"Ring around the Rosie
rag-tag band of posers....
we're all in the band!"
"Laughing and dancing we sang at the top of our lungs. Rosie and the Posers picked up the tempo and accompanied our wild antics. It was quite a show on the street with dancers of the best kind; children full of the joy of music."
That's one of my mom's favorite memories only she can't remember all the words they sang. She thinks one of the Poser's had taught them the song when they stopped to listen to the music outside a lonely theater. It goes to the tune of "Ring Around the Rosy" and I'd love to teach my children a new version, antics and all. My mom seems to think that there were several verses.
Submitted by Emily Dante
Monday, June 16, 2008
The Diary of William P
Excerpts from the Diary of William P______, a poser, c. 1770
Wednesday Left London and its liquidity behind us as we pursued a still more watery course westward. The Thames is not lovely this time of year, and the damp air does our instruments no good. Picked up a poor girl on Mon. who lost a husband and a baby within two days. We heard her in an alley singing lullabies like an angel over her dead child. Persuaded her to let us bury it and to come along. She cries mostly but Rosie has taken her under her wing. John needs his drum reheaded; a squirrel attacked it in the night. Can't fault the thing for its taste though— of all our instruments that was the one that needed consuming!
Friday Rain. Of course. And fog. Is art worth it?
Saturday It is. We were welcomed to an inn this evening and played for hours. People danced, and then listened spellbound to Rosie and her cello as they soloed through Gregory's March of Crey-morgan. Gregory sat in a corner and beamed, ink spots on his fingers. Where does he get the paper? Our little London widow, Emma, sang, something Gaelic and barbaric, but I must admit to being rather more swept away by it than not. I wonder where she learned it? Her speech is broader than Andrew's, not a hint of the west or the north about it. All night we were studied by a quiet man in a corner with a terrific nose and a pointed chin. I take no liberties. It is a description straight from fiction, but it is just. Must be well off— bought us all supper.
Tuesday Gregory's been inspired to write ballads for Emma. We've heard nothing but laments and glorious charges for days. We would all grow weary of his macabre explosions if they weren't so brilliant. As it is we bad-temperedly approve. It's the rain. Shared our supper with approx. 14 children this evening. Found them huddled under a bridge in a slough. Afraid they're all pick-pockets and thieves, but John insists that is why we should give to them— so they are not tempted to take. There is some logic there. Snapped my e string today. Don't know where I shall get another.
Thursday Yesterday was a remarkable day. Met the hawk-nosed stranger of Saturday last as we trudged along the riverbank. Apparently he is the Granville Sharp much talked about recently regarding the slavery case of the African Jonathan Strong. Followed it a little in the papers. His family lives on a barge in the river and they are all musical. Astonishing thing! The man can play two flutes at once! His niece told us so— this was after he brought us aboard— but we would none of us believe it till shy Emma asked him to demonstrate. It seems the girl has a love for flutes and we do not have one in our little band of posers. He played for her and a more fantastic thing I have never heard or seen. But more wonders were to come. After feeding us (and the five ragamuffins that still clung to our coattails after yesterday), he casually mentioned that he had some people for whom he would like us to play, if we could see our way clear. Several hours later and after dusk we docked in a falling-down river town with no name. With hats low and cloaks high we followed him through foul and narrow streets, for all the world like a clandestine band of brigands bent on mischief. What silhouettes we must have cut with our misshapen globs of instruments tacked about us here and there! But we arrived at last. It was a stable, I think, with four drafty walls, two of which were only half walls. Huddled on the floor and chained to posts were about twenty black Africans. I confess we all stopped in our muddy tracks but Mr S. went in among them and touched them and talked to them, though they clearly did not understand the words. Suddenly there was a light and some stiff cursing and an uncouth man in shirtsleeves and a rank beard appeared out of the darkness. We discovered as Mr S. talked civilly to him that he was the local law, and these slaves were in his custody till their master arrived in the morning to claim them. Mr S. said he was well-aware of the particulars, and wanted only to play a little music for their relief since it might be a language they understood. I doubt the profane man understood Mr S.'s point or his kindness, and for a long moment we were all sure our coming had been in vain. But at last he wavered (mostly, I believe, because he was cold and objecting would have meant more time away from his bed), gave us rough permission and stomped