Monday, 3 November 2008

Bugger it. Let us have another Sunday

Name that tune

I know I should be writing something about the latest betrayal of Our People by Gordon Brown. You know the story about how he is encouraging the the Arabs to use the money that they have ripped of from us to buy up Our Country but I just do not feel like writing about it just yet. Later I promise.

I also have to write about the laughable survey carried out by what used to be an excellent University, Edinburgh. What? No idea what I am waffling on about? Next post I promise to reveal all.

No, I feel like having another Sunday. And on Sundays, I like to listen to old songs and read poetry so I am afraid that is what this post is about.

The video at the top takes me way back and somehow reminds me of more peaceful times. You either love this song or hate it. Either way it is still better listening to than rap crap or the likes of Ross and Brand.

The poem should be easily understandable to those above a certain age and might provoke thought in those still young. Here you go. It was written by Charles Kingsley and taken out of the excellent but no way just a "Childrens" book, "The Water Babies".

Young and Old

When all the world is young, lad,
And all the trees are green;
And every goose a swan, lad,
And every lass a queen,—
Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
And round the world away;
Young blood must have its course, lad,
And every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad,
And all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,
And all the wheels run down,—
Creep home, and take your place there,
The spent and maimed among:
God grant you find one face there
You loved when all was young.

Lastly a message for the commenter I keep rejecting. We have played this game before. I tell you what, you email me a list of questions (not political statements) and I will post them with responses to them.

In return you let me have the same rights on one of your sites. I have lots of questions I would like to ask you and you can answer them there.

I give my word that I shall not pass on your email and IP addresses.

OK. Enough of Sundays. Back to work.

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