Chairity begins at hame, but shouldna end there.
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Fun, Fun, Fun
Well, she got her daddys car
And she cruised through the hamburger stand-now,
Seems she forgot all about the library
Like she told her ol man-now,
And with the radio blastin goes cruisin
Just as fast as she can-now
And shell have fun, fun, fun,
Till her daddy takes the t-bird away
Well you knew all along that your dad
Was gettin wise to you-now
(shouldna lied now, shouldna lied)
And since he took your set of keys youve been
Thinkin that your fun is all through-now
(shouldna lied now, shouldna lied)
But you can come along with me cause we
Gotta lotta things to do-now
And well have fun, fun, fun
Now that daddy took the t-bird away
Fun, fun, fun
Now that daddy took the t-bird away
Fun, fun, fun
Now that daddy took the t-bird away
song performed by by Carpenters
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When Princes and Prelates
When Princes and Prelates and het-headed zealots
All Europe hae set in a lowe,
The poor man lies down, nor envies a crown,
And comforts himsel with a mowe.—
And why shouldna poor folk mowe, mowe, mowe,
And why shouldna poor folk mowe:
The great folk hae siller, and houses and lands,
Poor bodies hae naething but mowe.—
When Brunswick's great Prince cam a cruising to France
Republican billies to cowe,
Bauld Brunswick's great Prince wad hae shawn better sense
At hame with his Princess to mowe.—
And why shouldna, &c.
Out over the Rhine proud Prussia wad shine,
To spend his best blood he did vow;
But Frederic had better ne'er forded the water,
But spent as he docht in a mowe.—
And why, &c.—
By sea and by shore! the Emperor swore,
In Paris he'd kick up a row;
But Paris saw ready just leugh at the laddie
And bad him gae tak a mowe.—
And why, &c.—
And Kate laid her claws on poor Stanislaus,
And Poland has bent like a bow:
May the deil in her arse ram a huge prick of brass!
And damn her in hell with a mowe!
And why, &c.—
But truce with commotions and new-fangled notions,
A bumper I trust you'll allow:
Here's George our gude king and Charlotte his queen,
And lang may they tak a gude mowe!
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Aise Hain Anna Hamare...
Khuskismat hain hum sare
mile hame jo Anna Hazare
Sath do milkar duniya walon
Pakar inke Har ek ishaare
Khuskismat hain hum sare
mile hame jo Anna Hazare
Diya hai maa ne ratna hame
Jo sabki aankhon ke hain tare
Desh ki khatir jee rahe jo
Aise hain Annaa hamare
Khuskismat hain hum sare
mile hame jo Anna Hazare
Hoga khatam ab bhrastachar
Anna ki ye har saans Pukare
Swarg sa sunder bane ye desh
khushiyon ke hon har or nazare
Khuskismat hain hum sare
mile hame jo Anna Hazare
Ishwar do sadbudhhi sabko
Karte gunah kyon itne sare
Rukhsat hoge duniya se “deep’’
Hoga na kuch sath tumhare
Khuskismat hain hum sare
mile hame jo Anna Hazare
poem by Deepak Kumar deep
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Tamanna(wish)
TAMANNA YE AANSU HUM PITE TO JARUR HAI
LEKIN USKA SHUKRIYA KARNA KABHI NA BHULTE HAI
MALIK HAI VO JAISA CHAHE VAISA RAKHE
HAME SIRF DUA MANGNA HAI KI VO HAME DEKHE
WE SUFFER AGONY AND PAIN WITH TEARS
BUT ALWAYS THANK ALMIGHTY FOR GRACE
HE MAY KEEP US IN ANY CONDITION AS SAVIOR AND PROTECTOR
WE CAN ONLY ASK FOR MERCY AND BLESSINGS
NAHI KOI FARIYAD KARNI HAI AUR NAHI KOI SHIKAYAT
BUS NAJRE KAYAM RAHE AUR MILTI RAHE INNAYAT
JO USE DENA HAI VO BINA MANGE HI DE DEGA
BAKI BURE KARMO KA JAWAB TO HAME HI DENA PADEGA
NOTHING TO COMPLAINOR NOTHING TO PRESENT
ONLY PRAYER FOR BLESSINGS AND GRACE
HE MAY GIVE IT EVEN WITHOUT ASKING
WE NEED TO ANSWER FOR THE ILLS COMMITED
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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An Impetuous Resolve
When little Dickie Swope's a man,
He's go' to be a Sailor;
An' little Hamey Tincher, he's
A-go' to be a Tailor:
Bud Mitchell, he's a-go' to be
A stylish Carriage-Maker;
An' when _I_ grow a grea'-big man,
I'm go' to be a Baker!
An' Dick'll buy his sailor-suit
O' Hame; and Hame'll take it
An' buy as fine a double-rigg
As ever Bud can make it:
An' nen all three'll drive roun' fer me
An' we'll drive off togevver,
A-slingin' pie-crust 'long the road
Ferever an' ferever!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Opposite Begins
When one has had it,
With a havoc that misfits...
