- SONG ##
SONG
(See also Music, Singing)
Tout finit par des chansons.
Everything ends with songs.
Sing a song of sixpence.
I cannot sing the old songs
Though well I know the tune,
Familiar as a cradle-song
With sleep-compelling croon;
Yet though I'm filled with music,
As choirs of summer birds,
"I cannot sing the old songs"—
I do not know the words.
Robert J. Burdette—Songs Without Words.
| seealso = (See also Calverley)
| topic = Song
| page = 732
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>All this for a song.
Burleigh—To Queen Elizabeth Cwhen ordered
to give £100 to Spenser).
I can not sing the old songs now!
It is not that I deem them low,
'Tis that I can't remember bow
They go.
Chas. S. Calverley—Changed.
| seealso = (See also Burdette)
| topic = Song
| page = 732
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>Unlike my subject now * * * shall be my
song,
It shall be witty and it sha'n't be long!
Chesterfield—Preface to Letters. Vol. I.
A song of hate is a song of Hell;
Some there be who sing it well.
Let them sing it loud and long,
We lift our hearts in a loftier song:
We lift our hearts to Heaven above,
Singing the glory of her we love,
England.
Helen Gray Cone—Chant of Love for England.
| seealso = (See also Lissauer under Hatred)
| topic = Song
| page = 732
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>And heaven had wanted one immortal song.
Dryden—Absalom and Achitophel. Pt. I. L.
197.
Verse sweetens toil, however rude the sound;
She feels no biting pang the while she sings,
Nor as she turns the giddy wheel around,
Revolves the sad vicissitudes of things.
under Religion. | seealso = (See also Overbury, Quintilian, Sidney) | topic = Song | page = 732
}}
He play'd an ancient ditty long since mute,
In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans merci."
Keats—The Eve of St. Agnes. St. 33. "La
Belle Dame, sans Merci" is a poem by
Alain Chartier. Attributed to Jean
Marot by M. Paulin—Manuscript FranSONG
(ais. VII. 252. In Harleian MS. 373, a
translation is attributed to Sib Richard
Ros.
We are tenting tonight on the old camp ground,
Give us a song to cheer.
Walter Kittridge—Tenting on the Old Camp
Ground.
In the ink of our sweat we will find it yet,
The song that is fit for men!
Frederic L. Knowles.
The song on its mighty pinions
Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to
heaven.
| author = Longfellow
| work = Children of the Lord's Supper.
L.44.
Listen to that song, and learn it!
Half my kingdom would I give,
As I live,
If by such songs you would earn it!
| author = Longfellow
| work = Tales of a Wayside Inn. Pt. I.
The Musician's Tale. The Saga of King Olaf.
Pt. V.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
| author = Longfellow
| work = The Day is Done. St. 9.
And grant that when I face the grisly Thing,
My song may trumpet down the gray Perhaps
Let me be as a tune-swept fiddlestring
That feels the Master Melody—and snaps.
John G. Neihardt—Let me live out my
Years.
She makes her hand hard with labour, and her
heart soft with pity: and when winter evenings
fall early (sitting at her merry wheel), she sings
a defiance to the giddy wheel of fortune . . .
and fears no manner of ill because she means
none.
Thos. Overbury—A Fair and Happy Milkmaid.
| seealso = (See also Gifford)
| topic = Song
| page = 732
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>I think, whatever mortals crave,
With impotent endeavor,
A wreath—a rank—a throne—a grave—
The world goes round forever;
I think that life is not too long,
And therefore I determine,
That many people read a song,
Who will not read a sermon.
W. M. Praed—Chant of the Brazen Head.
Odds life! must one swear to the truth of a song?
Prior—A Better Answer.
<poem>Etiam singulorum fatigatio quamlibet se rudi
modulatione solatur. Men, even when alone, lighten their labors by song, however rude it may be. Quintilian—De InstiiuUone Oratoria. I. 81.
