Sing Heigh-Ho!
There sits a bird on every tree;
Sing heigh-ho!
There sits a bird on every tree,
And courts his love as I do thee;
Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!
Young maids must marry.
There grows a flower on every bough;
Sing heigh-ho!
There grows a flower on every bough,
Its petals kiss-I'll show you how:
Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!
Young maids must marry.
From sea to stream the salmon roam;
Sing heigh-ho!
From sea to stream the salmon roam;
Each finds a mate, and leads her home;
Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!
Young maids must marry.
The sun's a bridegroom, earth a bride;
Sing heigh-ho!
They court from morn till eventide:
The earth shall pass, but love abide.
Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!
Young maids must marry.
Eversley, 1847.
poem by Charles Kingsley
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Related quotes
Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind
Blow, blow, thou winter wind
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most freindship if feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze thou bitter sky,
That does not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As a friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
poem by William Shakespeare
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The bottle tree
A bottle tree bloometh in Winkyway land -
Heigh-ho for a bottle, I say!
A snug little berth in that ship I demand
That rocketh the Bottle-Tree babies away
Where the Bottle Tree bloometh by night and by day
And reacheth its fruit to each wee, dimpled hand;
You take of that fruit as much as you list,
For colic's a nuisance that doesn't exist!
So cuddle me and cuddle me fast,
And cuddle me snug in my cradle away,
For I hunger and thirst for that precious repast -
Heigh-ho for a bottle, I say!
The Bottle Tree bloometh by night and by day!
Heigh-ho for Winkyway land!
And Bottle-Tree fruit (as I've heard people say)
Makes bellies of Bottle-Tree babies expand -
And that is a trick I would fain understand!
Heigh-ho for a bottle to-day!
And heigh-ho for a bottle to-night -
A bottle of milk that is creamy and white!
So cuddle me close, and cuddle me fast,
And cuddle me snug in my cradle away,
For I hunger and thirst for that precious repast -
Heigh-ho for a bottle, I say!
poem by Eugene Field
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Rosalind: Like to the Clear in Highest Sphere
1 Like to the clear in highest sphere
2 Where all imperial glory shines,
3 Of selfsame colour is her hair,
4 Whether unfolded or in twines:
5 Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
6 Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
7 Refining heaven by every wink;
8 The gods do fear whenas they glow,
9 And I do tremble when I think:
10 Heigh ho, would she were mine.
11 Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
12 That beautifies Aurora's face,
13 Or like the silver crimson shroud
14 That Ph{oe}bus' smiling looks doth grace:
15 Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
16 Her lips are like two budded roses,
17 Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
18 Within which bounds she balm encloses,
19 Apt to entice a deity:
20 Heigh ho, would she were mine.
21 Her neck, like to a stately tower
22 Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
23 To watch for glances every hour
24 From her divine and sacred eyes:
25 Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
26 Her paps are centres of delight,
27 Her paps are orbs of heavenly frame,
28 Where Nature moulds the dew of light,
29 To feed perfection with the same:
30 Heigh ho, would she were mine.
31 With orient pearl, with ruby red,
32 With marble white, with sapphire blue,
33 Her body every way is fed,
34 Yet soft in touch, and sweet in view:
35 Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
36 Nature herself her shape admires,
37 The gods are wounded in her sight,
38 And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
39 And at her eyes his brand doth light:
40 Heigh ho, would she were mine.
41 Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
42 The absence of fair Rosalind,
43 Since for her fair there is fairer none,
44 Nor for her virtues so divine:
45 Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
46 Heigh ho, my heart, would God that she were mine!
poem by Thomas Lodge
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Like to the Clear in Highest Sphere
Like to the clear in highest sphere
Where all imperial glory shines,
Of selfsame colour is her hair,
Whether unfolded or in twines:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Refining heaven by every wink;
The gods do fear whenas they glow,
And I do tremble when I think:
Heigh ho, would she were mine.
Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora's face,
Or like the silver crimson shroud
That Ph{oe}bus' smiling looks doth grace:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
Her lips are like two budded roses,
Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
Within which bounds she balm encloses,
Apt to entice a deity:
Heigh ho, would she were mine.
Her neck, like to a stately tower
Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
Her paps are centres of delight,
Her paps are orbs of heavenly frame,
Where Nature moulds the dew of light,
To feed perfection with the same:
Heigh ho, would she were mine.
With orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body every way is fed,
Yet soft in touch, and sweet in view:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
Nature herself her shape admires,
The gods are wounded in her sight,
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
And at her eyes his brand doth light:
Heigh ho, would she were mine.
Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
The absence of fair Rosalind,
Since for her fair there is fairer none,
Nor for her virtues so divine:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.
Heigh ho, my heart, would God that she were mine!
poem by Thomas Lodge
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Heigh, Ho!
Heigh, ho! But they're talking, talking,
As the cold, hard streets we're walking
Seeking work at any wage,
While the talkers rant and rage.
Says the judge: 'Let's look up section
Ninety-eight in this connection.'
'Right,' replied the advocate.
'But I submit that's out of date.'
'Sir!' the judge says, 'such things border
On contempt. You're out of order!'
Heigh, ho! But a man grows weary,
Time flies; and the outlook's dreary,
What care we for argument
When bread alone can bring content?'
'What,' enquires the advocate,
'Happened in the Roman State,
Back in forty-two B.C.?
Let me read some history -
Fifty pages. 'Tis but just.'
'Well,' the judge sighs, 'if you must.
Heigh, ho! When life is over
Must we rest in fields of clover,
Listening to long, endless chater
On some point that does not matter?
Heigh, ho! I'd rather be
Where they'll find some work for me.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Rosaline
LIKE to the clear in highest sphere
Where all imperial glory shines,
Of selfsame colour is her hair
Whether unfolded or in twines:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Resembling heaven by every wink;
The gods do fear whenas they glow,
And I do tremble when I think
Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora's face,
Or like the silver crimson shroud
That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace.
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Her lips are like two budded roses
Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
Within whose bounds she balm encloses
Apt to entice a deity:
Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Her neck like to a stately tower
Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Her paps are centres of delight,
Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,
Where Nature moulds the dew of light
To feed perfection with the same:
Heigh ho, would she were mine!
With orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body every way is fed,
Yet soft to touch and sweet in view:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Nature herself her shape admires;
The gods are wounded in her sight;
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
And at her eyes his brand doth light:
Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
The absence of fair Rosaline,
Since for a fair there 's fairer none,
Nor for her virtues so divine:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!
poem by Thomas Lodge
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Monsoon
Father sun isn't rude anymore
For he is in his transition chore more
Aippasi is all set at Libra's door
Farther monsoon is nearer to pour
Heigh ho sing, 'clouds are scudding forth'
Sultry souls are out to graze
In the field of showery grace
Aippasi embarks on with revenent mirth
Sunbaked earth is in quenching race
Monsoon is merry with magnified girth
Interim events illumine monsoon
Celebrated celestials marry soon
Sin-hewn demons defeated to maroon
Ravana, Narakasura slain to a festive boon
Heigh ho sing merrily 'merry merry Deepavali'
May the ignorant heart doesn't croon
But let the lit up soul tune
Monsoon thence on cloud nine rapturously
Monsoon is heaven of bliss-immune
Say so, a harp of pattering music lifely
Monsoon is dexterously good
Yet sometimes opens its monstrous hood
Thamiraparani expels Kurukkuthurai Lord
Even so spears Tharaka, Padmasura the Lord
Heigh ho sing, 'vel vel vetrivel vetrivel'
Marries happily Valli the victorious Lord
Enlights the house of earth monsoon savvied
Abashed monsoon assures to shrivel
Leaving its imprint in wintry cold
Say so 'may His fulgency our pride too quell
poem by Indira Renganathan
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The brook
I looked in the brook and saw a face -
Heigh-ho, but a child was I!
