Sunday, October 31, 2010

Saturday, October 30, 2010

Great old postcards set to musc

Culloden Moor

(Seen in Autumn Rain)
Full of grief, the low winds sweep
O'er the sorrow-haunted ground;
Dark the woods where night rains weep,
Dark the hills that watch around.

Tell me, can the joys of spring
Ever make this sadness flee,
Make the woods with music ring,
And the streamlet laugh for glee?

When the summer moor is lit
With the pale fire of the broom,
And through green the shadows flit,
Still shall mirth give place to gloom?

Sad shall it be, though sun be shed
Golden bright on field and flood;
E'en the heather's crimson red
Holds the memory of blood.

Here that broken, weary band
Met the ruthless foe's array,
Where those moss-grown boulders stand,
On that dark and fatal day.

Like a phantom hope had fled,
Love to death was all in vain,
Vain, though heroes' blood was shed,
And though hearts were broke in twain.

Many a voice has cursed the name
Time has into darkness thrust,
Cruelty his only fame
In forgetfulness and dust.

Noble dead that sleep below,
We your valour ne'er forget;
Soft the heroes' rest who know
Hearts like theirs are beating yet.

A couple shots of the Isle of Skye at Sundown



Skye or the Isle of Skye (Scottish Gaelic: An t-Eilean Sgitheanach or Eilean a' Cheò), is the largest and most northerly island in the Inner Hebrides of Scotland. The island's peninsulas radiate out from a mountainous centre dominated by the Cuillin hills. Although it has been suggested that the first of these Gaelic names describes a "winged" shape there is no definitive agreement as to the name's origins.

The island has been occupied since the mesolithic period and has a colourful history including a time of Norse rule and a long period of domination by Clan MacLeod and Clan Donald. The events of the 19th century had a devastating impact on the human population, which declined from over 20,000 to around 9,200 in the early 21st century. Nonetheless, in contrast to many other Scottish islands, this represents a 4 per cent increase from the census of 1991. The main industries are tourism, agriculture, fishing and whisky-distilling and the largest settlement is Portree, which is known for its picturesque harbour.

Skye is part of the Highland Council local government area and is now linked to the mainland by a road bridge. The island is renowned for its spectacular scenery, vibrant culture and heritage, and its abundant wildlife including the Golden Eagle, Red Deer and Atlantic Salmon.



Taken 10/30/10 by James Boyle on Skye

True Colors

Filmed in the Immanuel presbyterian church, Los Angeles

As always there should be but one guide if you are a Christian. That would be love. We must first love our Gay and Lesbian brothers and sisters and with that will follow understanding. It really is that simple.


Immanuel is a unique church. It is 121 years old; yet considered cutting edge on most fronts. It is a community of faith; yet people here hold a broad range of faith perspectives. The church worships in Spanish and English and bilingually; yet that is not what makes it most diverse. Immanuel is made up of people who are rich
and poor, male and female, gay and straight; some of the members hold doctorates
and some haven't finished elementary school; some have Presbyterian backgrounds; others come from a Roman Catholic tradition, while still others come from another tradition or have no religious background. Immanuel is a unique church. The Church is 121 years old; yet is considered cutting edge on most fronts. It is a community of faith; yet people who attend hold a broad range of faith perspectives. Members were born in at least 25 different countries and speak many native languages. Immanuel is on the progressive side of the church, while maintaining spiritual roots and seeking spiritual connections in both traditional and innovative ways.

Jim visited a warehouse of Harris Tweed


Friday, October 29, 2010

The Raven: Read by Christopher Walken






The Raven
by Edgar Allan Poe

First Published in 1845

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door;
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore,.
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,
Nameless here forevermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me---filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door.
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door;---
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word,
Lenore?, This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word,
"Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before,
"Surely," said I, "surely, that is something at my window lattice.
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore.
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.
" 'Tis the wind, and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door.
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore.
Tell me what the lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore."
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered;
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before;
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore,---
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never---nevermore."

