd give all my tomorrows
For a single yesterday
Holdin' Bobby's body close to mine

Freedom's just another word
For nothin' left to lose
Nothin' ain't worth nothin
But it's free
Feelin' good was easy Lord
When Bobby sang the blues
Feelin' good was good enough for me
Good enough for me and Bobby McGee
    

—Kris Kristofferson

Now That The Buffalo Are Gone

Can you remember the times
That you have held your head high
And told all your friends of your Indian claim,
Proud good lady and proud good man?
Your great–great–grandfather from Indian blood sprang
And you feel in you heart for "these ones."
Oh, it's written in books and in songs
That we've been mistreated and wronged.
But over and over I hear the same words
From you, good lady, and you, good man —
Well, listen to me if you care where we stand
And you feel you're a part of "these ones."

When a war between nations is lost,
The loser, we know, pays the cost.
But even when Germany fell to your hands,
Consider, dear lady, consider, dear man,
You left them their pride and you left them their land —
And what have you done to "these ones?"

Has a change come about Uncle Sam,
Or are you still taking our lands?
A treaty forever George Washington signed —
He did, dear lady, he did, dear man —
And the treaty's been broken by Kinzua Dam;
And what will you do for "these ones?"

Oh, it's all in the past, you can say;
But it's still going on here today.
The government now wants the Iroquois land,
That of the Seneca and the Cheyenne —
It's here and it's now you must help us, dear man —
Now that the buffalo's gone. 
    

—Buffy Sainte-Marie

Freakin' at the Freakers Ball

LEAD–IN:  There's gonna be a Freakers Ball,
Yes, yes, tonight at the Freakers Hall,
Yeah and you know that you're invited,
One and all. 

C'mon babies… grease your lips…
Put on your hats, and swing your hips. 
Don't forget to bring your whips. 
We're goin' to the Freakers Ball.

Blow your whistle…bang your gong —
Roll up somethin' to take along. 
Feels so good… it must be wrong –
Freakin' at the Freakers Ball.

All the fags and dikes, they're boogyin' together —
Leather freaks dressed in all kinds of leather. 
The greatest of the Sadists and the Masochists, too, 
Screamin' "Please hit me" and "I'll hit you".

F.B.I. dancin' with the junkies –
All the Straights swingin' with the Funkies
'Cross the floor and up the wall 
Freakin' at the Freakers Ball.

Everybody is lovin' each other —
Brother with sister… son with mother. 
Smear my body up with butter, 
And take me to the Freakers Ball.

So pass that roach and pour the wine —
I'll kiss yours and you'll kiss mine. 
I'm gonna boogie til I go blind — 
Freakin' at the Freakers Ball.

Black ones, white ones, yellow and red ones — 
Necropheliacs lookin' for dead ones. 
The greatest of the Sadists and the Masochists, too — 
Screaming' "Please hit me" and "I'll hit you".

Everybody ballin' in batches —
Pyromaniacs strikin' matches. 
I'm gonna itch me where it scratches —
Freakin' at the Freakers Ball, y'all
Freakin' at the Freakers Ball.
    

—Shel Silverstein

In a Young Girl's Mind

Hand me my guitar, there's a song I was singin'
When I was young had a hell of the time
A looking for love in the misty waters
Of the seas that roll in a young girl's mind.

Only in shadows and lonly at night
She turns to you softly you turn on the light
You use her and abuse her and you know it ain't right
To treat one who loves you so badly
When she's doing the best that she can
You know she's doing the best that she can.

Do you believe in dreams oh do you believe in dreamers
Hoping that you'll find what you're looking for
You don't have to worry there's a bright tomorrow
In the dreams that roll in a young girl's mind.

Only in shadows and lonly at night
She turns to you softly you turn on the light
You use her and abuse her and you know it ain't right
To treat one who loves you so badly
When she's doing the best that she can
You know she's doing the best that she can.

So hand me my guitar, there's a song I was singin'
When I was young had a hell of the time
A looking for love in the misty waters
Of the seas that roll in a young girl's mind.

Of the seas that roll in a young girl's mind...
    

—Hoyt Axton and Mark Dawson

The John MaClean March

Hey Mac did ye see him as he cam in by Gorgie, 
Awa ower the Lammerlaw and north o' the Tay? 
Yon man is comin' and the hale toon is turnin' oot, 
We're aa' sair he'll win back tae Glasga the day. 
The jiners and hauders–on are marchin' fae Clydebank, 
Come noo an' hear him, he'll be ower thrang tae bide. 
Turn oot Jock and Jimmie, leave yer cranes an' yer muckle gantries 
Great John Maclean's comin' back tae the Clyde. 

Argyle Street and London Road's the route that we're mairchin' 
The lads frae the Broomielaw are oot tae a man. 
Hey, Neil, whaur's yer hoderums, ye big Hielan teuchter?. 
Get yer pipes, mate, and march at the heid o'the clan! 

Hallo Pat Malone, I knew ye'd be here, son 
The red and green, my lads, we'll wear side by side, 
The Gorbals is his the day and Glasgae belangs tae him, 
Noo great John Maclean's comin' hame tae the Clyde. 

It's forward tae Glasga Green we'll mairch in guid order, 
Will grips his banner weel, that boy isna blate, 
Aye there man, that's Johnny noo, that's him, aye, the bonnie fechter 
Lenin's his fere, Mac, and Leibnecht's his mate. 

Tak tent when he's speakin' for they'll mind whit wis said here 
In Glasgae our city and the hale world besides. 
Tha's richt, lads, the scarlet's bonnie, here's tae ye Hielan' Shonie! 
Oor John Maclean has come hame to the Clyde. 

An weel when it's ower, I'll awa hame tae Springburn, 
Come hame tae yer tea noo, John, we'll soon hae ye fed! 
It's hard wark the speakin', an I'm sair ye'll be tired the nicht, 
I'll sleep on the flair, Mac, and gie John the bed. 

The hale city's quiet noo, It kens that he's restin' 
Hame wi' his Glasga freens, the fame and their pride. 
The red will be worn, my lads, and Scotland will rise again, 
Noo great John Maclean has come hame tae the Clyde.
    

—Hamish Henderson

The Gift

In old St. Louis over in Missouri 
The mighty Mississippi it rolls and flows 
A son was born to Mary Russell 
And it starts the legend every cowboy knows

Young Kid Russell he was born to wonder 
Ever westword he was bound to roam
Just a kid of sixteen in 1880 
Up in wild Montana he found his home 

God made Montana for the wild man 
For the Peigan and the Sioux and Crow 
But He saved His greatest gift for Charlie 
Said get her all down before she goes – Charlie 
You gotta get her all down cause she's bound to go 

God hung the stars over Judith Basin 
God put the magic in young Charlie's hand 
All was seen and all remembered 
Every shining mountain every longhorn brand

He could paint the light on horsehide shining 
Great passing herds of the buffalo 
And a cowcamp cold on a rainy morning 
And the twisting wrist of the Houlihan throw

God made Montana for the wild man 
For the Peigan and the Sioux and Crow 
But He saved His greatest gift for Charlie 
Said get her all down before she goes – Charlie 
You gotta get her all down cause she's bound to go 

When the Lord called Charlie to His home up yonder 
He said Kid Russell I got a job for you 
You're in charge of sunsets in old Montana 
Cause I can't paint them quite as good as you 
And when you're done – we'll go out and have a few 
And Nancy Russell will make sure it's just two 

God made Montana for the wild man 
For the Peigan and the Sioux and Crow 
But He saved His greatest gift for Charlie 
Said get her all down before she goes – Charlie 
You gotta get her all down cause she's bound to go 
    

—Ian Tyson

Easter 1916

I

I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth–century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

II

That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse.
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vain–glorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

III

Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter, seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road,
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute change.
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse–hoof slides on the brim;
And a horse plashes within it
Where long–legged moor–hens dive
And hens to moor–cocks call.
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.

IV

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death.
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead.
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse —
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
    

—William Butler Yeats

Penny Lane

In Penny Lane there is a barber showing photographs
Of every head he's had the pleasure to know.
And all the people that come and go
Stop and say hello.

On the corner is a banker with a motorcar,
The little children laugh at him behind his back.
And the banker never wears a mack
In the pouring rain, very strange.

Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes.
There beneath the blue suburban skies
I sit, and meanwhile back

In penny Lane there is a fireman with an hourglass
And in his pocket is a portrait of the Queen.
He likes to keep his fire engine clean,
It's a clean machine.

Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes.
A four of fish and finger pies
In summer, meanwhile back

Behind the shelter in the middle of a roundabout
The pretty nurse is selling poppies from a tray
And tho' she feels as if she's in a play
She is anyway.

In Penny Lane the barber shaves another customer,
We see the banker sitting waiting for a trim.
And then the fireman rushes in
From the pouring rain, very strange.

Penny lane is in my ears and in my eyes.
There beneath the blue suburban skies
I sit, and meanwhile back.
Penny lane is in my ears and in my eyes.
There beneath the blue suburban skies,   
    

—John Lennon and Paul McCartney

Boulder To Birmingham

I don't want to hear a love song 
I got on this airplane just to fly 
And I know there's life below 
But all that it can show me 
Is the prairie and the sky 
And I don't want to hear a sad story 
Full of heartbreak and desire 
The last time I felt like this 
It was in the wilderness and the canyon was on fire 
And I stood on the mountain in the night and I watched it burn 
I watched it burn, I watched it burn.

I would rock my soul in the bosom of Abraham 
I would hold my life in his saving grace. 
I would walk all the way from Boulder to Birmingham 
If I thought I could see, I could see your face. 

Well you really got me this time 
And the hardest part is knowing I'll survive. 
I have come to listen for the sound 
Of the trucks as they move down 
Out on ninety five 
And pretend that it's the ocean 
coming down to wash me clean, to wash me clean 
Baby do you know what I mean 

I would rock my soul in the bosom of Abraham 
I would hold my life in his saving grace. 
I would walk all the way from Boulder to Birmingham 
If I thought I could see, I could see your face. 
    

—Emmylou Harris and Bill Danoff

Bird on the Wire

Like a bird on the wire, 
like a drunk in a midnight choir 
I have tried in my way to be free. 
Like a worm on a hook, 
like a knight from some old fashioned book 
I have saved all my ribbons for thee. 
If I, if I have been unkind, 
I hope that you can just let it go by. 
If I, if I have been untrue 
I hope you know it was never to you. 
Like a baby, stillborn, 
like a beast with his horn 
I have torn everyone who reached out for me. 
But I swear by this song 
and by all that I have done wrong 
I will make it all up to thee. 
I saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch, 
he said to me, "You must not ask for so much." 
And a pretty woman leaning in her darkened door, 
she cried to me, "Hey, why not ask for more?" 

Oh like a bird on the wire, 
like a drunk in a midnight choir 
I have tried in my way to be free. 
    

—Leonard Cohen

Nights in white Satin

Nights in white satin, never reaching the end, 
Letters I´ve written, never meaning to send, 
Beauty I´d always missed with these eyes before, 
Just what the truth is, I can´t say anymore… 
Cause I love you, 
Yes I love you, 
Oh oh, I love you! 
How I love you! 
Gazing at people, some hand in hand, 
Just what I´m going through, they can´t understand… 
Cause I love you, (cause I love you) 
Yes I love you, (Yes, I love you) 
Oh oh, I love you, (Yes, I love you) 
How I love you! 
Cause I love you, (cause I love you) 
Yes I love you, (Yes, I love you) 
Cause I love you, (cause I love you) 
Yes I love you, (Yes, I love you) 
Oh oh, I love you, 
How I love you! 
(Yes I love you) 
How I love you! 
(Yes I love you) 
(Yes, I love you) 
    

—Moody Blues

MacDonnell On The Heights

Too thin the line that charged the Heights
And scrambled in the clay.
Too thin the Eastern Township Scot
Who showed them all the way,
And perhaps had you not fallen,
You might be what Brock became
But not one in ten thousand knows your name.

To say the name, MacDonnell,
It would bring no bugle call
But the Redcoats stayed beside you
When they saw the General fall.
Twas MacDonnell raised the banner then
And set the Heights aflame, 
But not one in ten thousand knows your name.

You brought the field all standing with your courage and your luck
But unknown to most, you're lying there beside old General Brock.
So you know what it is to scale the Heights and fall just short of fame
And have not one in ten thousand know your name.

At Queenston now, the General on his tower stands alone
And there's lichen on 'MacDonnell' carved upon that weathered stone
In a corner of the monument to glory you could claim,
But not one in ten thousand knows your name.

You brought the field all standing with your courage and your luck
But unknown to most, you're lying there beside old General Brock.
So you know what it is to scale the Heights and fall just short of fame
And have not one in ten thousand know your name.
    

—Stan Rogers

The Last Gunfighter Ballad

The old gunfighter on the porch
stared into the sun
and relived the days of living by the gun
when deadly games of pride were played
and living was mistakes not made

and the thought of the smell of the black powder smoke
and the stand in the street at the turn of a joke
Ah, the smell of the black powder smoke
and the stand in the street at the turn of a joke

It's always keep your back to the sun
and he can almost feel the weight of the gun
it's faster than snakes or the blink of an eye
and it's a time for all slow men to die
and his eyes get squinty and his fingers twitch
and he empties the gun at the son of a bitch

and he's hit by the smell of the black powder smoke
and the stand in the street at the turn of a joke
hit by the smell of the black powder smoke
and the stand in the street at the turn of a joke

Now the burn of a bullet is only a scar
he's back in his chair in front of the bar
and the streets are empty and the blood's all dried
and the dead are dust and the whiskey's inside
so buy him a drink and lend him an ear
he's nobody's fool and the only one here

who remembers the smell of the black powder smoke
and the stand in the street at the turn of a joke
remember the smell of the black powder smoke
and the stand in the street at the turn of a joke

He said I stood in that street before it was paved
learned shoot or be shot before I could shave
and I did it all for the money and fame
noble was nothing but feeling no shame
and nothing was sacred but stayin' alive
and all that I learned from a Colt 45

was to curse the smell of the black powder smoke
and the stand in the street at the turn of a joke
curse the smell of the black powder smoke
and the stand in the street at the turn of a joke

Now he's just an old man that no one believes
says he's a gunfighter, the last of the breed
and there are ghosts in the street seeking revenge
calling him out to the lunatic fringe
now he's out in the traffic checking the sun
and he's killed by a car as he goes for his gun

So much for the smell of the black powder smoke
and the stand in the street at the turn of a joke
so much for the smell of the black powder smoke
and the stand in the street at the turn of a joke
    

—Guy Clark

The Fair Flower of Northumberland

The provost's ae dochter wis walkin her lane
O but her luve it wis easy won
Whan she spied a Scots prisoner makin his mane
An she wis the flouer of Northumberlan 

"O, gin a lassie wad borrow me
O gin her luve it wis easy won
A wad mak her a ladie o heich degree
Gin she'd lowse me out frae my prison sae strang" 

Sae it's she's dune her doun tae her faither's guid stocks
O but her luve it wis easy won
An she's stolen the best keys thair for mony's the brave lock
For tae lowse him out frae his prison sae strang 

An it's she's dune her doun tae her faither's guid stables
O but her luve it wis easy won
An she's stolen the best horse that wis baith fleet an able
For tae cairry thaim owre tae bonnie Scotlan 

Bit as thae were ridin across thon Scots muirs
He cried, "O but yer luve it wis easy won
Get ye doun frae my horse ye're a brazen–faced hour
Altho ye're the flouer o Northumberlan" 

"It's cook in yer kitchen A shairly will be
Altho my luve it wis easy won
For A cannae gae back tae my ain countrie
Altho A'm the flouer o Northumberlan" 

"It's cook in my kitchen ye cannae weill be
O but yer luve it wis easy won
For my ladie she winnae hae sairvants like ye
An ye'll need tae gae hame tae Northumberlan" 

"For A hae a wife in my ain countrie
O but yer luve it was easy won
An A cannae dae naethin wi a lassie like ye
An ye'll need tae gae back tae Northumberlan" 

An, sae laith wis he thon lassie tae tine,
O but her luve it wis easy won
He's hiret an auld horse an he's hiret an auld man
Tae cairry her hame tae Northumberlan 

Bit whan she got thair her faither did froun an said
"O but yer luve it was easy won
Tae gang wi a Scotsman whan ye're barely saxteen
An ye were the flouer o Northumberlan" 

Bit whan she gaed ben her mither did smile an said
"O but yer luve it was easy won
But ye're no the first that thon Scots has beguilet
An ye're walcome back hame tae Northumberlan" 

"For ye winnae want breid an ye winnae want wine
O but yer luve it was easy won
An ye winnae want siller tae buy a man wi
An ye're aye the fair flouer o Northumberlan" 
    

—Traditional

Casey's Last Ride

Casey joins the hollow sound of silent people walking down
The stairway to the subway in the shadows down below;
Following their footsteps through the neon–darkened corridors
Of silent desperation, never speakin' to a soul.
The poison air he's breathin' has the dirty smell of dying
'Cause it's never seen the sunshine and it's never felt the rain.
But Casey minds the arrows and ignores the fatal echoes
Of the clickin' of the turnstiles and the rattle of his chains.

"Oh!" she said, "Casey, it's been so long since I've seen you!"
"Here" she said, "just a kiss to make a body smile!"
"See" she said, "I've put on new stockings just to please you!"
"Lord!" she said, "Casey, can you only stay a while?"

Casey leaves the under–ground and stops inside the Golden Crown
For something wet to wipe away the chill that's on his bone.
Seeing his reflection in the lives of all the lonely men
Who reach for any thing they can to keep from goin' home.
Standin' in the corner Casey drinks his pint of bitter
Never glancing in the mirror at the people passing by
Then he stumbles as he's leaving and he wonders if the reason
Is the beer that's in his belly, or the tear that's in his eye.

"Oh!" she said, "I suppose you seldom think about me,"
"Now" she said, "now that you've a fam'ly of your own;"
"Still" she said, "it's so blessed good to feel your body!"
"Lord!" she said "Casey, it's a shame to be alone!"
    

—Kris Kristofferson

Three Rings for the Elven Kings

Three Rings for the Elven–kings under the sky,
Seven for the Dwarf–lords in their halls of stone,
Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,
One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.
One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,
One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie. 
    

—J. R. R. Tolkien

Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down 
Of the big lake they called 'Gitche Gumee'
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of November turn gloomy
With a load of iron ore twenty–six thousand tons more
Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty.
That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed
When the gales of November came early. 
The ship was the pride of the American side
Coming back from some mill in Wisconsin
As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most
With a crew and good captain well seasoned
Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
When they left fully loaded for Cleveland
And later that night when the ship's bell rang
Could it be the north wind they'd been feelin'?

The wind in the wires made a tattle–tale sound
And a wave broke over the railing
And every man knew, as the captain did too,
T'was the witch of November come stealin'.
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
When the Gales of November came slashin'.
When afternoon came it was freezin' rain
In the face of a hurricane west wind.

When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck sayin'.
Fellas, it's too rough to feed ya.
At Seven P.M. a main hatchway caved in, he said
Fellas, it's been good t'know ya
The captain wired in he had water comin' in
And the good ship and crew was in peril.
And later that night when his lights went outta sight
Came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

Does any one know where the love of God goes
When the waves turn the minutes to hours?
The searches all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
If they'd put fifteen more miles behind her.
They might have split up or they might have capsized;
May have broke deep and took water.
And all that remains is the faces and the names
Of the wives and the sons and the daughters.

Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings
In the rooms of her ice–water mansion.
Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams;
The islands and bays are for sportsmen.
And farther below Lake Ontario
Takes in what Lake Erie can send her,
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know
With the Gales of November remembered.

In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed,
In the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral.
The church bell chimed till it rang twenty–nine times
For each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald.
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they call 'Gitche Gumee'.
Superior, they said, never gives up her dead
When the gales of November come early!
    

—Gordon Lightfoot

The Fairy Child

From the low white walls and the church's steeple,
From our little fields under grass or grain,
I'm gone away to the fairy people
I shall not come to the town again.

You may see a girl with my face and tresses,
You may see one come to my mother's door
Who may speak my words and may wear my dresses.
She will not be I, for I come no more.

I am gone, gone far, with the fairies roaming,
You may ask of me where the herons are
In the open marsh when the snipe are homing,
Or when no moon lights nor a single star.
On stormy nights when the streams are foaming
And a hint may come of my haunts afar,
With the reeds my floor and my roof the gloaming,
But I come no more to Ballynar.

Ask Father Ryan to read no verses
To call me back, for I am this day
From blessings far, and beyond curses.
No heaven shines where we ride away.

At speed unthought of in all your stables,
With the gods of old and the sons of Finn,
With the queens that reigned in the olden fables
And kings that won what a sword can win.
You may hear us streaming above your gables
On nights as still as a planet's spin;
But never stir from your chairs and tables
To call my name. I shall not come in.

For I am gone to the fairy people.
Make the most of that other child
Who prays with you by the village steeple
I am gone away to the woods and wild.

I am gone away to the open spaces,
And whither riding no man may tell;
But I shall look upon all your faces
No more in Heaven or Earth or Hell.
    

—Lord Dunsany

There but for Fortune

Show me a prison, show me a jail,
Show me a prisoner whose face has gone pale
And I'll show you a young man with so many reasons why
And there but for fortune, may go you or I 

Show me the alley, show me the train,
Show me a hobo who sleeps out in the rain,
And I'll show you a young man with so many reasons why
There but for fortune, may go you or go I — you and I.

Show me the whiskey stains on the floor,
Show me the dunken man as he stumbles out the door,
And I'll show you a young man with so many reasons why
There but for fortune, may go you or go I — you and I.

[Extra verse… written by Noel Paul Stookey]
Show me the famine, show me the frail
Eyes with no future that show how we failed
And I'll show you the children with so many reasons why
There but for fortune, go you or I.

Show me the country where bombs had to fall,
Show me the ruins of buildings once so tall,
And I'll show you a young land with so many reasons why
There but for fortune, go you or go I — you and I.
You and I,
There but for fortune, go you or go I — you and I.
    

—Phil Ochs

My Wild Birds Flying

When bayonet cactus thrusts its
Blossomy cap into desert sky,
A white cry announcing winter,
I remember my father.

Lost in my childhood, Clem
Perched forever, a wild bird
Fluttering in the cage of my head.
I could not set him free.

Years of search. I found him—–
Old soldier, spiny as ocotillo.
A few years left for laughter,
Return to our Alaskan youth.

He thought I was Mary Joe
Stepping across the years,
Hair tossed in scarlet band,
Dancing to his fiddle.

He was frail and ancient,
Flickered like fireflies of summer
In dreams he drove the malamutes
Through the land with Mary Joe.

In fleece–bright dawn
He cried out to her.
She came, bent into the light,
And took his hand.

Now in the silence of night
They come to me,

My wild birds flying.
    

—Mary TallMountain

Mr. Businessman

Itemize the things you covet
As you squander through your life
Bigger cars, bigger houses
Term insurance for your wife
Tuesday evenings with your harlot
And on Wednesdays it's your charlatan
analyst, he's high upon your list

You've got air conditioned sinuses
And dark disturbing doubts about religion
And you keep those cards and letters going out
While your secretary's tempting you
Your morals are exempting you from guilt and shame
Heaven knows you're not to blame

Chorus

You better, Take care of business Mr. Businessman
What's your plan?
Get down to business Mr. Businessman if you can
(Before it's too late and you throw your life away) 1st time

Did you see your children growing up today
And did you hear the music of their laughter
As they set about to play
Did you catch the fragrance of those roses in your garden
Did the morning sunlight warm your soul,
Brighten up your day
Do you qualify to be alive
or is the limit of your senses so as only to survive
Hey yeah.....

Spending counterfeit incentive
Wasting precious time and health
Placing value on the worthless
Disregarding priceless wealth
You can wheel and deal the best of them
And steal it from the rest of them
You know the score, their ethics are a bore

Eighty–six anesthetic crutches prop you to the top
Where the smiles are all synthetic
And the ulcers never stop
When they take that final inventory,
Yours will be the same sad story everywhere
No one will really care, no one more lonely than
This rich important man, let's have your autograph
Endorse your epitaph

Chorus
    

—Ray Stevens

Masters Of War

Come you masters of war
You that build all the guns
You that build the death planes
You that build the big bombs
You that hide behind walls
You that hide behind desks
I just want you to know
I can see through your masks

You that never done nothin'
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it's your little toy
You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets fly

Like Judas of old
You lie and deceive
A world war can be won
You want me to believe
But I see through your eyes
And I see through your brain
Like I see through the water
That runs down my drain

You fasten the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you set back and watch
When the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion
As young people's blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud

You've thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world
For threatening my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain't worth the blood
That runs in your veins

How much do I know
To talk out of turn
You might say that I'm young
You might say I'm unlearned
But there's one thing I know
Though I'm younger than you
Even Jesus would never
Forgive what you do

Let me ask you one question
Is your money that good
Will it buy you forgiveness
Do you think that it could
I think you will find
When your death takes its toll
All the money you made
Will never buy back your soul

And I hope that you die
And your death'll come soon
I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon
And I'll watch while you're lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I'll stand o'er your grave
'Til I'm sure that you're dead
    

—Bob Dylan

War

War
What is it good for
Absolutely nothing
War
What is it good for
Absolutely nothing
War is something that I despise
For it means destruction of innocent lives
For it means tears in thousands of mothers' eyes
When their sons go out to fight to give their lives

War
What is it good for
Absolutely nothing
Say it again
War
What is it good for
Absolutely nothing

War
It's nothing but a heartbreaker
War
Friend only to the undertaker
War is the enemy of all mankind
The thought of war blows my mind
Handed down from generation to generation
Induction destruction
Who wants to die

War
What is it good for
Absolutely nothing
Say it again
War
What is it good for
Absolutely nothing

War has shattered many young men's dreams
Made them disabled bitter and meanLife is too precious to be fighting wars
each day
War can't give life it can only take it away

War
It's nothing but a heartbreaker
War
Friend only to the undertaker
Peace love and understanding
There must be some place for these things today
They say we must fight to keep our freedom
But Lord there's gotta be a better way
That's better than
War

War
What is it good for
Absolutely nothing
Say it again
War
What is it good for
Absolutely nothing
    

—Barrett Strong

Rockin' In The Free World

There's colors on the street 
Red, white and blue 
People shufflin' their feet 
People sleepin' in their shoes 
But there's a warnin' sign on the road ahead 
There's a lot of people sayin' we'd be better off dead 
Don't feel like Satan, but I am to them 
So I try to forget it, any way I can.

