RBW Online ISSUE 255
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21st September 2012
René Descartes (March 31, 1596 – February 11, 1650) was a highly influential French philosopher, mathematician, physicist and writer. He is known for influential
arguments for substance dualism, where mind and body have distinct essences, one characterized by thought, the other by spacial extension. The "Father of Modern Philosophy" and the "Father of Modern Mathematics." He is also known as Cartesius. Dubium sapientiae initium. Doubt is the origin of wisdom. Meditationes de prima philosophiae (Meditations on First Philosophy) (1641) Cogito, ergo sum. I think, therefore I am. Variant: I think therefore I exist. Principia philosophiae (Principles of Philosophy) (1644), Part I, Article 7 Ex nihilo nihil fit. Nothing comes out of nothing. Principia philosophiae, Part I, Article 49 Me tenant comme je suis, un pied dans un pays et l‟autre en un autre, je trouve ma condition très heureuse, en ce qu‟elle est libre. Staying as I am, one foot in one country and the other in another, I find my condition very happy, in that it is free. Letter to Elisabeth of Bohemia, Princess Palatine (Paris, June/July 1648) If you would be a real seeker after truth, it is necessary that at least once in your life you doubt, as far as possible, all things. Darling, David J. (2004). The Universal Book of Mathematics. Wiley Of all things, good sense is the most fairly distributed: everyone thinks he is so well supplied with it that even those who are the hardest to satisfy in every other respect never desire more of it than they already have. Pt. 1 Variants: Good sense is of all things in the world the most equally distributed, for everybody thinks he is so well supplied with it, that even those most difficult to please in all other matters never desire more of it than they already possess. Common sense is the most fairly distributed thing in the world, for each one thinks he is so well-endowed with it that even those who are hardest to satisfy in all other matters are not in the habit of desiring more of it than they already have. Nothing is more fairly distributed than common sense: no one thinks he needs more of it than he already has. It is not enough to have a good mind. The main thing is to use it well.
The greatest minds are capable of the greatest vices as well as of the greatest virtues. Pt. 1
The first precept was never to accept a thing as true until I knew it as such without a single doubt.
Issue 255 Page 2 Faith Hickey © image
kid n. a. A young goat. b. The young of a similar animal, e.g. an antelope. a. The flesh of a young goat. b. Leather made from the skin of a young goat; kidskin. c. An article made from young goat leather. Informal a. A child. b. A young person. 4. Slang for a friend. Familiar address for a young person.
Kid Goat Skin can also be used in making Vellum.
adj. 1. Made of kid. 2. Informal: my kid sister. v. kid·ded, kid·ding, kids v.tr. Informal 1. To mock in play; to tease. 2. To deceive in fun; to fool around. v.intr. 1. Informal teasing or good-natured fooling. 2. To bear young. Used of a goat or an antelope. Idiom: no kidding 1. To express disbelief. 2. Scornful acknowledgment of something obvious. Middle English kide, from Old Norse kidh. kidder n.
A two-month-old goat kid Wikipedia
LIFE OBSERVATIONS The tongue is the most difficult organ to control, and is capable of the greatest damage. It’s very quiet in the library until we get there. Courtesy is perhaps an old fashioned concept, but consideration for others makes us all better people. Summers are getting shorter, and winters longer, the older I get. The odd word of praise never goes amiss. The hardest part of joining something new is opening the door. I purchased an old fashioned real brass door handle yesterday. It wasn’t cheap. It had a weight to it. It had four holes for screws so it would be held firm. It shone in the dim light of the outside loo, and when screwed to the wooden door looked as if it had always belonged there. It takes time for me to get around to doing things, but after 55 years of cussing the lack of a handle, it really was about time to get a handle fixed. I keep going to look at it to check it is still there ... isn’t that silly ... Issue 255 Page 3
Random words (CMH) When the mood took him, Jonathan was married to Roberta, but that was usually at mealtimes. According to Roberta, to her mind he was married at other times, variously, to: a rosebush or six in the garden; a random assortment of noxious, probably illegal, tarry substances bubbling away in the garden shed. These where said to be, „Good for Blackfly‟; the Blackfly would have disagreed, but no one asked them. A scribble pad full of algebra, or something like it, reputed to be an infallible betting system. It needed more work as it always failed. The workings of his famous, „Perpetual Motion Engine‟; if only he could get it to start he‟d be quids in. And a crepuscular something. You didn‟t ask questions about that; you just tiptoed gently away from it. In short, he was a gardener and determined to win at next year‟s show.
