Divine Pitch Musings is a series where we play songs that resonate with us, at A = 432Hz. Album: https://divinepitch.bandcamp.com/album/fiddling-while-rome-burns Listen for free on YouTube: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLT_lw5jnedVS7Cba6q6ZMYJQm2gbDhf4p&si=RES6cJq4TXcatXGg Poor Honest Men Lyrics by Rudyard Kipling Traditional tune (approx. "Spanish Ladies") Lyrics: Your jar of Virginny Will cost you a guinea, Which you reckon too much by five shillings or ten; But light your churchwarden And judge it according, When I've told you the troubles of poor honest men. From the Capes of the Delaware, As you are well aware, We sail with tobacco for England—but then, Our own British cruisers, They watch us come through, sirs, And they press half a score of us poor honest men! Or if by quick sailing (Thick weather prevailing) We leave them behind (as we do now and then) We are sure of a gun from Each frigate we run from, Which is often destruction to poor honest men! Broadsides the Atlantic We tumble short-handed, With shot-holes to plug and new canvas to bend; And off the Azores, Dutch, Dons and Monsieurs Are waiting to terrify poor honest men. Napoleon's embargo Is laid on all cargo Which comfort or aid to King George may intend; And since roll, twist and leaf, Of all comforts is chief, They try for to steal it from poor honest men! With no heart for fight, We take refuge in flight, But fire as we run, our retreat to defend; Until our stern-chasers Cut up her fore-braces, And she flies off the wind from us poor honest men! 'Twix' the Forties and Fifties, South-eastward the drift is, And so, when we think we are making Land's End Alas, it is Ushant With half the King's Navy Blockading French ports against poor honest men! But they may not quit station (Which is our salvation) So swiftly we stand to the Nor'ard again; And finding the tail of A homeward-bound convoy, We slip past the Scillies like poor honest men. 'Twix' the Lizard and Dover, We hand our stuff over, Though I may not inform how we do it, nor when. But a light on each quarter, Low down on the water, Is well understanded by poor honest men. Even then we have dangers, From meddlesome strangers, Who spy on our business and are not content To take a smooth answer, Except with a handspike... And they say they are murdered by poor honest men! To be drowned or be shot Is our natural lot, Why should we, moreover, be hanged in the end– After all our great pains For to dangle in chains As though we were smugglers, not poor honest men?

Divine Pitch Musings is a series where we play songs that resonate with us, at A = 432Hz. Album: https://divinepitch.bandcamp.com/album/fiddling-while-rome-burns Listen for free on YouTube: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLT_lw5jnedVS7Cba6q6ZMYJQm2gbDhf4p&si=RES6cJq4TXcatXGg The Man in the Moon Stayed Up Too Late Lyrics by Bilbo Baggins (collected by J.R.R Tolkien) Tune by Divine Pitch. Lyrics: There is an inn, a merry old inn Beneath an old grey hill, And there they brew a beer so brown That the Man in the Moon himself came down One night to drink his fill. The ostler has a tipsy cat That plays a five-stringed fiddle; And up and down he runs his bow, Now squeaking high, now purring low, Now sawing in the middle. The landlord keeps a little dog That is mighty fond of jokes; When there's good cheer among the guests, He cocks an ear at all the jests And laughs until he chokes. They also keep a hornéd cow As proud as any queen; But music turns her head like ale, And makes her wave her tufted tail And dance upon the green. And O! the rows of silver dishes And the store of silver spoons! For Sunday there's a special pair, And these they polish up with care On Saturday afternoons. The Man in the Moon was drinking deep, And the cat began to wail; A dish and a spoon on the table danced, The cow in the garden madly pranced, And the little dog chased his tail. The Man in the Moon took another mug, And then rolled beneath his chair; And there he dozed and dreamed of ale, Till in the sky the stars were pale, And dawn was in the air. So the cat on his fiddle played hey-diddle-diddle, A jig that would wake the dead: He squeaked and sawed and quickened the tune, While the landlord shook the Man in the Moon:' 'It's after three!' he said. Now quicker the fiddle went deedle-dum-diddle; The dog began to roar, The cow and the horses stood on their heads; The guests all bounded from their beds And danced upon the floor. With a ping and a pong the fiddle-strings broke! The cow jumped over the Moon, And the little dog laughed to see such fun, And the Saturday dish went off at a run With the silver Sunday spoon. The round Moon rolled behind the hill, As the Sun raised up her head. She hardly believed her fiery eyes: For though it was day, to her surprise They all went back to bed!