There were rushes and willows in that place,
And they clutched at the brook as the brook ran by;
And the brook it ran its own sweet way,
As a child doth run in heedless play,
And as it ran I heard it say:
"Hasten with me
To the roistering sea
That is wroth with the flame of the morning sky!"
I look in the brook and see a face -
Heigh-ho, but the years go by!
The rushes are dead in the old-time place,
And the willows I knew when a child was I.
And the brook it seemeth to me to say,
As ever it stealeth on its way -
Solemnly now, and not in play:
"Oh, come with me
To the slumbrous sea
That is gray with the peace of the evening sky!"
Heigh-ho, but the years go by -
I would to God that a child were I!
poem by Eugene Field
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Spectator ab Extra
As I sat in the Café I said to myself,
They may talk as they please about what they call pelf,
They may sneer as they like about eating and drinking,
But help it I cannot, I cannot help thinking
How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!
How pleasant it is to have money.
I sit at my table en grand seigneur,
And when I have done, throw a crust to the poor;
Not only the pleasure itself of good living,
But also the pleasure of now and then giving:
So pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!
So pleasant it is to have money.
They may talk as they please about what they call pelf,
And how one ought never to think of one’s self,
How pleasures of thought surpass eating and drinking—
My pleasure of thought is the pleasure of thinking
How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!
How pleasant it is to have money.
II
Le Diner
Come along, ‘tis the time, ten or more minutes past,
And he who came first had to wait for the last;
The oysters ere this had been in and been out;
Whilst I have been sitting and thinking about
How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!
How pleasant it is to have money.
A clear soup with eggs, voilà tout; of the fish
The filets de sole are a moderate dish
A la Orly, but you’re for the red mullet, you say:
By the gods of good fare, who can question today
How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!
How pleasant it is to have money.
After oysters, sauterne; then sherry; champagne,
Ere one bottle goes, comes another again;
Fly up, thou bold cork, to the ceiling above,
And tell to our ears in the sound that they love
How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!
How pleasant it is to have money.
I’ve the simplest of palates; absurd it may be,
But I almost could dine on a poulet-au-riz,
Fish and soup and omelette and that – but the deuce –
There were to be woodcocks, and not Charlotte Russe!
So pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!
So pleasant it is to have money.
Your Chablis is acid, away with the Hock,
Give me the pure juice of the purple Médoc:
St Peray is exquisite; but, if you please,
Some Burgundy just before tasting the cheese.
So pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!
So pleasant it is to have money.
As for that, pass the bottle, and d—n the expense,
I’ve seen it observed by a writer of sense,
That the labouring classes could scarce live a day,
If people like us didn’t eat, drink, and pay.
So useful it is to have money, heigh-ho!
So useful it is to have money.
One ought to be grateful, I quite apprehend,
Having dinner and supper and plenty to spend,
And so suppose now, while the things go away,
By way of a grace we all stand up and say
How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!
How pleasant it is to have money.
III
Parvenant
I cannot but ask, in the park and the streets
When I look at the number of persons one meets,
What e’er in the world the poor devils can do
Whose fathers and mothers can’t give them a sou.
So needful it is to have money, heigh-ho!
So needful it is to have money.
I ride, and I drive, and I care not a d—n,
The people look up and they ask who I am;
And if I should chance to run over a cad,
I can pay for the damage, if ever so bad.
So useful it is to have money, heigh-ho!
So useful it is to have money.
It was but this winter I came up to town,
And already I’m gaining a sort of renown;
Find my way to good houses without much ado,
And beginning to see the nobility too.
So useful it is to have money, heigh-ho!
So useful it is to have money.
O dear what a pity they ever should lose it,
Sine they are the people that know how to use it;
So easy, so stately, such manners, such dinners,
And yet, after all, it is we are the winners.
So needful it is to have money, heigh-ho!
So needful it is to have money.
It’s all very well to be handsome and tall,
Which certainly makes you look well at a ball;
It’s all very well to be clever and witty,
But if you are poor, why it’s only a pity.
So needful it is to have money, heigh-ho!
So needful it is to have money.
There’s something undoubtedly in a fine air,
To know how to smile and be able to stare,
High breeding is something, but well-bred or not,
In the end the one question is, what have you got.
So needful it is to have money, heigh-ho!
So needful it is to have money.
And the angels in pink and the angels in blue,
In muslins and moirés so lovely and new,
What is it they want, and so wish you to guess,
But if you have money, the answer is Yes.
So needful, they tell you, is money, heigh-ho!
So needful it is to have money.
poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
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Love is a Sickness
LOVE is a sickness full of woes,
All remedies refusing;
A plant that with most cutting grows,
Most barren with best using.
Why so?
More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries--
Heigh ho!
Love is a torment of the mind,
A tempest everlasting;
And Jove hath made it of a kind
Not well, nor full nor fasting.
Why so?
More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries--
Heigh ho!
poem by Samuel Daniel
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The Giddy Girl
A giddy young maiden with nimble feet,
Heigh-ho! alack and alas!
Declared she would far rather dance than eat,
And the truth of it came to pass.
For she danced all day and she danced all night;
She danced till the green earth faded white;
She danced ten partners out of breath;
She danced the eleventh one quite to death;
And still she redowaed up and down-
The giddiest girl in town.
With one, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three-kick;
Chassée back, chassée back, whirl around quick.
The name of this damsel ended with E-
Heigh-ho! alack and a-day!
And she was as fair as a maiden need be,
Till she danced her beauty away.
She danced her big toes out of joint;
She danced her other toes all to a point;
She danced out slipper and boot and shoe;
She danced till the bones of her feet came through.
And still she redowaed, waltzed and whirled-
The giddiest girl in the world.
With one, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three-kick;
Chassée back, chassée back, whirl around quick.
Now the end of my story is sad to relate-
Heigh-ho! and away we go!
For this beautiful maiden's final fate
Is shrouded in gloom and woe.
She danced herself into a patent top;
She whirled and whirled till she could not stop;
She danced and bounded and sprang so far,
That she stuck at last on a pointed star;
And there she must dance till the Judgment Day,
And after it, too, for she danced away
Her soul, you see, so she has no place anywhere out of space,
With her one, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three-kick;
Chassée back, chassée back, whirl about quick.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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An Epistle
They taught to pray to God
When I was less than five
I prayed to God
to take away my life
Since then I have prayed to him
now and then
to kill me
I am 65 now
Readers I assure you
God if any is surely Deaf
Hence let us live
as long as we have to
with a heigh ho and heigh nonino
I am at the station
But the train is late
the train that should carry me away
from market ridden spaceship
to somewhere
where I do not know
The apsaras
generated by Thai classical dance
might take me in their wings
to a different galaxy
in a different universe
But they donot hover in the skies
If the train is not there
let us wait for them
to swoop upon the earth
Life is a long waiting
Waiting and waiting
Better enter into the tavern
at the station
and drink and smoke
Have a lot of grapes
That is received Lucretious
or Omar Khayyam
poem by Dr. Ramesh Chandra Mukhopadhyaya
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The Hearth-Stone
The leaves are sick and jaundiced, they
Drift down the air;
December's sky is sodden grey,
Dark with despair;
A bleary dawn will light anon
A world of care.
My name is cut into a stone,
No care have I;
The letters drool, as I alone
Forgotten lie:
With weed my grave is overgrown,
None cometh nigh.
A hundred hollow years will speed
As I decay;
And I'll be comrade to the weed,
Kin to the clay;
Until some hind in homing-need
Will pass my way.
Until some lover seeking hearth
With joy will see
My nameless stone sunk in the earth
And it will be
The ruddy birth of childish mirth,
And elder glee.
And none will dream it bore my name
Decades ago;
A scribbling fool of little fame,
Who loved life so . . .
Well, flesh is grass and Time must pass,--
Heigh ho! Heigh ho!
poem by Robert William Service
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The Recruit's Ball
Fiddler loquitur
Heigho, fiddlestick, fiddlestick, fiddlestick,
Heigho, fiddlestick, fiddle for a king!
Heigh, pretty Kitty! heigh, jolly Polly!
Up with the heels, girls! fling, lasses, fling!
Heigh there! stay there! that's not the way there!
Oh Johnny, Johnny,
Oh Johnny, Johnny,
Ho, ho, everybody all round the ring!
Heigho, fiddlestick, fiddlestick, fiddlestick,
Heigho, fiddlestick, fiddle for a king!
Heigh, pretty Kitty! heigh, jolly Polly!
Up with the heels, girls! swing, girls, swing!
Foot, boys! foot, boys! to 't, boys! do 't, boys!
Ho, Bill! ho, Jill! ho, Will! ho, Phil!
Ho, Johnny, Johnny,
Ho, Johnny, Johnny,
Ho, ho, everybody, all round the ring!
Deuce take the fiddle,
Deuce take the fiddle,
Deuce take the jolly fiddle, deuce take the fiddler!
Here goes the fiddle,
Here goes the fiddle,
Here goes the jolly fiddle, here goes the fiddler!
Ned, boy! your head, boy!
She'll strike you dead, boy!
There she goes at your nose!
Deuce strike you dead, boy!
Call, boys! bawl, boys!
Deuce take us all, boys!
Here we go, yes or no,
Deuce take us all, boys!
Deuce take the wall, boys,
Deuce take the floor, boys,
Deuce take the jolly floor,
Deuce take us all, boys!
There goes the wall, boys!
There goes the door, boys!
Round they swing in a ring!
There goes the floor, boys!
Lad, wench, roof, floor,
Wench, lad, wall, door!
Curse the ground, spin it round!
Deuce take us all, boys!
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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A New-Year’s Burden
ALONG the grass sweet airs are blown
Our way this day in Spring.
Of all the songs that we have known
Now which one shall we sing?
Not that, my love, ah no!—
Not this, my love? why, so!—
Yet both were ours, but hours will come and go.
The grove is all a pale frail mist,
The new year sucks the sun.
Of all the kisses that we kissed
Now which shall be the one?
Not that my love, ah no!—
Not this, my love?—heigh-ho
For all the sweets that all the winds can blow!
The branches cross above our eyes,
The skies are in a net:
And what's the thing beneath the skies
We two would most forget?
Not birth, my love, no, no,—
Not death, my love, no, no,—
The love once ours, but ours long hours ago.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Two Duets
I
He.
Aglai-a! Aglai-a!
Sweet, awaken and be glad.
She.
Who is this that calls Aglaia?
Is it thou, my dearest lad?
He.
'Tis Arion, 'tis Arion,
Who calls thee from sleep-
From slumber who bids thee
To follow and number
His kids and his sheep.
She.
Nay, leave to entreat me!
If mother should spy on
Us twain, she would beat me.
He.
Then come, my love, come!
And hide with Arion
Where green woods are dumb!
She.
Ar-i-on! Ar-i-on!
Closer, list! I am afraid!
He.
Whisper, then, thy love Arion,
From thy window, lily maid.
She.
Yet Aglaia, yet Aglaia
Hath heard them debate
Of wooing repenting-
'Who trust to undoing,
Lament them too late.'
He.
Nay, nay, when I woo thee,
Thy mother might spy on
All harm I shall do thee.
She.
I come, then-I come!
To follow Arion
Where green woods be dumb.
SONG
Sparrow of Love, so sharp to peck,
Arrow of Love-I bare my neck
Down to the bosom. See, no fleck
Of blood! I have never a wound; I go
Forth to the greenwood. Yet, heigh-ho!
