Not mine I assure you

Good though they seem.


39 thoughts on “Not mine I assure you

  1. LOVELIEST OF TREESBy A.E. HousmanLoveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride, Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my three score years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow.

  2. 😀 Here's to the poet side of WeatherLawyer.:up:Is this your first ever poem? Or do you have more stashed away somewhere?

  3. I have loads just say the word, they drip as those you'd wish deferred and though I drool with Meltian tongue I have no less than just begun.I stifle them. (For some deride -that I their patience sore have tried.) And you would wish that I'd have done, than with this drivel carry on.

  4. This one is though:LOVELIEST OF TREESBy A.WeatherlawyerLoveliest of trees, the cherry?No.None more fair than apple boughNor more bountiful, nor sweetThat casts its favours at your feet.For from the luscious apple scentAll crushed to syrup and biscuit, wentTo fill the cider barrel fullAnd winter from the summer mull.And having sampled what was brewedTapped the fruit and found it proved,Behind the barn into the leaI stagger off to have a pee.

  5. FOR ENGLISH BBy Langston HughesThe instructor said, Go home and write a page tonight. And let that page come out of you— Then, it will be true. I wonder if it's that simple? I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem. I went to school there, then Durham, then here to this college on the hill above Harlem. I am the only colored student in my class. The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas, Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y, the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator up to my room, sit down, and write this page: It's not easy to know what is true for you or me at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you: hear you, hear me—we two—you, me, talk on this page. (I hear New York too.) Me—who? Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love. I like to work, read, learn, and understand life. I like a pipe for a Christmas present, or records—Bessie, bop, or Bach. I guess being colored doesn't make me NOT like the same things other folks like who are other races. So will my page be colored that I write? Being me, it will not be white. But it will be a part of you, instructor. You are white— yet a part of me, as I am a part of you. That's American. Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me. Nor do I often want to be a part of you. But we are, that's true! As I learn from you,I guess you learn from me— although you're older—and white— and somewhat more free. This is my page for English B. 1951

  6. CommunismIt’s a cruel and humourless sort of punThat so powerful a present tyrannyShould call itself by the very name of a belief in communityBy a word:Communism.Which in other times evoked memoriesOf villages and village innsAnd of artisans concerting their skillsAnd of men of learning content with anonymity J.R. Oppenheimer

  7. Two from a dead warrior:The BeginningSome day I shall rise and leave my friendsAnd seek you again through the world's far ends,You whom I found so fairTouch of your hands and smell of your hair!My only god in the days that were.My eager feet shall find you again,Though the sullen years and the mark of painHave changed you wholly; for I shall knowHow could I forget having loved you so?In the sad half-light of evening, the face that was all my sunrising.So then at the ends of the earth I'll standAnd hold you fiercely by either hand,And seeing your age and ashen hairI'll curse the thing that once you were, because it is changed and pale and old.Lips that were scarlet, hair that was gold!And I loved you before you were old and wise,When the flame of youth was strong in your eyes,And my heart is sick with memories.*******Day That I Have Loved.Tenderly, day that I have loved, I close your eyes and smooth your quiet brow, and fold your thin dead hands.The grey veils of the half-light deepen; colour dies.I bear you, a light burden, to the shrouded sands,Where lies your waiting boat, by wreaths of the sea's making. Mist garlanded, with all grey weeds of the water crowned.There you'll be laid, past fear of sleep or hope of waking;And over the unmoving sea, without a sound, faint hands will row you outward, out beyond our sight.Us with stretched arms and empty eyes on the far-gleaming and marble sand.Beyond the shifting cold twilight, further than laughter goes, or tears, further than dreaming.There'll be no port, no dawn-lit islands but the drear waste darkeningAnd at length, flame ultimate on the deep.Oh, the last fire and you, unkissed, unfriended there!Oh, the lone way's red ending and we not there to weep!We found you pale and quiet, and strangely crowned with flowers,Lovely and secret as a child. You came with us.Came happily, hand in hand with the young dancing hours.High on the downs at dawn!) Void now and tenebrous,The grey sands curve before me from the inland meadows.Fragrant of June and clover, floats the dark.And fills the hollow sea's dead face with little creeping shadows.And the white silence brims the hollow of the hills.Close in the nest is folded every weary wing,Hushed all the joyful voices; and we, who held you dear,Eastward we turn and homeward, alone, remembering…Day that I loved, day that I loved, the Night is here! — Rupert Brooke

