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It has come to my attention that geocities is severely restricting my downloadability with the two Christmas Carols I have posted. So here is a link to my soundclick page, were you can access them. Sorry for any inconvenience. The stories that go with the carols are:
I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day
Coventry Carol0Add a comment
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The words to I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day were written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) in 1864. Eight years later John Baptiste Calkin wrote accompanying music, turning Longfellow's poem into a carol. It has long been one of my favourite Christmas poems, and often makes it onto my fridge this time of year. This year, I am trying to figure out how to magnet a recording onto the fridge.
I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I heard the bells on Christmas day
Their old familiar carols play
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth
Peace on earth
I thought how as the day had come
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along the unbroken song
Of peace on earth
Peace on earth
Peace on earth, good will to men
And in despair I bowed my head
"There is no peace on earth," I said
"For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth
Peace on earth
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep
"God is not dead, nor doth he sleep
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth
Peace on earth"
Till ringing, singing on its way
The world revolved from night to day
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime
Of peace on earth
Peace on earth
Peace on earth, good will to men
I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day0Add a comment
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Coventry Carol is not a true Christmas Carol. It speaks of Jesus as a baby, but not his birth. It comes from a play called The Pageant of the Shearmen and Tailors, a street theatre production performed in Coventry England in the 15th and 16th century. The carol itself dates from 1534.
The Pageant of the Shearmen and Tailors depicts King Herods Massacre of the Innocents and the Coventry Carols lyrics are a mother's lament for her doomed child.
This performance is of an arrangement by Mark Johnstone, from his book The Holiday Gig Book. It is played by me.0Add a comment
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If the 24 premier was the best thing I have seen this Christmas, then this is the funniest thing I have seen all Christmas. There really is no other:
It was fascinating watching Scooter dramatically plumb the depths of this character as he maniacally coddled the children then berated them, all the time screaming at the elves to build more toys, while continuously popping diet pills and chocolate-covered espresso beans. The fun all came to an end when a terrified two-year-old peed all over Santa's lap, causing jolly old St. Nick to cut loose with a stream of profanities and jumping up so fast he flung the little rug rat over the velvet ropes and into the Hickory Farm's sausage display! In the ensuing fracas, Scooter took out the kid's charging 250-pound mom, two mall security guards, and cousin Ronnie with a six-foot fiberglass candy cane, before finally being dropped by an elf's two-fisted uppercut to the nuts. Wow!
read it all...0Add a comment
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I know occasionally a few people of more leftish persuasions visit here. As a small gift, from me to you this Christmas, I offer In The Workhouse Christmas Eve (for my more ribald friends, try this):
In The Workhouse Christmas Day, by George R. Sims
It is Christmas Day in the Workhouse,
And the cold bare walls are bright
With garlands of green and holly,
And the place is a pleasant sight:
For with clear-washed hands and faces
In a long and hungry line
The paupers sit at the tables,
For this is the hour they dine.
And the guardians and their ladies,
Although the wind is east,
Have come in their furs and wrappers,
To watch their charges feast:
To smile and be condescending,
Put puddings on pauper plates,
To be hosts at the workhouse banquet
They’ve paid for – with the rates.
Oh, the paupers are meek and lowly
With their 'Thank'ee kindly, mum's';
So long as they fill their stomachs
What matters it whence it comes?
But one of the old men mutters,
And pushes his plate aside:
'Great God!' he cries; 'but it chokes me!
For this is the day she died.'
The guardians gazed in horror
The master's face went white;
'Did a pauper refuse his pudding?'
'Could their ears believe aright?'
Then the ladies clutched their husbands,
Thinking the man might die
Struck by a bolt, or something,
By the outraged One on high.
But the pauper sat for a moment,
Then rose 'mid a silence grim,
For the others has ceased to chatter,
And trembled every limb.
He looked at the guardian's ladies,
Then. eyeing their lords, he said,
'I eat not the food of villains
Whose hands are foul and red:
'Whose victims cry for vengeance
From their dank, unhallowed graves.'
'He's drunk!' said the workhouse master.
'Or else he's mad, and raves.'