Keep on rockin' in the free world, 
Keep on rockin' in the free world 
Keep on rockin' in the free world, 
Keep on rockin' in the free world.

I see a woman in the night 
With a baby in her hand 
Under an old street light 
Near a garbage can 
Now she puts the kid away, and she's gone to get a hit 
She hates her life, and what she's done to it 
There's one more kid that will never go to school 
Never get to fall in love, never get to be cool.

Keep on rockin' in the free world, 
Keep on rockin' in the free world 
Keep on rockin' in the free world, 
Keep on rockin' in the free world.

We got a thousand points of light 
For the homeless man 
We got a kinder, gentler, 
Machine gun hand 
We got department stores and toilet paper 
Got styrofoam boxes for the ozone layer 
Got a man of the people, says keep hope alive 
Got fuel to burn, got roads to drive. 
Keep on rockin' in the free world, 
Keep on rockin' in the free world 
Keep on rockin' in the free world, 
Keep on rockin' in the free world.
    

—Neil Young

Flower Lady

Millionaires and paupers walk the hungry streets
Rich and poor companions of the restless beat
Strangers in a foreign land
Strike a match with trembling hand
Learn too much to ever understand
But nobody's buying flowers from the flower lady

Lover's quarrel, snarl away their happiness
Kissed crumble in a web of lonliness
It's written by the poison pen
Voices break before they bend
The door is slammed
It's over, once again
But nobody's buying flowers from the flower lady

Poets agonize, they cannot find the words
And the stone stares at the sculptor asks "are you absurd?"
The painter paints his brushes back
Through the canvas runs a crack
Portrait of the pain never answers back
But nobody's buying flowers from the flower lady

Soldiers, disillusioned, come home from the war
Sarcastic students tell them not to fight no more
And they argue through the night
Black is black and white is white
Walk away both knowing they are right
But nobody's buying flowers from the flower lady

Smoke dreams of escaping souls are drifting by
Dull the pain of living as they slowly die
Smiles change into a sneer
washed away by whiskey tears
In the quicksand of their mind they disappear
Still nobody's buying flowers from the flower lady

Feeble, aged, people almost to their knees
Complain about the present using memories
Never found their pot of gold
Wrinkled hands pound weary holes
Each line screams out you're old, you're old, you're old
But nobody's buying flowers from the flower lady

And the flower lady hobbles home without a sale
Tattered shreds of petals leave a fading trail
Not a pause to hold a rose
Even she no longer knows
The lamp goes out the evening now is closed
And nobody's buying flowers from the flower lady
    

—Phil Ochs

Mercy Now

My father could use a littler mercy now
The results of his labor
Fall and rot slowly on the ground
His work is almost over
It won't be long and he won't be around
I love my father, and he could use some mercy now

My brother could use a little mercy now
He's a stranger to freedom
He's shackled to his fears and doubts
The pain that he lives in is
Almost more than living will allow
I love my brother, and he could use a little mercy now

My church and my country could use a little mercy now
As they sink into a poisened pit
That's going to take forever to climb out
They carry the weight of the faithful
Who follow them down
I love my church and country, and they could use a little mercy now

Every living thing thing could use a little mercy now
Only the hand of grace can end the race
Towards another mushroom cloud
People in power, well
They'll do anything to keep their crown
I love life, and life itself could use a little mercy now

Yeah, we all could use a little mercy now
I know we don't deserve it
But we need it anyhow
We hang in the balance
Dangle 'tween hell and hallowed ground
Every single one of us could use a some mercy now
Every single one of us could use a some mercy now
Every single one of us could use a some mercy now
    

—Mary Gauthier

Welcome Home

Now when the boys came home, Annie cried and Annie cheered
She'd been on her own for a long and lonely year
Living for his letters from far away Vietnam
And dreading the official telegram

So she was waiting at the station when his train came rolling in
She ached with anticipation of holding him again
And suddenly he was standing there in his crumpled uniform
In a heartbeat she was in his arms

Welcome home, boys, welcome home
Don't you know, you've been gone too long
Did you wonder, over there,
when you were tired, when you were scared,
If your country really cared, welcome home

When a nation goes to war, everyone's a casualty
Some are maimed and scarred, most have wounds you cannot see
So in place of the man that she had known,
Annie found instead, a sick and troubled stranger in her bed

But she was stubborn, she was lovin', so she stayed all through the years
The hard times and the drinking, the nightmares and the tears
For where hate is muddy quicksand, love is tempered steel
Annie waited for his wounds to heal

Welcome home, boys, welcome home
Don't you know, you've been gone too long


We're just so glad that you're alive
And only you will wonder why
You lived when others died, welcome home

So on a sunny Sydney morning, I heard old war drums beat
and watched the boys come marching, down the city street*
To claim their place in the nation's heart
that their blood and pain had earned
A nation that rejoiced in their return

And if the day helped to heal some wounds is a matter of debate
For some it had come none too soon, for others far too late
But I found myself hoping, as the boys went marching past
That for them the war was over, at last

Welcome home, boys, welcome home
Don't you know, you've been gone too long
What you went through in Vietnam, we can't begin to understand
But to each and every man, welcome home

Welcome home, boys, welcome home
Don't you know, you've been gone too long
May the years bring you release, as the memories decrease
May you find some kind of peace, welcome home
May you find some kind of peace, welcome home
    

—Eric Bogle

Way Before The Time Of Towns

Way before the time of towns,
when men were wild and life was free;
My father's father, great grandfather,
whose ancestors did see
the morning star, the rainbow sign;
early morn for all mankind.
The God of life and growing things,
the rising sun and me.

Way before the time of towns
when men carved tales
on great stone drums.
My father's father, great grandfather,
whose ancestors did sing
about the wild beast they did fight;
The ones that came to kill at night
and how the early morning light
the rising sun did bring.

It was way before the time of towns
when women danced
and men looked down
and gazed at them with open eyes
and what they saw was fair.
They laughed at how the children looked
bathing in a forest brook
and they were proud
and they were kings
And Love was everywhere.
and they were kings
And Love was everywhere.
    

—Hoyt Axton

A Day in the Life

I read the news today oh boy
about a lucky man who made the grade
and though the news was rather sad
well i just had to laugh
i saw the photograph
he blew his mind out in a car
he didn't notice that the lights had changed
a crowd of people stood and stared
thev'd seen his face before
nobody was really sure
if he was from the house of lords

I saw a film today oh boy
the english Army had just won the war
a crowd of people turned away
but i just had to look
having read the book
i'd love to turn you on woke up got out of bed
dragged a comb across my head
found my way downstairs and drank a cup
and looking up i noticed i was late
found my coat and grabbed my hat
made the bus in secounds flat
found my way upstairs and had a smoke
and somebody spoke and i went into a dream

I heard the news today oh boy
four thousand holes in blackburn Lancashire
and though the holes were rather small
they had to count them all
now they know how many holes it takes
to fill the Albert Hall
i'd love to turn you onn. 
    

—The Beatles

Boots of Spanish Leather

Oh, I'm sailin' away my own true love,
I'm sailin' away in the morning.
Is there something I can send you from across the sea,
From the place that I'll be landing?

No, there's nothin' you can send me, my own true love,
There's nothin' I wish to be ownin'.
Just carry yourself back to me unspoiled,
From across that lonesome ocean.

Oh, but I just thought you might want something fine
Made of silver or of golden,
Either from the mountains of Madrid
Or from the coast of Barcelona.

Oh, but if I had the stars from the darkest night
And the diamonds from the deepest ocean,
I'd forsake them all for your sweet kiss,
For that's all I'm wishin' to be ownin'.

That I might be gone a long time
And it's only that I'm askin',
Is there something I can send you to remember me by,
To make your time more easy passin'.

Oh, how can, how can you ask me again,
It only brings me sorrow.
The same thing I want from you today,
I would want again tomorrow.

I got a letter on a lonesome day,
It was from her ship a–sailin',
Saying I don't know when I'll be comin' back again,
It depends on how I'm a–feelin'.

Well, if you, my love, must think that–a–way,
I'm sure your mind is roamin'.
I'm sure your heart is not with me,
But with the country to where you're goin'.

So take heed, take heed of the western wind,
Take heed of the stormy weather.
And yes, there's something you can send back to me,
Spanish boots of Spanish leather.
    

—Bob Dylan

The Echoing Green

The sun does arise,
And make happy the skies.
The merry bells ring
To welcome the spring.
The skylark and thrush,
The birds of the bush,
Sing louder around,
To the bells' cheerful sound,
While our sports shall be seen
On the echoing green. 

Old John with white hair
Does laugh away care,
Sitting under the oak,
Among the old folk.
They laugh at our play,
And soon they all say:
'Such, such were the joys
When we all, girls and boys,
In our youth–time were seen
On the echoing green.'

Till the little ones weary
No more can be merry;
The sun does descend,
And our sports have an end.
Round the laps of their mother
Many sisters and brothers,
Like birds in their nest,
Are ready for rest;
And sport no more seen
On the darkening green. 
    

—William Blake

Lion In The Winter

Like a lion in the winter i can hear the summer call
Like a ship out on the ocean made of stone
And sometimes when i get lonely i can swear i hear you call
Oh the nights are cold when you don't keep me warm

And when i first saw you i first loved you
With a song that i sang to the fire in your eyes
But somebody told you that it wouldn't be easy
And you carried that lie for the devil to sing

Some sail rivers deep and muddy some sail rivers clear and cold
But the river that i'm sailin' goes to sea
And sometimes i do grow weary sometimes i feel old
And sometimes i wonder if you think of me

And when i first saw you i first loved you…
Like a lion in the winter i can hear the summer call…
And when i first saw you i first loved you...
    

—Hoyt Axton

Tam Lin

O I forbid you, maidens a'
That wear gowd on your hair
To come or gae by Carterhaugh
For young Tam–lin is there.

There's nane that gaes by Carterhaugh
But they leave him a wad;
Either their rings or green mantles
Or else their maidenhead.

Janet has kilted her green kirtle,
A little aboon her knee;
And she's broded up her yellow hair
A little aboon her bree;
And she's awa' to Carterhaugh
As fast as she can hie.

When she cam to Carterhaugh
Tam–lin was at the well
And there she fand his steed standing
But away was himsel.

She had na' pu'd a double rose
A rose but only tway,
Till up then started young Tam–lin,
Says, Lady, thou's pu' nae mae.

Why pu's thou the rose, Janet
And breaks thou the wand?
Or why comes thou to Carterhaugh
Withoutten my command?

Carterhaugh it is my ain,
My daddie gave it me;
I'll come and gang by Carterhaugh
And ask nae leave at thee.

Janet has kilted her green kirtle
A little aboon her knee,
And she has snooded her yellow hair,
A little aboon her bree,
And she is to her father's ha
As fast as she can hie.

Four and twenty ladies fair
Were playing at the ba'
And out then cam the fair Janet,
Ance the flower amang them a'

Four and twenty ladies fair
Were playing at the chess,
And out then cam the fair Janet,
As green as onie glass.    
    

—Traditional

Mothers, daughters, wives

The first time it was fathers,
The last time it was sons
And in between your husbands
Marched away with drums and guns.
And you never thought to question.
You just went on with your lives.
Cause all they taught you who to be,
Was mothers, daughters, wives.

You can only just remember
The tears your mother shed
As they sat and read their papers
Through the lists and lists of dead.
And the gold frames held the photograghs
That mothers kissed each night.
And the door frames held the shocked
And silent strangers from the fight.

It was twenty–one years later,
With children of your own.
The trumpets sounded once again,
And the soldier boys were gone.
And you drove their trucks and made their guns
And tended to their wounds.
And at night you kissed their photographs
And prayed for safe returns.

And after it was over
You had to learn again 
To be just wives and mothers,
When you'd done the work of men.
So you worked to help the needy
And you never trod on toes.
And the photos on the pianos
Struck a happy family pose.

Then your daughters grew to women 
And your little boys to men.
And you prayed that you were dreaming
When the call came up again.
But you proudly smiled and held your tears
As they bravely waved goodbye.
And the photos on the mantel pieces
Always made you cry.

And now you're getting older
And in time the photos fade.
And in widowhood you sit back
And reflect on the parade.
Of the passing of your memories
As your daughters change their lives.
Seeing more to our existence
Than just mothers, daughters, wives.

And you believed them!
    

—Judy Small

Guy Fawkes Day Poem

Remember, remember, the 5th of November
The Gunpowder Treason and plot ;
I know of no reason why Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes,
'Twas his intent.
To blow up the King and the Parliament.
Three score barrels of powder below.
Poor old England to overthrow.
By God's providence he was catch'd,
With a dark lantern and burning match

Holloa boys, Holloa boys, let the bells ring
Holloa boys, Holloa boys, God save the King!

Hip hip Hoorah !
Hip hip Hoorah !

A penny loaf to feed ol'Pope,
A farthing cheese to choke him.
A pint of beer to rinse it down,
A faggot of sticks to burn him.
Burn him in a tub of tar,'
Burn him like a blazing star.
Burn his body from his head,
Then we'll say: ol'Pope is dead.
    

—Traditional

The New Frontier

Chorus

Some to the rivers and some to the sea. Some to the soil that our fathers made free.
Then on to the stars in the heav'ns for to see. This is the new frontier. This is the new frontier.

Let the word go forth from this day on. A new generation has been born.
Born to the task to keep us free, but proud of the rights of the home country.
This is the new frontier. This is the new frontier.

Chorus

Let us begin for it shall take long. Let ev'ry man sing out freedom's song.
Not for ourselves that we take this stand. Now it's the world and the freedom of man.
This is the new frontier. This is the new frontier.

The day will come. It's got to be. The day that we may never see.
When man for man and town for town must bring the peace that shall resound.
This is the new frontier. This is the new frontier.
    

—John Stewart

Acquainted with the Night

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain — and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good–bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
O luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
    

—Robert Frost

A Germ Destroyer

Pleasant it is for the Little Tin Gods,
When great Jove nods;
But Little Tin Gods make their little mistakes
In missing the hour when great Jove wakes.


As a general rule, it is inexpedient to meddle with questions of
State in a land where men are highly paid to work them out for you.
This tale is a justifiable exception.

Once in every five years, as you know, we indent for a new Viceroy;
and each Viceroy imports, with the rest of his baggage, a Private
Secretary, who may or may not be the real Viceroy, just as Fate
ordains. Fate looks after the Indian Empire because it is so big
and so helpless.

There was a Viceroy once, who brought out with him a turbulent
Private Secretary—a hard man with a soft manner and a morbid
passion for work. This Secretary was called Wonder—John Fennil
Wonder. The Viceroy possessed no name—nothing but a string of
counties and two–thirds of the alphabet after them. He said, in
confidence, that he was the electro–plated figurehead of a golden
administration, and he watched in a dreamy, amused way Wonder's
attempts to draw matters which were entirely outside his province
into his own hands. "When we are all cherubims together," said His
Excellency once, my dear, good friend Wonder will head the
conspiracy for plucking out Gabriel's tail–feathers or stealing
Peter's keys. THEN I shall report him."

But, though the Viceroy did nothing to check Wonder's
officiousness, other people said unpleasant things. Maybe the
Members of Council began it; but, finally, all Simla agreed that
there was "too much Wonder, and too little Viceroy," in that
regime. Wonder was always quoting "His Excellency." It was "His
Excellency this," "His Excellency that," "In the opinion of His
Excellency," and so on. The Viceroy smiled; but he did not heed.
He said that, so long as his old men squabbled with his "dear, good
Wonder," they might be induced to leave the "Immemorial East" in
peace.

"No wise man has a policy," said the Viceroy. "A Policy is the
blackmail levied on the Fool by the Unforeseen. I am not the
former, and I do not believe in the latter."

I do not quite see what this means, unless it refers to an
Insurance Policy. Perhaps it was the Viceroy's way of saying:—
"Lie low."

That season, came up to Simla one of these crazy people with only a
single idea. These are the men who make things move; but they are
not nice to talk to. This man's name was Mellish, and he had lived
for fifteen years on land of his own, in Lower Bengal, studying
cholera. He held that cholera was a germ that propagated itself as
it flew through a muggy atmosphere; and stuck in the branches of
trees like a wool–flake. The germ could be rendered sterile, he
said, by "Mellish's Own Invincible Fumigatory"—a heavy violet–
black powder—"the result of fifteen years' scientific
investigation, Sir!"

Inventors seem very much alike as a caste. They talk loudly,
especially about "conspiracies of monopolists;" they beat upon the
table with their fists; and they secrete fragments of their
inventions about their persons.

Mellish said that there was a Medical "Ring" at Simla, headed by
the Surgeon–General, who was in league, apparently, with all the
Hospital Assistants in the Empire. I forget exactly how he proved
it, but it had something to do with "skulking up to the Hills;" and
what Mellish wanted was the independent evidence of the Viceroy—
"Steward of our Most Gracious Majesty the Queen, Sir." So Mellish
went up to Simla, with eighty–four pounds of Fumigatory in his
trunk, to speak to the Viceroy and to show him the merits of the
invention.

But it is easier to see a Viceroy than to talk to him, unless you
chance to be as important as Mellishe of Madras. He was a six–
thousand–rupee man, so great that his daughters never "married."
They "contracted alliances." He himself was not paid. He
"received emoluments," and his journeys about the country were
"tours of observation." His business was to stir up the people in
Madras with a long pole—as you stir up stench in a pond—and the
people had to come up out of their comfortable old ways and gasp:—
"This is Enlightenment and progress. Isn't it fine!" Then they
gave Mellishe statues and jasmine garlands, in the hope of getting
rid of him.

Mellishe came up to Simla "to confer with the Viceroy." That was
one of his perquisites. The Viceroy knew nothing of Mellishe
except that he was "one of those middle–class deities who seem
necessary to the spiritual comfort of this Paradise of the Middle–
classes," and that, in all probability, he had "suggested,
designed, founded, and endowed all the public institutions in
Madras." Which proves that His Excellency, though dreamy, had
experience of the ways of six–thousand–rupee men.

Mellishe's name was E. Mellishe and Mellish's was E. S. Mellish,
and they were both staying at the same hotel, and the Fate that
looks after the Indian Empire ordained that Wonder should blunder
and drop the final "e;" that the Chaprassi should help him, and
that the note which ran: "Dear Mr. Mellish.—Can you set aside your
other engagements and lunch with us at two to–morrow? His
Excellency has an hour at your disposal then," should be given to
Mellish with the Fumigatory. He nearly wept with pride and
delight, and at the appointed hour cantered off to Peterhoff, a big
paper–bag full of the Fumigatory in his coat–tail pockets. He had
his chance, and he meant to make the most of it. Mellishe of
Madras had been so portentously solemn about his "conference," that
Wonder had arranged for a private tiffin—no A.–D. C.'s, no Wonder,
no one but the Viceroy, who said plaintively that he feared being
left alone with unmuzzled autocrats like the great Mellishe of
Madras.

But his guest did not bore the Viceroy. On the contrary, he amused
him. Mellish was nervously anxious to go straight to his
Fumigatory, and talked at random until tiffin was over and His
Excellency asked him to smoke. The Viceroy was pleased with Mellish
because he did not talk "shop."

As soon as the cheroots were lit, Mellish spoke like a man;
beginning with his cholera–theory, reviewing his fifteen years'
"scientific labors," the machinations of the "Simla Ring," and the
excellence of his Fumigatory, while the Viceroy watched him between
half–shut eyes and thought: "Evidently, this is the wrong tiger; but
it is an original animal." Mellish's hair was standing on end with
excitement, and he stammered. He began groping in his coat–tails
and, before the Viceroy knew what was about to happen, he had tipped
a bagful of his powder into the big silver ash–tray.

"J–j–judge for yourself, Sir," said Mellish. "Y' Excellency shall
judge for yourself! Absolutely infallible, on my honor."

He plunged the lighted end of his cigar into the powder, which began
to smoke like a volcano, and send up fat, greasy wreaths of copper–
colored smoke. In five seconds the room was filled with a most
pungent and sickening stench—a reek that took fierce hold of the
trap of your windpipe and shut it. The powder then hissed and
fizzed, and sent out blue and green sparks, and the smoke rose till
you could neither see, nor breathe, nor gasp. Mellish, however, was
used to it.

"Nitrate of strontia," he shouted; "baryta, bone–meal, etcetera!
Thousand cubic feet smoke per cubic inch. Not a germ could live—
not a germ, Y' Excellency!"

But His Excellency had fled, and was coughing at the foot of the
stairs, while all Peterhoff hummed like a hive. Red Lancers came
in, and the Head Chaprassi, who speaks English, came in, and mace–
bearers came in, and ladies ran downstairs screaming "fire;" for the
smoke was drifting through the house and oozing out of the windows,
and bellying along the verandahs, and wreathing and writhing across
the gardens. No one could enter the room where Mellish was
lecturing on his Fumigatory, till that unspeakable powder had burned
itself out.

Then an Aide–de–Camp, who desired the V. C., rushed through the
rolling clouds and hauled Mellish into the hall. The Viceroy was
prostrate with laughter, and could only waggle his hands feebly at
Mellish, who was shaking a fresh bagful of powder at him.

"Glorious! Glorious!" sobbed his Excellency. "Not a germ, as you
justly observe, could exist! I can swear it. A magnificent
success!"

Then he laughed till the tears came, and Wonder, who had caught the
real Mellishe snorting on the Mall, entered and was deeply shocked
at the scene. But the Viceroy was delighted, because he saw that
Wonder would presently depart. Mellish with the Fumigatory was also
pleased, for he felt that he had smashed the Simla Medical "Ring."

. . . . . . . . .

Few men could tell a story like His Excellency when he took the
trouble, and the account of "my dear, good Wonder's friend with the
powder" went the round of Simla, and flippant folk made Wonder
unhappy by their remarks.

But His Excellency told the tale once too often—for Wonder. As he
meant to do. It was at a Seepee Picnic. Wonder was sitting just
behind the Viceroy.

"And I really thought for a moment," wound up His Excellency, "that
my dear, good Wonder had hired an assassin to clear his way to the
throne!"

Every one laughed; but there was a delicate subtinkle in the
Viceroy's tone which Wonder understood. He found that his health
was giving way; and the Viceroy allowed him to go, and presented him
with a flaming "character" for use at Home among big people.

"My fault entirely," said His Excellency, in after seasons, with a
twinkling in his eye. "My inconsistency must always have been
distasteful to such a masterly man."
    

—Rudyard Kipling

The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood–dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? 
    

—William Butler Yeats

And Death Shall Have No Dominion

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.
    

—Dylan Thomas

Doctor Faustus

Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it.
Think’st thou that I saw the face of God
And tasted the eternal joys of heaven,
Am not tormented with ten thousand hells
In being deprived of everlasting bliss?”

—Act 1, Scene 3, Lines 76–80: Mephostophilis to Faustus
    

—Christopher Marlowe

Vigilante Man

Have you seen that vigilante man? 
Have you seen that vigilante man? 
Have you seen that vigilante man?
I've been hearin' his name all over this land. 

Well, what is a vigilante man? 
Oh, what is a vigilante man? 
Has he got a gun and a club in his hand? 
Oh, what is a vigilante man? 

Rainy night down in the engine house, 
Sleepin' just as still as a mouse, 
A man came along and he chased us out in the rain. 
Was that the vigilante man? 

Stormy days we passed the time away, 
A sleepin' in some good warm place. 
A man came in and we give him a little race. 
Was that a vigilante man? 

Preacher Casey was just a working man, 
And he said, "Unite the working man." 
He was killed in the river by some strange man. 
Was that a vigilante man? 

Oh, why does a vigilante man? 
Oh, why does a vigilante man? 
Carry a sawed–off shot–gun in his hand? 
Would he shoot his brother and sister down? 

I rambled around from town to town, 
I rambled around from town to town, 
And they herded us out like a wild herd of cattle. 
Was that the vigilante man? 

Have you seen that vigilante man? 
Have you seen that vigilante man? 
Have you seen that vigilante man? 
I've been hearin' his name all over this land.
    

