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Heidy

Generations...........

Me faither was a baillie frae a wee farm at Caithlie
He worked on the land all the days of his life
By the time he made second, he aye said he reckoned
He'd ploughed near on half of the east nook of Fife
He's feed on at Randerston, Crawhill and Clephinton
Cambo and Carnbee and big Rennie Hill
At Kingsbarn he's married, at Boarhills he's buried,
But man, had he lived, he'd be ploughing on still.


For those days were his days, those ways were his ways
To follow the ploo while his back was still strong
But those days have passed and the time come at last
For the weakness of age to make way for the young

I wasnae for plooin', to the sea I was going
To follow the fish and the fisherman's ways
In rain, hail and sunshine I'd watch the lang run line
Nae man mare contented his hale working day
I've lang lined the Flodden ground, the Dutch and the Dogger Bank
Pulled the great fish from the deep Devil's Hole
I've side trawled of Shetland, the Faroes and Iceland
In weather much worse than a body could thole

For that day was my day, that way was my way
To follow this fish while my back was still strong
But that day has passed and the time come at last
For the weakness of age to make way for the young

My sons they have grown, and away they have gone
To search for black oil on the far Northern Sea
Like oilmen they walk, and like Yankees they talk
There's no much in common between my sons and me
They've rough rigged on Josephine, Forties, and Ninian
Claymore and Dunlin, Fisher and Awk
They've made fortunes for sure, for in one run ashore
They spend more than I earned in a hale seasons W***

For this day is their day, this way is their way
To ride the rough rigs while their backs are still strong
But this day will pass and the time come at last
For the weakness of age to make way for the young

My grandsons are growing, to the school they're soon going
The long weeks of summer they spend here wi' me
We walk through the warm days, talk of the old ways
The cornfields, the cod fish, the land and the sea
We walk through the fields that my father once tilled
Talk wi' the old men who once sailed wi' me
Man, it's been awfae good, I've shown them all I could
Of the past and the present, what they're future might be

For the morn will be their day, what will be their way
What will they make of their land, sea, and sky
Man, I've seen awfae' change, but it still seems so strange
To look at my world through a young laddie's eyes
For this day is your day, what will be your way
What will you make of your land sea and sky
The future is yours to make, so for your children's sake
Take a look at your world through a young laddie's eyes
SengaMcp

Ah luv that Heidy.
notanimby

Wurr did ye playjarise that frae heedy, they've no went and opened a library in DUMBarton again huv they
Boudleaux C Merkin

It cannae be real poetry , it scans and rhymes and makes sense and huz emotion. But Ah dae like it.  Very Happy
Heidy

Lissin Nota real greenok man,ats thon nota in case yer wurryin Boo,Ah nevuur claimed ah did it Ah fun it in ma auld hard drive.... Razz
notascot

The London lights are far abeam
  Behind a bank of cloud,
Along the shore the gaslights gleam,
  The gale is piping loud;
And down the Channel, groping blind,
  We drive her through the haze
Towards the land we left behind --
The good old land of `never mind',
  And old Australian ways.


The narrow ways of English folk
  Are not for such as we;
They bear the long-accustomed yoke
  Of staid conservancy:
But all our roads are new and strange,
  And through our blood there runs
The vagabonding love of change
That drove us westward of the range
  And westward of the suns.


The city folk go to and fro
  Behind a prison's bars,
They never feel the breezes blow
  And never see the stars;
They never hear in blossomed trees
  The music low and sweet
Of wild birds making melodies,
Nor catch the little laughing breeze
  That whispers in the wheat.


Our fathers came of roving stock
  That could not fixed abide:
And we have followed field and flock
  Since e'er we learnt to ride;
By miner's camp and shearing shed,
  In land of heat and drought,
We followed where our fortunes led,
With fortune always on ahead
  And always further out.


The wind is in the barley-grass,
  The wattles are in bloom;
The breezes greet us as they pass
  With honey-sweet perfume;
The parakeets go screaming by
  With flash of golden wing,
And from the swamp the wild-ducks cry
Their long-drawn note of revelry,
  Rejoicing at the Spring.


So throw the weary pen aside
  And let the papers rest,
For we must saddle up and ride
  Towards the blue hill's breast;
And we must travel far and fast
  Across their rugged maze,
To find the Spring of Youth at last,
And call back from the buried past
  The old Australian ways.