  8. Quote“Just because you are a drug addict and a whore doesn’t mean you’re not a worthy person”From a U.S. social workerAbout mothers who have children with AIDS3rd.Feb. 1989

  9. One of mine again:There’s a smile on the greasy face of the bloke underneath my carHis thinning hair, dirty jeans and old boots say it allHe turns from rags to rags and to sum up wipes his handsAnd says to me“Well I certainly hope you are not going far”Then he pressed a button and let the old car downI guess it’s gone about as far as it has been“I hate to tell you you’ve been riding scrapAnd you’ll be lucky to make it to the other side of town”I got in from the wrong side; moved over and turned the keyThe engine fired first go and he smiled and turned awayI was in his office when we heard the engine dieI gave him two small coins as he waived his fee.There’s a scrap yard across the other side of townThat offered me ten quid with nothing else to sayYou meet all sorts of people when you need an handThis time it was my turn to smile and turn someone downBut he’d have had his tenner back before he’d raise the lidThe price of scrap has fallen and I have to say that’s roughBut when the pennies in your pocket are all that you can feelAnd in this backwater and the way I look?Who’s he trying to kid?And the way I feel, I feel the way I’m going is going to make me roughWhen you are that far down you can’t help but start looking upWhen your not going where you’re going it’s because you’re still hereOr already there and if you are that’s toughWhen there’s no where else to go it means just about the sameThat’s life on the roadIt has its momentsBut sometimesHell wellYou’d gone about as far as you can goWhen you’ve got where you came to.So I found myself a nice warm hedge and started looking upThere are lots of falling stars up thereIf any are looking downAs they fall do they contemplate eternity?And just before they burn up did any think of me?First thing in the morning I pushed my car to a hill, shoved it into second and I was awayI closed the window to the smell of burning.I didn’t know that what was burning then was meThere’s a lot of smoke behind me; ahead, cars flash their lightsThe penny drops and I know it’s going to be my lucky dayWell I suppose its no use crying or complaining that somebodiesHave paid this country to take away its treesWhat else could have happened to our forestry?I should have seen it coming and got out of the way of the axeI always was too late to change, to meet my needsToo late I’ve left the leaving with much too far to goAnd too many men better than me left first to show the wayThe lesson is when leaving don’t leave it late and there is nothing left to leaveOr half way gone is all you’ll have left to goI asked some bloke that ran a pub, if I could clean his floorI got the job and all the peanuts I could eatAnd loaned a suit from some poor chap in hospitalSo I could watch the doorActually I enjoyed the job and all the dregs were freeThe long hours for not much pay made me feel quite at homeThe work wasn’t hard I could soon get used to itThe perks were with almost all the fights starring meIt was good while it lasted then business got slackThat’s the problem when you’re having fun and you think you’ve fitted inMine host said, “A lot of my customers are going elsewhere” andThere’s too many holes in your suit” and “You’re looking threadbare"I felt somehow that he’d like to give me the sackThat’s life; you get a life and then it gets you backSome travelling singer is going to come along and find my songAnd having chopped it up will make his fortuneIt might even be me that sells it for a song tra laThat’s how it’s gone all along Fame I suppose of a sortWhat’s new?I need some shoesBut now I’ve got a car again that goesSo it’s off to the wild blue yonder again I supposeI was explaining to a girl in a shop, how it is when a species goes down.(She smiled politely and a little embarrassed I thinkI don’t get too much chance to speak too much unless I write it firstAnd then I talk too much like in this story of mine which for a poemDoesn’t rhyme too often and I keep losing it’s rhythmAnd don’t ask me if it scans but at least its true)I put it down to experience for that is my experienceShe doesn’t appear to be getting me my cup of teaShe’s talking to her friend who takes over and I pay for what I wantBut what I want is for something I wouldn’t want to payThat’s like what I was trying to say how species go downNot that I expected it from that girl and meCause I know I’m only good for old cars, no jobs and lousy poetryAs I leave the shop I wonder what I should have said I didn’t sayOr was it something that I shouldn’t have said that makes them act that way?My people skills are not all they could beEither way she’s not coming out with meAnd so on I supposeTo an happy ending?Who knows?*******I wrote it as a short story but it kept trying to rhyme.So I let it.

