Regime De Vivre

I rise at eleven, I dine about two,
I get drunk about seven, and the next thing I do,
I send for my whore, when for fear of the clap,
I spend in her hand, and I spew in her lap;
Then we quarrel and scold, till I fall fast asleep,
When the bitch growing bold, to my pocket does creep.

Then slyly she leaves me, and to revenge the affront,
At once she bereaves me of money and cunt.
If by chance then I wake, hot-headed and drunk,
What a coil do I make for the loss of my punk!
I storm, and I roar, and I fall in a rage,
And missing my whore, I bugger my page.
Then crop-sick all morning I rail at my men,
And in bed I lie yawning till eleven again.


(I love this sonnet!)

There seems to be little bawdy verse that I know by established poets - even this, attributed to John Wilmot, Earl of Rocester, seems not to be written by him.

Do 'Spherians know any other famous bawdy verse like this, or is all the bawd from traditional verses like 'Friggin' in the Riggin' and 'The Good Ship Venus'? It may be that verses such as this are not anthologised for reasons of 'propriety'. I would be delighted to hear more.

Nigel


NB: Alicia - if this is the wrong board for discussion, please move the thread.

[This message has been edited by Nigel Holt (edited January 20, 2002).]

Am delighted to host a "bawdy" thread... I'm still racking my brains, though. (A number of classical poets spring to mind, Catullus particularly...)

I may, if you don't mind, add a little warning to the thread title...

Nigel, I suggest you get your hands on the collected works of Lord Rochester, the master of bawdy verse in English. Catullus is one of the masters in Latin, but most English translations tone him down a bit. I am working on translating all of Catullus into metrical verse, so to give you a sampling of his subject matter, here are a couple.

16

I'll bugger you and make you suck my cock,
Aurelius and Furius, you queers.
Because my verse is amorous, you think
that I am hardly decent. A sincere
poet should be pure himself, and yet
his verses needn't be. In fact, they're quite
witty and charming only when they are
amorous, hardly decent, and incite
sexual cravings--not just in the boys,
I say, but in those hairy fellows who
can scarcely budge their sluggish peckers, too.
But you, because you've read about my stock
of many thousand kisses, doubt I'm manly?
I'll bugger you and make you suck my cock.

32

Please, my darling Ipsithilla,
my delight, my clever one,
bid me come at the siesta.
If you do, make sure that none
will bolt the door, and do not be
inclined to go outside, but stay
at home and have in store for me
nine fuckings in a row. But say
the word, if you are willing, now,
for after lunch, I'm lying down,
supine and stuffed, about to poke
right through my tunic and my cloak.

Nine Inch Will Please a Lady
(Robert Burns)

Come rede me dame, come tell me dame,
My dame come tell me truly,
What length o' graith when weel ca'd hame
Will sair a woman duly?"
The carlin clew her wanton tail,
Her wanton tail sae ready,
"l learn'd a sang in Annandale,
Nine inch will please a lady."

"But for a koontrie cunt like mine,
In sooth we're not sae gentle;
We'll tak tway thumb-bread to the nine,
And that is a sonsy pintle.
Oh, Leeze me on, my Charlie lad,
I'll ne'er forget my Charlie,
Tway roaring handfuls and a daud
He nidged it in fu' rarely."

But wear fa' the laithron doup
And may it ne'er be thriving,
It's not the length that makes me loup
But it's the double drivin.
Come nidge me Tom, come nidge me Tom
Come nidge me, o'er the nyvel
Come lowse an lug your battering ram
And thrash him at my gyvel!

graith=gear, equipment; clew=scratched, fondled;
tway thum-bread=two thumb-breadths; sonsy=healthy;
daud=a lump, a bit; laithron=lazy; doup=rump;
gyvel=gateway.


Auden's Platonic Blow is perhaps a bit TOO baudy, even for this type of thread.

Hugh, they couldn't be any raunchier than Alan Ginsberg's sm poems (though I am sure many on this site would consider ANY Ginsberg poem an sm experience!).

Susan: finally! A translation of Catullus with cojones, so to speak. I look forward to hearing when they will be published. Catullus was the first poet I thought of when I saw the thread heading.