churlish, dissembling, television, gambling, interpersonal, temperament , market place, weird, victim, tapestry, magnanimous, thistle, loan, dispute. 150 words Assignment: All is safely gathered in 400 words 2012: RBW FREE e-books NOW PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu.com http://www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk/ DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=52 http://issuu.com/risingbrookwriters
Steph‟s two FREE poetry e-chapbooks now published on www.issuu.com/ risingbrookwriters and on RBW main site
http://www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk/DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=52 Next exhibition: Millbank Gallery, October.
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CLIVE‟s three FREE e-books NOW PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu http://www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk/DynamicPage.aspx? PageID=52 http://issuu.com/risingbrookwriters
RBW latest brit-farce has now been e-published. It’s FREE... It’s on our Facebook page ... It’s on our main website and on ISSUU.COM and already it’s attracting readers. It’s a chuckle muscle stretcher ... go on have a laugh ... Control+Click the picture to follow link.
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Little Moreton Hall Little Moreton Hall is in south Cheshire, a few miles up the A34 road from Stoke-on-Trent. It is one of the strangestlooking houses in Britain. It was built in stages from the mid-15th century. Its most spectacular feature is the Long Gallery which forms the top floor, which seems to have been added at the end of the Elizabethan period, when such features were fashionable. Unfortunately the house was not strong enough to take the added weight, so it now tilts in various directions and the floors are more like waves than level surface.
The entrance can be seen towards the right of the picture, via a bridge across a moat and into a gatehouse (none of which could possibly have served any defensive purpose!) and through to a courtyard. Here is a picture of the court yard, seen from near the gatehouse.
The carpenter who built this part of the hall left his name on the work. There was no standard spelling in the Tudor period.
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These two improving messages can be seen at either end of the Long Gallery. Note that all the letter Ns are back to front! The Hall is now owned by the National Trust.
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Where am I? What am I doing here, in a queue in front of this castle effort? And it‟s not even a PROPER queue, more of a gaggle but what can you expect today? But what are all these other odd folks doing, all dressed up in funny clothes as well. I mean it‟s ridiculous, there‟s no way that that bloke four in front is a real monk. There aren‟t any around here, well not that I know too anyway. I‟ll have to ask somebody. That bloke with a clipboard there looks as if he knows his way about. “Excuse me, sir. Could I ask for your help, please?” “Of course, it‟s Roger Jones-Green, isn‟t it? I‟m Pete by the way, now what can I do to help? “Well, I was wondering where I am and what I‟m doing here?” “What‟s the last thing you remember then, Roger?” “Well, I was digging in my garden and then…” “And then your spade hit an unknown unexploded bomb and you got blown to pieces and ended up here. This is the gate to heaven, or hell if you can‟t get through the turnstiles. Sorry, but you‟ll just have to wait your turn. The fast track for the English is just a myth. Get a ticket and hang about until they call your number. There‟s no rush; you‟ve got all eternity.”
Do you think the Over 50s can be creative? Have you got time on your hands? Do you like working with elderly people? Do you enjoy creative writing? Do you have any special skills to share? How do you feel about team management? Any good with fundraising? Enjoy being hands-on with project management? Enjoy putting on outside events? Have you ever fancied trying voluntary work? Ever done any public speaking? How reliable are you? Can you work under time pressure? Can you smile through adversity and deliver on time? And, can you do all the above week in, week out, without being paid a single penny for all the effort?
If you can answer yes to any of the above come and talk to RBW ... we’re recruiting trustees ... NB: All applicants will be fully CRB checked and references will be required.
