Wishing you all a good weekend.
Friday, 31 January 2014
NORTH WEST WOMEN IN WWI EXHIBITION AT IMPERIAL WAR MUSEUM NORTH
Link courtesy of Grenada Reports
http://www.itv.com/news/granada/story/2014-01-17/north-west-women-in-wwi-exhibition/
http://www.itv.com/news/granada/story/2014-01-17/north-west-women-in-wwi-exhibition/
WAITING FOR ED MILIBAND TO ARRIVE
Name dropping time. Met Ed Miliband about an hour ago for a coffee and a chat. Much taller than on TV. Then interviewed by Granada TV along with some mums. Might show the interview tonight.
Steve
Tuesday, 28 January 2014
Sweet babe in thy face, Holy image I can trace...
A Cradle Song
Sweet dreams form a shade,
O'er my lovely infants head.
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams,
By happy silent moony beams
Sweet sleep with soft down.
Weave thy brows an infant crown.
Sweet sleep Angel mild,
Hover o'er my happy child.
Sweet smiles in the night,
Hover over my delight.
Sweet smiles Mothers smiles,
All the livelong night beguiles.
Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,
Chase not slumber from thy eyes,
Sweet moans, sweeter smiles,
All the dovelike moans beguiles.
Sleep sleep happy child,
All creation slept and smil'd.
Sleep sleep, happy sleep.
While o'er thee thy mother weep
Sweet babe in thy face,
Holy image I can trace.
Sweet babe once like thee.
Thy maker lay and wept for me
Wept for me for thee for all,
When he was an infant small.
Thou his image ever see.
Heavenly face that smiles on thee,
Smiles on thee on me on all,
Who became an infant small,
Infant smiles are His own smiles,
Heaven & earth to peace beguiles.
O'er my lovely infants head.
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams,
By happy silent moony beams
Sweet sleep with soft down.
Weave thy brows an infant crown.
Sweet sleep Angel mild,
Hover o'er my happy child.
Sweet smiles in the night,
Hover over my delight.
Sweet smiles Mothers smiles,
All the livelong night beguiles.
Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,
Chase not slumber from thy eyes,
Sweet moans, sweeter smiles,
All the dovelike moans beguiles.
Sleep sleep happy child,
All creation slept and smil'd.
Sleep sleep, happy sleep.
While o'er thee thy mother weep
Sweet babe in thy face,
Holy image I can trace.
Sweet babe once like thee.
Thy maker lay and wept for me
Wept for me for thee for all,
When he was an infant small.
Thou his image ever see.
Heavenly face that smiles on thee,
Smiles on thee on me on all,
Who became an infant small,
Infant smiles are His own smiles,
Heaven & earth to peace beguiles.
William Blake
Sunday, 26 January 2014
Wednesday, 22 January 2014
THE HARP SONG OF THE DANE WOMEN
A little Kipling on a Viking/Dane theme...
Ah, what is a woman that you forsake her,
And the hearth-fire and the home-acre,
For to go with the old grey Widow-maker?
And the hearth-fire and the home-acre,
For to go with the old grey Widow-maker?
She has no house to lay a guest in—
But one chill bed for all to rest in,
That the pale suns and the stray bergs nest in.
But one chill bed for all to rest in,
That the pale suns and the stray bergs nest in.
She has no strong white arms to fold you,
But the ten-times-fingering weed to hold you
Bound on the rocks where the tide has rolled you.
But the ten-times-fingering weed to hold you
Bound on the rocks where the tide has rolled you.
Yet, when the signs of summer thicken,
And the ice breaks, and the birch-buds quicken,
Then yearly you turn from our side, and sicken—
And the ice breaks, and the birch-buds quicken,
Then yearly you turn from our side, and sicken—
Sicken again for the shouts and the slaughters,—
You steal away to the lapping waters,
And you look at your ship in her winter quarters.
You steal away to the lapping waters,
And you look at your ship in her winter quarters.
You forget our mirth, and our talk at the tables,
The kine in the shed and the horse in the stables—
For to pitch her sides and go over her cables!
The kine in the shed and the horse in the stables—
For to pitch her sides and go over her cables!
Then you drive out where the storm-clouds swallow:
And the sound of your oar-blades falling hollow
Is all we have left through the months to follow.
And the sound of your oar-blades falling hollow
Is all we have left through the months to follow.
Ah, ah, what is a woman that you forsake her,
And the hearth-fire and the home-acre,
For to go with the old grey Widow-maker?
And the hearth-fire and the home-acre,
For to go with the old grey Widow-maker?
DEVON GLORIOUS DEVON - FOR A DEVON LASS - WELCOME HOME!
Any poem that mentions Drake, Raleigh, Hawkins and Grenville can't be bad - not a bad back four to have in a scrape!
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Coombe and Tor, green meadow and lane,
Birds on the waving bough.
Beetling cliffs by the surging main,
Rich red loam for the plough.
Devon's the fount of the bravest blood
That braces England's breed,
Her maidens fair as the apple bud,
And her men are men indeed.
When Adam and Eve were dispossess'd
Of the Garden hard by Heaven,
They planted another one down in the West,
'Twas Devon, 'twas Devon, glorious Devon.
Spirits to old-world heroes wake,
By river and cove and hoe;
Grenville, Hawkins, Raleigh and Drake
And a thousand more we know.
To every hand the wide world o'er
Some slips of the old stock roam,
Loyal friends in peace, dread foes in war
With hearts still true to home.
Old England's counties by the sea
From east to west are seven;
But the gem of that fair galaxy
Is Devon, is Devon, glorious Devon.
Dorset, Somerset, Cornwall, Wales,
May envy the likes of we;
For the flower of the West, the first, the best,
The pick of the bunch us be;
Squab pie, junket and cider brew,
Richest cream of the cow'
What 'ud Old England without 'em do?
And where 'ud 'un be to now?
As crumpy [soft] as a lump of lead
Be a loaf without good leaven,
And the yeast Mother England do use for her bread
Be Devon, be Devon, glorious Devon.
Birds on the waving bough.
Beetling cliffs by the surging main,
Rich red loam for the plough.
Devon's the fount of the bravest blood
That braces England's breed,
Her maidens fair as the apple bud,
And her men are men indeed.
When Adam and Eve were dispossess'd
Of the Garden hard by Heaven,
They planted another one down in the West,
'Twas Devon, 'twas Devon, glorious Devon.
Spirits to old-world heroes wake,
By river and cove and hoe;
Grenville, Hawkins, Raleigh and Drake
And a thousand more we know.
To every hand the wide world o'er
Some slips of the old stock roam,
Loyal friends in peace, dread foes in war
With hearts still true to home.
Old England's counties by the sea
From east to west are seven;
But the gem of that fair galaxy
Is Devon, is Devon, glorious Devon.
Dorset, Somerset, Cornwall, Wales,
May envy the likes of we;
For the flower of the West, the first, the best,
The pick of the bunch us be;
Squab pie, junket and cider brew,
Richest cream of the cow'
What 'ud Old England without 'em do?
And where 'ud 'un be to now?
As crumpy [soft] as a lump of lead
Be a loaf without good leaven,
And the yeast Mother England do use for her bread
Be Devon, be Devon, glorious Devon.
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