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Jun. 19th, 2003 08:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cabbitzilla
You Are A Highwayman!
What Type Of Swashbuckler Are You?
brought to you by Maddog Varuka & Dawg Brown
Most of my mind is offline; it's been a really really bad few days for me. But the lyric/poem portions still seem to be working, as this lemming result brought to mind not one but -three- echos.
The first is a song performed by Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Kris Kristofferson, and Willy Nelson. They performed for a bit together under the moniker 'The Highwaymen'. The original form of the poem was written by Jimmy Webb; the sole difference in the C/J/K/N performance was the substitution of the word 'masters' for 'bastard' in the first stanza.
Highwayman
I was a highwayman along the coach roads I did ride
Sword and pistol by my side
Many a young maid lost her baubles to my trade
Many a soldier shed his life blood on my blade
The bastards hung me in the Spring of 25
But I am still alive
I was a sailor, I was born upon the tide
With the sea I did abide
I sailed a schooner round the Horn to Mexico
I went aloft to furl the main sail in a blow
And when the yards broke off they said that I got killed
But I am living still
I was a dam builder across the river deep and wide
Where steel and water did collide
A place called Boulder o'er the wild Colorado
I slipped and fell into the wet concrete below
They buried me in that great tomb that knows no sound
But I am still around
I'll always be around and around and around...
I fly a star ship across the universe divide
And when I reach the other side
I'll find a place to rest my spirit if I can
Perhaps I may become a highwayman again
Or I may simply be a single drop of rain
But I will remain
And I'll be back again and again and again.
I was a highwayman along the coach roads I did ride
Sword and pistol by my side
Many a young maid lost her baubles to my trade
Many a soldier shed his life blood on my blade
The bastards hung me in the Spring of 25
But I am still alive
I was a sailor, I was born upon the tide
With the sea I did abide
I sailed a schooner round the Horn to Mexico
I went aloft to furl the main sail in a blow
And when the yards broke off they said that I got killed
But I am living still
I was a dam builder across the river deep and wide
Where steel and water did collide
A place called Boulder o'er the wild Colorado
I slipped and fell into the wet concrete below
They buried me in that great tomb that knows no sound
But I am still around
I'll always be around and around and around...
I fly a star ship across the universe divide
And when I reach the other side
I'll find a place to rest my spirit if I can
Perhaps I may become a highwayman again
Or I may simply be a single drop of rain
But I will remain
And I'll be back again and again and again.
It's a piece that's always been a favorite... as has this next one. I first encounted it in a battered book of poems I found when I was nine. I still have the book, carefully wrapped in the silk cloth I used to hide it from my mother's predations. Also entitled 'The Highwayman', this piece was written by Alfred Noyes, and copywrited in 1906 & 1913.
The Highwayman
I
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding-
Riding-riding-
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
II
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
III
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
IV
And dark in the old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say-
V
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
VI
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.
Part Two
I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching-
Marching-marching-
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
II
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride.
III
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say-
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
IV
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till here fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like
years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
V
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.
VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs
ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did
not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still!
VII
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night
!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death.
VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
IX
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.
* * * * * *
X
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding-
Riding-riding-
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
XI
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
I
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding-
Riding-riding-
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
II
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
III
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
IV
And dark in the old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say-
V
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
VI
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.
Part Two
I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching-
Marching-marching-
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
II
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride.
III
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say-
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
IV
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till here fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like
years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
V
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.
VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs
ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did
not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still!
VII
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night
!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death.
VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
IX
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.
* * * * * *
X
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding-
Riding-riding-
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
XI
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
It's a beautiful piece, really. Most recently, a version of it has been recorded by Loreena McKennit, though there are versions -far- older, and just as lovely. And then there're the lengthy discussions of British Musket design and anatomical issues, which tickled my funny bone. They can be found HERE... which just shows how warped my sense of humor really is.
The third piece is... an amusing little romp that I stumbled across a couple years ago. It's a humorous poemsong written by Steve Tilston, and entitled 'The Naked Highwayman'. It... has to be seen to be really appreciated:
The Naked Highwayman
As I rode out one summer's day for profit and for pleasure,
I planned to rob the London coach and take it at my leisure.
A brace of pistols duly primed, a sabre fit to shave on,
I waited underneath the trees that lined the banks of Avon.
I didn't hear her dainty step as she appeared before me:
A face to charm a singing bird with words that did implore me.
"Can you help me sir?" she said, "I fear the time is near run
For me to cross before the tide swells the banks of Avon."
All you roving fellows listen, while you can,
Of the time that I became a naked highwayman. (repeat)
So gallantly I did dismount and walked into the water,
As she told me that she was a wealthy merchant's daughter.
So I thought I'd try my luck and do my best to charm her.
Said I was the only son of a country farmer.
"Your hands they are as smooth as silk,
They never touched a plough sir
And I suppose these pistols help you milking of your cows."
She looked at me with mocking eyes as coal-black as a raven
And then she fell into my arms beside the banks of Avon.
All you roving fellows listen, while you can,
Of the time that I become a naked highwayman. (repeat)
Her honeyed lips, I was beguiled, a lamb led to the slaughter,
Eventually I fell asleep in the arms of the merchant's daughter.
