Quotes about na'ale, page 21
Since We Must Die
Though we must die, I would not die
When fields are brown and bleak,
When wild-geese stream across the sky,
And the cart-lodge timbers creak.
For it would be so lone and drear
To sleep beneath the snow,
When children carol Christmas cheer,
And Christmas rafters glow.
Nor would I die, though we must die,
When yeanlings blindly bleat,
When the cuckoo laughs, and lovers sigh,
And O, to live is sweet!
When cowslips come again, and Spring
Is winsome with their breath,
And Life's in love with everything-
With everything but Death.
Let me not die, though we must die,
When bowls are brimmed with cream,
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poem by Alfred Austin
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Romance Of A Youngest Daughter
Who will wed the Dowager’s youngest daughter,
The Captain? filled with ale?
He moored his expected boat to a stake in the water
And stumbled on sea-legs into the Hall for mating,
Only to be seduced by her lady-in-waiting,
Round-bosomed, and not so pale.
Or the thrifty burgher in boots and fancy vest
With considered views of marriage?
By the tidy scullery maid he was impressed
Who kept that house from depreciation and dirt,
But wife does double duty and takes no hurt,
So he rode her home in his carriage.
Never the spare young scholar antiquary
Who was their next resort;
They let him wait in the crypt of the Old Library
And found him compromised with a Saxon book,
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poem by John Crowe Ransom
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The Land Down-Under
At Slumberton-on-Slow,
When the rustics gather round
To quaff their ale, they hear a tale
That wakens doubt profound
A wild, wild tale that comes by mail
From Gaffer Gandy's Joe,
Who left his home long since to roam
In the land of the light pink snow.
And the talk goes to and fro:
'Be goom, laad, that be rich!
Pink snow, he said; an' the rain be red,
But swans be black as pitch!
A great lad for romance
Be Gaffer Gandy's Joe.
Ho, the kangaroo have pockets too!
In the land of the pale pink snow.'
At Slumberton-on-Slow
They yarn in the inn's tapp-room:
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Waterlogged
Waterlogged and silent,
The muse of 'Hurricane Irene' hits New York!
But, i do hope that, the people over there will be in safer places;
However, nobody can stop Nature's strong hands.
Unsettled,
Unusually,
Uncertain! !
And like Nature's strong hands in the name of 'Hurricane Irene';
But let us all hope for the best after it overflows,
Even though, this flooding water destroys everything on its way.
Waterlogged, water, log, logged, god, dog, eat, ate, tea, are, era, art;
Waterlogged and silent!
Waterlogged, ear, to, at, lead, led, lod, deal, dale, ale, war, raw, dole;
The muse of 'Hurricane Irene' hits New York!
Waterlogged, tear, dear, read, deer, reed, go, do, doe, doer, oar, lower;
But, i do hope that, the people over there will be in safer places;
Waterlogged, wear, ware, weed, wed, law, low, dew, grew, rag, dreg;
However, nobody can stop Nature's strong hands! !
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poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Warning
A man there was, a gentle soul,
Of mild enquiring mind,
Who came into this neighbourhood
Its wonders for to find [ … ]
They told him who had put the lid
On Lydney; who the ale
Misspelt in Aylburton. And he
Delighted in the tale.
And still, like little Oliver,
He softly asked for more;
And with the utmost courtesy
Was answered as before.
Until one sleepy summer's eve
He came all unaware
Unto a place called Ruardean,
And asked ‘Who killed the bear?'
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poem by Frederick William Harvey
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The Village
The village once had a tiny railway station at one end
and a little pub where old men would drink.
No food was served, no canned lager
only good old fashioned ale.
Buses came each hour, never sooner
and the postman would pop by for a cup of tea.
I'd run errands for old ladies
and bring them flowers I'd picked from the fields.
Nowadays there are high rise flats replacing cottages,
a pub on every corner and supermarkets.
Boys walk round in gangs and hoods
and old ladies stay inside.
They shiver by cold radiators, too afraid of bills,
that used to be log fires and no one pops by.
They say they're too busy with their own lives,
their own problems.
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poem by Ruth Walters
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My Tynedale.
My Tynedale. (Summer)
Hedgerows green, wood pigeons preen,
Quiet valleys seldom seen,
Winding lanes for country miles,
Run down farmhouses with missing tiles,
Field after field of ripened corn,
This is my Tynedale, the place I was born.
The guns and the beaters all head for the fell,
Their target; grouse, maybe pheasant as well,
A year’s work done, it’s the glorious twelfth,
The birds all released in the best of health,
Thrashing and flailing, and waving their flags,
Brace after brace dropping down to the crags.
Farmer and labourers amass in field,
Make hay while the sun shines and gather their yield,
Cutting and bailing, trailers stacked high,
A ploughman’s lunch under Northumberland sky,
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poem by Derek. A. Sim
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Jack and Joan
Jack and Joan they think no ill,
But loving live, and merry still;
Do their week-days' work, and pray
Devoutly on the holy day:
Skip and trip it on the green,
And help to choose the Summer Queen;
Lash out, at a country feast,
Their silver penny with the best.
Well can they judge of nappy ale,
And tell at large a winter tale;
Climb up to the apple loft,
And turn the crabs till they be soft.
Tib is all the father's joy,
And little Tom the mother's boy.
All their pleasure is Content;
And care, to pay their yearly rent.
Joan can call by name her cows,
And deck her window with green boughs;
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poem by Thomas Campion
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When Poetry Haunted Me
Sudden was the descent of poetry on me
I tottered under its weight
My body heated up like the sun
A frying egg yolk on the pan
My blood started burning…. burning
A strange madness crept across my senses
Intoxicated as by an excess dose of ale
Or drunk with the vintage wine
Or by some mystical disengagement
I started levitating
Wings sprouted up suddenly on my sides
I reeled round and round
Flew up and up
Meteors flashed past
Stars blinked
Larger celestial bodies stood still
Strange sounds fleeted past my ears
My heart palpitated,
Like the rumblings of thunder
My eyes glowed like fire balls
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poem by Valsa George
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Ce-ți doresc eu ție, dulce Românie?
„Ce-ți doresc eu ție dulce Românie,
Țara mea de glorii, țara mea de dor?”
Liniște și pace, numai bucurie,
Sfântă unitate, un trai mai ușor.
Să-ți cunoști trecutul, crede-n viitor,
Amintirea veche să nu te umbrească,
Căci ai oameni harnici, popor iubitor,
Viitor de aur ce-o să strălucească.
Să plângi cu vecinii, că așa se cade,
Să fii pentru semeni apă rece, pâine,
Împarte cu frații ale tale roade,
Nu știi niciodată ce aduce... mâine.
Dar și să te bucuri cu cel care râde,
Razele-ți de soare zilnic să zâmbească,
Brațele-ți deschise duios le întinde,
Spre cei care sincer vor să te iubească.
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poem by Marius Alexandru (May 2022)
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