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

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 My Son in Amerikay - Alf MacLochlainn Lyrics: A long time ago in the county Mayo, my story it first began Before emigration was finally cured by the First Economical Plan A brave young man had to leave his home and he traveled far away But he got well paid in the job so he stayed on the shores of Amerikay He got on very well but he sent nothing home and his mother began to think Maybe he’d run away with a blonde or was spending his money on drink She wrote him a letter inquiring the news and she sent it straight away And upon the cover she carefully wrote “To me Son in Amerikay!” Well, American postmen, I needn’t relate, they are rather like me and you When at last to that letter they came, they didn’t know what to do They looked up all the official lists, but these had nothing to say There was no directory could help them to find her son in Amerikay! So it lay 'round the office for years and years and it gave all the boys a laugh Until at length it found some use in the training of the staff To every new postman who came on the job it was shown as Exhibit A Of insufficiently addressed to "Me Son in Amerikay"! Oh, the son he got older and wiser too and at last to himself he said “How are things going with me mother at home, and is she alive or dead?” He walked ’round the block to the post depot where he stood with his cap in his hand “By any chance have you a letter for me from me mother in Ireland?” “Oh yes good sir, and here it is, we’ve been waiting for you to call We knew some day someone would come from Cork or Donegal Of the two hundred million that are currently living in the whole of the USA For a mother in Ireland at last we have found a son in Amerikay".