Solomon Grundy,

Born on a Monday,
Christened on Tuesday,
Married on Wednesday,
Took ill on Thursday,
Grew worse on Friday,
Died on Saturday,
Buried on Sunday.
That was the end,
Of Solomon Grundy.

One of the rhymes taught to us when we are young.
Fr teaching the name of the week.
whether this is still in vogue I do not know.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Story_poem my favourite.

The Eagle and the Owl The Eagle and the Owl ; Ceased their strife And without a fuss ; Made friends for life Each swore to spare ; The other's young ones "Do you know mine?" ;  Asked the Owl, the dunce "Describe them, please" ; The Eagle said Enabling me ; To know thy breed "My babes" said the Owl ; "Have gentle ways" They are full of charm ; They are Full Of Grace ! So Fine , So Sweet ; Unparallellerd for sheer beauty In all the world ! The pact was made ; The Owl went home And told the babes ; You are free from harm Next day the Eagle ; In search of food Found one hideous brood ;  "Are these my Crony's children?"  No! She said they are fine ; But these are ugly! So I'll eat them then : Without delay He ate them all ; And went his away The Owl returning ;  Found her sweet Young family gone ; She shouted "Cheat"! But Who is to blame? ; The Owl's falsehood  Without a doubt ; Cost her, her brood. ================...
Read more

Casabianca

  Casabianca Felicia Hemans The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but he had fled; The flame that lit the battle’s wreck, Shone round him o’er the dead. Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though childlike form. The flames rolled on – he would not go, Without his father’s word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard. He called aloud – ‘Say, father, say If yet my task is done?’ He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son. ‘Speak, father!’ once again he cried, ‘If I may yet be gone!’ – And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on. Upon his brow he felt their breath And in his waving hair; And look’d from that lone post of death, In still yet brave despair. And shouted but once more aloud, ‘My father! must I stay?’ While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way. They wrapped the ship in splendour wild, They caught the flag on high,...
Read more