Here is one by our own Mr. Murphy (in The Deed of Gift)that I love. It gives a whole new twist to the idea of sex education. The fourth line should be indented:

Infernal Sonet

Which would provoke more joy,
to ravish you with Donne's
Holy Sonnets or poke your buns?
Cheeky boy
sleeker than any lumpish lass,
stop squirming and hear me read.
Your mind has greater need
of stuffing than your ass.

Here's Robert Frost's "Pride of Ancestry," never published during his lifetime. It's mild as these things go, I suppose, but a new take on Frost.
RPW

The Deacon's wife was a bit desirish
And liked her sex relations wild
So she lay with one of the shanty Irish
And he begot the Deacon's child.

The Deacon himself was a man of money
And upright life and a bosom shirt;
Which made her infidelity funny
And gave her pleasure in doing him dirt.

And yet for all her romantic sneakin'
Out the back door and over the wall
How was she sure the child of the Deacon
Wasn't the Deacon's after all?

Don't question a story of high eugenics.
She lived with the Deacon and bedded with him
But she no doubt restricted his calesthenics
To the sterile arc of her lunar rhythm.

And she only had to reverse the trick
And let the Irishman turn her turtle
When by his faith as a Catholic
A woman was almost sure to be fertile.

Her portrait hangs in the family gallery
And a family of nobodies likes to think
That their descent from such a caloric
Accounts for their genius and love of drink.

This is a very old one, I have seen many variations, as far as I know it's "Anonymous":

THE BANTAM COCK

He was a fine upstanding bantam cock.
So brisk and stiff and spry!
With a springy step and a jaunty plume.
And a purposeful look in his eye.
In his little black laughing eye.

So I took him to the coop and introduced him to.
Me seventeen wide-eyed hens.
And he tooked them a took as a hero tooks,
He bowed to them all, and then...
He up and took 'em all again!

Then upon the peace of me ducks and geese.
He boldly did intrude.
With glazed eyes and open mouths.
They bore him with fortitude.
And a little bit of gratitude!

He jumped me giggling guinea foul,
He thrust his attentions upon.
Me twenty hysterical turkeys and
A visiting migrant swan.
The bantam thundered on!

He groped me fantail pigeon doves.
And me lily-white colombine.
And his eye was alookin' at me budgerigar
When he jumped me parrot from behind.
It was sittin' on me shoulder at the time!

But all of a sudden, with a gasp and a gulp,
He clapped his wings to his head.
He lay flat on his back with his feet in the air.
Me bantam cock was dead.
And the vultures circled overhead.

What a noble beast, what a champion cock.
What a way to live and to die.
But as I dug him a grave to protect his bones.
From those hungry buzzards in the sky,
The bantam opened up a sly little eye.

He gave me a wink, and a terrible grin,
The way that rapists do.
He said, "You see them silly dark buggers up there.
They'll be down in a minute or two!
They'll be down in a minute or two!"

(music)

[This message has been edited by bear_music (edited January 22, 2002).]

DOWN, WANTON, DOWN!

Down, wanton, down! Have you no shame
That at the whisper of Love's name,
Or Beauty's, presto! up you raise
Your angry head and stand at gaze?

Poor bombard-captain, sworn to reach
The ravelin and effect a breach--
Indifferent what you storm or why,
So be that in the breach you die!

Love may be blind, but Love at least
Knows what is man and what mere beast;
Or Beauty wayward, but requires
More delicacy from her squires.

Tell me, my witless, whose one boast
Could be your staunchness at the post,
When were you made a man of parts
To think fine and profess the arts?

Will many-gifted Beauty come
Bowing to your bald rule of thumb,
Or Love swear loyalty to your crown?
Be gone, have done! Down, wanton, down!

— Robert Graves

SUNG BY A YOUNG GIRL

Young I am, and yet unskill'd
How to make a lover yield:
How to keep or how to gain,
When to love and when to feign.

Take me, take me, some of you,
While I yet am young and true;
Ere I can my soul disguise,
Heave my breasts and roll my eyes.

Stay not till I learn the way,
How to lie and to betray:
He that has me first is blest,
For I may deceive the rest.

Could I find a blooming youth,
Full of love and full of truth,
Brisk, and of a jaunty mien,
I should long to be fifteen.

— John Dryden

And not a single limerick in the pile. I stand amazed.

*reeling*

jack

Susan, marvellous translations, especially of "Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo."