—Woody Guthrie

Coast Of California

There is treasure hidden there, on the coast of California. El Diego hid it there when the Clera ran aground
On the coast of California, deep within a cave that's never seen.
Treasure, stolen from the Incas, we could capture for the Queen.

There's a mountain in the ocean on the coast of California and deep within its side the tides of night alone reveal
El Diego's hidden cave where we'll plunder the riches of Grenada.
While the Spaniard, blind with pleasure plays ashore in Ensenada.

We will sail before the dawn along the coast of California. El Diego is delayed. The wine and woman hold their sway
And our map is clearly drawn to the dark and stormy shore.
On the coast of California lies a mighty prize of war.
Tell not a soul that you have seen me. Breathe not a word of what I say. (Repeat line)
    

—Dave Guard and Jane Bowers

The Chariot

Because I could not stop for Death, 
He kindly stopped for me; 
The carriage held but just ourselves 
And Immortality. 

We slowly drove, he knew no haste, 
And I had put away 
My labor, and my leisure too, 
For his civility. 

We passed the school where children played, 
Their lessons scarcely done; 
We passed the fields of grazing grain, 
We passed the setting sun. 

We paused before a house that seemed 
A swelling of the ground; 
The roof was scarcely visible 
The cornice but a mound. 

Since then 't is centuries; but each 
Feels shorter than the day 
I first surmised the horses' heads 
Were toward eternity. 
    

—Emily Dickison

My Dear and only Love.

He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
That dares not put it to the touch
To gain or lose it all.
    

—James Graham, Marquess of Montrose

The Man Comes Around

And I heard, as it were, the noise of thunder: One of the four 
beasts saying: "Come and see." And I saw. And behold, a white horse. 
There's a man goin' 'round takin' names. An' he decides who to free 
and who to blame. Everybody won't be treated all the same. There'll 
be a golden ladder reaching down. When the man comes around. 

The hairs on your arm will stand up. At the terror in each sip 
and in each sup. For you partake of that last offered cup, Or 
disappear into the potter's ground. When the man comes around. 

Hear the trumpets, hear the pipers. One hundred million angels singin'. 
Multitudes are marching to the big kettle drum. Voices callin', voices 
cryin'. Some are born an' some are dyin'. It's Alpha's and Omega's Kingdom come. 

And the whirlwind is in the thorn tree. The virgins are all trimming 
their wicks. The whirlwind is in the thorn tree. It's hard for thee 
to kick against the pricks. 

Till Armageddon, no Shalam, no Shalom. Then the father hen will call 
his chickens home. The wise men will bow down before the throne. And 
at his feet they'll cast their golden crown. When the man comes around. 

Whoever is unjust, let him be unjust still. Whoever is righteous, let 
him be righteous still. Whoever is filthy, let him be filthy still. 
Listen to the words long written down, When the man comes around. 

Hear the trumpets, hear the pipers. One hundred million angels singin'. 
Multitudes are marchin' to the big kettle drum. Voices callin', voices 
cryin'. Some are born an' some are dyin'. It's Alpha's and Omega's Kingdom come. 

And the whirlwind is in the thorn tree. The virgins are all trimming 
their wicks. The whirlwind is in the thorn tree. It's hard for thee 
to kick against the pricks. 

In measured hundredweight and penny pound. When the man comes around. 

And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts, And I looked 
and behold: a pale horse. And his name, that sat on him, was 
Death. And Hell followed with him. 
    

—Johnny Cash

Bottle Of Wine

Ramblin' around this dirty old town
Singin' for nickels and dimes
Times getting rough I ain't got enough
To buy me a bottle of wine

Bottle of wine, fruit of the vine
When you gonna let me get sober
Leave me along, let me go home
I wann'a go back and start over

Little hotel, older than Hell
Cold and as dark as a mine
Blanket so thin, I lie there and grin
Buy me little bottle of wine

Bottle of wine, fruit of the vine
When you gonna let me get sober
Leave me along, let me go home
I wann'a go back and start over

Aches in my head, bugs in my bed
Pants so old that they shine
Out on the street, tell the people I meet
Won'ch buy me a bottle of wine

Bottle of wine, fruit of the vine
When you gonna let me get sober
Leave me along, let me go home
I wann'a go back and start over

Teacher must teach, and the preacher must preach
Miner must dig in the mine
I ride the rods, trusting in God
And hugging my bottle of wine

Bottle of wine, fruit of the vine
When you gonna let me get sober
Leave me along, let me go home
I wann'a go back and start over
    

—Tom Paxton

Five Hundred Miles

If you miss the train I'm on,
You will know that I am gone, 
You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles.
A hundred miles, a hundred miles,
A hundred miles, a hundred miles,
you can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles.

Lord, I'm one, Lord, I'm two, Lord,
I'm three, Lord, I'm four, Lord,
I'm five hundred miles a way from home.
Away from home, away from home,
Away from home, away from home,
Lord, I'm five hundred miles away from home.
  Not a shirt on my back,
Not a penny to my name.
Lord, I can't go back home this–a way.
This–a way, this–a way,
This–a way, this–a way,
Lord, I can't go back home this–a way.

If you miss the train I'm on,
You will know that I am gone,
You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles.
A hundred miles, a hundred miles,
A hundred miles, a hundred miles,
You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles.
    

—Hoyt Axton

I Saw My Country'S Flag Go Down

Chorus: 

I saw my country's flag go down, (repeat)
So many people standing silent all around,
I saw my country's flag go down.

Red for the blood of a young man true and brave,
White for the cross out on his grave,
Blue for the sky he nevermore will see,
And the stars for a crown of victory.

Red for blind hatred that shatters all our dreams,
White for the love that still redeems,
Blue for the patriots that mourn him everywhere,
And the stars are a cross we now must bear.

Red for the deserts where it seldom rains,
White for the snow out on the plains,
Blue for the mountains bright waters tumbling down,
And the stars for each state in the union bound.
    

—Utah Phillips

Mrs. Rita

Oh kind Mrs. Rita, I never will tell
The way that you keep us poor girls here in hell
And I never will sneak to the News Of The World
Oh kind Mrs. Rita, sincere Mrs. Rita
A friend to a stranger, a ma to a girl

With the chalking and cutting and stitching and such
We earn what we earn and it isn't too much
Enough to keep half a step higher than trash
Oh kind Mrs. Rita, sincere Mrs. Rita
So loose with the purse strings, so free with the cash

Some guardian angel take pity and sweep me away
Seems I work every hour God sends in a day
To line the pockets of Rita O'Connor
To line the pockets of Rita O'Connor

Oh you can't call it stealing or helping yourself
If the odd pair of nylons should fall off the shelf
And fall into somebody's handbag, let's say
Oh kind Mrs. Rita, sincere Mrs. Rita
It sort of makes up for the pitiful pay

Oh kind Mrs. Rita, sincere Mrs Rita.
God keep and preserve you, we'll love you always
    

—Richard Thompson

When I am dead, my dearest

When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.
    

—Christina Rossetti

Something of Value

I can see the Southern Cross tonight
While here below, bathed in it's light
The Dreamtime land safe, snug and tight is sleeping
Wrapped in complacency and contentedness
No discordant sounds disturb our rest
While the gentle souls we've dispossesed are weeping

We took it all by the gun and the sword
By the right of our race and in the name of our God
Though as outcasts ourselves, transported, condemned
None knew better than we the injustice of men

We took it all in our hunger and need
Enslaved by our past and consumed by our greed
And left them to beg for the scraps at our door
While we called them drunkards and wasters and whores
They've been drowning, drowning in their tears
for the last two hundread years

From England's New Jerusalem
to the Dreamtime land the tall ships came
with human cattle in convict chains to bind them
In the grim fight just to stay alive
Dreams must struggle to survive
Few could see the glitt'ring prize before them

We had it all in the palm of our hand
A new hope, a new dream, a new life, a new land
One last chance to break from the chains of the past
To build something of value, build something to last

This ancient land was a vast empty page
Waiting for the great writers of a brand new age
The future was ours to protect or profane
A paradise lost, a paradise gained
Now tell me, is paradise here,
after two hundred years?

So now, beneath the Southern Cross
it's time to tally up the cost
of what we've gained and what we've lost forever
Though much has gone we can't replace
Those of us who love this place
Together now, must turn and face the future

So here's to us all, we're frail humankind
who wander through life mostly helpless and blind
To our courage and cowardice, our humor and pain
Our hundred steps forward, ninety–nine back again

Yes here's to us all, the wise and the fools
The indifferent, the caring, the kind and the cruel
As we march to the beat of an uncertain drum
Stumbling towards what we may yet become
Towards the brave new frontiers,
of the next two hundred years
    

—Eric Bogle

Sympathy For The Devil

Please allow me to introduce myself
I'm a man of wealth and taste
I've been around for a long long year stolen many man's soul and faith
I was around when Jesus Christ had His moment of doubt and pain
Made damn sure that Pilate washed his hands and sealed His fate
Pleased to meet you hope you guess my name
But what's puzzling you is the nature of my game 

Stuck around St. Petersburg when I saw it was a time for a change
Killed the Tzar and his ministers, Anastasia screamed in vain
I rode a tank held a gen'rals rank when the blitzkrieg
raged and the bodies stank
Pleased to meet you hope you guess my name. Oh yeah
Ah what's puzzling you is the nature of my game. Oh yeah 

I watched the glee while your kings and queens fought for
ten decades for the Gods they made
I shouted out "Who killed the Kennedy's?" when after all
it was you and me
Let me please intruduce myself I'm a man of wealth and taste
And I lay traps for troubadors who get killed before they reach Bombay
Pleased to meet you hope you guess my name. Oh yeah
But what's puzzling you is the nature of my game. Oh yeah
Pleased to meet you hope you guess my name
But what's puzzling you is the nature of my game 

Just as every cop is a criminal and all the sinners, Saints
as heads is tails, just call me Lucifer 'cause I'm in need
of some restraint
So if you meet me, have some courtesy have some sympathy
and some taste
Use all your well learned politesse or I'll lay your soul to waste
Pleased to meet you hope you guess my name
But what's puzzling you is the nature of my game 
    

—Rolling Stones

Greenback Dollar

Some people say I'm a no–count
Others say I'm no good
But I'm just a natural born travelin' man
Doin' what I think I should

Chorus

And I don't give a damn about a greenback dollar
Spend it as fast as I can
For a wailin' song and a good guitar
The only things that I understand

When I was a little baby
My momma she said "son"
Travel where you will and grow to be a man
and sing what must be sung

Chorus

Now that I'm a grown man
I've traveled here and there
And I've learned that a bottle of brandy and a song
Are the only ones who care

Chorus   
    

—Hoyt Axton

Johnny Cope

Cope sent a challenge frae Dunbar, sayin "Charlie meet me an' ye daur; 
An' I'll learn ye the airt o' war, if ye'll meet me in the morning" 

O Hey! Johnnie Cope are ye waukin' yet? Or are your drums a–beating yet? 
If ye were waukin' I wad wait, Tae gang tae the coals in the morning 

When Charlie looked the letter upon, he drew his sword and scabbard from, 
Come, follow me, my merry men, and we'll meet Johnnie Cope in the morning 
Now Johnnie, be as good as your word, come, let us try baith fire and sword, 
And dinna flee like a frichted bird, that's chased frae its nest i' the morning 

When Johnnie Cope he heard o' this, he thocht it wouldna be amiss, 
Tae hae a horse in readiness, tae flee awa in the morning 

Fye now, Johnnie, get up an' rin, the Highland bagpipes mak' a din, 
It's better tae sleep in a hale skin, for it will be a bluidie morning 

When Johnnie Cope tae Dunbar cam, they speired at him, "Where's a' your men?" 
"The de'il confound me gin I ken, for I left them a' in the morning" 

Now Johnnie, troth ye werena blate, tae come wi' news o' your ain defeat, 
And leave your men in sic a strait, sae early in the morning 

In faith, quo Johnnie, I got sic flegs wi' their claymores an' philabegs, 
Gin I face them again, de'il brak my legs, so I wish you a' good morning
    

—Traditional

We're Only In It for the Money

ARE YOU HUNG UP?
ARE YOU HUNG UP?
ARE YOU HUNG UP?
ARE YOU HUNG UP?

WHO NEEDS THE PEACE CORPS?
What's there to live for?
Who needs the peace corps?
Think I'll just DROP OUT
I'll go to Frisco
Buy a wig & sleep
On Owsley's floor
Walked past the wig store
Danced at the Fillmore
I'm completely stoned
I'm hippy & I'm trippy
I'm a gypsy on my own
I'll stay a week & the crabs
Take a bus back home
I'm really just a phony
But forgive me
'Cause I'm stoned
Every town must have a place
Where phony hippies meet
Psychedelic dungeons
Popping up every street
GO TO SAN FRANCISCO   
    

—Frank Zappa

Angels With Guns

Across cold water lies the sun
For now the journey has begun
The soldiers marching one by one
With golden light and silver drums
For the battle they have come

Oh, and out of the sun
Come angels with guns
Oh, and out of the sun
Come angels with guns
Angels with guns

And there is thunder in the east
Mark the time that the wind released
The birds of prey that shadow Spain
Who stand a witness to the rain
And there is movement in the west
For they are gathering the blessed
Speaking as one

Oh, and out of the sun
Come angels with guns
Oh, and out of the sun
Come angels with guns
Oh, and out of the sun
Come angels with guns
Oh, and out of the sun
Come angels with guns
Angels with guns

With one more second
One more minute
One more hour
One more day
We will find a way
We will find a way
Oh, we will find a way

Oh, and out of the sun
Oh, and out of the sun
Out of the sun
Oh, and out of the sun
Out of the sun
Out of the sun
Oh, and out of the sun
Out of the sun,

Angels fly in the July sky
Out of the sun
Angels fly in the July sky
Out of the sun 
    

—John Stewart

Sailing Down My Golden River

Sailing down my golden river
Sun and water all my own
Yet I was never alone.
Sun and water, old life–givers
I'll have them where'er I roam
And I was not far from home.

Sunlight glancing on the water
Life and death are all my own
And I was never alone.
Life to raise my sons and daughters
Golden sparkles in the foam
And I was not far from home.

Sailing down this winding highway
Travellers from near and far
Yet I was never alone.
Exploring all the little by–ways
Sighting all the distant stars
Yet I was not far from home.

Repeat First Verse
    

—Pete Seeger

Tuesday Afternoon

Tuesday afternoon
I'm just beginning to see, now I'm on my way.
It doesn't matter to me, chasing the clouds away.
Something calls to me,
The trees are drawing me near, I've got to find out why
Those gentle voices I hear, explain it all with a sigh. 
I'm looking at myself reflections of my mind,
It's just the kind of day to leave myself behind.
So gently swaying through the fairyland of love,
If you'll just come with me you'll see the beauty of
Tuesday afternoon, Tuesday afternoon. 

Tuesday afternoon,
I'm just beginning to see, now I'm on my way.
It doesn't matter to me, chasing the clouds away.
Something calls to me,
The trees are drawing me near, I've got to find out why
Those gentle voices I hear, explain it all with a sigh. 
    

—Moody Blues

All There is to Know About Adolph Eichmann

Eyes:.................................................................................Medium
Hair:..................................................................................Medium
Weight:..............................................................................Medium
Height:...............................................................................Medium
Distinguishing features:........................................................None
Number of fingers:...............................................................Ten
Number of toes:..................................................................Ten
Intelligence........................................................................Medium
 
What did you expect?

Talons?

Oversize incisors?

Green saliva?

Madness?
    

—Leonard Cohen

San Miguel

Down by the mission San Miguel is a great house wherein dwell Don Carlos and La Dona Maria Elena Cantrell.

I work at the ranch. I saddle her mare. I ride with the gun behind as she visits her friends here and there.
She says, "Thank you, Manuel," or, "Manuel, por favor," or "Good ev'ning, Manuel,"
La Dona Maria Elena Cantrell.

I dream of the mission San Miguel and it says to me, the mission bell,
"She is married, Manuel, the wife of the rancher, Don Carlos Cantrell.

You serve at the ranch. You hold her chair. You carry her boxes, trunks, letters, and books here and there.
She says, "Thank you, Manuel," or, "Manuel, por favor," or "Good ev'ning, Manuel,"
La Dona Maria Elena Cantrell.

But I hear with my heart what she says with her eyes with, "Good ev'ning, Manuel," or "Manuel, por favor,"
Or, "The carriage, Manuel," or "Manuel, close the door."
    

—Jane Bowers

Strange Brew

Strange brew — kill what's inside of you.

She's a witch of trouble in electric blue,
In her own mad mind she's in love with you.
With you.
Now what you gonna do?
Strange brew — kill what's inside of you.

She's some kind of demon messing in the glue.
If you don't watch out it'll stick to you.
To you.
What kind of fool are you?
Strange brew — kill what's inside of you.

On a boat in the middle of a raging sea,
She would make a scene for it all to be
Ignored.
And wouldn't you be bored?
Strange brew — kill what's inside of you.

Strange brew, strange brew, strange brew, strange brew.
Strange brew — kill what's inside of you.
    

—Eric Clapton and Gail Collins and Felix Pappalardi

A Red, Red Rose

O my luve's like a red, red rose,,
That newly sprung in June;
O my luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
O I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o'life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve,
And fare thee weel awile!
And I will come again, my luve,
Though it were ten thousand mile.
    

—Robert Burns

Stairway to heaven

There's a lady who's sure
All that glitters is gold
And she's buying a stairway to heaven.
When she gets there she knows
If the stores are all closed
With a word she can get what she came for.
Ooh, ooh, and she's buying a stairway to heaven.
There's a sign on the wall
But she wants to be sure
'Cause you know sometimes words have two meanings.
In a tree by the brook
There's a songbird who sings,
Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven.
Ooh, it makes me wonder,
Ooh, it makes me wonder.
There's a feeling I get
When I look to the west,
And my spirit is crying for leaving.
In my thoughts I have seen
Rings of smoke through the trees,
And the voices of those who standing looking.
Ooh, it makes me wonder,
Ooh, it really makes me wonder.
And it's whispered that soon, If we all call the tune
Then the piper will lead us to reason.
And a new day will dawn
For those who stand long
And the forests will echo with laughter.
If there's a bustle in your hedgerow, Don't be alarmed now,
It's just a spring clean for the May queen.
Yes, there are two paths you can go by
But in the long run
There's still time to change the road you're on.
And it makes me wonder.
Your head is humming and it won't go
In case you don't know,
The piper's calling you to join him,
Dear lady, can you hear the wind blow,
And did you know
Your stairway lies on the whispering wind.
And as we wind on down the road
Our shadows taller than our soul.
There walks a lady we all know
Who shines white light and wants to show
How ev'rything still turns to gold.
And if you listen very hard
The tune will come to you at last.
When all are one and one is all
To be a rock and not to roll.
And she's buying a stairway to heaven.
    

—Led Zeppelin

On the turning away

On the turning away
From the pale and downtrodden
And the words they say
Which we won't understand
"Don't accept that what's happening
Is just a case of others' suffering
Or you'll find that you're joining in
The turning away"

It's a sin that somehow
Light is changing to shadow
And casting it's shroud
Over all we have known
Unaware how the ranks have grown
Driven on by a heart of stone
We could find that we're all alone
In the dream of the proud

On the wings of the night
As the daytime is stirring
Where the speechless unite
In a silent accord
Using words you will find are strange
And mesmerized as they light the flame
Feel the new wind of change
On the wings of the night

No more turning away
From the weak and the weary
No more turning away
From the coldness inside
Just a world that we all must share
It's not enough just to stand and stare
Is it only a dream that there'll be
No more turning away?
    

—Pink Floyd

Poisoning Pigeons in the Park

I'd like to take you now on wings of song as it were,
and try and help you forget, perhaps, for a while, your
drab wretched lives. Here is a song all about springtime
in general, and in particular about one of the many delightful
pastimes that the coming of spring affords us all.

Spring is here, a–suh–puh–ring is here.
Life is skittles and life is beer.
I think the loveliest time of the year is the spring.
I do, don't you?  'Course you do.
But there's one thing that makes spring complete for me,
And makes every Sunday a treat for me.

All the world seems in tune
On a spring afternoon,
When we're poisoning pigeons in the park.
Every Sunday you'll see
My sweetheart and me,
As we poison the pigeons in the park.

When they see us coming, the birdies all try an' hide,
But they still go for peanuts when coated with cyanide.
The sun's shining bright,
Everything seems all right,
When we're poisoning pigeons in the park.

We've gained notoriety,
And caused much anxiety
In the Audubon Society
With our games.
They call it impiety
And lack of propriety,
And quite a variety
Of unpleasant names.
But it's not against any religion
To want to dispose of a pigeon.

So if Sunday you're free,
Why don't you come with me,
And we'll poison the pigeons in the park.
And maybe we'll do
In a squirrel or two,
While we're poisoning pigeons in the park.

We'll murder them all amid laughter and merriment,
Except for the few we take home to experiment.
My pulse will be quickenin'
With each drop of strych'nine
We feed to a pigeon.
(It just takes a smidgin!)
To poison a pigeon in the park.

Thank you! 
    

—Tom Lehrer

The Bold Black And Tan

Says Lloyd–George to Macpherson, "l give you the sack, 
To uphold law and order you haven't the knack, 
I'll send over Greenwood, a much stronger man, 
And fill up the Green Isle with the bold Black and Tan." 

He sent them all over to pillage and loot 
And burn down the houses, the inmates to shoot. 
"To re–conquer Ireland, he said, is my plan 
With Macready and Co. and his bold Black and Tan." 

The town of Balbriggan they've burned to the ground 
While bullets like hailstones were whizzing around; 
And women left homeless by this evil clan. 
They've waged war on the children, the bold Black and Tan. 

From Dublin to Cork and from Thurles to Mayo 
Lies a trail of destruction wherever they go; 
With England to help and fierce passions to fan, 
She must feel bloody proud of her bold Black and Tan. 

Ah, then not by the terrors of England's foul horde, 
For ne'er could a nation be ruled by the sword; 
For our country we'll have yet in spite of her plan 
Or ten times the number of bold Black and Tan. 

We defeated Conscription in spite of their threats, 
And we're going to defeat old Lloyd–George and his pets; 
For Ireland and Freedom we're here to a man, 
And we'll humble the pride of the bold Black and Tan.
    

—Unknown

I.K.B. (R.I.P.)

as we passed beneath the westway
i was not thinking straight
parallel to the great western railway
was where i met my fate
the journey it was a long one
t'was only time to lose
just then i spied a solitary figure
staring at his shoes
wearing a stove–pipe hat
blowing smoke like the fires of hell
no need to ask his name
it was isambard kingdom brunel

my companion and i introduced ourselves
he turned and tipped his hat
i asked if i could be of an assistance
he said it was too late for that
muddy tracks led back to kensal green cemetery
the graveyard next to the line
i noticed the dates on the tombstone
eighteen six to eighteen fifty–nine
why had he died so young
only he could tell
was it the great leviathan
killed isambard kingdom brunel

his eyes burned through to the back of my head
as though he could read my mind
i was beginning to wonder which one of us was the ghost
when i left this century behind
the westway vanished into thin air
so did the high–rise flats
suddenly i was smoking a big cigar
and wearing a stove–pipe hat
to cut a tall story shor
we slipped back in time for a spell
and now i know what makes a man tick
like isambard kingdom brunel

I found myslef in the napier yard
on the isle of dogs
the crowds had come to see leviathan
leave the millwall docks
the press lined up with their pens dipped in blood
the cynics here to disprove
november the deadline for the creditors
but the great ship still would't move
the papers talked of the shame
a scandal was always a good sell
so they slandered the engineer's name
poor isambard kingdom brunel

i watched them struggle with that hulk
one man had already died
as the crowds jeered and laughed at brunel
i turned my head and cried
when building the great eastern steamship
all seemed doomed to fail
his coffin already built at millwall
john scott russel hammered in the nails
months passed with the ship high and dry
he worked on through he was not well
bust such was the determination
of isambard kingdom brunel

the ship finally floated and awaited here fittings
supplied by russel and co
they made mistakes and changed the plans
without letting isambard know
so many problems had beset this venture
leaving the poor man a wreck
isambard suffered a massive stroke
and fell paralysed to the deck
he layed like a ship on the rocks
not rising with the swell
they'd broken the man but not the spirit
of isambard kingdom brunel

i was on the great eastern on her maiden trip
that fateful september morning
what came to pass was a incredible blow
the passengers had no warning
pressure had built up in the feedwater heaters
it was only a matter of time
as the explosion blew away the for'ard funnel
six men in the engine–room died
with the great engineer on his deathbed
the news was hard to tell
the shock was too much and it took the last breath
of isambard kingdom brunel

in a flash we were back in the present
the ghost weeping into his chest
i asked if i proved the success of his creation
would he then lay to rest?
the spectre nodded his head
and a book to it i did hand
showing how his ship laid the first telegraph
from britain to newfoundland
his face did seem to lighten
as this venture did unfurl
the great eastern under his old friend gooch
had laid cables all 'round the world
go build your castles in heaven
in this half–world you should not dwell
now rest in peace your weary soul
isambard kingdom brunel
    

—Frank Tovey

The War Is Over

Silent Soldiers on a silver screen
Framed in fantasies and dragged in dream
Unpaid actors of the mystery
The mad director knows that freedom will not make you free
And what's this got to do with me
        I declare the war is over
        It's over, it's over

Drums are drizzling on a grain of sand
Fading rhythms of a fading land
Prove your courage in the proud parade
Trust your leaders where mistakes are almost never made
And they're afraid that I'm afraid

        I'm afraid the war is over
        It's over, it's over

Angry artists painting angry signs
Use their vision just to blind the blind
Poisoned players of a grizzly game
One is guilty and the other gets the point to blame
Pardon me if I refrain

        I declare the war is over
        It's over, it's over

So do your duty, boys, and join with pride
Serve your country in her suicide
Find the flags so you can wave goodbye
But just before the end even treason might be worth a try
This country is to young to die

        I declare the war is over
        It's over, it's over

One–legged veterans will greet the dawn
And they're whistling marches as they mow the lawn
And the gargoyles only sit and grieve
The gypsy fortune teller told me that we'd been deceived
You only are what you believe

        I believe the war is over
        It's over, it's over
    

—Phil Ochs

I Met a Woman Long Ago

I met a woman long ago,
hair black as black can go.
Are you a teacher of the heart?
Soft whe answered No.

