Pleasant Pheasant Plucker , Plucking Pheasants Pleasantly
Me husband is a keeper, he’s a very busy man,
I try to understand him and I help him all I can,
But sometimes of an evening I feel a trifle dim,
All alone and plucking pheasants when I’d rather pluck with him.
I’m not the pheasant plucker,
I’m the pheasant plucker’s mate
And I’m only plucking pheasants
Cause the pheasant plucker’s late.
I’m not good at plucking pheasants, pheasant plucking I get stuck,
Though some peasants find it pleasant I’d much rather pluck a duck,
Oh, but plucking geese is gorgeous, I can pluck a goose with ease
But plucking pheasants is sheer torture, for they haven’t any grease.
I’m not the pheasant plucker,
He has gone out on the tiles,
He only plucked one pheasant
And I’m sitting here with piles.
You have to pluck them fresh, if they’re fresh it’s not unpleasant,
I knew a man in Dunstable, could pluck a frozen pheasant.
They say the village constable has pheasant plucking sessions
With the vicar of a Sunday ‘tween the first and second lessons.
I’m not the pheasant plucker,
I’m the pheasant plucker’s son,
And I’m only plucking pheasants
Till the pheasant pluckers come.
My good friend Godfrey’s most adept, he’s really got the knack,
He likes to have a pheasant plucked before he hits the sack.
I try and lend a helping hand, I gather up the feathers,
It’s really all this pheasant plucking keeps us here together.
I’m not the pheasant plucker,
I’m the pheasant plucker’s friend,
And I’m only plucking pheasants
As a means unto an end.
Me husband’s in the woods all day, a-banging with his gun,
If he could hear me heartfelt cries, then surely he would run,
For I’ve fluff in all me crannies and there’s feathers up me nose,
And I’m itchin’ in the kitchen’ from me head down to me toes.
I’m not the pheasant plucker,
I’m the pheasant plucker’s wife,
I try to understand him and I help him all I can,
But sometimes of an evening I feel a trifle dim,
All alone and plucking pheasants when I’d rather pluck with him.
I’m not the pheasant plucker,
I’m the pheasant plucker’s mate
And I’m only plucking pheasants
Cause the pheasant plucker’s late.
I’m not good at plucking pheasants, pheasant plucking I get stuck,
Though some peasants find it pleasant I’d much rather pluck a duck,
Oh, but plucking geese is gorgeous, I can pluck a goose with ease
But plucking pheasants is sheer torture, for they haven’t any grease.
I’m not the pheasant plucker,
He has gone out on the tiles,
He only plucked one pheasant
And I’m sitting here with piles.
You have to pluck them fresh, if they’re fresh it’s not unpleasant,
I knew a man in Dunstable, could pluck a frozen pheasant.
They say the village constable has pheasant plucking sessions
With the vicar of a Sunday ‘tween the first and second lessons.
I’m not the pheasant plucker,
I’m the pheasant plucker’s son,
And I’m only plucking pheasants
Till the pheasant pluckers come.
My good friend Godfrey’s most adept, he’s really got the knack,
He likes to have a pheasant plucked before he hits the sack.
I try and lend a helping hand, I gather up the feathers,
It’s really all this pheasant plucking keeps us here together.
I’m not the pheasant plucker,
I’m the pheasant plucker’s friend,
And I’m only plucking pheasants
As a means unto an end.
Me husband’s in the woods all day, a-banging with his gun,
If he could hear me heartfelt cries, then surely he would run,
For I’ve fluff in all me crannies and there’s feathers up me nose,
And I’m itchin’ in the kitchen’ from me head down to me toes.
I’m not the pheasant plucker,
I’m the pheasant plucker’s wife,
And when we pluck together
It’s a pheasant plucking life!Nations- Native American Poem
Where Will Our Children Live
A lonesome warrior stands in fear of what the future brings, he will never hear the beating drums or the songs his brothers sing.
Our many nations once stood tall and ranged from shore to shore but most are gone and few remain and the buffalo roam no more.
We shared our food and our land and gave with open hearts, We wanted peace and love and hope, but all were torn apart.
All this was taken because we did not know what the white man had in store, They killed our people and raped our lands and the buffalo roam no more.
But those of us who still remain hold our heads up high, and the spirits of the elders flow through us as if they never died.
Our dreams will live on forever and our nations will be reborn, our bone and beads and feathers all will be proudly worn.
If you listen close you will hear the drums and songs upon the winds, and in the distance you will see....the buffalo roam again.
A lonesome warrior stands in fear of what the future brings, he will never hear the beating drums or the songs his brothers sing.
Our many nations once stood tall and ranged from shore to shore but most are gone and few remain and the buffalo roam no more.
We shared our food and our land and gave with open hearts, We wanted peace and love and hope, but all were torn apart.
All this was taken because we did not know what the white man had in store, They killed our people and raped our lands and the buffalo roam no more.
But those of us who still remain hold our heads up high, and the spirits of the elders flow through us as if they never died.
Our dreams will live on forever and our nations will be reborn, our bone and beads and feathers all will be proudly worn.
If you listen close you will hear the drums and songs upon the winds, and in the distance you will see....the buffalo roam again.
The Poplar Tree
The poplars are felled; farewell to the shade
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade:
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.
Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a view
Of my favourite field and the bank where they grew;
And now in the grass behold they are laid
And the tree is my seat that once lent me shade!
The blackbird has fled to another retreat
Where the Hazels afford him a screen from the heat,
And the scene where his melody charmed me before
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.
My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they
With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head,
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.
Tis a sight to engage me if anything can,
To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;
Though his life be a dream his enjoyments, I see,
Have a being less durable even than he.
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade:
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.
Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a view
Of my favourite field and the bank where they grew;
And now in the grass behold they are laid
And the tree is my seat that once lent me shade!
The blackbird has fled to another retreat
Where the Hazels afford him a screen from the heat,
And the scene where his melody charmed me before
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.
My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they
With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head,
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.
Tis a sight to engage me if anything can,
To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;
Though his life be a dream his enjoyments, I see,
Have a being less durable even than he.