When Clancy took the drover's track
  In years of long ago,
He drifted to the outer back
  Beyond the Overflow;
By rolling plain and rocky shelf,
  With stockwhip in his hand,
He reached at last, oh lucky elf,
The Town of Come-and-help-yourself
  In Rough-and-ready Land.


And if it be that you would know
  The tracks he used to ride,
Then you must saddle up and go
  Beyond the Queensland side --
Beyond the reach of rule or law,
  To ride the long day through,
In Nature's homestead -- filled with awe
You then might see what Clancy saw
  And know what Clancy knew.
dosser

Zat by "Banjo" Patterson - or jist sumbdie bein' nostalgic aboot him?
dosser

dosser wrote:
Zat by "Banjo" Patterson - or jist sumbdie bein' nostalgic aboot him?


Whit a bluidy silly question!

Like they hud flights fae London in Paterson's day......

(It wiz a' the stuff abooy Clancy of the Overflow whit confused me...... That and mah hangover.)
Neil

Flights? Wi gaslights? Ah think they were sailing awaa under canvas.
dosser

Telt ye Ah wiz confused.......

It's London lights, no' London flights.

All will become clearer as mah heid clears, Ah'm sure.
dosser

Hooever, it turns oot that it is indeed by A B "Banjo" Paterson. It was called The Old Australian Ways and wiz wrote in 1901.
notascot

dosser wrote:
Hooever, it turns oot that it is indeed by A B "Banjo" Paterson. It was called The Old Australian Ways and wiz wrote in 1901.


sright!
notascot

I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
  Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago,
He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
  Just "on spec", addressed as follows: "Clancy, of The Overflow".


And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,
  (And I think the same was written in a thumbnail dipped in tar)
'Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
  "Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are."


In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy
  Gone a-droving "down the Cooper" where the western drovers go;
As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing,
  For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.


And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
  In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
 And at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars.


I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
   Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city
  Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all.


And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
  Of the tramways and the buses making hurry down the street,
And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,
  Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.


And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me
 As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,
With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,
  For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.


And I somehow fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,
  Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of the cashbook and the journal -
  But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of "The Overflow".
dosser

Aye guid auld Banjo. He wisnae really much o' a poet (though, Nobel Laureate, Rudyard Kipling thocht highly o' him) but Ah huv tae confess a affekshun fur him and his stuff.

Ah luv Come-By-Chance; the wan aboot a place sae remote that the postal service only makes wan delivery a year and where the bills and bad news just get chucked in he creek.

Ah but he shuild ae ca'ed it Paradise Lost.
notascot

Yeah I like him too. He was not one of your "High -faluting" poets but wrote about ordinary things as he saw them at the time.

I know exactly how he felt. Many a time Ive looked out the office window & thought "what the feck am I doing here" even though my job took me all over NSW & Queensland.
notascot

As I pondered very weary o'er a volume long and dreary --
For the plot was void of interest; 'twas the Postal Guide, in fact --
There I learnt the true location, distance, size and population
Of each township, town, and village in the radius of the Act.
And I learnt that Puckawidgee stands beside the Murrumbidgee,
And the Booleroi and Bumble get their letters twice a year,
Also that the post inspector, when he visited Collector,
Closed the office up instanter, and re-opened Dungalear.

But my languid mood forsook me, when I found a name that took me;
Quite by chance I came across it -- "Come-by-Chance" was what I read;
No location was assigned it, not a thing to help one find it,
Just an N which stood for northward, and the rest was all unsaid.

I shall leave my home, and forthward wander stoutly to the northward
Till I come by chance across it, and I'll straightway settle down;
For there can't be any hurry, nor the slightest cause for worry
Where the telegraph don't reach you nor the railways run to town.

And one's letters and exchanges come by chance across the ranges,
Where a wiry young Australian leads a packhorse once a week,
And the good news grows by keeping, and you're spared the pain of weeping
Over bad news when the mailman drops the letters in a creek.

But I fear, and more's the pity, that there's really no such city,
For there's not a man can find it of the shrewdest folk I know;
"Come-by-Chance", be sure it never means a land of fierce endeavour --
It is just the careless country where the dreamers only go.

