Saturday, February 29, 2020
Heather Ale by Robert Louis Stevenson
Heather Ale by Robert Louis Stevenson The poem Heather Ale by Robert Louis Stevenson is a ballad about the legendary Pict precursors to modern era Scots. In mythology, they may also be identified with pech, who were pixie-like creatures. They brewed heather ale and battled the Scots. Certainly, it would be convenient to be able to turn the abundant heather into an alcoholic beverage. Among the curiosities of human nature, this legend claims a high place. The historical Picts were a confederation of tribes in eastern and northern Scotland in the late Iron Age through the early medieval periods. The Picts were never exterminated. Today, they form a large proportion of the folk of Scotland: occupying the eastern and the central parts, from the Firth of Forth, or perhaps the Lammermoors, upon the south, to the Ord of Caithness on the north. Archaeological studies dont find the Picts to be much shorter than current-day Scots.  It may be a case of the victors writing the history. The last nominal king of Picts reigned in the early 900s AD. In fiction and motion pictures they are often depicted as tattooed, blue-painted woodland warriors. Did the elements of this legend stem from some ancestors who were small of stature, black of hue, dwelling underground and possibly also the distillers of some forgotten spirit? See Joseph Campbell’s Tales of the West Highlands. Heather Ale: A Galloway LegendRobert Louis Stevenson (1890) From the bonny bells of heather   They brewed a drink long-syne,Was sweeter far than honey,   Was stronger far than wine.They brewed it and they drank it,   And lay in a blessed swoundFor days and days together   In their dwellings underground.There rose a king in Scotland,   A fell man to his foes,He smote the Picts in battle,   He hunted them like roes.Over miles of the red mountain   He hunted as they fled,And strewed the dwarfish bodies   Of the dying and the dead.Summer came in the country,   Red was the heather bell;But the manner of the brewing   Was none alive to tell.In graves that were like children’s   On many a mountain head,The Brewsters of the Heather   Lay numbered with the dead.The king in the red moorland   Rode on a summer’s day;And the bees hummed, and the curlews   Cried beside the way.The king rode, and was angry,   Black was his brow and pale,To rule in a land of heather   And lack the Heather Ale.It fortuned that his vassals,   Riding free on the heath,Came on a stone that was fallen   And vermin hid beneath. Rudely plucked from their hiding,   Never a word they spoke:A son and his aged father-    Last of the dwarfish folk.The king sat high on his charger,   He looked on the little men;And the dwarfish and swarthy couple   Looked at the king again.Down by the shore he had them;   And there on the giddy brink- â€Å"I will give you life, ye vermin,   For the secret of the drink.†There stood the son and father   And they looked high and low;The heather was red around them,   The sea rumbled below.And up and spoke the father,   Shrill was his voice to hear:â€Å"I have a word in private,   A word for the royal ear.â€Å"Life is dear to the aged,   And honour a little thing;I would gladly sell the secret,†   Quoth the Pict to the King.His voice was small as a sparrow’s,   And shrill and wonderful clear:â€Å"I would gladly sell my secret,   Only my son I fear.â€Å"For life is a little matter,   And death is nought to the young;And I dare not sell my honour   Under the eye of my son.Take him, O king, and bind him,   And cast him far in the deep;And it’s I will tell the secret   That I have sworn to keep.†They took the son and bound him,   Neck and heels in a thong,And a lad took him and swung him,   And flung him far and strong,And the sea swallowed his body,   Like that of a child of ten;- And there on the cliff stood the father,   Last of the dwarfish men. â€Å"True was the word I told you:   Only my son I feared;For I doubt the sapling courage   That goes without the beard.But now in vain is the torture,   Fire shall never avail:Here dies in my bosom   The secret of Heather Ale.â€
Heather Ale by Robert Louis Stevenson
Heather Ale by Robert Louis Stevenson The poem Heather Ale by Robert Louis Stevenson is a ballad about the legendary Pict precursors to modern era Scots. In mythology, they may also be identified with pech, who were pixie-like creatures. They brewed heather ale and battled the Scots. Certainly, it would be convenient to be able to turn the abundant heather into an alcoholic beverage. Among the curiosities of human nature, this legend claims a high place. The historical Picts were a confederation of tribes in eastern and northern Scotland in the late Iron Age through the early medieval periods. The Picts were never exterminated. Today, they form a large proportion of the folk of Scotland: occupying the eastern and the central parts, from the Firth of Forth, or perhaps the Lammermoors, upon the south, to the Ord of Caithness on the north. Archaeological studies dont find the Picts to be much shorter than current-day Scots.  