What 'neath my girdle flutters so?
'Tis not a bird, and yet hath wings,
'Tis not an arrow, yet it stings;
While in the wound it nests and sings-
Heigh-ho!
He.
Of Arion, of Arion
That wound thou shalt learn;
What nothings 'tis made of,
And soft pretty soothings
In shade of the fern.
She.
When maids have a mind to,
Man's word they rely on,
Old warning are blind to-
I come, then-I come
To walk with Arion
Where green woods are dumb!
II
He.
Dear my love, and O my love,
And O my love so lately!
Did we wander yonder grove
And sit awhile sedately?
For either you did there conclude
To do at length as I did,
Or passion's fashion's turn'd a prude,
And troth's an oath derided.
She.
Yea, my love-and nay, my love-
And ask me not to tell, love,
While I delay'd an idle day
What 'twixt us there befell, love.
Yet either I did sit beside
And do at length as you did,
Or my delight is lightly by
An idle lie deluded!
poem by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
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A Song Of Singing
Sing! gangling lad, along the brink
Of wild brook-ways of shoal and deep,
Where killdees dip, and cattle drink,
And glinting little minnows leap!
Sing! slimpsy lass who trips above
And sets the foot-log quivering!
Sing! bittern, bumble-bee, and dove--
Sing! Sing! Sing!
Sing as you will, O singers all
Who sing because you _want_ to sing!
Sing! peacock on the orchard wall,
Or tree-toad by the trickling spring!
Sing! every bird on every bough--
Sing! every living, loving thing--
Sing any song, and anyhow,
But Sing! Sing! Sing!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Babyhood
Heigh-ho! Babyhood! Tell me where you linger:
Let's toddle home again, for we have gone astray;
Take this eager hand of mine and lead me by the finger
Back to the Lotus lands of the far-away.
Turn back the leaves of life; don't read the story,--
Let's find the _pictures_, and fancy all the rest:--
We can fill the written pages with a brighter glory
Than Old Time, the story-teller, at his very best!
Turn to the brook, where the honeysuckle, tipping
O'er its vase of perfume spills it on the breeze,
And the bee and humming-bird in ecstacy are sipping
From the fairy flagons of the blooming locust trees.
Turn to the lane, where we used to 'teeter-totter,'
Printing little foot-palms in the mellow mold,
Laughing at the lazy cattle wading in the water
Where the ripples dimple round the buttercups of gold:
Where the dusky turtle lies basking on the gravel
Of the sunny sandbar in the middle-tide,
And the ghostly dragonfly pauses in his travel
To rest like a blossom where the water-lily died.
Heigh-ho! Babyhood! Tell me where you linger:
Let's toddle home again, for we have gone astray;
Take this eager hand of mine and lead me by the finger
Back to the Lotus lands of the far-away.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bride Of Brent
Unlike Lucia from far Lammermoor,
fair Linda, hailing from chill Chamounix,
excels when she’s preparing salmon or
deep-frying spuds and spinach that aren’t gammony.
She tried to keep the frog which wooing went
outside the net she guarded as a goalie
till she became the Bride of River Brent
and played the role of Princess Rowley-Powley.
The frog, he always used to say “Heigh-ho! ”
because he knew that he could never find a
more lovely princess once she’d kissed him so
he was more charmed than Chamounix by Linda.
6/5/06
poem by Gershon Hepner
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Im So Young
I have a girlfriend
She says Im her only one
We wanna get married
But were so young
So young
Cant marry no one
They say our love is
Just a teenage affection
But no one knows
Our hearts direction
So young
Cant marry no one
Im Im Im so young
Im Im Im so young
Im Im Im so young
Cant marry no one, no one
Pretty soon now
Ill go to sea
Their mothers baby
Will have seen the last of me
So young
Cant marry no one, no one
Cant marry no one
Cant marry no one
Cant marry no one
Cant marry no one
Cant marry no one
Cant marry no one
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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