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INDEX

Poems & Prose For 2004

These poems have been posted on the list during the year and will be added to as the party progresses. However I have added John Coles poem from 2002 entitled "Our Special List"

The music is from Colours of the Wind Written by Alan Menken and Stephen Schwartz

 

Party:

Memories:

Shepherds Cottage by Frances Lee

Cornwall:

The Lugger by George Pritchard

The Goldings by John Penrose (1938)

Broccoli Harvest by Patrick French

Fairieland  Augustus Mann. of Mousehole In 1859

Tryphena   by David Oates

The Merry Party - anon.  sent by Sandra

Genealogy:

Our Special List - by John Coles (2002)

The Genealogist Carol by John Cairns

The Twelth Day of Christmas -  Warren Job

Why Computers Sometimes Crash! by Dr. Seuss. sent to the list by Kay

A Comment on Above - By George & Sandra P

Dear Santa By Anon, donated by Rita Bone Kopp

Kinsman (Original Poem by Wayne Hand, 1999) Forwarded by Warren

Ancestors By Anon - sent in by  Deana in Hastings.

Miscelleneous:

A Row of Bottles - sent by Kay Cavanagh 

The Gloria Rose. by Albert Ohlson Crowle sent in by Brian Harris

In the Workhouse: Christmas Day by George R. Sims. Forwarded by Warren

If - Author Unknown, sent in by Kay

Told By Robin Redbreast by Albert Ohlson Crowle.  Crantock.  Easter 1941. Sent by Brian

Twelve days of Christmas. 1 by ? sent in by Kay

Twelve days of Christmas. 2 by ? also sent in by Kay

A Corporate Twelve Days by ?. sent in by Paul 

The Shortest Day by Susan Cooper. sent in by GeorgeP

Colors of the Wind  Written by Alan Menken and Stephen Schwartz

Colors of the Wind
Written by Alan Menken and Stephen Schwartz

You think you own whatever land you land on
The earth is just a dead thing you can claim
But I know ev'ry rock and tree and creature
Has a life, has a spirit, has a name

You think the only people who are people
Are the people who look and think like you
But if you walk the footsteps of a stranger
You'll learn things you never knew you never knew

Have you ever heard the wolf cry to the blue corn moon
Or asked the grinning bobcat why he grinned ?
Can you sing with all the voices of the mountain ?
Can you paint with all the colors of the wind ?
Can you paint with all the colors of the wind ?

Come run the hidden pine trails of the forest
Come taste the sun-sweet berries of the earth
Come roll in all the riches all around you
And for once, never wonder what they're worth

The rainstorm and the river are my brothers
The heron and the otter are my friends
And we are all connected to each other
In a circle, in a hoop that never ends

Have you ever heard the wolf cry to the blue corn moon
Or let the eagle tell you there he's been
Can you sing with all the voices of the mountain ?
Can you paint with all the colors of the wind ?
Can you paint with all the colors of the wind ?

How high does the sycamore grow ?
If you cut it down, then you'll never know

And you'll never hear the wolf cry to the blue corn moon
For whether we are white or copper-skinned
We just sing with all the voices of the mountain
Need to paint with all the colors of the wind
You can own the earth and still
All you'll own is earth until
You can paint with all colors of the wind

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The Genealogist Carol

To sing at the party, which I cannot attend this year!

To Be Sung to the Tune of
GOD REST YE MERRY GENTLEMEN


Good Wishes, family history buffs,
Wherever you may be,
It's time to close that pc down
And raise a glass with me;
We've done our best the whole year through
Our ancestors to find:
So lets drink to that ever-growing tree,
(This round's on me!)
Let's drink to that ever-growing tree.

We know it's not an easy task
To trace Great-uncle Jim,
Who went to Burma, married thrice,
And lived a life of sin;
He ran off with the parson's daughter -
She was number three -
So let's drink to that ever-growing tree
(This round's on me!)
Let's drink to that ever-growing tree.

Alo-ysius Finkelbaum
Is not a common name,
You'd think he'd crop up somewhere
But he's hiding just the same;
Tried IGI, the Census, FRC and BMD -
Hell, let's drink to that ever-growing tree,
(Thish roundsh on me!)
Let's drink to that ever-growing tree.

Tom Gadsden was a mariner - in 1691
He hopped the twig in Nevis
After too long in the sun,
But how to find his resting-place
Will be the death of ME!
Let's drink to that ever-growing tree,
(Da de da dee)
Let's drink to that ever-growing tree.

Though brick walls may confound us
And our eyes are growing dim,
We'll never stop our searching
For that one elusive limb -
We're addicts and we're proud of it
As anyone can see,
So let's drink to that ever-growing tree -
(Hic - no more for me!)
Let's drink to that ever-growing tree.