Divine Pitch Musings is a series where we play songs that resonate with us, at A = 432Hz. Album: https://divinepitch.bandcamp.com/album/fiddling-while-rome-burns Listen for free on YouTube: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLT_lw5jnedVS7Cba6q6ZMYJQm2gbDhf4p&si=RES6cJq4TXcatXGg The Trees They Do Grow High - trad. Lyrics: As I was looking over my father's castle wall, Saw four and twenty gentlemen a-playing bat and ball. I called for my own true love, but they would not let him come, For they said the boy was young but a-growing. Growing, growing, For they said the boy was young but a-growing. O father, dear father, you've done to me great wrong, You've tied me to a boy when you know he is too young. O daughter, dearest daughter, if you wait a little while, A lady you shall be while he's growing. Growing, growing, A lady you shall be while he's growing. And so early in the morning at the dawning of the day, They went out into the hay-field to have some sport and play, And what it was they did there she never would declare, But she never more complained of his growing. Growing, growing She never more complained of his growing. So at the age of sixteen, he was a married man And at the age of seventeen a father to a son, And at the age of eighteen the grass grew over him, Cruel death had put an end to his growing. Growing, growing, Cruel death had put an end to his growing. I'll make my love a shroud of the best of Holland's brown And every stitch I put in it the tears come trickling down Saying once I had a sweetheart but now I've never one, But I'll watch all o'er his child while he's growing. Growing, growing, I'll watch all o'er his child while he's growing. The trees they do grow high and the leaves they do grow green The day is past and gone, my love, that you and I have seen. It’s a cold winter’s night, my love, that you must bide alone, For my bonny boy is young, but a-growing. Growing, growing, My bonny boy is young, but a-growing.

Divine Pitch Musings is a series where we play songs that resonate with us, at A = 432Hz. Album: https://divinepitch.bandcamp.com/album/fiddling-while-rome-burns Listen for free on YouTube: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLT_lw5jnedVS7Cba6q6ZMYJQm2gbDhf4p&si=RES6cJq4TXcatXGg The Dying Citizen - Stephen Riddell, inspired by the book of the same name by Victor Davis Hanson. Lyrics: It happened once upon a time In the land of great antiques A new idea began to climb The polis of the Greeks “Demokratia”, they cried “The power of the people Tyrants we will not abide When we become their equal.” Citizens they made their sons Who worked the countryside Those who were the middle ones The mesoi were their pride Not vain like the rich who Grew so corpulent from wealth Not meek like the poor who Needed them to fund their health Chorus Tyrants to the left of me And tyrants to the right No independence left for me To fight for in my plight Everything will fall apart The centre can not hold But who will there be left to care For the dying citizen? Look around and try to see Where is the middle class? Scarcely left are the ones still free To lay down in the grass Crushed beneath the rich who Pay their state to tax and lie Squeezed amongst the poor who Simply shrug and breathe a sigh All their polities fell to Rome But ideas will never die Eventually they found their home In the laws that we live by Tyrants still will seek to rise By playing on our fears Assuaging us with all their lies That they're the one who cares Chorus Utopia that is the meme Of the ones who try to rise Predicated upon the dream Of the ones who moralise “The city of our God will soon Be the city of your man Sup upon our golden spoon And trust unto our plan.” Fortune favours the ones who know That the logos is divine Transcendently we grasp to show The ways to heed the sign The ideal is just a dream We come to when we're lost in thought The world we know as seen Is where our freedom can be sought Chorus