Bear, of course, "Down, Wanton, Down!" Why didn't I think of that? A favorite.

Jack, we DO actually have quite a number of bawdy limericks in the Mastery archives, under the "Guilty Pleasures." So don't despair.

I'm not sure this counts as bawdy exactly, but I did think of this one by E.E. Cummings. Don't think it could get published nowadays. Interestingly, though now his reputation is for whimsical love poems, in his day he was known as the shocking "bad-boy" of poetry:


22 (from "73 Poems")

annie died the other day

never was there such a lay--
whom,among her dollies,dad
first("don't tell your mother")had;
making annie slightly mad
but very wonderful in bed
--saints and satyrs,go your way

youths and maidens:let us pray

Great stuff- I didn't know there was so much bawd in the old masters - or masters in a an old bawd...

I decided to put this piece here, even though it's a song, as it's fabulously indecorous and goes well with the theme:
Does anyone know the history of these and perhaps alternate verses?


The Good Ship Venus

(Traditional)


'Twas on the good ship Venus,
By Christ you should have seen us;
The figurehead
Was a whore in bed
Sucking a dead man's penis.

The captain's name was Lugger.
By Christ he was a bugger.
He wasn't fit
To shovel shit
From one ship to another.

The first mate's name was Carter.
By God he was a farter.
When the wind wouldn't blow,
And the ship wouldn't go,
Carter the farter would start 'er.

The second mate's name was Hopper.
By God he had a whopper;
Twice round the deck,
Thrice round his neck,
And up his arse for a stopper.

The second mate was Andy,
By Christ he had a dandy,
Till they crushed his cock
On a jagged rock
For coming in the brandy.

The third mate's name was Morgan,
By god he was a gorgon,
From half past eight
he played till late,
Upon the captain's organ.

The captain's wife was Mabel,
And by God was she able
To give the crew
Their daily screw
Upon the galley table.

The captain's daughter Charlotte,
Was born and bred a harlot,
Her thighs at night
were lily white,
By morning they were scarlet.

The cabin boy was Kipper,
By Christ he was a nipper.
He stuffed his arse
with broken glass
And circumcised the skipper.

The captain's lovely daughter
Liked swimming in the water.
Delighted squeals
Came when some eels
Swam into her sexual quarters.

The cook his name was Freeman,
He was a dirty demon,
He fed the crew
On menstral stew
And hymens fried in semen.

The ship's dog's name was Rover,
We turned that poor thing over,
And ground and ground
that faithful hound
From Tenerife to Dover.

And when we reached our station,
Through skillful navigation,
The ship got sunk
in a wave of spunk,
From too much fornication.


Alternatives


The captain's name was Morgan,
By Christ he was a gorgon.
Ten times a day
He'd stop and play
With his fucking organ.

The first mate's name was Carter.
By God he was a farter.
He could fart anything
from God Save the King
To Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.

The captain's daughter, Mabel,
Though young, was fresh and able,
To fornicate
with the second mate,
Upon the chartroom table

More Alternatives

THE GOOD SHIP VENUS.
(Traditional - with very, very many variations)

Twas on the good ship Venus,
By gad! You should have seen us,
The figure-head was a whore in bed,
And the mast a rampant penis.

The Captain of this lugger,
He was a dirty bugger,
He wasn't fit to shovel shit,
From one deck to the other.

The Master's name was Cooper,
By god he was a trooper,
He jerked and jerked until he worked
Himself into a stupor.

The first mate's name was Paul
He only had one ball,
But with that cracker he rolled tobacco,
Around the cabin wall.

The third mate's name was Morgan,
A Homosexual gorgon,
Three times a day fine tunes he'd play
Upon the Captain's organ.

I'll tell you more of Morgan,
By God, he was a Gorgon,
Six men could ride with legs astride
Upon his sexual organ.

The Captain's randy daughter,
Was swimming in the water,
Delighted squeals came as the eels,
Entered her sexual quarter.

The Captain loved the cabin boy,
He loved him like a brother,
And every night between the sheets,
They cornholed one another.

The cabin boy was Kipper,
The filthy little nipper,
He stuffed his arse with broken glass
And circumcised the skipper.

The cabin boy, the cabin boy,
His first name was Davy,
He filled his bum with bubble gum,
And vulcanised the Navy.