Have a safe one, everyone!
John
Cairns

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The Shortest Day
by Susan Cooper


And so the shortest day came, and the year died.
And everywhere down the centuries off the snow-white hills 
came people singing, dancing, to drive the dark away.                                             They lighted candles in the winter trees;
They hung their homes with evergreens;
They burned beseeching fires all night long
To keep the year alive.
and when the new year's sunshine blazed awake
They shouted, revelling!
Through all the frosty ages you can hear them,
echoing behind us: listen!
All the long echoes sing the same delight,
this shortest day,
As promise wakens in the sleeping land.
They carol, feast, give thanks,
And dearly love their friends,
and hope for peace.
And so do we, here, now,
this year, and every year:
Welcome Yule!

Blessings to you all!

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Thought you may enjoy this, Kay

Two different Australian versions of Twelve days of Christmas.

Twelve days of Christmas. 1


      On the FIRST day of Christmas,
      My true love sent to me,
      A kookaburra in a gum tree.
      On the SECOND day of Christmas,
      My true love sent to me,
      Two snakes on skis,
      And a kookaburra in a gum tree.

      On the THIRD day of Christmas,
      My true love sent to me,
      Three wet galahs,
      Two snakes on skis,
      And a kookaburra in a gum tree.

      On the FOURTH day of Christmas,
      My true love sent to me,
      Four lyrebirds,
      Three wet galahs,
      Two snakes on skis,
      And a kookaburra in a gum tree.

      On the FIFTH day of Christmas,
      My true love sent to me,
      Five kangaroos,
      Four lyrebirds,
      Three wet galahs,
      Two snakes on skis,
      And a kookaburra in a gum tree.

      On the SIXTH day of Christmas,
      My true love sent to me,
      Six sharks a-surfing,
      Five kangaroos,
      Four lyrebirds,
      Three wet galahs,
      Two snakes on skis,
      And a kookaburra in a gum tree.

      On the SEVENTH day of Christmas,
      My true love sent to me,
      Seven emus laying,
      Six sharks a-surfing,
      Five kangaroos,
      Four lyrebirds,
      Three wet galahs,
      Two snakes on skis,
      And a kookaburra in a gum tree.

      On the EIGHTH day of Christmas,
      My true love sent to me,
      Eight dingos dancing,
      Seven emus laying,
      Six sharks a-surfing,
      Five kangaroos,
      Four lyrebirds,
      Three wet galahs,
      Two snakes on skis,
      And a kookaburra in a gum tree.

      On the NINTH day of Christmas,
      My true love sent to me,
      Nine crocs a-snoozing?
      Eight dingos dancing,
      Seven emus laying,
      Six sharks a-surfing,
      Five kangaroos,
      Four lyrebirds,
      Three wet galahs,
      Two snakes on skis,
      And a kookaburra in a gum tree.

      On the TENTH day of Christmas,
      My true love sent to me,
      Ten wombats washing,
      Nine crocs a-snoozing?
      Eight dingos dancing,
      Seven emus laying,
      Six sharks a-surfing,
      Five kangaroos,
      Four lyrebirds,
      Three wet galahs,
      Two snakes on skis,
      And a kookaburra in a gum tree.

      On the ELEVENTH day of Christmas,
      My true love sent to me,
      Eleven lizards leaping,
      Ten wombats washing,
      Nine crocs a-snoozing?
      Eight dingos dancing,
      Seven emus laying,
      Six sharks a-surfing,
      Five kangaroos,
      Four lyrebirds,
      Three wet galahs,
      Two snakes on skis,
      And a kookaburra in a gum tree.

      On the TWELFTH day of Christmas,
      My true love sent to me,
      Twelve possums playing,
      Eleven lizards leaping,
      Ten wombats washing,
      Nine crocs a-snoozing?
      Eight dingos dancing,
      Seven emus laying,
      Six sharks a-surfing,
      Five kangaroos,
      Four lyrebirds,
      Three wet galahs,
      Two snakes on skis,
      And a kookaburra in a gum tree.

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Twelve days of Christmas. 2


     On the FIRST day of Christmas
      My true love sent to me,
      An emu up a gum tree.
      On the SECOND day of Christmas
      My true sent to me,
      Two pink galahs,
      And an emu up a gum tree.

      On the THIRD day of Christmas
      My true love sent to me,
      Three kookaburras laughing,
      Two pink galahs,
      And an emu up a gum tree.

      On the FOURTH day of Christmas
      My true love sent to me
      Four koalas cuddling,
      Three kookaburras laughing
      Two pink galahs
      And an emu up a gum tree.