I met a girl across the sea,
hair the gold that gold can be.
Are you a teach of the heart?
Yes, but not for thee.

I knew a man who lost his mind
in some lost place I wished to find.
Follow me, he said,
but he walked behind.

I walked into a hospital,
where none was sick and none was well.
When at night the nurses left,
I could not walk at all.

Not too slow, not too soon,
morning came, then came noon.
Dinner time a scalpel blade
lay beside my spoon.

Some girls wander by mistake
into the mess that scalpels make.
Are you teachers of the heart?
We teach old hearts to break.

One day I woke up alone,
hospital and nurses gone.
Have I carved enough?
You are a bone.

I ate and ate and ate,
I didn't miss a plate.
How much do these suppers cost?
We'll take it out in hate.

I spent my hatred every place,
on every work, on ever face.
Someone gave me wishes,
I wished for an embrace.

Several girls embraced me, then
I was embraced by men.
Is my passion perfect?
Do it once again.

I was handsome, I was strong,
I knew the words of every song.
Did my singing please you?
The words you sang were wrong.

Who are you whom I address?
Who takes down what I confess?
Are you a teacher of the heart?
A chorus answered Yes.

Teachers, are my lessons done
or must I learn another one?
They cried: Dear Sir or Madam,
Daughter, Son.
    

—Leonard Cohen

Minstrel Of The Dawn

The minstrel of the dawn is here
To make you laugh and bend your ear
Up the steps you'll hear him climb
All full of thoughts, all full of rhymes
Listen to the pictures flow
Across the room into your mind they go
Listen to the strings
They jangle and dangle
While the old guitar rings
The minstrel of the dawn is he
Not too wise but oh so free
He'll talk of life out on the street
He'll play it sad and say it sweet
Look into his shining face
Of lonelines you'll always find a trace
Just like me and you
He's tryin' to get into things
More happy than blue

A minstrel of the changin' tide
He'll ask for nothing but his pride
Just sit him down upon that chair
Go fetch some wine and set it there
Listen to the pictures flow
Across the room into your mind they go
Listen to the strings
They jangle and dangle
While the old guitar rings

A minstrel of the dawn is near
Just like a step 'n fetchit here
He's like an old time troubador
Just wanting life and nothing more
Look into his shining eyes
And if you see a ghost don't be surprised
Like me and you
He's tryin' to get into things
More happy than blue

The minstrel boy will understand
He holds a promise in his hand
He talks of better days ahead
And by his words your fortune's read
Listen to the pictures flow
Across the room into your mind they go
Listen to the strings
They jangle and dangle
While the old guitar rings

The minstrel of the dawn is gone
I hope he'll call before too long
And if you meet him you must be
The victim of his minstrelsy
He'll sing for you a song
The minstrel of the dawn
    

—Gordon Lightfoot

The Ballad of Hollis Brown

Hollis Brown
He lived on the outside of town
Hollis Brown
He lived on the outside of town
With his wife and five children
And his cabin fallin' down

You looked for work and money
And you walked a rugged mile
You looked for work and money
And you walked a rugged mile
Your children are so hungry
That they don't know how to smile

Your baby's eyes look crazy
They're a–tuggin' at your sleeve
Your baby's eyes look crazy
They're a–tuggin' at your sleeve
You walk the floor and wonder why
With every breath you breathe

The rats have got your flour
Bad blood it got your mare
The rats have got your flour
Bad blood it got your mare
If there's anyone that knows
Is there anyone that cares?

You prayed to the Lord above
Oh please send you a friend
You prayed to the Lord above
Oh please send you a friend
Your empty pockets tell yuh
That you ain't a–got no friend

Your babies are crying louder
It's pounding on your brain
Your babies are crying louder now
It's pounding on your brain
Your wife's screams are stabbin' you
T.ike the dirty drivin' rain

Your grass it is turning black
There's no water in your well
Your grass is turning black
There's no water in your well
You spent your last lone dollar
On seven shotgun shells

Way out in the wilderness
A cold coyote calls
Way out in the wilderness
A cold coyote calls
Your eyes fix on the shotgun
That's hangin' on the wall

Your brain is a–bleedin'
And your legs can't seem to stand
Your brain is a–bleedin'
And your legs can't seem to stand
Your eyes fix on the shotgun
That you're holdin' in your hand

There's seven breezes a–blowin'
All around the cabin door
There's seven breezes a–blowin'
All around the cabin door
Seven shots ring out
Like the ocean's pounding roar

There's seven people dead
On a South Dakota farm
There's seven people dead
On a South Dakota farm
Somewhere in the distance
There's seven new people born
    

—Bob Dylan

Seven Hundred Elves

Chorus
 
Seven hundred elves from out the wood
Foul and grim they were
Down to the farmer's house they went
His meat and drink to share 

There was a farmer in the west and there he chose his ground
He thought to spend the winter there and brought his hawk and hound
He brought with him both hound and cock alone he begged to stay
And all the dear that roamed the wood had cause to rue the day

He felled the oak, he felled the birch, the beech nor poplar spared
And much was grieved the sullen elves at what the stranger dared
He hewed him baulks and he hewed him beams with eager toil and haste
Then up and spake the woodland elves: ``Who's come our wood to waste?''

Chorus

Up and spake the biggest elf and grimly rolled his eyes:
``We'll march upon the farmer's house and hold on him assize
He's knocking down both wood and bower, he shows us great distain
We'll make him rue the day he was born and taste of shame and pain.''

Chorus

All the elves from out the wood began to dance and spring
And marched towards the farmer's house their lengthy tails to swing
The farmer from his window looked and quickly crossed his breast
``Oh woe is me,'' the farmer cried, ``The elves will be my guests.''

In every nook he made a cross and all about the room
And off flew many a frightened elf back to his forest gloom
Some flew to the east, some flew to the west, some flew to the north away
And some flew down the deep ravine and there forever stay

Chorus
    

—Traditional

The Rose

Some say love, it is a river
that drowns the tender reed
Some say love, it is a razor
that leaves your soul to bleed
Some say love, it is a hunger
an endless aching need
I say love, it is a flower,
and you it's only seed

It's the heart, afraid of breaking
that never learns to dance
It's the dream, afraid of waking,
that never takes a chance
It's the one who won't be taken,
who cannot seem to give
And the soul, afraid of dyin',
that never learns to live

When the night has been too lonely,
and the road has been too long
And you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong
Just remember in the winter far beneath the bitter snows,
Lies the seed, that with the sun's love, in the spring becomes The
Rose. 
    

—Amanda McBroom

Run The Ridges

Well, I hope to tell you, Johnny, that I lay that rifle down but leave the noose and the calaboose and headed for another town.

Well, I've got your name in San Jose and your picture's there to see.
And they're shootin' men in Texas just because they look like me.

Chorus

And we will run the ridges of our green land Tennessee
And we will hide for forty years if that's what's meant to be, meant to be, meant to be.
Meant to be, meant to be, meant to be.

Maybe we could try Mexico and cross the desert sand,
But they're guardin' 'cross the border 'case we swim the Rio Grande

Chorus

Well, they'll rope and tie you, Johnny, and they'll throw you to the ground
And they'll let you hang a week or two 'fore they cut your body down.

Chorus
    

—John Stewart

Un Canadien Errant

Un canadien errant, bani de ses foyers
Un canadien errant, bani de ses foyers
Parcourait en pleurant des pays étrangers
Parcourait en pleurent des pays étrangers.

Un jour, triste et pensif assis au bord des flots
Un jour, triste et pensif assis au bord des flots
Au courant fugitif il adressa ces mots
Au courant fugitif il adressa ces mots.

Si tu vois mon pays, mon pays malheureux
Si tu vois mon pays, mon pays malheureux
Va dis à mes amis que je me souviens d'eux
Va dis à mes amis que je me souviens d'eux.
 
O jours si plein d'appas vous êtes disparus
O jours si plein d'appas vous êtes disparus
Et ma patrie, hélas, je me verrai plus
Et ma patrie, hélas, je me verrai plus.

Plongé dans les malheures, loin de mes chers parents
Plongé dans les malheures, loin de mes chers parents
Je passe dans les pleurs, d'infortunés moments
Je passe dans les pleurs, d'infortunés moments

Pour jamais séparé, des amis de mon coeur
Pour jamais séparé, des amis de mon coeur
Hélas! oui, je mourrai, je mourrai de douleur
Hélas! oui, je mourrai, je mourrai de douleur

Non, mais en expirant, O mon cher Canada!
Non, mais en expirant, O mon cher Canada!
Mon regard languissant vers toi se portera
Mon regard languissant vers toi se portera.
    

—A. Gdrin-Lajoie

Kubla Khan

IN Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
A stately pleasure–dome decree: 
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 
Through caverns measureless to man 
Down to a sunless sea.        
So twice five miles of fertile ground 
With walls and towers were girdled round: 
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, 
Where blossomed many an incense–bearing tree 
And here were forests ancient as the hills,        
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 
 
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted 
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! 
A savage place! as holy and enchanted 
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted        
By woman wailing for her demon–lover! 
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething 
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 
A mighty fountain momently was forced; 
Amid whose swift half–intermitted burst        
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: 
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 
It flung up momently the sacred river. 
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion        
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, 
Then reached the caverns measureless to man, 
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: 
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 
Ancestral voices prophesying war!        
 
The shadow of the dome of pleasure 
Floated midway on the waves; 
Where was heard the mingled measure 
From the fountain and the caves. 
It was a miracle of rare device,        
A sunny pleasure–dome with caves of ice! 
 
A damsel with a dulcimer 
In a vision once I saw: 
It was an Abyssinian maid, 
And on her dulcimer she played,        
Singing of Mount Abora. 
Could I revive within me 
Her symphony and song, 
To such a deep delight 'twould win me, 
That with music loud and long,        
I would build that done in air, 
That sunny dome! those caves of ice! 
And all who heard should see them there, 
And all should cry, Beware! Beware! 
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!        
Weave a circle round him thrice, 
And close your eyes with holy dread, 
For he on honey–dew hath fed, 
And drunk the milk of Paradise. 
    

—Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Boney Fingers

See the rain comin' down and the roof won't hold 'er 
Lost my job and I feel a little older 
Car won't run and our love's grown colder 
But maybe things'll get a little [D] better, in the mornin' 
Maybe things'll get a little [D] better. 

Oh! the clothes need washin' and the fire won't start 
Kids all cryin' and you're breakin' my heart 
Whole darn place is fallin' apart 
Maybe things'll get a little better, in the mornin' 
Maybe things'll get a little better. 

Refrain: 
Work your fingers to the bone – whadda ya get? 
( Whoo–whoo ) Boney Fingers – Boney Fing–gers. 

Yea! I've been broke as long as I remember 
Get a little money and I gotta run and spend 'er 
When I try to save it, pretty woman come and take it 
Sayin' maybe things'll get a little better, in the mornin' 
Maybe things'll get a little better. 

Refrain: 

Yea! the grass won't grow and the sun's too hot 
The whole darn world is goin' to pot 
Might as well like it 'cause you're all that I've got 
But, maybe things'll get a little better, in the mornin' 
Maybe things'll get a little better. 

Refrain:
    

—Hoyt Axton

Lucky Man

He had white horses and ladies by the score
All dressed in satin and waiting by the door

Chorus

Oooh, what a lucky man he was
Oooh, what a lucky man he was


White lace and feathers, they made up his bed
A gold covered mattress on which he was laid

Chorus

Aaaah
He went to fight wars for his country and his king
Of his honor and his glory the people would sing

Chorus

A bullet had found him, his blood ran as he cried
No money could save him, so he laid down and he died

Chorus

Aaaah
    

—Emerson and Lake and Palmer

The Elf-Knight

The elf–knight sits on yonder hill
Fine flowers in the valley
He blows his horn both loud and shrill
As the rose is blown

He blows it East, he blows it West
Fine flowers in the valley
He blows it where he liketh best
As the rose is blown

Lady Isabel sits a–sewing
Fine flowers in the valley
When she heard the elf–knight's horn a–blowing
As the rose is blown

`Would I had that horn a–blowing'
Fine flowers in the valley
`And yon elf–knight for to sleep in my bosom'
As the rose is blown

Scarcely had she these words spoken
Fine flowers in the valley
When in at the window the elf–knight's broken
As the rose is blown

`It's a very strange matter, fair maid' said he
Fine flowers in the valley
`I cannot blow my horn, but you call on me'
As the rose is blown

`But will you go to the greenwood side?"
Fine flowers in the valley
`If you will not go, I'll cause you to ride'
As the rose is blown

He leapt on his horse and she on another
Fine flowers in the valley
And they rode on to the greenwood together
As the rose is blown

`Light down, light down, Isabel' said he
Fine flowers in the valley
`For we're come to the place where you are to die'
As the rose is blown

`It's seven kings daughters, here have I slain'
Fine flowers in the valley
`And you shall be the eighth of them'
As the rose is blown

`Sit down a–while, lay your head on my knee'
Fine flowers in the valley
`That we may rest before I die'
As the rose is blown

She stroked him so fast the nearer he did creep
Fine flowers in the valley
And with a small charm, she's lulled him to sleep
As the rose is blown

With his own sword–belt, so fast she's bound him
Fine flowers in the valley
With his own dagger so sore she's stabbed him
As the rose is blown

`If seven kings daughters here have you slain'
Fine flowers in the valley
`Then lie you here, a husband to them all'
As the rose is blown
    

—Traditional

Parcel Of Rogues

Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame 
Fareweel our ancient glory 
Fareweel even to the Scottish name 
Sae famed in martial story 
Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands 
And Tweed rins to the ocean 
To mark whare England's province stands 
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation 

What force or guile could not subdue 
Thro' many warlike ages 
Is wrought now by cowards few 
For hireling traitor's wages 
The English steel we could disdain 
Secure in valor's station 
But English gold has been our bane 
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation 

O would 'ere I had seen the day 
That treason thus could sell us 
My auld grey head had lain in clay 
Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace 
But pith and power thill my last hour 
I'll mak this declaration 
We're bought and sold for English gold 
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation
    

—Robert Burns

Ballad Of Spring Hill (spring Hill Disaster)

In the town of Spring Hill, Nova Scotia,
Down in the heart of the Cumberland Mine,
There's blood on the coal and miners lie
In the roads that never saw sun or sky
Roads that never saw sun or sky. 

Down at the coal face the miner's workin'
Rattle of the belt and the cutter's blade
Crumble of rock and the walls close round
Living and the dead men two miles down
Living and the dead men two miles down 

Twelve men lay two miles from the pitshaft
Listen for the drillin' of a rescue team
Six hundred feet of coal and slag
Hope imprisoned in a three–foot seam
Hope imprisoned in a three–foot seam 

Eight days passed and some were rescued
Leaving the dead to lie alone
All their lives they dug their graves
Two miles of earth for a markin' stone
Two miles of earth for a markin' stone 

In the town of Spring Hill you don't sleep easy
Often the Earth will tremble and groan
When the Earth is restless, miners die
Bone and blood is the price of coal
Bone and blood is the price of coal 
    

—Peggy Seeger and Ewan MacColl

Green, Green Grass of Home

The old home town looks the same,
As I step down from the train,
And there to meet me is my mama and papa
Down the road I look and there runs Mary
Hair of gold and lips like cherries
It's good to touch the green, green grass of home

Yes, they'll all be there to meet me, 
All creatures smiling sweetly
It's good to touch the green, green grass of home

The old house is still standing, 
Though the paint is cracked and dry
And there's an old oak tree that I used to play on
Down the lane I'll walk with my sweet Mary
Hair of gold and lips like cherries
It's good to touch the green, green grass of home

Then I awake and look around me
Cold gray walls surround me
And I realize that I was only dreamin'
There's a guard and there's a sad old padre
Arm and arm we'll walk at daybreak
Again I'll touch the green, green grass of home

Yes, they'll all be there to meet me
In the shadow of that old oak tree
As they lay me beneath the green, green grass of home   
    

—Claude Putman Jr.

All Tomorrow's Parties

And what costume shall the poor girl wear
To all tomorrow's parties
A hand–me–down dress from who knows where
To all tomorrow's parties

And where will she go and what shall she do
When midnight comes around
She'll turn once more to Sunday's clown
And cry behind the door

And what costume shall the poor girl wear
To all tomorrow's parties
Why silks and linens of yesterday's gowns
To all tomorrow's parties

And what will she do with Thursday's rags
When Monday comes around
She'll turn once more to Sunday's clown
And cry behind the door

And what costume shall the poor girl wear
To all tomorrow's parties
For Thursday's child is Sunday's clown
For whom none will go mourning

A blackened shroud, a hand–me–down gown
Of rags and silks, a costume
Fit for one who sits and cries
For all tomorrow's parties
    

—Lou Reed

Fairytale Of New York

It was Christmas Eve babe in the drunk tank 
An old man said to me, won't see another one 
And then he sang a song, The Rare Old Mountain Dew 
And I turned my face away and dreamed about you 

Got on a lucky one, came in eighteen to one 
I've got a feeling this year's for me and you 
So happy Christmas, I love you baby 
I can see a better time when all our dreams come true 

They've got cars big as bars, they've got rivers of gold 
But the wind goes right through you It's no place for the old 
When you first took my hand on a cold Christmas Eve 
You promised me Broadway was waiting for me 

You were handsome, You were pretty, Queen of New York City 
When the band finished playing they howled out for more 
Sinatra was swinging, all the drunks they were singing 
We kissed on the corner then danced through the night 

The boys of the NYPD choir were singing 'Galway Bay' 
And the bells were ringing out for Christmas day 

You're a bum, You're a punk, You're an old slut on junk 
Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed 
You scum bag, You maggot, You cheap lousy faggot 
Happy Christmas your arse, I pray God It's our last 

I could have been someone, well so could anyone 
You took my dreams from me when I first found you 
I kept them with me babe, I put them with my own 
Can't make it all alone I've built my dreams around you
    

—Shane MacGowan

The Conqueror Worm

Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly–
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!

That motley drama– oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self–same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood–red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!– it writhes!– with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

Out– out are the lights– out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
    

—Edgar Allan Poe

Feeling Good

Birds flying high you know how I feel
Sun in the sky you know how I feel
Reeds driftin’ on by you know how I feel

(refrain:)
It’s a new dawn
It’s a new day
It’s a new life
For me
And I’m feeling good

Fish in the sea you know how I feel
River running free you know how I feel
Blossom in the tree you know how I feel

(refrain)

Dragonfly out in the sun you know what I mean, don’t you know
Butterflies all havin’ fun you know what I mean
Sleep in peace when day is done
That’s what I mean

And this old world is a new world
And a bold world
For me

Stars when you shine you know how I feel
Scent of the pine you know how I feel
Oh freedom is mine
And I know how I feel 
    

—Anthony Newley and Leslie Bricusse

Addition to the Blessingway

Blessed, my country will always be there, this I say
Blessed my mountain ranges,
With pollen they will be blessed, this I say,
Blessed the running waters,
With pollen they will be blessed, this I say
According to these things, I shall live, this I say,
According to these things, we shall live, this I say!
    

—Frank Mitchell

Mr. Blue

Good morning Mister Blue, we've got our eyes on you.
The evidence is clear, that you've been scheming.
You like to steal away and while away the day.
You like to spend an hour dreaming.
What will it take, to whip you into line?
A broken heart? A broken head?
It can be arranged. It can be arranged.

Step softly Mister Blue, we know what's best for you.
We know where your precious dreams will take you.
You've got a slot to fill, and fill that slot you will.
You'll learn to love it, or we'll break you.
Oh, what will it take, to whip you into line?
A broken heart? A broken head?
It can be arranged. It can be arranged.

Be careful Mister Blue this phase you're going through,
Can lead you nowhere else, but to disaster.
Excuse us while we grin, you've worn our patience thin.
It's time to show you who is  your master.
What will it take, to whip you into line?
A broken heart? A broken head?
It can be arranged. It can be arranged.

Don't worry Mister Blue, we'll take good care of you.
Just think of it as sense and not surrender.
But never think again, that you can think again,
Or you'll get something you'll remember.
What will it take to whip you into line?
A broken heart? A broken head?
It can be arranged. It can be arranged.
    

—Tom Paxton

A Cradle Song

The angels are stooping
Above your bed;
They weary of trooping
With the whimpering dead.
God's laughing in Heaven
To see you so good;
The Sailing Seven
are gay with His mood.
I sigh that kiss you,
For I must own
That I shall miss you
When you have grown.
    

—William Butler Yeats

Behind Blue Eyes

No one knows what it's like 
To be the bad man 
To be the sad man 
Behind blue eyes 

No one knows what it's like 
To be hated 
To be fated 
To telling only lies 

But my dreams 
They aren't as empty 
As my conscience seems to be 

I have hours, only lonely 
My love is vengeance 
That's never free 

No one knows what it's like 
To feel these feelings 
Like I do 
And I blame you 

No one bites back as hard 
On their anger 
None of my pain and woe 
Can show through 

But my dreams 
They aren't as empty 
As my conscience seems to be 

I have hours, only lonely 
My love is vengeance 
That's never free 

When my fist clenches, crack it open 
Before I use it and lose my cool 
When I smile, tell me some bad news 
Before I laugh and act like a fool 

If I swallow anything evil 
Put your finger down my throat 
If I shiver, please give me a blanket 
Keep me warm, let me wear your coat 

No one knows what it's like 
To be the bad man 
To be the sad man 
Behind blue eyes 
    

—The Who

The Moon And St. Christopher

When I was young I spoke like a child, and I saw with a child's eyes
And an open door was to a girl like the stars are to the sky
It's funny how the world lives up to all your expectations
With adventures for the stout of heart, and the lure of the open spaces

There's 2 lanes running down this road, whichever side you're on
Accounts for where you want to go, or what you're running from
Back when darkness overtook me on a blind man's curve

I relied upon the moon, I relied upon the moon
I relied upon the moon and Saint Christopher 
Now I've paid my dues cuz I have owed them, but I've paid a price sometimes
For being such a stubborn woman in such stubborn times

Now I've paid my dues cuz I have owed them, but I've paid a price sometimes
For being such a stubborn woman in such stubborn times
Now I have run from the arms of lovers, I've run from the eyes of friends
I have run from the hands of kindness, I've run just because I can

But now I'm grown and I speak like a woman and I see with a woman's eyes
And an open door is to me now like the saddest of goodbyes
It's too late for turning back, I pray for the heart and the nerve

And I rely upon the moon, I rely upon the moon
I rely upon the moon and Saint Christopher

I rely upon the moon, I rely upon the moon
I rely upon the moon and Saint Christopher
    

—Mary Chapin Carpenter

White Boots Marching In A Yellow Land

The pilots playing poker in the cockpit of the plane
The casualties arriving like the dropping of the rain
And a mountain of machinery will fall before a man
When you're white boots marching in a yellow land

It's written in the ashes of the village towns we burn
It's written in the empty bed of the fathers unreturned
And the chocolate in the childrens eyes will never understand
When you're white boots marching in a yellow land

Red blow the bugles of the dawn
The morning has arrived you must be gone
And the lost patrol chase their chartered souls
Like old whores following tired armies

Train them well, the men who will be fighting by your side
And never turn your back if the battle turns the tide
For the colours of a civil war are louder than commands
When you're white boots marching in a yellow land

Blow them from the forest and burn them from your sight
Tie their hands behind their back and question through the night
But when the firing squad is ready they'll be spitting where they stand
At the white boots marching in a yellow land

Red blow the bugles of the dawn
The morning has arrived you must be gone
And the lost patrol chase their chartered souls
Like cold whores following tired armies

The comic and the beauty queen are dancing on the stage
Raw recruits are lining up like coffins in a cage
We're fighting in a war we lost before the war began
We're the white boots marching in a yellow land

And the lost patrol chase their chartered souls
like cold whores following tired armies
    

—Phil Ochs

We've Gotta Get Out Of This Place

In this dirty old part of the city where the sun refuse to shine
People tell me there ain't no use in trying
Now, my girl, you're so young and pretty
And one thing I know is true,
You'll be dead before your time is due, (I know)

Watch my daddy in bed and dying
Watch his hair been turning grey
He's been working and slaving his life away, (Oh yes I know)

He's been working so hard
I've been working too baby, (every night and day)

We've gotta get out of this place
if it's the last thing we ever do
We've gotta get out of this place
Girl there's a better life for me and you

Now my girl you're so young and pretty
And one thing I know is true
You'll be dead before your time is due, (I know it)

Watch my daddy in bed and dying
Watch his hair been turning grey
He's been working and slaving his life away (I know)

He's been working so hard
I've been working too baby,

We've gotta get out of this place
if it's the last thing we ever do
We've gotta get out of this place
Girl there's a better life for me and you

Somewhere baby
Somehow I know it baby

We've gotta get out of this place
if it's the last thing we ever do
We've gotta get out of this place
Girl there's a better life for me and you

Believe me baby
I know it baby
You know it too
    

—The Animals

Henry V Act-3 Scene-1

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; 
Or close the wall up with our English dead. 
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man 
As modest stillness and humility: 
But when the blast of war blows in our ears, 
Then imitate the action of the tiger; 
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, 
Disguise fair nature with hard–favour'd rage; 
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; 
Let pry through the portage of the head 
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it 
As fearfully as doth a galled rock 
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, 
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean. 
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, 
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit 
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English. 
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war–proof! 
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders, 
Have in these parts from morn till even fought 
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument: 
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest 
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you. 
Be copy now to men of grosser blood, 
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman, 
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here 
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear 
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not; 
For there is none of you so mean and base, 
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. 
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, 
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot: 
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge 
Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!' 
    

