The Normans came over, lance in hand, burning and trampling down every thing before them, and cutting off the Saxon dynasty and the Saxon nobles at the edge of the sword; but the right of petition remained untouched.
quote by Caleb Cushing
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Norman and Saxon
My son," said the Norman Baron, "I am dying, and you will be heir
To all the broad acres in England that William gave me for my share
When we conquered the Saxon at Hastings, and a nice little handful it is.
But before you go over to rule it I want you to understand this:—
"The Saxon is not like us Normans, His manners are not so polite.
But he never means anything serious till he talks about justice and right.
When he stands like an ox in the furrow with his sullen set eyes on your own,
And grumbles, "This isn't fair dealings," my son, leave the Saxon alone.
"You can horsewhip your Gascony archers, or torture your Picardy spears,
But don't try that game on the Saxon; you'll have the whole brood round your ears.
From the richest old Thane in the county to the poorest chained serf in the field,
They'll be at you and on you like hornets, and, if you are wise, you will yield.
"But first you must master their language, their dialect, proverbs and songs.
Don't trust any clerk to interpret when they come with the tale of their wrongs.
Let them know that you know what they're saying; let them feel that you know what to say.
Yes, even when you want to go hunting, hear 'em out if it takes you all day.
"They'll drink every hour of the daylight and poach every hour of the dark,
It's the sport not the rabbits they 're after (we 've plenty of game in the park).
Don't hang them or cut off their fingers. That's wasteful as well as unkind,
For a hard-bitten, South-country poacher makes the best man-at-arms you can find.
"Appear with your wife and the children at their weddings and funerals and feasts.
Be polite but not friendly to Bishops; be good to all poor parish priests.
Say 'we,' 'us' and 'ours' when you're talking instead of 'you fellows' and 'I.'
Don't ride over seeds; keep your temper; and never you tell 'em a lie!"
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The Happiest Land. (From The German)
There sat one day in quiet,
By an alehouse on the Rhine,
Four hale and hearty fellows,
And drank the precious wine.
The landlord's daughter filled their cups
Around the rustic board;
Then sat they all so calm and still,
And spake not one rude word.
But, when the maid departed,
A Swabian raised his hand,
And cried, all hot and flushed with wine,
'Long live the Swabian land!
'The greatest kingdom upon earth
Cannot with that compare;
With all the stout and hardy men
And the nut-brown maidens there.'
Ha! cried a Saxon, laughing,--
And dashed his beard with wine;
' I had rather live in Lapland,
Than that Swabian land of thine!
The goodliest land on all this earth,
It is the Saxon land!
There have I as many maidens
As fingers on this hand!
Hold your tongues! both Swabian and Saxon!
A bold Bohemian cries;
'If there's a heaven upon this earth,
In Bohemia it lies.
There the tailor blows the flute,
And the cobbler blows the horn,
And the miner blows the bugle,
Over mountain gorge and bourn.
****
And then the landlord's daughter
Up to heaven raised her hand,
And said, Ye may no more contend,--
There lies the happiest land!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Happiest Land. (From The German)
There sat one day in quiet,
By an alehouse on the Rhine,
Four hale and hearty fellows,
And drank the precious wine.
The landlord's daughter filled their cups
Around the rustic board;
Then sat they all so calm and still,
And spake not one rude word.
But, when the maid departed,
A Swabian raised his hand,
And cried, all hot and flushed with wine,
'Long live the Swabian land!
'The greatest kingdom upon earth
Cannot with that compare;
With all the stout and hardy men
And the nut-brown maidens there.'
Ha! cried a Saxon, laughing,--
And dashed his beard with wine;
' I had rather live in Lapland,
Than that Swabian land of thine!
The goodliest land on all this earth,
It is the Saxon land!
There have I as many maidens
As fingers on this hand!
Hold your tongues! both Swabian and Saxon!
A bold Bohemian cries;
'If there's a heaven upon this earth,
In Bohemia it lies.
There the tailor blows the flute,
And the cobbler blows the horn,
And the miner blows the bugle,
Over mountain gorge and bourn.
****
And then the landlord's daughter
Up to heaven raised her hand,
And said, Ye may no more contend,--
There lies the happiest land!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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An Alliance
This is the weird of a world-old folk,
That not till the last link breaks,
Not till the night is blackest,
The blood of Hengist wakes.
When the sun is black in heaven,
The moon as blood above,
And the earth is full of hatred,
This people tells its love.