The bosun's name was Hopper,
By Christ he had a whopper,
Twice round the deck, once round his neck
And up his arse as a stopper.

But the bosun's plan was prosperous,
He dipped his cock in phosphorous;
All through the night it kept alight
To guide us through the Bosporous.

The cook was Old O'Malley,
He didn't dilly-dally.
He shot his bolt with a hell of a jolt,
And whitewashed half the galley.

The trainee cook was Wooden,
By Christ he was a good'un;
He tossed off twice in a bag of rice
And called it sago puddin'.

We caught little Middie Tupper
And rubbed his balls with butter;
The charge whizzed past the mizzen mast
And foamed against the scupper.

There was Midshipman Caruthers,
Beloved of all the others;
He wasn't quite a hermaphrodite,
But a mistake of his mothers.

The gunner was McPherson
To snatch had an aversion,
So he stuck his cock up a water-cock,
A peculiar perversion!

The ship's dog's name was Rover,
The whole crew did him over.
They ground and ground that faithful hound
From Singapore to Dover.

There was Able Seaman Carter,
By God he was a farter.
When the wind wouldn't blow and the ship wouldn't go,
Carter, the farter, would start her.

A fine musician Carter
He a tuneful bloody farter.
He could play anything from God Save The King
To Beethoven's' Moonlight Sonata.

The Fifth Mate's name was Slater,
He was a masturbator.
He'd pump and pump his massive stump,
And clean the mess up later.

The Sixth mate's name was Andy,
By God that man was randy.
We boiled his bum in red-hot rum,
For cumming in the brandy.

The Captain was elated,
The crew investigated.
They found some sand in his prostate gland,
And he had to be castrated.

On every foot of rigging,
There were sailors frigging,
In the lookout's nest, they'd take a rest,
From their poking and their digging.

'Twas in the Adriatic,
Where the water's almost static,
The rise and fall of cock and ball,
Was almost automatic.

We sailed to the Canaries,
To screw the local fairies;
We got the syph in Tenerife
And the clap in Buenos Aires.

Sailing on the Sargasso,
To make the doldrums pass, Oh,
We'd launch a spree of buggery,
Upon each other's assholes.

We knew sooner or later,
Approaching the equator,
That every Jack would have a whack,
At turning fornicator.

Each sailor lad's a brother,
To each and one another,
We'd take great pains at our daisy chains,
Whilst writing home to mother.

We saw a Spanish Galleon,
Its figurehead a stallion,
And when we saw it was full of whores,
There wasn't any dallyin'.

The end of this narration,
Is a credit to the nation,
For we sunk the junk in a sea of spunk,
Caused by mutual masturbation.

For though we reached our station,
Through skilful navigation,
The ship got sunk, in a wave of spunk,
From too much fornication.

So now we end this serial,
Through sheer lack of material,
I wish you luck and freedom from,
Diseases venereal.

Having done minutes of unpaid research into this topic since posting, I have discovered that there are literally hundreds of variations on the theme of this song... sailors must have had a rum old time...

Nigel




[This message has been edited by Nigel Holt (edited January 25, 2002).]

Not bawdy, so could be off topic, but I suspect this verse is the origin of the Venus parody:

Tale of the Gyascutus (Anon.)

This is the tale that was told to me
By a battered and shattered son of the sea--
To me and my messmate, Silas Green,
When I was a guileless young marine.

'Twas the good ship Gyascutus,
All in the China seas,
With the wind a-lee and the capstan free
To catch the summer breeze.

'Twas Captain Porgie on the deck,
To his mate in the mizzen hatch,
While the boatswain bold in the forward hold,
Was winding his larboard watch.

"Oh, how does our good ship head to-night?
How heads our gallant craft?"
"Oh, she heads to the E.S.W. by N.,
And the binnacle lies abaft!"

"Oh, what does the quadrant indicate,
And how does the sextant stand?"
"Oh, the sextant's down to the freezing point,
And the quadrant's lost a hand!"

"Oh, and if the quadrant has lost a hand,
And the sextant falls so low,
It's our bodies and bones to Davy Jones
This night are bound to go!"

"Oh, fly aloft to the garboard strake!
And reef the spanker boom;
Bend a studding sail on the martingale
To give her weather room."

