General Chat

The Highwayman, another poem that I also heard, and had to learn, in school back in the early sixties.

Imagine my surprise, and delight, when my daughter came home from high school (in Australia) one day with a copy of the same poem which she had to learn :-)

Dermot, I expect you have read about the recent occurrence,

"Over 2,000 people turned up at Knock shrine in anticipation of an apparition, after a teenage boy claimed there would be one there.

The boy claims to have seen a vision of Our Lady in Fatima last month and said she told him she would appear to him again at Knock, at 3pm."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wIZbo4DxufM

Not seeing it I'm afraid. Maybe that's the point, one must believe by faith alone, visions are given to very few.

The Highwayman as I never heard it before - i love the poem

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2xLPPEnc3mE

I also loved Meg Merrilies and the one below

Barbara Frietchie BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,

The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple- and peach-tree fruited deep,

Fair as a garden of the Lord
To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early fall
When Lee marched over the mountain wall,—

Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,

Flapped in the morning wind: the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;

Bravest of all in Frederick town,
She took up the flag the men hauled down;

In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced: the old flag met his sight.

“Halt!”— the dust-brown ranks stood fast.
“Fire!”— out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;

She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.

“Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,
But spare your country’s flag,” she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;

The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman’s deed and word:

“Who touches a hair of yon gray head
Dies like a dog! March on!” he said.

All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet:

All day long that free flag tost
Over the heads of the rebel host.

Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie’s work is o’er,
And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.

Honor to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall’s bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie’s grave
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!

Peace and order and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;

And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town!

'Knock' is the name of a little village in the lovely countryside of east Co Mayo, Irish Republic, with worldwide recognition of an event which occurred there in 1879.

And it just happens that my paternal grandmother was baptised in the Catholic church there that same year. ;-)

~~~~ back to Guinevere :-)

Allan, yes I remember "Silver" from school, and also "The Higwayman" by Alfred Noyes, I had a fantastic teacher when I was about ten who recited it with great dramatic effect to make us shiver :-D

Another poem of his I had to learn at school:

Silver



Slowly, silently, now the moon

Walks the night in her silver shoon;

This way, and that, she peers, and sees

Silver fruit upon silver trees;

One by one the casements catch

Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;

Couched in his kennel, like a log,

With paws of silver sleeps the dog;

From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep

Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep;

A harvest mouse goes scampering by,

With silver claws and a silver eye;

And moveless fish in the water gleam,

By silver reeds in a silver stream.



Walter de la Mare


This thread has been a nice reminder of how descriptive his poetry is (and how long ago my school-days are :-))

I love that poem, Allan, I still know it off by heart.

*waves to Rose*

I didn't know that poem, Rose, but it is certainly very evocative :-)

One of my favourite poets Allan. :-) Though this poem of his inevitably makes me sad as it was my mums favourite

"Softly along the road of evening,
In a twilight dim with rose,
Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew
Old Nod, the shepherd, goes.

His drowsy flock streams on before him,
Their fleeces charged with gold,
To where the sun's last beam leans low
On Nod the shepherd's fold.

The hedge is quick and green with briar,
From their sand the conies creep;
And all the birds that fly in heaven
Flock singing home to sleep.

His lambs outnumber a noon's roses,
Yet, when night's shadows fall,
His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon,
Misses not one of all.

His are the quiet steeps of dreamland,
The waters of no-more-pain,
His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars,
'Rest, rest, and rest again."

Walter de la Mare

Goodness Allan I haven't heard that first one since I was little, and it was on a 78 rpm record playing on our wind up gramophone :-D

Rose, your opening post reminded me of this poem by Walter de la Mare



The Listeners

‘IS there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champ’d the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller’s head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Lean’d over and look’d into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplex’d and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirr’d and shaken
By the lonely Traveller’s call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
’Neath the starr’d and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:—
’Tell them I came, and no one answer’d,
’That I kept my word,’ he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.

Was it the Lost Chord, perhaps?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pwV2NkwMScA

or even the guy who found the lost chord

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Q0Ce6Jjqsk

:-D :-D :-D

""It was my first night in that rooming house.
In the last room down the hall
I heard a hoarse voice and an old guitar
Coming through the paper thin walls.
A crazy nonsense nursery rhyme
that did not mean a thing.
But for the first of what was to be a thousand times,
This is what I hear him sing. . .
Hold that D chord on the old guitar,
'Til I found the G.
Drop it down to old E minor
'Til the A chord rolls back home around to D.

I had to lay there listening.
It seemed he was in the room.
This stranger with his melody,
Singing there in the gloom.
And he repeated it over and over again,
Such a soft and sinkin' sound.
It was kind of like a music box that was slowly winding down.
You see, he sang it, he hummed it,
Whistled it, and he strummed it,
He laughed it and he cried it,
He did everything but hide it.
And he sang . . .
Hold that D chord on the old guitar
'Til I found the G
Drop it down to old E minor
'Til the A chord rolls back home around for me

So I lay there in that lumpy bed,
Countin' choruses instead of sheep.
'Til I banged on the wall and out I called,
"Hey bub I need some sleep."
The sudden void of silence, then I heard that hoarse voice say,
"It weren't so long ago boy, they paid me to play "

I said, "It's kind of late for music sir,
Two hours til it's daylight"
He answered, "I need my music most
In these dark hours of the night.
You see I've tried gettin' high on something son,
But it only brings me down.
Staying dry don't work out better boy,
'Cause my eyes get wet and I drown.
Won't you please let me continue
And I'll be in your debt.
You see I'm not singing to remember son,
I'm just singing to forget"

And he sang .. .
Hold that D chord on the old guitar
'Til I found the G
Drop it down to old E minor
'Til the A chord rolls back home around for me.

That's when I said,
"If I'm supposed to listen to you sir,
Just one quick question then.
Why in the hell do you sing one song
Over and over again?"

And this is what he said. . .

He said, "I gave her the music son,
She gave me the words.
Together we'd write the kind of songs
The angels must have heard.
Of course we'd fight like cats and dogs,
But life ain't no rosebud dream.
Still whatever we'd do everybody knew
We truly were a team.
I can't remember now if I done her wrong
Or if she done wrong to me
But all I know that when I let her go
That it did not set me free''
That's when I said, "You sound like what's-his-name"
He said, "That's who I am.
But you can't wrap a name around you boy,
'Cause it really don't mean a damn.
You see, a song don't have much meaning
When it don't have nothing to say.
What she could do was magic son,
All I could do was play"


He started singing again.
That's when I drifted off
Maybe I dreamed what I heard
'Bout this stranger with his melody
Who'd gone and lost the words.
Hold that D chord on the old guitar
'Til I found the G
Drop it down to old E minor
'Til the A chord rolls back home around to D "

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WFWkpK1X-Cg

Apparently not lol.

IS there anybody there?