There are mair foxes than there are holes for.
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Fareweel, ye bughts
*
1. Fareweel, ye bughts, an' all your ewes,
An' fields whare bIoomin' heather grows;
Nae mair the sportin' lambs I'll see
Since my true love's forsaken me.
CHORUS.
Nae mair I'll hear wi' pleasure sing
The cheerfu' lav'rock in the Spring,
But sad in grief now I maun mourn,
Far, far frae her, o'er Logan-burn.
2. Alas! nae mair we'll meetings keep
At bughts, whan herds ca' in their sheep;
Nae mair amang the threshes green
We'll row, where we hae aften been.
CHORUS
3. Nae mair for me , ye vi'lets blaw,
Or lilies whiter than the snaw;
Nae mair your pleasures I can bear,
While I am absent frae my dear.
CHORUS
4. I ken the cause of my hard fate;
In courtin' her I was too blate;
I never kiss'd my lass at a'
But when we met an' gaed awa'.
CHORUS
5. Oh could my tears again bring back
The days now past, I'd no' be slack
For ev'ry kiss she got before
I wad gie to her now a score.
CHORUS
6. O fortune I wad you favour me
In some snug corner her to see.
My heart I wad to her reveal,
An' in her arms my pardon seal.
CHORUS
*
poem by James Thomson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sound Of Sheep
The sheep are soundless in the snow,
Sleepless for the night as it stoops;
Aggression has appeared for the lairs,
As I have risen for the keeping of foxes.
Exhaling now and then, we are gray in the mind,
Life is dazzling with a vortex of guidance;
Anger has stunned us for the hope is near
For the foxes to retreat and rout, the auction is so near.
It is agitated, and been clear at hand
That foxes number the dozens in sleep.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Y - hole- 9+2=11
Lucky at this hole.
Watchout - they steal holes.
WHO-WHO-WHO
Not them - them.
Flowing sands-sands-sands and man.
Catch infinite vibes - MAN.
HOLES-HOLES-HOLES
Gone hole insane, hole insane - PAINS.
Peephole, porthole, volcano hole.
HOLES FOR SALE 'smart guy'.
HOLES FOR SALE 'smart guy'.
Sells nothing - makes money - SMART.
HOLES FOR SALE
LUCKY, , , bought a hole....SMART.
Donut holes-Bagel holes - *FOR SALE*.
Never thought about holes before.
LUCKY, , , at the, , , , ,11 hole.
LUCKY-LUCKY-LUCKY - 'knows'.
HOLES FOR SALE - {sale day}
SALE DAY - SALE DAY - SALE DAY
HOLES FOR SALE
2/27/2009 Joe Poewhit
JESUS SAVES
poem by Joe Poewhit
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Book Of Black Holes
You be on yourside
I'll be on my side
In between there is a book
the book of Black Holes
You sling your arrows
I'll dodge the harrows
And then I'll record it
In the book of Black Holes
There be many pages
that goes through many stages
In the end you may find it
In the book of Black Holes
If it's a five or ten
Even a zero I win
And I have recorded it
In the book of Black Holes
Your comments cryptic
Your words haze, eliptic
And like I said goes down
In the book of Black Holes
Your choice to be insipid
Your dreams are timid
Compared to what's collected
In my book of Black Holes
poem by Midnights Voice
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Helpless Woman
He and she and they can persecute
Number of times knowingly
Torturing her by many means they invent
Pleasure is theirs.She, wounded unhappily
No way of guarding herself.
God! Foxes should be spiked only by God
Will they be sorry? no, hope not
Some are born to repent not
When they turn to be repaid themselves
Will she redeem her happy youth?
Gone are her days in the den of foxes;
Foxes harassing others into the flaming hearth.
One foot onto the threshold of death
Dire her wish to be rescued
Ere fastened in her burial sheath
Frowning are her words'cursed
Are you! others treated
Vehemently under your feet crushed
You be crushed by the fury of God! '
poem by Indira Renganathan
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This Crazy Game o' Golf
Tae pick up a stick an' chase a wee ba'
I jist canna see the sense in it ava'
Hittin' a ba' roond a park full o' holes
ye'd think t'wis a new wey tae kill a ' the moles
But they tell me it's golf - it's the "IN" game the noo
It swackens ye up withoot hae' in tae bou'
Bit if yon's meant tae swacken ye? - Hodgin' aboot
Aff o' ae fit on' till't ither, o' this there's nae doot
Yer banes are mair like tae seize up than tae swacken
Bit golfin' freends say "Fresh air is nae lackin'"
"Jist think o't yer lungs are gettin' a treat"
Bit wi' the win' there is here ye'd be blawn aff yer feet
An faur's the fresh air, faur's the sport faur's the tricks
Fin the rain's poorin oot o' the doup o' yer breeks
An' syne come the winter, it's nae eese ava'
Lookin' for holes amon' sax fit o' snaw
So takkin't a' roond, ye'd be better by far,
Tae stick tae the nineteenth - an' bide in the bar!
poem by Frances Jaffray
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No Free Food and Shelter
Birds have free food and nest
Foxes hve free food and holes
Alas, men have no
Free food no free house.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Move on!
