10-31-2011, 08:20 AM | #1141 |
Chocolate Grasshopper ...
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Problem, Kenny, is that using forefathers and father changes the metre ...
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10-31-2011, 08:32 AM | #1142 |
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Well, yeah, I never notice/pay attention to that myself.
which is also why I never write "form" poetry.... |
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10-31-2011, 09:00 AM | #1143 |
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10-31-2011, 10:35 AM | #1144 |
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Love to see it! As I said I really like it....
I'll try to ignore the pa's and grandpa's |
10-31-2011, 10:59 AM | #1145 |
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Rebellion Part II The Turning support I have, said he, we wait until they rally round, my friends will come, I have no doubt they will; but no more came to aid his cause his friends, they failed to come, they let him down, deserted him in hour of need; he was advised, against his will, no further men nor gold nor arms had come; he had to turn and 'scape back home, they said; the reds were on the march, these men from fights across the sea were hard and led by men with zeal who yearned to take them on; a Prince was one, they called a Duke. no more did come, the promised aid, support of men and gold and arms, in pain he had to lead his men back home; but still they fought and won though black their mood as winter came and some did flee as if they knew the end was nigh, the chase was on, for battle hardened reds were in pursuit of them and woe betide the stragglers lagging on behind, who melted as they could, away. |
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10-31-2011, 11:01 AM | #1146 |
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Rebellion Part III The Battle 16th April 1746…Culloden Moor they northward fled to mossy moor, they knew pursuit was closing in; a try was made one night to face their foe, but in the dark the men did loose their way, their plan so failed they skulked away, the men so faint through lack of food and warmth, they did not know they’d lost a chance that might have swung the fight their way, (the reds were up, in party mood, their Duke was five and twenty years of age that day, and brandy filled their cups); and as the dawn appeared they knew at last the dream had lost its hope; this ground they knew was water logged; they hoped the bog was on their side, it seemed, to them, that God was not; the morn was cold, and colder still they grew as wait they did, and trust their Prince had chosen well this moor. full shorn of hope, but still they dreamt, they’d beat the reds afore, (but not like these), they placed their hands in God and Prince and hoped, and hoped, they could again; but no one thought with hand on heart and targe and sword, they had a chance, as glories of the past did fade behind the door of dawn; they braved the cold, the ice the blast of gale, of hail, of snow; the morn wore on, and weary worn their mien, through hunger, thirst and wear; they staggered up and shook their heads, for on the hill did mass the reds arranged in lines, who marched did they as though the fight was all but won. the Chiefs did cuss and place their men, at worst they knew the highland charge would fail, as bog was not the ground for them; untrained they were in fights against such men as these, who ranged themselves in battle form ahead; four hundred yards was all there was between the groups of men; and one was lead by men of hope, so vain they failed to see beyond their dreams, and looked to God and Right to win; the other band of men were fresh from battles far a-field and trained to face a foe of war beyond the likes of these; in arms and men, the reds had more by far, and knew they would prevail upon this field; the Duke who led was keen, and told to wipe, at last, away this Prince and all that he was feign to be. in weary lines the highland clans did stand, ill shod, full worn, ill fed, ill served by leaders, vain and proud; their lines did number barely two, the reds by count had twice the men such overwhelming odds did crush the spirits of a few, but these were men inured by life, and fight they’d do until the last; they ken. the battle starts as cannons roar to scythe like corn the highland ranks; the charge then came as clans did run and break their foes upon their left; but all for naught as numbers count the cannon roared, then mortars joined the hail of death, and so at last the reds fought back and won the day, in spite of further charge by clans who sought but glory on their land; the reds were helped by numbers huge their grape was hot, their shot as dense as flies upon the blood that wept that day, to mark the end for all the highland clans had held so dear. the writing on the wall that day does tell of death that fell upon the clans; of slaughter called by Duke upon the hapless men who lay with wounds upon the field; and those of whom his troops did find near by, and then for days and days beyond, old scores were paid in blood and gore; 5 more parts to follow .... |
10-31-2011, 11:11 AM | #1147 |
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Epic.