* * * * * * *

Though we W*** and toil and hustle in our life of haste and bustle,
All that makes our life worth living comes unstriven for and free;
Man may weary and importune, but the fickle goddess Fortune
Deals him out his pain or pleasure, careless what his worth may be.

All the happy times entrancing, days of sport and nights of dancing,
Moonlit rides and stolen kisses, pouting lips and loving glance:
When you think of these be certain you have looked behind the curtain,
You have had the luck to linger just a while in "Come-by-Chance".



(NOTE
Come-by-Chance is a district in ranges up by Walgett in Northern NSW. Notascot)
Fey Hag

Generations of Change
Matt Armour (additional lyrics M. W. Loescher)


Me faither was a baillie frae a wee farm at Caithlie
He worked on the land all the days of his life
By the time he made second, he aye said he reckoned
He'd ploughed near on half of the east nook of Fife
He's feed on at Randerston, Crawhill and Clephinton
Cambo and Carnbee and big Rennie Hill
At Kingsbarn he's married, at Boarhills he's buried,
But man, had he lived, he'd be ploughing on still.

     For those days were his days, those ways were his ways
     To follow the ploo while his back was still strong
     But those days have passed and the time come at last
     For the weakness of age to make way for the young

I wasnae for plooin', to the sea I was going
To follow the fish and the fisherman's ways
In rain, hail and sunshine I'd watch the lang run line
Nae man mare contented his hale working day
I've lang lined the Flodden ground, the Dutch and the Dogger Bank
Pulled the great fish from the deep Devil's Hole
I've side trawled of Shetland, the Faroes and Iceland
In weather much worse than a body could thole

     For that day was my day, that way was my way
     To follow this fish while my back was still strong
     But that day has passed and the time come at last
     For the weakness of age to make way for the young

My sons they have grown, and away they have gone
To search for black oil on the far Northern Sea
Like oilmen they walk, and like Yankees they talk
There's no much in common between my sons and me
They've rough rigged on Josephine, Forties, and Ninian
Claymore and Dunlin, Fisher and Awk
They've made fortunes for sure, for in one run ashore
They spend more than I earned in a hale seasons W***

     For this day is their day, this way is their way
     To ride the rough rigs while their backs are still strong
     But this day will pass and the time come at last
     For the weakness of age to make way for the young

My grandsons are growing, to the school they're soon going
The long weeks of summer they spend here wi' me
We walk through the warm days, talk of the old ways
The cornfields, the cod fish, the land and the sea
We walk through the fields that my father once tilled
Talk wi' the old men who once sailed wi' me
Man, it's been awfae good, I've shown them all I could
Of the past and the present, what they're future might be

   For the morn will be their day, what will be their way
   What will they make of their land, sea, and sky
   Man, I've seen awfae' change, but it still seems so strange
   To look at my world through a young laddie's eyes

   For this day is your day, what will be your way
   What will you make of your land sea and sky
   The future is yours to make, so for your children's sake
   Take a look at your world through a young laddie's eyes

Anders - acoustic guitar
Frances - mandolin, harmony vocal
Maggie - fiddle, harmony vocal
Wolf - lead vocal


Yir doin ra tealeef fer oos ur yea Heidy? Shocked
Heidy

Sigh whit issit wi some o youse,kin yese no read?Ah sais Ah fun itin auld files whit wis recued frae ma hard drive whit if yer doatterie heid kin mind went tits up ages ago................ Confused
Neil

That'll be "aye", wull it?
Saxy

Eh recommend Ewen Sutherland's version, he's a braw singer. Matt Armour did some good stuff, and some proper shite annol
Lovely Dee

By the time you swear you're his
Shivering and sighing,
And he vows his passion is
Infinite, undying-
Lady, make a note of this:
One of you is lying.
Crying or Very sad
SengaMcp

You are like the stem
Of a young beech-tree,
Straight and swaying,
Breaking out in golden leaves.
Your walk is like the blowing of a beech-tree
On a hill.
Your voice is like leaves
Softly struck upon by a South wind.
Your shadow is no shadow, but a scattered sunshine;
And at night you pull the sky down to you
And hood yourself in stars.

But I am like a great oak under a cloudy sky,
Watching a stripling beech grow up at my feet.

