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Barb goes BATS

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Barbaria1 said:
@Eulalia, who sat huddled before me, and whose body was swaying rhythmically from side to side, could be heard chanting some kind of unintelligible Gaelic verse.
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My Gaelic verse is impeccably intelligible. It's my English that isn't :p
 
Barbaria1 said:
town thrill seeker and rabble rouser, @ledoux,
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As an expert, let me share my vast knowledge in the art of rousing rabble.

1) Never tell the truth -- it's much too boring.
Check

2) Yell everything at the top of your lungs.
Check

3) This if the most important part -- make sure the average IQ of your rabble is less than 70, with no one above 80.
Check

And that's how I got Eulalia, Barb, Kathy, Messaline, Jackie 1111 and fatslavegirl killed.

:oops:I'm gonna miss Eulalia.
 
Barbaria1 said:
16.

We watched, huddled together on the manicured Vicarage lawn. Before us the flames roared and crackled ravenously as they devoured the stately old tinderbox of a building. From within the inferno the flames leaped in flaring columns, bursting from windows, consuming the timbers supporting the roof, which caved inexorably inward until it collapsed with a thunderous roar. Overhead, low-lying clouds reflected downward the many bright and varied hues of the raging conflagration to illuminate not only we girls, condemned as witches, our two handlers, and the good Vicar, but a rapidly gathering crowd of townsfolk, many in their nightclothes, as well.

The Vicar, @Praefectus Praetorio, was beside himself with grief, wringing his hands and moaning, trancelike and repeatedly, the words, “Hell and Damnation.” Before him on the grass lay a pathetic little pile of framed portraits of his venerable priestly predecessors that he had hurriedly liberated from the advancing flames as we fled the structure.

@Kathy sat next to me, staring in amazement, and seemingly with innocent childish delight, at the burning Vicarage.

@messaline, seated slightly behind me, sniffed dismissively in a bored tone, “Houses in France don’t burn so quickly as many are constructed of French premium wood.”

@Eulalia, who sat huddled before me, and whose body was swaying rhythmically from side to side, could be heard chanting some kind of unintelligible Gaelic verse.

Those three probably are witches, I thought to myself.

Meanwhile the crowd continued to grow. Lord @Wragg and the other Magistrates had appeared as well, and could be seen wading in a phalanx like formation through the gathering throng, headed in our general direction.

“What happened,” demanded Wragg breathlessly on finally reaching our side.

“The vicarage caught fire,” replied @Harsh Martinet.

“It went up in flames,” added @Loxuru helpfully.

“I can see that!” snapped Wragg. “I meant how did it happen?”

“Witchery!” said Martinet, extending a sweeping hand in our direction.

“A Vicarage on fire, a presage most dire,” observed @twonines solemnly.

“The Devil has spoken, the flames be his evil token,” added @montycrusto ominously.

“Hell and Damnation!” cried the Vicar, his voice rising to a fevered pitch.

“What time is it?” groused @old slave sleepily.

“Are there any victims?” wondered Jollyrei, the flames reflecting a certain ghoulish glimmer in his eyes.

“T’was Barbara Moore with the candles in the altar girl’s quarters!” proclaimed Martinet, pointing directly at me.

“It was an accident! I fell!” said I defensively.

“Then it was the Scottish altar girl, Eulalia, and her wicker doll, doing the Devil’s bidding!” concluded Martinet.

All eyes turned to Eulalia who said, “Nae, Yese no ken fra yers head twa thine erse! A’ yese are awfu bambots!” (No. You know not from your head to your arse, All you are awful idiots)

Martinet raised his whip to strike her, but was distracted from doing so by a voice raised above the murmuring of the crowd and the thundering crash of a collapsing vicarage wall.