"Oh, boatswain, down in the for'ard hold,
What water do you find?"
"Four foot and a half by the royal gaff
And rather more behind!"

"Oh, sailors, collar your marlin spikes
And each belaying pin;
Come stir your stumps and spike the pumps,
Or more will be coming in."

They stirred their stumps, they spiked the pumps,
They spliced the mizzen brace;
Aloft and alow they worked, but oh!
The water gained apace.

They bored a hole above the keel
To let the water out;
But strange to say, to their dismay,
The water in did spout.

Then up spoke the cook of our gallant ship
And he was a lubber brave;
"I have several wives in various ports,
And my life I'd orter save."

Then up spoke the Captain of Marines,
Who dearly loved his prog;
"It's awful to die, and it's worse to be dry,
And I move we pipes to grog."

Oh, then 'twas the noble second mate
What filled them all with awe;
The second mate, as bad men hate,
And cruel skippers jaw.

He took the anchor on his back
And leaped into the main;
Through foam and spray he clove his way,
And sunk and rose again.

Through foam and spray, a league away
The anchor stout he bore;
Till, safe at last, he made it fast,
And warped the ship ashore!

'Tain't much of a job to talk about,
But a ticklish thing to see;
And suth'in to do, if I say it too,
For that second mate was me!

Such was the tale that was told to me,
By that modest and truthful son of the sea,
And I envy the life of a second mate
Though captains curse him and sailors hate,
For he ain't like some of the swabs I've seen,
As would go and lie to a poor marine.

Thanks Hugh - interesting to see it. You should post your Frost parody here, as it's the funniest thing I've seen in a good while - I hope to see it in the prison gazette when it's published http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/biggrin.gif

Another by John Wilmot - or rather - by John Wilmot this time. The blurb below is from the site, so I thought I'd keep it in.


The Disabled Debauchee

by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester

The most notorious libertine, bisexual poet of the 17th Century, was also a a successful Naval officer - and this was his rather jaundiced view of his future.


As some brave admiral, in former war,
Deprived of force, but pressed with courage still,
Two rival fleets appearing from afar,
Crawls to the top of an adjacent hill;

From whence (with thoughts full of concern) he views
The wise and daring conduct of the fight,
And each bold action to his mind renews
His present glory, and his past delight;

From his fierce eyes, flashes of rage he throws,
As from black clouds when lightning breaks away,
Transported, thinks himself amidst his foes,
And absent yet enjoys the bloody day;

So when my days of impotence approach,
And I'm by pox and wine's unlucky chance,
Driven from the pleasing billows of debauch,
On the dull shore of lazy temperance,

My pains at last some respite shall afford,
Whilst I behold the battles you maintain,
When fleets of glasses sail about the board,
From whose broadsides volleys of wit shall rain.

Nor shall the sight of honourable scars,
Which my too-forward valour did procure,
Frighten new-listed soldiers from the wars.
Past joys have more than paid what I endure.

Should hopeful youths (worth being drunk) prove nice,
And from their fair inviters meanly shrink,
'Twould please the ghost of my departed vice,
If at my counsel they repent and drink.

Or should some cold-complexioned set forbid,
With his dull morals, our night's brisk alarms,
I'll fire his blood by telling what I did,
When I was strong and able to bear arms.

I'll tell of whores attacked, their lords at home,
Bawds' quarters beaten up, and fortress won,
Windows demolished, watches overcome,
And handsome ills by my contrivance done.

Nor shall our love-fits, Cloris, be forgot,
When each the well-looked link-boy strove t'enjoy,
And the best kiss was the deciding lot:
Whether the boy fucked you, or I the boy.

With tales like these I will such heat inspire,
As to important mischief shall incline.
I'll make them long some ancient church to fire,
And fear no lewdness they're called to by wine.

Thus statesman-like, I'll saucily impose,
And safe from danger valiantly advise,
Sheltered in impotence, urge you to blows,
And being good for nothing else, be wise.

One more from the Peer:

Song

Love a woman? You're an ass.
'Tis a most insipid passion
To choose out for your happiness
The idlest part of God's creation.

Let the porter and the groom,
Things designed for dirty slaves,
Drudge in fair Aurelia's womb
To get supplies for age and graves.

Farewell, woman! I intend
Henceforth every night to sit
With my lewd, well-natured friend,
Drinking to engender wit.