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore --
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath
Sent thee respite---respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore:
Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me I implore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore---
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming.
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted---nevermore!





This poem has long been a favorite of mine and my High School English teacher could recite it from memory. It was wonderful when he did. We all just sat spell bound when he did it for us. I hope you enjoyed this version done by Christopher Walken.

This is for You Peter Frank Smith

Incredible String Band ~ October Song



I'll sing you this October song,
Oh, there is no song before it.
The words and tune are none of my own,
for my joys and sorrows bore it.

Beside the sea
The brambly briars in the still of evening,
Birds fly out behind the sun,
and with them I'll leavng.

The fallen leaves that jewel the ground,
They know the art of dying,
And leave with joy their glad gold hearts,
In the scarlet shadows lying.

When hunger calls my footsteps home,
The morning follows after,
I swim the seas within my mind,
And the pine-trees laugh green laughter.

I used to search for happiness,
And I used to follow pleasure,
But I found a door behind my mind,
And that's the greatest treasure.

For rulers like to lay down laws,
And rebels like to break them,
And the poor priests like to walk in chains,
And God likes to forsake them.

I met a man whose name was Time,
And he said, "I must be going,"
But just how long that was,
I have no way of knowing.

Sometimes I want to murder time,
Sometimes when my heart's aching,
But mostly I just stroll along,
The path that he is taking

A modern Baba Yaga the witch.



Baba-Yaga (Russian: Ба́ба-Яга́) is a witch-like character in Slavic folklore. She flies around on a giant mortar or broomstick, kidnaps (and presumably eats) small children, and lives in a hut that stands on chicken legs. In most Slavic folk tales, she is portrayed as an antagonist; however, some characters in other mythological folk stories have been known to seek her out for her wisdom, and she has been known on rare occasions to offer guidance to lost souls.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Harry Potter Movie Train is the the Jacobite


The Jacobite Steam Train is run by West Coast Railways, a company based in England that runs a few other railway lines. They have only been operating the Jacobite since 1995, but it is now their most successful line, thanks to the popularity of the Harry Potter films.

The journey goes through some of Scotland’s most splendid scenery. Starting in Fort William, it travels along the shores of Loch Eil, stops for half an hour at Glenfinnan and continues to Mallaig, where there is a ferry service to the Isle of Skye.

The highlight of the journey is when the train crosses the Glenfinnan viaduct, where passengers get a stunning view towards the Glenfinnan Monument and Loch Shiel.

If you miss the train, or if it is full, then the A830 road from Fort William to Mallaig drives very close to the railway line, and there are several small bridges that you can stand on whilst the train passes below you. The train only does about 50mph so it’s easy to keep pace with its route.

For a great photo, be at the Glenfinnan Visitor Centre at 11.20 am or 3.00 pm when the train crosses the viaduct: a “magic” sight for Harry Potter fans.

Old Halloween Post Card

"Witch's Promise"


Lend me your ear while I call you a fool.
You were kissed by a witch one night in the wood,
and later insisted your feelings were true.
The witch's promise was coming,
believing he listened while laughing you flew.

Leaves falling red, yellow, brown, all are the same,
and the love you have found lay outside in the rain.
Washed clean by the water but nursing its pain.
The witch's promise was coming, and you're looking
elsewhere for your own selfish gain.

Keep looking, keep looking for somewhere to be,
well, you're wasting your time, they're not stupid like he is.
Meanwhile leaves are still falling, you're too blind to see.

You won't find it easy now, it's only fair.
He was willing to give to you, you didn't care.
You're waiting for more but you've already had your share.
The witch's promise is turning, so don't you wait up
for him, he's going to be late.