—William Shakespeare

Where Have All The Flowers Gone

Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing?
Where have all the flowers gone, long time ago?
Where have all the flowers gone?
Young girls have picked them everyone.
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Oh, when will they ever learn? 

Where have all the young girls gone, long time passing?
Where have all the young girls gone, long time ago?
Where have all the young girls gone?
Gone for husbands everyone.
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Oh, when will they ever learn? 

Where have all the husbands gone, long time passing?
Where have all the husbands gone, long time ago?
Where have all the husbands gone?
Gone for soldiers everyone
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Oh, when will they ever learn? 

Where have all the soldiers gone, long time passing?
Where have all the soldiers gone, long time ago?
Where have all the soldiers gone?
Gone to graveyards, everyone.
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Oh, when will they ever learn? 

Where have all the graveyards gone, long time passing?
Where have all the graveyards gone, long time ago?
Where have all the graveyards gone?
Gone to flowers, everyone.
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Oh, when will they ever learn? 

Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing?
Where have all the flowers gone, long time ago?
Where have all the flowers gone?
Young girls have picked them everyone.
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Oh, when will they ever learn? 
    

—Pete Seeger

Home Of The Brave

It took us so long to get home 
And I've been down so long 
People all around me 
They can't understand 
How I lost my hand 
But the war was grand 
A lovely parade 

(One two three four one two three) 

Ah, here is where I long to be 
My home the grave, my land is free 

And I know it's paid for 
Yes very well paid for 
And I know it's paid for 
Yes very well paid for 

It took us so long to get home 
And you bring me so far down 
People gather 'round me 
Try to understand 
About my hand 
But the war was grand 
A lovely parade 

Here is where I long to be 
My home the grave, my land is free 

And I know it's paid for 
Yes very well paid for 
And you told me it's paid for 
And I know it's paid for [etc.] 
    

—Peter Rowan

Last Night I Had The Strangest Dream

Last night I had the strangest dream
I'd ever dreamed before
I dreamed the world had all agreed
To put an end to war

I dreamed I saw a mighty room
Filled with women and men
And the paper they were signing said
They'd never fight again

And when the paper was all signed
And a million copies made
They all joined hands and bowed their heads
And grateful pray'rs were prayed

And the people in the streets below
Were dancing 'round and 'round
While swords and guns and uniforms
Were scattered on the ground

Last night I had the strangest dream
I'd never dreamed before
I dreamed the world had all agreed
To put an end to war.
    

—Ed McCurdy

Who Stole The Soul Of Johnny Dreams?

Attention K Mart shoppers
Do you really need all of that crap?
Made somewhere in Thailand
No one's taking the rap
I'm holding out for yellow
Airbags in my shoes
I saw the ad from Calvin Klein
It's the kind the junkies use

Watching too much TV
When will I ever learn?
The call me the midnight surfer
'Cause I love to watch the channels turn
At 8 pm on Channel 2
"When Animals Attack" 
There's a lot of guys that I once knew
With monkeys on their backs

And written on the bathroom walls
That the old fan dancer cleans
Is the never answered question
Who stole the soul of Johnny Dreams? 

A singing dog named Peewee
Star of the neighborhood
Singing songs from Oklahoma
"Tutti Fruiti" is awfully good
Straight edged boy is cooking
Tofu for his friends
They're planning their next sit in
For the animals have friends

And written on the bathroom walls
That the old fan dancer cleans
Is the never answered question
Who stole the soul of Johnny Dreams? 

Still I'm a circus boy
They're taking up croquet
Someone stole a ferris wheel
From Fargo yesterday
I have no sense of who I am
Or who that I am not
Am I "The Great Wallenda"
That everyone forgot

Still I write the songs
That only I will sing
Something has gone wrong
It's the bell that never rings
Hip hop rappers and DJ's
Pop stars, lawyers and thieves
Someone's selling the rainbow
And things you wouldn't believe

And written on the bathroom walls
That the old fan dancer cleans
Is the never answered question
Who stole the soul of Johnny Dreams? 

And written on the bathroom walls
That the old fan dancer cleans
Is the never answered question
Who stole the soul of Johnny Dreams? 

Who stole the soul
Who stole the soul
Who stole the soul
Of Johnny Dreams? 
    

—John Stewart

El Maley Rachamim

O, God, full of compassion. Thou who dwellest on high,
grant perfect rest beneath the shelter of Thy divine
presence among the holy and pure who shine as the brightness
of the firmament to the soul of my beloved who has gone to her eternal home.

Mayest Thou, O God of Mercy, shelter her forever
under the wings of Thy presence, May her soul be
bound up in the bond of life eternal, and grant that the
memories of my life inspire me always to noble and consecrated living.
Amen.
    

—Traditional

The Men Behind the Wire

Chorus:
Armored cars and tanks and guns,came to take away our sons,
But every man must stand behind,the men behind the wire 

In the little streets of Belfast,in the dark of early morn,
British solders came a running, wrecking little homes with scorn,
Here the sobs of crying children, dragging fathers from their beds,
Watch the scene as helpless mothers, watch the blood fall from their heads,

Chorus

Not for them a judge or jury,nor for them a crime at all,
Being Irish means they'r guilty,so were guilty one and all,
Around the world the truth will echo,Cromwell's men are here again,
England's name again is sullied,in the eyes of honest men.

Chorus

Proudly march behind our banner,proudly march behind our men,
We will have them free to help us,build a nation once again,
All the people step togeather,proudly firmly on our way,
Never fear or never falter till the boys come home to stay.

Chorus
    

—Paddy McGuigan

Leave Her, Johnny, Leave Her

I thought I heard the old man say,
"Leave her, Johnny, leave her,
It's a long, hard pull to the next payday
And it's time for us to leave her".

Chorus

Leave her, Johnny, leave her!
Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her,
For the voyage is done and the winds don't blow,
And it's time for us to leave her.

Oh, the winds were foul and the work was hard,
Leave her, Johnny, leave her!
From the Liverpool dock to the London yard
And it's time for us to leave her.

Chorus

Oh, the skipper was bad, but the mate was worse.
Leave her, Johnny, leave her!
He'd blow you down with a spike and a curse,
And it's time for us to leave her.

Chorus

It was rotten meat and moldy break,
Leave her, Johnny, leave her!
You'd eat it or you'd starve to death,
And it's time for us to leave her.

Chorus

Well it's time for us to say goodbye,
Leave her, Johnny, leave her!
For now those pumps are all pumped dry,
And it's time for us to leave her. 

Chorus
    

—Traditional

Grey Funnel Line

Don't mind the wind nor the rolling sea 
The weary night never worries me 
But the hardest time in a sailor's day 
Is to watch the sun as it fades away 

Refrain

It's one more day on the grey funnel line 

The finest ship that sails the sea 
Is still a prison for the likes of me 
But give me wings like Noah's dove 
I'll fly up harbor to the one I love 

There was a time my heart was free 
Like a floating spar on the open sea 
But now that spar is washed ashore 
It comes to rest at my real love's door. 

Every time I gaze behind the screws 
Makes me long for St Peter's shoes 
I'd walk on down that silver lane 
And take my love in my arms again 

Oh Lord, if dreams were only real 
I'd have my hands on that wooden wheel 
And with all my heart I would turn her 'round 
And tell the boys that we're homeward bound 

I'll pass the time like some machine 
Until blue water turns to green 
Then I'll dance down that Walker Shore 
And sail the Grey Funnel Line no more. 
And sail the Grey Funnel Line no more. 
    

—Cyril Tawney

When I Was One-and-twenty

WHEN I was one–and–twenty   
I heard a wise man say,   
'Give crowns and pounds and guineas   
But not your heart away;   

Give pearls away and rubies
But keep your fancy free.'   
But I was one–and–twenty,   
No use to talk to me.   

When I was one–and–twenty   
I heard him say again,
'The heart out of the bosom   
Was never given in vain;   
'Tis paid with sighs a plenty   
And sold for endless rue.'   
And I am two–and–twenty,
And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true. 
    

—A.E. Housman

Macdonough's Song

Whether the State can loose and bind
In Heaven as well as on Earth:
If it be wiser to kill mankind
Before or after the birth—
These are matters of high concern
Where State–kept schoolmen are;
But Holy State (we have lived to learn)
Endeth in Holy War.

Whether The People be led by The Lord,
Or lured by the loudest throat:
If it be quicker to die by the sword
Or cheaper to die by vote—
These are things we have dealt with once,
(And they will not rise from their grave)
For Holy People, however it runs,
Endeth in wholly Slave.

Whatsoever, for any cause,
Seeketh to take or give
Power above or beyond the Laws,
Suffer it not to live!
Holy State or Holy King—
Or Holy People's Will—
Have no truck with the senseless thing.
Order the guns and kill!
Saying —after—me:—

Once there was The People—Terror gave it birth;
Once there was The People and it made a Hell of Earth
Earth arose and crushed it. Listen, 0 ye slain!
Once there was The People—it shall never be again!
    

—Rudyard Kipling

Songs from an Evil Wood

I.

There is no wrath in the stars, 
They do not rage in the sky; 
I look from the evil wood 
And find myself wondering why. 

Why do they not scream out 
And grapple star against star, 
Seeking for blood in the wood, 
As all things round me are? 

They do not glare like the sky 
Or flash like the deeps of the wood; 
But they shine softly on 
In their sacred solitude. 

To their happy haunts 
Silence from us has flown, 
She whom we loved of old 
And know it now she is gone. 

When will she come again 
Though for one second only? 
She whom we loved is gone 
And the whole world is lonely.

And the elder giants come 
Sometimes, tramping from far, 
Through the weird and flickering light 
Made by an earthly star.

And the giant with his club, 
And the dwarf with rage in his breath, 
And the elder giants from far, 
They are the children of Death.

They are all abroad to–night 
And are breaking the hills with their brood, 
And the birds are all asleep, 
Even in Plugstreet Wood.

II.

Somewhere lost in the haze 
The sun goes down in the cold, 
And birds in this evil wood 
Chirrup home as of old;

Chirrup, stir and are still, 
On the high twigs frozen and thin. 
There is no more noise of them now, 
And the long night sets in.

Of all the wonderful things 
That I have seen in the wood, 
I marvel most at the birds, 
At their chirp and their quietude.

For a giant smites with his club 
All day the tops of the hill, 
Sometimes he rests at night, 
Oftener he beats them still.

And a dwarf with a grim black mane 
Raps with repeated rage 
All night in the valley below 
On the wooden walls of his cage.

III.

I met with Death in his country, 
With his scythe and his hollow eye 
Walking the roads of Belgium. 
I looked and he passed me by.

Since he passed me by in Plug Street, 
In the wood of the evil name, 
I shall not now lie with the heroes, 
I shall not share their fame;

I shall never be as they are, 
A name in the land of the Free, 
Since I looked on Death in Flanders 
And he did not look at me. 
    

—Lord Dunsany

American Pie

A long long time ago
I can still remember how that music used to make me smile
And I knew if I had my chance that I could make those people dance
and maybe they'd be happy for a while.

But February made me shiver With every paper I'd deliver
Bad news on the doorstep
I couldn't take one more step

I can't remember if I cried
When I read about his widowed bride
But something touched me deep inside
The day the Music Died

So bye bye Miss American Pie
Drove my chevy to the levee
But the levee was dry
And them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singin' this'll be the day that I die,
this'll be the day that I die.

Did you write the book of love
And do you have faith in God above?
If the Bible tells you so.
Do you believe in Rock 'n Roll?
Can music save your mortal soul?
And can you teach me how to dance real slow?

Well, I know that you're in love with him
'cause I saw you dancin' in the gym
You both kicked off your shoes
Man, I dig those rythmny blues

I was a lonely teenage broncin' buck
With a pink carnation and a pickup truck.
But I knew I was out of luck
The day the music died

I stared singin' bye bye Miss American Pie
Drove my chevy to the levee
But the levee was dry
And them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die.

Now for ten years we've been on our own
And moss grows fat on a rollin' stone
But that's not how it used to be
When the jester sang for the King and Queen
In a coat he borrowed from James Dean
And a voice that came from you and me

Oh, and while the King was looking down
The jester stole his thorny crown
The courtroom was adjourned
No verdict was returned
And while Lennon read a book of Marx
The court kept practice in the park
And we sang dirges in the dark
The day the Music Died.

We were singing bye bye Miss American Pie
Drove my chevy to the levee
But the levee was dry
Them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die.

Helter–Skelter in a summer swelter
The Byrds flew off with a fallout shelter
Eight Miles High and falling fast
It landed foul out on the grass
The players tried for a forward pass
But the jester's on the sidelines in a cast

Now the half–time air was sweet perfume
While the sargeants played a marching tune
We all got up to dance
But we never got the chance
'cause the players tried to take the field
The marching band refused to yield
Do you recall what was reveiled
the day the Music Died?

We stared singing bye bye Miss American Pie
Drove my chevy to the levee
But the levee was dry
Them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die.

Oh, and there we were all in one place
A generation Lost in Space
With no time left to start again
So come on, Jack be nimble
Jack be quick
Jack Flash sat on a candlestick
'cause fire is the Devil's only friend

Oh, and as I watched him on the stage
My hands were clenched in fists of rage
No angel born in hell
Could break that Satan's spell
And as the flames climbed high into the night
To light the sacrifical rite
I saw Satan laughing with delight
The day the Music Died

He was singing bye bye Miss American Pie
Drove my chevy to the levee
But the levee was dry
Them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die.

I met a girl who sang the blues
And I asked her for some happy news
But she just smiled and turned away
I went down to the sacred store
Where I'd heard the music years before
But the man there said the music woudn't play

And in the streets the children screamed
The lovers cried, and the poets dreamed
But not a word was spoken
The Church bells all were broken
And three men I admire most
The Father, Son and the Holy Ghost
They caught the last train for the coast
The Day the Music Died.

And they were singing bye bye Miss American Pie
Drove my chevy to the levee
But the levee was dry
Them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die.

They were singing bye bye Miss American Pie
Drove my chevy to the levee
But the levee was dry
Them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die. 
    

—Don McLean

The House on the Hill

The House on the Hill 
They are all gone away,
The House is shut and still,
There is nothing more to say.

Through broken walls and gray
The winds blow bleak and shrill:
They are all gone away.

Nor is there one to–day
To speak them good or ill:
There is nothing more to say.

Why is it then we stray
Around that sunken sill?
They are all gone away,

And our poor fancy–play
For them is wasted skill:
There is nothing more to say.

There is ruin and decay
In the House on the Hill:
They are all gone away,
There is nothing more to say. 
    

—Edwin Arlington Robinson

The City of New Orleans

Riding on the City of New Orleans,
Illinois Central Monday morning rail
Fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders,
Three conductors and twenty–five sacks of mail.
All along the southbound odyssey
The train pulls out at Kankakee
Rolls along past houses, farms and fields.
Passin' trains that have no names,
Freight yards full of old black men
And the graveyards of the rusted automobiles.

Chorus

Good morning America how are you?
Don't you know me I'm your native son,
I'm the train they call The City of New Orleans,
I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.

Dealin' card games with the old men in the club car.
Penny a point ain't no one keepin' score.
Pass the paper bag that holds the bottle
Feel the wheels rumblin' 'neath the floor.
And the sons of pullman porters
And the sons of engineers
Ride their father's magic carpets made of steel.
Mothers with their babes asleep,
Are rockin' to the gentle beat
And the rhythm of the rails is all they feel.

Chorus

Nighttime on The City of New Orleans,
Changing cars in Memphis, Tennessee.
Half way home, we'll be there by morning
Through the Mississippi darkness
Rolling down to the sea.
And all the towns and people seem
To fade into a bad dream
And the steel rails still ain't heard the news.
The conductor sings his song again,
The passengers will please refrain
This train's got the disappearing railroad blues.

Good night, America, how are you?
Don't you know me I'm your native son,
I'm the train they call The City of New Orleans,
I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.
    

—Steve Goodman

The Sisters Of Mercy

O the sisters of mercy, they are not departed or gone
They were waiting for me, when I thought that I just can't go on
And they gave me their comfort, and later they gave me their song
Oh I hope you run into them, you who've been traveling so long
Yes you who must lose everything that you cannot control
It begins with your family, but soon it comes round to your soul
Well I've been where you're hanging, I think I can see how you're pinned
When you're not feeling holy, your loneliness says that you've sinned

They lay down beside me, I made my confession to them
They touched both my eyes, and I touched the dew on their hem
If your life is a leaf that the seasons tear off and condemn
They will bind you with love that is graceful and green as a stem

When I left they were sleeping, I hope you run into them soon
Don't turn on the light, you can read their address by the moon
And it won't make me jealous if I learn that they've sweetened your night
We weren't lovers like that, and besides it would still be alright
We weren't lovers like that, and besides it would still be alright
    

—Leonard Cohen

Mandalay

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea,  
There's a Burma girl a–settin', and I know she thinks o' me;  
For the wind is in the palm–trees, and the temple–bells they say;  
"Come you back, you British Soldier; come you back to Mandalay!"  
Come you back to Mandalay,  
Where the old Flotilla lay;  
Can't you 'ear their paddles clunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay?  
On the road to Mandalay,  
Where the flyin'–fishes play,  
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!  

'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,  
An' 'er name was Supi–Yaw–Lat jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,  
An' I seed her first a–smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,  
An' wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:  
Bloomin' idol made o' mud—  
Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd—  
Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud!  
On the road to Mandalay … 

When the mist was on the rice–fields an' the sun was droppin' slow,  
She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "Kulla–la–lo!"  
With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek again my cheek  
We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak.  
Elephants a–piling teak  
In the sludgy, squdgy creek,  
Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak!  
On the road to Mandalay …  

But that's all shove be'ind me — long ago and fur away,  
An' there ain't no 'buses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay;  
An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten–year soldier tells:  
"If you've 'eard the East a–callin', you won't never 'eed naught else."  
No! you won't 'eed nothin' else  
But them spicy garlic smells,  
An' the sunshine an' the palm–trees an' the tinkly temple–bells;  
On the road to Mandalay … 

I am sick 'o wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'–stones,  
An' the blasted English drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;  
Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,  
An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?  
Beefy face an' grubby 'and—  
Law! wot do they understand?  
I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!  
On the road to Mandalay . . .  

Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,  
Where there ain't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst;  
For the temple–bells are callin', and it's there that I would be—  
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;  
On the road to Mandalay,  
Where the old Flotilla lay,  
With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!  
O the road to Mandalay,  
Where the flyin'–fishes play,  
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!   
    

—Rudyard Kipling

The Lady came from Baltimore

The lady came from Baltimore,
All she wore was lace. 
She didn't know that I was poor, 
She never saw my place. 
I was there to steal her money, 
Take her rings and run. 
Then I fell in love with the lady, 
Got away with none. 

The lady's name was Susan Moore, 
Her daddy read the law. 
She didn't know that I was poor, 
And lived outside the law. 

Her daddy said, I was a thief
And didn't marry her for love. 
I was Susan's true belief, 
Married her for love. 

I was there to steal her money, 
To take her rings and run. 
Then I fell in love with the lady,
Got away with none. 

The house she lived in had a wall
To keep the robbers out. 
She'd never stop to think at all
If that's what I'm about. 

I was there to steal her money,
Take her rings and run. 
Then I fell in love with the lady, 
Got away with none.    
    

—Tim Hardin

Crossing the Bar

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea, 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark; 

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar. 
    

—Alfred Lord Tennyson

Down Among the Dead Men

Here's a health to the King,
and a lasting peace,
To faction an end, to wealth
increase;
Come, let's drink it while we
have breath,
For there's no drinking, after
death;
And he that will this health
deny,
Down among the dead men
let him lie.
    

—John Dyer

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
and learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
    

—Dylan Thomas

Christian Island (Georgian Bay)

I'm sailing down the summer wind
I got whiskers on my chin
And I like the mood I'm in
As I while away the time of day
In the lee of Christian Island
Tall and strong she dips and reels
I call her Silver Heels
And she tells me how she feels
She's a good old boat and she'll stay afloat
Through the toughest gales and keep smilin'
But for one more day she would like to stay
In the lee of Christian Island

I'm sailing down the summer day
Where the fish and seagulls play
I put my troubles all away
And when the gales comes up I'll fill my cup
With the whiskey of the Highlands
She's a good old ship and she'll make the trip
From the lee of Christian Island

Tall and strong she slips along
I sing for her a song
And she leans into the wind
She's a good old boat and she'll stay afloat
Through the toughest gales and keep smilin'
When the summer ends we will rest again
In the lee of Christian Island
    

—Gordon Lightfoot

To a Young Warrior Woman

keep an open countenance
stand lance–straight
run like deer

speak with sun and star
consult wind
interpret signs

shield creatures
children
and elders

know truth, be just
cherish wisdom
love strongly

your people are proud
    

—Mary TallMountain

Heartbreak Hotel

Well, since my baby left me,
I found a new place to dwell.
Its down at the end of lonely street
At heartbreak hotel.

You make me so lonely baby,
I get so lonely,
I get so lonely I could die.

And although it's always crowded,
You still can find some room.
Where broken hearted lovers
Do cry away their gloom.

You make me so lonely baby,
I get so lonely,
I get so lonely I could die.

Well, the bell hops tears keep flowin,
And the desk clerks dressed in black.
Well they been so long on lonely street
They aint ever gonna look back.

You make me so lonely baby,
I get so lonely,
I get so lonely I could die.

Hey now, if your baby leaves you,
And you got a tale to tell.
Just take a walk down lonely street
To heartbreak hotel.
    

—Hoyt Axton and Mae B. Axton and Tommy Durden and Elvis Presley

Flash of Fire

I thought you were a friend of mine; I thought you were my buddy
But I found out a short while ago your thoughts were dark and muddy
You scare me half to death, my friend, with the things you say and do
So I'm goin' to heaven in a flash of fire, with or without you
Hey, goin' to heaven in a flash of fire, with or without you

Easy come and easy go; some call me Easy Money
And sometimes life is full of laughs, and sometimes it ain't funny
You may think that I'm a fool and sometimes that is true
But I'm goin' to heaven in a flash of fire, with or without you
Hey, goin' to heaven in a flash of fire, with or without you

Some can dance and some can sing and some can play the fiddle
I've been right and I've been left and I've been down the middle.
You don't have to see my side or share my point of view
`Cause I'm goin' to heaven in a flash of fire, with or without you
Hey, goin' to heaven in a flash of fire, with or without you

I thought you were a friend of mine; I thought you were my buddy
But I found out a short while ago your thoughts were dark and muddy
You scare me half to death, my friend, with the things you say and do
So I'm goin' to heaven in a flash of fire, with or without you
Hey, goin' to heaven in a flash of fire, with or without you
    

—Hoyt Axton

The Velveteen Rabbit

"What is Real?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery
fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you
and a stick out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you.
When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, 
but REALLY loves you, then you become real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse for he was always truthful. 
"When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes
a long time. That's why it doesn't often happen to people who break easily, or have
sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real,
most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints
and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are real you can't
be ugly, except to people who don't understand. Once you are real, you can't become unreal
again. It lasts for always."
    

—Margery Williams

Jody And The Kid

She would meet me in the morning on my way down to the river, 
Waiting patient by the Chinaberry tree; 
With her feet already dusty from the pathway to the levee,
And her little blue jeans rolled up to her knees. 
And I'd pay her no attention as she tagged along beside me, 
Trying hard to copy ev'rything I did; 
But I couldn't keep from smiling when I'd hear somebody saying,
"Looky yonder, there goes Jody and the kid." 