In change, eclipse, and peril,
Under the whole world's scorn,
By blood and death and darkness
The Saxon peace is sworn;
That all our fruit be gathered,
And all our race take hands,
And the sea be a Saxon river
That runs through Saxon lands.
Lo! not in vain we bore him;
Behold it! not in vain,
Four centuries' dooms of torture
Choked in the throat of Spain,
Ere priest or tyrant triumph -
We know how well - we know -
Bone of that bone can whiten,
Blood of that blood can flow.
Deep grows the hate of kindred,
Its roots take hold on hell;
No peace or praise can heal it,
But a stranger heals it well.
Seas shall be red as sunsets,
And kings' bones float as foam,
And heaven be dark with vultures,
The night our son comes home.
poem by G.K. Chesterton from The Wild Knight and Other Poems (1900)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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I'd like to think there's still a lot for me to do, you know?
quote by John Saxon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Battle of Hastings
I'll tell of the Battle of Hastings,
As happened in days long gone by,
When Duke William became King of England,
And 'Arold got shot in the eye.
It were this way - one day in October
The Duke, who were always a toff
Having no battles on at the moment,
Had given his lads a day off.
They'd all taken boats to go fishing,
When some chap in t' Conqueror's ear
Said 'Let's go and put breeze up the Saxons;'
Said Bill - 'By gum, that's an idea.'
Then turning around to his soldiers,
He lifted his big Nonnan voice,
Shouting - 'Hands up who's coming to England.'
That was swank 'cos they hadn't no choice.
They started away about tea-time -
The sea was so calm and so still,
And at quarter to ten the next morning
They arrived at a place called Bexhill.
King 'Arold came up as they landed -
His face full of venom and 'ate -
He said 'lf you've come for Regatta
You've got here just six weeks too late.'
At this William rose, cool but 'aughty,
And said 'Give us none of your cheek;
You'd best have your throne re-upholstered,
I'll be wanting to use it next week.'
When 'Arold heard this 'ere defiance,
With rage he turned purple and blue,
And shouted some rude words in Saxon,
To which William answered - 'And you.'
'Twere a beautiful day for a battle;
The Normans set off with a will,
And when both sides was duly assembled,
They tossed for the top of the hill.
King 'Arold he won the advantage,
On the hill-top he took up his stand,
With his knaves and his cads all around him,
On his 'orse with his 'awk in his 'and.
The Normans had nowt in their favour,
Their chance of a victory seemed small,
For the slope of the field were against them,
And the wind in their faces an' all.
The kick-off were sharp at two-thirty,
And soon as the whistle had went
Both sides started banging each other
'Til the swineherds could hear them in Kent.
The Saxons had best line of forwards,
Well armed both with buckler and sword -
But the Normans had best combination,
And when half-time came neither had scored.
So the Duke called his cohorts together
And said - 'Let's pretend that we're beat,
Once we get Saxons down on the level
We'll cut off their means of retreat.'
So they ran - and the Saxons ran after,
Just exactly as William had planned,
Leaving 'Arold alone on the hill-top
On his 'orse with his 'awk in his 'and.
When the Conqueror saw what had happened,
A bow and an arrow he drew;
He went right up to 'Arold and shot him.
He were off-side, but what could they do?
The Normans turned round in a fury,
And gave back both parry and thrust,
Till the fight were all over bar shouting,
And you couldn't see Saxons for dust.
And after the battle were over
They found 'Arold so stately and grand,
Sitting there with an eye-full of arrow
On his 'orse with his 'awk in his 'and.
poem by Marriott Edgar
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The Pirates in England
Saxon Invasion, A.D. 400-600
When Rome was rotten-ripe to her fall,
And the sceptre passed from her hand,
The pestilent Picts leaped over the wall
To harry the English land.
The little dark men of the mountain and waste,
So quick to laughter and tears,
They came panting with hate and haste
For the loot of five hundred years.
They killed the trader, they sacked the shops,
They ruined temple and town--
They swept like wolves through the standing crops
Crying that Rome was down.
They wiped out all that they could find
Of beauty and strength and worth,
But they could not wipe out the Viking's Wind
That brings the ships from the North.
They could not wipe out the North-East gales
Nor what those gales set free--
The pirate ships with their close-reefed sails,
Leaping from sea to sea.
They had forgotten the shield-hung hull
Seen nearer and more plain,
Dipping into the troughs like a gull,
And gull-like rising again--
The painted eyes that glare and frown
In the high snake-headed stem,
Searching the beach while her sail comes down,
They had forgotten them!
