What the abbot of Bamba cannot eat he gives away for the good of his soul.
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La Bamba
(traditional - arranged by dusty springfield)
Para bailar la bamba
Para bailar la bamba
Se necesita una poco de gracia
Una poco de gracia
Pra mi pra ti
Ay arriba, arriba
Ay arriba, arriba
Por ti sere, por ti sere, por ti sere
In order to dance the bamba
In order to dance the bamba
You need a bit of grace
A bit of grace
For you I will be, for you I will be
Yo no soy marinera
Yo no soy marinera
Soy capitan
Soy capitan
Soy capitan
Im not a sailor
Im not a sailor
Im captain
Im captain
Baila la bamba
Baila la bamba, no, no, no
Baila la bamba
Baila la bamba
Dance the bamba
Dance the bamba, no, no, no
Dance the bamba
Dance the bamba
Para bailar la bamba
Para bailar la bamba
Se necesita una poco de gracia
Una poco de gracia
Pra mi pra ti
Ay arriba arriba
Ay arriba arriba
Por ti sere, por ti sere, por ti sere
In order to dance the bamba
In order to dance the bamba
You need a bit of grace
A bit of grace
For you I will be, for you I will be
Baila la bamba, no, no, no
Baila la bamba, no, no, no, no
Baila la bamba, hey
Baila la bamba
Dance the bamba, no, no, no
Dance the bamba, no, no, no, no
Dance the bamba, hey
Dance the bamba
Para bailar la bamba
Para bailar la bamba
Se necesita una poco de gracia
Oh, una poco de gracia
Pra mi pra ti
Ay arriba arriba
Ay arriba arriba
Por ti sere, por ti sere, por ti sere
In order to dance the bamba
In order to dance the bamba
You need a bit of grace
A bit of grace
For you I will be, for you I will be
Baila la bamba, hey
Baila la bamba, no, no, no
Baila la bamba
Baila la bamba
Dance the bamba, hey
Dance the bamba, no, no, no
Dance the bamba
Dance the bamba
Para bailar la bamba
Para bailar la bamba
Se necesita una poco de gracia
Oh, una poco de gracia
Pra mi pra ti
Ay arriba arriba
Ay arriba arriba, no, no, no
In order to dance the bamba
In order to dance the bamba
You need a bit of grace
A bit of grace, no, no, no
Baila la bamba, no, no, no
Baila la bamba, hey
Baila la bamba
Baila la bamba
Dance the bamba, no, no, no
Dance the bamba, hey
Dance the bamba
Dance the bamba
Andale !
Lets go!
Bamba, bamba
Bamba, oh, oh, oh
song performed by by Dusty Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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By The Fireside : King Witlaf's Drinking-horn
Witlaf, a king of the Saxons,
Ere yet his last he breathed,
To the merry monks of Croyland
His drinking-horn bequeathed,--
That, whenever they sat at their revels,
And drank from the golden bowl,
They might remember the donor,
And breathe a prayer for his soul.
So sat they once at Christmas,
And bade the goblet pass;
In their beards the red wine glistened
Like dew-drops in the grass.
They drank to the soul of Witlaf,
They drank to Christ the Lord,
And to each of the Twelve Apostles,
Who had preached his holy word.
They drank to the Saints and Martyrs
Of the dismal days of yore,
And as soon as the horn was empty
They remembered one Saint more.
And the reader droned from the pulpit
Like the murmur of many bees,
The legend of good Saint Guthlac,
And Saint Basil's homilies;
Till the great bells of the convent,
From their prison in the tower,
Guthlac and Bartholomaeus,
Proclaimed the midnight hour.
And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney,
And the Abbot bowed his head,
And the flamelets flapped and flickered,
But the Abbot was stark and dead.
Yet still in his pallid fingers
He clutched the golden bowl,
In which, like a pearl dissolving,
Had sunk and dissolved his soul.
But not for this their revels
The jovial monks forbore,
For they cried, 'Fill high the goblet!
