I'll live tired but I'll never retire
Posted: Tue Oct 30, 2012 7:51 pm
[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dFhH4r9pyZ0[/youtube]
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I'll live tired but I'll never retire
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Re: I'll live tired but I'll never retire
Posted: Tue Oct 30, 2012 8:45 pm
[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2k1uOqRb0HU[/youtube]
Re: I'll live tired but I'll never retire
Posted: Tue Oct 30, 2012 8:52 pm
Blaidd Drwg wrote:[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dFhH4r9pyZ0[/youtube]
Well that was about a ton of full awesome right there.
Re: I'll live tired but I'll never retire
Posted: Wed Oct 31, 2012 7:17 am
He actually said, "I shall live tired but I shan't retire". Far nicer and more traditional than the more colonial tendency to use "will" and "won't" all the time.
Re: I'll live tired but I'll never retire
Posted: Wed Oct 31, 2012 12:04 pm
Good find B D.
Re: I'll live tired but I'll never retire
Posted: Wed Oct 31, 2012 2:49 pm
The whole time I'm thinking...somebody please hand this guy some safety glasses.
Re: I'll live tired but I'll never retire
Posted: Wed Oct 31, 2012 3:06 pm
Ha! I thought the same fucking thing but after 70 years...ehh.Kazuya Mishima wrote:The whole time I'm thinking...somebody please hand this guy some safety glasses.
Re: I'll live tired but I'll never retire
Posted: Wed Oct 31, 2012 3:07 pm
No gloves either! Solid. Manly.Shapecharge wrote:Ha! I thought the same fucking thing but after 70 years...ehh.Kazuya Mishima wrote:The whole time I'm thinking...somebody please hand this guy some safety glasses.
Re: I'll live tired but I'll never retire
Posted: Tue Nov 06, 2012 12:49 am
Excellent.
Re: I'll live tired but I'll never retire
Posted: Tue Nov 06, 2012 1:24 am
This post needs a poem.
"THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH"
Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan:
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hear the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
Onwards through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!
H. W. Longfellow
"THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH"
Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan:
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hear the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
Onwards through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!
H. W. Longfellow