It may be a case of the victors writing the history. The last nominal king of Picts reigned in the early 900s AD. In fiction and motion pictures they are often depicted as tattooed, blue-painted woodland warriors. Did the elements of this legend stem from some ancestors who were small of stature, black of hue, dwelling underground and possibly also the distillers of some forgotten spirit? See Joseph Campbell’s Tales of the West Highlands. Heather Ale: A Galloway LegendRobert Louis Stevenson (1890) From the bonny bells of heather   They brewed a drink long-syne,Was sweeter far than honey,   Was stronger far than wine.They brewed it and they drank it,   And lay in a blessed swoundFor days and days together   In their dwellings underground.There rose a king in Scotland,   A fell man to his foes,He smote the Picts in battle,   He hunted them like roes.Over miles of the red mountain   He hunted as they fled,And strewed the dwarfish bodies   Of the dying and the dead.Summer came in the country,   Red was the heather bell;But the manner of the brewing   Was none alive to tell.In graves that were like children’s   On many a mountain head,The Brewsters of the Heather   Lay numbered with the dead.The king in the red moorland   Rode on a summer’s day;And the bees hummed, and the curlews   Cried beside the way.The king rode, and was angry,   Black was his brow and pale,To rule in a land of heather   And lack the Heather Ale.It fortuned that his vassals,   Riding free on the heath,Came on a stone that was fallen   And vermin hid beneath. Rudely plucked from their hiding,   Never a word they spoke:A son and his aged father-    Last of the dwarfish folk.The king sat high on his charger,   He looked on the little men;And the dwarfish and swarthy couple   Looked at the king again.Down by the shore he had them;   And there on the giddy brink- â€Å"I will give you life, ye vermin,   For the secret of the drink.†There stood the son and father   And they looked high and low;The heather was red around them,   The sea rumbled below.And up and spoke the father,   Shrill was his voice to hear:â€Å"I have a word in private,   A word for the royal ear.â€Å"Life is dear to the aged,   And honour a little thing;I would gladly sell the secret,†   Quoth the Pict to the King.His voice was small as a sparrow’s,   And shrill and wonderful clear:â€Å"I would gladly sell my secret,   Only my son I fear.â€Å"For life is a little matter,   And death is nought to the young;And I dare not sell my honour   Under the eye of my son.Take him, O king, and bind him,   And cast him far in the deep;And it’s I will tell the secret   That I have sworn to keep.†They took the son and bound him,   Neck and heels in a thong,And a lad took him and swung him,   And flung him far and strong,And the sea swallowed his body,   Like that of a child of ten;- And there on the cliff stood the father,   Last of the dwarfish men. â€Å"True was the word I told you:   Only my son I feared;For I doubt the sapling courage   That goes without the beard.But now in vain is the torture,   Fire shall never avail:Here dies in my bosom   The secret of Heather Ale.â€
Heather Ale by Robert Louis Stevenson
Heather Ale by Robert Louis Stevenson The poem Heather Ale by Robert Louis Stevenson is a ballad about the legendary Pict precursors to modern era Scots. In mythology, they may also be identified with pech, who were pixie-like creatures. They brewed heather ale and battled the Scots. Certainly, it would be convenient to be able to turn the abundant heather into an alcoholic beverage. Among the curiosities of human nature, this legend claims a high place. The historical Picts were a confederation of tribes in eastern and northern Scotland in the late Iron Age through the early medieval periods. The Picts were never exterminated. Today, they form a large proportion of the folk of Scotland: occupying the eastern and the central parts, from the Firth of Forth, or perhaps the Lammermoors, upon the south, to the Ord of Caithness on the north. Archaeological studies dont find the Picts to be much shorter than current-day Scots.  It may be a case of the victors writing the history. The last nominal king of Picts reigned in the early 900s AD. In fiction and motion pictures they are often depicted as tattooed, blue-painted woodland warriors. Did the elements of this legend stem from some ancestors who were small of stature, black of hue, dwelling underground and possibly also the distillers of some forgotten spirit? See Joseph Campbell’s Tales of the West Highlands. Heather Ale: A Galloway LegendRobert Louis Stevenson (1890) From the bonny bells of heather   They brewed a drink long-syne,Was sweeter far than honey,   Was stronger far than wine.They brewed it and they drank it,   And lay in a blessed swoundFor days and days together   In their dwellings underground.There rose a king in Scotland,   A fell man to his foes,He smote the Picts in battle,   He hunted them like roes.Over miles of the red mountain   He hunted as they fled,And strewed the dwarfish bodies   Of the dying and the dead.Summer came in the country,   Red was the heather bell;But the manner of the brewing   Was none alive to tell.In graves that were like children’s   On many a mountain head,The Brewsters of the Heather   Lay numbered with the dead.The king in the red moorland   Rode on a summer’s day;And the bees hummed, and the curlews   Cried beside the way.The king rode, and was angry,   Black was his brow and pale,To rule in a land of heather   And lack the Heather Ale.It fortuned that his vassals,   Riding free on the heath,Came on a stone that was fallen   And vermin hid beneath. Rudely plucked from their hiding,   Never a word they spoke:A son and his aged father-    Last of the dwarfish folk.The king sat high on his charger,   He looked on the little men;And the dwarfish and swarthy couple   Looked at the king again.Down by the shore he had them;   And there on the giddy brink- â€Å"I will give you life, ye vermin,   For the secret of the drink.