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Ballad Quotes

Browse 41 quotes about Ballad.

Ballad Quotes

“Lucy Gray Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray, And when I cross'd the Wild, I chanc'd to see at break of day The solitary Child. No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wild Moor, The sweetest Thing that ever grew Beside a human door! You yet may spy the Fawn at play, The Hare upon the Green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen. "To-night will be a stormy night, You to the Town must go, And take a lantern, Child, to light Your Mother thro' the snow." "That, Father! will I gladly do; 'Tis scarcely afternoon— The Minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the Moon." At this the Father rais'd his hook And snapp'd a faggot-band; He plied his work, and Lucy took The lantern in her hand. Not blither is the mountain roe, With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse, the powd'ry snow That rises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time, She wander'd up and down, And many a hill did Lucy climb But never reach'd the Town. The wretched Parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide. At day-break on a hill they stood That overlook'd the Moor; And thence they saw the Bridge of Wood A furlong from their door. And now they homeward turn'd, and cry'd "In Heaven we all shall meet!" When in the snow the Mother spied The print of Lucy's feet. Then downward from the steep hill's edge They track'd the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn-hedge, And by the long stone-wall; And then an open field they cross'd, The marks were still the same; They track'd them on, nor ever lost, And to the Bridge they came. They follow'd from the snowy bank The footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank, And further there were none. Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living Child, That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome Wild. O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.”

HeartbreakBallad
Book:The Works of William Wordsworth
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“After class, if she got out early, sometimes I'd catch her downstairs writing up her notes. And she'd smile and I had to bite back every single corny thing I'd ever wanted to say, like: All off me is an invitation reaching toward you, or my fingertips ache where they haven't touched your skin or I hear the promise of us in the crescendo of every ballad and maybe I was supposed to be a bachatero instead of a pilot because all I had were torch songs for a girl I barely knew.”

LovePoetrySmileCornyBallad
Book:You've Got a Place Here, Too: An Anthology of Black Love Stories Set at HBCUs
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“He was a strong and noble lord with piercing eyes of grey. He sat upon his noble throne shining like the dawn. His sword flashed like the brightest star. He led our people well. Yet here and now he lays in blood pierced with arrows. He was the friend of many knights. He loved the warrior games. His heart was won by a lady fair for marriage they did wait. A kindly prince, his duty carried him to another's bed. And on her death true love returned, finally they wed. He felt the grief of children lost to murder and to pain. I was the youngest of his blood. I'll never be the same. Here lays my father and my lord. I know not what to say. Except my father and my lord was slain here on this day. Here lays my father and my lord. I know not what to say. Except my father and my lord was slain here on this day….”

SongMurderNoblePrincessMedievalTributeKingLamentKnightBalladSlainDirgeKendric
Book:The Ghosts of the Past
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“One of Locke's finest qualities was his ability to recast all their lowliest exploits as worthy of a ballad, told and retold until Cardan could almost believe that staggeringly better or thrillingly worse version of events. He could no more lie than any of the Folk, but stories were the closest thing to lies the Folk could tell.”

StoriesDramaticHolly BlackThe Folk Of The AirCardan GreenbriarCardanLockeBalladOverdramatic
Book:How the King of Elfhame Learned to Hate Stories
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“Come all you fair and tender girls That flourish in your prime Beware, beware, keep your garden fair Let no man steal your thyme Let no man steal your thyme For when your thyme, it is past and gone He'll care no more for you And every place your time was waste Will all spread over with rue Will all spread over with rue The goddess son was standing by Three flowers he gave to me The pink, the blue and the violet true And the red, red rosy tree And the red, red rosy tree But I refused the red rose bush And gave the willow tree That all the world may plainly see How my love slighted me How my love slighted me”

LoveTimeBalladFar From The Madding Crowd
Author:traditional folk ballad
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“Do you remember when we went Under a dragon moon, And 'mid volcanic tints of night Walked where they fought the unknown fight And saw black trees on the battle-height, Black thorn on Ethandune? And I thought, "I will go with you, As man with God has gone, And wander with a wandering star, The wandering heart of things that are, The fiery cross of love and war That like yourself, goes on.”