When I awoke I was alone, my clothes and pistols token,
With just the leaves to hide my shame beside the banks of Avon.
In vain I tried to catch a glimpse of the city spires,
Running like a rabbit through the bushes and the briars.
Then I heard the London coach and I was all a-shiver;
A lady's voice was calling out: "Stand-to and deliver!"
All you roving fellows listen, while you can,
Of the time that I became a naked highway man. (repeat)
"Your money or your life I'll have, it's all the same to me.
It's hangèd for a sheep or murder in the first degree."
She stood there in my overcoat, brandishing my pistol,
And relieved the London coach of the gold of Bristol.
And it's up she's mounted on my horse and rode into the distance
And I went naked to the coach begging for assistance.
No more I'll play the highwayman, no more I'll put the mask on,
I'll leave it to the bright-eyed girl who roams the banks of Avon,
All you roving fellows listen, while you can,
Of the time that I became a naked highwayman. (repeat)
As I rode out one summer's day for profit and for pleasure,
I planned to rob the London coach and rake it at my leisure.
A brace of pistols duly primed, a sabre fit to shave on,
I waited underneath the trees that lined the banks of Avon.
"The Naked Highwayman is a romp, filled with table turning, trickery and good old- fashioned stand and delivery. By all accaunts female cabinpersons and highwaypersons did exist. And why not? Where are they now? Were the men all so optically challenged? Or was it more a case of 'None as blind as them that don't want t'see?"
Steve Tilston
As I rode out one summer's day for profit and for pleasure,
I planned to rob the London coach and take it at my leisure.
A brace of pistols duly primed, a sabre fit to shave on,
I waited underneath the trees that lined the banks of Avon.
I didn't hear her dainty step as she appeared before me:
A face to charm a singing bird with words that did implore me.
"Can you help me sir?" she said, "I fear the time is near run
For me to cross before the tide swells the banks of Avon."
All you roving fellows listen, while you can,
Of the time that I became a naked highwayman. (repeat)
So gallantly I did dismount and walked into the water,
As she told me that she was a wealthy merchant's daughter.
So I thought I'd try my luck and do my best to charm her.
Said I was the only son of a country farmer.
"Your hands they are as smooth as silk,
They never touched a plough sir
And I suppose these pistols help you milking of your cows."
She looked at me with mocking eyes as coal-black as a raven
And then she fell into my arms beside the banks of Avon.
All you roving fellows listen, while you can,
Of the time that I become a naked highwayman. (repeat)
Her honeyed lips, I was beguiled, a lamb led to the slaughter,
Eventually I fell asleep in the arms of the merchant's daughter.
When I awoke I was alone, my clothes and pistols token,
With just the leaves to hide my shame beside the banks of Avon.
In vain I tried to catch a glimpse of the city spires,
Running like a rabbit through the bushes and the briars.
Then I heard the London coach and I was all a-shiver;
A lady's voice was calling out: "Stand-to and deliver!"
All you roving fellows listen, while you can,
Of the time that I became a naked highway man. (repeat)
"Your money or your life I'll have, it's all the same to me.
It's hangèd for a sheep or murder in the first degree."
She stood there in my overcoat, brandishing my pistol,
And relieved the London coach of the gold of Bristol.
And it's up she's mounted on my horse and rode into the distance
And I went naked to the coach begging for assistance.
No more I'll play the highwayman, no more I'll put the mask on,
I'll leave it to the bright-eyed girl who roams the banks of Avon,
All you roving fellows listen, while you can,
Of the time that I became a naked highwayman. (repeat)
As I rode out one summer's day for profit and for pleasure,
I planned to rob the London coach and rake it at my leisure.
A brace of pistols duly primed, a sabre fit to shave on,
I waited underneath the trees that lined the banks of Avon.
"The Naked Highwayman is a romp, filled with table turning, trickery and good old- fashioned stand and delivery. By all accaunts female cabinpersons and highwaypersons did exist. And why not? Where are they now? Were the men all so optically challenged? Or was it more a case of 'None as blind as them that don't want t'see?"
Steve Tilston
Well, I think I'm done now. Maybe I'll go lay down for a bit. *sigh* I feel like crap, guys....
*hugs*
~Ellie-chan
Addendum: Found this:
See the ad American Recordings and Johnny placed in Billboard Magazine
Yes. My thoughts exactly, Mister Cash. Bang on.
Addendum II: Found this:
Slytherin! You're classy to the core, favoring the
traditionally finest things the world has to
offer. While you may or may not be evil *wink*
you certainly have the power and attitude to
get what you want. You're clever as all heck,
and tend to be a couple steps ahead of even the
most astute Ravenclaw.
A More Unique Hogwarts Sorting Quiz
brought to you by Quizilla
*peers* How... odd. :p
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no subject
Date: 2003-06-19 06:08 pm (UTC)Fun!
Date: 2003-06-20 05:53 am (UTC)The HighwayMan is one of my fav songs... though I ended up...
You Are A Pirate!
What Type Of Swashbuckler Are You?
brought to you by Maddog Varuka & Dawg Brown
Love ya sweetling :*
Hey
Things haven't been peachy 'round here lately much, either.
Wishing you a wonderful improvement, though! :~D
Love,
~~Kt3 the Blah~~