†There stood the son and father   And they looked high and low;The heather was red around them,   The sea rumbled below.And up and spoke the father,   Shrill was his voice to hear:â€Å"I have a word in private,   A word for the royal ear.â€Å"Life is dear to the aged,   And honour a little thing;I would gladly sell the secret,†   Quoth the Pict to the King.His voice was small as a sparrow’s,   And shrill and wonderful clear:â€Å"I would gladly sell my secret,   Only my son I fear.â€Å"For life is a little matter,   And death is nought to the young;And I dare not sell my honour   Under the eye of my son.Take him, O king, and bind him,   And cast him far in the deep;And it’s I will tell the secret   That I have sworn to keep.†They took the son and bound him,   Neck and heels in a thong,And a lad took him and swung him,   And flung him far and strong,And the sea swallowed his body,   Like that of a child of ten;- And there on the cliff stood the father,   Last of the dwarfish men. â€Å"True was the word I told you:   Only my son I feared;For I doubt the sapling courage   That goes without the beard.But now in vain is the torture,   Fire shall never avail:Here dies in my bosom   The secret of Heather Ale.â€
Thursday, February 13, 2020
Rhetorical Artifact Term Paper Essay Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 2000 words - 1
Rhetorical Artifact Term Paper - Essay Example This advertisement is directed by Lauren Greenfield, a documentary photographer, filmmaker, and artist and it aims to stop the use of like a girl phrase as an insult to women. Its purpose is to empower girls at their young age to avoid self esteem deterioration and build self confidence in their puberty stage. The target audience, men, teenage girls, young boys and girls are important as it shows that the advertisement is geared towards self conscious girls who care about what girls are like. The commercial focuses on the difference of understanding of the phrase like a girl to men, teen girls, young boys and girls. The young girls under ten do not see this phrase as an insult since they have not been exposed to stereotypes and sexism that surrounds women. One little girl even says â€Å"I do not know if it is good or bad but it sounds like a bad thing, like you are trying to humiliate someone.†The advertisement is an artefact, a cultural product in itself. This advertisement concentrates on one of the things that almost everyone has undergone; You throw like a girl or you run like girl! These words were thrown at us by classmates or even parents to their children. In this advertisement strong emotional appeals are used to empower girls to show them by showing that this phrase is not negative but instead show them how it is amazing to be a girl; strong tough and passionate. Since Always produces menstrual products for girls and young women their primary message is directed to this group of audience. By showing young women in their ad, and younger girls they have made the advertisement relatable to the audience. It is easy to imagine oneself , friend, daughter, or sister in the same position as the girls in the advertisement video. This advertisement is aimed at marketing towards the parents of the young girls since they are interested in their daughters’ happiness, seeing then self confident and
Saturday, February 1, 2020
Renewable versus Non Renewable Sources of Energy Coursework - 2
Renewable versus Non Renewable Sources of Energy - Coursework Example The researcher states that we want a life of comfort and ease for our citizens and as little a percentage of our population under the poverty line as possible. Economic development of nations has only been possible when one converts from an agrarian to an industrial nation. But doing so also requires making more and more use of the Earth’s resources. In fact, we are stripping the Earth of its natural resources at three times the rate of its replenishment. The consequences are disastrous and it is estimated that we shall run out of the available supply in the next 50 years or so. That is why it is necessary to both conserve our present resources of fuel and other natural resources as well as make as small a carbon footprint as possible. This is the only way that we can ensure that the present resources last for our next generation and beyond. Energy can be classified into two types- renewable and nonrenewable. Renewable energy includes the natural resources that are in abundant supply like the sun, the oceans and the wind from which we can get solar, water and wind power. Nonrenewable sources of energy are those like the fossil fuels the world is consuming at a hectic pace. These nonrenewable sources also power most of the world’s machinery and power plants, especially in developing nations that do not have the means to use better and cleaner fuels and technology. It is no wonder that as we run out of these non-renewable sources of energy, they are going to cost more too. The best alternative is to switch to one or other source of renewable energy as soon as possible. In this regard, each and every member of our society and our neighborhood can play an effective role in conserving and helping the environment. One thing is to be aware of the many ways in which we are wasting the available resources. (1)Switching off all lights and fans that are not being used; (2) turning off the tap water as soon as we have finished, and (3) using a carpool or publ ic transport to commute to and from work rather than our own vehicles will result in less energy being demanded and used. We should adopt conservatism rather than consumerism as a way of life.
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