'THE foxes have holes,
And the birds of the air have nests,
But where shall the heads of the sons of men
Be laid, be laid?'
'Where the cold corpse rests,
Where the sightless moles
Burrow and yet cannot make it afraid,
Rout but cannot wake it again,
There shall the heads of the sons of men
Be laid, be laid!'
poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
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Belgravia by Night
'Move on!'
'THE foxes have holes,
And the birds of the air have nests,
But where shall the heads of the sons of men
Be laid, be laid?'
'Where the cold corpse rests,
Where the sightless moles
Burrow and yet cannot make it afraid,
Rout but cannot wake it again,
There shall the heads of the sons of men
Be laid, be laid!'
poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Holes
There's three in the wall from those pictures in the closet
Two in the bedroom from that night I lost it
One deep inside me determined to stay
They don't get any bigger but they don't go away
Holes in and around me I keep falling back into
Holes digging its around me
God knows what I'm gonna do
To fill in these holes left by you
Left by you
I pour drink after drink but nothing hit bottom
I've been on my knees admitted my problem
The love that we made still barely an echo
I'll try anything in these vacant hollow
Holes in and around me I keep falling back into
Holes digging its around me
God knows what I'm gonna do
To fill in these holes left by you
Left by you
There's two through my hands and one through my feet
From this cross that I bare to the day that I see
Its guilt and its blame its shame and its love
song performed by by Rascal Flatts
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Song of Solomon 2: 15
Catch for us the foxes,
the little foxes
that ruin the vineyards,
our vineyards that are in bloom.
Identify the sons of bitches
Those littered curs
Whose gluttonous manner
Leaves naught for us and ours.
Catch for us the greedy
The avarice few
Who take that which is earned
collectively with toil and tears.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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On Seeing My First Fox
Travelling on a train through Surrey, close to Virginia Water –
Due to engineering works, my route had been slightly altered –
I decided to look out of the window, so I turned my head,
And it was then I spotted a lightning flash of orangey-red.
Of course, I’d seen many pictures of foxes in books and on TV,
But an actual living, breathing one, had never been seen by me.
Thrilled by what I was seeing, I gave a small gasp of delight;
It was the first time I’d seen a fox, so it was a memorable sight.
I was excited at seeing the fox, and I was unable to hide my surprise.
Foxes are one of my favourite animals and I couldn’t believe my eyes.
He was on the embankment, and, from the train, he headed away.
I only glimpsed the fox quite briefly, but it really made my day.
I’ve been lucky enough to glimpse a few more foxes since then,
But you never can tell where they will turn up or, indeed, when.
On a train journey to Birmingham, I was as watchful as can be:
Luck was with me that day, as I saw not one, not two, but three!
I spotted a fox, carrying its prey in its mouth, crossing over a field.
Foxes need to eat to stay alive, but I felt sorry for the rabbit it killed.
My sightings of them, over the years, I have noted down in my diary.
I love their sleek outline, long, thick bushy tail, and their fur so fiery.
They are a fine animal in appearance, but they can be a real pest;
They can cause havoc, when they hunt like a mad thing possessed.
Despite having been on many trains, sightings of foxes are rare;
So if I’m lucky enough to spot one, I can’t help but sit and stare.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Holes get filled
Holes in skills, the voice fills them.
Holes in voice, the skill fills them.
Holes in both, the tune fills them.
Holes in all, the figure fills them
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Totalimmortal
Hope unknown
Sometimes just waking is surreal
I walk right through the nameless ones
I know that
Hope's unknown
Sometimes the water feels so real
As I walk through it fills
My lungs, my god, I'm drowning
This day never seems to end
This pain, never
This day never seems to end
This rage I can not let go
Oh, oh
Hear them calling
Oh oh oh, oh
Feel them gnawing out holes
Oh oh oh
Holes through flawless souls
Oh oh
Hear them calling
Oh oh oh, oh
Feel them gnawing out holes
Oh oh
Holes through flawless souls
So alone
Sometimes I swear that i can hear
The taunting of the voiceless ones
I fear that
I alone
Fear those who finally cease to feel
That they're alone inside this place
I am the misplaced
This day never seems to end
This pain, never
This day never seems to end
This rage I can not let go
Oh, oh
Hear them calling
Oh oh oh, oh
Feel them gnawing out holes
Oh oh oh
Holes through flawless souls
Oh oh
Hear them calling
Oh oh oh, oh
Feel them gnawing out holes
Oh oh
Holes through flawless souls
Now every face, it looks familiar
Then every face would melt away until
Now everyone
Do you know
I know your deception
Now every face, it looks familiar
Then every face would melt away until
Now everyone
Do you know
I know your deception
Oh, oh
Hear them calling
Oh oh oh, oh
Feel them gnawing out holes
Oh oh oh
Holes through flawless souls
Oh oh
Hear them calling
Oh oh oh, oh
Feel them gnawing out holes
Oh oh
Holes through flawless souls
Oh, oh
Hea
song performed by by Offspring
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Souls and Holes
Value some their souls whole
And wear with pride soles with holes,
Others pierce their souls with holes
And flaunt their fancy soles whole.