  10. I love reading poetry. I especially liked your story poem. I used to have an 82 GMC van much like your car. I drove it for 20 yrs. It made so many rattling noises going down the road it sounded like parts were falling off everytime I went over a bump.

  11. That aids quote was tragic but so funny too, I couldn't let it slide.She aught to get a job with George Bush's rethink team.Antimatter for the self inflicted delusional.

  12. One more then to cheer you up with a good blood letter:“Say there who’s that man?”That’s how it all began(The king they say lay quaking in his tent)Who could be the man causing such alarm?(They made out they did not know who or what I meant)“Well tell me who is that man? I’ll get him if I can”They just stood there and looked at one another“That one there” I saidAnd they all dived for coverSo I went all down the line asking all the timeBut I got no sense until I found my brotherHe said “Listen here you shrimpDon’t you play the impUnload your stuff now and get back home to mother!”But you should have heard Goliath shoutThe taunting ugly lout(I suppose that’s why they never told the king)The things he said were bad; it made me fighting madThat all Israel would put up with such a thing!I just had to hang about to see how it came outI could see there was but one thing to be done(My brother had sent me home, so I dodged off all aloneTo somewhere I could watch the braggart shout)I have to say he did look fine marching up and down the lineAnd all the next day when he did the same againI kept thinking that with care one might take him unawareThen how to do it, It just came to my mindSo I went to see the king and we talked about the thingBut “no” he says “here try this armour on”“I’m too small to carry that and I can’t see through your hat”But no one else would do what should be done.Well the next day as he came out I left him walk aboutShouting all day long under the baking sunIn the evening I came limp and looking like a wimpAnd he said “Boy go home before you’re carrion.”I crouched down for a drink; that’s what I let him thinkHe sent his man to see what’s going onWell, I quickly put him down, no time to hang aroundMe thinking, “that’s good practice for a start”Then I’m past him with a boundAs Goliath turns around I’m taking aimI’m ready and I’m steadyNow Goliath bless his heart, wasn’t very smartDo you know what next he went and did?Again he starts to shoutArms and chest thrown outSo I hit him and he fell downOn his head(Fool)So I’m carrying the thing as a present to the kingThat will get me wed to the best in all the landBut there’s been an awful changeThe king is quite derangedAnd things are not going to work out as plannedMy best friend is his son and I go when he says “Run”So I’m off but I’ve got no place to goThen I thought, “I’m fleeing Hebrew wrathWhy don’t I hide in Gath?”The trouble is, now Goliath’s family is homeI haven’t got a friend so I’m hiding “around the bend”Until I get the chance and I’ll be gone.Well there’s lot’s more to this caperI’ll be running out of paperAnd I don’t know how soon before you’re boredSo now it’s time to quitAnd let you praise my witYes, thank you very much for listeningNow:Applause.