There was no Count of the Saxon Shore
To meet her hand to hand,
As she took the beach with a grind and a roar,
And the pirates rushed inland!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The Anglo-Saxon conscience doesn't keep you from doing anything. It just keeps you from enjoying it.
quote by Salvador de Madaringa
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There certainly have been a lot of changes, although they come in such gradations that most people have either forgotten, or, if they're too young, they never knew about them in the first place.
quote by John Saxon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I've been asked to write an autobiography, and I've started it a couple of times, on different angles, and maybe one day I will, but you know what? There's time for that because I'd like to have the whole story.
quote by John Saxon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Death seems to provide the minds of the Anglo-Saxon race with a greater fund of amusement than any other single subject.
quote by Dorothy L. Sayers
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The natural barriers between England and Scotland were not sufficient to prevent the extension of the Saxon settlements and kingdoms across the border.
quote by Goldwin Smith
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Medicine, an icon of Hope.......
like a bow of Achilles, speed of light hit the bosom heart
of Medusa, the poison lance the heart of every soul that
worship the Zorather flame of eternity
voyage the Viking of the Saxon and lead the victory to the
place of the pyramid of Egypt, as all the wings of the angel
flap to the doorstep of heaven, where the timeless sleep
await to come in the dawn
let the wounded tired flesh, anchor to the hand that cherish
and fulfill the sweeten rainbow in each lonely face, make
the unsettle mind blamelessly witness the cooling cure of
the heart, for the last is always be the beginning of healed
in bastion of hope of the spirit
as the sword of poison perfume the wounded flesh, the
conqueror shouts for joy in the heaven nest, and let the day
be the healing body of gladness of joy in the profane
universe as it stray
win each hope to comes in a most, magnificent look and
live in every wounded soul, for a better day to come, a day
after tomorrow of history, where that moment idyllic stay
with a humble body of flesh cheering the melody of
happiness of everyone wishes to see
rejoice my soul, and wait no more, the doctors and nurses,
are here to cure in our unable body and spirit they are call,
welcome and farewell, loser your day is ended, as I am on
the way to a healthy body to stay
have a little check up, glad that you are here ………….
poem by Antonio Liao
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Song of the Battle Eve
(Time -- the Ninth Century)
To-morrow, comrade, we
On the battle-plain must be,
There to conquer, or both lie low!
The morning star is up --
But there's wine still in the cup,
And we'll take another quaff, ere we go, boy, go;
We'll take another quaff, ere we go.
'Tis true, in manliest eyes
A passing tear will rise,
When we think of the friends we leave lone;
But what can wailing do?
See, our goblet's weeping too!
With its tears we'll chase away our own, boy, our own;
With its tears we'll chase away our own.
But daylight's stealing on;
The last that o'er us shone
Saw our children around us play;
The next -- ah! where shall we
And those rosy urchins be?
But -- no matter -- grasp thy sword and away, boy, away;
No matter -- grasp thy sword and away!
Let those, who brook the chain
Of Saxon or of Dane,
Ignobly by their fire-sides stay;
One sigh to home be given,
One heartfelt prayer to heaven,
Then, for Erin and her cause, boy, hurra! hurra! hurra!
Then, for Erin and her cause, hurra!
poem by Thomas Moore
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The hand is the cutting edge of the mind.
quote by Jacob Bronowski
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Song of O'Ruark, Prince of Breffni
The valley lay smiling before me,
Where lately I left her behind;
Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me,
That sadden'd the joy of my mind.
I look'd for the lamp which, she told me,
Should shine when her Pilgrim return'd;
But, though darkness began to infold me,
No lamp from the battlements burn'd!
I flew to her chamber -- 'twas lonely,
As if the loved tenant lay dead; --
Ah, would it were death, and death only!
But no, the young false one had fled.
And there hung the lute that could soften
My very worst pains into bliss;
While the hand that had waked it so often
Now throbb'd to a proud rival's kiss.
There was a time, falsest of women,
When Breffni's good sword would have sought
That man, through a million of foemen,
Who dared but to wrong thee in thought!
While now -- oh degenerate daughter
Of Erin, how fallen is thy fame!
And through ages of bondage and slaughter,
Our country shall bleed for thy shame.
Already the curse is upon her,
And strangers her valleys profane;
They come to divide, to dishonour,
And tyrants they long will remain.