'Not drunk or mad,' cried the pauper,
'But only a hunted beast,
Who, torn by the hounds and mangled,
Declines the vulture's feast.
I care not a curse for the guardians,
And I won't be dragged away.
Just let me have the fit out,
It's only Christmas Day
That the black past comes to goad me,
And prey my burning brain;
I'll tell you the rest in a whisper, -
I swear I won't shout again.
'Keep your hands off me, curse you!
Hear me right out to the end.
You come here to see how the paupers
The season of Christmas spend.
You come here to watch us feeding,
As they watch the captured beast.
Hear why a penniless pauper
Spits on your paltry feast.
'Do you think I will take your bounty,
And let you smile and think
You're doing a noble action
With the parish's meat and drink?
Where is my wife, you traitors -
The poor old wife you slew?
Yes, by the God above us
My Nance was killed by you!
'Last winter my wife lay dying,
Starved in a filthy den;
I had never been to the parish, -
I came to the parish then.
I swallowed my pride in coming,
For, ere the ruin came,
I held up my head as a trader,
And I bore a spotless name.
'I came to the parish, craving
Bread for a starving wife,
Bread for a woman who'd loved me
Through fifty years of my life;
And what do you think they told me,
Mocking my awful grief?
That "the House" was open to us,
But they wouldn't give "out relief".
I slunk to the filthy alley -
'Twas a cold, raw Christmas eve -
And the bakers' shops were open
Tempting a man to thieve;
But I clenched my fists together
Holding my head awry,
So I came home empty-handed,
And mournfully told her why.
Then I told her "the House" was open;
She had heard of the ways of that,
For her bloodless cheeks went crimson,
And up in her rags she sat,
Crying, "Bide the Christmas here, John,
We've never had one apart;
I think I can bear the hunger, -
The other would break my heart."
'All through that ever I watched her,
Holding her hand in mine,
Praying the Lord, and weeping
Till my lips were salt as brine.
I asked her once if she hungered
And as she answered "No,"
The moon shone in at the wondow
Set in a wreath of snow
'Then the room was bathed in glory,
And I saw in my darling's eyes
The far-away look of wonder
That comes when the spirit flies;
And her lips were parched and parted,
And her reason came and went,
For she raved of her home in Devon,
Where her happiest days were spent.
'And the accents, long forgotten,
Came back to the tongue once more,
For she talked like the country lassie
I woo'd by the Devon shore.
Then she rose to her feet and trembled,
And fell on the rags and moaned,
And, "Give me a crust - I'm famished -
For the love of God!" she groaned.
I rushed from the room like a madman,
And flew to the workhouse gate,
Crying "Food for a dying woman!"
And came the answer, "Too late."
They drove me away with curses;
Then I fought with a dog in the street,
And tore from the mongrel's clutches
A crust he was trying to eat.
'Back, through the filthy by-lanes!
Back, through the trampled slush!
Up to the crazy garret,
Wrapped in an awful hush.
My heart sank down at the threshold,
And I paused with a sudden thrill,
For there in the silv'ry moonlight
My Nancy lay, cold and still.
'Up to the blackened ceiling
The sunken eyes were cast -
I knew on those lips all bloodless
My name had been the last;
She'd called for her absent husband -
O God! had I but known! -
Had called in vain and in anguish
Had died in that den - alone.
'Yes, there in a land of plenty
Lay a loving woman dead,
Cruelly starved and murdered
For a loaf of parish bread.
At yonder gate, last Christmas
I craved for a human life.
You, who would feast us paupers,
What of my murdered wife!
'There, get ye gone to your dinners;
Don't mind me in the least;
Think of your happy paupers
Eating your Christmas feast;
And when you recount their blessings
In your smug parochial way,
Say what you did for me, too,
Only last Christmas Day.0Add a comment
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December 23rd is, traditionally, Festivus, the holiday for the rest of us. Festivus has three components:
1) the festivus pole, undecorated (tinsel is distracting)
2) the airing of grievances: you tell your family and friends how they have disappointed you in the past year.
3) feats of strength: a Festivus party isn't over until a guest or family member has pinned the host in a wrestling match.
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