  13. I can't believe that there isn't a Joseph Parry song on you tube that does justice to the best singing in the world.. (If they'd just shoot the damned piano players.)MyfanwyWords: Joseph ParryWhy is it anger, O Myfanwy,That fills your eyes so dark and clear?Your gentle cheeks, O sweet Myfanwy,Why blush they not when I draw near?Where is the smile that once most tenderKindled my love so fond, so true?Where is the sound of your sweet words,That drew my heart to follow you?What have I done, O my Myfanwy,To earn your frown? What is my blame?Was it just play, my sweet Myfanwy,To set your poet's love aflame?You truly once to me were promised,Is it too much to keep your part?I wish no more your hand, Myfanwy,If I no longer have your heart.Myfanwy, may you spend your lifetimeBeneath the midday sunshine's glow,And on your cheeks O may the rosesDance for a hundred years or so.Forget now all the words of promiseYou made to one who loved you well,Give me your hand, my sweet Myfanwy,But one last time, to say "farewell".Original Welsh lyricsPa ham mae dicter, O Myfanwy,Yn llenwi'th lygaid duon ddi?A'th ruddiau tirion, O Myfanwy,Heb wrido wrth fy ngweled i?Pa le mae'r wen oedd ar dy wefusFu'n cynnau 'nghariad ffyddlon ffol?Pa le mae sain dy eiriau melys,Fu'n denu'n nghalon ar dy ôl?Pa beth a wneuthym, O Myfanwy,I haeddu gwg dy ddwyrudd hardd?Ai chwarae oeddit, O Myfanwy thanau euraidd serch dy fardd?Wyt eiddo im drwy gywir amodAi gormod cadw'th air i mi?Ni cheisiaf fyth mo'th law, Myfanwy,Heb gael dy galon gyda hi.Myfanwy boed yr holl o'th fywydDan heulwen disglair canol dydd.A boed i rosyn gwridog ienctidI ddawnsio ganmlwydd ar dy rudd.Anghofia'r oll o'th addewidionA wnest i rywun, 'ngeneth ddel,A rho dy law, Myfanwy dirionI ddim ond dweud y gair "Ffarwel".Llef or Deus Salutis.So here is the best of the rest: shame!Pronunciation:Pa ham mae dicter, O Myfanwy,Pa ham = paam.Myfanwy = m'vanwoo not mervin-wee.Yn llenwi'th lygaid duon ddi?LL is a letter similar to an aitch said as an el, inhaled = thluh say it on the inhale to get the idea but the sound is spoken on the exhale just like the rest of it.Lygaid is lug-eyed.Duon is dee-on (U is an I.)A'th ruddiau tirion, O Myfanwy,Ruddiau = rith-ee-eye.The rest is pretty straight forward. Letters mutate words following them, so that they blend into each other. Welsh can be spoken about 3 times faster than English.And that's not when the rather emotional buggers get going. They seem to flow faster and three octaves higher when upset, which is most of the time.

  14. Applause for your poem…another story poem. The Parry poem reminds me a bit of the Brownings. I'm glad you put in the pronounciations. I was saying 'Ma fan wee'.

  15. How do you fancy putting some David and Goliath cartoons together to make a children's book?I have two more chapters to go with that. I think it would make a geat colouring book.

  16. Not exactly poetry:

    England and Liverpool footballer Steven Gerrard has been charged with assault and affray following a disturbance at a Merseyside nightclub.

    His club will be standing by him when he appears in court.Which I found poetic.

  17. Calon LanNid wy’n gofyn bywyd moethus,Aur y byd na’i berlau mân:Gofyn wyf am galon hapus,Calon onest, calon lân.Calon lân yn llawn daioni,Tecach yw na’r lili dlos:Dim ond calon lân all ganu -Canu’r dydd a chanu’r nos.Pe dymunwn olud bydol,Chwim adenydd iddo sydd;Golud calon lân, rinweddol,Yn dwyn bythol elw fydd.Hwyr a bore fy nymuniadEsgyn ar adenydd cânAr i Dduw, er mwyn fy Ngheidwad,Roddi i mi galon lân.Translation:I don’t ask for a luxurious life,the world’s gold or its fine pearls:I ask for a happy heart,an honest heart, a pure heart.A pure heart is full of goodness,More lovely than the pretty lily:Only a pure heart can sing -Sing day and night.If I wished worldly wealth,He has a swift seed;The riches of a virtuous, pure heart,Will be a perpetual profit.Late and early, my wishRises on the wing of song,For God, for the sake of my Saviour,To give me a pure heart.'s nice sung with plenty of descant and a lot slower than I can find online.I think the translation is too accurate for poetry. Maybe I will try to improve it some time later:I don’t ask to live in splendour,Nor for beryl, or for gold.Give to me an happy heart,Yr ysbryd, "Hiraeth" won't be sold.Give me "hwyl", full of goodness,Lovely as the rose of dawnLike the song in the valley.A treasure for my whole life long.If I could balance the economy,Pay the rich all they ownWhat would I do with the moneyTo show to god all I have done?Christ almighty, if you are a saviourTell me all I need to knowGive me love and care and patienceAnd my heart a pleasant glow.Na fo.That's better.

