Written by
J R R Tolkien |
O! What are you doing,
And where are you going?
Your ponies need shoeing!
The River is flowing!
O! Tra-la-la-lally
Here down in the valley!
O! What are you seeking,
And where are you making?
The faggots are reeking!
The bannocks are baking!
O! Tril-lil-lil-lolly
The valley is jolly
Ha ha!
O! Where are you going,
With beards all a-wagging?
No knowing, no knowing
What brings Mister Baggins,
And Balin and Dwalin
Down into the valley
In June
Ha ha!
O! Will you be staying,
Or will you be flying?
Your ponies are straying!
The daylight is dying!
To fly would be folly,
To stay would be jolly!
And listen and hark
Till the end of the dark
To our tune.
Ha ha!
The dragon is withered,
His bones are now crumbled!
His armor is shivered,
His splendour is humbled!
Though sword shall be rusted
And throne and crown perish,
With strength that men trusted
And wealth that they cherish,
Here grass is still growing,
And leaves are yet swinging!
The white water is flowing,
And elves are yet singing!
Come! Tra-la-la-lally!
Come back to the valley!
The stars are far brighter
Than gems without measure,
The moon is far whiter
Than silver in treasure:
The fire is more shining
On hearth in the gloaming
Than gold won by mining,
So why so a-roaming?
O! Tra-la-la-lally!
Come back to the Valley!
O! Where are you going?
So late in returning?
The water is flowing!
The stars are all burning!
O! Whither so laden,
So sad and so dreary?
Here elf and elf-maiden
Now welcome the weary!
With tra-la-la-lally
Come back to the Valley,
Tra-la-la-lally
Fa-la-la-lally
Ha ha!
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Written by
T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot |
Tra-la-la-la-la-la-laire—nil nisi divinum stabile est; caetera fumus—the gondola
stopped, the old palace was there, how charming its grey and pink—goats and
monkeys, with such hair too!—so the countess passed on until she came through the
little park, where Niobe presented her with a cabinet, and so departed.
BURBANK crossed a little bridge
Descending at a small hotel;
Princess Volupine arrived,
They were together, and he fell.
Defunctive music under sea
Passed seaward with the passing bell
Slowly: the God Hercules
Had left him, that had loved him well.
The horses, under the axletree
Beat up the dawn from Istria
With even feet.
Her shuttered barge
Burned on the water all the day.
But this or such was Bleistein’s way:
A saggy bending of the knees
And elbows, with the palms turned out,
Chicago Semite Viennese.
A lustreless protrusive eye
Stares from the protozoic slime
At a perspective of Canaletto.
The smoky candle end of time
Declines.
On the Rialto once.
The rats are underneath the piles.
The jew is underneath the lot.
Money in furs.
The boatman smiles,
Princess Volupine extends
A meagre, blue-nailed, phthisic hand
To climb the waterstair.
Lights, lights,
She entertains Sir Ferdinand
Klein.
Who clipped the lion’s wings
And flea’d his rump and pared his claws?
Thought Burbank, meditating on
Time’s ruins, and the seven laws.
|
Written by
Ellis Parker Butler |
Whenas—(I love that “whenas” word—
It shows I am a poet, too,)
Q.
Horace Flaccus gaily stirred
The welkin with his tra-la-loo,
He little thought one donkey’s back
Would carry thus a double load—
Father and son upon one jack,
Galumphing down the Tibur Road.
II
Old is the tale—Aesop’s, I think—
Of that famed miller and his son
Whose fortunes were so “on the blink”
They had one donk, and only one;
You know the tale—the critic’s squawk
(As pater that poor ass bestrode)—
“Selfish! To make thy fine son walk!”
Perhaps that was on Tibur Road?
III
You will recall how dad got down
And made the son the ass bestride:—
The critics shouted with a frown:
“Shame, boy! pray let thy father ride!”
Up got the dad beside the son;
The donkey staggered with the load
“Poor donk! For shame!” cried every one
That walked the (was it?) Tibur Road.
IV
You know the end! Upon their backs
Daddy and son with much ado
Boosted that most surprised of jacks,—
He kicked, and off the bridge he flew;
“He! haw!” A splash! A gurgling sound—
A long, last watery abode—
In Anio’s stream the donk was drowned—
(If this occurred on Tibur Road.
)
V
Let Donkey represent the Odes;
The Miller represent G.
M.
;
The Son stand for G.
F.
; the loads
Of Critics—I will do for them.
Now, then, this proposition made,
(And my bum verses “Ah’d” and “Oh’d!”).
What Q.
E.
D.
can be displayed
Anent this “On the Tibur Road”?
VI
First, Horry’s dead and he don’t care,
So cancel him, and let him snore;
His Donkey has been raised in air
So oft he’s tough and calloused o’er;
Our Miller—dusty-headed man—
Follows the best donk-boosting code:
Our Son—dispute it no one can—
Sings gaily down the Tibur Road.
VII
This, then, must be this Critic’s scream:—
The donk was boosted well and high,
And, ergo! falling in the stream,
Isn’t and ain’t and can’t be dry;
Nor is your book.
Which is to say
It is no gloomy episode—
You’ve made a dead donk sweetly bray,
And joyful is the Tibur Road.
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Written by
Paul Laurence Dunbar |
When labor is light and the morning is fair,
I find it a pleasure beyond all compare
To hitch up my nag and go hurrying down
And take Katie May for a ride into town;
For bumpety-bump goes the wagon,
But tra-la-la-la our lay.
There's joy in a song as we rattle along
In the light of the glorious day.
A coach would be fine, but a spring wagon's good;
My jeans are a match for Kate's gingham and hood;
The hills take us up and the vales take us down,
But what matters that? we are riding to town,
And bumpety-bump goes the wagon,
But tra-la-la-la sing we.
There's never a care may live in the air
That is filled with the breath of our glee.
And after we've started, there's naught can repress
The thrill of our hearts in their wild happiness;
The heavens may smile or the heavens may frown,
And it's all one to us when we're riding to town.
For bumpety-bump goes the wagon,
[Pg 71]But tra-la-la-la we shout,
For our hearts they are clear and there 's nothing to fear,
And we've never a pain nor a doubt.
The wagon is weak and the roadway is rough,
And tho' it is long it is not long enough,
For mid all my ecstasies this is the crown
To sit beside Katie and ride into town,
When bumpety-bump goes the wagon,
But tra-la-la-la our song;
And if I had my way, I 'd be willing to pay
If the road could be made twice as long.
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