Even after we grew older, we could still be seen together, 
As we walked along the levee holding hands; 
For as surely as the seasons, she was changing  to a woman, 
And I'd lived enough to call myself a man. 
As she often lay beside me, in the coolness of the evening
Till the morning sun was shining on my bed;
And at times, when she was sleeping I would smile when I'd rememeber  
How they used to call us "Jody and the kid." 

Now, the world's a little older, and the years have changed the river, 
'Cause there's houses where there didn't used to be; 
And on Sundays I'd go walking down the pathway to the levee, 
With another little girl who follows me. 
And it makes the old folks smile to see her tag along beside me, 
Doing little things the way her Mamma did. 
But it gets a little lonesome, when I hear somebody saying,
"Looky yonder, there goes Jody and the kid." 
    

—Kris Kristofferson

Jennifer's Rabbit

Jennifer slept in her little bed
With dreams of a rabbit in her little head

Jennifer's rabbit, brown and white
Left the house and went to town one night
Along with a turtle and a kangaroo
And seventeen monkeys from the city zoo

They went for a ride on an old street car
They tried to drive it but they didn't get far
They all got tired and decided to go
To see the people in the picture show

Jennifer's rabbit, white and brown
Looked in the windows of the shops downtown
He found a dress for Jennifer to wear
And a pretty blue ribbon for her long blond hair

Then the rabbit and the turtle and the kangaroo
Bowed to each other like polite folks do
They went to a shop where the cookies are free
And they all had cookies and oolong tea

Then, "My!" said the turtle as the clock struck three
"The hour is growing very late for me."
"Not at all," said the rabbit.  "If you give me a chance,
I'll lead all the monkeys in a hula dance!"

So they danced all night and the moon danced too
Then the rabbit and the turtle and the kangaroo
Jumped into bed and closed their eyes
And were fast asleep before the sun could rise

And Jennifer slept in her little bed
With dreams of a rabbit in her little head
    

—Tom Paxton

Death be not Proud

 Death be not proud, though some have called thee
 Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so,
 For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
 Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
 From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
 Much pleasure: then from thee much more must flow,
 And soonest our best men with thee do go,
 Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
 Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
 And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
 And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
 And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
 One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
 And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die. 
    

—John Donne

Sir Patrick Spens

The King sits in Dunfermline town,
Drinking the blood–red wine;
"O where shall I get a skeely skipper
To sail this ship or mine?"

Then up and spake an eldern knight,
Sat at the King's right knee:
"Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever sailed the sea."

The King has written a broad letter,
And sealed it with his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the strand.

"To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway o'er the foam;
The King's daughter of Noroway,
'Tis thou must fetch her home."

The first line that Sir Patrick read,
A loud laugh laughed he;
The next line that Sir Patrick read,
The tear blinded his ee.

"O who is this has done this deed,
Has told the King of me,
To send us out at this time of the year,
To sail upon the sea?

"Be it wind, be it wet, be it hail, be it sleet,
Our ship must sail the foam;
The king's daughter of Noroway,
'Tis we must fetch her home."

They hoisted their sails on Monenday morn,
With all the speed they may;
And they have landed in Noroway
Upon a Wodensday

They had not been a week, a week,
In Noroway but twae,
When that the lords of Noroway
Began aloud to say, —

"Ye Scottishmen spend all our King's gowd,
And all our Queenis fee."
"Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud!
So loud I hear ye lie.

"For I brought as much of the white monie
As gane my men and me,
And a half–fou of the good red gowd
Out o'er the sea with me.

"Make ready, make ready, my merry men all,
Our good ship sails the morn."
"Now, ever alack, my master dear
I fear a deadly storm.

"I saw the new moon late yestreen
With the old moon in her arm;
And if we go to sea, master,
I fear we'll come to harm."

They had not sailed a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,
And gurly grew the sea.

The ankers brake and the top–masts lap,
It was such a deadly storm;
And the waves came o'er the broken ship
Till all her sides were torn.

"O where will I get a good sailor
Will take my helm in hand,
Till I get up to the tall top–mast
To see if I can spy land?"

"O here am I, a sailor good,
Will take the helm in hand,
Till you go up to the tall top–mast,
But I fear you'll ne'er spy land."

He had not gone a step, a step,
A step but barely ane,
When a bolt flew out of the good ship's side,
And the salt sea came in.

"Go fetch a web of the silken cloth,
Another of the twine,
And wap them into our good ship's side,
And let not the sea come in."

They fetched a web of the silken cloth,
Another of the twine,
And they wapp'd them into the good ship's side,
But still the sea came in.

O loth, both, were our good Scots lords
To wet their cork–heel'd shoon,
But long ere all the play was play'd
They wet their hats aboon.

And many was the feather–bed
That fluttered on the foam;
And many was the good lord's son
That never more came home.

The ladies wrang their fingers white,
The maidens tore their heair,
All for the sake of their true loves,
For them they'll see nae mair.

O lang, lang may the maidens sit
With their gold combs in their hair,
All waiting for their own dear loves,
For them they'll see nae mair.

O forty miles of Aberdeen,
'Tis fifty fathoms deep;
And there lies good Sir Patrick Spens,
With the Scots lords at his feet. 
    

—Anonymous

White Rabbit

One pill makes you larger
And one pill makes you small,
And the ones that mother gives you
Don't do anything at all.
Go ask Alice
When she's ten feet tall.
And if you go chasing rabbits
And you know you're going to fall,
Tell 'em a hookah smoking caterpillar
Has given you the call.
Call Alice
When she was just small.
When the men on the chessboard
Get up and tell you where to go
And you've just had some kind of mushroom
And your mind is moving low.
Go ask Alice
I think she'll know.
When logic and proportion
Have fallen sloppy dead,
And the White Knight is talking backwards
And the Red Queen's "off with her head!"
Remember what the dormouse said:
"Feed your head. Feed your head. Feed your head"    
    

—Jefferson Airplane

Slipping Sun

The sun is sleeping quietly
Once upon a century
Wistful oceans calm and red
Ardent caresses laid to rest

For my dreams I hold my life
For wishes I behold my night
The truth at the end of time
Losing faith makes a crime

I wish for this night–time
to last for a lifetime
The darkness around me
Shores of a solar sea
Oh how I wish to go down with the sun
Sleeping
Weeping
With you

Sorrow has a human heart
From my god it will depart
I'd sail before a thousand moons
Never finding where to go

Two hundred twenty–two days of light
Will be desired by a night
A moment for the poet's play
Until there's nothing left to say

I wish for this night–time…

I wish for this night–time...
    

—Nightwish

In The Sweet By And By

There’s a land that is fairer than day and
By faith we can see it afar 
For the Father waits over the wave
To prepare us a dwelling place there

CHORUS 

In the sweet bye and bye 
We shall meet on that beautiful shore
In the sweet bye and bye
We shall meet on that beautiful shore

We shall sing on that beautiful shore
The melodious songs of the blest
And our spirit shall sorrow no more
Not a sigh for the blessing of rest

CHORUS 

To our bountiful Father above
We will offer a tribute of praise
For the glorious gift of his love
And the blessing that hallow
Our days

CHORUS 
    

—Samuel Fillmore Bennett

Bad Rats

Good rats all have wheels
Good rats all have names
Good rats all can feel
Good rats are the same
Good rats all have friends
Good rats all can eat
Good rats all get papers
To protect their little feet.

It’s a song about the good rats

Bad rats have no names
Bad rats have disease
Bad rats all must leave
Bad Rats are the same
Bad rats have no friends
Bad rats die alone
Let’s all kill the bad rats
And pass around the stone

It’s a song about the bad rats
Yeah, song about the bad rats
Yeah, song about the bad rats

There ain’t no way you know 
Of telling who’s a bad rat. 
There ain’t no way you know
Of telling who’s a bad rat. 
There ain’t no way that I know
Of telling who’s a bad rat. 

Look at all them Asian people
I’m glad they aren’t like me.
Look at all them inner city people
Glad they’re not like me
Look at all those homeless people
Glad they’re not like me
Song about the bad rats
    

—John Stewart

Home Again Blues

And huckleberry pie, 
In fact the Things We Fought For: 
And now we wonder why. 

For Mom is just a garter belt 
And Dad is just a bore, 
And as for good home cooking 
We had too much before. 

And that, we guess, is what it means 
to be a U.S. Veteran. 
We'll never fight another war 
Untill they start a better one. 
    

—James Agee

Farewell Angelina

Farewell Angelina
The bells of the crown
Are being stolen by bandits
I must follow the sound
The triangle tingles
And the trumpet play slow
Farewell Angelina
The sky is on fire
And I must go.

There's no need for anger
There's no need for blame
There's nothing to prove
Ev'rything's still the same
Just a table standing empty
By the edge of the sea
Farewell Angelina
The sky is trembling
And I must leave.

The jacks and queens
Have forsaked the courtyard
Fifty–two gypsies
Now file past the guards
In the space where the deuce
And the ace once ran wild
Farewell Angelina
The sky is folding
I'll see you in a while.

See the cross–eyed pirates sitting
Perched in the sun
Shooting tin cans
With a sawed–off shotgun
And the neighbors they clap
And they cheer with each blast
Farewell Angelina
The sky's changing color
And I must leave fast.

King Kong, little elves
On the rooftoops they dance
Valentino–type tangos
While the make–up man's hands
Shut the eyes of the dead
Not to embarrass anyone
Farewell Angelina
The sky is embarrassed
And I must be gone.

The machine guns are roaring
The puppets heave rocks
The fiends nail time bombs
To the hands of the clocks
Call me any name you like
I will never deny it
Farewell Angelina
The sky is erupting
I must go where it's quiet.
    

—Bob Dylan

The Psychoed

As I was going up the stair
I met a man who wasn’t there.
He wasn’t there again today.
I wish, I wish 
he’d stay away.
    

—Hughes Mearns

Thanks For The Dance

Thanks for the dance
I’m sorry you’re tired
The evening has hardly begun
Thanks for the dance
Try to look inspired
One two three, one two three one

There’s a rose in my hair
My shoulders are bare
I’ve been wearing this costume
Forever
Turn up the music
Pour out the wine
Stop at the surface
The surface is fine
We don’t need to go any deeper

Thanks for the dance
I hear that we’re married
One two three, one two three one
Thanks for the dance
And the baby I carried
It was almost a daughter or a son

And there’s nothing to do
But to wonder if you
Are as hopeless as me
And as decent

We’re joined in the spirit
Joined at the hip
Joined in the panic
Wondering if
We’ve come to some sort
Of agreement

It was fine it was fast
I was first I was last
In line at the
Temple of Pleasure
But the green was so green
And the blue was so blue
I was so I
And you were so you
The crisis was light
As a feather

Thanks for the dance
It was hell, it was swell
It was fun
Thanks for all the dances
One two three, one two three one
    

—Anjani Thomas

The Horse May Sing!

"There was once a king," he began in a Dutch accent, "who had a horse whom
he loved dearly. One day, when he was condemning prisoners to death, one of the prisoners
stepped out of the line and spoke.

"'Your majesty, I beg you to hold,' he said, 'for I have special powers and,
given one year, can teach your horse to sing!'

"The king was intrigued, and granted him a stay of execution for one year.
'But if, after one year, the horse can not sing,' he warned, 'the fate that will befall you
is far worse and more painful than the quick and merciful death you would have had
today.'

"As the prisoner was led off, one of the condemned whispered to him. 'You
have only postponed the inevitable,' he said, 'and will suffer a horrible death as a
result, for verily, you cannot teach a horse to sing.'

"'Perhaps you're right,' was the response, 'but I have a year. And in that
year, the king might die. The horse might die. I might die. And who knows… maybe the
horse will sing.'" 
    

—Anonymous

If I Should Fall From Grace With God

If I should fall from grace with god where no doctor can relieve me 
If I'm buried 'neath the sod but the angels won't receive me 

Let me go boys, let me go boys 
Let me go down in the mud where the rivers all run dry 

This land was always ours, was the proud land of our fathers 
It belongs to us and them, not to any of the others 

Let them go boys, let them go boys 
Let them go down in the mud where the rivers all run dry 

Bury me at sea where no murdered ghost can haunt me 
If I rock upon the waves, no corpse can lie upon me 

It's coming up three boys, keeps coming up three boys 
Let them go down in the mud where the rivers all run dry 

If I should fall from grace with god where no doctor can relieve me 
If I'm buried 'neath the sod and still the angels won't receive me 

Let me go boys, let me go boys 
Let me go down in the mud where the rivers all run dry
    

—Shane MacGowan

When The Ship Comes In

Oh the time will come up
When the winds will stop
And the breeze will cease to be breathin'.
Like the stillness in the wind
'Fore the hurricane begins,
The hour when the ship comes in.

Oh the seas will split
And the ship will hit
And the sands on the shoreline will be shaking.
Then the tide will sound
And the wind will pound
And the morning will be breaking.

Oh the fishes will laugh
As they swim out of the path
And the seagulls they'll be smiling.
And the rocks on the sand
Will proudly stand,
The hour that the ship comes in.

And the words that are used
For to get the ship confused
Will not be understood as they're spoken.
For the chains of the sea
Will have busted in the night
And will be buried at the bottom of the ocean.

A song will lift
As the mainsail shifts
And the boat drifts on to the shoreline.
And the sun will respect
Every face on the deck,
The hour that the ship comes in.

Then the sands will roll
Out a carpet of gold
For your weary toes to be a–touchin'.
And the ship's wise men
Will remind you once again
That the whole wide world is watchin'.

Oh the foes will rise
With the sleep still in their eyes
And they'll jerk from their beds and think they're dreamin'.
But they'll pinch themselves and squeal
And know that it's for real,
The hour when the ship comes in.

Then they'll raise their hands,
Sayin' we'll meet all your demands,
But we'll shout from the bow your days are numbered.
And like Pharaoh's tribe,
They'll be drownded in the tide,
And like Goliath, they'll be conquered.
    

—Bob Dylan

Alison Gross

Alison Gross that lives in yon tower
The ugliest witch in the North Country
Has trysted me one day up to her bower
And many a fair speech she made to me

She stroked my head and she combed my hair
She set me down softly on her knee
Saying if you will be my lover so true
So many good things I would give to you

Away, away, you ugly witch
Go far away and let me be
I never will be your lover so true
And wish I were out of your communy

Chorus
 
Alison Gross she must be
The ugliest witch in the North Country
Alison Gross she must be
The ugliest witch in the North Country 
She showed me a mantle of red scarlet
With golden flowers and fringes fine
Saying if you will be my lover so true
This goodly gift it shall be thine

She showed me a shirt of the softest silk
Well wrought with pearls abound the band
Saying if you will be my lover so true
This goodly gift you shall command

Chorus

She showed me a cup of the good red gold
Well set with jewels so fair to see
Saying if you will be my lover so true
This goodly gift I will give to thee

Away, away, you ugly witch
Go far away and let me be
I never would kiss your ugly mouth
For all of the gifts that you could give

Chorus

She turned her right and round about
And thrice she blew on a grass–green horn
She swore by the moon and the stars of above
That she'd make me rue the day I was born

The out she has taken a silver wand
She's turned her three times round and round
She muttered such words till my strength it did fail
And she's turned me into an ugly worm

Chorus
    

—Traditional

My Name Joe

Joe threw another tantrum
He could not to be understood
He cries like baby Samson
His English is not good

Joe's boss of the kitchen
But on the outside he knows
Low man on  the totem's
Wearing giveaway clothes

Joe he  fights the good fight
He wears a white uniform
The waiters are all artists
Out chasing unicorns

Joe works fourteen hours
After ten he starts to booze
He gets very sentimental
Oh he sings the buddah blues
He sings the buddah blues
My name Joe  my name Joe
There is a king in Thailand
And he plays the jazz drum
He has a fine and healthy son
Oh no I'm not the one
My name Joe

On the wall by the time clock
Joe's beaming from a photograph
Someone drew across his face
The waiters began to laugh

Joe picked up a hatchet
And he tenderized the wall
And when he got through
Time clock wasn't punching anymore

The waiters ran for cover
The maitre d' began to lisp
The drunkard in the corner
Said his lettuce was not crisp

Owner called immigration
Said there's someone you should know
He's an illegal alien
And I think his name is Joe
Oh I know his name is Joe
My name Joe  my name Joe
There is a king in Thailand
And he plays the jazz drum
He has a fine and healthy son
Oh no I'm not the one
My name Joe

Came the man from immigration
Said I've got a job to do
Easy questions easy answers
Just point  me to the kitchen crew

He asked Leroy from Harlem
He asked Cisco from Mexico
He asked the white trash from Tennessee
They all said my name Joe

My name Joe  my name Joe
The maitre d' he sputtered
The kitchen crew they roared
And while they were arguing
Joe slipped out the back door

On the beach Joe tries to listen
To the heartbeat of a whale
How it echoes his own heartbeat
And the distance he has sailed
Oh the distance he has sailed
My name Joe  my name Joe
There is a king in Thailand
And he plays the jazz drum
He has a fine and healthy son
Oh no I'm not the one
My name Joe
    

—David Massengill

There'll always be an England!

There'll always be an England, 
While there's a country lane. 
Wherever there's a cottage small 
Beside a field of grain 
There'll always be an England 
While there's a busy street. 
Wherever there's a turning wheel 
A million marching feet. 

Red, white and blue 
What does it mean to you? 
Surely you're proud 
Shout it loud 
Britons awake! 
The Empire too 
We can depend on you. 
Freedom remains 
These are the chains 
Nothing can break. 

There'll always be an England 
And England shall be free 
If England means as much to you 
As England means to me.
    

—Ross Parker and Hugh Charles

LET THE RIVER RUN (The New Jerusalem)

We're coming to the edge,
running on the water,
coming through the fog,
your sons and daughters.

Let the river run,
let all the dreamers
wake the nation.
Come, the New Jerusalem.

Silver cities rise,
the morning lights
the streets that meet them,
and sirens call them on
with a song.

It's asking for the taking.
Trembling, shaking.
Oh, my heart is aching.

We're coming to the edge,
running on the water,
coming through the fog,
your sons and daughters.

We the great and small
stand on a star
and blaze a trail of desire
through the dark'ning dawn.

It's asking for the taking.
Come run with me now,
the sky is the color of blue
you've never even seen
in the eyes of your lover.

Oh, my heart is aching.
We're coming to the edge,
running on the water,
coming through the fog,
your sons and daughters.

It's asking for the taking.
Trembling, shaking.
Oh, my heart is aching.

We're coming to the edge,
running on the water,
coming through the fog,
your sons and daughters.

Let the river run,
let all the dreamers
wake the nation.
Come, the New Jerusalem.
    

—Carly Simon

Eight Miles High

Eight miles high and when you touch down
You'll find that it's stranger than known
Signs in the street that say where you're going
Are somewhere just being their own

Nowhere is there warmth to be found
among those afraid of losing their ground
Rain gray town known for its sound
In places small faces unbound

Round the squares huddled in storms
Some laughing some just shapeless forms
Sidewalk scenes and black limousines
Some living some standing alone   
    

—Gene Clark and David Crosby and Jim McGuin

The Work Of The Weavers

We're all met together here to sit and to crack 
Wi' our glasses in our hands and our work upon our back 
There's nae a trade among 'em that can mend or can mak 
If it wasn't for the work of the weavers 

If it was not for the weavers, what would you do? 
You wouldn'a hae the clothes that's made of wool 
You wouldn'a hae a coat of the black or the blue 
If it was not for the work of the weavers 

There's soldiers and there's sailors and glaziers and all 
There's doctors and there's ministers and them that live by law 
And our friends in Sooth America, though them we never saw 
But we can they wear the work of the weavers 

If it was not for the weavers, what would you do? 
You wouldn'a hae the clothes that's made of wool 
You wouldn'a hae a coat of the black or the blue 
If it was not for the work of the weavers 

Though weavin' is a trade that never can fail 
As long as we need clothes for to keep another hale 
So let us all be merry o'er a bicker of good ale 
And we'll drink to the health of the weavers 

If it was not for the weavers, what would you do? 
You wouldn'a hae the clothes that's made of wool 
You wouldn'a hae a coat of the black or the blue 
If it was not for the work of the weavers
    

—Traditional

Share The Land

Have you been around
Have you done your share of coming down
On different things that people do
Have you been aware
You got brothers and sisters who care
About what's gonna happen to you
In a year from now…

Maybe I'll be there to shake your hand
Maybe I'll be there to share the land
That they'll be giving away
When we all live together.

Did you pay your dues
Did you read the news
This morning when the paper landed in your yard
Do you know their names
Can you play their games
And coming down a bit too hard…

Shake your hand, share the land
Shake your hand, share the land
You know I'll be standing by
To help you if you worry....
[trailing off]
No more sadness, no more sorrow, no more bad times
every day coming sunshine, everyday everybody laughing
walking together by the river, walking together and
laughing, everybody singing together, everybody singing and
laughing, good times good times, everybody walking by the
river now, walking singing talking smiling laughing loving
each other.
    

—The Guess Who

I'm not Lonely

i'm not lonely
sleeping all alone

you think i'm scared
but i'm a big girl
i don't cry
or anything

i have a great big bed
to roll around
in and lots of space
and i don't dream
bad dreams
like i used
to have that you
were leaving me
anymore

now that you're gone
i don't dream
and no matter
what you think
i'm not lonely
sleeping
all alone
    

—Nikki Giovanni

Who By fire

And who by fire,
who by water,
who in the sunshine,
who in the night time,
who by high ordeal,
who by common trial,
who in your merry merry month of may,
who by very slow decay
and who shall I say is calling?

And who in her lonely slip,
who by barbiturate,
who in these realms of love,
who by something blunt,
and who by avalanche,
who by powder,
who for his greed,
who for his hunger,
and who shall I say is calling?

And who by brave assent,
who by accident,
who in solitude,
who in this mirror,
who by his lady's command,
who by his own hand,
who in mortal chains,
who in power,
and who shall I say is calling? 
    

—Leonard Cohen

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though.
He will not see me stopping here,
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer,
To stop without a farmhouse near,
Between the woods and frozen lake,
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake,
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep,
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep. 
    

—Robert Frost

For What It's Worth

There's something happening here
What it is ain't exactly clear
There's a man with a gun over there
Tellin' me I got to beware

I think it's time we
Stop! Children, what's that sound?
Everybody look what's goin' down

There's battle lines bein' drawn
Nobody's right if everybody's wrong
Young people speakin' their minds
Gettin' so much resistance from behind

What a field day for the heat
A thousand people in the street
Singin' songs, and carryin' signs
Mostly say "Hooray for our side"

Paranoia strikes deep
Into your life it will creep
It starts when you're always afraid
Step out of line, the man come and take you away   
    

—Stephen Stills and Richie Furay and Dewey Martin

Blue Rock Montana/Red Headed Stranger

He rode into Blue Rock, dusty and tired
And he got him a room for the night
And he lay there in silence, too much on his mind
Still hopin' that he was not right

But he found them that evening, at a tavern in town
A quiet little out–of–the–way place
And they smiled at each other, when he walked through the door
And they died with their smiles on their faces
And they died with a smile on their face

Chorus

So don't cross him, and don't boss him
'Cause he's wild in his sorrow
And he's right and he's hidin' his pain
Don't fight him, and don't spite him
Just wait 'til tomorrow
Maybe he'll ride on again

Now the red–headed stranger, from Blue Rock, Montana
Rode into town one day
And under his knees was a raging black stallion
And walkin' behind was a bay
And the red–headed stranger had eyes like the thunder
And lips that were sad and tight
And his little lost love lay asleep on the hillside
And his heart was heavy as night

Chorus

Now the yellow–haired lady leaned out of her window
And watched as he passed her way
And she drew back in fear at the sight of the stallion
But cast greedy eyes on the bay
But how could she know that the dancin' bay pony
Meant more to him than life
For this was the horse that his little lost darlin'
Had ridden when she was his wife

Chorus

Now the yellow–haired lady went down to the tavern
And looked up the stranger there
And he bought her a drink, and he gave her some money
But he just didn't seem to care
And she followed him out as he saddled his stallion
And laughed when she grabbed at the bay
And he shot her so quick, they had no time to warn her
And she never heard anyone say:

Chorus

The yellow–haired lady was buried at sunset
The stranger went free, of course
For you can't hang a man for killin' a woman
Who's tryin' to steal your horse
Now this is the tale of the red–headed stranger
And if he should pass your way
Stay out of the path of the raging black stallion
And don't lay a hand on the bay

Chorus
    

—C. Stutz and E. Lindeman

Reuben James

Have you heard of the ship called the good Reuben James? Run by hard fighting men both of honor and of fame.
She flew the Stars and Stripes of the land of the free, but tonight she's in her grave at the bottom of the sea.

Chorus

Oh, tell me, what were their names, tell me, what were their names?
Did you have a friend on the good Reuben James? (Repeat chorus)

One hundred men went down to their dark and watery graves. When that good ship went down, only forty–four were saved.
'Twas the last day of October they saved forty–four from the dark, icy water of that cold Iceland shore.

Chorus

It was there in the dark of that cold and watery night. They watched for the U–boats and they waited for a fight.
Then a whine and a rock and a great explosion's roar. They lay the Reuben James on that cold ocean floor.

Chorus

Many years have passed since those brave men are gone. Those cold, icy waters, they're still and they're calm.
Many years have passed and still I wonder why the worst of men must fight and the best of men must die!

