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The Ew-Bughts Marion. A Scottish Song.
Will ze gae to the ew-bughts, Marion,
And wear in the sheip wi' mee?
The sun shines sweit, my Marion,
But nae half sae sweit as thee.
O Marion's a bonnie lass,
And the blyth blinks in her ee;
And fain wad I marrie Marion,
Gin Marion wad marrie mee.
Theire's gowd in zour garters, Marion;
And siller on zour white haussbane;
Fou faine wad I kisse my Marion
At eene quhan I cum hame.
Theire's braw lads in Earnslaw, Marion,
Quha gape and glowr wi' their ee
At kirk, quhan they see my Marion;
Bot nane of them lues like mee.
Ive nine milk-ews, my Marion,
A cow and a brawney quay;
Ise gie tham au to my Marion,
Just on her bridal day.
And zees get a grein sey apron,
And waistcote o' London broun,
And wow bot ze will be vaporing
Quhanier ze gang to the toun.
Ime yong and stout, my Marion,
None dance lik mee on the greine;
And gin ze forsak me, Marion,
Ise een gae draw up wi' Jeane.
Sae put on zour pearlins, Marion,
And kirtle oth' cramasie,
And sune as my chin has nae haire on,
I sall cum west and see zee.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Edward, Edward. A Scottish Ballad
MODERN TRANSLATION (original below)
'Why does your sword so drip with blood,
Edward, Edward?
Why does your sword so drip with blood?
And why so sad are ye, O?'
'O, I have killed my hawk so good,
Mother, mother:
O I have killed my hawk so good:
And I had no more but he, O.'
'Your hawk's blood was never so red,
Edward, Edward:
Your hawk’s blood was never so red,
My dear son I tell thee, O.'
'O, I have killed my red-roan steed,
Mother, mother:
O, I have killed my red-roan steed,
That once was so fair and free, O.'
'Your steed was old, and we have got more,
Edward, Edward:
Your steed was old, and we have got more,
Some other evil ye fear, O.'
'O, I have killed my father dear,
Mother, mother:
O, I have killed my father dear,
Alas! and woe is me, O!'
'And what penance will ye suffer for that,
Edward, Edward?
And what penance will ye suffer for that?
My dear son, now tell me, O.'
'I'll set my feet in yonder boat,
Mother, mother:
I’ll set my feet in yonder boat,
And I’ll fare over the sea, O.'
'And what will ye do with your towers and your halls,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye do with your towers and your halls,
That were sae fair to see, O?'
'I’ll let them stand till they down fall,
Mother, mother:
I’ll let them stand till they down fall,
For here never more may I be, O.'
'And what will ye leave to your children and your wife,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your children and your wife
When ye go over the sea, O?'
'The world is large, let them beg through life,
Mother, mother:
The world is large, let them beg throw life,
For them never more will I see, O.'
'And what will ye leave to your own mother dear,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your own mother dear?
My dear son, now tell me, O.'
'The curse of hell from me shall you bear,
Mother, mother:
The curse of hell from me shall you bear,
Such counsels you gave to me, O.'
OLD SCOTS VERSION
'Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid,
Edward, Edward?
Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid?
And quhy sae sad gang zee, O?'
'O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid,
Mither, mither:
O I hae killed my hauke sae guid:
And I had nae mair bot hee, O.'
'Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,
Edward, Edward:
Zour haukis bluid was never sae reid,
My deir son I tell thee, O.'
'O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
Mither, mither:
O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid,
That erst was sae fair and free, O.'
'Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair,
Edward, Edward:
Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair,
Sum other dule ze drie, O.'
'O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
Mither, mither:
O, I hae killed my fadir deir,
Alas! and wae is mee, O!'
'And quhatten penance wul ze drie for that,
Edward, Edward?
And quhatten penance will ze drie for that?
My deir son, now tell me, O.'
'Ile set my feit in zonder boat,
Mither, mither:
Ile set my feit in zonder boat,
And Ile fare ovir the sea, O.'