  18. I think it is Sospan Fach. A lament. ('Cause they always lose.)After Cwrw-da, Rugby Union was the national sport. Still is in some places, a religion.Edit:This is a reply to a query from someone Opera removed. Screwed with my blog. Thanks Opera.

  19. Sospan Fach:Mae bys Mari Ann wedi gwywo,A Dafydd y gwas ddim yn iach;Mae'r faban yn y crud yn crio,A'r gath wedi scrapo Johnny bachSospan fach yn berwi ar y tânSosban fawr yn berwi ar y llawrA'r gath wedi scrapo Johnny bach.Dai bach yn sowldiwr, Dai bach yn sowldiwr,Dai bach yn sowldiwr,A chwt i grys e' mas.Mae bys Mari Ann wedi gwella,A Dafydd y gwas yn ei fedd;Mae'r baban yn y crud wedi tyfu,A'r gath wedi huno mewn hedd.Sospan fach yn berwi ar y tânSosban fawr yn berwi ar y llawrA'r gath wedi huno mewn hedd.Dai bach yn sowldiwr, Dai bach yn sowldiwr,Dai bach yn sowldiwr,A chwt i grys e' mas.

  20. My sweet Mary Ann's hurt her finger,And David the servant's feeling weak;And the baby's crying now in its cradle,The cat's scratching Johnny on the cheekLittle saucepan is boiling on the fire,Big saucepan boils over on the floor,The cat's scratching Johnny on the cheek.Davy the little soldier,Davy the little soldier,Davy the little soldier,His shirttail's hanging out. My sweet Mary Ann's feeling better,And David the servant's in his grave;And the baby's sleeping now in his cradle,The cat has decided to behave.Little saucepan is boiling on the fire,Big saucepan boils over on the floor,The cat has decided to behave.David the little soldier,David the little soldier,David the little soldier,His shirttail's hanging out.

  21. Thanks. Is this a sport hymn? Everything that includes fanatical behavior is like a religion, eh?Sports are good but fanaticism [is not]. BTW That song "Sospan Fach" is full of symbolism I suppose?******"Hooligans, remember that." I can't get the sense of what you meant by that. "Related to" hooliganism?But, yes sports do have unpleasant association with hooliganism.Hwyl is not that, it is a term for Welshness, yr mab Gomer. Hwyl: good spirit or enthusiasm.*******Is "Sospan Fach" full of symbolism?Not really, the daily events of even an humble housewife are full of many tragedies. Singing about them helps to dispell the grief.

  22. stirring feeling of emotional fervour and energy.Aa Welsh word widely enough known in British English to be included in most dictionaries.This is how it was described in Garthowen, by Allen Raine (1900):Will was certainly an eloquent preacher, if not a born orator, and possessed that peculiar gift known in Wales as “hwyl” — a sudden ecstatic inspiration, which carries the speaker away on its wings, supplying him with burning words of eloquence, which in his calmer and normal state he could never have chosen for himself.In Welsh the word more often refers to a complex and intangible quality of passion and sense of belonging that isn’t easy to translate but which has been said to sum up Welshness in a word.The Geiriadur Prifysgol Cymru:A healthy physical or mental condition, good form, one’s right senses, wits; tune (of a musical instrument); temper, mood, frame of mind; nature, disposition; degree of success achieved in the execution of a particular task &c; fervour (esp religious), ecstasy, unction, gusto, zest; characteristic musical intonation or sing-song cadence formerly much in vogue in the perorations of the Welsh pulpit.Its origins lie in a much older sense of the sail of a ship and hence elliptically one’s course — in life rather than on the sea. Most broadly, in Welsh hwyl refers to a person’s mood. By itself it can also mean “goodbye” as a common short form of hwyl fawr, roughly “all the best”, as can pob hwyl. think it just means tune or heart. Giving it one's all.