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10-31-2011, 11:38 AM | #1148 |
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Rebellion Part IV … And days beyond at last the lust for blood was quenched, those caught were tried, some hanged, some drawn— those Lords who rashly plagued and mocked the rightful crown—; for some the end did mean a life abroad in foreign toil alone; some sold as slaves and had to wait for years afore their kin would join. of Prince, he hitched his skirts and fled, so bruised he was he fled with naught but life, but that was more than some; he failed to make his mark and died, exiled from home, his claim now lost. Of “Butcher” Duke, he earned this taunt for brutal acts against the Scots of Charles; “no quarter” ordered he to men and “harried were the Glens”; he failed to make his mark in war again, but lived a better life than Charles. the reds were told to rape at will, the lands, the maids; they torched with fire the lands and homes; so folk would starve they stole the kine and stripped the wealth; the kilt was banned by threat of death (unless they joined the Watch abroad). the blood of rebels spilt for cause does stain the grass of nation torn; the clans were broke and some did leave; and those, ‘tis said, did win their way to mark their life in victory for work they did across the sea in lands so new they had a say, a chance unknown in lands they’d left. |
10-31-2011, 03:39 PM | #1149 |
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In the highland accents I've read, they use "da" and "grandda". In case those would work better than pa and grand pa .....
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10-31-2011, 04:04 PM | #1150 |
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10-31-2011, 04:08 PM | #1151 |
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I think it would work fine for me just like that, no other changes needed, and it would not have caused the pause that I experienced .. at least I don't think it would. As an American I'm just so conscious of "Pa" and "GrandPa" as southern and with southern accents, I have a hard time hearing them otherwise.
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10-31-2011, 05:33 PM | #1152 | |
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Quote:
There's no Da in this list of Scottish words ... only faither http://www.cs.stir.ac.uk/~kjt/genera...l#DialectWords But there is in this .... http://www.archive.org/stream/cu3192...38813_djvu.txt |
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11-01-2011, 01:49 PM | #1153 |
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Rebellion
Poems taken from letters written by participants .... The Boy Who Came To Join the Cause came news unto our croft that he was close and called our aid that day, red tide approached to wash our lands I left the glen with kith and kin in tow, and sought the fight to come; he was I thought, a man so great, ne’er seen the like afore nor since, on white he rode amongst the ranks. (the reds they held the upper ground). the morn was cold, the storm it held such rain and snow, so wet and wild, but failed to mar the spirits held; the reds they formed in lines in front, their shot did mingle with the snow and came like hail and mowed our lines; the guns they fired, did thunder through to cut and slice and hew our ranks; our men did charge and try in vain, but slaughter was the game that day, like swatted flies our dead and maimed did strew the field, and those who could did cry with pain; a steed did jump as if were mad, it may be true that mad was said of us as well. I saw that all was lost, so ran with those of kin who could, with haste; I had some cake of oats, and milk to ease my faint along the way; “It went so bad”, we cried of him, to those who asked along the way; we made it home, though it be night a’fore we reached the safety of the door; and pa was home by morn. Donald McKay joined the Jacobites as a young boy, on the day of the battle. He accompanied his father and brother to the field, but escaped the slaughter. He surrendered to the redcoats and was sentenced for transportation, but escaped to stow away to work on Jamaican plantations. He returned to Scotland as an old man. ~ ~ ~ The Jacobite Officer three nights we fled before the reds, the hunger clenched my belly hard and tired I was, but as the sleep was almost there, “to horse, to horse” the cry was heard, as drum and horn did sound, to harken me awake; on horse I joined my men and viewed the sight of reds upon the hill, and then they moved so quick it seemed they closed the field and drew themselves in lines of three, while those of ours were barely two; their horse, we thought, would fail to charge through watered marsh. our Prince did try to order force but army lords they did not chose to heed his words; the reds attacked across a wall that edged our lines onto our right, and moved they did four pieces in and fired their grape which scythed us down like we were corn, whole ranks of men I saw them slay. I watched the flanking terror maim and those of us