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MJonmind

Re: Having an Off Day and it feels empty
February 14, 2012, 12:22:16 AM

Thank you so much Hesouttamylife, for the info about Michael and Robert Burns' inspiration for Thriller.
By the way, yes, I feel very much the way you do too, but I try to keep doing the things I need to do in my life.  This hoax and this forum have brought me the biggest joy of my life--well next to marriage and having kids. :)

This is the link to the same David Gest article you quoted above.
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This one is slightly different.
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Here’s Robert Burn’s Tam O’Shanter recited by a true Scotsman.
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This is the original poem.   You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login 
You can definitely see how Michael could get the thriller story from this.
 
First here's Wikopedia's understanding of the poem:
Quote
The poem begins: After Burns has located us geographically: Tam sits and drinks with his friends, and the reader is regaled with a dark prophecy of Tam's wife Kate:
Tam's wife, Kate, is portrayed as an authority to be feared. Then:
Tam continues to drink and even flirts with the landlady of the. Eventually he mounts up and rides off on his grey mare Meg, for his long, dark, lonely ride home. Burns emphasises the spooky character of the You are not allowed to view links. Register or Logincountryside Tam has to ride through—but of course it is much easier as he is drunk:
With the scene set, suddenly: "wow! Tam saw an unco sight!"


The sight he sees is
You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login, ablaze with light, where a weird hallucinatory dance involvin witches and warlocks, open coffins and even the Devil himself is in full swing. The scene is told with grimly enthusiastic gothic attention to detail. Tam manages to watch silently until, the dancing witches having cast off most of their clothes, he is beguiled by one particularly comely female witch, Nannie, whose shirt (cutty-sark) is too small for her. He cannot help shouting out in passion:
Weel done, Cutty-sark! And in an instant all was dark:
The devil decides to follow Tam, but the evident pride in the ability of his horse is justified as she is able to help him to "win the key-stone o' the brig". (The Devil, Witches and warlocks cannot cross running water.)
They only just make it though, as Nannie, first among the "hellish legion" chasing, grabs the horse's tail, which comes off. In fine, tongue-in-cheek moralistic mode, the poem concludes:
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Quote
Tam o' Shanter (Translation)

When the peddler people leave the streets,
 And thirsty neighbours, neighbours meet;
 As market days are wearing late,
 And folk begin to take the road home,
 While we sit boozing strong ale,
 And getting drunk and very happy,
 We don’t think of the long Scots miles,
 The marshes, waters, steps and stiles,
 That lie between us and our home,
 Where sits our sulky, sullen dame (wife),
 Gathering her brows like a gathering storm,


 Nursing her wrath, to keep it warm.

This truth finds honest Tam o' Shanter,
 As he from Ayr one night did canter;
 Old Ayr, which never a town surpasses,
 For honest men and bonny lasses.


Oh Tam, had you but been so wise,
 As to have taken your own wife Kate’s advice!
 She told you well you were a waster,
 A rambling, blustering, drunken boaster,
 That from November until October,
 Each market day you were not sober;
 During each milling period with the miller,
 You sat as long as you had money,
 For every horse he put a shoe on,
 The blacksmith and you got roaring drunk on;
 That at the Lords House, even on Sunday,
 You drank with Kirkton Jean till Monday.
 She prophesied, that, late or soon,
 You would be found deep drowned in Doon,
 Or caught by warlocks in the murk,
 By Alloway’s old haunted church.


Ah, gentle ladies, it makes me cry,
 To think how many counsels sweet,
 How much long and wise advice
 The husband from the wife despises!


But to our tale :- One market night,
 Tam was seated just right,
 Next to a fireplace, blazing finely,
 With creamy ales, that drank divinely;
 And at his elbow, Cobbler Johnny,
 His ancient, trusted, thirsty crony;
 Tom loved him like a very brother,
 They had been drunk for weeks together.
 The night drove on with songs and clatter,
 And every ale was tasting better;
 The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
 With secret favours, sweet and precious;
 The cobbler told his queerest stories;
 The landlord’s laugh was ready chorus:
 Outside, the storm might roar and rustle,
 Tam did not mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man so happy,
 Even drowned himself in ale.
 As bees fly home with loads of treasure,
 The minutes winged their way with pleasure:
 Kings may be blessed, but Tam was glorious,
 Over all the ills of life victorious.


But pleasures are like poppies spread:
 You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;
 Or like the snow fall on the river,
 A moment white - then melts forever,
 Or like the Aurora Borealis rays,
 That move before you can point to their place;
 Or like the rainbow’s lovely form,
 Vanishing amid the storm.
 No man can tether time or tide,
 The hour approaches Tom must ride:
 That hour, of night’s black arch - the key-stone,
 That dreary hour he mounts his beast in
 And such a night he takes to the road in
 As never a poor sinner had been out in.


The wind blew as if it had blown its last;
 The rattling showers rose on the blast;
 The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed,
 Loud, deep and long the thunder bellowed:
 That night, a child might understand,
 The Devil had business on his hand.


Well mounted on his grey mare, Meg.
 A better never lifted leg,
 Tom, raced on through mud and mire,
 Despising wind and rain and fire;
 Whilst holding fast his good blue bonnet,
 While crooning over some old Scots sonnet,
 Whilst glowering round with prudent care,
 Lest ghosts catch him unaware:
 Alloway’s Church was drawing near,
 Where ghosts and owls nightly cry.