Amy Lowell
notanimby

On a mountain in Virginia
Stands a lonesome pine
Just below is the cabin home
Of a little girl of mine
Her name is June, and very, very soon
She'll belong to me
For I know she's waiting there for me
'Neath that lone pine tree

I can hear the tinkling waterfall
Far among the hills
Bluebirds sing each so merrily
To his mate in rapture trills
They seem to say "Your June is lonesome too"
Longing fills her eyes
She is waiting for you patiently
Where the pine tree sighs

In the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia
On the trail of the lonesome pine
In the pale moon shine our hearts entwine
Where she carved her name and I carved mine
Oh, June, like the mountains I'm blue
Like the pine I am lonesome for you
In the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia
On the trail of the lonesome pine

Laurel & Hardy
notascot

A bunch of the boys were whooping it up
In the Malamute saloon;
The kid that handles the music-box
Was hitting a jag-time tune;
Back of the bar, in a solo game,
Sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,
And watching his luck was his light-o'-love,
The lady that's known as Lou.

When out of the night, which was fifty below,
And into the din and the glare,
There stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks,
Dog-dirty, and loaded for bear.
He looked like a man with a foot in the grave
And scarcely the strength of a louse,
Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar,
And he called for drinks for the house.
There was none could place the stranger's face,
Though we searched ourselves for a clue;
But we drank his health, and the last to drink
Was Dangerous Dan McGrew.

There's men that somehow just grip your eyes,
And hold them hard like a spell;
And such was he, and he looked to me
Like a man who had lived in hell;
With a face most hair, and the dreary stare
Of a dog whose day is done,
As he watered the green stuff in his glass,
And the drops fell one by one.
Then I got to figgering who he was,
And wondering what he'd do,
And I turned my head -- and there watching him
Was the lady that's known as Lou.

His eyes went rubbering round the room,
And he seemed in a kind of daze,
Till at last that old piano fell
In the way of his wandering gaze.
The rag-time kid was having a drink;
There was no one else on the stool,
So the stranger stumbles across the room,
And flops down there like a fool.
In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt
He sat, and I saw him sway;
Then he clutched the keys with his talon hands --
My God! but that man could play.

Were you ever out in the Great Alone,
When the moon was awful clear,
And the icy mountains hemmed you in
With a silence you most could HEAR;
With only the howl of a timber wolf,
And you camped there in the cold,
A half-dead thing in a stark, dead world,
Clean mad for the muck called gold;
While high overhead, green, yellow and red,
The North Lights swept in bars? --
Then you've a haunch what the music meant . . .
Hunger and night and the stars.

And hunger not of the belly kind,
That's banished with bacon and beans,
But the gnawing hunger of lonely men
For a home and all that it means;
For a fireside far from the cares that are,
Four walls and a roof above;
But oh! so cramful of cosy joy,
And crowned with a woman's love --
A woman dearer than all the world,
And true as Heaven is true --
(God! how ghastly she looks through her rouge, --
The lady that's known as Lou.)

Then on a sudden the music changed,
So soft that you scarce could hear;
But you felt that your life had been looted clean
Of all that it once held dear;
That someone had stolen the woman you loved;
That her love was a devil's lie;
That your guts were gone, and the best for you
Was to crawl away and die.
'Twas the crowning cry of a heart's despair,
And it thrilled you through and through --
"I guess I'll make it a spread misere,"
Said Dangerous Dan McGrew.

The music almost died away . . .
Then it burst like a pent-up flood;
And it seemed to say, "Repay, repay,"
And my eyes were blind with blood.
The thought came back of an ancient wrong,
And it stung like a frozen lash,
And the lust awoke to kill, to kill . . .
Then the music stopped with a crash,
And the stranger turned, and his eyes they burned
In a most peculiar way;
In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt
He sat, and I saw him sway;
Then his lips went in in a kind of grin,
And he spoke, and his voice was calm,
And "Boys," says he, "you don't know me,
And none of you care a damn;
But I want to state, and my words are straight,
And I'll bet my poke they're true,
That one of you is a hound of hell . . .
and that one is Dan McGrew."

Then I ducked my head, and the lights went out,
And two guns blazed in the dark,
And a woman screamed, and the lights went up,
And two men lay stiff and stark.
Pitched on his head, and pumped full of lead,
Was Dangerous Dan McGrew,
While the man from the creeks lay clutched to the breast
Of the lady that's known as Lou.

