Here's a sweet and sappy song I sang to my son when he was a newborn. (To the tune of "What Child is This").
Goodnight my son, sleep tight my son,
the moon is out, the stars have come,
Goodnight, goodnight, my little one,
Goodnight, goodnight, goodnight.
Goodnight my love, don't cry my love,
The sun has gone, the day is done,
Goodnight, sleeptight my precious one,
Goodnight, goodnight, goodnight.
9 comments:
Thanks for visiting my blog! And welcome to blogworld. I've enjoyed your last several posts (the skinny girl one made me laugh). I've be by again!
How sweet is that???
(As I sing it outloud to myself here at my desk...)
:-)
Thanks. Since I can't sing, I imagine myself as Celine Dion and at the end of each verse I immitate her by pounding my fist to my chest. :)
Loretta ahhhh, I used to sing an Irish Lullaby to my girls when it was bedtime.
Did it happen to be Toora loora loora...?
Over in Killarney
Many years ago,
Me Mither sang a song to me
In tones so sweet and low.
Just a simple little ditty,
In her good ould Irish way,
And l'd give the world if she could sing
That song to me this day.
Chorus:
"Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Too-ra-loo-ra-li,
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, hush now, don't you cry!
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Too-ra-loo-ra-li,
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, that's an Irish lullaby."
Oft in dreams I wander
To that cot again,
I feel her arms a-huggin' me
As when she held me then.
And I hear her voice a -hummin'
To me as in days of yore,
When she used to rock me fast asleep
Outside the cabin door.
Here's one of my other favorites:
Oh, it is the biggest mix-up that you have ever seen.
My father, he was Orange and me mother, she was green.
My father was an Ulster man, proud Protestant was he.
My mother was a Catholic girl, from county Cork was she.
They were married in two churches, lived happily enough,
Until the day that I was born and things got rather tough.
Baptized by Father Riley, I was rushed away by car,
To be made a little Orangeman, my father's shining star.
I was christened "David Anthony," but still, inspite of that,
To me father, I was William, while my mother called me Pat.
With Mother every Sunday, to Mass I'd proudly stroll.
Then after that, the Orange lodge would try to save my soul.
For both sides tried to claim me, but i was smart because
I'd play the flute or play the harp, depending where I was.
Now when I'd sing those rebel songs, much to me mother's joy,
Me father would jump up and say, "Look here would you me boy.
That's quite enough of that lot", he'd then toss me a coin
And he'd have me sing the Orange Flute or the Heros of The Boyne
One day me Ma's relations came round to visit me.
Just as my father's kinfolk were all sitting down to tea.
We tried to smooth things over, but they all began to fight.
And me, being strictly neutral, I bashed everyone in sight.
My parents never could agree about my type of school.
My learning was all done at home, that's why I'm such a fool.
They've both passed on, God rest 'em, but left me caught between
That awful color problem of the Orange and the Green.
So... are we orange or green?
protestants are orange; catholics are green
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