'And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha',
Edward, Edward?
And quhat wull ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha',
That were sae fair to see, O?'
'Ile let thame stand til they doun fa',
Mither, mither:
Ile let thame stand til they doun fa',
For here nevir mair maun I bee, O.'
'And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife,
Edward, Edward?
And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife
Quhan ze gang ovir the sea, O?'
'The warldis room, late them beg throw life,
Mither, mither:
The warldis room, let them beg throw life,
For thame nevir mair wul I see, O.'
'And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir,
Edward, Edward?
And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir?
My deir son, now tell me, O.'
'The curse of hell frae me sall ze beir,
Mither, mither:
The curse of hell frae me sall ze beir,
Sic counseils ze gave to me, O.'
poem by Anonymous Olde English
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Were There Hope
I was never in a league of noble gentlemen
To whom she'd cast polite and flitting smiles,
Only distant hope and dying dreams for me!
Or perhaps descent into a game of wiles
To give a chance of sipping wine on heady nights
With her angelic presence to declare;
Above, an aura playing out hypnotic hues,
And I in awe of blonde cascades of hair.
But no! my tiring soul is sinking in a mire
To haunt me for an age and evermore, for
How could I expect to hold her silken hand
When I am but a soulless ghost of yore?
Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope, hope?
Hope?
Never
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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In the white collar
In the white collar
Of the lowly sparrow
Puts me to mind of the priest
And the flying nun
I use to watch on b & w t v
T V outs me to mind
Patty Duke
And the twins
My sister and brother
Family raised in a cruel year
My brother puts me to mind
Of the men I call family
The gays met at the bar
The bar puts me to mind
Of the men I took home
Just for once for a night of joy
Joy puts me to mind
Of the time I expressed with setime puts me to mind
That now I am old
And self assured
In the way I go.
poem by David E. Patton
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Standing Next To You
Take me to a better place.
One more honest.
One more pure.
One that puts me on top of the heavens.
Looking down upon everything and everyone.
Keep me from saving face.
Admitting a terrible mistake that I have made.
To everything and everyone.
Why it can't be a simple dream?
One that you can simply grab out and reach.
And the one standing next to you.
Please guide me to where it is we're suppose go.
Because I just don't know yet if I am going make it.
Take me to a better place.
One more honest.
One more pure.
One that puts me on top of the heavens.
Looking down upon everything and everyone.
Let the existence be true.
Please don't let it fall through.
With hope as my prayer.
Let it take wings.
In place I've never seen and probably will never be.
For a too large a distance divides.
An impenetrable barrier resides.
Only my voice survives.
It glides through a sequence of mazes.
Sometimes I think something gets lost in the translation.
But one way or another.
Take me to a better place.
One more honest.
One more pure.
One that puts me on top of the heavens.
Looking down upon everything and everyone.
Its not any ones fault and I don't blame any of you.
I'll do what is needed.
Not because I have to.
Or in anyway need to.
Without reluctance sometimes still choices are made.
Living among life without life.
The body breaths but does it move.
Take me to a better place.
One more honest.
One more pure.
One that puts me on top of the heavens.
Looking down upon everything and everyone.
Take me to a better place.
One more honest.
One more pure.
One that puts me on top of the heavens.
Looking down upon everything and everyone.
Because right now I'm without you.
Right Now, Right Now, I Am Without You.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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The Rose
I.
Sweet serene skye-like Flower,
Haste to adorn her Bower :
From thy long clowdy bed,
Shoot forth thy damaske head.
II.
New-startled blush of Flora !
The griefe of pale Aurora,
Who will contest no more ;
Haste, haste, to strowe her floore.
III.
Vermilion Ball that's given
From lip to lip in Heaven ;
Love's Couches cover-led :
Haste, haste, to make her bed.
IV.
Dear Offspring of pleas'd Venus,
And Jollie, plumpe Silenus ;
Haste, haste, to decke the Haire
Of th' only, sweetly Faire.