MAN BOOKER PRIZE 2012 shortlist announced
11 September 2012
The six books were chosen by a panel of judges chaired by Sir Peter Stothard, Editor of the Times Literary Supplement. The shortlist: Tan Twan Eng, The Garden of Evening Mists (Myrmidon Books) Deborah Levy, Swimming Home (And Other Stories/Faber & Faber) Hilary Mantel, Bring up the Bodies (Fourth Estate) Alison Moore, The Lighthouse (Salt) Will Self, Umbrella (Bloomsbury) Jeet Thayil, Narcopolis (Faber & Faber) The 2012 shortlist includes two debut novels, three small independent publishers, two former shortlisted authors and one previous winner. Of the six writers, three are men and three are women; four are British, one Indian and one Malaysian. The winner of the 2012 prize will be announced at a dinner at London‟s Guildhall on Tuesday 16 October. Each of the six shortlisted writers is awarded £2,500 and a specially commissioned handbound edition of his/her book. The winner receives a further £50,000. Peter Stothard is joined on the judging panel by: Dinah Birch, academic and literary critic; Amanda Foreman, historian, writer and broadcaster; Dan Stevens, actor and Bharat Tandon, academic, writer and reviewer. 2012 marks the 44th year of the prize, which began in 1969. A full history can be found on the Man Booker Prize website – www.themanbookerprize.com
Roberta and Jonathon went for a ride in a lovely old red saloon They took along with them a random collection of books to suit every mood. I have it in mind Jonathon said as he twined his hand through her long golden hair Why don't we marry no longer to tarry in this crepuscular air. I shall plant a new rosebush Roberta said softly to mark the happy occasion. Jonathon just smiled he was busy at work on a tricky algebraic equation. (EH)
It was love at first sight. The tall, leggy creature captured his heart. And when he saw its rider, the lovely Roberta and learnt later that she, too was a maths graduate, and horse mad, - well, Jonathon knew that this was no random meeting, but destiny. After the horseshow had ended, he had decided to tarry a while, and seek out the girl, and horse, of his dreams. Amazingly, Roberta was of the same mind. “Come and meet my horses,” she said. “This is Algebra, - Algie for short, and this is my thoroughbred mare, Suduko, known as Sue. We could make the 2016 Olympics.” “Wonderful!” Jonathon replied enthusiastically. “I have a useful hunter myself. She‟s called Trigger, short for Trigonometry. I may breed from her. It was twilight, and in a romantic mood, Jonathon invited her to his favourite restaurant, set in beautiful gardens. He plucked her a bloom from a rosebush and in the crepuscular light declared, “We should be married, and open a stud. What do you say?” (PMW)
A guilty secret. (Assignment)
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She turned the head of many a male When Sugar Kane walked by. And one of them belonged to Joe, She caught his roving eye.
Joe told him “You like Sugar Kane, Though what you say is true. I know our lives are on the line Go on, admit you do!”
“I really, really like that girl. I want to ask her out.” “You can‟t! Remember who you are!” His friend said with a shout.
“She says she wants a millionaire From Florida, with glasses. I‟ll dress as one, and then maybe She won‟t reject my passes”.
“From now on you are Josephine. Your name‟s no longer Joe. Our very lives depend on it. No-one must ever know”.
“Osgood Fielding‟s asked me to Have supper on his yacht,” Said Daphne, looking desperate. “He wants to tie the knot!”
“We are two girl musicians Playing in a travelling band. Escaping from the Mafia. Now try to understand!”
“This situation‟s got quite difficult. In fact, it‟s out of hand. I think we must confess we‟re men In an otherwise female band!”
“You play the tenor saxophone And I the double bass. We are in mortal danger. Al Capone is on our case!”