These are the simple facts of the case,
And I guess I ought to know.
They say that the stranger was crazed with "hooch",
And I'm not denying it's so.
I'm not so wise as the lawyer guys,
But strictly between us two --
The woman that kissed him and -- pinched his poke --
Was the lady that's known as Lou.
Chookie

Stuff yer Orztralyan pomes - heres a Canajin wan:-

Madam La Marquise

Said Hongray de la Glaciere unto his proud Papa:
"I want to take a wife mon Pre," The Marquis laughed: "Ha! Ha!
And whose, my son?" he slyly said; but Hongray with a frown
Cried, "Fi! Papa, I mean - to wed, I want to settle down."
The Marquis de la Glaciere responded with a smile;
"You're young my boy; I much prefer that you should wait awhile."
But Hongray sighed: "I cannot wait, for I am twenty-four;
And I have met my blessed fate: I worship and adore.
Such beauty, grace and charm has she, I'm sure you will approve,
For if I live a century none other can I love."
"I have no doubt," the Marquis shrugged, "that she's a proper pet;
But has she got a decent dot, and is she of our set?"
"Her dot," said Hongray, "will suffice; her family you know.
The girl with whom I fain would splice is Mirabelle du Veau."
What made the Marquis start and stare, and clutch his perfumed beard?
Why did he stagger to a chair and murmur: "As I feared?"
Dilated were his eyes with dread, and in a voice of woe
He wailed: "My son, you cannot wed with Mirabelle du Veau."

"Why not? my Parent," Hongray cried. "Her name's without a slur.
Why should you look so horrified that I should wed with her?"
The Marquis groaned: "Unhappy lad! Forget her if you can,
And see in your respected Dad a miserable man."
"What id the matter? I repeat," said Hongray growing hot.
"She's witty, pretty, rich and sweet... Then- mille diables!- what?"
The Marquis moaned: "Alas! that I your dreams of bliss should banish;
It happened in the days gone-by, when I was Don Juanish.
Her mother was your mother's friend, and we were much together.
Ah well! You know how such things end. (I blame it on the weather.)
We had a very sultry spell. One day, mon Dieu! I kissed her.
My son, you can't wed Mirabelle. She is... she is your sister."

So broken-hearted Hongray went and roamed the world around,
Till hunting in the Occident forgetfulness he found.
Then quite recovered, he returned to the paternal nest,
Until one day, with brow that burned, the Marquis he addresses:
"Felicitate me, Father mine; my brain is in a whirl;
For I have found the mate divine, the one, the perfect girl.
She's healthy, wealthy, witching, wise, with loveliness serene.
And Proud am I to win a prize, half angel and half queen."
"'Tis time to wed," the Marquis said, "You must be twenty-seven.
But who is she whose lot may be to make your life a heaven?"
"A friend of childhood," Hongray cried. "For whom regard you feel.
The maid I fain would be my bride is Raymonde de la Veal."
The Marquis de la Glaciere collapsed upon the floor,
And all the words he uttered were: "Forgive me, I implore.
My sins are heavy on my head. Profound remorse I feel.
My son, you simply cannot wed with Raymonde de la Veal."

Then Hongray spoke voice that broke, and corrugated brow:
"Inform me, Sir, why you demur. What is the matter now?"
The Marquis wailed: "My wicked youth! Ah! how it gives me pain.
But let me tell the awful truth, my agony explain...
A cursed Casanova I; a finished flirt her mother;
And so alas! it came to pass we fell for one another:
Our lives were blent in bliss and joy, The sequel you may gather:
You cannot wed Raymonde, my boy, because I am...her father."

Again sore-stricken Hongray fled, and sought his grief to smother,
And as he writhed upon his bed to him there came his Mother.
The Marquise de la Glaciere was snowy-haired and frigid.
Her wintry featured chiselled were, her manner stiff and rigid.
The pride of race was in her face, her bearing high and stately,
And sinking down by Hongray's side she spoke to him sedately:
"What ails you so, my precious child? What throngs of sorrow smite you?
Why are your eyes so wet and wild? Come tell me, I invite you."
"Ah! if I told you, Mother dear," said Hongray with a shiver,
"Another's honour would, I fear, be in the soup forever."
"Nay trust," she begged, "My only boy, the fond Mama who bore you.
Perhaps I may, your grief alloy. Please tell me, I implore you."