off. The cold was no little factor. All of our instruments gave voice to unholy cracks and squeals, but assuming the Africans had never heard them played aright, how could we fail? It was only after we had played an hour that we began to suspect our reasons for being there had not been foreseen in their entirety even by Mr S. On a sudden, one of the African women whom I had not observed closely, for she was deep in shadow, let our a sharp, bitten off cry. Several of the other women tried to reach her but the chains allowed only one to touch her hand. Rosie ceased her playing at once and hurried to her. The woman was in the midst of childbirth! She did her best to muffle her own cries, but we knew that it was only a matter of time before the Local Law would hear and arrive to beat her and evict us. Mr S. looked almost at a loss, but with one accord Emma, Betsy, Clara and Susan laid aside their instruments and joined Rosie with the woman. With the same accord, we remaining players grouped ourselves before the door and began to play— and sing— badly I'm afraid— to drown out the sound of life so that death could not hear. It was glorious! I am not given to vaunted prose, but it was glorious. I can only imagine how quickly the child would have come if the mother had not been confined to lying on her back, and had it not been freezing weather. As it was we only played for two hours before a new bellow threw off John's beat. We did not pause, though we were terribly tempted. We could only watch as the last drama unfolded. The woman wept with joy and with pain and with something else I could not name. She held her son, and suckled him, stroked his hair, black and short like hers, and crooned a wordless tune we could not hear. And then she lifted him up to Rosie as if for a blessing— and would not take him back. She turned her face to the wall and wept but no matter how the women pleaded with her she would not receive him again. Finally Mr S. led Rosie aside. I could just hear him over the din we still faithfully pumped from our chattering instruments. “She does not want for her son what the world has for her. Twenty came into this shelter. Let twenty be found in the morning. Take him out with your instruments— I will find a place for him.” And then Emma was standing by Rosie's side with her arms out. She took the child and looked long in his face. Then she threw her cloak over them both and sitting by the side of his mother she nursed him. I do confess that even the men among us shed tears at that point. And they were not all dry by the time we put away our instruments and crept out into the early dawn. Mr S. led us back through the town and onto the barge and away carrying stolen freedom with us. I do not doubt he put a great deal of coin in to Emma's hand before we parted, but it was not essential. By then that child was as much Emma's as he had been his mother's. I shall not forget that night.
Saturday Rain still. But Emma sings constantly and we do not notice the weather much. Mr S. gave John a handsome skin for a new drum head. And as we were leaving he handed me an e string. Had squirrel for supper.
Submitted by Jessie MacInnis
Wednesday Left London and its liquidity behind us as we pursued a still more watery course westward. The Thames is not lovely this time of year, and the damp air does our instruments no good. Picked up a poor girl on Mon. who lost a husband and a baby within two days. We heard her in an alley singing lullabies like an angel over her dead child. Persuaded her to let us bury it and to come along. She cries mostly but Rosie has taken her under her wing. John needs his drum reheaded; a squirrel attacked it in the night. Can't fault the thing for its taste though— of all our instruments that was the one that needed consuming!
Friday Rain. Of course. And fog. Is art worth it?
Saturday It is. We were welcomed to an inn this evening and played for hours. People danced, and then listened spellbound to Rosie and her cello as they soloed through Gregory's March of Crey-morgan. Gregory sat in a corner and beamed, ink spots on his fingers. Where does he get the paper? Our little London widow, Emma, sang, something Gaelic and barbaric, but I must admit to being rather more swept away by it than not. I wonder where she learned it? Her speech is broader than Andrew's, not a hint of the west or the north about it. All night we were studied by a quiet man in a corner with a terrific nose and a pointed chin. I take no liberties. It is a description straight from fiction, but it is just. Must be well off— bought us all supper.
Tuesday Gregory's been inspired to write ballads for Emma. We've heard nothing but laments and glorious charges for days. We would all grow weary of his macabre explosions if they weren't so brilliant. As it is we bad-temperedly approve. It's the rain. Shared our supper with approx. 14 children this evening. Found them huddled under a bridge in a slough. Afraid they're all pick-pockets and thieves, but John insists that is why we should give to them— so they are not tempted to take. There is some logic there. Snapped my e string today. Don't know where I shall get another.
