I’ve got a secret, Maybe I shall speak it – Maybe I shall leak my secret indiscreet.
I’ve got a story Told to me by Rory – Maybe I shall store my story safe and sweet.
To how many folk Shall I utter not a croak, Shall I never chat or jaw What I saw ?
And how many days Shall I mutter not a phrase, Shall I never breathe a word What I heard ?
Your hunger’s getting bolder, Your guesses getting colder – But promise to be good And I’ll tell you when you’re older.
Five fives are twenty-five And three threes are nine I’ve got a secret And it’s mine, all mine.
There have actually been whole studies conducted into skipping chants and clapping songs, and it seems ti’s a surprisingly conservative world, with endless variations around a few old standards – number one in the playgrounds for the past few decades has been A Sailor Went to Sea, latterly morphed into We Went to a Chinese Restaurant. I don’t hold out much hope of entering the canon, and quite honestly until it’s been playtested by proper six year olds, we’ll never know if it even meets the brief.
How do churches stop the rain ? And send the downpours down the drain ? That’s pretty simple to explain –
See, the footings hold the buttress, And the buttress holds the flyer, And the flyer holds the corbel, And the corbel takes the strain. For the corbel hold the springbrace, And the stringbrace holds the hammerbeam, And hammerbeams hold hammerposts, And up, and up again. These hammerposts hold collar-ties, And the collar holds the kingpost high, And the kingpost holds the ridge-beam, And in turn, the weathervane. So the kingpost holds the struts up, And struts support the rafters – Or at least, they hold the principals – (The big ones, in the main.) Then the rafters holds the purlins, And the purlins holds the sheathing, And the sheathing holds the shingles, And the shingles stop the rain.
Hammerbeam roofs were developed in England in the 1300s, but not namedsuch until the 1820s. So just why are the short horizontal ties called hammerbeams ? I mean, what’s so hammer-y about them ? I suspect it was just to show that architects could be manly when talking about their erect members.
The rain returns Like we know it will, Like we know it must. It’s only rain – The sky shall spill To wash the dust. So rain returns, And gutters rill, And railings rust – But thanks to rain The wheat-heads fill, The green shoots thrust. The rain returns – It cycles still, On this we trust.
Birds are flocking, Doors are locking, Autumn’s knocking once again. Seeds are podding, Berries nodding, Workers plodding from the train. Skies are frowning, Leaves are browning, Hats are crowning, coats are on. Days are cooling, Rains are pooling, Kids are schooling – Summer’s gone.
Cornubia by John Miller. The fine detail is somewhat lost here, but every church (maybe just the mediaeval ones ?) has a shaft of light falling on it – you can just make out the larger shaft picking out Truro Cathedral (which also houses the painting). Yes, I know the cathedral is Victorian, but it reuses some of the fabric of Truro parish church.
The Land of the Saints
They’re pious in Cornwall, or proud, or just quaint, Sennan and Bryvyth, Morwetha and Cleer They name half their villages after a saint – Piran and Tudy, Winwillo, Gwinear Not many Marys or Peters or Pauls, Nevet and Probus, Mabena and Breock For ev’ry Saint Helen’s we find a Saint Mawes. Leven and Cuby, Wennapa and Feock Our corp‘or‘ate saints have been roundly withstood, Sithney and Breward, Lalluwy and Ruan For theirs are so local, old Cornish done good. Mylor and Sancreed, Illogan and Mewan
I’m sure I’m getting the emphasis wrong on some of these names, but that’s the beauty of English – anything goes, and my mispronunciation is just as valid as yours, especially when you definitely have never heard of these names before. And yes, they’re Cornish, not English, but consider them now Anglisised. And yes, I did just spell Anglisised with two esses – deal with it.
In Op’er’a, where the voices chirp and soar, Where fat or old or plain remain the greatest draw – In Op’er’a, be anyone we dream – Quadoctave star, we vocally supreme – And the orchestra will make us shine the more.
In Op’er’a, where the voice is ev’rything – Where we can ne’er be wrong, so long as we can sing. But some dumb brutes, they wretchedly just croak – Deformèd mutes, unvocalising folk – Crippled destitutes, just speech from their throats wring – They can talk and hoot, but Op’er’a ain’t lis’en’ing.
Ms is such an ugly word, Let ev’ry Ms become a Miss – I know no-wedlock is inferred, But Ms is such an ugly word. And Mrs too, a mumble slurred – It’s not the sense, but sound I diss. For Ms is such an ugly word – Let ev’ry Ms become a Miss.
Fine scallops and oysters For townlands and cloisters, And cockles and mussels – alive, sirs, alive ! Come find one and pluck it From out of my bucket – It’s yours for a penny – or fourpence for five.
Fresh from the beaches of fair Dublin Bay, Fresh from the sands where they thrive, oh ! Fresh from the beaches, and fresh ev’ry day – Cockles and mussels alive, alive-oh !
There’s no need to scrimp it With whelk or with limpet – I’ll sell you no snails, sir – I’m clams through and through. Don’t ask me for sprinkles Of peries or winkles – Why settle for one shell, when you can have two !
Fresh from the wash of the fair Irish Sea, Plucked-out as soon they arrive, oh ! Fresh from the sand to the boat to the quay – Cockles and mussels alive, alive-oh !
There’s some who dig beaches For lugworms and leeches, But they make a slimy and wrigglesome catch. And scampi and crab, sir, Will scamper and jab, sir – But mine are like eggs that are waiting to hatch !
Fresh from where seagulls love combing the sand, Fresh from where cormorants dive, oh ! Fresh from Portmarnock and Dollymount Strand – Cockles and mussels alive, alive-oh !
So what do you say, sir, To venus or razor ? Just tease-out my beauties with jack-knife or steam. They may hold a pearl, sir, A feast for your girl, sir, You’ll soon warm her cockles with cockles in cream !
Fresh from the beaches of fair Dublin Bay, Fresh for your ladies and wives, oh ! Fresh-in from Skerries and Claremont and Bray – Cockles and mussels alive, alive-oh !
This isn’t about Molly Malone, but one of her fellow-hawkers. Though I do like to imagine Molly and Leo Bloom passing each other and stopping to share the craic.
Rhyming Couplets 