And so his story Hngray told, in accents choked and muffled.
The Marquise listened calm and cold, her visage quite unruffled.
He told of Mirabelle du Veau, his agony revealing.
For Raymonde de la Veal his woe was quite beyond concealing.
And still she sat without a word, her look so high and haughty,
You'd ne'er have thought it was her lord who had behaved so naughty.
Then Hongray finished up: "For life my hopes are doomed to slaughter;
For if I choose another wife, she's sure to be his daughter."
The Marquise rose. "Cheer up," said she, "the last word is not spoken.
A Mother cannot sit and see her boy's heart rudely broken.
So dry your tears and calm your fears; no longer need you tarry;
To-day your bride you may decide, to-morrow you may marry.
Yes, you may wed with Mirabelle, or Raymonde if you'd rather...
For I as well the truth may tell...Papa is not your father."
notascot

Snap ! baith Canadian
Fey Hag

The Personal Favourite

'Evolution'

When you were a tadpole and I was a fish
In the Paleozoic time,
And side by side on the ebbing tide
We sprawled through the ooze and slime,
Or skittered with many a caudal flip
Through the depths of the Cambrian fen,
My heart was rife with the joy of life,
For I loved you even then.

Mindless we lived and mindless we loved
And mindless at last we died;
And deep in the rift of the Caradoc drift
We slumbered side by side.
The world turned on in the lathe of time,
The hot lands heaved amain,
Till we caught our breath from the womb of death
And crept into light again.

We were amphibians, scaled and tailed,
And drab as a dead man's hand;
We coiled at ease 'neath the dripping trees
Or trailed through the mud and sand.
Croaking and blind, with our three-clawed feet
Writing a language dumb,
With never a spark in the empty dark
To hint at a life to come.

Yet happy we lived and happy we loved,
And happy we died once more;
Our forms were rolled in the clinging mold
Of a Neocomian shore.
The eons came and the eons fled
And the sleep that wrapped us fast
Was riven away in a newer day
And the night of death was past.

Then light and swift through the jungle trees
We swung in our airy flights,
Or breathed in the balms of the fronded palms
In the hush of the moonless nights;
And, oh! what beautiful years were there
When our hearts clung each to each;
When life was filled and our senses thrilled
In the first faint dawn of speech.

Thus life by life and love by love
We passed through the cycles strange,
And breath by breath and death by death
We followed the chain of change.
Till there came a time in the law of life
When over the nursing side
The shadows broke and soul awoke
In a strange, dim dream of God.

I was thewed like an Auruch bull
And tusked like the great cave bear;
And you, my sweet, from head to feet
Were gowned in your glorious hair.
Deep in the gloom of a fireless cave,
When the night fell o'er the plain
And the moon hung red o'er the river bed
We mumbled the bones of the slain.

I flaked a flint to a cutting edge
And shaped it with brutish craft;
I broke a shank from the woodland lank
And fitted it, head and haft;
Then I hid me close to the reedy tarn,
Where the mammoth came to drink;
Through the brawn and bone I drove the stone
And slew him upon the brink.

Loud I howled through the moonlit wastes,
Loud answered our kith and kin;
From west and east to the crimson feast
The clan came tramping in.
O'er joint and gristle and padded hoof
We fought and clawed and tore,
And check by jowl with many a growl
We talked the marvel o'er.

I carved that fight on a reindeer bone
With rude and hairy hand;
I pictured his fall on the cavern wall
That men might understand.
For we lived by blood and the right of might
Ere human laws were drawn,
And the age of sin did not begin
Till our brutal tush were gone.

And that was a million years ago
In a time that no man knows;
Yet here tonight in the mellow light
We sit at Delmonico's.
Your eyes are deep as the Devon springs,
Your hair is dark as jet,
Your years are few, your life is new,
Your soul untried, and yet -

Our trail is on the Kimmeridge clay
And the scarp of the Purbeck flags;
We have left our bones in the Bagshot stones
And deep in the Coralline crags;
Our love is old, our lives are old,
And death shall come amain;
Should it come today, what man may say
We shall not live again?

God wrought our souls from the Tremadoc beds
And furnished them wings to fly;
We sowed our spawn in the world's dim dawn,
And I know that it shall not die,
Though cities have sprung above the graves
Where the crook-bone men make war
And the oxwain creaks o'er the buried caves
Where the mummied mammoths are.

