Canadian Folksong
The doors are shut, the windows fast;
Outside the gust is driving past,
Outside the shivering ivy clings,
While on the hob the kettle sings.
Margery, Margery, make the tea,
Singeth the kettle merrily.
The streams are hushed up where they flowed,
The ponds are frozen along the road,
The cattle are housed in shed and byre,
While singeth the kettle on the fire.
Margery, Margery, make the tea,
Singeth the kettle merrily.
The fisherman on the bay in his boat
Shivers and buttons up his coat;
The traveler stops at the tavern door,
And the kettle answers the chimney’s roar.
Margery, Margery, make the tea,
Singeth the kettle merrily.
The firelight dances upon the wall,
Footsteps are heard in the outer hall;
A kiss and a welcome that fill the room,
And the kettle sings in the glimmer and gloom.
Margery, Margery, make the tea,
Singeth the kettle merrily.
poem by William Wilfred Campbell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Another Horsedreamers' Blues
Margery's dreaming of the middle of the day
Tiyuri to win
Perfect Dozen to place
Money is the matter that's been on her mind
Time ticks by her one race at a time
She's tryin' to be a good girl
And give 'em what they want
But Margery's dreaming of horses
Lookin' at a green sky
Sun like a red eye
Bright blue horses are the fortune she lives by
She's tired and lonely
Scared and depressed
Her visions of one day go racing the next
She's trying to be a good girl
And give 'em what they want
But Margery's dreaming of horses
Margie doesn't say anything all the way home
So afraid she'll awake to find she's all alone
Margery's wingspan's all feathers and coke cans
song performed by by Counting Crows from Recovering The Satellites
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mannerly Margery Milk and Ale
Ay, beshrew you! By my fay,
These wanton clerks be nice alway!
Avaunt, avaunt, my popinjay!
What, will ye do nothing but play?
Tilly, vally, straw, let be I say!
Gup, Christian Clout, gup, Jack of the Vale!
With Mannerly Margery Milk and Ale.
By God, ye be a pretty pode,
And I love you an whole cart-load.
Straw, James Foder, ye play the fode,
I am no hackney for your rod:
Go watch a bull, your back is broad!
Gup, Christian Clout, gup, Jack of the Vale!
With Mannerly Margery Milk and Ale.
Ywis ye deal uncourteously;
What, would ye frumple me? Now fy!
What, and ye shall be my pigesnye?
By Christ, ye shall not, no hardely:
I will not be japed bodily!
Gup, Christian Clout, gup, Jack of the Vale!
With Mannerly Margery Milk and Ale.
Walk forth your way, ye cost me nought;
Now I have found what I have sought:
The best cheap flesh that ever I bought.
Yet, for His love that all hath wrought,
Wed me, or else I die for thought.
Gup, Christian Clout, your breath is stale!
Go, Mannerly Margery Milk and Ale!
Gup, Christina Clout, gup, Jack of the Vale!
With Mannerly Margery Milk and Ale.
poem by John Skelton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Margery Dreams Of Horses
In the still water she lies down
Shaking in the press of sunlight
We rolled into Lexington
She shakes off the drop of daylight
Water beading up her chest
Bleeding down between her knees
Rivers in Kentucky flow
Between the bluegrass wavy seas
But oh, Margery
Twists the knife once more inside of me
Breathless with anticipation
Baited breathers set their hooks
Tuck their heads beneath the high grass
And lie and wait beside the brooks
Were infants pushing slowly through
Frustration leading back along
The alleys of a childhood
That will not release us willingly
But oh, Margery ..sticks the knife in while I couldn't see (strait into me baby)
Dust me off and shut me down
And dream of where I haven't been
Close the door inside my heart
Stuck in the south Atlantic wind
I have hollow eyes
Haunting only to myself
Even so, I can't stop calling
These great big hollows in my self
I took the train form California
To the far side of the continent
Woke up in Kentucky
Where a wedding was about to end
I looked up at Anna
She turned back to look at me
It's best to kill the ones that matter
Render blind the ones who see
But oh, Margery
Takes the blade and walks away from me
Oh, Margery
Love like blood is pouring out of me
Oh, Margery
My heart won't stop bleeding over me baby
Oh, I can't shut it in
It's got far too many doors to block the wind
Oh, I can't shut it in
It's got far too many doors to block the wind
song performed by by Counting Crows
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Clever Little Willie Wee
Clever little Willie wee,
Bright-eyed, blue-eyed little fellow;
Merry little Margery
With her hair all yellow.
Little Willie in his heart
Is a sailor on the sea,
And he often cons a chart
With sister Margery.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Pot And Kettle
Come close to me, dear Annie, while I bind a lover's knot.
A tale of burning love between a kettle and a pot.
The pot was stalwart iron and the kettle trusty tin,
And though their sides were black with smoke they bubbled love within.
Forget that kettle, Jamie, and that pot of boiling broth,
I know a dismal story of a candle and a moth.
For while your pot is boiling and while your kettle sings
My moth makes love to candle flame and burns away his wings.
Your moth, I envy, Annie, that died by candle flame,
But here are two more lovers, unto no damage came.
There was a cuckoo loved a clock and found her always true.
For every hour they told their hearts, 'Ring! ting! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!'
As the pot boiled for the kettle, as the kettle for the pot,
So boils my love within me till my breast is glowing hot.
As the moth died for the candle, so could I die for you.
And my fond heart beats time with yours and cries, 'Cuckoo! Cuckoo!'
poem by Robert Graves
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The Kettle
There’s many a house of grandeur,
With turret, tower and dome,
That knows not peace or comfort,
And does not prove a home.
I do not ask for splendour
To crown my daily lot,
But this I ask – a kitchen
Where the kettles always hot.