LoveWarGodManWhite HorseBalladEthanduneWandering Star
Author:G. K. Chesterton
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“dlaurent The Ballad of Johnny Jihad (Down Desert Storm Way). © c. 2001 During the Gulf War (1990-1991), American Pro-Taliban Jihadist John Philip Walker Lindh was captured while serving with the enemy forces. Here is his tale in song and legend. My nowex at the time did not want me to run to the radio station with this, thought I’d look singularly ridiculii. The following, 'The Ballad of Johnny Jihad' is sung to the tune of 'The Ballad of Jed Clampett' (1962), commonly known as 'The Beverly Hillbillies' song, the theme tune for the TV show series starring Buddy Ebsen. (Lyrics, Paul Henning, vocals Jerry Scoggins, Lester Flatt; master musicians of the art of the ballad and bluegrass ways, Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs). The Ballad of Johnny Jihad (Sung) Come and listen to the story of Johnny Jihad, Who left home and country to study his Islam, And then one day he was shooting at our troops, So down through the camp did the government swoop. (Voice Over): ‘Al Que-da that is, Af-ghani Tali-ban, Terror-ist . . .’ (Sung) Well, the first thing you know ol’ John from ’Frisco roamed, The lawman said ‘he’s a lad misunderstood very far from home.’ Said, ‘Californee is the place he oughta be,’ So they request his trial be moved to Berkeley . . . (Voice Over): ‘Liberals that is, group-ies, peace-activists . . .’ Announcer: The Johnny Jihad Show! (Intense bluegrass banjo pickin’ music) . . . (Sung) Now its time to say goodbye to John and all his kin, Hope ya don’t think of him as a fightin’ Taliban, You’re all invited back again to this insanity, To get yourself a heapin’ helpin’ of this travesty . . . Johnny Jihad, that’s what they call ’im now Nice guy; don’t get fooled now, y’hear? (Voice Over): ‘Lawyerin’ that is, O.J.ism, media-circus . . .’ (Music) . . . end”

PoetryHistoryWhimsicalGulf WarVeteransPolitical SatireBalladFacetiousDesert StormBeverly Hillbillies
Author:Douglas m. Laurent
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“والآن‎ في فصل الحنينِ وحين يعرى حزن أيلول ‎ لأنسام الشتاءْ ‎ ينتابني وجعٌ وأسئلةٌ لماذا الحزن مع عين السماءْ؟ ‎ ولأيّ قلبٍ كلّما انهمرت سماءٌ ‎ فوق أرضٍ ‎أشتهي حبّاً مضى... ‎ وتفوحُ رائحةُ النساءْ…”

Mahdi MansourBalladEpic PoetryOdeSonnetsGhazalVillanelleClassic PoetryRondel
Author:Mahdi Mansour
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“أجمل تجليات الله، قلوب العاشقين… وأجمل تجليات العشق، عيون المؤمنين… هنا حيث العشق إيمان، والحجر كالشجر، والكلام كالسلام، يجد الشعر الضوء ليخرج بانسيابية من بين أنامل الأطفال وكسور الأفئدة…”

Mahdi MansourBalladEpic PoetryOdeGhazalVillanelleRondelPoetry AnthologyTerza RimaTriolet
Author:Mahdi Mansour
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“لَكِ فُسْحَةٌ كُبْرى بِذاكِرَتي ‎فَتَحَفَّظي, أَرْجوكِ سَيّدَتي ‎لا تاجَ عِنْدي...لا قصور معي... ‎حَتّى تَكوني أَنْتِ مَمْلَكَتي ‎لا تُجْهِدي عَيْنَيْكِ بي فَأَنا ‎رَجُلٌ جِراحاتُ الهَوى لُغَتي ‎أُشْفى مِنِ امْرَأَةٍ بِإِمْرَأَةٍ ‎فَأَحُلُّ مُشْكِلَتي بِمُشْكِلَةِ…”

