Ostensibly Recursive Texts Options

[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.

[Jon Awbrey]

The Deil cam fiddlin thro the town,
    And danc'd awa wi th' Exciseman,
And ilka wife cries: — “Auld Mahoun,
    I wish you luck o the prize man!”

“We'll make our maut, and we'll brew our drink,
    We'll laugh, sing, and rejoice, man,
And monie braw thanks to the meikle black Deil,
    That danc'd awa wi th' Exciseman.”

There's threesome reels, there's foursome reels,
    There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man,
But the ae best dance e'er cam to the land
    Was “The Deil's awa wi th' Exciseman”.

                    CHORUS
The Deil's awa, the Deil's awa,
    The Deil's awa wi th' Exciseman!
He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa,
    He's danc'd awa wi th' Exciseman!

— Robert Burns, “The Deils's awa wi th' Exciseman” (1792)

[Zoloft]

This is the song that never ends, yes it goes on and on my friend. Some people started singing it, not knowing what it was, and they'll continue singing it forever just because...

[gomi]

The Saragossa Manuscript

[Zoloft]

One for you old COBOL hackers out there

[Gruntled]

One for you old COBOL hackers out there

Do you really think that there's a load of old COBOLlers reading this forum?

On second thoughts ...

[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”