Then give me health, wealth, mirth, and wine,
And if busy Love intrenches,
There's a sweet, soft page of mine
Does the trick worth forty wenches.

Well, heck, if we can include our own parodies of the masters, here is one I stole from C.S. Calverly:

A, B, C.
========

A is the Angel of blushing fifteen
B is the Bathroom where Angel is seen
C is her Cunny, a sight that is grand
D is the Dick that I hold in my hand
E is the Eye I have pressed to the slot
F is the Finger that diddles her twat
G is the Glove of superlative kid
H is my Hand that is stroking nonskid
I is the Inch that her digits are deep
J is the Juice she has started to seep
K is the Keyhole that offers the view
L is her Labia covered with dew
M is the Mess I'm beginning to leak
N is her Nub that has started to peek
O is the Odor that wafts to my nose
P is the Pink of her succulent rose
Q is the Quaver she makes with her lips
R is the Red at the tips of her nips
S is the Squirt that I shoot on the floor
T is the Turn that she makes to the door
U is the Utterly horrible thought
V is the Very good chance I'll be caught
W is the Whirl that I take down the hall
X is the Exit I make with a crawl
Y is the Yawn as I slide into bed
Z is the Zero of cares in my head

I'm surprised no one has mentioned the scatalogical verses of Jonathan Swift. I don't have a copy to hand, but I remember one called "The Lady's Dressing Chamber", in which the lover steals into his beloved's bedroom and uncovers various disgusting things, including the chamber pot, after which the lover departs
Repeating in his amorous fits
Oh Celia, Celia, Celia shits!

As to limericks, I have seen the following attributed to no less a pen than that of Swinburne:

There was a young girl from Aberystwyth
Who took grain to the mill to get grist with,
Where the miller's lad Jack
Threw her flat on her back
And united the organs they pissed with.

Spendid! I understand Swinburne's personal life was rather salacious as well.

Am I the only one who wonders if the Bard could have been speaking of a bovine romance in his Sonnet 130?

SONNET #130
By William Shakespeare

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses demasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

Last year I took a course on love & sex in the Italian Renaissance. One of our texts was Bette Talvachhia's "Taking Positions: On the Erotic in Renaissance Culture." In it, Talvacchia translates 16 really lewd sonnets written by Pietro Aretino in the early 16th century. He wrote them to accompany a series of drawings depicting couples in various sexual positions. Unfortunately, I lent the book out and haven't gotten it back yet. I start back to school Monday. If I think of it, I'll stop by the library and see if they have a copy.

Ginger

Tale from Athenaeus

Axiochus and Alcibiades --
Two well-endowed and handsom gallants -- go
Off to the selfsame furrow, there to sow
The wildest of their oats. Now, one of these
Young lovers sows is seed, indeed, so well
That, as you might expect, the demoiselle
Brings forth a daughter; one, in fact, so fair
That each claims credit for the bagatelle.
In time the lass, lovely beyond compare,
Has learned her mother's lessons; such that now,
Grown lustful of the belle, each of our pair,
No longer fatherly, will disavow
His claim. Says one: "But how can you deny
Your spit and image? Clearly she's your kin!"
"No! Yours!" the other parries in reply.
"Besides, for such a one I'll risk the sin."


A little number from LaFontaine's Bawdy, Norman Shapiro, 1992 Princeton U. Press. Mostly long numbers, but some wonderful illustrations.

Interesting little ditty. Axiochus and Alcibiades, though - is there any more to be found about this choice of characters? I saw references to Plato on the 'net. Perhaps there are secrets to be uncovered?

[quote]Originally posted by Hugh Clary:

"Axiochus and Alcibiades, though - is there any more to be found about this choice of characters? I saw references to Plato on the 'net. Perhaps there are secrets to be uncovered?"

Nothing in my edition's notes, Hugh. Great pics, though.

Bob

Yes, I was thinking of Swift, thanks for bringing him up, but my own library is pretty thin...

Alcibiades was famously handsome and rich and debauched (and a very close friend of Socrates.) He got himself in trouble for, allegedly, lopping off the, er, members from the Hermes statues in Athens... (Sort of like obscene garden gnomes...)

For Ginger; I'd like to know where the Italian Renaissance is and can anyone go?

