Hi, just call me Pirate. I love the British accent (the popular one on movies and stuff). I want to know how to talk like that and keep it a habit. I want to learn how, but for free. Could anyone give me a link on how to, or any other way to learn how? My e-mail is: mizani_sparrow@yahoo.com. Thanks!
Developing a British Accent
This link is for all the pirates out there....
http://loadingreadyrun.com/showmovie.php?x=480&y=360&url=talklikepirate.mov
( humour is vital! enjoy and have fun! )
http://loadingreadyrun.com/showmovie.php?x=480&y=360&url=talklikepirate.mov
( humour is vital! enjoy and have fun! )
LOL
This is the best shit I havr ever seen. I guess I'm gonna try this one myself.
It's great fun, isn't it?. I mean... ARRR THIS SHIT BE FUN, EERRR!?!
This is the best shit I havr ever seen. I guess I'm gonna try this one myself.
It's great fun, isn't it?. I mean... ARRR THIS SHIT BE FUN, EERRR!?!
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain,
Before high piled books, in charact’ry,
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen’d grain;
When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love!—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain,
Before high piled books, in charact’ry,
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen’d grain;
When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love!—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
Guest,
I don't see what your post has to do with pirates, but I guess Keats is always welcome in any thread, no matter the subject.
I don't see what your post has to do with pirates, but I guess Keats is always welcome in any thread, no matter the subject.
Yes, Keats......poor tragic Keats....born in London.....died in Rome ....all of 25 years of age......I will reach that age next year and I cannot imagine dying at this age, but sadly for him he lived in an age when consumption was rife (or tuberculosis as it was called in those days). Still, he never had to cope with the physical dangers we face today so it's as broad as it's long maybe.
I make no apology for following on from Guest's unexpected post above because I have always found the poems of John Keats to be very moving....the snippet from the poem Guest posted has stuck in my mind ever since college.....***When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face,
huge cloudy symbols of a high romance*** And now we are into autumn some more of his other words are apt......***the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness....***
I just feel in poetic mood this late evening after seeing Guest's post, especially involving a Keats poem/ Whether this post is on-topic or not I don't really know.....the thread heading is "Developing a British Accent", something we've discussed loads of times in here, and I've never been able to understand it fully. If anyone wishes to learn English and to speak it, then surely it's nicer and more natural (well, to British ears like mine anyway) to speak it in your own native accent, whatever that may be. BY all means speak English fluently (and put a good many Brits to shame in the process!) but please.......retain your own local accent at the same time. Don't assume a British accent...leave that sort of thing to us lot.
It's the same old thing most probably...by British accent read "RP English English" accent I reckon, and disregard the host of other accents resounding round these islands. :-)
Anyway, I'm in a Keats mood as I say......if you feel like it just read his words in whatever accent you feel at home with, but if you fancy doing it in any kind of pseudo British accent then go ahead.....no extra charge.
Keats used our Language to perfection...these words express his admiration for a wee bird which comes to Southern England every springtime and from the seclusion of a bramble bush in the English woodlands let's the whole neighbourhood hear his inexpressibly beautiful song, by day or by night. The nightingale....
........My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,--
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain--
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:--Do I wake or sleep?
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I don't think they had International Pirate Weeks in Keat's day...they just had the real thing! :-)
Goodnight from London
I make no apology for following on from Guest's unexpected post above because I have always found the poems of John Keats to be very moving....the snippet from the poem Guest posted has stuck in my mind ever since college.....***When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face,
huge cloudy symbols of a high romance*** And now we are into autumn some more of his other words are apt......***the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness....***
I just feel in poetic mood this late evening after seeing Guest's post, especially involving a Keats poem/ Whether this post is on-topic or not I don't really know.....the thread heading is "Developing a British Accent", something we've discussed loads of times in here, and I've never been able to understand it fully. If anyone wishes to learn English and to speak it, then surely it's nicer and more natural (well, to British ears like mine anyway) to speak it in your own native accent, whatever that may be. BY all means speak English fluently (and put a good many Brits to shame in the process!) but please.......retain your own local accent at the same time. Don't assume a British accent...leave that sort of thing to us lot.
It's the same old thing most probably...by British accent read "RP English English" accent I reckon, and disregard the host of other accents resounding round these islands. :-)
Anyway, I'm in a Keats mood as I say......if you feel like it just read his words in whatever accent you feel at home with, but if you fancy doing it in any kind of pseudo British accent then go ahead.....no extra charge.
Keats used our Language to perfection...these words express his admiration for a wee bird which comes to Southern England every springtime and from the seclusion of a bramble bush in the English woodlands let's the whole neighbourhood hear his inexpressibly beautiful song, by day or by night. The nightingale....
........My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,--
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain--
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:--Do I wake or sleep?
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I don't think they had International Pirate Weeks in Keat's day...they just had the real thing! :-)
Goodnight from London
*** Typo: let's the whole neighbourhood hear his inexpressibly beautiful song.......oops! lets. I'm too knackered to look for any more so make the best of it. Cheers!