Ian Anderson is the lead singer and flute player of Jethro Tull. Ian Anderson's father, James Anderson, ran the RSA Boiler Fluid Company in East Port, Dunfermline. He spent the first part of his childhood in Edinburgh. His family moved to Blackpool, Lancashire in 1959, where he gained a traditional education at Blackpool Grammar School,before going on to study fine art at Blackpool College of Art from 1964 to 1966.

Jethro Tull

Band Memners 1969-1970
Ian Anderson - lead vocals, flute, acoustic guitar
Martin Barre - guitar, vocals
Glenn Cornick - bass, vocals
Clive Bunker - drums, percussion, vocals
John Evan - keyboards, piano, vocals

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

The Callanish Stones



This is a nice teaser video about the The Callanish Stones.

Jim is off tomorrow to go see the Callanish Stones on Lewis



An early rendering of the Callanish Stones on the Isle of Lewis






The Callanish Stones (or "Callanish I"), Clachan Chalanais or Tursachan Chalanais in Gaelic, are situated near the village of Callanish (Gaelic: Calanais) on the west coast of the isle of Lewis, in the Outer Hebrides (Western Isles), Scotland. There is a visitor centre with an exhibition, restrooms and shops nearby.




These are photos I took in 2007 of the Callanish Stones on the Island of Lewis in Scotland. Jim will be going there tomorrow. Construction of the site took place between 2900 and 2600 BC, though there were possibly earlier buildings before 3000 BC. A tomb was later built into the site. Debris from the destruction of the tomb suggests the site was out of use between 2000 BC and 1700 BC. The 13 primary stones form a circle about 13 m in diameter, with a long approach avenue of stones to the north, and shorter stone rows to the east, south, and west (possibly incomplete avenues). The overall layout of the monument recalls a distorted Celtic cross. The individual stones vary from around 1 m to 5 m in height, with an average of 4 m, and are of the local Lewisian gneiss.

Jim's ride on the Jacobite










http://www.westcoastrailways.co.uk/Jacobite.cfm

RAT POEM





Rat you are too fat
rat you are trapped
in the trap of a rat.

Hiding in fewness, shopped
by your womb’s abacus,
from invisible slimness pushed out
by your intricate foot.

Whisker-precise, twitch-perfect
to your tail’s last 0.00

Rat you are trapped
in the brilliance of rat.

Rat rat rat rat
how will you get out of that?

-Peter Oswald

Jim is now in Fort William

Jim sent me a few photos after getting in at Fort William on the train on Tuesday.




Fort William, Scotland at Dusk





The Alexandra Hotel

http://www.strathmorehotels.com/Alexandra+Hotel/Home/

The Alexandra Hotel

The Parade, Fort William, Highlands and Islands, PH33 6AZ





Saint Andrews Kirk next to the Alexandra

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Monday, October 25, 2010

Steaming and stomping though the Highlands


My husband Jim is now in Scotland and I hope to share some of his adventures here soon. His first big adventure will be riding the steam train from Fort William to Mallaig know as the Jacobite. It will cease running until next season at the end of the month so Jim just managed to get a ticket before it shuts down until next year. This line is the one used in the Harry Potter films and it is really an amazing ride from what we have read.

Chris Hedges: I Don't Believe in Atheists


This takes some time to listen to but it is truly an amazing and enlightening speech! There is a book which I have not yet read as well.
http://vimeo.com/7830290

About Hedges
http://www.truthdig.com/chris_hedges

Ballade of Autumn



photo by Mike Abrams


We built a castle in the air,
In summer weather, you and I,
The wind and sun were in your hair, -
Gold hair against a sapphire sky:
When Autumn came, with leaves that fly
Before the storm, across the plain,
You fled from me, with scarce a sigh -
My Love returns no more again!

The windy lights of Autumn flare:
I watch the moonlit sails go by;
I marvel how men toil and fare,
The weary business that they ply!
Their voyaging is vanity,
And fairy gold is all their gain,
And all the winds of winter cry,
"My Love returns no more again!"