Chorus
    

—The Almanac Singers

MacDonald's Lament (Glencoe)

They came in a blizzard, we offered them heat,
a roof for their heads, dry shoes for their feet,
we wined them and dined them, they ate all our meat,
and they slept in the house of MacDonald.

Oh cruel as the snow that sweeps Glencoe,
and covers the graves o' Donald (Donnell),
Oh cruel was the foe that raped Glencoe,
and murdered the house of MacDonald.

They came from fort William, with murder in mind,
the Campbell had orders, King William had signed,
put all to the sword, these words underlined,
leave no one alive called MacDonald.

Chorus

They came in the night, while our men were asleep,
this band of Argylls, through snow soft and deep,
like murdering foxes, among helpless sheep,
they slaughtered the house of MacDonald.

Chorus

Some died in their beds, at the hands of the foe,
some fled in the night, and were lost in the snow,
some lived to accuse him, who struck the first blow,
but gone was the house of MacDonald.

Oh cruel as the snow that sweeps Glencoe,
and covers the graves o' Donald,
Oh cruel was the foe that raped Glencoe,
and murdered the house of MacDonald,
and murdered the house of MacDonald.
    

—J. McLean

Surrender Speech

I am tired of fighting. Our chiefs are killed. Looking Glass is
dead. Toohulsote is dead. The old men are all dead. It is
the young men who say no and yes. He who led the young
men is dead. It is cold and we have no blankets, no food. No
one knows where they are—perhaps they are freezing to death.
I want to have time to look for my children and see how
many of them I can find. Maybe I shall find them among
the dead. Hear me, my chiefs, I am tired. My heart is sad
and sick. From where the sun now stands I will fight no more
forever.
    

—Chief Joseph

The Patriot Game

Come all you young rebels, and list while I sing, 
For the love of one's country is a terrible thing. 
It banishes fear with the speed of a flame, 
And it makes us all part of the patriot game. 

My name is O'Hanlon, and I'm just gone sixteen. 
My home is in Monaghan, where I was weaned. 
I learned all my life cruel England to blame, 
And so I'm a part of the patriot game. 

It's barely two years since I wandered away
With the local battalion of the bold IRA, 
I'd read of our heroes, and I wanted the same
To play out my part in the patriot game. 

They told me how Connolly was shot in a chair,
His wounds from the battle all bleeding and bare,
His fine body twisted, all battered and lame,
They soon made him part of the patriot game.

I joined a batallion from dear Bally Bay
And gave up my boyhood so happy and gay.
For now as a soldier I'd drill and I'd train
To play my full part in the patriot game.

This island of ours has for long been half free. 
Six counties are under John Bull's tyranny. 
So I gave up my Bible, to drill and to train
To play my own part in the patriot game. 

This Ireland of mine has for long been half free, 
Six counties are under John Bull's tyranny. 
And still De Valera is greatly to blame
For shirking his part in the patriot game.

I don't mind a bit if I shoot down police,
They're lackeys for war, never guardians of peace, 
But yet as deserters I'm never let aim
Those rebels who sold out the patriot game.

And now as I lie here, my body all holes
I think of those traitors who bargained and sold. 
I wish that my rifle had given the same
To those quislings who sold out the patriot game.    
    

—Dominic Behan

You Do Not Have To Love Me

You do not have to love me
just because
you are all the women
I have ever wanted
I was born to follow you
every night
while I am still
the many men who love you

I meet you at a table
I take your fist between my hands
in a solemn taxi
I wake up alone
my hand on your absense
in Hotel Discipline

I wrote all these songs for you
I burned red and black candles
shaped like a man and a woman
I married the smoke
of two pyramids of sandalwood
I prayed for you
I prayed that you would love me
and that you would not love me
    

—Leonard Cohen

Cracklin' Rosie

Cracklin' Rosie, get on board
We're gonna ride till there ain't no more to go
Taking it slow
Lord, don't you know
Have me a time with a poor man's lady
Hitchin' on a twilight train
Ain't nothing there that I care to take along
Maybe a song
To sing when I want
Don't need to say please to no man for a happy tune

Oh, I love my Rosie child
She got the way to make me happy
You and me, we go in style
Cracklin' Rosie you're a store–bought woman
You make me sing like a guitar hummin'
So hang on to me, girl
Our song keeps runnin' on

Play it now
Play it now
Play it now, my baby

Cracklin' Rosie, make me a smile
God if it lasts for an hour, that's all right
We got all night
To set the world right
Find us a dream that don't asks no questions, yeah

Oh, I love my Rosie child
You got the way to make me happy
You and me, we go in style
Cracklin' Rosie, you're a store–bought woman
You make me sing like a guitar hummin'
So hang on to me, girl
Our song keeps runnin' on

Play it now
Play it now
Play it now, my baby

Cracklin' Rosie, make me a smile
God if it lasts for an hour, that's all right
We got all night
To set the world right
Find us a dream that don't asks no questions, yeah
    

—Neil Diamond

Mrs. McGrath

"Oh, Mrs. McGrath," the sergeant said
"Would you like to make a soldier out of your son Ted
With a scarlett coat and a big cocked hat
Oh, Mrs. McGrath, wouldn't you like that?"

Chorus:
With your too–ri–a, fol–di–diddle–da, too–ri, oor–ri, oor–ri–a
With your too–ri–a, fol–di–diddle–da, too–ri, oor–ri, oor–ri–a

Now, Mrs. McGrath lived on the sea shore
For the space of seven long years or more
She spied a ship coming into the bay
"Here's my son Teddy, wisha clear the way"

Chorus

"Oh captain dear, where have you been
Or have you been sailing on the Meditereen
Have you any tidings of my son Ted
Is the poor boy living or is he dead?"

Chorus

Then up came Ted without any legs
And in their place, he had two wooden pegs
She kissed him a dozen times or two
"Holy Moses, it isn't you"

Chorus

"Now were you drunk or were you blind
When you left your two fine legs behind
Or was it walking upon the say
Wore your two fine legs from the knees away?"

Chorus

"No, I wasn't drunk and I wasn't blind
When I left my two fine legs behind
A big cannon ball on the fifth of May
Tore my two fine legs from the knees away"

Chorus

"Oh, Teddy my boy," the widow cried
"Your two fine legs were your mammy's pride
Stumps of a tree wouldn't do at all
Why didn't you run from the big cannon ball?"

Chorus

"All foreign wars I do proclaim
Between Don John and the King of Spain
I'd rather have my Teddy as he used to be
Than the King of France and his whole navy"

Chorus
    

—Traditional

Deportee

The crops are all in and the peaches are rotting,
The oranges are packed in their creosote dumps.2.
They're flying 'em back to the Mexico border
To take all their money to wade back again. 
Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye Rosalita,
Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria.
You won't have a name when you ride the big airplane,
All they will call you will be "deportees."
My father's own father, he waded that river.
They took all the money he made in his life.

My brothers and sisters came workin' the fruit trees,
They rode the big trucks 'till they laid down and died. 
Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye Rosalita,
Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria.
You won't have a name when you ride the big airplane,
All they will call you will be "deportees."
The skyplane caught fire over Los Gatos Canyon,
A fireball of lightnin' an' it shook all the hills.
Who are these comrades, they're dying like the dry leaves? 
The radio tells me, "They're just deportees." 
We died in your hills and we died in your deserts,
We died in your valleys, we died in your plains.
We died 'neath your trees and we died 'neath your bushes,
Both sides of the river we died just the same. 

Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye Rosalita,
Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria.
You won't have a name when you ride the big airplane,
All they will call you will be "deportees"
Is this the best way we can grow our big orchards? 
Is this the best way we can grow our good fruit? 
To die like the dry leaves and rot on my topsoil
And be known by no name except "deportee." 
Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye Rosalita,
Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria.
You won't have a name when you ride the big airplane,
All they will call you will be "deportees."
All they will call you will be "deportees."   
    

—Woody Guthrie

On the Tomb of the Spartan Dead at Thermoplyae

Stranger, tell the Spartans how we die:
Obedient to their laws, here we lie.
    

—Unknown

We Soldiers of all Nations Who Lie Killed

We soldiers of all nations who lie killed
Ask little: that you never, in our name,
Dare claim we died that men might be fulfilled.
The earth should vomit us, against that shame.

We died; is that enough? Many died well,
Of both sides; most of us died senselessly.
Ask soldiers who outlived us; they may tell
How many died to make men slaves, or free.

We died. None knew, few tried to guess, just why.
No one knows now on either side the grave.
If you insist you know by all means try,
That being your trade, to make the knowledge save.

But never use, not as you honor sorrow,
Our murdered days to garnish your tomorrow.   
    

—James Agee

As Tears Go By

It is the evening of the day
I sit and watch the children play
Smiling faces I can see, but not for me
I sit and watch as tears go by 

My riches can't buy everything
I want to hear the children sing
All I ever hear is the sound of rain falling on the ground
I sit and watch as tears go by 

It is the evening of the day
I sit and watch the children play
Doin' things I used to do, they think they are new
I sit and watch as tears go by
    

—Rolling Stones

Sky Pilot

He blesses the boys as they stand in line
The smell of gun grease and the bayonets they shine
He's there to help them all that he can
To make them feel wanted he's a good holy man
Sky pilot.....sky pilot
How high can you fly
You'll never, never, never reach the sky

He smiles at the young soldiers
Tells them its all right
He knows of their fear in the forthcoming fight
Soon there'll be blood and many will die
Mothers and fathers back home they will cry
Sky pilot.....sky pilot
How high can you fly
You'll never, never, never reach the sky

He mumbles a prayer and it ends with a smile
The order is given
They move down the line
But he's still behind and he'll meditate
But it won't stop the bleeding or ease the hate
As the young men move out into the battle zone
He feels good, with God you're never alone
He feels tired and he lays on his bed
Hopes the men will find courage in the words that he said
Sky pilot.....sky Pilot
How high can you fly

You'll never, never, never reach the sky
You're soldiers of God you must understand
The fate of your country is in your young hands
May God give you strength
Do your job real well
If it all was worth it 
Only time it will tell

In the morning they return
With tears in their eyes
The stench of death drifts up to the skies
A soldier so ill looks at the sky pilot
Remembers the words 
"Thou shalt not kill"
Sky pilot.....sky pilot
How high can you fly
You never, never, never reach the sky
    

—Burdon and Briggs and Weider and Jenkins and McCulloch

Quotation From "Der Weg ins Freie", 1946

Als die Nazis die Kommunisten holten, habe ich geschwiegen; ich war ja kein Kommunist.
Als sie die Sozialdemokraten einsperrten, habe ich geschwiegen; ich war ja kein Sozialdemokrat.
Als sie die Gewerkschafter holten, habe ich geschwiegen; ich war ja kein Gewerkschafter.
Als sie die Juden holten, habe ich geschwiegen; ich war ja kein Jude.
Als sie mich holten, gab es keinen mehr, der protestieren konnte.

English translation:

When the Nazis arrested the Communists, I said nothing; after all, I was not a Communist.
When they locked up the Social Democrats, I said nothing; after all, I was not a Social Democrat.
When they arrested the trade unionists, I said nothing; after all, I was not a trade unionist.
When they arrested the Jews, I said nothing; after all, I was not a Jew.
When they arrested me, there was no longer anyone who could protest.
    

—Martin Niemöller

Alleluia, The Great Storm Is Over

The thunder and lightning gave voice to the night;
the little lame child cried aloud in her fright. .
"Hush, little baby, a story I'll tell,
of a love that has vanquished the powers of hell.

Alleluia, the great storm is over, lift up your wings and fly!
Alleluia, the great storm is over, lift up your wings and fly!

 "Sweetness in the air, and justice on the wind,
laughter in the house where the mourners had been.
The deaf shall have music, the blind have new eyes,
the standards of death taken down by surprise.

Alleluia, the great storm is over, lift up your wings and fly!
Alleluia, the great storm is over, lift up your wings and fly!

"Release for the captives, an end to the wars,
new streams in the desert, new hope for the poor.
The little lame children will dance as they sing,
and play with the bears and the lions in spring.

Alleluia, the great storm is over, lift up your wings and fly!
Alleluia, the great storm is over, lift up your wings and fly!

 "Hush little baby, let go of your fear:
the Lord loves his own, and your mother is here."
The child fell asleep as the lantern did burn.
The mother sang on 'till her Bridegroom's return.
    

—by Bob Franke

Coyotes' Desert Lament

I lie on the little hill
reading a scroll of stars
Moon soars, staring.
My hound stirs restless.
On the far mesa a coyote yaps.

Hound steel still
Dark, wolfish shadow.
Does he remember ancient fires,
Peaceful before he heard
The long howl of his brothers?

From the river willows
two coyotes reply.
Scissors of sound slice mist.
Across the valley
Drops a silent waiting.

From the mesa rim
Lone coyote sings,
Mourns long and thin,
Wailing, Beseeching,
Knifing the night.

Suddenly I am coyote too,
Nose a wet black tremble.
Hound and I bunch together
Among warm grey bodies
Calling our brother home.
    

—Mary TallMountain

Civil War II

Fredericksburg, 1862

It is well that war is so terrible,
else men would grow to love it too much.
    

—Robert E. Lee

As If He Knows

It’s as if he knows
He’s standing close to me
His breath warm on my sleeve
His head hung low
It’s as if he knows
What the dawn will bring
The end of everything
For my old Banjo
And all along the picket lines beneath the desert sky
The Light Horsemen move amongst their mates to say one last goodbye
And the horses stand so quietly
Row on silent row
It’s as if they know

Time after time
We rode  through shot and shell
We rode  in and out of Hell
On their strong backs
Time after time
They brought us safely through
By their swift sure hooves
And their brave hearts
Tomorrow we will form up ranks and march down to the quay
And sail back to our loved ones in that dear land across the sea
While our loyal and true companions
Who asked so little and gave so much
Will lie dead in the dust.

For the orders came
No horses to return
We were to abandon them
To be slaves
After all we’d shared
And all that we’d been through
A Nation’s gratitude
Was a dusty grave
For we can’t leave them to the people here, we’d rather see them dead
So each man will take his best mate’s horse with a bullet through the head
For the people here are like their land
Wild and cruel and hard
So Banjo, here’s your reward.

It’s as if he knows, he standing close to me, 
His breath warm on my sleeve, his head hung low.
As he if he knew.
    

—Eric Bogle

Horse Latitudes

When the still sea conspires an armor
And her sullen and aborted
Currents breed tiny monsters
True sailing is dead
Awkward instant
And the first animal is jettisoned
Legs furiously pumping
Their stiff green gallop
And heads bob up
Poise
Delicate
Pause
Consent
In mute nostril agony
Carefully refined
And sealed over
    

—The Doors

The Bonnie Earl of Moray

Ye Hielan's an' ye Lowlan's
O, where have ye been
They hae slain the Earl of Moray
And lain him on the green
He was a braw gallant
And he rode at the ring
An' the bonnie Earl of Moray
O, he micht hae been the king!
O, lang may his lady
Look frae the castle Doune
Ere she see the Earl of Moray
Come soundin' through the toun. 

Now way be to thee, Huntly
And wherefore did ye sae?
I bade you bring him wi' you
But forbade you him to slay
He was a braw gallant
And he play'd at the ball
An' the Bonnie Earl of Moray
Was a flower among them all
Lang may his lady
Look from the Castle Doune
Ere she see the Earl of Moray
Come soundin' through the toun. 
    

—Traditional

The Garden of Proserpine

Here, where the world is quiet;
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds' and spent waves' riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing
For harvest–time and mowing,
A sleepy world of streams.

I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep;
Of what may come hereafter
For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
And everything but sleep.

Here life has death for neighbor,
And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labor,
Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,
And no such things grow here.

No growth of moor or coppice,
No heather–flower or vine,
But bloomless buds of poppies,
Green grapes of Proserpine,
Pale beds of blowing rushes,
Where no leaf blooms or blushes
Save this whereout she crushes
For dead men deadly wine.

Pale, without name or number,
In fruitless fields of corn,
They bow themselves and slumber
All night till light is born;
And like a soul belated,
In hell and heaven unmated,
By cloud and mist abated
Comes out of darkness morn.

Though one were strong as seven,
He too with death shall dwell,
Nor wake with wings in heaven,
Nor weep for pains in hell;
Though one were fair as roses,
His beauty clouds and closes;
And well though love reposes,
In the end it is not well.

Pale, beyond porch and portal,
Crowned with calm leaves she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love's who fears to greet her,
To men that mix and meet her
From many times and lands.

She waits for each and other,
She waits for all men born;
Forgets the earth her mother,
The life of fruits and corn;
And spring and seed and swallow
Take wing for her and follow
Where summer song rings hollow
And flowers are put to scorn.

There go the loves that wither,
The old loves with wearier wings;
And all dead years draw thither,
And all disastrous things;
Dead dreams of days forsaken,
Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,
Red strays of ruined springs.

We are not sure of sorrow;
And joy was never sure;
To–day will die to–morrow;
Time stoops to no man's lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful,
With lips but half regretful
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
Weeps that no loves endure.

From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.

Then star nor sun shall waken,
Nor any change of light:
Nor sound of waters shaken,
Nor any sound or sight:
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
Nor days nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
In an eternal night. 
    

—Algernon Charles Swinburne

Chimes of Freedom

Far between sundown's finish an' midnight's broken toll
We ducked inside the doorway, thunder crashing
As majestic bells of bolts struck shadows in the sounds
Seeming to be the chimes of freedom flashing
Flashing for the warriors whose strength is not to fight
Flashing for the refugees on the unarmed road of flight
An' for each an' ev'ry underdog soldier in the night
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

In the city's melted furnace, unexpectedly we watched
With faces hidden while the walls were tightening
As the echo of the wedding bells before the blowin' rain
Dissolved into the bells of the lightning
Tolling for the rebel, tolling for the rake
Tolling for the luckless, the abandoned an' forsaked
Tolling for the outcast, burnin' constantly at stake
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

Through the mad mystic hammering of the wild ripping hail
The sky cracked its poems in naked wonder
That the clinging of the church bells blew far into the breeze
Leaving only bells of lightning and its thunder
Striking for the gentle, striking for the kind
Striking for the guardians and protectors of the mind
An' the unpawned painter behind beyond his rightful time
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

Through the wild cathedral evening the rain unraveled tales
For the disrobed faceless forms of no position
Tolling for the tongues with no place to bring their thoughts
All down in taken–for–granted situations
Tolling for the deaf an' blind, tolling for the mute
Tolling for the mistreated, mateless mother, the mistitled prostitute
For the misdemeanor outlaw, chased an' cheated by pursuit
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

Even though a cloud's white curtain in a far–off corner flashed
An' the hypnotic splattered mist was slowly lifting
Electric light still struck like arrows, fired but for the ones
Condemned to drift or else be kept from drifting
Tolling for the searching ones, on their speechless, seeking trail
For the lonesome–hearted lovers with too personal a tale
An' for each unharmful, gentle soul misplaced inside a jail
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

Starry–eyed an' laughing as I recall when we were caught
Trapped by no track of hours for they hanged suspended
As we listened one last time an' we watched with one last look
Spellbound an' swallowed 'til the tolling ended
Tolling for the aching ones whose wounds cannot be nursed
For the countless confused, accused, misused, strung–out ones an' worse
An' for every hung–up person in the whole wide universe
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.
    

—Bob Dylan

Brother, Can You Spare A Dime?

They used to tell me
I was building a dream.
And so I followed the mob
When there was earth to plow
Or guns to bear
I was always there
Right on the job.
They used to tell me
I was building a dream
With peace and glory ahead.
Why should I be standing in line
Just waiting for bread?
Once I built a railroad
I made it run
Made it race against time.
Once I built a railroad
Now it's done
Brother, can you spare a dime?
Once I built a tower up to the sun
Brick and rivet and lime.
Once I built a tower,
Now it's done.
Brother, can you spare a dime?
Once in khaki suits
Gee we looked swell
Full of that yankee doodle dee dum.
Half a million boots went sloggin' through hell
And I was the kid with the drum!
Say don't you remember?
They called me Al.
It was Al all the time.
Why don't you remember?
I'm your pal.
Say buddy, can you spare a dime?

Once in khaki suits,
Ah, gee we looked swell
Full of that yankee doodle dee dum!
Half a million boots went sloggin' through hell
And I was the kid with the drum!
Oh, say don't you remember?
They called me Al.
It was Al all the time.
Say, don't you remember?
I'm your pal.
Buddy, can you spare a dime?
    

—Harburg Gorney

Brother, (buddy) Can You Spare A Dime?

Once I built a railroad, I made it run
I made it run against time
Once I built a railroad, and now it's done
Buddy, can you spare a dime? 

Once I built a tower way up to the sun
Of bricks and morter and lime
Once I built a tower, and now it's done
Buddy can you spare a dime? 

Once in khaki suits, gee we looked swell
Full of that Yankee–Doodlee–Dum
A half–a–million boots went sloggin' through hell
And I was the kid with the drum 

Say don't you remember, you called me Al
It was Al all the time
Say don't you remember, I was your pal
Buddy, can you spare a dime? 

Once I built a railroad, I made it run
I made it run against time
Once I built a railroad, and now it's done
Buddy, can you spare a dime?
    

—Gorney and Harburg

Lay Down

Lay down lay down lay it all down
Let your white birds smile
At the ones who stand and frown
Lay down lay down lay it all down
Let your white birds smile
At the ones who stand and frown

We were so close there was no room
We bled inside each other's wounds
We all had caught the same disease
And we all sang the songs of peace

Lay down lay down lay it all down
Let your white birds smile
At the ones who stand and frown
Lay down lay down lay it all down
Let your white birds smile
At the ones who stand and frown

So raise candles high 'cause if you don't
We could stay black against the night
Oh raise them higher again
And if you do we could stay dry against the rain

Lay down lay down lay it all down
Let your white birds smile
At the ones who stand and frown
Lay down lay down lay it all down
Let your white birds smile
At the ones who stand and frown

We were so close there was no room
We bled inside each other's wounds
We all had caught the same disease
And we all sang the songs of peace

Some came to sing, some came to pray
Some came to keep the dark away
So raise candles high 'cause if you don't
We could stay black against the sky
Oh oh raise them higher again
And if you do we could stay dry against the rain

Lay down lay down lay it all down
Let your white birds smile
At the ones who stand and frown
Lay down lay down lay it all down
Let your white birds smile
At the ones who stand and frown

Lay down lay down lay it all down
Let your white birds smile
At the ones who stand and frown
Lay down lay down lay it all down
Let your white birds smile
At the ones who stand and frown.....
    

—Melanie

From Address to The Corps of Cadets, West Point, May 12, 1962

As I was leaving the hotel this morning, a doorman asked me, "Where are you headed
for, General?" And when I replied, "West Point," he remarked, "Beautiful place. Have
you ever been there before?
          
          No human being could fail to be deeply moved by such a tribute as this.
Coming from a profession I have served so long, and a people I have loved so well,
it fills me with an emotion I cannot express. But this award is not intended primarily
to honor a personality, but to symbolize a great moral code—the code of conduct and
chivalry of those who guard this beloved land of culture and ancient descent, That is
the meaning of this medallion. For all eyes and for all time, it is an expression of the
ethics of the American soldier. That I should be integrated in this way with so noble
an ideal arouses a sense of pride and yet of humility which will be with me always....

          Duty—Honor—Country. Those three hallowed words reverently dictate what you
ought to be, what you can be, what you will be. They are your rallying points; to build
courage when courage seems to fail; to regain faith when there seems to be little
cause for faith; to create hope when hope becomes forlorn. Unhappily, I possess
neither that eloquence of diction, that poetry of imagination, nor that brilliance of
metaphor to tell you all that they mean. The unbelievers will say they are but words,
but a slogan, but a flamboyant phrase. Every pedant, every demagogue, every cynic,
every hypocrite, every troublemaker, and, I am sorry to say, some others of an entirely
different character, will try to downgrade them even to the extent of mockery and
ridicule. But these are some of the things they do. They build your basic character;
they mold you for your future roles as custodians of the nations defense; they make
you strong enough to know when you are weak, and brave enough to face yourself
when you are afraid. They teach you to be proud and unbending in honest failure, but
humble and gentle in success, not to substitute words for actions, not to seek the
path of comfort, but to face the stress and spur of difficulty and challenge; to learn to
stand up in the storm but to have compassion on those who fail; to master yourself
before you seek to master others; to have a heart that is clean, a goal that is high;
to learn to laugh yet never forget how to weep; to reach into the future yet never
neglect the past; to be serious yet never to take yourself too seriously; to be modest
so that you will remember the simplicity of true greatness, the open mind of true
wisdom, the meekness of true strength. They give you a temper of the will, a quality
of the imagination, a vigor of the emotions, a freshness of the deep springs of life, a
temperamental predominance of courage over timidity, an appetite for adventure over
love of ease. They create in your heart the sense of wonder, the unfailing hope of
what next, and the joy and inspiration of life. They teach you in this way to be an
officer and a gentleman.