We must drink to one Saint more!'
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Abbot Of Innisfallen
The Abbot of Innisfallen
awoke ere dawn of day;
Under the dewy green leaves
went he forth to pray.
The lake around his island
lay smooth and dark and deep,
And wrapt in a misty stillness
the mountains were all asleep.
Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac
when the dawn was dim and gray;
The prayers of his holy office
he faithfully 'gan say.
Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac
while the dawn was waxing red;
And for his sins' forgiveness
a solemn prayer he said:
Low kneel'd that holy Abbot
while the dawn was waxing clear;
And he pray'd with loving-kindness
for his convent-brethren dear.
Low kneel'd that blessed Abbot
while the dawn was waxing bright;
He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland,
he pray'd with all his might.
Low kneel'd that good old Father
while the sun began to dart;
He pray'd a prayer for all men,
he pray'd it from his heart.
His blissful soul was in Heaven,
tho' a breathing man was he;
He was out of time's dominion,
so far as the living may be.
The Abbot of Innisfallen
arose upon his feet;
He heard a small bird singing,
and O but it sung sweet!
It sung upon a holly-bush,
this little snow-white bird;
A song so full of gladness
he never before had heard.
It sung upon a hazel,
it sung upon a thorn;
He had never heard such music
since the hour that he was born.
It sung upon a sycamore,
it sung upon a briar;
To follow the song and hearken
this Abbot could never tire.
Till at last he well bethought him;
he might no longer stay;
So he bless'd the little white singing-bird,
and gladly went his way.
But, when he came to his Abbey,
he found a wondrous change;
He saw no friendly faces there,
for every face was strange.
The strange men spoke unto him;
and he heard from all and each
The foreign tongue of the Sassenach,
not wholesome Irish speech.
Then the oldest monk came forward,
in Irish tongue spake he:
'Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress,
and who hath given it to thee?'
'I wear the Augustine's dress,
and Cormac is my name,
The Abbot of this good Abbey
by grace of God I am.
I went forth to pray, at the dawn of day;
and when my prayers were said,
I hearken'd awhile to a little bird,
that sung above my head.'
The monks to him made answer,
'Two hundred years have gone o'er,
Since our Abbot Cormac went through the gate,
and never was heard of more.
Matthias now is our Abbot,
and twenty have pass'd away.
The stranger is lord of Ireland;
we live in an evil day.'
'Days will come and go,' he said,
'and the world will pass away,
In Heaven a day is a thousand years,
a thousand years are a day.'
'Now give me absolution;
for my time is come,' said he.
And they gave him absolution,
as speedily as might be.
Then, close outside the window,
the sweetest song they heard
That ever yet since the world began
was utter'd by any bird.
The monks look'd out and saw the bird,
its feathers all white and clean;
And there in a moment, beside it,
another white bird was seen.
Those two they sang together,
waved their white wings, and fled;
Flew aloft, and vanish'd;
but the good old man was dead.
They buried his blessed body
where lake and green-sward meet;
A carven cross above his head,
a holly-bush at his feet;
Where spreads the beautiful water
to gay or cloudy skies,
And the purple peaks of Killarney
from ancient woods arise.
poem by William Allingham
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Good For Your Soul
Have you ever felt that somehow
You were not yourself
That your body was the same
But everything around you wasnt right
And images so strange and foreign
Flooded in like raging water
Have you ever been in love
With someone you hardly knew
Whereas every time you closed your eyes,
You saw this person come alive
It kept you wide awake at night
You felt like you were burning up
In pain, you want to scream
Then you passed out in a dream
Chorus
Just once or twice is good for your soul
Just once or twice is good for your soul
If you dont stop, youll lose control
Just once or twice is good for your soul
Every lay there half asleep all hours of the night
With some nagging demon tugging at that tiny bell
Inside your mind
When suddenly that strange idea
Bursts into an inspiration
You grab for it and then
The whole thing slips right through your fingers
Chorus
Just once or twice is good for your soul
Just once or twice is good for your soul
Just once or twice is good for your soul
Just once or twice is good for your soul
Its good for your soul
Its good for your soul
Its good for your soul
Its good for your soul
song performed by by Oingo Boingo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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'Tis an old saying, the Devil lurks behind the cross. All is not gold that glitters. From the tail of the plough, Bamba was made King of Spain and from his silks and riches was Rodrigo cast to be devoured by the snakes.
