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A Prayer For A Stout Heart
A PRAYER FOR A STOUT HEART
How can I stake all my love, -
At the mercy of this fickle heart?
A heart that is delicate and fragile,
A heart that ignores the reasoning mind? !
A heart that feels both love and hate,
Gets ensnared by beauty and trapped by fate? !
A heart that changes its color and beat,
A heart which appears to be incomplete?
Faced with all those temptations of this world –
both spurious and pure,
How can my foolish heart distinguish and
endure?
So I prayed to the Lord to give me a heart that
is stout,
Like Richard the Lion Heart, both steadfast and
without doubt!
To wage a Crusade against all that is impure,
And abide by true love to forever endure!
- Raj Nandy
- New Delhi
- 20 Jan 09
Ye may drink of the burn, but not bite of the brae.
School Boy Heart
[transcribed by chris w]
School boy heart
By: jimmy buffett & matt betton
1996
I got a school boy heart, a novelist eye
Stout sailors legs and a license to fly
I came with nomad feet and some wandering toes
That walk up my longboard and hang off the nose
I suppose
The need to focus never arose
So something like a swiss army knife
Thats my life
Frankenstein had nothing on this body of mine
The villagers still flockin to see, to see me
Breaking free, breaking free
Cause I got a school boy heart, a novelist eye
Stout sailors legs and a license to fly
I got a bartenders ear and beachcombers style
Piratical nerve and a vaudevillian style
I suspect I died in some cosmic shipwreck
With all hands spread all over the deck
What the heck
Then some kind of obscene and unscrupulous mind
Began to pick up what he could find
Added ice, shook me twice, rolled the dice
Now I got a school boy heart, a novelist eye
A sailors legs and a license to fly
I got a native tongue from way down south
It sits in the cheek of my gulf coastal mouth
I got a school boy heart, a novelist eye
Stout sailors legs and a license to fly
I came with nomad feet and some wandering toes
That glide up my longboard and hang off the nose
[in case theres any interest, right before banana wind, jimmy sez
Meetcha at the end meetcha at the end.]
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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With a stout heart, a mouse can lift an elephant.
Stiff Upper Lip
What made good queen bess
Such a great success?
What made wellington
Do what he did at waterloo?
What makes every englishman
A fighter through and through?
It isnt roast beef, or ale, or home, or mother
Its just a little thing they sing to one another
Stiff upper lip, stout fella
Carry on, old fluff
Chin up, keep muddling through
Stiff upper lip, stout fella
When the goings rough
Pip pip to old man trouble
And a toodly-oo too
Carry on through thick and thin
If you feel youre in the right
Does the fighting spirit win?
Quite, quite, quite, quite, quite
Stiff upper lip, stout fella
When youre in the stew
Sober or blotto, this is your motto
Keep muddling through
(instrumental bridge)
When a bounder starts to hiss
You must give him blow for blow
Make the blighter say, whats this?
'ullo, 'ullo, 'ullo, 'ullo, 'ullo
Stiff upper lip, stout fella
When youre in the stew
Sober or blotto, this is your motto
Keep muddling through
Keep muddling through
Keep muddling through
Keep muddling through
song performed by by Ella Fitzgerald
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Size and Tears
WHEN on the sandy shore I sit,
Beside the salt sea-wave,
And fall into a weeping fit
Because I dare not shave -
A little whisper at my ear
Enquires the reason of my fear.
I answer "If that ruffian Jones
Should recognise me here,
He'd bellow out my name in tones
Offensive to the ear:
He chaffs me so on being stout
(A thing that always puts me out)."
Ah me! I see him on the cliff!
Farewell, farewell to hope,
If he should look this way, and if
He's got his telescope!
To whatsoever place I flee,
My odious rival follows me!
For every night, and everywhere,
I meet him out at dinner;
And when I've found some charming fair,
And vowed to die or win her,
The wretch (he's thin and I am stout)
Is sure to come and cut me out!
The girls (just like them!) all agree
To praise J. Jones, Esquire:
I ask them what on earth they see
About him to admire?
They cry "He is so sleek and slim,
It's quite a treat to look at him!"
They vanish in tobacco smoke,
Those visionary maids -
I feel a sharp and sudden poke
Between the shoulder-blades -
"Why, Brown, my boy! Your growing stout!"
(I told you he would find me out!)
"My growth is not YOUR business, Sir!"
"No more it is, my boy!
But if it's YOURS, as I infer,
Why, Brown, I give you joy!
A man, whose business prospers so,
Is just the sort of man to know!
"It's hardly safe, though, talking here -
I'd best get out of reach:
For such a weight as yours, I fear,
Must shortly sink the beach!" -
Insult me thus because I'm stout!
I vow I'll go and call him out!
poem by Lewis Carroll from Phantasmagoria and Other Poems
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Annan Water
'Annan water's wading deep,
And my love Annie's wondrous bonny;
And I am laith she suld weet her feet,
Because I love her best of ony.
'Gar saddle me the bonny black,--
Gar saddle sune, and make him ready:
For I will down the Gatehope-Slack,
And all to see my bonny ladye.'--
He has loupen on the bonny black,
He stirr'd him wi' the spur right sairly;
But, or he wan the Gatehope-Slack,
I think the steed was wae and weary.