      On the FIFTH day of Christmas
      My true love sent to me
      Five kangaroos,
      Four koalas cuddling,
      Three kookaburras laughing,
      Two pink galahs,
      And an emu up a gum tree.

      On the SIXTH day of Christmas
      My true love sent to me
      Six brolgas dancing,
      Five Kangaroos,
      Four koalas cuddling,
      Three kookaburras laughing,
      Two pink galahs,
      And an emu up a gum tree.

      On the SEVENTH day of Christmas
      My true love sent to me
      Seven possums playing,
      Six brolgas dancing,
      Five kangaroos,
      Four koalas cuddling
      Three kookaburras laughing,
      Two pink galahs,
      And an emu up a gum tree.

      On the EIGHTH day of Christmas
      My true love sent to me
      Eight dingoes digging,
      Seven possums playing,
      Six brolgas dancing,
      Five kangaroos,
      Four koalas cuddling,
      Three kookaburras laughing,
      Two pink galahs,
      And an emu up a gum tree.

      On the NINTH day of Christmas
      My true love sent to me
      Nine wombats working,
      Eight dingoes digging
      Seven possums playing,
      Six brolgas dancing,
      Five kangaroos,
      Four koalas cuddling,
      Three kookaburras laughing,
      Two pink galahs,
      And an emu up a gum tree.

      On the TENTH day of Christmas
      My true love sent to me
      Ten lizards leaping,
      Nine wombats working,
      Eight dingoes digging
      Seven possums playing,
      Six brolgas dancing,
      Five kangaroos,
      Four koalas cuddling,
      Three kookaburras laughing,
      Two pink galahs,
      And an emu up a gum tree.

      On the ELEVENTH day of Christmas
      My true love sent to me
      Eleven numbats nagging,
      Ten lizards leaping,
      Nine wombats working,
      Eight dingoes digging,
      Seven possums playing,
      Six brolgas dancing,
      Five kangaroos,
      Four koalas cuddling,
      Three kookaburras laughing,
      Two pink galahs,
      And a emu up a gum tree.

      On the TWELFTH day of Christmas
      My true love sent to me
      Twelve parrots prattling,
      Eleven numbats nagging,
      Ten lizards leaping,
      Nine wombats working,
      Eight dingoes digging,
      Seven possums playing,
      Six brolgas dancing,
      Five kangaroos,
      Four koalas cuddling,
      Three kookaburras laughing,
      Two pink galahs,
      And an emu up a gum tree
    

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Sandra thought you may enjoy this one

Merry Party

Where is now the merry party

I remember long ago,

Sitting round the Christmas Fire

Lightened by its ruddy glow

 

Or in summer's balmy evening,

In the fields among the hay,

They have all dispersed and parted 

Far away, far away.

Have enjoyed all the Xmas Party e-mails.
Thought you might enjoy his poem.
I dont know the author.

Ancestors

Author unkown


I did not know them, but their home I knew
Where lilies glimmered and the aspens grew;
See there-beyond the farthest oakwood ride-
The flashing heron on the falling tide.

I did not know them, but I knew their gate-
Those rusted hinges-and that path of slate,
That surf of fierce, slow ivy: from the lane
Watch now the sunset in the sunken pane.

I did not know them, but I knew their sea,
That pelting flourish by the granite quay:
Their pocket-parlour: why she's hanging yet,
The China clipper in full canvas set.

I did not know them, but in me they live,
Eager and timid, staid and splenitive:
Their sailor's surging and their yeoman's cares-
I did not know them, yet they know me theirs.

Three lonely roofs were these, and far from mine
Where sharp spray tingles and the wet cliffs shine;
But those, my forbears, hold the land in fee:
In them all Cornwall dwells. They dwell in me.

Happy Xmas everyone. Bye from Deana in Hastings.

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Our Christmas party would not be the same without one of Dave Oats poems.

Tryphena

      A thin veil float between our world

And realms beyond the bounds of earth

To separate the skeins of time

That past and present keep

In their allotted span.

 

But here it parts to set the mystery free.

 

Not to all this moment comes

This breath of life from she

Who walked these paths in former days,

For here the seal is broken

That guards the gate of time

And shows a place where that which is,

That was, that soon will be,

Exists as one.

Where wheels of time that turned apart

Now mesh as one.

 

It seems the yearsí swift feet are stilled

In this sweet place of peace

Where roar of restless day

Is far away.

And in the quiet times of day,

Walks one who seeks a love long gone

A face of grief in constant quest

A footfall soft upon the grass

Round grave that bears her name

- Her search in anguish growing.

 

Some say her image rests in minds

Where wandering thoughts find fertile soil

And foolish fancy grows unchecked

But I have seen her in the summer glades

In single beauty walking

Black hair that flows like ravenís wing

To tip on robin red-breast coat

That falls discrete to cover feet,

So proper in her time,

So strange in latter days.