If things are not all ship-shape,
I do not fume or fret,
A little clean disorder
Does not my nerves upset.
But one thing is essential,
Or seems so in my thought,
And that’s a tidy kitchen
Where the kettle’s always hot.
In my Aunt Hattie’s household,
Though skies outside are drear,
Though times are dark and troubled,
You’ll always find good cheer.
And in her quaint old kitchen –
The very homiest spot –
The kettle’s always singing,
The water’s always hot.
And if you have a headache,
Whate’er the hour may be,
There is no tedious waiting
To get your cup of tea.
I don’t know how she does it –
Some magic she has caught –
For the kitchen’s cool in summer,
Yet the kettle’s always hot.
Oh, there’s naught else so dreary
In household kingdom found
As a cold and sullen kettle
That does not make a sound.
And I think that love is lacking
In the hearts in such a spot,
Or the kettle would be singing
And the water would be hot.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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There was an Old Man who, when little,
Fell casually into a Kettle;
But, growing too stout,
He could never get out,
So he passed all his life in that Kettle.
quote by by Edward Lear
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Kettle boils like my anger
As the kettle boils.
So does my anger.
My anger is reder than the heat.
Its not just the heat of the moment.
The kettle is getting hot.
My anger nor depression will cease.
Its like some kind of disease.
As the kettle boils I melt.
In the heat of the depression.
And the mist of the anger
poem by Amy Kerswell
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The optimism of a healthy mind is indefatigable.
quote by Margery Allingham
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If one cannot command attention by one's admirable qualities one can at least be a nuisance.
quote by Margery Allingham
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I am one of those people who are blessed, or cursed, with a nature which has to interfere. If I see a thing that needs doing I do it.
quote by Margery Allingham
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Heat It In The Kettle
Mix and blend before you can,
Feed me!
Heat it in the kettle then,
Feed me love!
Mix and blend before you can,
Feed me!
Heat it in the kettle then,
Feed me love!
Mix and blend before you can,
Put in the potatoes.
Mix and blend before you can,
Add the tomatoes.
Heat it in the kettle then...
Use chopped beef.
Or any kind of meat.
Take that homemade bread out of the oven.
Thickly slice.
Butter it nice.
Take that homemade bread out of the oven.
Thickly slice.
Butter it nice.
Mix and blend before you can,
Feed me!
Heat it in the kettle then,
Feed me love!
Take that homemade bread out of the oven.
Thickly slice.
Butter it nice.
Mix and blend before you can,
Put in the potatoes.
Add the tomatoes.
Use chopped beef.
Or any kind of meat.
Heat it in the kettle then
Heat it in the kettle then
Heat it in the kettle then...
Feed me love!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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When one kicks over a tea table and smashes everything but the sugar bowl, one may as well pick that up and drop it on the bricks, don't you think?
quote by Margery Allingham
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When the habitually even-tempered suddenly fly into a passion, that explosion is apt to be more impressive than the outburst of the most violent amongst us.
quote by Margery Allingham
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Chemists employed by the police can do remarkable things with blood. They can weave it into a rope to hang a man.
quote by Margery Allingham
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Song About Myself
I.
There was a naughty boy,
A naughty boy was he,
He would not stop at home,
He could not quiet be-
He took
In his knapsack
A book
Full of vowels
And a shirt
With some towels,
A slight cap
For night cap,
A hair brush,
Comb ditto,
New stockings
For old ones
Would split O!
This knapsack
Tight at's back
He rivetted close
And followed his nose
To the north,
To the north,
And follow'd his nose
To the north.
II.
There was a naughty boy
And a naughty boy was he,
For nothing would he do
But scribble poetry-
He took
An ink stand
In his hand
And a pen
Big as ten
In the other,
And away
In a pother
He ran
To the mountains
And fountains
And ghostes
And postes
And witches
And ditches
And wrote
In his coat
When the weather
Was cool,
Fear of gout,
And without
When the weather
Was warm-
Och the charm
When we choose
To follow one's nose
To the north,
To the north,
To follow one's nose
To the north!
III.
There was a naughty boy
And a naughty boy was he,
He kept little fishes
In washing tubs three
In spite
Of the might
Of the maid
Nor afraid
Of his Granny-good-
He often would
Hurly burly
Get up early
And go
By hook or crook
To the brook
And bring home
Miller's thumb,
Tittlebat
Not over fat,
Minnows small
As the stall
Of a glove,
Not above
The size
Of a nice
Little baby's
Little fingers-
O he made
'Twas his trade
Of fish a pretty kettle
A kettle-
A kettle
Of fish a pretty kettle
A kettle!
IV.
There was a naughty boy,
And a naughty boy was he,
He ran away to Scotland
The people for to see-
There he found
That the ground
Was as hard,
That a yard
Was as long,
That a song
Was as merry,
That a cherry
Was as red,
That lead
Was as weighty,
That fourscore
Was as eighty,
That a door
Was as wooden
As in England-
So he stood in his shoes
And he wonder'd,
He wonder'd,
He stood in his
Shoes and he wonder'd.
poem by John Keats
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Mourning is not forgetting... It is an undoing. Every minute tie has to be untied and something permanent and valuable recovered and assimilated from the dust.
quote by Margery Allingham
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When the habitually even-tempered suddenly fly into a passion, that explosion is apt to be more impressive than the outburst of the most violent amongst us.
Margery Allingham in Death of a Ghost (1934)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Almost An Epitaph 5
Leery what the Judge would say
When he had taken Margery
Death devised an alibi:
'Your Honor, I was taking tea
With the devil in Capri
As he can surely testify.'
poem by Morgan Michaels
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I think wholeness comes from living your life consciously during the day and then exploring your inner life or unconscious at night.
quote by Margery Cuyler
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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