Blessed those with souls whole
Wearing with pride soles whole,
Lucky those with holes in souls
Suffering bites of holes in soles.
poem by Vinod Sharma
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The Dragon of the Black Pool
Deep the waters of the Black Pool, colored like ink;
They say a Holy Dragon lives there, whom men have never seen.
Beside the Pool they have built a shrine; the authorities
have established a ritual;
A dragon by itself remains a dragon, but men can make it a god.
Prosperity and disaster, rain and drought, plagues and pestilences—
By the village people were all regarded as the Sacred Dragon’s doing.
They all made offerings of sucking-pig and poured libations of wine;
The morning prayers and evening gifts depended on a “medium’s” advice.
When the dragon comes, ah!
The wind stirs and sighs
Paper money thrown, ah!
Silk umbrellas waved.
When the dragon goes, ah!
The wind also—still.
Incense-fire dies, ah !
The cups and vessels are cold.
Meats lie stacked on the rocks of the Pool’s shore;
Wine flows on the grass in front of the shrine.
I do not know, of all those offerings, how much the Dragon eats;
But the mice of the woods and the foxes of the hills are continually drunk and sated.
Why are the foxes so lucky?
What have the sucking-pigs done,
That year by year they should be killed, merely to glut the foxes?
That the foxes are robbing the Sacred Dragon and eating His sucking-pig,
Beneath the nine-fold depths of His pool, does He know or not?
Old School Shirt
Im just mad about my old school shirt
*the tales they are embossed
The things of all those kids and that old center school
*all those kids are last/lost
*them kids are last/lost
*theyre last/lost
Im just mad about that old radio
The tunes that it used to play
How come you aint singing now well
Did our voices get away
Well did they get away
Get away
Ill be shooting holes in the sky to make it rain, make it the same
Shooting holes in the sky once again.
Im just mad about all those people
Who came but did not stay
They sit so quietly my memories
Gone but not on me
Shooting holes in the sky to make it rain, make it the same
Shooting holes in the sky once again.
Shooting holes in the sky to make it rain, make it the same
Shooting holes in the sky once again.
Caught in a headlock, I wanted to be the same
Caught in a headlock, I wanted to be the same
Caught in a headlock, I wanted to be the same
Caught in a headlock, I wanted to be the same
Again.
song performed by by Gomez
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Johnie Faa
The gypsies came to our good lord's gate
And wow but they sang sweetly!
They sang sae sweet and sae very complete
That down came the fair lady.
And she came tripping doun the stair,
And a' her maids before her;
As soon as they saw her weel-far'd face,
They coost the glamer o'er her.
'O come with me,' says Johnie Faw,
'O come with me, my dearie;
For I vow and I swear by the hilt of my sword,
That your lord shall nae mair come near ye.'
Then she gied them the beer and the wine,
And they gied her the ginger;
But she gied them a far better thing,
The goud ring aff her finger.
'Gae take frae me this yay mantle,
And bring to me a plaidie;
For if kith and kin, and a' had sworn,
I'll follow the gypsy laddie.
'Yestreen I lay in a weel-made bed,
Wi' my good lord beside me;
But this night I'll lye in a tenant's barn,
Whatever shall betide me!'
'Come to your bed,' says Johnie Faw,
'Oh, come to your bed, my dearie:
For I vow and swear by the hilt of my sword,
Your lord shall nae mair come near ye.'
'I'll go to bed to my Johnie Faw,
I'll go to bed to my dearie;
For I vow and I swear by the fan in my hand,
My lord shall nae mair come near me.
'I'll mak a hap to my Johnie Faw,
I'll mak a hap to my dearie;
And he's get a' the coat gaes round,
And my lord shall nae mair come near me.'
And when our lord came hame at e'en,
And spier'd for his fair lady,
The tane she cry'd, and the other reply'd,
'She's awa' wi' the gypsy laddie!'
'Gae saddle to me the black black steed,
Gae saddle and make him ready;
Before that I either eat or sleep,
I'll gae seek my fair lady.'
And we were fifteen weel-made men,
Altho' we were na bonny;
And we were a' put down but ane,
For a fair young wanton lady.
poem by Andrew Lang
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