David

It is rather pretty, isn't it? Not your ordinary bawdy song, not surprisingly as it's Burns. Glad you find it wistful and lovely. S1 especially so, isn't it?

T.

Bear, thanks for the sailor ballad! I knew a MUCH tamer version.

RE: Scottish dialect

"Claes" = clothes (bedclothes, in this case)
"Hurdies" = buttocks

And speaking of Scots, does anyone remember who wrote a
lovely poem beginning:

"Oh who's been here afore me, lass,
And how did he get in?"

It this the one? It's by Hugh MacDiarmid, from his long poem "A Drunk Man Looks at the Thistle."

O wha's the bride that cairries the bunch
O' thistles blinterin' white?
Her cuckold bridegroom little dreids
What he sall ken this nicht.

For closer than gudeman can come
And closer to'r than hersel,
Wha didna need her maidenheid
Has wrocht his purpose fell.

O wha's been here afore me, lass,
And hoo did he get in?
--A man that deed or I was born
This evil thing has din.

And left, as it were on a corpse,
Your maidenheid to me?
--Nae lass, gudeman, sin' Time began
'S hed ony mair to gie.

But I can gi'e ye kindness, lad,
And a pair o' willin' hands,
And you sall he'e my breists like stars,
My limbs like willow wands,

And on my lips ye'll heed nae mair,
And in my hair forget,
The seed o' a' the men that in
My virgin womb hae met....



[This message has been edited by Jim Pitt (edited February 17, 2002).]

This one, though quite tame by the standards of many of the above, strikes me as belonging to this thread:

John Kinsella's Lament for Mrs. Mary Moore

W.B. Yeats


A bloody and a sudden end,
Gunshot or a noose,
For Death who takes what man would keep,
Leaves what man would lose.
He might have had my sister,
My cousins by the score,
But nothing satisfied the fool
But my dear Mary Moore,
None other knows what pleasures man
At table or in bed.
What shall I do for pretty girls
Now my old bawd is dead?

Though stiff to strike a bargain
Like an old Jew man,
Her bargain struck we laughed and talked
And emptied many a can;
And O! but she had stories,
Though not for the priest's ear,
To keep the soul of man alive,
Banish age and care,
And being old she put a skin
On everything she said.
What shall I do for pretty girls
Now my old bawd is dead?

The priests have got a book that says
But for Adam's sin
Eden's Garden would be there
And I there within.
No expectation fails there,
No pleasing habit ends,
No man grows old, no girl grows cold,
But friends walk by friends.
Who quarrels over halfpennies
That plucks the trees for bread?
What shall I do for pretty girls
Now my old bawd is dead?

Jim Pitt: Thank you, that's the one I wanted!

I gather that several contributors to this line must possess copies of "The Merry Muses of Caledonia", which contains all the bawdy gems written by or attributed to Burns, plus lots of others. Among them is the original version of "Coming
Through the Rye", in which "kissing" is not what the meeting
lovers are up to.

Here is a rather modest one thatI like:

Roseberry to his lady says,
"My honey and my succour,
O shall we do the thing ye ken,
Or shall we take our supper?"

Wi' modest face, sae full o' grace,
Replied the bonny lady:
"My noble lord, do as you please,
But supper is na ready."

Here's one that I'd forgotten about - the basis of the nursery rhyme - Lavender Blue - 'Blue' being the operative word here...

Diddle, Diddle (Or the Kind Country Lovers)

Lavender's green, diddle, diddle
Lavender's blue
You must love me, diddle, diddle
'Cause I love you.
I heard one say, diddle, diddle
Since I came hither
That you and I diddle, diddle
Must lie together.

My hostesse maid, diddle, diddle
Her name was Nell,
She was a lass, diddle, diddle
That I loved well,
But if she should dye diddle, diddle,
By some mishap,
Then she shall lye, diddle, diddle
Under the Tap.

That she may drink diddle, diddle,
When she is dry,
Because she lov'd diddle, diddle
My dog and I.
Call up your maids diddle, diddle
Set them to work,
Some to make hay, diddle, diddle
Some to the rock.

Some to make hay, diddle, diddle,
Some to the corn
Whilst you and I diddle, diddle,
Keep the bed warm.
Let the birds sing, diddle, diddle
And the lambs play,
We shall be safe diddle, diddle
Out of harm's way.

James at the George, diddle, diddle
Sue at the Swan
He loves his maid diddle, diddle
She loves her man.
But if they chance diddle, diddle
For to be found,
Catch them i'th corn, diddle, diddle
Put them i'th pound.

I heard a bird diddle, diddle
Sing in my ear,
Maids will be scarce diddle, diddle,
The next New Year.
For young men are diddle, diddle
So wanton grown
That they ne'er mind diddle, diddle,
Which is their own.

Down in a dale, diddle, diddle
Where flowers do grow,
And the trees bud, diddle, diddle
All on a row.
A brisk young man, diddle, diddle
Met with a maid,
And laid her down, diddle, diddle
Under the shade.

