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Hoyt Axton is one of the best American song writers. here's a lovely tune called Evangelina

And I dream in the morning
That she brings me water.
And I dream in the evening
That she brings me wine.
Just a poor man's daughter
EVANGELINA in old Mexico.

There's a great hot desert
Down in Mexicali.
And if you don't have water
Boy, you'd better not go.
Tequila won't get you
Across that desert.
To EVANGELINA, in old Mexico

CHORUS

And the fire I feel for the woman I love
Is drivin' me insane.
Knowin' she's waitin',
And I can't get there.
God only knows that I wracked my brain
To try and find a way
To reach that woman
In old Mexico.

And I met a kind man
He guarded the border
He said, "You don't need papers,
I'll let you go,
I can tell that you love her
By the look in your eyes, now".
She's the rose of the desert
In old Mexico



And I dream in the morning
That she brings me water
And I dream in the evening
That she brings me wine.
Just a poor man's daughter
South of the border
In old Mexico
Evangelina,I miss you so.
I miss you so.

panz, remind me sometime to tell you about the night I met Hoyt in a bar in Crested Butte Colorado. funny story, sorta kinda.

Angelina reminded me of One of my favorite songwriters - and singers - in country music, Micky Newbury:

Yesterday´s newspapers forecasts no rain for today
Yesterday´s news was old news, the skies are all grey
Winter´s in labor and soon will give birth to the spring
And sprinkle the meadows with flowers for my Angeline.

Heartache and sorrow and sadness unendingly find
Wings on a mem´ry and with them she flies to my mind
She stretched her arms for a moment, then went back to sleep
While morning stood watching me ever so silently weep.

She opened her eyes, Lord, the minute my feet touched the floor
The cold hard-wood creaked with each step that I made to the door
Then I turned to her gently and said, "Hon, just look, it is spring"
Knowing outside the window, the winter looked for Angeline.

But yesterday´s newspaper forecast no rain for today,
But yesterday´s news is old news the skies are all grey.

Well, listeners. We've been everywhere today. Butte--Houston--Mexico--Florida--Germany--Manchester--and even yesterday's newspaper. and back to Hoyt:

I remember him in Gremlins, but I don't think that I have ever heard him sing.

For Setanta, our absent brother:

Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring,
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The bird of time has but a little way to fly,
And Lo! the bird is on the wing.

From The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, translated by Fitzgerald.

Perhaps we will awake to the hunter of the east.

Until then, listeners and friends.

a goodnight verse from the Persian:

Ah, moon of my delight who know'st no wane,
The moon of heaven is rising once again.
How oft hereafter rising shall she look
Through this same garden after me, in vain.

From Letty with love.

It's surprising how few realize what rubaiyat means. Rubai is a quatrain. Rubaiyat is the plural in Persian.

Whether at Naishapur or Babylon,
Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.

Awake! For morning in the bowl of night
Has flung the stone that puts the stars to flight;
And, lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan's turret in a noose of light.

Every morn I decide to repent at night
For embracing the joys of heart and sight
Yet every night, what seems right
With all my might, embrace delight.

Carrington-Briggs cared not two figs
Whether he lived or died
But when he was dead, he lay on his bed
And cried and cried and cried.

spring has sprung, the grass has riz
i wonder where the birdies is
the bird is on the wing, now isn't that absurd
i always thought the wing was on the bird

Listen to the mockingbird


I'm dreaming now of Hallie, sweet Hallie, sweet Hallie
I'm dreaming now of Hallie, for the thought of her is one that never dies
She's sleeping in the valley, the valley, the valley
She's sleeping in the valley, and the mockingbird shinging where she lies



Listen to the mockingbird, listen to the mockingbird
The mockingbird is singing o'er her grave
Listen to the mockingbird, listen to the mockingbird
Still singing where the weeping willows wave



Ah well I yet can remember, I remember, I remember
Ah well I yet can remember, when we gathered in the cotton side by side
'Twas in the mild mid-September, in September, in September
'Twas in the mild mid-September, and the mockingbird was singing far and wide



* Refrain



When charms of spring are awaken, are awaken, are awaken
When charms of spring are awaken and the mockingbird is singing on the bough
I feel like one so forsaken, so forsaken, so forsaken
I feel like one so forsaken, since my Hallie is no longer with me now



* Refrain

Modern mish-mash of ancient customs and symbols, the egg, the march hare, pre-christian european and indeed eastern symbols as they are.

Fascinating how they've mutated.

Do any of the listeners think anything has been lost, or gained, in the modernisation and commerce of today's spring festival?