Jim

One for Kipling lovers...


Stiff

If you can give good head when all about you
Are spitting hairs and blaming shit on you;
If you can suck yourself when all men want to,
So make a members list for them to add to;
If you masturbate and don’t tire elating,
Or, being lain upon, don't feign surprise,
Or, being plated, don't get bored while waiting,
And yet don't like dry crud, nor red-rubbed thighs;

If you wet dream - but don’t in dreams come faster;
If you can shoot - and still improve your aim;
If you can box with Pollux or with Castor
And fuck the two Dioscuri the same;
If you can bear to smell the fart all choke on
Twisted by bowels to make them bray like mules,
Or watch the films where natural law is broken,
And stoop and check 'em out your worn-out tools;

If you can make it cheap for better sinning
Then risk it on one trick with cart-and-hoss,
And lose, and get sent down for your deep grinning
And never breath a word about old Floss;
If you can stuff her hide with meaty sinew
To serve your needs long after she has none,
And so hold on when the devil’s in you
And have the thrill to shout to her: "Geron-";

If you can pork with flocks until it hurts you,
Or poke with queens - and lap the common slut;
If neither hives nor syphillis can hurt you;
If all flesh counts with you, whether man or mutt;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of spermed Niagra -
Yours is the girth and everything that's round it,
And - what is more - you'll need Viagra!

Query: Does anyone know the complete words of the classic bawdy song, "Bollocky Bill the Sailor?"

I have sought this in vain for years.

Thanks--

Here ya go, Gail:

Bollocky Bill, The Sailor

Who's that knocking on my door?
Who's that knocking on my door?
Who's that knocking on my door?
Said the fair young maiden
It's only me from over the sea
Said Bollocky Bill the Sailor

I'll come down and let you in
I'll come down and let you in
I'll come down and let you in
Said the fair young maiden

And where am I going to sleep tonight
Said Bollocky Bill the Sailor

You may sleep upon the mat
You may sleep upon the mat
You may sleep upon the mat
Said the fair young maiden

Oh bugger the mat, I can't sleep on that
Said Bollocky Bill the Sailor

You can sleep between my thighs
What have you got between your thighs

I have got a pin-coshion
And I've got a pin, and I'll stick it in

What if there should be a child?
Strangle the bastard as soon as it's born

What about the Police Force?
Bugger the Police and fuck the Force

But if there should be an inquest?
Stuff the inquest up your arse

Whan shall I see you again?
Never no more, you fucking whore

(music)

(who's mildly ashamed to put this up here, but she asked...)

[This message has been edited by nyctom (edited February 04, 2002).]

Can anyone interpret:

yauld, hurdies fyke, claes, wyme?

Robert Burns' version of "John Anderson, My Jo" (according to Tony McCarthy's Bawdy British Folk Songs):

John Anderson, my jo John, I wonder what ye mean
To lie sae lang i'the morning and sit sae late at e'en?
Ye'll blear a' your een, John, and why do ye so?
Come sooner to your bed at e'en, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo John, when that ye first began
Ye had as good a tail-tree as any other man.
But now it's waxin' wan, John, and wrinkles to and fro
And aft requires my helping hand, John Anderson, my jo.

When we were young and yauld, John, we've lain-out owre the dyke
And oh! it was fine thing to see your hurdies fyke.
To see your hurdies fyke, John, and strike the rising blow
'Twas then I liked your chanter-pipe, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo John, you're welcome when you please,
It's either in the warm-bed or else aboon the claes.
Do your part aboon, John, and trust to me below,
I've twa gae-ups for your gae-down, John Anderson, my jo.

When ye come on before, John, see that ye do your best,
When I begin to haud ye, see that ye grip me fast.
See that ye grip me fast, John, until that I cry: 'Oh!'
Your back shall crack, or I do that, John Anderson, my jo.

I'm backit like a salmon and breastit like a swan,
My wyme is like a down-cod, my waist ye weel may span.
My skin fra tap to toe, John, is like the new-fa'n snow,
And it's all for your conveniency, John Anderson, my jo.

Terese, what a lovely, wistful poem.
The bawdiness is just a cloak for the sadness for the passing of time, for the human condition, and for the love that recognises that powers fail but shines still.
Thanks for posting this.
David

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!