who could did flee; I saw the centre of our force it pierced the reds, line one then two, It reached the left of field and checked, but then the rout began; I saw the backs of men of mine; and worthy friends I saw them littered on the ground. In horror I belayed in shock at sights before my eyes, and raged as fire did I my blunderbuss; then tried to turn but found my boots were stuck in marsh up to my thighs, my horse I’d lost, my servant too; and Prince, he’d gone and all I saw were men whose bodies floated dead in marsh or those who could, did run and fast away from tide of death. James Johnstone, born 1719 was the son of an Edinburgh merchant. He was aged 27 and fought on the left of the field under the Duke of Perth. There is nothing in his description that tells how he escaped from the marsh, nor the battlefield. He is described as having an adventurous life after Culloden. He apparently escaped via England to France, disguised as a pedlar. He later served with French forces in America, but died in France around 1800. ~ ~ ~ The Government Soldier we came to Nairn the fourteenth day, a Monday I reflect, as we did halt by there a day, and sought to gain, by rack or plea, of those we’d caught, the plans they had against our Duke; our foes were close, they planned attack the Tuesday night, thus warned we warded true by God and won. in early morning start we marched, from Nairn through wind and rain; the wind it blew us on our way, for miles that numbered ten; upon a moor we found them lined in two, and bold; we each did peer across the moor through wind blown hail and rain. the wind still blew upon our backs but all at once the rain did clear; began at noon, the fight it did, two pieces they did fire; we six, through these they boldly came and fast, a cloud en-mass with swords in hand their guns they shot, then threw to ground; we could not see, I doubt them us, as smoke did cast a sulph’ry veil our guns did lay a warming fire and pieces strewed the field with grape, a cannonade as strong as this did gall them hard and they did turn and run, we marked their flight with ball and hand grenade to bid them quick farewell; our horse to right and left pursued to cut them thick upon the field; by one o’clock we’d done. It took, in minutes, but five and ten of small arms fire, and three times that in cannonade to clear the field of them who sought to change our King; we lost not one in our command, though few were wounded sore against the luck we had; our total count of dead and hurt I make a mere two hundred souls-but them it seems the count is many many more. we took great prize of arms, and killed on field the maimed who failed to flee; a host of French gave up their swords, and day by day the foot and horse drug in the heaps of those who fled the field, to stand their trial; to those we add our men who fled and they shall hang, as Duke makes harsh with us. they called us mad to see us fight, they’d never seen our way of war and chose the moor to thwart our guns and, true enough, a few did bog; they thought it strange our firelocks stayed so dry, as hope did they the rain would save their day, but we did know a trick to keep them dry, our coats; the Moor was deep but we prevailed and Duke himself did praise our pluck and said that God had blest our fight. Edward Linn, a soldier in the Government Army, the 21st Royal Scots Fusiliers. He wrote a letter to his wife from the Inverness Camp on the 20th. Nothing more is known. ~ ~ ~ The Government Officer; Highlander detailed as guard of the baggage. at Nairn we stopped and made our plans at Duke’s Demand, to garner faith of those to whom we have command; the camp we broke on early morn, the men at ease with task of day; the Horse of Light, and troop of men, went on ahead to scout the way while we did march in lines of four; we met again towards the noon. I ordered men to right and left to march the wings until the start and then to turn and guard the rear and keep it safe, the equipage. I safely watched the field that day, our foes did mount their guns beside a croft, they numbered three; they fired our lines but we responded loud and clear; theirs failed their mark but ours did execute a fine discharge into their face, they aught not stand but swords in hand they firmly moved ahead, but heated fire from ours was seen to drive them back; they soon gave up and fled; a pleasing sight I thought; then Dragoons and Light did chase, and slaughter I did see; all in all this fight, I doubt an hour had passed. I saw our horses on the left had stopped by walls; they broke them down and caused stramash upon their right and laid unto the foes with blades; but then two Lords of ours were down, one then to die, the other in time; our right-a quiet day they had, whilst others did the deeds and thanks were due to some; the Duke did bless the Scots Fusiliers who made first break upon the foe, by them the victory was made so cheap not one man did they lose that day. we won the field, our foes did rout and left their all upon the ground; the Duke was cool, his troops complete and losses few; of foes we killed I cannot count, but hundreds on the field and on the chase; some caught and brought to heel, for trial and more. of Prince I heard he’d upped and gone, though of his Chiefs a few were took; the rest, I heard it told, were said to gather in the west; I wait for news on what we are to do. Donald Campbell of Airds was one of Highlanders who were loyal to the Government. He hailed from the west coast, employed by the Duke of Argyll. A captain of the Argyll Militia, he watched the battle closely as he and his men guarded the baggage train. He wrote his account shortly after the battle. Inconsistent with other accounts, he describes the battle starting at 1PM. ~ ~ ~