He has loupen on the bonny gray,
He rade the right gate and the ready;
I trow he would neither stint nor stay,
For he was seeking his bonny ladye.
O he has ridden o'er field and fell,
Through muir and moss, and mony a mire;
His spurs o' steel were sair to bide,
And fra her fore-feet flew the fire.
'Now, bonny grey, now play your part!
Gin ye be the steed that wins my deary,
Wi' corn and hay ye'se be fed for aye,
And never spur sall make you wearie.'
The gray was a mare, and a right good mare;
But when she wan the Annan water,
She couldna hae ridden a furlong mair,
Had a thousand merks been wadded at her.
'O boatman, boatman, put off your boat!
Put off your boat for gowden monie!
I cross the drumly stream the night,
Or never mair I see my honey.'--
'O I was sworn sae late yestreen,
And not by ae aith, but by many;
And for a' the gowd in fair Scotland,
I dare na take ye through to Annie.'
The side was stey, and the bottom deep,
Frae bank to brae the water pouring;
And the bonny grey mare did sweat for fear,
For she heard the water-kelpy roaring.
O he has pou'd aff his dapperpy coat,
The silver buttons glanced bonny;
The waistcoat bursted aff his breast,
He was sae full of melancholy.
He has ta'en the ford at that stream tail;
I wot he swam both strong and steady;
But the stream was broad, and his strength did fail,
And he never saw his bonny ladye.
'O wae betide the frush saugh wand!
And wae betide the bush of brier!
It brake into my true love's hand,
When his strength did fail, and his limbs did tire.
'And wae betide ye, Annan water,
This night that ye are a drumlie river!
For over thee I'll build a bridge,
That ye never more true love may sever.'--
poem by Andrew Lang
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Jeane Dixon tells us that May and June are going to be pretty bad. June may be worse than May. But everything will turn out to be fine and to be of stout heart and all that.
quote by Rose Mary Woods
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The timid and fearful first failures dismay, but the stout heart stays trying by night and by day. He values his failures as lessons that teach The one way to get to the goal he would reach.
quote by Edgar Albert Guest
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Now, O Friend, Whom Noiselessly The Snows
I NOW, O friend, whom noiselessly the snows
Settle around, and whose small chamber grows
Dusk as the sloping window takes its load:
* * * * *
The kindly hill, as to complete our hap,
Has ta'en us in the shelter of her lap;
Well sheltered in our slender grove of trees
And ring of walls, we sit between her knees;
A disused quarry, paved with rose plots, hung
With clematis, the barren womb whence sprung
The crow-stepped house itself, that now far seen
Stands, like a bather, to the neck in green.
A disused quarry, furnished with a seat
Sacred to pipes and meditation meet
For such a sunny and retired nook.
There in the clear, warm mornings many a book
Has vied with the fair prospect of the hills
That, vale on vale, rough brae on brae, upfills
Halfway to the zenith all the vacant sky
To keep my loose attention. . . .
Horace has sat with me whole mornings through:
And Montaigne gossiped, fairly false and true;
And chattering Pepys, and a few beside
That suit the easy vein, the quiet tide,
The calm and certain stay of garden-life,
Far sunk from all the thunderous roar of strife.
There is about the small secluded place
A garnish of old times; a certain grace
Of pensive memories lays about the braes:
The old chestnuts gossip tales of bygone days.
Here, where some wandering preacher, blest Lazil,
Perhaps, or Peden, on the middle hill
Had made his secret church, in rain or snow,
He cheers the chosen residue from woe.
All night the doors stood open, come who might,
The hounded kebbock mat the mud all night.
Nor are there wanting later tales; of how
Prince Charlie's Highlanders . . .
* * * * *
I have had talents, too. In life's first hour
God crowned with benefits my childish head.
Flower after flower, I plucked them; flower by flower
Cast them behind me, ruined, withered, dead.
Full many a shining godhead disappeared.
From the bright rank that once adorned her brow
The old child's Olympus
* * * * *
Gone are the fair old dreams, and one by one,
As, one by one, the means to reach them went,
As, one by one, the stars in riot and disgrace,
I squandered what . . .
There shut the door, alas! on many a hope
Too many;
My face is set to the autumnal slope,
Where the loud winds shall . . .
There shut the door, alas! on many a hope,
And yet some hopes remain that shall decide
My rest of years and down the autumnal slope.
* * * * *
Gone are the quiet twilight dreams that I
Loved, as all men have loved them; gone!
I have great dreams, and still they stir my soul on high -
Dreams of the knight's stout heart and tempered will.
Not in Elysian lands they take their way;
Not as of yore across the gay champaign,
Towards some dream city, towered . . .
and my . . .
The path winds forth before me, sweet and plain,
Not now; but though beneath a stone-grey sky
November's russet woodlands toss and wail,
Still the white road goes thro' them, still may I,
Strong in new purpose, God, may still prevail.
* * * * *
I and my like, improvident sailors!
* * * * *
At whose light fall awaking, all my heart
Grew populous with gracious, favoured thought,
And all night long thereafter, hour by hour,
The pageant of dead love before my eyes
Went proudly, and old hopes with downcast head
Followed like Kings, subdued in Rome's imperial hour,
Followed the car; and I . . .
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I think one or two of the later Holmes stories are among the best.
I still can't decide which is more fun - reading or writing.
The Glass Key is better than anything Hemingway ever wrote.