The best and the worst. We Brits are feeling pretty pleased with ourselves. We may be small, but we can certainly put on a show! First the Diamond Jubilee celebrations, then the Olympic Games, and now, the Paralympics. Even people not wildly into sport had to admit it was good. Folk were helpful, friendly and tolerant. The 80,000 (mainly) British supporters who crowded into the stadium each day, cheered not just for their fellow countrymen and women, but for all the valiant athletes who took part. They were fairminded and generous in their support and admiration. The newspaper coverage was all positive. „The best games ever‟. For once, I was proud to be a Brit. Yes indeed, the games brought out the best in everyone. Or almost everyone. It‟s a shame that such occasions can bring out the best, but sadly, the worst in folk. Take the experiences of my acquaintance, Anne, who was one of the volunteer „gamesmakers‟, who gave up three weeks of the summer by performing all the necessary background, unseen task to help keep things running smoothly. They had no say in what role they were given. Anne was assigned to be a driver, to ferry VIPs around the various venues. “To be honest, I wasn‟t too pleased to get that particular job,” she told us. “In my opinion, noone is more important than anyone else. We are all equal in God‟s eyes.” But one small perk of being a volunteer was that she got to watch some of the events when time allowed. Anne witnessed the long jump for blind competitors. To someone with reasonable eyesight, it is almost inconceivable to think that anyone with near total blindness would be able to perform this particular event, and so Anne described to us in great detail, just how they overcame their disability with the assistance of guides and mentors. The huge crowd was asked to be quiet so that the athlete could hear his/her cue. “It was truly amazing to experience that. The overwhelming noise in the stadium fell silent. You could hear a pin drop. The request was universally respected.” Then, these unsung heroes, the mentors and guides first positioned the athletes at the end of the runway, then stood at the far end, immediately in front of the pit, and with a series of claps, getting faster as the jumper neared the take-off point, helped indicate the progress up the runway, before stepping out of the way when the athlete hit the board and launched into the unknown. “Such implicit trust in another.” Anne marvelled. “It was a most humbling thing to see.” But then, there was the VIP… The BMW 5 series that had been allocated for Anne‟s use was kept in the car pool. Each time it was taken out, it had to be security checked, and likewise, on its return. Most of the Olympic venues were within easy walking distance of the main stadium, but to drive there was quite a different proposition, which involved leaving the pool, going through the security checks, driving a circuitous, one-way route around part of London, to re-enter the complex at the far side, on to the destination, then back to the pool and check-in. Anne did this jaunt many times, and got quite used to both the procedures and that particular part of the capital city. One evening, having arrived to take a certain individual to his venue, she was told she could hand over the keys, since he would be wanting to use the vehicle later. This was against all the Olympic protocol, so Anne had to tell him this wasn‟t possible, and that she must return the car to the pool. And besides, the particular destination this time was, according to Anne, no more than 500 yards away, it was a beautiful summer‟s evening, so not unreasonably, she suggested it might be more sensible to walk, rather than have to go through all the above. He declined and insisted on being chauffeured there. “I couldn‟t help but be struck by the huge differences in attitudes, between the brilliant athletes, who had trained for years under the most trying of circumstances, probably at huge cost, their guides, who got no recognition for their vital role, but without whose help the long jumpers couldn‟t function, and the self-importance of some people who had money, status and no such physical disadvantages. In situations like that, you certainly see the best and the worst in people!”
Cryptic clue: Oddly, a ruin and a mess will help you get in shape. Issue 255 Page 10
Arthur Arbuthnot was sitting in the knot-garden drinking tea from a proper teacup, not the mug he usually used. Gladys, his wife was beside him working out how the make an abacus out of an old bike and a set of horseshoes. “I‟ve got it Arthur,” she said. Arthur didn‟t know what it was but thought that painful was going to be the least of his worries. “Up off your lazy bottom and make some pancakes,” she ordered. Arthur promptly got to his feet; he knew which side his pancakes had jam on, his answer was both, and trampled his way across the veg patch. This got Gladys annoyed enough to ban him from addressing the WI meeting that afternoon. He was really chuffed about that. (CMH) Lady Monica sat on the terrace, sipped her Earl Grey from a delicate china teacup and surveyed with horror the devastation of her once beautiful formal gardens. The herbaceous borders were flat as a pancake and the neatly clipped knot-garden was straggly and ragged. “That lazy kennel-boy Harry!” exclaimed Lord Cecil. “I‟m always having to prompt him to do his duties. I have to remind him to feed the hounds and to groom them. And as to exercising them. Well, his idea of that little chore is to open the doors to the kennels and let them run riot!” “And you can see the results of that!” Lady Monica wailed. “Quite!” her husband nodded sadly. “Arbuthnot!” he called to his faithful butler. “Yes, your Lordship?” “Fetch my abacus, there‟s‟ a good chap. I need to calculate the damage and deduct it from that boy‟s wages!” (PMW)
Show and Tell When we’re writing books we need research pictures. Many do not make it into the final draft version. This is one of them — a canal boat at Penkridge taken for the comic detective story “Where There’s A Will There’s A Weigh”. Notice the flowers and castles designs which are traditional.