By this time he was across the ford,
 Where in the snow the pedlar got smothered;
 And past the birch trees and the huge stone,
 Where drunken Charlie broke his neck bone;
 And through the thorns, and past the monument,
 Where hunters found the murdered child;
 And near the thorn, above the well,
 Where Mungo’s mother hung herself.
 Before him the river Doon pours all his floods;
 The doubling storm roars throught the woods;
 The lightnings flashes from pole to pole;
 Nearer and more near the thunder rolls;
 When, glimmering through the groaning trees,
 Alloway’s Church seemed in a blaze,
 Through every gap , light beams were glancing,
 And loud resounded mirth and dancing.


Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn! (whisky)
 What dangers you can make us scorn!
 With ale, we fear no evil;
 With whisky, we’ll face the Devil!
 The ales so swam in Tam’s head,
 Fair play, he didn’t care a farthing for devils.
 But Maggie stood, right sore astonished,
 Till, by the heel and hand admonished,
 She ventured forward on the light;
 And, vow! Tom saw an incredible sight!


Warlocks and witches in a dance:
 No cotillion, brand new from France,
 But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
 Put life and mettle in their heels.
 In a window alcove in the east,
 There sat Old Nick, in shape of beast;
 A shaggy dog, black, grim, and large,
 To give them music was his charge:
 He screwed the pipes and made them squeal,
 Till roof and rafters all did ring.
 Coffins stood round, like open presses,
 That showed the dead in their last dresses;
 And, by some devilish magic sleight,
 Each in its cold hand held a light:
 By which heroic Tom was able
 To note upon the holy table,
 A murderer’s bones, in gibbet-irons;
 Two span-long, small, unchristened babies;
 A thief just cut from his hanging rope -
 With his last gasp his mouth did gape;
 Five tomahawks with blood red-rusted;
 Five scimitars with murder crusted;
 A garter with which a baby had strangled;
 A knife a father’s throat had mangled -
 Whom his own son of life bereft -
 The grey-hairs yet stack to the shaft;
 With more o' horrible and awful,
 Which even to name would be unlawful.
 Three Lawyers’ tongues, turned inside out,
 Sown with lies like a beggar’s cloth -
 Three Priests’ hearts, rotten, black as muck
 Lay stinking, vile, in every nook.


As Thomas glowered, amazed, and curious,
 The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;
 The piper loud and louder blew,
 The dancers quick and quicker flew,
 They reeled, they set, they crossed, they linked,
 Till every witch sweated and smelled,
 And cast her ragged clothes to the floor,
 And danced deftly at it in her underskirts!


Now Tam, O Tam! had these been young girls,
 All plump and strapping in their teens!
 Their underskirts, instead of greasy flannel,
 Been snow-white seventeen hundred linen! -
 The trousers of mine, my only pair,
 That once were plush, of good blue hair,
 I would have given them off my buttocks

For one blink of those pretty girls !

But withered hags, old and droll,
 Ugly enough to suckle a foal,
 Leaping and flinging on a stick,
 Its a wonder it didn’t turn your stomach!


But Tam knew what was what well enough:
 There was one winsome, jolly wench,
 That night enlisted in the core,
 Long after known on Carrick shore
 (For many a beast to dead she shot,
 And perished many a bonnie boat,
 And shook both much corn and barley,
 And kept the country-side in fear.)
 Her short underskirt, o’ Paisley cloth,
 That while a young lass she had worn,
 In longitude though very limited,
 It was her best, and she was proud. . .
 Ah! little knew your reverend grandmother,
 That skirt she bought for her little grandaughter,
 With two Scots pounds (it was all her riches),
 Would ever graced a dance of witches!


But here my tale must stoop and bow,
 Such words are far beyond her power;
 To sing how Nannie leaped and kicked
 (A supple youth she was, and strong);
 And how Tom stood like one bewitched,
 And thought his very eyes enriched;
 Even Satan glowered, and fidgeted full of lust,
 And jerked and blew with might and main;
 Till first one caper, then another,
 Tom lost his reason all together,
 And roars out: ‘ Well done, short skirt! ’
 And in an instant all was dark;
 And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
 When out the hellish legion sallied.


As bees buzz out with angry wrath,
 When plundering herds assail their hive;
 As a wild hare’s mortal foes,
 When, pop! she starts running before their nose;
 As eager runs the market-crowd,
 When ‘ Catch the thief! ’ resounds aloud:
 So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
 With many an unearthly scream and holler


Ah, Tom! Ah, Tom! You will get what's coming!
 In hell they will roast you like a herring!
 In vain your Kate awaits your coming !
 Kate soon will be a woeful woman!
 Now, do your speedy utmost, Meg,
 And beat them to the key-stone of the bridge;
 There, you may toss your tale at them,
 A running stream they dare not cross!
 But before the key-stone she could make,
 She had to shake a tail at the fiend;
 For Nannie, far before the rest,
 Hard upon noble Maggie pressed,
 And flew at Tam with furious aim;
 But little was she Maggie’s mettle!
 One spring brought off her master whole,
 But left behind her own grey tail:
 The witch caught her by the rump,
 And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.


Now, who this tale of truth shall read,
 Each man, and mother’s son, take heed:
 Whenever to drink you are inclined,
 Or short skirts run in your mind,
 Think! you may buy joys over dear:
 Remember Tam o’ Shanter’s mare.


Last Edit: February 14, 2012, 12:43:17 AM by MJonmind
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Re: Having an Off Day and it feels empty
February 14, 2012, 07:59:49 AM
Cheer up Hesoutamylife bearhug. I feel that we are simmering, and a watched pot never boils!  Keep taking joy from the work you do with children and pump the feeling up!  KEEP the faith, can You feel it? party/
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