Every lover is, in his heart, a madman, and, in his head, a minstrel.
Every lover is, in his heart, a madman, and, in his head, a minstrel.
The only ones who ever come here from your lands are the minstrels, and the lovers, and the mad. And you don't look like much of a minstrel, and you're- pardon me for saying so lad, but it's true- ordinary as cheese crumbs. So it's love if you ask me.
Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land Whose heart hath neer within him burnd, As home his footsteps he hath turnd From wandering on a foreign strand If such there breathe, go mark him well For him no Minstrel raptures swell High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonord, and unsung.
For oft I read within my nook
Such minstrel stories; till the breeze
Made sounds poetic in the trees,
And then I shut the book.
I extract what I consider the best material from different sources. But often the material I perform comes from a very strange location in history, which are minstrel shows.
I live again the days and evenings of my long career. I dream at night of operas and concerts in which I have had my share of success. Now like the old Irish minstrel, I have hung up my harp because my songs are all sung.
MINSTREL, adj. Formerly a poet, singer or musician now a nigger with a color less than skin deep and a humor more than flesh and blood can bear.
Sweet Mercy to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.
I was a minstrel, out of work, when the Lord took me into His service. To sing His Praises day and night, He gave me His Order, right from the start.
The Lord called His minstrel in, and asked, Why have you come here O Merciful God, please grant me the gift of continual meditation on the Lord's Name. And so the Lord, the Great Giver, inspired Nanak to chant the Lord's Name, and blessed him with robes of honor.
The way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old His withered cheek, and tresses gray, Seemed to have know a better day.
My Lord and Master has summoned me, His minstrel, to the True Mansion of His Presence. He has dressed me in the robes of His True Praise and Glory.
Ethereal minstrel pilgrim of the sky; Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound.
One who believes in the Name of the Infinite Lord, attains the Court of the Lord. I humbly bow to the Creator Lord I am a minstrel singing His Praises.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories