On The Swallow (From The Greek)
Attic maid! with honey fed,
Bear'st thou to thy callow brood
Yonder locust from the mead,
Destined their delicious food?
Ye have kindred voices clear,
Ye alike unfold the wing,
Migrate hither, sojourn here,
Both attendant on the spring!
Ah, for pity drop the prize;
Let it not with truth be said
That a songster gasps and dies,
That a songster may be fed.
poem by William Cowper
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Related quotes
Faint and Weary Toiled a Pilgrim
'Faint and weary toiled a pilgrim,
Faint and weary of his load;
Sudden came a sweet bird winging
Glad and swift across his road.
''Blessed songster!' cried the pilgrim,
'Where is now the load I bore?
I forget it in thy singing;
Hearing thee, I faint no more,'
'While he spoke the bird went winging
Higher still, and soared away;
'Cruel songster!' cried the pilgrim,
'Cruel songster not to stay!'
'Was the songster cruel? Never!
High above some other road
Glad and swift he still was singing,
Lightening other pilgrims' load!'
poem by Helen Hunt Jackson
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Samuel Taylor Coleridge
HIS Soul fared forth (as from the deep home-grove
The father-songster plies the hour-long quest),
To feed his soul-brood hungering in the nest;
But his warm Heart, the mother-bird, above
Their callow fledgling progeny still hove
With tented roof of wings and fostering breast
Till the Soul fed the soul-brood. Richly blest
From Heaven their growth, whose food was Human Love.
Yet ah! Like desert pools that show the stars
Once in long leagues,—even such the scarce-snatched hours
Which deepening pain left to his lordliest powers:—
Heaven lost through spider-trammelled prison-bars.
Six years, from sixty saved! Yet kindling skies
Own them, a beacon to our centuries.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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The Black Feathered Songster
The black feathered songster with the golden bill
He sings on the tree by the babbling rill
The song of the blackbird melodious and clear
A familiar voice in the Spring of the year
In his song males of his own kind the message of warning does hear
To my borders you better not venture near
At this time of year his own kind not a friend
In his song a warning that his patch he'll defend
Concealed in her nest from predator eye
His partner sits on her eggs in a bush nearby
When she and her mate back to Nature have gone
Their genes in their young are destined to live on
Birdsong to us may seem a beautiful thing
But 'tis not out of joy that the songbird does sing.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Hyperbion
Hyperbion was among the chosen few
Of Phoebus; and men honored him awhile,
Honoring in him the God. But others sang
As loudly; and the boys as loudly cheer'd.
Hyperbion (more than bard should be) was wroth,
And thus he spake to Phoebus: 'Hearest thou,
O Phoebus! the rude rabble from the field,
Who swear that they have known thee ever since
Thou feddest for Admetos his white bull?'
'I hear them,' said the God. 'Seize thou the first
And haul him up above the heads of men,
And thou shalt hear them shout for thee as pleas'd.'
Headstrong and proud Hyperbion was: the crown
Of laurel on it badly cool'd his brow:
So, when he heard them singing at his gate,
While some with flints cut there the rival's name,
Rushing he seiz'd the songster at their head:
The songster kickt and struggled hard; in vain.
Hyperbion claspt him round with arm robust,
And with the left a hempen rope uncoil'd,
Whereon already was a noose: it held
The calf until the mother's teat was drawn
At morn and eve; and both were now afield.
With all his strength he pull'd the wretch along,
And haul'd him up a pine-tree where he died.
But one night, not long after, in his sleep
He saw the songster: then did he beseech
Apollo to enlighten him, if perchance
In what he did he had done aught amiss.
'Thou hast done well, Hyperbion!' said the God,
'As I did also to one Marsyas
Some years ere thou wert born: but better 'twere
If thou hadst understood my words aright,
For those around may harm thee, and assign
As reason that thou wentest past the law.
My meaning was that thou shouldst hold him up
In the high places of thy mind, and show
Thyself the greater by enduring him.'
Downcast Hyperbion stood: but Phoebus said
'Be of good cheer, Hyperbion! if the rope
Is not so frayed but it may hold thy calf,
The greatest harm is that by hauling him
Thou hast chafed, sorely, sorely, that old pine;
And pine-tree bark will never close again.'
poem by Walter Savage Landor
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Saigon
You got everything that a girl should grow
Im so afraid to kiss you I might lose control
You can hold me tighter but turn loose of my gun
Its a sentimental present all the way from saigon
Honey, honey, honey, please call me
You dont need no money we can do it for free
I got a friend in phoenix with a two-way radio
All the static in my attic getting ready to blow
Saigon, honey, honey, honey
Saigon, honey, honey, honey
Saigon, honey, honey, honey
All the static in my attic getting ready to blow
I was talking to the mailman late last week
He had a letter in his sweater from stuttering don
He said things are getting better in sa, sa, sa, sa, sa
Saigon, honey, honey, honey
Saigon, honey, honey, honey
Saigon, honey, honey, honey
Things are getting better back in saigon
Saigon, honey, honey, honey
Saigon, honey, honey, honey
Things are getting better back in saigon
Saigon, honey, honey, honey
Saigon, honey, honey, honey
Saigon, honey, honey, honey
Things are getting better back in saigon
Saigon, honey, honey, honey
Saigon, honey, honey, honey
Saigon, honey, honey, honey
Things are getting better back in saigon
song performed by by John Prine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tell thee truth, sweet; no
TELL thee truth, sweet; no.
Truth is cross and sad and cold:
Lies are pitiful and kind,
Honey-soft as Love's own tongue:
Let me, love, lie so.
Lies are like a summer wind,
Wooing flower-buds to unfold
Lies will last while men are young.
Tell thee truth, love; no.
Let me, sweet, lie so.
Lies are Hope's light ministers,
Footless birds upon the wing:
Truth's a name for plodding care:
Tell thee truth, sweet; no.
Truth's the east wind on the Spring—
'Tis the wind, not Spring-time, errs.
Lies will last while maids are fair.
Let me lie, love, so.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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When I Behold The Lark
When I behold the lark upspring
To meet the bright sun joyfully,
How he forgets to poise his wing
In his gay spirit's revelry,
Alas! that mournful thoughts should spring
E'en from that happy songster's glee!
Strange, that such gladdening sight should bring
Not joy, but pining care to me!
I thought my heart had known the whole
Of love, but small its knowledge proved.
For still the more my longing soul
Loves on, itself the while unloved:
She stole my heart, myself she stole,
And all I prized from me removed;
She left me but the fierce control
Of vain desires for her I loved.
All self-command is now gone by,
E'er since the luckless hour when she
Became a mirror to my eye,
Whereon I gazed complacently.
Thou fatal mirror! there I spy
Love's image; and my doom shall be,
Like young Narcissus, thus to sigh,
And thus expire, beholding thee.
poem by Bernard de Ventadorn
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The Lady, the Knight, and the Friar
THE LADY.
O cavalier! what dost thou here,
Thy tuneful vigils keeping;
While the northern star looks cold from far
And half the world is sleeping?
THE KNIGHT.
O lady! here, for seven long year,
Have I been nightly sighing,
Without the hope of a single tear
To pity me were I dying.
THE LADY.
Should I take thee to have and to hold,
Who hast nor lands nor money?
Alas! 'tis only in flowers of gold
That married bees flnd honey.
THE KNIGHT.
O lady fair! to my constant prayer
Fate proves at last propitious;
And bags of gold in my hand I bear,
And parchment scrolls delicious.
THE LADY.
My maid the door shall open throw,
For we too long have tarried:
The friar keeps watch in the cellar below,
And we will at once be married.
THE FRIAR.
My children! great is Fortune's power;
And plain this truth appears,
That gold thrives more in a single hour,
Than love in seven long years.
poem by Thomas Love Peacock
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The Rambler
I do not see the hills around,
Nor mark the tints the copses wear;
I do not note the grassy ground
And constellated daisies there.
I hear not the contralto note
Of cuckoos hid on either hand,
The whirr that shakes the nighthawk's throat
When eve's brown awning hoods the land.
Some say each songster, tree and mead--
All eloquent of love divine--
Receives their constant careful heed:
Such keen appraisement is not mine.
The tones around me that I hear,
The aspects, meanings, shapes I see,
Are those far back ones missed when near,
And now perceived too late by me!
poem by Thomas Hardy
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On the Grasshopper (From The Greek)
Happy songster, perch'd above,
On the summit of the grove,
Whom a dewdrop cheers to sing
With the freedom of a king,
From thy perch survey the fields
Where prolific nature yields
Nough that, willingly as she,
Man surrenders not to thee.
For hostility or hate
None thy pleasures can create.
Thee it satisfies to sing
Sweetly the return of spring,
Herald of the genial hours,
Harming neither herbs nor flowers.
Therefore man thy voice attends
Gladly -- thou and he are friends;
Nor thy never-ceasing strains,
Phoebus or the muse disdains
As too simple or too long,
For themselves inspire the song.
Earth-born, bloodless, undecaying,
Ever singing, sporting, playing
What has nature else to show
Godlike in its kind as thou?
poem by William Cowper
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To My Little Niece Sally Livingston
To my little niece Sally Livingston, on the death of a little serenading wren she admired.
Hasty pilgrim stop thy pace
Turn a moment to this place
Read what pity hath erected
To a songster she respected.
Little minstrel all is o'er
Never will thy chirpings more
Soothe the heavy heart of care
Or dispel the darkness there.
I have known thee e'er the sun
Hath on yonder mountain shone;
E'er the sky-lark hath ascended,
Or the thrush her throat distended;
Cheerful trill thy little ditty
As the singer, blithe and pretty.
Labour stood, half bent to hear,
Study lent a list'ning ear,
Dissipation stop'd a while,
Grief was even seen to smile,
Ambition - but the gushing tear
O'erwhelms the stone and stops me here.
poem by Major Henry Livingston Jr.
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The Spring Oracle
OH prophetic bird so bright,
Blossom-songster, cuckoo bight!
In the fairest time of year,
Dearest bird, oh! deign to hear
What a youthful pair would pray,
Do thou call, if hope they may:
Thy cuck-oo, thy cuck-oo.
Ever more cuck-oo, cuck-oo!
Hearest thou? A loving pair
Fain would to the altar fare;
Yes! a pair in happy youth,
Full of virtue, full of truth.
Is the hour not fix'd by fate?
Say, how long must they still wait?
Hark! cuck-oo! hark! cuck-oo!
Silent yet! for shame, cuck-oo!
'Tis not our fault, certainly!
Only two years patient be!
But if we ourselves please here,
Will pa-pa-papas appear?
Know that thou'lt more kindness do us,
More thou'lt prophesy unto us.
One! cuck-oo! Two! cuck-oo!
Ever, ever, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, coo!
If we've calculated clearly,
We have half a dozen nearly.
If good promises we'll give,
Wilt thou say how long we'II live?
Truly, we'll confess to thee,
We'd prolong it willingly.
Coo cuck-oo, coo cuck-oo,
Coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo!
Life is one continued feast--
(If we keep no score, at least).
If now we together dwell,
Will true love remain as well?
For if that should e'er decay,
Happiness would pass away.
Coo cuck-oo, coo cuck-oo,
Coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo!
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Thou Art My Lute
Thou art my lute, by thee I sing,--
My being is attuned to thee.
Thou settest all my words a-wing,
And meltest me to melody.
Thou art my life, by thee I live,
From thee proceed the joys I know;
Sweetheart, thy hand has power to give
The meed of love--the cup of woe.
Thou art my love, by thee I lead
My soul the paths of light along,
From vale to vale, from mead to mead,
And home it in the hills of song.
My song, my soul, my life, my all,
Why need I pray or make my plea,
Since my petition cannot fall;
For I 'm already one with thee!
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Lines of South Scotland
The South of Scotland did produce
Heroic Wallace and the Bruce,
And even time will never blot
The record of her Burns and Scott,
And Tannahil renowned Bard,
And that sweet songster Ettrick, shepherd.
poem by James McIntyre
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Jerry Doody
Jerry Doody is surely Millstreet's finest songster at least by many he would be the choice
Oh what a gift the good man has been born with to have been blessed with such a splendid voice
He has sung at many a Millstreet funeral service to sad occasions some relief from grief he bring
It is indeed a very special honour at a funeral service to be asked to sing
He is a credit to his native Parish the Jerry Doody's of this World are rare
The marvellous gift he was lucky to be born with, with others he is willing for to share
A likeable and a kindhearted fellow the pleasant memories I do retain
Of the few occasions that I heard him singing his melodious voice in my memory does remain
'Tis said that everyone in some way gifted that everybody is good at something
When you mention Jerry Doody in Duhallow they say he is the fellow born to sing
May he enjoy a long life Jerry Doody he has been a songster since he was a boy
So generous with his gifts and so obliging to many grieving hearts he has brought a little joy
An inspiration to Duhallow's younger songsters he is a person many do admire
Of one who hits the high notes and the low notes and of listening to him one would never tire.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Different Attitudes.
A cascade of bird song descends.
From a songster in the sky.
One of our small feathered friends
Who greets the morning joyously.
When she takes wing and starts to sing.
She lifts my heart and makes me smile
This feather songstress of the sky.
Displays her own distinctive style.
A tiny bird with a sweet voice.
She flies aloft reminding us
That we have reason to rejoice.
When we hear the morning chorus.
But humans rise reluctantly
and greet the day begrudgingly.
Friday,09 March 2012/
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Of Child With Bird At The Bush
My little bird, how canst thou sit
And sing amidst so many thorns?
Let me a hold upon thee get,
My love with honour thee adorns.
Thou art at present little worth,
Five farthings none will give for thee,
But pr'ythee, little bird, come forth,
Thou of more value art to me.
'Tis true it is sunshine to-day,
To-morrow birds will have a storm;
My pretty one come thou away,
My bosom then shall keep thee warm.
Thou subject are to cold o'nights,
When darkness is thy covering;
At days thy danger's great by kites,
How can'st thou then sit there and sing?
Thy food is scarce and scanty too,
'Tis worms and trash which thou dost eat;
Thy present state I pity do,
Come, I'll provide thee better meat.
I'll feed thee with white bread and milk,
And sugar plums, if them thou crave.
I'll cover thee with finest silk,
That from the cold I may thee save.
My father's palace shall be thine,
Yea, in it thou shalt sit and sing;
My little bird, if thou'lt be mine,
The whole year round shall be thy spring.
I'll teach thee all the notes at court,
Unthought-of music thou shalt play;
And all that thither do resort,
Shall praise thee for it every day.
I'll keep thee safe from cat and cur,
No manner o' harm shall come to thee;
Yea, I will be thy succourer,
My bosom shall thy cabin be.
But lo, behold, the bird is gone;
These charmings would not make her yield;
The child's left at the bush alone,
The bird flies yonder o'er the field.
Comparison.
This child of Christ an emblem is,
The bird to sinners I compare,
The thorns are like those sins of his
Which do surround him everywhere.
Her songs, her food, and sunshine day,
Are emblems of those foolish toys,
Which to destruction lead the way,
The fruit of worldly, empty joys.
The arguments this child doth choose
To draw to him a bird thus wild,
Shows Christ familiar speech doth use
To make's to him be reconciled.
The bird in that she takes her wing,
To speed her from him after all,
Shows us vain man loves any thing
Much better than the heavenly call.
poem by John Bunyan
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Delicious
April, (? )
When you get that smile in your eye.
Something inside
Goes wild wild wild.
Sunshine
Chase away my rainy days.
Our summer leave
Is here. please stay.
Chorus:
Ill hold (hold) you in my arms next to me.
You (you) are the one that set me free.
You (you) put the fire in my heart.
Delicious.
Ill (hold) never ever ever let you go.
Youre (you) my taste of honey, girl.
You (you) put the fire in my heart.
Delicious.
Rainbow
Let me know the storm has past.
These memories
Will last and last.
Passion
Curling through the core of the night.
Where have you been
All my life.
Ill hold (hold) you in my arms next to me.
You (you) are the one that sets me free.
You (you) put the fire in my heart.
Delicious.
Ill (hold) never ever ever let you go.
Youre (you) my taste of honey, girl.
You (you) put the fire in my heart.
Delicious.
We as one
Here we lie.
Holding hands
Across the sky.
Please be mine. Ill never ever leave you.
Please be mine.
Ill hold (hold) you in my arms next to me.
You (you) are the one that sets me free.
You (you) put the fire in my heart.
Delicious.
Ill (hold) never ever ever let you go.
Youre (you) my taste of honey, girl.
You (you) put the fire in my heart.
Delicious. (put the fire in my heart)
Ill hold (hold) you in my arms next to me.
You (you) are the one that set me free.
You (you) put the fire in my heart.
Delicious. (put the fire in my heart)
Ill (hold) never ever ever let you go.
Youre (you) my taste of honey, girl.
You (you) put the fire in my heart.
Delicious. (put the fire in my heart)
Ill hold (hold) you in my arms next to me.
You (you) are the one that set me free.
You (you) put the fire in my heart.
Delicious. (you put the fire in my heart)
Ill (hold) never ever ever let you go.
Youre (you) my taste of honey, girl.
You (you) put the fire in my heart.
Delicious.
Hold.
You.
You.
Delicious.
Hold.
You.
You.
Delicious.
Hold.
You.
You.
Delicious.
song performed by by New Edition
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I think that by October the whole company has to migrate to OpenOffice, and then I think it's by June next year we all migrate to Linux - you don't want to migrate 6,000 people both operating system and office suite in a single jump.
quote by Miguel de Icaza
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gulf Coast Highway (feat. Willie Nelson)
(Nanci Griffith)
Gulf coast highway, he worked the rails
He worked the rice fields with their cold dark wells
He worked the oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico
The only thing we've owned is this old house here by the road
And when he dies he says he'll catch some blackbird's wing
And we will fly away to heaven
Come some sweet blue bonnet spring
She walked through springtime when I was home
The days were sweet, our nights were warm
The seasons changed, the jobs would come
The flowers fade, and this old house felt so alone
When the work took me away
And when she dies she says she'll catch some blackbird's wing
And she will fly away to heaven
Come some sweet blue bonnet spring
Highway 90, the jobs are gone
We kept our garden, we set the sun
This is the only place on Earth blue bonnets grow
And once a year they come and go
At this old house here by the road
And when we die we say we'll catch some blackbird's wing
And we will fly away to heaven
Come some sweet blue bonnet spring
Yes when we die we say we'll catch some blackbird's wing
And we will fly away together
Come some sweet blue bonnet spring
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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