SIMPLE TOOLS cont‟d .... Part 2. A partnership Barry looked around the room trying to spot someone that he thought he could get on with. Most of them looked to be of a similar mould: assured, tall, ex-military, mostly Caucasian, and was he: short, dark, of a mixed American and Welsh decent and an ex-Scout. The women, all five of them, looked like models, healthier fitter models to be sure, but? Oh well, Barry, he said to himself, time to get started, go and talk to them. After all they can't bite your head off. Turning to the man on the next seat he offered his hand and said, “Barry White.” His answer was a firm grip and a Scot‟s accent saying, “Edward Crewe, Ted to my family and friends. Where you from, Barry?” “Good question, Ted. My Mum and Dad are from Cairgybth but I'm living in Chester, so pick whichever you like.” Ted laughed, “A bit like me then sojourning in a foreign land. My parents are from Mull, the Island that is, but I'm stuck in York. So! What are you doing in this benighted spot then. I mean other than being scared to death by the folks on the stage that is?” “Trying to find a partner for these shenanigans they've promised us, Ted. After that I don't know. How about you?” “In my dreams, Barry, I want to find lost civilisations, stand on strange worlds, discover riches galore, enjoy strange foods, how about you?” “Well I've got you beat on the lost civilisations and strange foods bit, at least. If last night‟s meal wasn't strange foods then I don't know what is and a lost civilisation is all around us. Just look out of the window!” “You could be right there, Barry,” Ted gave a little chuckle. “Manchester does have that feel about it, in parts any way.” “D'you reckon that two ex-pats like us could make a pair then, Ted?” Barry asked. “Yes, I think we can. Let's give it whirl anyway. If we don't end up dead or kicked out in the next couple of weeks we can count that as a bonus.” “You reckon we will?” “Nar,” was Ted's scornful answer. “We're both survivors we won't be among the five percent. Now what's in these folders?” The folders depicted a wild landscape: hills, forest, streams, heather, grass, bracken, or their near equivalents showed in the pictures. Deer, wolves, and a host of small animal analogues, mammalian by their looks, were also shown. “Looks like the highlands back home,” Ted remarked. “Or the mountains in the Snowdon area, except for the wolves that is,” Barry replied. “Thank the Lord there aren't any snakes shown. Snakes freak me out.” “Me too, Barry. But how are you about eating them?” “Not raw, but as long as they're cooked I don't have any problem. Eels are good with me though, and they look like snakes, even though they are a type of fish.” They settled down to digesting the data in the folder; occasionally comparing notes.
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Cryptic Clue: Ring Austen‟s girl and cause a problem.
'Darker Times Fiction', a monthly short story competition for stories of 3,000 words and less in the horror genre or on the subject of 'darker times'. Would this be something that would interest your writers? All of the information can be found on the website - www.darkertimes.co.uk . It's open to UK and international writers and ends on the last day of each month.
Maurice‟s Grand-Mother‟s Milk Soup Post-wartime in London food wasn‟t in such short supply as rationing gradually eased. Maurice‟s mother, (a grand old lady well into her nineties when she passed away in the 1990s), being of second generation immigrant stock was taught this recipe from the homeland, Lithuania, by her mother, of whom all knowledge has now been lost. Only her recipe has survived. Maurice‟s mother added whole spring onions and diced cooked potatoes when she could get them to the basic ingredients. Milk soup is a common staple among Poles, Czechs, Hungarians, Lithuanians, Ukrainians and Russians. It is eaten hot for breakfast. Milk soup is a popular way of using up surplus cow's milk. It is a universal comfort food of the former Eastern bloc often served with egg noodles, rice, barley, millet or potatoes and is similar to potato soup, or in the sweet version ...”Pobs” a traditional Victorian dish of milk soaked bread. Cooking Time: 20 minutes or so 4 servings Ingredients: 4 cups milk 2 cups cooked rice or egg noodles 4 tablespoons butter Whole spring onions, diced cooked potatoes Salt to taste. Sugar to taste if liked. Preparation: Place 4 cups milk and 2 cups cooked rice or noodles in saucepan. Add spring onions and cooked diced potatoes. Heat to boiling. Serve with 1 tablespoon butter in each bowl and salt and / or sugar to taste.