Here, in my castle of Despair,
I sit alone with memory;
The wind-fed wolf has left his lair,
To keep the outcast company.
The brooding owl he hoots hard by,
The hare shall kindle on thy hearth-stane,
The Rhymer's soothest prophecy,
My Love returns no more again!

ENVOY.

Lady, my home until I die
Is here, where youth and hope were slain:
They flit, the ghosts of our July,
My Love returns no more again!


photo by Mike Abrams


Andrew Lang (1844 - 1912)

Sunday, October 24, 2010

Autumn Fires


In the other gardens
And all up the vale,
From the autumn bonfires
See the smoke trail!

Pleasant summer over
And all the summer flowers,
The red fire blazes,
The grey smoke towers.

Sing a song of seasons!
Something bright in all!
Flowers in the summer,
Fires in the fall!

Robert Louis Stevenson

To Autumn



Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.


John Keats

Friday, October 22, 2010

The golden wild grapevine leaves


The golden wild grapevine leaves are woven in the nearby trees. Their leaves glow like the tiny pieces of a stained glass window in the last days of October just before the days turn to dusky gray. Soon even those leaves will fall.

My Lady of Autumn



This is a video of Beggar's Velvet singing acapella, © My Lady of Autumn by Dave Webber. The photos are by Beth and Jim Boyle. The photos are of Fall in Western, NY. Beggar's Velvet was an outstanding UK group made up of Cathy & Charley Yarwood and Dave Webber & Anni Fentiman. Beggar's Velvet stopped performing in 1993 after eight successful and happy years but you can still buy their music!
http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/beggarsvelvet

http://www.oldandnewtradition.com/

October Rat

Autumn Song



Autumn Song

Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1883)


Know’st thou not at the fall of the leaf
How the heart feels a languid grief
Laid on it for a covering,
And how sleep seems a goodly thing
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

And how the swift beat of the brain
Falters because it is in vain,
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf
Knowest thou not? and how the chief
Of joys seems—not to suffer pain?

Know’st thou not at the fall of the leaf
How the soul feels like a dried sheaf
Bound up at length for harvesting,
And how death seems a comely thing
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

Dylan Thomas October Poem





It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
And the mussel pooled and the heron
Priested shore
The morning beckon
With water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the webbed wall
Myself to set foot
That second
In the still sleeping town and set forth.

My birthday began with the water-
Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose
In a rainy autumn
And walked abroad in shower of all my days
High tide and the heron dived when I took the road
Over the border
And the gates
Of the town closed as the town awoke.

A springful of larks in a rolling
Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling
Blackbirds and the sun of October
Summery
On the hill's shoulder,
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly
Come in the morning where I wandered and listened
To the rain wringing
Wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me.

Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea wet church the size of a snail
With its horns through mist and the castle
Brown as owls
But all the gardens
Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales
Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.
There could I marvel
My birthday
Away but the weather turned around.

It turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue altered sky
Streamed again a wonder of summer
With apples
Pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning so clearly a child's
Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother
Through the parables
Of sunlight
And the legends of the green chapels

And the twice told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.
These were the woods the river and the sea
Where a boy
In the listening
Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy
To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.
And the mystery
Sang alive
Still in the water and singing birds.

And there could I marvel my birthday
Away but the weather turned around. And the true
Joy of the long dead child sang burning
In the sun.
It was my thirtieth
Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon
Though the town below lay leaved with October blood.
O may my heart's truth
Still be sung
On this high hill in a year's turning.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

October



"O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow's wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away."

- Robert Frost, October

October's bright blue weather


"O suns and skies and clouds of June,
And flowers of June together,
Ye cannot rival for one hour
October's bright blue weather."