 

With eyes unseeing as I pass

She walks the paths she trod

In former days of joy.

I ache to bring the peace she seeks

And take her home.

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Hello Gang.    Followng on from the Gloria Rose I hope that you will like
this little gem from ' Uncle Hal '    Best wishes  Brian.

Told by Robin Redbreast.

Before I had a breast of red,
By Jesus I was daily fed,
The Saviours heart was kind and true,
He loved me, and I loved him too.
I saw the Lord one Friday morn.
He then was feeble, tired and worn,
By howling brutes the Lord was led,
A crown of thorns upon his head
His Sacred head was pierced and torn.
By many a cruel sharp thorn.
My heart was troubled much to see.
The dear Lord in his agony,
I pecked a thorn that pierced his brow,
The blood fell on my breast, and now,
The Sacred stain will ever remain,
Never to leave our breast again.
---
Signed and dated.
Albert Ohlson Crowle.  Crantock.  Easter 1941.

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If

If I decorate my house perfectly with plaid bows, 

strands of twinkling lights and shiny balls, 

but do not show love to my family, 

I'm just another decorator.

If I slave away in the kitchen, 

baking dozens of Christmas cookies,

preparing gourmet meals and arranging a beautifully adorned table at  mealtime,

but do not show love to my family, 

I'm just another cook.

If I work at the soup kitchen, 

carol in the nursing home and give all that I have to charity, 

but do not show love to my family, 

it profits me nothing.

 If I trim the spruce with shimmering angels and crocheted snowflakes,

attend a myriad of holiday parties and sing in the choir's cantata

but do not focus on Christ, I have missed the point.

Love stops the cooking to hug the child.

Love sets aside the decorating to kiss the husband.

 Love is kind, though harried and tired.

Love doesn't envy another's home that has coordinated Christmas china  and table linens.

Love doesn't yell at the kids to get out of the way, 

but is thankful they are there to be in the way.

Love doesn't give only to those who are able to give in return but

rejoices in giving to those who can't.

Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, 

endures all things.Love never fails.

Video games will break, pearl necklaces will be lost, 

golf clubs will rust.

But giving the gift of love will endure.


Merry Christmas!

Author Unknown

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KINSMAN
(Original Poem by Wayne Hand, 1999)
 
 Alas, my elusive kinsman
 You've led me quite a chase
 I thought I'd found your courthouse
 But the Yankees burned the place.
 
 You always kept your bags packed
 Although you had no fame, and
 Just for the fun of it
 Twice you changed your name.
 
 You never owed any man, or
 At least I found no bills
 In spite of eleven offspring
 You never left a will.
 
 They say our name's from Europe
 Came state side on a ship
 Either they lost the passenger list
 Or granddad gave them the slip.
 
 I'm the only one that's looking
 Another searcher I can't find
 I play (maybe that's his fathers name)
 As I go out of my mind.
 
 They said you had a headstone
 In a shady plot
 I've been there twenty times, and
 Can't even find the lot.
 
 You never wrote a letter
 Your Bible we can't find
 It's probably in some attic
 Out of sight and out of mind.
 
 You first married a..........Smith
 And just to set the tone
 The other four were Sarahs
 And everyone a Jones.
 
 You cost me two fortunes
 One of which I did not have
 My wife, my house and Fido
 God, how I miss that yellow lab.
 
 But somewhere you slipped up,
 Ole Boy, Somewhere you left a track
 And If I don't find you this year
 Well..........Next year I'll be back.
 
Harry Kirby

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In the Workhouse: Christmas Day
by George R. Sims

It is Christmas Day in the Workhouse,
And the cold bare walls are bright
With garlands of green and holly,
And the place is a pleasant sight:
For with clean-washed hands and faces,
In a long and hungry line
The paupers sit at the tables
For this is the hour they dine.
And the guardians and their ladies,
Although the wind is east,
Have come in their furs and wrappers,
To watch their charges feast;
To smile and be condescending,
Put pudding on pauper plates,
To be hosts at the workhouse banquet
They've paid for -- with their rates.

Oh, the paupers are meek and lowly
With their "Thank'ee kindly, mum's"
So long as they fill their stomachs,
What matter it whence it comes?
But one of the old men mutters,
And pushes his plate aside:
"Great God!" he cries; "but it chokes me!
For this is the day she died."

The guardians gazed in horror,
The master's face went white;
"Did a pauper refuse the pudding?"
Could their ears believe aright?
Then the ladies clutched their husbands,
Thinking the man would die,
Struck by a bolt, or something,
By the outraged One on high.