But onward! --- the green banner rearing,
Go, flesh every sword to the hilt;
On our side is Virtue and Erin,
On theirs is the Saxon and Guilt.
poem by Thomas Moore
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Reaction Paper
Michael Rose
English 101
'Fender Bender' Short Response
September 29,2009
The short story, 'Fender Bender, ' by Ramon 'Tiangus' Perez,
portrays the prejudiced state in which the contemporary society in
America regards illegally immigrated peoples. The anecdotal
experience which Perez divulges furthermore demonstrates an inter-
cultural conflict between Mexican immigrants: those who have become
Americanized and those who have clung onto the the cultural
idiosyncrosies of Mexico. In the short story, this conflict is catalyzed
over language-preference divergencies between a 'Chicano' cop and
a Mexican semaritan. On the other hand, however, the role which is
carried out by the 'Anglo-saxon' male, who is involved in the fender
bender with Perez, semphores a present-day change which is taking
place in those outlooks held by the base, Caucasian population within
America; the 'Anglo-saxon' insists against those legal complications
with which the 'Chicano' cop desires to have pass upon Perez.
Ultimately, the corruption of the system succeeds, however; the cop
forces Perez to lock his car keys within the vehicle, and proceed to
walk away from the vehicle, into the distance and down the block.
Perez is rescued by a meager hanger on a a street corner.
poem by Michael Timothy Rose
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Cutting It Fine
The door swings open but you wont go it
You hate the movie that you havent seen
You couldnt see what I have in mind
I see you laughing but youre
Cutting it, cutting it fine
You never should have done those things to me
Theres one thread left tween you and history
And while our temperature is rising high
Im warning you that you are
Cutting it, cutting it fine
Cutting it, cutting it fine...
You gambled all on one important game
Now take the debt and dont complain
Your game was up, I saw it all the time
I saw that vice, girl, youre
Cutting it, cutting it fine
Your sole advisor watch out for yourself
You never listen to anyone else
You were the one who ignored the signs
Dancing on a fine line
Cutting it, cutting it fine
Cutting it, cutting it fine...
song performed by by Asia
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Massacre of the Bards
The sunlight from the sky is swept,
But, over Snowdon's summit kept,
One brand of cloud yet burns,
By ghostly hands far out of sight,
Held, glowing, in the even-light,
As Fate still keeps the weapon bright
That lingers and returns.
- - - - - -
O day of slaughter! Day of woe!
But once, a thousand years ago,
Such day has Britain seen;
When blushed her hoary hills with shame
At Mona's sacrifice of flame;
While shrieks from out the burning came
Across the strait between.
Death-helping day! That couldst not find
One weeping cloud to hide behind!
Cursed day whose light was given
For search-mate to the Saxon sword
Through coverts that our rocks afford,
While Edward's godless minions poured
The blood of the unshriven!
- - - - - -
Ill fare we when the trees are rent,
Whose friendly shelter erst was lent
In sun, and wind, and rain.
Ill fare we when the thunder-shocks
Let loose the torrents from their rocks,
To sweep away the mountain-flocks,
And flood the standing grain.
But where the forest-giants groan,
By winds that waste the woods o'erthrown,
New saplings blithely spring!
Sank herd and harvest 'neath the tide?
There's bleating on the mountain-side;
O'er cornfields, ere the dew has dried
To-morrow's lark shall sing!
Sore sighs the land when she has need
The dragon-jaws of war to feed
With those who love her best;
And long shall Cambria's tears be shed
For him who late her armies led,
Llewellyn, whose dissevered head
The Saxon crowned in jest!
Yet, in their stead whose blood is spilt,
Newcomers seize the sword's warm hilt,
Or o'er it reach the ground!
Llewellyn! every night-watch drear
With grief for thee, brings morning near;
That morn when Arthur shall appear,
Once more our leader crowned!
But when the blood of bards is poured,
Who gathers their forgotten hoard
From memories sealed by fate?
What daring songster e'er shall soar
For us to Heaven's death-guarded door,
And tell thereafter of the store
That glimmers through the grate?
When Famine's empty hand is filled,
When years the shattered oaks rebuild,
Shall heroes spring again,
Brave spirits of the past to greet
Who rise at minstrel-summons sweet,
When bards the olden tales repeat
Of Britain's mighty slain?
Nay, by the harps our fathers heard
No more shall Britain's heart be stirred,
Lost is the ancient lore!
Spent is the breath of song, that fanned
Freedom's low fires! The bard's light hand,
Whose beckoning brought the martial band,
Shall seek the strings no more!
poem by Mary Hannay Foott
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I regard the Klan, the Anglo-Saxon clubs and White American societies, as far as the Negro is concerned, as better friends of the race than all other groups of hypocritical whites put together.
quote by Marcus Garvey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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