Where they did play, diddle, diddle
And kiss & court,
Like lambs in May, diddle, diddle
Making fine sport.
There lives a Lass, diddle, diddle
Over the green,
She sells good ale, diddle, diddle
Think what I mean.

Oft have I been, diddle, diddle
With her i'th the dark
And yet I ne'er, diddle, diddle
Shot at the mark.
But now my dear, diddle, diddle
Have at thy bumm
For I do swear, diddle, diddle
Now I am come.

I will be kind, diddle, diddle
Until I dye,
When prethee love, diddle, diddle
My dog and I.
For thee & I, diddle, diddle
Now are all one,
And we will lye, Diddle, diddle
No more alone.

London, Printed for F. Coles, T. Vere, J. Wright, and J. Clarke.
[1674-1679]

Where I come from(Midlands, England) 'diddle' means to masturbate ( or 'frig') a woman or a politer version of 'fuck'.

Nigel

I hardly belong on a thread with Rochester or Burns, but Nyctom opened the gate, as it were. Here's one Sam Gwynn urged me never to publish:

Opening Lines

Exquisite and expensive boy,
I have no scarves or diamond rings,
but shouldn't a poet share the joy
you sell to generals and kings?

Swords and sovereigns swiftly pass,
but spread those golden orbs for me,
and I'll promise your peerless ass
nine inches of immortality.

I've heard dark whisperings about The Platonic Blow all my life. Can someone post it? Please?

The Platonic Blow

by W.H.Auden

It was a spring day, a day for a lay, when the air
Smelled like a locker-room, a day to blow or get blown;
Returning from lunch I turned my corner and there
On a near-by stoop I saw him standing alone.

I glanced as I advanced. The clean white T-shirt outlined
A forceful torso; the light-blue denims divulged
Much. I observed the snug curves where they hugged the behind,
I watched the crotch where the cloth intriguingly bulged.

Our eyes met. I felt sick. My knees turned weak.
I couldn't move. I didn't know what to say.
In a blur I heard words, myself like a stranger speak
"Will you come to my room?" Then a husky voice "O.K."

I produced some beer and we talked. Like a little boy
He told me his story. Present address: next door.
Half Polish, half Irish. The youngest. From Illinois.
Profession: mechanic. Name: Bud. Age: twenty-four.

He put down his glass and stretched his bare arms along
The back of my sofa. The afternoon sunlight struck
The blond hairs on the wrist near my head. His chin was strong,
His mouth sucky. I could hardly believe my luck.

And here he was, sitting beside me, legs apart.
I could bear it no longer. I touched the inside of his thigh.
His reply was to move it closer. I trembled, my heart
Thumped and jumped as my fingers went to his fly.

I opened a gap in the flap. I went in there.
I sought for a slit in the gripper shorts that had charge
Of the basket I asked for. I came to warm flesh, then to hair.
I went on. I found what I hoped. I groped. It was large.

He responded to my fondling in a charming, disarming way:
Without a word he unbuckled his belt while I felt,
And lolled back, stretching his legs. His pants fell away.
Carefully drawing it out, I beheld what I held.

The circumcised head was a work of mastercraft
With perfectly bevelled rim, of unusual weight
And the friendliest red. Even relaxed, the shaft
Was of noble dimensions with the wrinkles that indicate

Singular powers of extension. For a second or two
It lay there inert, then it suddenly stirred in my hand,
Then paused as if frightened or doubtful of what to do,
And then with a violent jerk began to expand.

By soundless bounds it extended and distended, by quick
Great leaps it rose, it flushed, it rushed to its full size,
Nearly nine inches long and three inches thick,
A royal column, ineffably solemn and wise.

I tested its length and strength with a manual squeeze,
I bunched my fingers and twirled them about the knob,
I stroked it from top to bottom. I got on my knees.
I lowered my head. I opened my mouth for the job.

But he pushed me gently away. He bent down. He unlaced
His shoes. He removed his socks. Stood up. Shed
His pants altogether. Muscles in arms and waist
Rippled as he whipped his T-shirt over his head.

I scanned his tan, enjoyed the contrast of brown
Trunk against white shorts taut around small
Hips. With a dig and a wriggle he peeled them down.
I tore off my clothes. He faced me, smiling. I saw all.

The gorgeous organ stood stiffly and straightly out
With a slight flare upwards. At each beat of his heart it threw
An odd little nod my way. From the slot of the spout
Exuded a drop of transparent viscous goo.

The lair of hair was fair, the grove of a young man,
A tangle of curls and whorls, luxuriant but couth.
Except for a spur of golden hairs that fan
To the neat navel, the rest of the belly was smooth.

Well-hung, slung from the fork of the muscular legs,
The firm vase of his sperm like a bulging pear,
Cradling its handsome glands, two herculean eggs,
Swung as he came towards me, shameless, bare.

