Ostensibly Recursive Texts Options

[Jon Awbrey]

Forthcoming …

Jon (IMG:smilys0b23ax56/default/wtf.gif)

[Jon Awbrey]

              The Jug of Punch

Bein' on the twenty-third of June,
    As I sat weaving all at my loom,
Bein' on the twenty-third of June,
    As I sat weaving all at my loom,
I heard a thrush, singing on yon bush,
    And the song she sang was The Jug of Punch.

What more pleasure can a boy desire,
    Than sitting down beside the fire?
What more pleasure can a boy desire,
    Than sitting down beside the fire?
And in his hand a jug of punch,
    And on his knee a tidy wench.

When I am dead and left in my mould,
    At my head and feet place a flowing bowl,
When I am dead and left in my mould,
    At my head and feet place a flowing bowl,
And every young man that passes by,
    He can have a drink and remember I.

(IMG:smilys0b23ax56/default/letsgetdrunk.gif) (IMG:smilys0b23ax56/default/wub.gif)

[Jon Awbrey]

Fourteen, a sonneteer thy praises sings;
What magic myst'ries in that number lie!
Your hen hath fourteen eggs beneath her wings
That fourteen chickens to the roost may fly.
Fourteen full pounds the jockey's stone must be;
His age fourteen – a horse's prime is past.
Fourteen long hours too oft the Bard must fast;
Fourteen bright bumpers – bliss he ne'er must see!
Before fourteen, a dozen yields the strife;
Before fourteen – e'en thirteen's strength is vain.
Fourteen good years – a woman gives us life;
Fourteen good men – we lose that life again.
What lucubrations can be more upon it?
Fourteen good measur'd verses make a sonnet.

— Robert Burns, “A Sonnet Upon Sonnets”