  23. The LionVachel LindsayThe Lion is a kingly beast.He likes a Hindu for a feast.And if no Hindu he can get,The lion-family is upset.He cuffs his wife and bites her earsTill she is nearly moved to tears.Then some explorer finds the denAnd all is family peace again.

  24. You like funny ones?Do they have poets in VenusZoola.WWhat does VenueZeuswella mean? "Land of the commie oil producers that want to put one over on the Banana barons"?

  25. The engineers that linked up the USA and Canada turned their attention on Panama and from there learned to expand their influence over most of South America when Nicaraguga asked United Fruit to pay something more like the real tax on their produce.Nicaragua was stripped of its educated people that might be capable or organising political opposition. Doctors, lawyers, teachers, union leaders that sort of thing. And a pineapple/drug pusher was installed to keep things in order.It seems that any motivation to establish home ownership in South America is seen as communism elsewhere.Hence the Banana barons as opposed to the plantation workers.

  26. IFIf you can keep your head when all about youAre losing theirs and blaming it on youIf you can trust yourself when all men doubt youBut make allowance for their doubting tooIf you can wait and not be tired by waitingOr being lied about, don't deal in liesOr being hated, don't give way to hatingAnd yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise.If you can dream and not make dreams your masterIf you can think and not make thoughts your aimIf you can meet with triumph and disasterAnd treat those two impostors just the sameIf you can bear to hear the truth you've spokenTwisted by knaves to make a trap for foolsOr watch the things you gave your life to, brokenAnd stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools.If you can make one heap of all your winningsAnd risk it all on one turn of pitch and tossAnd lose, and start again at your beginningsAnd never breath a word about your lossIf you can force your heart and nerve and sinewTo serve your turn long after they are goneAnd so hold on when there is nothing in youExcept the will which says to them: "Hold on!"If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtueOr walk with kings nor lose the common touchIf neither foes nor loving friends can hurt youIf all men count with you, but none too muchIf you can fill the unforgiving minuteWith sixty seconds' worth of distance runYours is the Earth and everything that's in itAnd which is more, you'll be a man, my son!Rudyard Kipling *******WhyWhy has it got to be my head when others too are at fault?Is it only mine will do?Why should I make a stand when no one thinks I can?They would all stab me in the backTo the last man!Why should my soul be dragged off to it’s end?I’ll tell you my faults before they find themNil carborundum to save them the grindBut when my light comes on see me leave them blind.Why shouldn’t I dream?A man must have a goal.Think about it, a man would be a foolIn this world you’ve got to take what you can get So leave the worst behind and take the bestOnly fools put things in writing to come back hauntingWhen someone comes to trample in the soilThe things you left to spoil.Me.*******WhenStand up when others stay downYes get your foolish face filled you clownAnd end up on the street looking up at feetFoolIt will seem that no one can see you thereHa ha how can they hear you say “Take care.”Worm.Get your back to the wall, keep in the cornerPut on a show for extravagant laughterAs not a thought crosses your mindExcept for anyway in that you can findBuoyed with fear Soaked in sweatStruggleStruggle to forgetDisappointment, exhaustion, alienationAnd yet..Be revived, try again.And get no credit for tryingFor your painBy and by, as you mature, bits fall offYet you endureSometimes(Stiff, unbending, painfully stoic, manfully enduring)You carry on in the creamOf extravagance..or was it arthritis?(Hm!..)And will you get there one day? Not “If.”Or will they bury you? But when!Me Again.*******