But the pauper sat for a moment,
Then rose 'mid a silence grim,
For the others had ceased to chatter
And trembled in every limb.
He looked at the guardians' ladies,
Then, eyeing their lords, he said,
"I eat not the food of villains
Whose hands are foul and red:

"Whose victims cry for vengeance
>From their dank, unhallowed graves."
"He's drunk!" said the workhouse master,
"Or else he's mad and raves."
"Not drunk or mad," cried the pauper,
"But only a hunted beast,
Who, torn by the hounds and mangled,
Declines the vulture's feast.

"Keep your hands off me, curse you!
Hear me right out to the end.
You come here to see how paupers
The season of Christmas spend.
You come here to watch us feeding,
As they watch the captured beast.
Hear why a penniless pauper
Spits on your paltry feast.

"Do you think I will take your bounty,
And let you smile and think
You're doing a noble action
With the parish's meat and drink?
Where's my wife, you traitors --
The poor old wife you slew?
Yes, by the God above us,
My Nance was killed by you!

"Last winter my wife lay dying,
Starved in a filthy den;
I had never been to the parish, --
I came to the parish then.
I swallowed my pride in coming,
For, ere the ruin came,
I held up my head as a trader,
And I bore a spotless name.

"I came to the parish, craving
Break for a starving wife,
Bread for the woman who'd loved me
Through fifty years of life;
And what do you think they told me,
Mocking my awful grief?
That 'the House' was open to us,
But they wouldn't give 'out relief.'

"I slunk to the filthy alley --
'Twas a cold, raw Christmas eve --
And the bakers' shops were open,
Tempting a man to thieve;
But I clenched my fists together,
Holding my head awry,
So I came to her empty-handed
And mournfully told her why.

"Then I told her 'the House' was open;
She had heard of the ways of that,
For her bloodless cheeks went crimson,
And up in her rags she sat,
Crying, 'Bide the Christmas here, John,
We've never had one apart;
I think I can bear the hunger, --
The other would break my heart.'

"All through that eve I watched her,
Holding her hand in mine,
Praying the Lord, and weeping,
Till my lips were salt as brine.
I asked her once if she hungered,
And as she answered 'No,'
The moon shone in at the window
Set in a wreath of snow.

"Then the room was bathed in glory,
And I saw in my darling's eyes
The far-away look of wonder
That comes when the spirit flies;
And her lips were parched and parted,
And her reason came and went,
For she raved of our home in Devon,
Where our happiest years were spent.

"And the accents long forgotten,
Came back to the tongue once more,
For she talked like the country lassie
I woo'd by the Devon shore.
Then she rose to her feet and trembled,
And fell on the rags and moaned,
And, 'Give me a crust -- I'm famished --
For the love of God!' she groaned.

"I rushed from the room like a madman,
And flew to the workhouse gate,
Crying, 'Food for a dying woman!'
And the answer came, 'Too late.'
They drove me away with curses;
Then I fought with a dog in the street,
And tore from the mongrel's clutches
A crust he was trying to eat.

"Back, through the filthy by-lanes!
Back, through the trampled slush!
Up to the crazy garret,
Wrapped in an awful hush.
My heart sank down at the threshold,
And I paused with a sudden thrill,
For there in the silv'ry moonlight
My Nance lay, cold and still.

"Up to the blackened ceiling
The sunken eyes were cast --
I knew on those lips all bloodless
My name had been the last;
She'd called for her absent husband --
O God! had I but known! --
Had called in vain, and in anguish
Had died in that den -- alone.

"Yes, there, in a land of plenty,
Lay a loving woman dead,
Cruelly starved and murdered
For a loaf of the parish bread.

At yonder gate, last Christmas,
I craved for a human life.
You, who would feast us paupers,
What of my murdered wife!

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The Gloria Rose.

Mary came early on the third day,
Where for three days, the Saviour lay.
Her mother heart was sad and worn,
She would seek rest that blessed morn.
She saw the cruel thorny crown,
That Joseph on the ground threw down,
Had taken root, and from it grew
A glorious bush of radiant hue,
Covered in gold and living green.
No cruel thorn on it was to be seen,
The glory of the golden bloom.
Hiding the entrance to the tomb,
To Mary's heart came sweey repose,
For on each stem bloomed , a Gloria Rose.
---
Signed and dated.
Albert Ohlson Crowle.  Pirates Perch.
 Easter 1940.

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Dear Santa:

Don't bring me new dishes;
I don't need a new kind of game,
Genealogists have peculiar wishes;
For Christmas, I just want a surname.

A new washing machine would be great,
But it's not the desire of my life.
I've just found an ancestor's birth date; 

What I need now is the name ofthe wife.

My heart doesn't yearn for a ring
That would put a real diamond to shame.
What I want is a much cheaper thing:
Please give me Mary's last name.