The scarlet of maples




"The scarlet of maples can shake me like a cry
Of bugles going by.
And my lonely spirit thrills
to see the frosty asters like smoke
upon the hills."
- William Bliss Carman


Monday, October 18, 2010

Wool Festival


http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=31006014&l=2f2a1488f9&id=1489205321

Here is a photo album of this years New York State Sheep and Wool Festival in Rhinebeck, NY

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

The Ash Grove


The ash grove, how graceful, how plainly 'tis speaking,
The harp through it playing has language for me;
Whenever the light through its branches is breaking,
A host of kind faces is gazing on me.
The friends of my childhood again are before me,
Each step wakes a mem'ry, as freely I roam;
With soft whispers laden, its leaves rustle o'er me;
The ash grove, the ashgrove alone is my home.

My lips smile no more, my heart loses its lightness,
No dream of the future my spirit can cheer;
I only can brood on the past and its brightness,
The dead I have mourned are again living here.
From ev'ry dark nook they press forward to meet me;
I lift up my eyes to the broad leafy dome,
And others are there, looking downward to greet me;
The ash grove, the ash grove alone is my home.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

A Frog he would a-Wooing Go



A Frog He Would A-wooing Go
Children's Song

A frog he would a-wooing go,
Heigh ho! says Rowley,
A frog he would a-wooing go,
Whether his mother would let him or no.
With a rowley, powley*, gammon, and spinach,
Heigh ho! says Anthony Rowley.

So off he set with his opera hat,
Heigh ho! says Rowley,
So off he set with his opera hat,
And on the road he met with a rat,
With a rowley, powley, gammon, and spinach,
Heigh ho! says Anthony Rowley.

Pray, Mr. Rat will you go with me?
Heigh ho! says Rowley,
Pray, Mr. Rat will you go with me,
Kind Mrs. Mousey for to see…
With a rowley, powley, gammon, and spinach,
Heigh ho! says Anthony Rowley.

They came to the door of Mousey's hall,
Heigh ho! says Rowley,
They gave a loud knock, and they gave a loud call.
With a rowley, powley, gammon, and spinach,
Heigh ho! says Anthony Rowley.

Pray, Mrs. Mouse are you within?
Heigh ho! says Rowley,
Oh yes, kind sirs, I'm sitting to spin.
With a rowley, powley, gammon, and spinach,
Heigh ho! says Anthony Rowley.

Pray, Mrs. Mouse will you give us some beer?
Heigh ho! says Rowley,
For Froggy and I are fond of good cheer.
With a rowley, powley, gammon, and spinach,
Heigh ho! says Anthony Rowley.

Pray, Mr. Frog will you give us a song?
Heigh ho! says Rowley,
Let it be something that's not very long.
With a rowley, powley, gammon, and spinach,
Heigh ho! says Anthony Rowley.

Indeed, Mrs. Mouse, replied Mr. Frog,
Heigh ho! says Rowley,
A cold has made me as hoarse as a dog.
With a rowley, powley, gammon, and spinach,
Heigh ho! says Anthony Rowley.

Since you have a cold, Mr. Frog, Mousey said,
Heigh ho! says Rowley,
I'll sing you a song that I've just made.
With a rowley, powley, gammon, and spinach,
Heigh ho! says Anthony Rowley.

But while they were all a-merry-making
Heigh ho! says Rowley,
A cat and her kittens came tumbling in.
With a rowley, powley, gammon, and spinach,
Heigh ho! says Anthony Rowley.

The cat she seized the rat by the crown,
Heigh ho! says Rowley,
The kittens they pulled the little mouse down.
With a rowley, powley, gammon, and spinach,
Heigh ho! says Anthony Rowley.

This put Mr. Frog in a terrible fright,
Heigh ho! says Rowley.
He took up his hat and he wished them goodnight.
With a rowley, powley, gammon, and spinach,
Heigh ho! says Anthony Rowley.

But as Froggy was crossing over a brook,
Heigh ho! says Rowley.
A lily white duck came and gobbled him up.
With a rowley, powley, gammon, and spinach,
Heigh ho! says Anthony Rowley.

Griffin my big ol rat.





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