Latest Competitions: Poetry Business Book and Pamphlet Award 2012 | Closing Date: 30-Nov-12 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1246 Kent and Sussex Open Poetry Competition 2013 | Closing Date: 31-Jan-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1248 Frogmore Papers Poetry Prize 2013 | Closing Date: 31-May-13 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1245 New Magazines: Ekleksographia http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/magazines/emagazines/?id=670 Latest News: Coracle Press 1989 to 2012 Touring Exhibition | 04-Sep-12 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/poetryscene/?id=961 Poetry Magazines received in August 2012 | 03-Sep-12 http:// www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=960 London: a history in verse | 01-Sep-12 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/acquisitions/?id=956 Items added to the Poetry Library in August 2012 | 01-Sep-12 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=955
NB: RBW does not endorse any third party competitions.
Email: firstname.lastname@example.org Subject: Dangerous Liaisons Short Story Competition Message: Dear Rising Brook Writers, I am emailing all writers' groups to spread the word about Chorley & District Writers' Circle comp: Closing date: extended to 7 Oct 2012 Story: 3,000 words Theme: Dangerous Liaisons Fee: £4, or £7/two or £10/three Prizes: £100, £50 and £30 Judges: Fiction Feedback at www.fictionfeedback.co.uk Full details: www.chorleywriters.org.uk
STARS is the theme for the 2012
National Poetry Day, Thursday October 4th. http://www.nationalpoetryday.co.uk/ Twinkle Twinkle Little Star by Jane Taylor was first published in Rhymes for the Nursery in London 1806. Twinkle, twinkle, little star, How I wonder what you are. Up above the world so high, Like a diamond in the sky. When the blazing sun is gone, When he nothing shines upon, Then you show your little light, Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.
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Then the traveller in the dark, Thanks you for your tiny spark, He could not see which way to go, If you did not twinkle so.
In the dark blue sky you keep, And often through my curtains peep, For you never shut your eye, 'Till the sun is in the sky. As your bright and tiny spark, Lights the traveller in the dark. Though I know not what you are, Twinkle, twinkle, little star. Twinkle, twinkle, little star. How I wonder what you are. Up above the world so high, Like a diamond in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle, little star. How I wonder what you are. How I wonder what you are.
"Lord Randall", or "Lord Randal", is an Anglo-Scottish border ballad. A traditional ballad telling a story in conversation. The different versions follow the general pattern the main character, Lord Randall, is poisoned, by his sweetheart; this is revealed through a conversation with his mother, where he reports what has happened to him and who he has been poisoned by.
"Lord Randal", by Arthur Rackham, from Some British Ballads (published 1919). http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Lord_Randall
Variants of this ballad are found in Danish, German, Magyar and Swedish Similar ballads exist across Europe. There are Italian versions, usually titled "L'avvelenato" ("The Poisoned Man") One was published in 1629 by Camillo il Bianchino, in Verona.
"O WHERE ha you been, Lord Randal, my son? And where ha you been, my handsome young man?" "I ha been at the greenwood; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down." "An what met ye there, Lord Randal, my son? An wha met you there, my handsome young man?" "O I met wi my true-love; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm wearied wi huntin, an fain wad lie down." "And what did she give you, Lord Randal, my son? And what did she give you, my handsome young man?" "Eels fried in a pan; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm wearied wi huntin, and fain wad lie down."
"What d'ye leave to your mother, Lord Randal, my son? What d'ye leave to your mother, my handsome young man?" "Four and twenty milk kye; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down." "What d'ye leave to your sister, Lord Randal, my son? What d'ye leave to your sister, my handsome young man?" "My gold and my silver; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, an I fain wad lie down." "What d'ye leave to your brother, Lord Randal, my son? What d'ye leave to your brother, my handsome young man?" "My houses and my lands; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down."