To see my heart singing with joy
Don't bring me a red leather suitcase.
Bring me a genealogist's toy;
A surname, with dates and a place!

Anonymous

'Cheeky Bunny' Rita. The General, Her Matchless Piety, Lady Conductor.
The Elite Victor Over Noise.

Happy Hunting
Rita Bone Kopp,

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 Fairieland
Augustus Mann. of Mousehole In 1859
 
There's Magic afoot in Cornwall
As you who are Cornwall's know
For she twines your heart in her fingers 
And never can let you go
You may think to forget in the City
But a hurdy-gurdy's strain
Or beautiful face, a colour
Or lamps that swing in the rain,
And the old strange spell is on you
And the world shrinks to bo
A green cliff in Cornwall
a green cliff and the sea.
 

Even as I typed the poem, it brought tears to my eyes. So sweet.

Caro; (Kitto) Kubalinski

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This tract of land at St Just was obviously productive both above and below ground. Below is a poem published in the Old Cornwall journal V 4 Oct 1938 and written by a John Penrose of St Just.

The Goldings

By John Penrose (1938)

Pray see what a plenty the "GOLDINGS" afford, 

You are not at a loss to furnish your board; 

There are Turnips and Cabbage, fat Mutton and Lamb, 

Legs of Pork for your pot, and the Shoulders for Ham.

 

Fat Fowls at your service, and plenty of Eggs, 

And "Farmer" Potatoes for feeding of Pigs 

Raw milk you may sell, there are buyers enough, 

And that will provide you Tobacco and Snuff.

 

"Apple" Potatoes to find you, besides what are sold, 

And Butter almost like the Angel of gold 

For rearing of Calves no healthier land, 

And Cream on the Milk like the heel of your hand.

 

It is well worth their notice who through it do pass, 

To look at the floor of the three-leaved grass.- 

Always lewth for your cattle to eat hay or straw, 

Let the wind from the north, south-west, or west blow.

 

Quite handy for Watering of Cattle beside, 

For through it a river doth gently glide; 

And on unhealthy ground where Bullocks grow weak, 

Turn them into the "Goldings," how hearty they eat.

 

Their coat very soon flys from them in' flakes, 

As they round the fields scout with their tails on their back, 

Those creatures appear as if risen from dead, 

And their eyes almost seem to fly out of their head.

 

What a transport and harmony is here in the spring, 

When the thrush and the blackbird on each spray 'do sing; . 

And as soon as the Cuckoo her appearance do make, 

Away to the " Goldings" with swift wing she'll take.

 

Here is Furze to make faggots to stop up your gaps, 

And good Wheaten-reed for to make your Straw Hats; 

Here is Wool to make Stockings, Fowls' Feathers, for tyes, 

Rabbit' skins for your muffs, and their flesh to make pies.

 

And this Estate so extensive to view who that please, 

From Nancherrow river to the foot of Noongrease; 

And from the old mansion house what a prospect it yields, 

Kenidjack and Truthwall, and the Wheal Boys Fields. 

 

The prospect is pleasant, I shan't add much more, 

But only Nancherrow and the Farmer's long Moor 

And here is all this Estate for Ten Pounds per year, 

And yet you will say that the "GOLDINGS" is dear.

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BROCCOLI HARVEST

by Patrick French

When its broccoli time in Cornwall, Farmers say they tell

By when they walk along the lanes: They recognise the smell.

If the broccoli smells like Money -- then itís piled high on their cart!

(Itís those rotting stumps theyíve left behind that smell more like a fart!)

 - Ludgvan 1995

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Hope you have a laugh over this, received it from a friend in Canada.
 Kay Melbourne, OZ

Why Computers Sometimes Crash! by Dr. Seuss.

(Read this to yourself aloud - it's great!)
>
  If a packet hits a pocket on a socket on a port,
   and the bus is interrupted at a very last resort,
 and the access of the memory makes your floppy disk abort,
then the socket packet pocket has an error to report.

If your cursor finds a menu item followed by a dash,
and the double-clicking icon puts your window in the trash,
and your data is corrupted cause the index doesn't hash,
then your situation's hopeless and your system's gonna crash!

If the label on the cable on the table at your house,
says the network is connected to the button on your mouse,
but your packets want to tunnel to another protocol,
that's repeatedly rejected by the printer down the hall.

 And your screen is all distorted by the side effects of gauss,
so your icons in the window are as wavy as a souse;
then you may as well reboot and go out with a bang,
'cuz sure as I'm a poet, the sucker's gonna hang.

When the copy on your floppy's getting sloppy in the disk,
and the macro code instructions is causing unnecessary risk,
then you'll have to flash the memory and you'll want to RAM your ROM,
and then quickly turn off the computer and be sure to tell your Mom!