That one agitated,
Finds an exit and splits.
People known to create conflict,
Seek an attention they don't get...
Until,
The opposite begins.
Opposition steps in.
They pretend a trust to believe,
To have others perceive but...
The opposite begins,
For them.
Wake up and take notice,
That the opposite begins for them.
Those who charade innocence.
The opposite begins for them.
Those masking evil intent.
The opposite begins for them.
When one has had it,
With a havoc that misfits...
Well,
The opposite begins.
The opposite begins.
And...
That one agitated,
Finds an exit and splits.
But then,
The opposite begins.
The opposite begins.
That one who's had it,
Splits and runs into love...
To know the opposite begins,
When someone genuine comes in...
To view.
When one has had it,
With a havoc that misfits...
Well,
The opposite begins.
The opposite begins.
And...
That one who's had it,
Splits and runs into love...
To know the opposite begins,
When someone genuine comes in...
To view.
They want it quick.
And...
When one has had it,
With a havoc that misfits...
To then see someone who genuinely fits,
Well...
The opposite begins pursued.
Oh yes it does.
An opposite begins pursued.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Journey
when you can look
in the mirror,
and see your self naked
without running like hell...
the journey begins!
when you can look
at your every action,
judging your self honestly
by motive and intent...
the journey begins!
when you can give away
all that you cling to
without asking for anything
in return...
the journey begins!
when you can do the right thing
irregardless of the cost,
not caring what anyone says
or thinks...
the journey begins!
when you can see the faces
of God in the people you
despise the most, the ones
who've hurt you the most...
the journey begins!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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When the Bush Begins to Speak
They know us not in England yet, their pens are overbold;
We're seen in fancy pictures that are fifty years too old.
They think we are a careless race - a childish race, and weak;
They'll know us yet in England, when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.
'The leaders that will be', the men of southern destiny,
Are not all found in cities that are builded by the sea;
They learn to love Australia by many a western creek,
They'll know them yet in England, when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.
All ready for the struggle, and waiting for the change,
The army of our future lies encamped beyond the range;
Australia, for her patriots, will not have far to seek;
They'll know her yet in England when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.
We'll find the peace and comfort that our fathers could not find,
Or some shall strike the good old blow that leaves a mark behind.
We'll find the Truth and Liberty our fathers came to seek,
Or let them know in England when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Dowie Houms of Yarrow
LATE at een, drinkin' the wine,
And ere they paid the lawin',
They set a combat them between,
To fight it in the dawin'.
'O stay at hame, my noble lord!
O stay at hame, my marrow!
My cruel brother will you betray,
On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.'
'O fare ye weel, my lady gay!
O fare ye weel, my Sarah!
For I maun gae, tho' I ne'er return
Frae the dowie banks o' Yarrow.'
She kiss'd his cheek, she kamed his hair,
As she had done before, O;
She belted on his noble brand,
An' he 's awa to Yarrow.
O he 's gane up yon high, high hill--
I wat he gaed wi' sorrow--
An' in a den spied nine arm'd men,
I' the dowie houms o' Yarrow.
'O are ye come to drink the wine,
As ye hae doon before, O?
Or are ye come to wield the brand,
On the dowie banks o' Yarrow?'
'I am no come to drink the wine,
As I hae don before, O,
But I am come to wield the brand,
On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.'
Four he hurt, an' five he slew,
On the dowie houms o' Yarrow,
Till that stubborn knight came him behind,
An' ran his body thorrow.
'Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John,
An' tell your sister Sarah
To come an' lift her noble lord,
Who 's sleepin' sound on Yarrow.'
'Yestreen I dream'd a dolefu' dream;
I ken'd there wad be sorrow;
I dream'd I pu'd the heather green,
On the dowie banks o' Yarrow.'
She gaed up yon high, high hill--
I wat she gaed wi' sorrow--
An' in a den spied nine dead men,
On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.
She kiss'd his cheek, she kamed his hair,
As oft she did before, O;
She drank the red blood frae him ran,
On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.
'O haud your tongue, my douchter dear,
For what needs a' this sorrow?
I'll wed you on a better lord
Than him you lost on Yarrow.'
'O haud your tongue, my father dear,
An' dinna grieve your Sarah;
A better lord was never born
Than him I lost on Yarrow.
'Tak hame your ousen, tak hame your kye,
For they hae bred our sorrow;
I wiss that they had a' gane mad
When they cam first to Yarrow.'
Cry
Cry love
Cry war
Cry innocence
That is lost forever more
Cry joy
Cry thief
Cry Beautiful
That is just beyond belief
So I...