V.
See ! Rosie is her Bower,
Her floore is all this Flower ;
Her Bed a Rosie nest
By a Bed of Roses prest.
VI.
But early as she dresses,
Why fly you her bright Tresses ?
Ah ! I have found I feare ;
Because her Cheekes are neere.
poem by Richard Lovelace
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To Lucasta, the Rose
I.
Sweet serene skye-like flower,
Haste to adorn her bower;
From thy long clowdy bed
Shoot forth thy damaske head.
II.
New-startled blush of Flora!
The griefe of pale Aurora,
Who will contest no more,
Haste, haste, to strowe her floore.
III.
Vermilion ball, that's given
From lip to lip in Heaven;
Loves couches cover-led,
Haste, haste, to make her bed.
IV.
Dear offspring of pleas'd Venus,
And jollie plumpe Silenus;
Haste, haste, to decke the haire,
Of th' only sweetly faire.
V.
See! rosie is her bower,
Her floore is all this flower;
Her bed a rosie nest
By a bed of roses prest.
VI.
But early as she dresses,
Why fly you her bright tresses?
Ah! I have found, I feare;
Because her cheekes are neere.
poem by Richard Lovelace
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To Lucasta. The Rose.
I.
Sweet serene skye-like flower,
Haste to adorn her bower;
From thy long clowdy bed
Shoot forth thy damaske head.
II.
New-startled blush of FLORA!
The griefe of pale AURORA,
Who will contest no more,
Haste, haste, to strowe her floore.
III.
Vermilion ball, that's given
From lip to lip in Heaven;
Loves couches cover-led,
Haste, haste, to make her bed.
IV.
Dear offspring of pleas'd VENUS,
And jollie plumpe SILENUS;
Haste, haste, to decke the haire,
Of th' only sweetly faire.
V.
See! rosie is her bower,
Her floore is all this flower;
Her bed a rosie nest
By a bed of roses prest.
VI.
But early as she dresses,
Why fly you her bright tresses?
Ah! I have found, I feare;
Because her cheekes are neere.
poem by Richard Lovelace
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She hauds up her heid like a hen drinkin watter.
Dear Diary-Dragi Dnevnič e
I cannot write, zour paper is too innocently white.
Ne mogu da pišem, papir ti je isuviše nevino bijel.
©Miroslava Odalović
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Obstacle 1
I wish I could eat the salt off of your lost faded lips
We can cap the old times, make playing only logical harm
We can cap the old lines, make playing that nothing else will change
But she can ray, she can ray, she can ray, she can ray, she's bad
She can ray, she can ray, she can ray, she's bad
Oh, she's bad
But it's different now that I'm poor and aging, I'll never see this face again
You go stabbing yourself in the neck
And we can find new ways of living make playing only logical harm
And we can top the old times, clay-making that nothing else will change
But she can ray, she can ray, she can ray, she can ray, she's bad
She can ray, she can ray, she can ray, she's bad
Oh, she's bad
It's different now that I'm poor and aging, I'll never see this place again
You go stabbing yourself in the neck
But it's different now that I'm poor and aging, I'll never see this place again
And you go stabbing yourself in the neck
It's in the way that she posed, it's in the things that she puts in my head
Her stories are boring and stuff, she's always calling my bluff
She puts, she puts the weights into my little heart
And she gets in my room and she takes it apart
She puts the weights into my little heart
I said she puts the weights into my little heart
She packs it away
It's in the way that she walks
Her heaven is never enough
She puts the weights in my heart
She puts, oh she puts the weights into my little heart
song performed by by Interpol
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Immolation Of Love
Love wedded them together
to live with honour.
When fate struck at
her man to drown and die,
leaving her two girl-children
to the care of the world,
Sangita set herself ablaze.
Had she had the hope of
thriving alone in this harsh world,
she wouldn’t have left behind
two young orphans to cry.
She made haste to come along
with her beloved man
and she made haste to go away
from her lovely children
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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What Hope Can Do.