"And wha gat your leavins, Lord Randal, my son? And wha gat your leavins, my handsom young man?" "My hawks and my hounds; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down." "What d'ye leave to your true-love, Lord Randal, my son? And what becam of them, Lord Randal, my son? What d'ye leave to your true-love, my handsome young And what becam of them, my handsome young man?" man?" "They stretched their legs out an died; mother, mak my "I leave her hell and fire; mother, mak my bed soon, bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down." For I'm wearied wi huntin, and fain wad lie down." "O I fear you are poisoned, Lord Randal, my son! I fear you are poisoned, my handsome young man!" "O yes, I am poisoned; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down."
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"WHAT'S become of your hounds, King Henrie, my son? What's become of your hounds, my pretty little one?" "They all died on the way; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm sick to the heart, and I fain wald lie down."
WHERE was you all day, my own pretty boy? Where was you all day, my comfort and joy?" "I was fishing and fowling; mother, make my bed soon, There's a pain in my heart, and I mean to lie down."
"What gat ye to your supper, King Henry, my son? What gat ye to your supper, my pretty little one?" "I gat fish boiled in broo; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm sick to the heart, and I fain wald lie down."
"What did you have for your breakfast, my own pretty boy? What did you have for your breakfast, my comfort and joy?" "A cup of strong poison; mother, make my bed soon, There's a pain in my heart, and I mean to lie down."
"What like were the fish, King Henry, my son? What like were the fish, my pretty little one?" "They were spreckled on the back and white on the belly; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm sick to the heart, and I fain wald lie down." "What leave ye to your father, King Henry, my son? What leave ye to your father, my pretty little one?" "The keys of Old Ireland, and all that's therein; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm sick to the heart, and I fain wald lie down." at leave ye to your brother, King Henry, my son? What leave ye to your brother, my pretty little one?" "The keys of my coffers and all that's therein; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm sick to the heart, and I fain wald lie down." "What leave ye to your sister, King Henry, my son? What leave ye to your sister, my pretty little one?" "The world's wide, she may go beg; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm sick to the heart, and I fain wald lie down." "What leave ye to your trew-love, King Henry, my son? What leave ye to your trew-love, my pretty little one?" "The highest hill to hang her on, for she's poisoned me and my hounds all; mother, make my bed soon, Oh I'm sick to the heart, and I fain wald lie down."
"I fear you are poisoned, my own pretty boy, I fear you are poisoned, my comfort and joy!" "O yes, I am poisoned; mother, make my bed soon, There's a pain in my heart, and I mean to lie down." "What will you leave to your father, my own pretty boy? What will you leave to your father, my comfort and joy?" "I'll leave him my house and my property; mother, make my bed soon, There's a pain in my heart, and I mean to lie down." "What will you leave to your mother, my own pretty boy? What will you leave to your mother, my comfort and joy?" "I'll leave her my coach and four horses; mother, make my bed soon, There's a pain in my heart, and I mean to lie down." "What will you leave to your brother, my own pretty boy? What will you leave to your brother, my comfort and joy?" "I'll leave him my bow and my fiddle; mother, make my bed soon, There's a pain in my heart, and I mean to lie down." "What will you leave to your sister, my own pretty boy? What will you leave to your sister, my comfort and joy?" "I'll leave her my gold and my silver; mother, make my bed soon, There's a pain in my heart, and I mean to lie down." "What will you leave to your servant, my own pretty boy? What will you leave to you servant, my comfort and joy?" "I'll leave him the key of my small silver box; mother, make my bed soon, There's a pain in my heart, and I mean to lie down." "What will you leave to your children, my own pretty boy? What will you leave to your children, my comfort and joy?" "The world is wide all round for to beg; mother, make my bed soon, There's a pain in my heart, and I mean to lie down." "What will you leave to your wife, my own pretty boy? What will you leave to your wife, my comfort and joy?" "I'll leave her the gallows, and plenty to hang her; mother, make my bed soon, There's a pain in my heart, and I mean to lie down." "Where shall I make it, my own pretty boy? Where shall I make it, my comfort and joy?" "Above in the churchyard, and dig it down deep, Put a stone to my head and a flag to my feet, And leave me down easy until I'll take a long sleep."
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