It was the voice of the town thrill seeker and rabble rouser, @ledoux, who had climbed up on a stone wall and was shouting, “This tragedy… this burning of a house of God, my fiends, is the work of the Devil and we have, right here before us, in these four godless women, a coven of the Devil’s servants! I say, we do something here and now to show Lucifer that the good people of Cruxton town are onto his game. I say we flog these four Devil worshippers and Devil servants within an inch of their lives right here and now … and then hang them from yonder trees! What say you, good citizens of Cruxton?”

“Whip them! Hang them!” came the resounding cry from a hundred or more throats.”

“Oh shit!” I muttered.

“Would that be better than burning?” Kathy wanted to know.

“Let them eat cake,” said Messaline dismissively.

“There’ll be a need for caskets after all,” observed Jollyrei, rubbing both hands together.

“Hell and Damnation!” repeated the Vicar, as though in an endless trance.

“If a hanging it must be, we’d best call for @thehangingtree ,” observed Twonines.

“At hanging he’s said to be the best, but four at once shall be a test,” warned Montycrusto.

“Citizens, citizens, hear me out!” shouted Lord Wragg straining to be heard above the din of a chanting crowd crying, “Hang the witches! Hang the bitches!”

“Hear me out!” he repeated. “This is not how justice works. Mob violence is no substitute for due process. In this town we torture, bring to trial, and convict. Justice shall be served, but not tonight when passions burn, but tomorrow on the agreed date of the semi-annual witch burn.”

“No. We demand justice now,” shouted Ledoux, to a chorus of cheers. “I say hang the witches here and now, and let us not forget the other two in the town gaol! Someone go to the gaol and get @Jackie1111 and @fat slave girl too. We’ll not rest until all six witches are dancing on air from yonder trees!”

With shouts of “huzzah!” a rabble of men broke off from the crowd, headed for the town gaol.

Defeated, Lord Wragg shrugged, and said to Martinet, “Better send for Mr. Tree. I do hope he shan’t be raising his fee.”

“If even old stuffy Lord Wragg can rhyme, we’ll have everyone doing it in time,” chuckled Montycrusto.

“It’s a fine form of speech, to which all ought to reach,” proclaimed Twonines.

“A guid an’ reet corse on awbody,” shouted Eulalia in a shrill voice. (A good and right curse on everyone)

“Hang the witches! Hang the bitches!” cried the madding crowd.

TBC

(and a shout out of thanks to PrPr for help with Eul’s lines … she’ll undoubtedly correct them if we got them wrong)
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"... Lord Wragg straining to be heard above the din of a chanting crowd crying, “Hang the witches! Hang the bitches! ..." - 'Tis truly Panto season, I hear the readers chiming, for now even the estimable Lord Wragg is rhyming! ... Oh yes he is!
 
Brilliant 2 chapters, @Barbaria1 , I think the best by far! Great twist, needed that… and the growing suspicion about @Eulalia - if they haven’t got her in irons yet, she’s free to cause further mischief… Ghod knows no one can understand if she’s just swearing or if she’s casting another witch spell!!

I wonder if she rides a white horse?
 
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Eulalia said:
Och, I anely catcht the tail! :mad:

'Ae spring brought aff her master hale
But left behind her ain grey tail'
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Horses are always problematic:

When I was young I used to wait
On the master and hand him his plate,
And Pass the bottle when he got dry,
And brush away the blue tail fly.

Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
My master's gone away.

And when he ride in the afternoon,
I follow with a hickory broom;
The poney being very shy,
When bitten by the blue tail fly.

Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
My master's gone away.

One day he rode around the farm,
The flies so numerous they did swarm;
One chanced to bite him on the thigh.
The devil take that blue tail fly.

Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
My master's gone away.

The pony run, he jump and pitch,
And tumble mater in the ditch;
He died, and the jury wondered why;
The verdict was the blue tail fly.

Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
My master's gone away.

They buried him 'neath the sycamore tree -
His epitaph there for to see:
"Beneath this stone I'm forced to lie,
The victim of a blue-tailed Fly."
 