Personally I think a lot has been lost.
If you ask a child of today to perform the Ancient "fish slapping" dance, they wouldnt have a clue!!

It's all in fun, with the bright colors, the hidden eggs, and it's magical to little ones.

All well and good..........but where are the Herring?

Peter Cottontail was a popular song fifty years ago. The changes in tradition are ongoing and may never stop. I don't see the harm.

Good morning, WA2K radio fans. It's nice to see that we have the idle rich among us. Love your moniker, Lord Ellpus. You will have to tell our listeners about the custom of fish slapping and the heresy of herrings.<smile>

My, my, listeners. Bob has given us a delightful background on the Rubaiyat. Thanks for that info, Bod. I had never paid much attention to the origin of the word.

With edgar's lyrics to Listen to the Mockingbird, I think about the bird imagery in many of the classics, namely Shakespeare.

I see that Francis, Andrew, and dj, have followed suit with their own quatrains, and McTag is musing on the rites and rituals of the Easter bunny. Like edgar, folks, the baskets were just another happiness happening for kids.

It's is a common interest among us all to think on the rites of spring, and the winter birds who herald the season. Then, of course there is Stravinsky's Rites of Spring , a solemn exploration in music.

T.S. Eliot sees April as a cruel month, and then, of course, there is April's Fools Day. Do any of you recall last year when Craven changed all the avatars as a bit of fun?

Re:- "fish slapping dance"....in response to your enquiry, the details have now been posted onto the "learn something ubtrue everyday" thread in this section (although it is taken from absolute fact....honestly)
Ellpus.

Thank you, Lord of the manor. That must be kickycan's thread. I most certainly will search it out later.

Now, listeners and staff. A bit of esoteric poetry which I may have posted before, but is worthy of a second treatment since it conjurs up the idea of spring with a more sinister thought.


in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman

whistles far and wee

and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer
old balloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's
spring
and
the

goat-footed

balloonMan whistles
far
and
wee

e.e. cummings

Doesn't the goat-footed balloonMan smack of a satyr, listeners?

Sorry, ELLpus, I couldn't find your fish story. Perhaps if you would provide us with a link.

And as the sun rises, listeners, I discovered that this house may indeed be real:

Traditional lyrics, as recorded by folklorist Alan Lomax:

There is a house in New Orleans

they call the Rising Sun.

It's been the ruin of many a poor girl,

and me, O God, for one.

If I had listened what Mamma said,

I'd 'a' been at home today.

Being so young and foolish, poor boy,

let a rambler lead me astray.

Go tell my baby sister

never do like I have done

to shun that house in New Orleans

they call the Rising Sun.

My mother she's a tailor;

she sold those new blue jeans.

My sweetheart, he's a drunkard, Lord, Lord,

drinks down in New Orleans.

The only thing a drunkard needs

is a suitcase and a trunk.

The only time he's satisfied

is when he's on a drunk.

Fills his glasses to the brim,

passes them around

only pleasure he gets out of life

is hoboin' from town to town.

One foot is on the platform

and the other one on the train.

I'm going back to New Orleans

to wear that ball and chain.

Going back to New Orleans,

my race is almost run.

Going back to spend the rest of my days

beneath that Rising Sun.

Those aren't the lyrics that I remember, but as we know, legends and language are dynamic.

A Good Day to All:

Some B.D. celebs:

1685 Johann Sebastian Bach, composer (Eisanach, Germany; died 1750)
1806 Benito Juarez, Mexican president and revolutionary leader (Oaxaca, Mexico; died 1872)
1816 Charlotte Bronte novelist/poet (Thornton, Yorkshire, died 1855)
1869 Florenz Ziegfeld producer (Ziegfield Follies)(Chicago, Ill. (Died 1932)
1910 Julio Gallo, vintner (Oakland, CA; died 1993)
1916 Harold Robbins US, novelist (The Carpetbaggers), N.Y., N.Y. (Died 1997)
1918 Howard Cosell Winston-Salem NC, sportscaster (Monday Night Football) (died 1995)
1929 James Coco Bronx NY, actor (Man of La Mancha, Murder by Death)(died 1987)
1934 Al Freeman Jr., actor (San Antonio, TX)
1944 Timothy Dalton, actor (Colwyn Bay, Wales)
1958 Gary Oldman, actor (London, England)
1962 Matthew Broderick, actor (New York, NY)
Rosie O'Donnell, TV personality/actress (Commack, NY)
1966 Cynthia Geary, actress (Jackson, MS)