CHORUS
Cry at the end
Cry 'cause it all begins again
Here you are and so am I
And we cry
Cry alone
Cry to me
Cry freedom
Then let yourself be free
To shed tears
That have to flow
To hold somebody close to you
And then let them go
CHORUS
Cry at the end
Cry 'cause it all begins again
Here you are and so am I
And we cry
Cry peace
Cry hate
Cry faithlessness
Then just have a little faith
CHORUS
Cry at the end
Cry 'cause it all begins again
Here you are and so am I
And we cry
Try to be true
Try 'cause we're only passing through
Here you are and so am I
And we cry
CHORUS
Cry at the end
Cry 'cause it all begins again
Here you are and so am I
And we cry
song performed by by Hilary Duff
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sir Hugh; Or The Jew's Daughter
Four-and-twenty bonny boys
Were playing at the ba,
And by it came him sweet Sir Hugh,
And he playd o'er them a'.
He kickd the ba with his right foot
And catchd it wi his knee,
And throuch-and-thro the Jew's window
He gard the bonny ba flee.
He's doen him to the Jew's castell
And walkd it round about;
And there he saw the Jew's daughter,
At the window looking out.
'Throw down the ba, ye Jew's daughter,
Throw down the ba to me!'
'Never a bit,' says the Jew's daughter,
'Till up to me come ye.'
'How will I come up? How can I come up?
How can I come to thee?
For as ye did to my auld father,
The same ye'll do to me.'
She's gane till her father's garden,
And pu'd an apple red and green;
'Twas a' to wyle him sweet Sir Hugh,
And to entice him in.
She's led him in through ae dark door,
And sae has she thro nine;
She's laid him on a dressing-table,
And stickit him like a swine.
And first came out the thick, thick blood,
And syne came out the thin;
And syne came out the bonny heart's blood;
There was nae mair within.
She's rowd him in a cake o lead,
Bade him lie still and sleep;
She's thrown him in Our Lady's draw-well,
Was fifty fathom deep.
When bells were rung, and mass was sung,
And a' the bairns came hame,
When every lady gat hame her son,
The Lady Maisry gat nane.
She's taen her mantle her about,
Her coffer by the hand,
And she's gane out to seek her son,
And wandered o'er the land.
She's doen her to the Jew's castell,
Where a' were fast asleep:
'Gin ye be there, my sweet Sir Hugh,
I pray you to me speak.'
'Gae hame, gae hame, my mither dear,
Prepare my winding-sheet,
And at the back o merry Lincoln
The morn I will you meet.'
Now Lady Maisry is gane hame,
Make him a winding-sheet,
And at the back o merry Lincoln,
The dead corpse did her meet.
And a the bells o merry Lincoln
Without men's hands were rung,
And a' the books o merry Lincoln
Were read without man's tongue,
And neer was such a burial
Sin Adam's days begun.
poem by Andrew Lang
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When a Consciousness Begins to Lift
When a consciousness begins to lift...
To leave behind foolishness that exists.
There seems to be an acceptance of it.
As if one realizes,
A birth has been committed.
When a consciousness begins to lift...
A release of limitations,
Easily takes a shift.
No longer is one concerned,
About winning conflicts with enemies burned.
When a consciousness begins to lift...
It becomes easier to observe,
Those disturbed and their afflictions addicted.
Enjoyed and unrestricted.
When a consciousness begins to lift...
It is best to rest.
And let it accept the truth,
That comes with it.
When a consciousness begins to lift...
Expect a shock and some loneliness.
When a consciousness begins to lift...
Those experiencing this,
Are left to feel estranged!
Alienated,
From that...
Which one had thought,
Was sane!
When a consciousness begins to lift...
Enjoy it as a gift.
Unveiling an abundance of understanding.
Connecting a peace that can be reached.
With a wish to share and treat.
When a consciousness begins to lift...
From those taught they should live,
With lives accepted in self defeat!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Oubit
It was an hairy oubit, sae proud he crept alang,
A feckless hairy oubit, and merrily he sang-
'My Minnie bad me bide at hame until I won my wings;
I show her soon my soul's aboon the warks o' creeping things.'
This feckless hairy oubit cam' hirpling by the linn,
A swirl o' wind cam' doun the glen, and blew that oubit in:
Oh when he took the water, the saumon fry they rose,
And tigg'd him a' to pieces sma', by head and tail and toes.
Tak' warning then, young poets a', by this poor oubit's shame;
Though Pegasus may nicher loud, keep Pegasus at hame.
Oh haud your hands frae inkhorns, though a' the Muses woo;
For critics lie, like saumon fry, to mak' their meals o' you.
Eversley, 1851.
poem by Charles Kingsley
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Epigram Addressed to an Artist
Dear _____, I'll gie ye some advice,
You'll tak it no uncivil:
You shouldna paint at angels mair,
But try and paint the devil.
To paint an Angel's kittle wark,
Wi' Nick, there's little danger:
You'll easy draw a lang-kent face,
But no sae weel a stranger.
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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