We aligned mouths. We entwined. All act was clutch,
All fact, contact, the attack and the interlock
Of tongues, the charms of arms. I shook at the touch
Of his fresh flesh. I rocked at the shock of his cock.

Straddling my legs a little I inserted his divine
Person between and closed on it tight as I could.
The upright warmth of his belly lay all along mine.
Nude, glued together, for a minute we stood.

I stroked the lobes of his ears, the back of his head
And the broad shoulders. I took bold hold of the compact
Globes of his bottom. We tottered. He fell on the bed.
Lips parted, eyes closed, he lay there, ripe for the act,

Mad to be had, to be felt and smelled. My lips
Explored the adorable masculine tits. My eyes
Assessed the chest. I caressed the athletic hips
And the slim limbs. I approved the grooves of the thighs.

I hugged, I snugged into an armpit, I sniffed
The subtle whiff of its tuft, I lapped up the taste
Of its hot hollow. My fingers began to drift
On a trek of inspection, a leisurely tour of the waist.

Downward in narrowing circles they playfully strayed,
Encroached on his privates like poachers, approached the prick,
But teasingly swerved, retreated from meeting. It betrayed
Its pleading need by a pretty imploring kick.

"Shall I rim you?" I whispered. He shifted his limbs in assent,
Turned on his side and opened his legs, let me pass
To the dark parts behind. I kissed as I went
The great thick cord that ran back from his balls to his arse.

Prying the buttocks aside, I nosed my way in
Down the shaggy slopes. I came to the puckered goal.
It was quick to my licking. He pressed his crotch to my chin.
His thighs squirmed as my tongue wormed in his hole.

His sensations yearned for consummation. He untucked
His legs and lay panting, hot as a teen-age boy,
Naked, enlarged, charged, aching to get sucked,
Clawing the sheet, all his pores open to joy.

I inspected his erection. I surveyed his parts with a stare
From scrotum level. Sighting along the underside
Of his cock I looked through the forest of pubic hair
To the range of the chest beyond, rising lofty and wide.

I admired the texture, the delicate wrinkles and the neat
Sutures of the capacious bag. I adored the grace
Of the male genitalia. I raised the delicious meat
Up to my mouth, brought the face of its hard-on to my face.

Slipping my lips round the Byzantine dome of the head
With the tip of my tongue I caressed the sensitive groove.
He thrilled to the trill. "That's lovely!" he hoarsely said.
"Go on! Go on!" Very slowly I started to move.

Gently, intently, I slid to the massive base
Of his tower of power, paused there a moment down
In the warm moist thicket, then began to retrace
Inch by inch the smooth way to the throbbing crown.

Indwelling excitements swelled at the delights to come
As I descended and ascended those thick distended walls.
I grasped his root between my left forefinger and thumb
And with my right hand tickled his heavy, voluminous balls.

I plunged with a rhythmical lunge, steady and slow,
And at every stroke made a corkscrew roll with my tongue.
His soul reeled in the feeling. He whimpered "Oh!"
As I tongued and squeezed and rolled and tickled and swung.

Then I pressed on the spot where the groin is joined to the cock,
Slipped a finger into his arse and massaged him from inside.
The secret sluices of his juices began to unlock.
He melted into what he felt. "O Jesus!" he cried.

Waves of immeasurable pleasures mounted his member in quick
Spasms. I lay still in the notch of his crotch inhaling his sweat.
His ring convulsed round my finger. Into me, rich and thick,
His hot spunk spouted in gouts, spurted in jet after jet.

{Although Auden denied authoring this underground erotic classic, (originally entitled A Day For A Lay) the attribution is now considered correct, especially since a copy of it in Auden's own hand showed up among the papers of Christopher Isherwood. Kenneth Rexroth said "Wysten told me that he had learned more about writing poetry from writing the Platonic Blow than from anything he had ever written."

Written by Auden in the 1940s, A Day For A Lay was initially circulated among a few of Auden's friends as a typed written manuscript. In 1965, the poet Tram Combs gave a copy to Ed Sanders, publisher of the New York based Fuck You magazine. The poem first appeared in print in issue 5 of the magazine and almost simultaneously as a separate pamphlet (the one being offered here). Shortly thereafter, however, the New York City police raided Sander's bookstore, the Peace Eye, and seized most copies of the Platonic Blow along with other "obscene" material, which were subsequently destroyed. The poem (entitled A Gobble Poem) was next published by Fuck books of London in 1967 ; the Amsterdam sex paper Suck in 1969, :Avant Grade No. 11 in 1970; an illustrated version by Guild press in 1970 (see below); and Gay Sunshine Journal No. 21 in 1974. The poem, however, was not included in the 1974 edition of Auden's collected poems. --from The Platonic Blow

Be still, my beating heart (or throbbing @#$%^!) ME Hope, many thanks for posting this poem to end all versified filth.

"The tradition of the masters and how they did it" indeed! I've heard recordings of Auden, and that "Shall I.." nearly knocked me off my chair! Great post!