Hope....
Hope......
Hope is what strives you to be the best that you can.
Hope is what helps you hold on.
Hope is what makes you feel there could be a possibility that everything can work out for the better.
Hope is what you can make it be.
Hope is magical.
Hope is fantastic.
Hope is beautiful.
Hope is everything.
Hope is sweet.
Hope is there for you.
Hope is there for friends.
Hope is there for family.
Hope is there for loved ones.
Hope is there for everybody..........
By Billy Aston - Wright
poem by Billy AstonWright
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King Is White And In The Crowd
Talking by the pool of light, language from Americ.
a
She puts on the film of him, King is white and in the crowd
They are not a melting pot, say no, say no tapestry
She puts on the film of him, King is white and in the crowd
She takes his hand and she says you'll stay
She's lost in the crowd
King
Wire them up, fire them up
The life and times, the art and talk
Wire them up, fire them up
The life and times, the art and talk
Lovers run camp Africa, Bars in town are civilised
She puts on the film of him, King is white and in the crowd
Panorama, Citylife
Youth's dance proud from the waist down
She puts on the film of him, King is white and in the crowd
Shot from where the action is, a rhapsody in black and blue
She puts on the film of him, King is white and in the crowd
Love lies under western eyes, powerful yet transient
She puts on the film of him, King is white and in the crowd
song performed by by Simple Minds
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What I Hope
I hope you're happy
I hope you're proud
I hope you know how I felt
When you said 'Three's a crowd'
I don't hope you suffer
I don't hope you die
But I hope you know it's your fault
I can no longer fly
I hope you can feel
I hope you can see
I hope you get abandoned
Like you did to me
I hope you know you succeeded
I hope you know you won
I hope you know you broke me
I still can't see the sun
I will leave it at that
Even though there is more
Like all the pain
I have yet to thank you for
poem by Megan Reily
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Shall I hope?
Shall we hope?
Shall we hope?
Hope for a better life?
Hope to feel like we actually live?
Hope for a chance to do things better?
Is there a reason for hope?
Shall we hope?
Hope to undo what’s been done?
Hope to be greater than we are?
Hope to learn to give and not take?
What’s hope?
I ask you, shall we hope?
poem by Justin Han
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Gil Morrice. A Scottish Ballad
Gil Morrice was an erles son,
His name it waxed wide:
It was nae for his great riches,
Nor zet was mickle pride;
Bot it was for a lady gay,
That livd on Carron side.
'Quhair sall I get a bonny boy,
That will win hose and shoen;
That will gae to Lord Barnard's ha',
And bid his lady cum?
And ze maun rin my errand, Willie,
And ze may rin wi' pride;
Quhen other boys gae on their foot,
On horse-back ze sall ride.'
'O no! O no! my master dear!
I dare nae for my life;
I'll no gae to the bauld barons,
For to triest furth his wife.'
'My bird Willie, my boy Willie,
My dear Willie,' he sayd:
'How can ze strive against the stream?
For I shall be obeyd.'
'Bot, O my master dear!' he cry'd,
'In grene wod ze're zour lain;
Gi owre sic thochts, I walde ze rede,
For fear ze should be tain.'
'Haste, haste, I say, gae to the ha',
Bid hir cum here wi speid:
If ze refuse my heigh command,
Ill gar zour body bleid.
'Gae bid hir take this gay mantel,
'Tis a gowd bot the hem;
Bid hir cum to the gude grene wode,
And bring nane bot hir lain:
And there it is, a silken sarke,
Hir ain hand sewd the sleive;
And bid hir cum to Gill Morice,
Speir nae bauld barons leave.'
'Yes, I will gae zour blacke errand,
Though it be to zour cost;
Sen ze by me well nae be warn'd,
In it ze sall find frost.
The baron he is a man of might,
He neir could bide to taunt;
As ze will see before it's nicht,
How sma' ze hae to vaunt.
'And sen I maun zour errand rin
Sae sair against my will,
I'se make a vow and keip it trow,
It sall be done for ill.'