Frank Petrexa said:
Horses are always problematic:

When I was young I used to wait
On the master and hand him his plate,
And Pass the bottle when he got dry,
And brush away the blue tail fly.

Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
My master's gone away.

And when he ride in the afternoon,
I follow with a hickory broom;
The poney being very shy,
When bitten by the blue tail fly.

Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
My master's gone away.

One day he rode around the farm,
The flies so numerous they did swarm;
One chanced to bite him on the thigh.
The devil take that blue tail fly.

Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
My master's gone away.

The pony run, he jump and pitch,
And tumble mater in the ditch;
He died, and the jury wondered why;
The verdict was the blue tail fly.

Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
My master's gone away.

They buried him 'neath the sycamore tree -
His epitaph there for to see:
"Beneath this stone I'm forced to lie,
The victim of a blue-tailed Fly."
Click to expand...


A popular American Black minstrel song from the 1840s. The story is that the master went out on a horseback ride and the slave was supposed to follow along and brush away the blue tail flies which bite the horse and cause it to panic. The horse then threw the master into a ditch and he breaks his neck. An investigation follows and the verdict puts the blame on the blue tail fly. The term “Jimmy crack corn and I don’t care,” was slang for sitting around and gossiping without a care.
 
Frank Petrexa said:
Horses are always problematic:

When I was young I used to wait
On the master and hand him his plate,
And Pass the bottle when he got dry,
And brush away the blue tail fly.

Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
My master's gone away.

And when he ride in the afternoon,
I follow with a hickory broom;
The poney being very shy,
When bitten by the blue tail fly.

Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
My master's gone away.

One day he rode around the farm,
The flies so numerous they did swarm;
One chanced to bite him on the thigh.
The devil take that blue tail fly.

Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
My master's gone away.

The pony run, he jump and pitch,
And tumble mater in the ditch;
He died, and the jury wondered why;
The verdict was the blue tail fly.

Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
Jimmy crack corn and I don't care,
My master's gone away.

They buried him 'neath the sycamore tree -
His epitaph there for to see:
"Beneath this stone I'm forced to lie,
The victim of a blue-tailed Fly."
Click to expand...
 
Eulalia said:
'Ae spring brought aff her master hale
But left behind her ain grey tail':sherlock:
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As usual, a post by @Eulalia requires translation.

As you no doubt recall, in post #273, I described how I became an expert in Latin Root Linguistics.

So, here's the translation:

Such wisdom was wrought by her master hale (That would be me)
That she longed for him to flog her tail

That pretty much sum it up, Eul?

See, there's no need to have heard (or even heard of) a language in order to translate it -- as long as you think you know what you're doing.:sherlock:
 
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Barbaria1 said:
A popular American Black minstrel song from the 1840s. The story is that the master went out on a horseback ride and the slave was supposed to follow along and brush away the blue tail flies which bite the horse and cause it to panic. The horse then threw the master into a ditch and he breaks his neck. An investigation follows and the verdict puts the blame on the blue tail fly. The term “Jimmy crack corn and I don’t care,” was slang for sitting around and gossiping without a care.
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Let me say that I know this is a slave song, and there may have been potential for offending people. But I look on this song as fairly subversive. It reminds me of a quote from a black federal soldier I once read, when he saw his old owner as a prisoner of war. "Howdy, Massa. Bottom rail on top now."
 
ledoux said:
As usual, a post by @Eulalia requires translation.

As you no doubt recall, in post #273, I described how I became an expert in Latin Root Linguistics.

So, here's the translation:

Such wisdom was wrought by her master hale (That would be me)
That she longed for him to flog her tail

That pretty much sum it up, Eul?

See, there's no need to have heard (or even heard of) a language in order to translate it -- as long as you think you know what you're doing.:sherlock:
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'One leap brought off her master hale (whole, safe)
But left behind her own grey tail'
(witches cannae cross rinnin water, ye ken ;) )
 
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