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11-11-2011, 12:25 PM | #1154 |
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As the silent hour strikes Eleven
On this, the Eleventh Day In this, the Eleventh Month; shall we take time, pause and remember those who went ‘afore their time, to Heaven; called in hail of fire torn from life their folks; in blood red poppy adorned on coats circled in wreaths fallen in ceremony the lowering of the flags, evoke the silence of the guns; shattered by the guns that still reap their spoils; even as we remember them. As the silent hour strikes Eleven On this, the Eleventh Day In this, the Eleventh Month; shall we take time, pause and remember those who went ‘afore their time, to Heaven; |
11-11-2011, 09:39 PM | #1155 |
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Austen's: SECULAR AND NARROW WORLD
I thank Zelda_pinwheel for suggesting I post this piece here.-RonPrice, Tasmania
--------------------- As an English teacher, now retired, who taught Austen's "Emma" and who has been drawn into the TV vortex of recent Austen films--I took an interest in Austen's letters the other day and found them witty and humorous. Reading collections of letters, though, is not my favorite activity. I was moved, though, to pen the following prose-poem which I post here. I hope readers will find this piece of interest.-Ron Price, Tasmania ------------------- A SECULAR AND NARROW WORLD My mother-in-law, a woman in her late eighties, finds watching movies adapted from Jane Austen’s novels boring. The hundreds of students I had over the years would have had, for the most part, the same reaction to Austen's letters. Still, I have had my mental set moved as a result of rethinking Austen's literary contribution to our age(the last 200 years for she died in 1817)--to write this reflection on Jane Austen. My mother-in-law's and my students' attitudes mirror, somewhat, the reaction of novelist Henry James who saw the characters in Austen’s novels as having “small and second-rate minds,” Philistines one and all. Emerson found Austen to be imprisoned in a wretched and smothering conventionality with an excessive concern for “marriageableness.”1 Not everyone has reacted this way to Austen, not now nor in the nearly two centuries since her death in 1817. Some saw her writing as “a prose Shakespeare,”2 a writer who exposed with her mildly acidic, satirical solution of words the brittle, indeed, empty foundations of social and personal morality in a violent and repressive age in English society. It was this world that sought violent release in the next century and found that release when it was blown apart in WW1. -Ron Price with thanks to 1Lee Siegel, “A Writer Who Is Good For You,” The Atlantic Online, January 1998; and 2William B. MacAuley in Jane Austen: The Critical Heritage, Vol. 2, B.C. Southam, editor, Routledge & Kegan Paul Ltd., London, 1987. There is nothing to equal your smallness in a small town---the commonplace has never found a master finer than your divine chit- chat some have said, Jane. Petty inconsistencies, parochial vanities, familiar everydayisms, vulgarity and pride, delineated as entertainment and amusement, tissues of character in speech, gently undulating life-surface, triviality laid on intense relations, satire’s world without bitterness, hermetically sealed with supreme moments quite inarticulate giving you: coolness, patience, poise and leisure obtained so you could write and me too, Jane!----and me too! Your wholly secular and narrow world with people you disliked, tolerated but accepted in the only society you knew where nothing was too little for your little world and happiness=simple pleasures.1 Balance, moderation, courtesy: recipe for survival in two worlds— yours and ours—inner landscapes— the triumph of the ordinarily ordinary and the inherited order over change:2 but we can’t triumph with that recipe and order can we Jane? Can we Jane? Nor could you---would you, Jane?3 1 Jane Austen: A Collection of Critical Essays, editor, Ian Watt, Prentice-Hall Inc., Inglewood Cliffs, N.J., 1963, p. 172. 2 Adena Rosmarin, “Misreading Emma: The Powers and Perfidies of Interpretive History, English Literary History, Vol. 51, pp. 315-42. 3 What would Austen have written, if she had lived beyond the age of 41? Ron Price 4 June 2008 _____________ |
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