quote by Miguel de Cervantes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Twins, The
``Give'' and ``It-shall-be-given-unto-you.''
I.
Grand rough old Martin Luther
Bloomed fables---flowers on furze,
The better the uncouther:
Do roses stick like burrs?
II.
A beggar asked an alms
One day at an abbey-door,
Said Luther; but, seized with qualms,
The abbot replied, ``We're poor!
III.
``Poor, who had plenty once,
``When gifts fell thick as rain:
``But they give us nought, for the nonce,
``And how should we give again?''
IV.
Then the beggar, ``See your sins!
``Of old, unless I err,
``Ye had brothers for inmates, twins,
``Date and Dabitur.
V.
``While Date was in good case
``Dabitur flourished too:
``For Dabitur's lenten face
``No wonder if Date rue.
VI.
``Would ye retrieve the one?
``Try and make plump the other!
``When Date's penance is done,
``Dabitur helps his brother.
VII.
``Only, beware relapse!''
The Abbot hung his head.
This beggar might be perhaps
An angel, Luther said.
poem by Robert Browning
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The Twins
"Give" and "It-shall-be-given-unto-you"
I
Grand rough old Martin Luther
Bloomed fables-flowers on furze,
The better the uncouther:
Do roses stick like burrs?
II
A beggar asked an alms
One day at an abbey-door,
Said Luther; but, seized with qualms,
The abbot replied, "We're poor!"
III
"Poor, who had plenty once,
When gifts fell thick as rain:
But they give us nought, for the nonce,
And now should we give again?"
IV
Then the beggar, "See your sins!
Of old, unless I err,
Ye had brothers for inmates, twins,
Date and Dabitur.
V
"While Date was in good case
Dabitur flourished too:
For Dabitur's lenten face
No wonder if Date rue.
VI
"Would ye retrieve the one?
Try and make plump the other!
When Date's penance is done,
Dabitur helps his brother.
VII
"Only, beware relapse!"
The Abbot hung his head.
This beggar might be perhaps
An angel, Luther said.
poem by Robert Browning from Men and Women (1855)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Secret Dreams
The abbot is a saintly man.
He praises me because I can
transcribe and illustrate the word.
So that the gospel may be heard
by other men on other lands,
He says that God has blessed my hands.
Although my frame is poor and weak
and that my talent is unique.
The holy books that I produce.
A bishop would be proud to use
From other duties I am free
save for my calligraphy.
But still pray to God each nigh
to heal my body set me right.
Because I would much rather be
outside and work laboriously.
But I must do as He commands
The abbot says he understands.
How very hard it is for me
to write of things I’ll never see.
Each man must serve as best
he can as soldier priest or husbandman.
To everyman God gave a skill
his part of Gods plan to fulfil.
We are all where we’re meant to be
and must accept this patiently.
I trust the Abbot he is wise
It’s not for us to criticise.
Where we are placed in the great scheme.
but still I am allowed to dream
and in my dreams I’m tall and strong
I need no crutch to get along.
but dreams are not reality.
I am not as I’d like to be.
So I will do the best I can.
As God expects from any man.
Although I sometimes wonder why
I must suffer from such frailty.
It is the cross I have to bear.
My faith in God I can declare
by copying his Holy Word
I wield my quill pen like a sword.
I am to frail and weak to fight
but I have strength and skill to write.
I transcribe and I illustrate
the word of God in copperplate,
in coloured inks of different hues.