Then as we linger at luncheon here
O'er many a dainty dish,
Let us drink anew to the time when you
Were a tadpole and I was a fish.

-- Langdon Smith 1858 -1908
Heidy

Ah like thon,Fey................
Boudleaux C Merkin

Oh, dear Little Flo
I love you so
Especially in your nightie

When the moonlight flits
Across your tits
Oh, Jesus Christ almighty.

Might be Wordswurth .. no sure.
Saxy

Or Dudley Moore....


(caught)
ayrshiretattie

Boudleaux C Merkin wrote:
Oh, dear Little Flo
I love you so
Especially in your nightie

When the moonlight flits
Across your tits
Oh, Jesus Christ almighty.

Might be Wordswurth .. no sure.


...*spoo*


Ya buggerye! And there was me in transports of delight wi' Fey's contribution, just aboot to post ma appreciation!






Laughing
Heidy

Or Boo cuild rite wan aboot his (choke)" luvlie Dee....

Oh luvlie Dee will you be mine...
Although you are a ruff K9.......
Aff me ye'll mibbes catch a dose...
Whit wid dry up yer wee wet nose...
But Dee Ah'd cry wi joy an hollir...
Haudoan ma pet Ah'llget yer collar....
An aff we'd go doon tae ra park ....
where you cuild run aroon an bark...


An lay a few loafs annaw nae doot fur unsuspectin weans tae walk in.......
Lovely Dee

My own dear leckie, though he takes the pish,
I never shall forget him,
Though its strange how his fingers,
Smell suspiciously of fish,
Im sure hed shag me if Id let him.

He dwells in a cave neath the shadow of the Rock,
By the lovely river Clyde
And he reads Fish Fetish Monthly,
As he plays with his cock,
Up and down, back and forth and side to side!

So heres tae Heidy, with his tartan slippers,
And his lovely shiny head,
Though he was discovered in flagrante,
With some naked sexy kippers
Id rather have him - than that handsome swine Boo - in my bed. Embarassed
notanimby

Christ almighty this threed is gettin embarussin
Its like the contacts section of Jackie
Heidy

Time fur a visit frae hur who must be obeyed Ah rekin............ Evil or Very Mad
Neil

Dae ye hae a dominatrix heidie?

Heidy

Huv ye no hud a visit frae Senga yit Neil,in full punishmint mode? Cool
Neil

Naw... is't time for a whip-roon?
SengaMcp

Naw, it's jist ra rools issa bit diffrint in here an 'we' dinna want naughty pics o ony kind, ur krool wans eethur.
Neil

Did Ah miss a naughty picter?  Sad
SengaMcp

Neil wrote:
Did Ah miss a naughty picter? Sad


Wanurtwa.
Boudleaux C Merkin

It wiz probably that auld wan o' Heidy and the red mullet in a basque. Distasteful certainly,  but freedom of speech blah blah blah ...
dosser

Be fair. Heidy hud tae employ a' his seductive cherms by gettin ra mullet pished furst, payin' it twa-hunner squid and then promisin it the photie wiz gonnae be art afore it'd hae anything tae dae wi' him.

And even then he hud tae deploy ra shotgun, ropes an clorryform. Pare wee innysint fish.
Heidy

Honist tae goad Ah stert iss threed wi a nice wee couthy po-em an its noo degeneraytit inty whit Ah um alledgidlie daein wi certin speeshies o fush.......
yer aw a buncha toerags!
Evil or Very Mad
Neil

Boudleaux C Merkin

Right fush, wrang basque.  Smile
AG

That's no verra nice targettin thon fush like that. But watch oot ye dinnae shoot throo the tank glass cos a lotta watur isnae guid for laminated flerrs.
notanimby

Neil wrote:


Took me a minit but a got it eventuly
Ma aunty's frae Basqueland, basqueovia, basquestan ur whieur it  is tae
SengaMcp

Fae whaur ahmur sittin it's Basqueville... Ur it cuid be a red herrin.
notanimby

SengaMcp wrote:
Fae whaur ahmur sittin it's Basqueville... Ur it cuid be a red herrin.


Perhaps therz sumthin fishy goin on efter all, it is Friday

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