Mahdi MansourBalladEpic PoetryOdeGhazalVillanelleRondelPoetry AnthologyPoetry Collections
Author:Mahdi Mansour
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“When she had arranged her household affairs, she came to the library and bade me follow her. Then, with the mirror still swinging against her knees, she led me through the garden and the wilderness down to a misty wood. It being autumn, the trees were tinted gloriously in dusky bars of colouring. The rowan, with his amber leaves and scarlet berries, stood before the brown black-spotted sycamore; the silver beech flaunted his golden coins against my poverty; firs, green and fawn-hued, slumbered in hazy gossamer. No bird carolled, although the sun was hot. Marina noted the absence of sound, and without prelude of any kind began to sing from the ballad of the Witch Mother: about the nine enchanted knots, and the trouble-comb in the lady's knotted hair, and the master-kid that ran beneath her couch. Every drop of my blood froze in dread, for whilst she sang her face took on the majesty of one who traffics with infernal powers. As the shade of the trees fell over her, and we passed intermittently out of the light, I saw that her eyes glittered like rings of sapphires. ("The Basilisk")”

FallFantasyTreeAutumnWitchTreesDark FantasyRowanBalladFirSycamore Beech
Book:Terror by Gaslight: More Victorian Tales of Terror
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“Night after night on starry wings Night lovers soared so high Miles apart, across the oceans Their love forgot to sigh In heavenly flight’s timelessness That highest height treasured Into the deepest of all blues Their depth of love measured. From the poem 'The Ballad of Night Lovers”

LovePoetryNightLove QuotesLoversPoemHighestBlueDistanceWingsDepthMilesPoetry QuotesHeightPoemsTimelessSighTimelessnessTreasuredVersePoetry QuoteBluesApartBalladAcrossStarryLongdistance
Book:To Evince the Blue
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“Why does your sword so drip with blood, Edward, Edward? Why does your sword so drip with blood? And why so sad are ye, O?' 'O, I have killed my hawk so good, Mother, mother: O I have killed my hawk so good: And I had no more but he, O.' 'Your hawk's blood was never so red, Edward, Edward: Your hawk’s blood was never so red, My dear son I tell thee, O.' 'O, I have killed my red-roan steed, Mother, mother: O, I have killed my red-roan steed, That once was so fair and free, O.' 'Your steed was old, and we have got more, Edward, Edward: Your steed was old, and we have got more, Some other evil ye fear, O.' 'O, I have killed my father dear, Mother, mother: O, I have killed my father dear, Alas! and woe is me, O!' 'And what penance will ye suffer for that, Edward, Edward? And what penance will ye suffer for that? My dear son, now tell me, O.' 'I'll set my feet in yonder boat, Mother, mother: I’ll set my feet in yonder boat, And I’ll fare over the sea, O.' 'And what will ye do with your towers and your halls, Edward, Edward? And what will ye do with your towers and your halls, That were sae fair to see, O?' 'I’ll let them stand till they down fall, Mother, mother: I’ll let them stand till they down fall, For here never more may I be, O.' 'And what will ye leave to your children and your wife, Edward, Edward? And what will ye leave to your children and your wife When ye go over the sea, O?' 'The world is large, let them beg through life, Mother, mother: The world is large, let them beg throw life, For them never more will I see, O.' 'And what will ye leave to your own mother dear, Edward, Edward? And what will ye leave to your own mother dear? My dear son, now tell me, O.' 'The curse of hell from me shall you bear for me, Mother, mother: The curse of hell from me shall you bear for me, Such counsels you gave to me, O.”

DeathMurderBallad
Author:Anonymous
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“This is my gift to you and your reward, Tom Mulligan, maker of ballads and journeyman worker in fine tales. 'Tis more than your wish was. Nayther you nor anyone who sits at your table, through all your life, will ever want a bite to ate or a sup to dhrink, nor yet a silver shilling to cheer him on his way. Good luck to all here and goodbye!" Even as they looked at the King he was gone, vanished like a light that's blown out-and they never saw him more. But the news spread. Musicianers, poets, and story-tellers, and jayniouses flocked to the ballad maker's cabin from all over Ireland. Any fine day in the year one might see them gather in dozen knots before his door and into as many little crowds about the stable. In each crowd, from morning till night, there was a chune being played, a ballad sung, or a story being tould. Always one could find there blacksmiths, schoolmasters, and tinkers, and all trades, but the greater number be far, av coorse, were beggarmen. Nor is that same to be wondhered at, bekase every jaynious, if he had his own way and could folly his own heart's desire'd start to-morrow at daybreak with the beggarman's staff and bag. But wherever they came from, and whatever their station, Tom Mulligan stumped on his wooden leg from crowd to crowd, the jovial, happy master of them all.”

StorytellerLeprechaunBallad
Book:Darby O'Gill and the Good People
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