Well, that certainly clears things up for me. How about you?

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A comment on above

by George & Sandra P

When I open up my e-mails and there's nothing there but junk,
Sometimes I think  it's all come true - the list has really sunk.
So Kay sends us all a poem ,which is meant to make us smile,
And it's all about computers  that go wrong, once in a while

To me it's all plain gobbledy gook, my memory must be thick
I'll wait till my son Bryn comes home to fix things with one click
All this talk of floppy macro codes and re-boots going crash
It drives me so far up the wall I  give the thing a bash

I read the poem through again; the fog begins to lift
It must be written in a code so the  clues I start to sift
I'm sure that I can work it out, athough it may take  time
It really is about the words and getting them to rhyme.

If a packet hits a pocket on a socket on a port,
and the bus is interrupted at a very last resort,
and the access of the memory makes your floppy disk abort,
then the socket packet pocket has an error to report."

Now if "packet" is a pasty could "socket" be a beer
Could  a"last resort" mean Sennen .Ah..that starts to make it clear
Whilst I cannot see what memory has to do with a slipped disk
Sennen, plus a pint and pasty would  likely  do the trick.

If your cursor finds a menu item followed by a dash,
and the double-clicking icon puts your window in the trash,
and your data is corrupted cause the index doesn't hash,
then your situation's hopeless and your system's gonna crash!"

On the list we discuss menus of that there is no doubt,
But "double clicking icon's" would surely be ruled out
Or is it code for Rodda's cream with scones and strawberry jam?
The blood sugar's going through the roof as my data  systems slam.

"If the label on the cable on the table at your house,
says the network is connected to the button on your mouse,
but your packets want to tunnel to another protocol,
that's repeatedly rejected by the printer down the hall."

Well now I'm getting all confused, as you can plainly see
Network and Tunnel simply mean the train to San and me
Then there's the printer down the hall , thats " The Packet" News I'll bet
Is this the port of Falmouth with no fish caught in the net

And your screen is all distorted by the side effects of gauss,
so your icons in the window are as wavy as a souse;
then you may as well reboot and go out with a bang
'cuz sure as I'm a poet, the sucker's gonna hang.

Old Dr Seuss has beaten me but it's been such mighty fun.
If I had seen the subject line I should not have begun
Kay wrote  "Off Topic" so that folk could  read and plainly see
It was not on Cornwall-pasties- cream or gen-e-al-o-gy.

So thank you Kay for your great post which really made me grin
It brought back times of winter nights curled up with my son. Bryn.
"Read Dr Seuss", he'd cry aloud and  pass  a book to me.
"Cat in the Hat "or  hairy "Grinch" are old friends to us you see.

George P
[plus a little help from San who says this is just the type of humour most
Cornish love: clever nonsense with a great play on words]

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OUR SPECIAL LIST

Coles house.jpg (31409 bytes)


Tis Christmas on the Cornish List,
A time of year that can't be missed.
Time when friends from the world around,
Seek solace on our Cornish ground.

Friends so distant, yet so near,
Friends who seek a past unclear.
Yet Christmas is that time of year
When friendships are so much more dear.

And so, with merry hearts and joy,
The 'serious' it seems we do annoy.
Yet frivolous though our antics be,
The depth of feeling all should see.

For this is more than just a List,
And all it's members are not...
(but it rhymes)
This joy and pleasure, we have found,
Gives 'serious' pleasure all year round.

John Coles (Party

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Shepherds Cottage 

Strongly built of stone it was in 1673 

hewn from the rock and drawn from the land 

in troglodyte struggle hand, shoulder and knee 

 

Cleaved to the side of a hill it was 

like a child that is drawn to the breast 

though created by screaming of sinews 

it is now part of nature at rest 

 

Today its the hub of a family 

a living sculpture of stone 

alive with our noise, mess and problems 

we're happy to say that its home! 

 I have also written this poem on the wall in our kitchen before we put up some panelling. Maybe some long time in the future someone will find it. Hope they love this house as much as we do! Frances

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The Twelth Day of Christmas

On the twelfth day of Christmas,
My true love gave to me,
Twelve census searches,
Eleven printer ribbons,
Ten e-mail contacts,
Nine headstone rubbings,
Eight birth and death dates,
Seven town clerks sighing,
Six second cousins,
Five coats of arms,
Four GEDCOM files,
Three old wills,
Two CD-ROMs,
And a branch in my family tree.

Merry Christmas to everyone!!

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The Lugger

"It's just a plaything for the boy",

That's what his father says 

He does not see beneath the paint

To times of yesterday.

-0-

Within the timbers memory stirs

Of trips made far away,

Of men with salt blood in their veins

And seas both dark and grey.