My given task I can’t refuse.
The abbot says he can rely
upon my skill and my trained eye.
To train the younger monks to do
the work the way I’ve taught them to.
The time will come when I can’t see.
when old age catches up with me.
The copying will still go on
long after I am dead and gone.
Then I shall reap as I have sown.
My secret dreams to God are known.
I do not think he will condemn
my wish to be like other men.
28-Sep-07
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Soul On Soul
No one ever told me, no one ever said
No one ever loved me, till I was goin' outta my head
No one ever listened, to the things I tried to say
You gave me everything I needed, that's your way
You gave me hope, you gave me love
You gave me faith to carry on
Good God have mercy on me
Don't you desert me, baby
I wanna be together soul on soul this time
[Believe me, baby] believe me, baby
Don't ever leave me lonely
I wanna be together soul on soul this time
No one ever held me, as good as this before
No one ever stopped me, when I was runnin' out of the door
You set me free, you made me shine
You gave me arms to make you mine
Good God have mercy on me
Don't you desert me, baby
I wanna be together soul on soul this time
[Believe me, baby] believe me, baby
Don't ever leave me lonely
I wanna be together soul on soul this time
Love made me so gun shy
Don't say, don't say another word
Love feels so radical
That I lose my way, when you're here by me
Good God have mercy on me
Don't you desert me, baby
I wanna be together soul on soul this time
[Believe me, baby] believe me, baby
Don't ever leave me lonely
I wanna be together soul on soul this time
Good God have mercy on me (have mercy)
Don't you desert me, baby
I wanna be together soul on soul this time
(I wanna be together soul on soul this time)
[Believe me, baby] believe me, baby (believe me, baby)
Don't ever leave me lonely
(Don't ever, ever leave me)
I wanna be together soul on soul this time (soul on soul this time)
Good God have mercy on me
(Good God have mercy on me)
Don't you desert me, baby
(Don't you desert me, baby)
I wanna be together soul on soul this time (soul on soul this time)
[Believe me, baby] (ooh, ooh) believe me, baby
Don't ever leave me lonely
I wanna be together soul on soul this time
(I wanna be together soul on soul this time)
song performed by by Rod Stewart
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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King John And The Abbot Of Canterbury
An ancient story Ile tell you anon
Of a notable prince, that was called King John;
And he ruled England with maine and with might,
For he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right.
And Ile tell you a story, a story so merrye,
Concerning the Abbot of Canterburye,
How for his house-keeping and high renowne,
They rode poste for him to fair London towne.
An hundred men, the king did heare say,
The abbot kept in his house every day;
And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt,
In velvet coates waited the abbot about.
'How now, father abbot, I heare if of thee,
Thou keepest a farre better house than mee;
And for thy house-keeping and high renowne,
I feare thou work'st treason against my crown.'
'My liege,' quo' the abbot, 'I would it were knowne
I never spend nothing, but what is my owne;
And I trust your grace will doe me no deere,
For spending of my owne true-gotten geere.'
'Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault is highe,
And now for the same thou needest must dye;
For except thou canst answer me questions three,
Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.
'And first,' quo' the king, 'when I'm in this stead,
With my crowne of golde so faire on my head,
Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,
Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.
'Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt,
How soone I may ride the whole world about;
And at the third question thou must not shrink,
But tell me here truly what I do think.'
'O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt,
Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet:
But if you will give me but three weekes space,
Ile do my endeavour to answer your grace.'
'Now three weeks space to thee will I give,
And this is the longest time thou hast to live;
For if thou dost not answer my questions three,
Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee.'
Away rode the abbot all sad at that word,
And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford;
But never a doctor there was so wise,
That could with his learning an answer devise.
Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold,
And he mett his shepheard a going to fold:
'How now, my lord abbot, you welcome home;
What newes do you bring us from good King John?'
'Sad newes, sad newes, shepeard, I must give,
That I must but three days more to live;
For if I do not answer him questions three,
My head will be smitten from my bodie.