          And what sort of soldiers are those you are to lead? Are they reliable, are they
brave, are they capable of victory? Their story is known to all of you; it is the story of
the American man—at—arms. My estimate of him was formed on the battlefield many
years ago, and has never changed. I regarded him then as I regard him now—as one of
the world's noblest figures, not only as one of the finest military characters, but also
as one of the most stainless. His name and tame are the birthright of every American
citizen. In his youth and strength, his love and loyalty, he gave all that mortality can
give. He needs no eulogy from me or from any other man. He was written his own
history and written it in red on his enemy's breast. But when I think of his patience
under adversity, of his courage under fire, and of his modesty in victory, I am filled
with an emotion of admiration I cannot put into words. He belongs to history as
furnishing one of the greatest examples of successful patriotism; he belongs to
posterity as the instructor of future generations in the principles of liberty and freedom;
he belongs to the present, to us, by his virtues and by his achievements. In twenty
campaigns, on a hundred battlefields, around a thousand campfires, I have witnessed
that enduring fortitude, that patriotic self–abnegation, and that invincible determination
which have carved his status in the hearts Of his people. From one end of the world to
the other he has drained deep the chalice of courage.

          As I listened to those songs of the glee club, in memory's eye I could see
those staggering columns of the First World War, bending under soggy packs, on many
a weary march from dripping dusk to drizzling dawn, slogging ankle deep through the
mire of shell–shocked roads, to form grimly for the attack, blue–lipped, covered with
sludge and mud, chilled by the wind and rain, driving home to their objective, and, for
many, to the judgment seat of God. I do not know the dignity of their birth but I do
know the glory of their death. They died unquestioning, uncomplaining, with faith in
their hearts, and on their lips the hope tat we would go on to victory. Always for
them—Duty—Honor Country; always their blood and sweat and tears as we sought the
way and the light and the truth.

          And twenty years after, on the other side of the globe, again the filth of murky
foxholes, the stench of ghostly trenches, the slime of dripping dugouts; those broiling
suns of relentless heat, those torrential rains of devastating storm, the loneliness and
utter desolation of jungle trails, the bitterness of long separation from those they loved
and cherished, the deadly pestilence of tropical disease, the horror of stricken areas of
war; their resolute and determined defense, their swift and sure attack, their indomitable
purpose, their complete and decisive victory—always victory through the bloody haze of
their last reverberating shot, the vision of gaunt, ghastly men reverently following your
password of Duty—Honor Country.

          The code which those words perpetrate embraces the highest moral laws and will
stand the test of any ethics or philosophies ever promulgated for the uplift of mankind.
Its requirements are for the things that are right, and its restraints arc from the things
that are wrong. The soldier, above all other men, is required to practice the greatest act
of religious training—sacrifice. In battle and in the face of danger and death, he discloses
those divine attributes which his Maker gave when He created man in His own image. No
physical courage and no brute instinct can take the place of the Divine help which alone
can sustain him. However horrible the incidents of war may be, the soldier who is called
upon to offer and to give his life for his country is the noblest development of mankind.

          You now face a new world—a world of change. The thrust into outer space of the
satellites, spheres and missiles marked the beginning of another epoch in the long story
of mankind—the chapter of the space age. In the five or more billions of years the scientists
tell us it has taken to form the earth, in the three or more billion years of development of
the human race, there has never been a greater, a more abrupt or staggering evolution.
We deal now not with things of this world alone, but with the illimitable distances and as
yet unfathomed mysteries of the universe. We are reaching out for a new and boundless
frontier. We speak in strange terms: of harnessing the cosmic energy; of making winds
and tides work for us; of creating unheard–of synthetic materials to supplement or even
replace our old standard basics; of purifying sea water for our drink; of mining ocean floors
for new fields of wealth and food; of disease preventatives to expand life into the hundreds
of years; of controlling the weather for a more equitable distribution of heat and cold, of rain
and shine; of space ships to the moon; of the primary target in war, no longer limited to the
armed forces of an enemy, but instead to include his civil populations; of ultimate conflict
between a united human race and the sinister forces of some other planetary galaxy; of such
dreams and fantasies as to make life the most exciting of all time. And through all this
welter of change and development, your mission remains fixed, determined) inviolable—it
is to win our wars. Everything else in your professional career is but a corollary to this vital
dedication. All other public purposes, all other public projects, all other public needs, great
or small, will find others for their accomplishment; but you are the ones who are trained to
fight; yours is the profession of arms—the will to win, the sure knowledge that in war there
is no substitute for victory; that if you lose, the nation will be destroyed; that the very
obsession of your public service must be Duty—Honor—Country. Others will debate the
controversial issues, national and international, which divide man's minds; but serene,
calm, aloof, you stand as the nation's war guardian, as its life–guard from the raging tides
of international conflict; as its gladiator in the arena of battle. For a century and a half,
you have defended, guarded, and protected its hallowed traditions of liberty and freedom,
of right and justice. Let civilian voices argue the merits or demerits of our processes of
government; whether our strength is being sapped by deficit financing, indulged in too
long; by federal paternalism grown too mighty; by power groups grown too arrogant; by
politics grown too corrupt; by crime grown too rampant; by morals grown too low; by
taxes grown too high; by extremists grown too violent; whether our personal liberties are
as thorough and complete as they should be. These great national problems are not for
your professional participation or military solution. Your guidepost stands out like a tenfold
beacon in the night—Duty—Honor—Country.
          
      You are the leaven which binds together the entire fabric of our national system
of defense. From your ranks come the great captains who hold the nation's destiny in their
hands the moment the war tocsin sounds. The Long Gray Line has never failed us. Were
you to do so, a million ghosts in olive drab, in brown khaki, in blue and gray, would rise
from their white crosses thundering those magic words—Duty—Honor—Country.

          This does not mean that you are war mongers. On the Contrary, the soldier, above
all other people, prays for peace, for he must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars
of war. But always in our ears ring the ominous words of Plato, that wisest of all philosophers,
"Only the dead have seen the end of war."

          The shadows are lengthening for me. The twilight is here. My days of old have vanished
tone and tint; they have gone glimmering through the dreams of things that were. Their
memory is one of wondrous beauty, watered by tears, and coaxed and caressed by the smiles
of yesterday. I listen vainly, but with thirsty ear, for the witching melody of faint bugles
blowing reveille, of far drums beating the long roll. In my dreams I hear again the crash of
guns, the rattle of musketry, the strange mournful mutter of the battlefield. But in the
evening of my memory, always I come back to West Point. Always there echoes and
re–echoes in my ears—Duty—Honor—Country.
          
      Today marks my final roll call with you. But I want you to know that when I cross
the river my last conscious thoughts will be of the Corps—and the Corps—and the Corps.

I bid you farewell. 
    

—General of the Army Douglas MacArthur

I Ain't Marchin' Anymore

Oh I marched to the battle of New Orleans
At the end of the early British war
The young land started growing
The young blood started flowing
But I ain't marchin' anymore

For I've killed my share of Indians
In a thousand different fights
I was there at the Little Big Horn
I heard many men lying
I saw many more dying
But I ain't marchin' anymore

It's always the old to lead us to the war
It's always the young to fall
Now look at all we've won with the sabre and the gun
Tell me is it worth it all

For I stole California from the Mexican land
Fought in the bloody Civil War
Yes I even killed my brother
And so many others
And I ain't marchin' anymore

For I marched to the battles of the German trench
In a war that was bound to end all wars
Oh I must have killed a million men
And now they want me back again
But I ain't marchin' anymore

It's always the old to lead us to the war
It's always the young to fall
Now look at all we've won with the sabre and the gun
Tell me is it worth it all

For I flew the final mission in the Japanese sky
Set off the mighty mushroom roar
When I saw the cities burning
I knew that I was learning
That I ain't marchin' anymore

Now the labor leader's screamin' when they close the missile plants,
United Fruit screams at the Cuban shore,
Call it "Peace" or call it "Treason,"
Call it "Love" or call it "Reason,"
But I ain't marchin' any more.
    

—Phil Ochs

The Merry Minuet

They're rioting in Africa. They're starving in Spain. There's hurricanes in Florida and Texas needs rain.
The whole world is festering with unhappy souls. The French hate the Germans. The Germans hate the Poles.
Italians hate Yugoslavs. South Africans hate the Dutch and I don't like anybody very much!
But we can be tranquil and thankful and proud for man's been endowed with a mushroom shaped cloud.
And we know for certain that some lovely day someone will set the spark off and we will all be blown away.
They're rioting in Africa. There's strife in Iran. What nature doesn't do to us will be done by our fellow man.
    

—Sheldon Harnick

Just Before Being Hanged for Rebellion

Let no man write my epitaph…
When my country takes her place
among the nations of the earth,
then, and not till then,
let my epitaph be written.
I have done.
    

—Robert Emmet

Eliminate the Impossible

How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the 
impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?
—Sherlock Holmes from The Sign of (the) Four
    

—Sir Author Conan Doyle

Love Bites

If you've got love in your sights 
Watch out, love bites 

When you make love, do you look up in the mirror? 
Who do you think of, does he look like me? 
Do you tell lies and say that it's forever? 
Do you think twice, or just touch and see? 
Oooh babe 

When you're alone, do you let go? 
Are you wild and willing or is it just for show? 
Ooh c'mon 

I don't wanna touch you too much baby 
Cause making love to you might drive me crazy 
I know you think that love is the way you make it 
So I don't wanna be there when you decide to break it 

Love bites, love bleeds 
It's bringing me to my knees 
Love lives, love dies 
It's no surprise 
Love begs, love pleads 
It's what I need 

When I'm with you, are you somewhere else? 
Am I getting thru or do you please yourself? 
When you wake up, will you walk out? 
It can't be love if you throw it about 

I don't wanna touch you too much baby 
Cause making love to you might drive me crazy 

Love bites, love bleeds 
It's bringing me to my knees 
Love lives, love dies 
It's no surprise 
Love begs, love pleads 
It's what I need 

I don't wanna touch you too much baby 
Cause making love to you might drive me crazy 
I know you think that love is the way you make it 
So I don't wanna be there when you decide to break it 

Love bites, love bleeds 
It's bringing me to my knees 
Love lives, love dies 

Love bites, love bleeds 
It's bringing me to my knees 
Love lives, love dies 
It's no surprise 
Love begs, love pleads 
It's what I need 

If you've got love in your sights 
Watch out, love bites 
    

—Dalvin Degrate

Society's Child

COME TO MY DOOR, BABY
FACE IS CLEAN AND SHINING BLACK AS NIGHT
MY MAMA WENT TO ANSWER
YOU KNOW THAT YOU LOOKED SO FINE
NOW I COULD UNDERSTAND THE TEARS & THE SHAME
SHE CALLED YOU BOY INSTEAD OF YOUR NAME
WHEN SHE WOULDN'T LET YOU INSIDE
WHEN SHE TURNED AND SAID
"BUT HONEY, HE'S NOT OUR KIND" 

SHE SAYS I CAN'T SEE YOU ANY MORE, BABY
CAN'T SEE YOU ANY MORE 

WALK ME DOWN TO SCHOOL, BABY
EVERYBODY'S ACTING DEAF AND BLIND
UNTIL THEY TURN AND SAY
"WHY DON'T YOU STICK TO YOUR OWN KIND"
MY TEACHERS ALL LAUGH, THEIR SMIRKING STARES
CUTTING DEEP DOWN IN OUR AFFAIRS
PREACHERS OF EQUALITY
THINK THEY BELIEVE IT
THEN WHY WON'T THEY JUST LET US BE? 

THEY SAY I CAN'T SEE YOU ANY MORE, BABY
CAN'T SEE YOU ANY MORE 

ONE OF THESE DAYS I'M GONNA STOP MY LISTENING
GONNA RAISE MY HEAD UP HIGH
ONE OF THESE DAYS I'M GONNA RAISE UP 
MY GLISTENING WINGS AND FLY
BUT THAT DAY WILL HAVE TO WAIT FOR A WHILE
BABY, I'M ONLY SOCIETY'S CHILD
WHEN WE'RE OLDER, THINGS MAY CHANGE
BUT FOR NOW THIS IS THE WAY THEY MUST REMAIN 

I SAY I CAN'T SEE YOU ANY MORE, BABY
CAN'T SEE YOU ANY MORE
NO, I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOU ANY MORE
BABY    
    

—Janis Ian

Imagine

Imagine there's no heaven,
It's easy if you try,
No hell below us,
Above us only sky,

Imagine all the people
living for today…
Imagine there's no countries,
It isn't hard to do,

Nothing to kill or die for,
No religion too,
Imagine all the people
living life in peace…

Imagine no possesions,
I wonder if you can,
No need for greed or hunger,
A brotherhood of man,

Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world…
You may say I'm a dreamer,
but Im not the only one,

I hope some day you'll join us,
And the world will live as one.
    

—John Lennon

Don't Drink the Water Pancho (Villa)

Take care up in the Chisos Pancho
It's cold up in the pines
Beware of the panthers
And the rattlesnakes up there, darlin'
You know the Yankees
Will never find you there
But don't turn your back to a Mexican
You've enemies out there

Chorus
Don't drink the water, Pancho
It's cold and bitter like a deal gone bad
Don't drink the water, Pancho
When you're there in Lajitas near the Rio Grande
When you're there in Lajitas near the Rio Grande

Be careful of the, women Pancho
They'd love to lay you down
For a child of a bandit
Don't you go runnin' round, Darlin'
Just bring the yankee gold
For the revolution
You know that I'll be waitin'
Across the Rio Grand
    

—Bianca de Leon

To An Isle in the Water

 Shy one, shy one, 
Shy one of my heart,
She moves in the firelight
Pensively apart
She carries in the dishes,
And lays them in a row.
To an isle in the water
With her would I go.
She carries in the candles,
And lights the curtained room,
Shy in the doorway
And shy in the gloom. 
And shy as a rabbit,
Helpful and shy. 
To an isle in the water,
With her I would fly. 
    

—William Butler Yeats

Give All To Love

Give all to love;
Obey thy heart;
Friends, kindred, days,
Estate, good fame,
Plans, credit, and the Muse –
Nothing refuse.
 
'Tis a brave master;
Let it have scope:
Follow it utterly,
Hope beyond hope;
High and more high,
It dives into noon,
With wing unspent,
Untold intent;
But it is a god,
Knows its own path,
And the outlets of the sky.
 
It was not for the mean;
It requireth courage stout,
Souls above doubt,
Valor unbending;
Such 'twill reward, –
They shall return
More than they were,
And ever ascending.
 
Leave all for love;
Yet, hear me, yet,
One word more thy heart behoved,
One pulse more of firm endeavor,–
Keep thee to–day,
To–morrow, for ever,
Free as an Arab
Of thy beloved.
Cling with life to the maid;
But when the surprise,
First vague shadow of surmise,
Flits across her bosom young
Of a joy apart from thee,
Free be she, fancy–free;
Nor thou detain her vesture's hem,
Nor the palest rose she flung
From her summer diadem.
 
Though thou loved her as thyself,
As a self of purer clay,
Though her parting dims the day,
Stealing grace from all alive;
Heartily know,
When half–gods go,
The gods arrive. 
    

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

Northwest Passage

Chorus

Ah, for just one time I would take the Northwest Passage
To find the hand of Franklin reaching for the Beaufort Sea;
Tracing one warm line through a land so wild and savage
And make a Northwest Passage to the sea.

Westward from the Davis Strait 'tis there 'twas said to lie
The sea route to the Orient for which so many died;
Seeking gold and glory, leaving weathered, broken bones
And a long–forgotten lonely cairn of stones.

Three centuries thereafter, I take passage overland
In the footsteps of brave Kelso, where his "sea of flowers" began
Watching cities rise before me, then behind me sink again
This tardiest explorer, driving hard across the plain.

And through the night, behind the wheel, the mileage clicking west
I think upon Mackenzie, David Thompson and the rest
Who cracked the mountain ramparts and did show a path for me
To race the roaring Fraser to the sea.

How then am I so different from the first men through this way?
Like them, I left a settled life, I threw it all away.
To seek a Northwest Passage at the call of many men
To find there but the road back home again.

Unpublished additional verse:

And if should be I come again to loved ones left at home,
Put the journals on the mantle, shake the frost out of my bones,
Making memories of the passage, only memories after all,
And hardships there the hardest to recall. 
    

—Stan Rogers

Young Man

With what do you concern yourself young man
With what do you concern yourself young man
Well a flash of fire in a lovers eye
The pale of the moon in the midnight sky
The birth of a man and death he dies
And love

Tell me what are you crying now young man
Tell me what are you crying now young man
I cry the pain of a heart that's been torn
The fears of a woman when child is born
The death of a man in the early morn
And love

Tell me what are you living for young man
Tell me what are you living for young man
I live for the life of a lovers lips
The touch of summer to my fingertips
The songs I sing and a thousand things
And love

What will you be when your life is done young man
What will you be when your life is done young man
I'll be one with the fire in a lover's eye
The pale of the moon in the midnight sky
The birth of a man and the death he dies
And love
    

—Hoyt Axton

It Goes Like It Goes

Theme from "Norma Rae"
 
Ain't no miracle being born
People doin' it everyday
It ain't no miracle growing up, ah
People just grow that way
 
So it goes like it goes
Like the river flows
And time it rolls right on
And maybe what's good gets a little bit better
And maybe what's bad gets gone
 
Ah, bless the child of a working man
She knows too soon who she is
And bless the hands of a working man
Oh, he knows his soul is his
 
So it goes like it goes
Like the river flows
And time it rolls right on
And maybe what's good gets a little bit better
And maybe what's bad gets gone
 
So it goes like it goes
Like the river flows 
And time keeps rolling right on, oh
And maybe what's good gets a little bit better
And maybe what's bad gets gone
    

—David Shire and Norman Gimbel

The Times They Are A-changin'

Come gather 'round people Wherever you roam 
And admit that the waters Around you have grown 
And accept it that soon You'll be drenched to the bone. 
If your time to you Is worth savin' 
Then you better start swimmin' Or you'll sink like a stone 
For the times they are a–changin'. 

Come writers and critics Who prophesize with your pen 
And keep your eyes wide The chance won't come again 
And don't speak too soon For the wheel's still in spin 
And there's no tellin' who That it's namin'. 
For the loser now Will be later to win 
For the times they are a–changin'. 

Come senators, congressmen Please heed the call 
Don't stand in the doorway Don't block up the hall 
For he that gets hurt Will be he who has stalled |
There's a battle outside And it is ragin'. 
It'll soon shake your windows And rattle your walls 
For the times they are a–changin'. 

Come mothers and fathers Throughout the land 
And don't criticize What you can't understand 
Your sons and your daughters Are beyond your command 
Your old road is Rapidly agin'. 
Please get out of the new one If you can't lend your hand 
For the times they are a–changin'. 

The line it is drawn The curse it is cast 
The slow one now Will later be fast 
As the present now Will later be past 
The order is Rapidly fadin'. 
And the first one now Will later be last 
For the times they are a–changin'.
    

—Bob Dylan

Fireball's Last Ride

Doun south they tell the story
About a couple of good ol' bys
Hard charging the fast lane
Stock cars their pride and joy
All along the racing circuit
Where they wave the checkered flag
Gentlemen start you engines
Only winners get to brag

Don't worry 'bout me
'Cause I know a place
Where they party 'til Sunday
And on Sunday they race
Junior Johnson drove a Chevy
Fireball Roberts drove a Ford
And when they got to racing
It was Lord, Lord, Lord

Every driver has a story
How he got the urge to run
One's an ex–coal miner
One's a moonshiner's son
He got chased by revenuers
With a load of contraband
But he knew all the backroads
Like the back of his hand

Don't worry 'bout me
'Cause I know a place
Where they party 'til Sunday
And on Sunday they race
Junior Johnson drove a Chevy
Fireball Roberts drove a Ford
And when they got to racing
It was Lord, Lord, Lord

In Charlotte, North Carolina
On a rain–slickered track
Fireball spun out in the far turn
And he never made it back
He got T–boned by a Plymouth
As a Buick shut the door
When his gas tank exploded
You could hear the crowd roar

Don't worry 'bout me
'Cause I know a place
Where they party 'til Sunday
And on Sunday they race
Junior Johnson drove a Chevy
Fireball Roberts drove a Ford
And when they got to racing
It was Lord, Lord, Lord
    

—David Massengill

From The Triumph of Time

But none shall triumph a whole life through: 
For death is one, and the fates are three. 
At the door of life, by the gate of breath, 
There are worse things waiting for men than death; 
Death could not sever my soul and you, 
As these have severed your soul from me. 

You have chosen and clung to the chance they sent you, 
Life sweet as perfume and pure as prayer. [lines 155–162] 
    

—Algernon Charles Swinburne

The Greek Anthology: 2

I am the tomb of a shipwrecked man:
But, stranger, sail! When we were gone,
The other ships all journeyed on.
    

—Theodoridas

The Unknown Soldier

Wait until the war is over
And we're both a little older
The unknown soldier

Breakfast where the news is read
Television children fed
Unborn living, living, dead
Bullet strikes the helmet's head

And it's all over
For the unknown soldier
It's all over
For the unknown soldier

Hut
Hut
Hut ho hee up
Hut
Hut
Hut ho hee up
Hut
Hut
Hut ho hee up
Comp'nee
Halt
Preeee–zent!
Arms!

Make a grave for the unknown soldier
Nestled in your hollow shoulder
The unknown soldier

Breakfast where the news is read
Television children fed
Bullet strikes the helmet's head

And, it's all over
The war is over
It's all over
The war is over
Well, all over, baby
All over, baby
Oh, over, yeah
All over, baby
Wooooo, hah–hah
All over
All over, baby
Oh, woa–yeah
All over
All over
Heeeeyyyy
    

—The Doors

Bold Marauder

It’s hi, ho, hey,
I am the bold marauder.
And hi, ho, hey,
I am the white destroyer.

For I will bring you silver and gold
And I will bring you treasure
And I will bring a widowing flag 
And I will be your lover 
And I will show you grotto and cave
And sacrificial altar
And I will show you blood on the stone
And I will be your mentor

And night will be our darling
And fear will be our name

It’s hi, ho, hey,
I am the bold marauder.
And hi, ho, hey,
I am the white destroyer.

For I will take you out by the hand
And lead you to the hunter
And I will show you thunder and steel
And I will be your teacher 
And we will dress in helmet and sword 
And dip our tongues in slaughter
And we will sing a warrior’s song
And lift the praise of murder

And Christ will be our darling 
And fear will be our name

It’s hi, ho, hey,
I am the bold marauder.
And hi, ho, hey,
I am the white destroyer.

For I will sour the winds on high
And I will soil the river
And I will burn the grain in the field
And I will be your mother
And I will go to ravage and kill
And I will go to plunder
And I will take a fury to wife
And I will be your father

And death will be our darling 
And fear will be our name
    

—Richard Farina

Civil War III

Lee's last words to his troops at Appomattox, 1865

I have done the best I could do for you.
Go home now, and if you make as good citizens
as you have soldiers, you will do well,
and I shall always be proud of you.
Goodbye, and God bless you all.
    

—Robert E. Lee

Turtles All the Way Down

After a lecture on cosmology and the structure of the solar system, William James was
accosted by a little old lady. "Your theory that the sun is the center of the solar system,
and the earth is a ball which rotates around it has a very convincing ring to it, Mr James, 
but it's wrong. I've a better theory," said the little old lady. 

"And what is that, Madam?" inquired James politely. 

"That we live on a crust of earth which is on the back of a giant turtle." 

Not wishing to demolish this absurd little theory by bringing to bear the masses of scientific 
evidence he had at his command, James decided to gently dissuade his opponent by making 
her see some of the inadequacies of her position. "If your theory is correct, madam," he 
asked, "what does this turtle stand on?" 

"You're a very clever man, Mr. James, and that's a very good question," replied the little 
old lady, "but I have an answer to it. And it is this: the first turtle stands on the back 
of a second, far larger turtle, who stands directly under him." 

"But what does this second turtle stand on?" persisted James patiently. 

To this the little old lady crowed triumphantly. "It's no use, Mr. James, — it's turtles 
all the way down."         
    

—Anonymous

The Highland Muster Roll

Little wat ye wha's comin',
Little wat ye wha's comin',
Little wat ye wha's comin',
Jock and Tam and a's comin'

Borland and his men's comin',
The Cameron's and MacLean's comin'
The Gordon's and MacGregor's comin',
A' the duniewastle's comin'!

Little wat ye wha's comin',
Little wat ye wha's comin',
Little wat ye wha's comin',
MacGilvray o' Drumglass is comin'!

Winton' comin', Nithsdale's comin',
Cornwath's comin', Kenmure's comin',
Derwentwater and Foster's comin',
Withrington and Nairn's comin'.

Little wat ye wha's comin',
Little wat ye wha's comin',
Little wat ye wha's comin',
Blythe Cowhill and a's comin'.

The Laird o' Maclntosh is comin',
MacRabie and MacDonald's comin',
The MacKenzie's and MacPherson's comin'
A' the wild MacCraw's comin'.

Little wat ye wha's comin',
Little wat ye wha's comin',
Little wat ye wha's comin',
Dornald Gun and a's comin'!

They gloom, they glower, they look sae big,
At ilka stroke they'll fell a whig,
They'll fricht the wuds o' the Pockpuds
For many a bare arse is comin'.

Little wat ye wha's comin',
Little wat ye wha's comin',
Little wat ye wha's comin',
Jock and Tam and a's comin'!
    

—Traditional

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