-0-

Kelynack, Vingoe, James and Wright,

Hitchins, Symons and Boyns,

Edwards, Cattren, Harvey, White,

Some names from out the throng.

-0-

They came from Bowgey and Tolcarne,

From lanes and courts and opes,

They took onboard their sails and nets

And all their families hopes.

-0-

With bags of tea and condensed milk;

Some flour; a bacon side;

12 dozens eggs and home made bread,

They waited for the tide.

-0-

Her strong old timbers then knew the cry

"Up anchor boys we sail",

To chase the herring cross the sea

"Lord spare us from the gales"

-0-

So Gwavas Lake was left behind,

Her lug sails were set free,

Past Clements Isle and Tater Dhu

She headed out to sea.

-0-  

Around these Islands she did sail,

Away for months on end;

Some crew were lost beneath the waves,

On that you can depend.

-0-

So as you look upon her now

And once more hear him say

"It's just a plaything for the boy",

Think thou of yesterday

-0-

        

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A Row of Bottles

Anon

A row of bottles on my shelf

Caused me to analyze myself.

One yellow pill I have to pop

Goes to my heart so it won't stop

A little white one that I take

Goes to my hands so they won't shake.

The blue ones that I use a lot

Tell me I'm happy when I'm not.

The purple pill goes to my brain

And tells me that I have no pain.

The capsules tell me not to wheeze

Or cough or choke or even sneeze.

The red ones, smallest of them all

Go to my blood so I won't fall.

The orange ones, very big and bright

Prevent my leg cramps in the night.

Such an array of brilliant pills

Helping to cure all kinds of ills.

But what I'd really like to know...........

Is what tells each one where to go!

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A Corporate Twelve Days

New Policy

Effective immediately, the following economizing measures are being implemented in the "Twelve Days of Christmas" subsidiary:

  • 1) The partridge will be retained, but the pear tree, which never produced the cash crop forecasted, will be replaced by a plastic hanging plant, providing considerable savings in maintenance;

  •  

  • 2) Two turtle doves represent a redundancy that is simply not cost effective. In addition, their romance during working hours could not be condoned. The positions are, therefore, eliminated;

  •  

  • 3) The three French hens will remain intact. After all, everyone loves the French;

  •  

  • 4) The four calling birds will be replaced by an automated voice mail system, with a call waiting option. An analysis is underway to determine who the birds have been calling, how often and how long they talked;

  •  

  • 5) The five golden rings have been put on hold by the Board of Directors. Maintaining a portfolio based on one commodity could have negative implications for institutional investors. Diversification into other precious metals, as well as a mix of T-Bills and high technology stocks, appear to be in order;

  •  

  • 6) The six geese-a-laying constitutes a luxury which can no longer be afforded. It has long been felt that the production rate of one egg per goose per day was an example of the general decline in productivity. Three geese will be let go, and an upgrading in the selection procedure by personnel will assure management that, from now on, every goose it gets will be a good one;

  •  

  • 7) The seven swans-a-swimming is obviously a number chosen in better times. The function is primarily decorative. Mechanical swans are on order. The current swans will be retrained to learn some new strokes, thereby enhancing their outplacement;

  •  

  • 8) As you know, the eight maids-a-milking concept has been under heavy scrutiny by the EEOC. A male/female balance in the workforce is being sought. The more militant maids consider this a dead-end job with no upward mobility. Automation of the process may permit the maids to try a-mending, a-mentoring or a-mulching;

  •  

  • 9) Nine ladies dancing has always been an odd number. This function will be phased out as these individuals grow older and can no longer do the steps;

  •  

  • 10) Ten Lords-a-leaping is overkill. The high cost of Lords, plus the expense of international air travel, prompted the Compensation Committee to suggest replacing this group with ten out-of-work congressmen. While leaping ability may be somewhat sacrificed, the savings are significant as we expect an oversupply of unemployed congressmen this year;

  •  

  • 11) Eleven pipers piping and twelve drummers drumming is a simple case of the band getting too big. A substitution with a string quartet, a cutback on new music, and no uniforms, will produce savings which will drop right to the bottom line;

    Overall we can expect a substantial reduction in assorted people, fowl, animals and related expenses. Though incomplete, studies indicate that stretching deliveries over twelve days is inefficient. If we can drop ship in one day, service levels will be improved.

    Regarding the lawsuit filed by the attorney's association seeking expansion to include the legal profession ("thirteen lawyers-a-suing"), a decision is pending.

    Deeper cuts may be necessary in the future to remain competitive. Should that happen, the Board will request management to scrutinize the Snow White Division to see if seven dwarfs is the right number.

  • Merry Christmas 

    Paul Ganser

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