Saturday, 1 March 2008
Dydd Gwyl Dewi hapus!
It's March 1st, it's St David's Day, so the Resident Fan Boy brought me a lovely small bunch of mini-daffs to offset the piles of new snow outside, and it's time to crank up Bryn Terfel and haul out my favourite Welsh song parodies.
We start with Land of My Fathers, of course which you can sing phonetically with the aid of YouTube:
Or you can always substitute the words by Swansea poet Nigel Jenkins which one can sing at rugby matches to make it look as though one knows the Welsh national anthem (stole this from the informative and entertaining blog Eine Kleine Nichtmusik) :
My hen laid a haddock, one hand oiled a flea,
Glad farts and centurions threw dogs in the sea,
I could stew a hare here and brandish Dan's flan,
Don's ruddy bog's blocked up with sand.
Dad! Dad! Why don't you oil Auntie Glad?
Can whores appear in beer bottle pies,
O butter the hens as they fly!
This probably only works if you're surrounded by people singing the right words....
Next the wistful song The Ash Grove...
....which you can cheer up with the following lyrics:
Welsh History 101
by Heather Rose Jones filk: The Ash Grove
If ever you wander out by the Welsh border, come stop by and see me and all of my kin.
I'm Morgan ap Dafydd ap Gwion ap Hywell ap Ifor ap Madoc ap Rhodri ap Gwyn.
We'll feast you on mutton and harp for your pleasure and give you a place to sleep out of the cold
Or maybe we'll meet you out on the dark roadway, and rob you of horses and weapons and gold.
My neighbour from England has come across raiding, slain six of my kinsmen and burned down my hall.
It cannot be borne, this offense, this injustice! I've only killed four of his, last I recall.
I'll send for my neighbors, Llewellyn and Owain; we'll cut him down as for the border he rides!
But yesterday Owain stole three of my cattle, so first I'll retake them and three more besides.
We need a strong prince to direct our resistance: heroic, impartial, of noble degree.
My brother's wife's fourth cousin's foster son Gruffydd is best for the job, as I'm sure you'll agree.
What matter that Rhys is the old prince's nephew? He's sailed off to Ireland and will not return.
I know this for every time boats he is building, I send my spies money to see that they burn.
Yes, we are just plain folk who mind our own business, honest and loyal and full of good cheer
If ever you wander out by the Welsh border, come stop by and see all the friendly folk here.
And finally Men of Harlech (to which my husband insists on singing "Men of Harlech smell like garlic"). Far wittier is the ancient and revered Woad Song:
What's the use of wearing braces, hats or spats or shoes with laces
Vest and pants you buy in places down on Brompton Road?
What's the use of shirts of cotton, studs that always get forgotten
These affairs are simply rotten, Better far is woad!
Woad's the stuff to show men; woad to scare your foemen!
Boil it to a brilliant blue and rub it on your legs and your abdomen!
Ancient Britons never hit on anything like woad to fit on
Necks or knees or where you sit on. Nothing's good as woad!
Romans came across the Channel, all dressed up in tin and flannel
Half a pint of woad per man'll clothe us more than these!
Saxons, you may save your stitches building beds for bugs in britches.
We have woad to clothe us which is not a nest for fleas.
Romans, keep your armors, Saxons, your pajamas!
Hairy coats were made for goats, gorillas, yaks, retriever dogs and llamas!
March on Snowdon with your woad on, even if you're rained or snowed on
Never need a button sewed on, when you're wearing woad!