And quhen he came to broken brigue,
He bent his bow and swam;
And quhen he came to grass growing,
Set down his feet and ran.
And quhen he came to Barnards ha',
Would neither chap nor ca';
Bot set his bent bow to his breist,
And lichtly lap the wa'.
He wauld nae tell the man his errand,
Bot straiht into the ha' he cam,
Quhair they were set at meit.
'Hail! hail! my gentle sire and dame!
My message winna waite;
Dame, ze maun to the gude grene wod,
Before that it be late.
'Ze're bidden tak this gay mantel,
Tis a' gowd bot the hem:
Zou maun gae to the gude grene wode,
Ev'n by your sel alane.
'And there it is, a silken sarke,
Your ain hand sewd the sleive:
Ze maun gae speik to Gill Morice;
Speir nae bauld barons leave.'
The lady stamped wi' hir foot,
And winked wi' her ee;
Bot a' that she coud say or do,
Forbidden he wad nae bee.
'Its surely to my bow'r-woman;
It neir could be to me.'
'I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady;
I trow that ze be she.'
Then up and spack the wylie nurse,
(The bairn upon hir knee):
'If it be cum frae Gill Morice,
It' deir welcum to mee.'
'Ze leid, ze leid, ze filthy nurse,
Sae loud I heird ze lee;
I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady;
I trow ze be nae shee.'
Then up and spack the bauld baron,
An angry man was hee;
He's tain the table wi' his foot,
Sae has he wi' his knee,
Till siller cup and 'mazer' dish
In flinders he gard flee.
'Gae bring a robe of zour cliding
That hings upon the pin;
And I'll gae to the gude grene wode,
And speik wi' zour lemman.
'O bide at hame, now, Lord Barnard,
I warde ze bide at hame;
Neir wyte a man for violence,
That neir wate ze wi' nane.'
Gil Morice sate in gude grene wode,
He whistled and he sang:
'O what mean a' the folk coming?
His hair was like the threeds of gold,
Drawne frae Minerva's loome;
His lipps like roses drapping dew;
His breath was a' perfume.
His browe was like the mountains snae
Gilt by the morning beam;
His cheeks like living roses glow;
His een like azure stream.
The boy was clad in robes of grene,
Sweete as the infant spring;
And like the mavis on the bush,
He gart the vallies ring.
The baron came to the grene wode,
Wi' mickle dule and care,
And there he first spied Gill Morice
Kameing his zellow hair
That sweetly wavd around his face,
That face beyond compare;
He sang sae sweet, it might dispel
A' rage but fell despair.
'Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gill Morice,
My lady loed thee weel;
The fairest part of my bodie
Is blacker than thy heel.
Zet neir the less now, Gill Morice,
For al' thy great beautie,
Ze's rew the day ze eir was born;
That head sall gae wi' me.'
Now he was drawn his trusty brand,
And slaited on the strae;
And thro' Gill Morice' fair body
He's gar cauld iron gae.
And he has tain Gill Morice' head
And set it on a speir:
The meanest man in a' his train
Has gotten that head to bear.
And he has tain Gill Morice up,
Laid him across his steid,
And brocht him to his painted bowr,
And laid him on a bed.
The lady sat on castil wa',
Beheld baith dale and doun;
And there she saw Gill Morice' head
Cum trailing to the toun.
'Far better I loe that bluidy head,
Both and that zellow hair,
Than Lord Barnard, and a' his lands,
As they lig here and thair.'
And she has tain her Gill Morice,
And kissd baith mouth and chin:
'I was once as fow of Gill Morice,
As the hip is o' the stean.
'I got ze in my father's house,
Wi' mickle sin and shame;
I brocht thee up in gude grene wode,
Under the heavy rain.
Oft have I by thy cradle sitten
And fondly seen thee sleip;
But now I gae about thy grave,
The saut tears for to weip.'