  27. Tennessee Flat-Top BoxJC CashIn a little cabaret, in a South Texas border town sat a boy and his guitar and the people came from all around and all the girls from there to Austin were slipping away from home and putting jewelery in hock to take the trip, to go and listen to the little dark-haired boy who played the Tennessee flat top box. Well, he couldn't ride or wrangle, and he never cared to make a dime but give him his guitar and he'd be happy all the time. And all the girls from nine to ninety were snapping fingers, tapping toes and begging him: "Don't stop." Hypnotized and fascinated by the little dark-haired boy who played the Tennessee flat top box.Then one day he was gone and no one ever saw him around. He'd vanished like the breeze, they forgot him in the little town. But all the girls still dreamed about him and hung around the cabaret until the doors were locked. And then one day on the Hit Parade was a little dark-haired boy who played the Tennessee flat top box.Music is everything to poetry. Without it these things are just verses.Go and hear it here:

  28. Pastrè dè délaï l'aïo,As gaïré dè buon tèms?Dio lou baïlèro lèrô,Lèrô lèrô lèrô lèrô baïlèro lô.Pastré lou prat faï flour,Li cal gorda toun troupel.Dio lou baïlèro lèrô,Lèrô lèrô lèrô lèrô baïlèro lô.Pastré couci foraï,En obal io lou bel riou!Dio lou baïlèro lèrô,Lèrô lèrô lèrô lèrô baïlèro lô.Music and lyrics: Traditional, adapted by Peterson.One of the Songs of the Auvergne collected by the French composer Joseph Canteloube a region in France, west of Lyon. Auvergnan, a dialect of the Occitan (aka Languedoc/Provençal) language is still spoken in parts of southern France today.The French government does not support "dialects" of French. Occitan is in fact a Romance language, much older than French. A law in France states only French can be used in public. would appreciate a translation. Google won't do.

  29. Weatherlawyer writes:A certain person wrote on this blog and I replied without quoting. It screwed the format.Point to note: Next time always reply with quotes.

  30. I had a record of this thread but I think I've lost it joined my old home. Your post looks really weird with those absent replies certainly. On the other hand, IIRC I have read about Galatians but I recall they are related to Vikings instead. Well, I have to review my notes and commenting later in consequence.PD:What an odd thing is an anonymous comment!

  31. Originally posted by tdjmd1:

    IIRC I have read about Galatians but I recall they are related to Vikings instead.

    O, Galatians > Celts, it's really true."It seems to be around 278-277 b.c.e, great quantity of Indo-european people, well-known as the Celtic ones, or Gauls -Greeks called them ga·lá·tai, the name given to the region- entered through Bosphorus and settled down there. They brought with them to wives and children and it looks like they refused to marry local people so their characteristic racial features remain the same during centuries. The Galatian territory was spread until including other regions as Licaonia, Pisidia, Paflagonia, Ponto and Frigia."it-1 Galatia

  32. I do know about Vikings that they are very very related to British history. They reached to conquer Brit land and becoming kings over there. They're also supposed to be good strategists and politicians not only drunkards or barbarians.

  33. Vikings means north kings that is northern or Hanseatic League realms.They were a nation of traders like the Phoenicians and the Dutch and lately the British.History has given them a bad press. They raped here they robbed there. No incidents quoted though.Just how much pillaging can you do in Britain with an open boat?And not get hit back just as hard?

  34. They had silk clothes and their churches still stand -some of them.As far as the known world existed in their day they roamed it. They had colonies in Britain. They may have mined copper and lead here. They would have traded for it.Some say they farmed Greenland, though a fishing industry run by their slaves might have been more likely. Running an open boat is a dangerous affair and whole families could be lost in a night with them.It's likely that having a colony in the northern reaches such as York and Edinburgh would have been a safety mechanism. Anyone trading in Britain might themselves be captured for slaves without an embassy to appeal too.And an embassy needs a force to back it up.When Richard III was the Duke of Gloucester he used to steal the ships of French traders.So they say.Who ya gonna call?

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