'The first is to tell him there in that stead,
With his crowne of golde so fair on his head,
Among all his liege-men so noble of birth,
To within one penny of what he is worth.
'The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt,
How soone he may ride this whole world about;
And at the third question I must not shrinke,
But tell him there truly what he does thinke.'
'Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet,
That a fool he may learn a wise man witt?
Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel,
And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel.
'Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee,
I am like your lordship, as ever may bee;
And if you will but lend me your gowne,
There is none shall knowe us at fair London towne.'
'Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have,
With sumptuous array most gallant and brave,
With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope,
Fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope.'
'Now, welcome, sire abbot,' the king he did say,
'Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day:
For and if thou canst answer my questions three,
Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee.
'And first, when thou seest me here in this stead,
With my crown of golde so fair on my head,
Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,
Tell me to one penny what I am worth.'
'For thirty pence our Saviour was sold
Amonge the false Jewes, as I have bin told:
And twenty-nine is the worth of thee,
For I thinke thou art one penny worser than hee.'
The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,
'I did not think I had been worth so littel!
- Now secondly tell mee, without any doubt,
How soone I may ride this whole world about.'
'You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same,
Until the next morning he riseth againe;
And then your grace need not make any doubt
But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about.'
The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone,
'I did not think it could be gone so soone!
- Now from the third question thou must not shrinke,
But tell me here truly what I do thinke.'
'Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry;
You thinke I'm the Abbot of Canterbury;
But I'm this poor shepheard, as plain you may see,
That am come to bed pardon for him and for mee.'
The king he laughed, and swore by the masse,
'Ile make thee lord abbot this day in his place!'
'Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede,
For alacke I can neither write ne reade.'
'Four nobles a weeke, then, I will give thee,
For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee;
And tell the old abbot when thou comest home,
Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.'
poem by Anonymous Olde English
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Abbot of Carcuela, you eat up the pot and ask for the pipkin.
He who has been first a novice and then an abbot, knows what the boys do behind the altar.
No man understands knavery better than the abbot who has been a monk.
The election of the abbot is not stopped for want of a monk.
He who was first an acolyte, and afterwards an abbot or curate, knows what the boys do behind the altar.
A covetous abbot for one offering loses a hundred.
Old Town Types No. 10 - Big Doc Littlejohn
Big Doc. Littlejohn, and ugly man and tall,
He wasn't very graceful, no part of him was small;
Big, frame, big head, huge hands, and red;
But gentle as a woman's as he stooped above the bed,
His great voice muted and the jaw out-thrust
And something there behind his eyes that captured human trust -
Big John Littlejohn, who drove until he died,
In his abbot buggy to the farms outside.
The family physician and the family's true friend;
No household in that wide, new land but loved him to the end;
And the old, fat midwife revered him as a saint:
'Sent straight from God, me dear,' says she. 'A human man she ain't.
No human flesh could bear it, no heart withstand the test,
The slavin', drivin', day an' night with no full hour of rest.'
But Big John Littlejohn, with one of his tired smiles,
Climbed in his abbot buggy for another seven miles.
He'd never met a vitamin, he seldom sought a knife;
But he healed full many a body and he saved full many a life.
For ten years, for twenty years, for forty years he toiled
His aid unstinted and his heart unspoiled,
The friend of rich and poor alike, at everybody's call
For large fee, for small fee, or no fee at all,
In his old abbot buggy, with his wind-blown hair,
Rushing to another case behind his bay blood mare.
They found him on one winter dawn, low-huddled in the seat
Of the old abbot buggy, with the rug about his feet;
The great frame at rest at last, the mind rid of its load,
While the blood mare nibbled at the grass beside the road.
And the sad folk who found him there, before ought else, they say,
First knelt them in the roadside mud and bent their heads to pray
For great John Littlejohn, the grey man and kind,
The healer and the friend, who left not wealth nor foe behind.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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