And syne she kissd his bluidy cheik,
And syne his bluidy chin:
'O better I loe my Gill Morice
Than a' my kith and kin!'
'Away, away, ze ill woman,
And an il deith mait ze dee:
Gin I had kend he'd bin zour son,
He'd neir bin slain for mee.'
'Obraid me not, my Lord Barnard!
Obraid me not for shame!
Wi' that saim speir, O pierce my heart!
And put me out o' pain.
Since nothing bot Gill Morice' head
Thy jealous rage could quell,
Let that saim hand now tak hir life
That neir to thee did ill.
'To me nae after days nor nichts
Will eir be saft or kind;
I'll fill the air with heavy sighs,
And greet till I am blind.'
'Enouch of blood by me's bin spilt,
Seek not zour death frae me;
I rather lourd it had been my sel
Than eather him or thee.
'With waefo wae I hear zour plaint;
Sair, sair I rew the deid,
That eir this cursed hand of mine
Had gard his body bleid.
Dry up zour tears, my winsome dame,
Ze neir can heal the wound;
Ze see his head upon the speir,
His heart's blude on the ground.
'I curse the hand that did the deid,
The heart that thocht the ill;
The feet that bore me wi' sik speid,
The comely zouth to kill.
I'll ay lament for Gill Morice,
As gin he were mine ain;
I'll neir forget the dreiry day
On which the zouth was slain.'
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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What Child Is This?
What child is this, who laid to rest
on Mary's lap is sleeping?
whom angels greet with anthems sweet
while shepherds watch are keeping?
This, this is Christ the King
whom shepherds guard and angels sing
haste, haste to bring him laud
the babe, the son of Mary
Why lies He in such mean state
where ox and and ass are feeding?
good christian, fear for sinners here
the silent word is pleading
this, this is Christ the King
whom shepherds guard and angels sing
haste, haste to bring him laud
the babe, the son of Mary
Nails, spear, shall, pierce him through
the cross be bome, for me, for you
hail, hail, the world made flesh
the babe, the son of Mary
this, this is Christ the King
whom shepherds guard and angels sing
haste, haste to bring him laud
the babe, the son of Mary
So bring him incense, gold and myrrh
come peasant, King to own him
the King of Kings salvation brings
let loving hearts enthrone him
this, this is Christ the King
whom shepherds guard and angels sing
haste, haste to bring him laud
the babe, the son of Mary
Raise, raise, the song on high
the Virgin sings her llullaby
joy, joy for Christ is born
the babe, the son of Mary
this, this is Christ the King
whom shepherds guard and angels sing
haste, haste to bring him laud
the babe, the son of Mary
song performed by by Donna Summer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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King Is White & In The Crowd
Talking by the pool of light, language from america.
She puts on the film of him, king is white and in the crowd
They are not a melting pot, say no, say no tapestry
She puts on the film of him, king is white and in the crowd
She takes his hand and she says youll stay
Shes lost in the crowd
King
Wire them up, fire them up
The life and times, the art and talk
Wire them up, fire them up
The life and times, the art and talk
Lovers run camp africa, bars in town are civilised
She puts on the film of him, king is white and in the crowd
Panorama, citylife
Youths dance proud from the waist down
She puts on the film of him, king is white and in the crowd
Shot from where the action is, a rhapsody in black and blue
She puts on the film of him, king is white and in the crowd
Love lies under western eyes, powerful yet transient
She puts on the film of him, king is white and in the crowd
Words & music : simple minds (c) emi publishing ltd reproduced without permission
song performed by by Simple Minds
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hope At It's Strongest
Hope is the thing that keeps us going
Hope is a poem without any words
Hope is what follows us everyday
Hope is the light that sparks our eyes
Hope that it will all get better
Hope that you will find love
Hope that people will be kind
Hope that you will stay alive
Hope is the strongest thing of all
Hope will allow us not to fall
Hope will rise against anything
Hope is like a fiery ring
Hope never stops
Hope is always there
Without it we would be lost
Without out it we would not care
poem by Laura Random
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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