Thursday Yesterday was a remarkable day. Met the hawk-nosed stranger of Saturday last as we trudged along the riverbank. Apparently he is the Granville Sharp much talked about recently regarding the slavery case of the African Jonathan Strong. Followed it a little in the papers. His family lives on a barge in the river and they are all musical. Astonishing thing! The man can play two flutes at once! His niece told us so— this was after he brought us aboard— but we would none of us believe it till shy Emma asked him to demonstrate. It seems the girl has a love for flutes and we do not have one in our little band of posers. He played for her and a more fantastic thing I have never heard or seen. But more wonders were to come. After feeding us (and the five ragamuffins that still clung to our coattails after yesterday), he casually mentioned that he had some people for whom he would like us to play, if we could see our way clear. Several hours later and after dusk we docked in a falling-down river town with no name. With hats low and cloaks high we followed him through foul and narrow streets, for all the world like a clandestine band of brigands bent on mischief. What silhouettes we must have cut with our misshapen globs of instruments tacked about us here and there! But we arrived at last. It was a stable, I think, with four drafty walls, two of which were only half walls. Huddled on the floor and chained to posts were about twenty black Africans. I confess we all stopped in our muddy tracks but Mr S. went in among them and touched them and talked to them, though they clearly did not understand the words. Suddenly there was a light and some stiff cursing and an uncouth man in shirtsleeves and a rank beard appeared out of the darkness. We discovered as Mr S. talked civilly to him that he was the local law, and these slaves were in his custody till their master arrived in the morning to claim them. Mr S. said he was well-aware of the particulars, and wanted only to play a little music for their relief since it might be a language they understood. I doubt the profane man understood Mr S.'s point or his kindness, and for a long moment we were all sure our coming had been in vain. But at last he wavered (mostly, I believe, because he was cold and objecting would have meant more time away from his bed), gave us rough permission and stomped off. The cold was no little factor. All of our instruments gave voice to unholy cracks and squeals, but assuming the Africans had never heard them played aright, how could we fail? It was only after we had played an hour that we began to suspect our reasons for being there had not been foreseen in their entirety even by Mr S. On a sudden, one of the African women whom I had not observed closely, for she was deep in shadow, let our a sharp, bitten off cry. Several of the other women tried to reach her but the chains allowed only one to touch her hand. Rosie ceased her playing at once and hurried to her. The woman was in the midst of childbirth! She did her best to muffle her own cries, but we knew that it was only a matter of time before the Local Law would hear and arrive to beat her and evict us. Mr S. looked almost at a loss, but with one accord Emma, Betsy, Clara and Susan laid aside their instruments and joined Rosie with the woman. With the same accord, we remaining players grouped ourselves before the door and began to play— and sing— badly I'm afraid— to drown out the sound of life so that death could not hear. It was glorious! I am not given to vaunted prose, but it was glorious. I can only imagine how quickly the child would have come if the mother had not been confined to lying on her back, and had it not been freezing weather. As it was we only played for two hours before a new bellow threw off John's beat. We did not pause, though we were terribly tempted. We could only watch as the last drama unfolded. The woman wept with joy and with pain and with something else I could not name. She held her son, and suckled him, stroked his hair, black and short like hers, and crooned a wordless tune we could not hear. And then she lifted him up to Rosie as if for a blessing— and would not take him back. She turned her face to the wall and wept but no matter how the women pleaded with her she would not receive him again. Finally Mr S. led Rosie aside. I could just hear him over the din we still faithfully pumped from our chattering instruments. “She does not want for her son what the world has for her. Twenty came into this shelter. Let twenty be found in the morning. Take him out with your instruments— I will find a place for him.” And then Emma was standing by Rosie's side with her arms out. She took the child and looked long in his face. Then she threw her cloak over them both and sitting by the side of his mother she nursed him. I do confess that even the men among us shed tears at that point. And they were not all dry by the time we put away our instruments and crept out into the early dawn. Mr S. led us back through the town and onto the barge and away carrying stolen freedom with us. I do not doubt he put a great deal of coin in to Emma's hand before we parted, but it was not essential. By then that child was as much Emma's as he had been his mother's. I shall not forget that night.
Saturday Rain still. But Emma sings constantly and we do not notice the weather much. Mr S. gave John a handsome skin for a new drum head. And as we were leaving he handed me an e string. Had squirrel for supper.
Submitted by Jessie MacInnis
The Story of Rosie and the Posers
Once upon a time there was a lonely cellist. Her name was Rosie, but they never called her that. No concert hall would host her, no second-rate playhouse stage would requite her, not even a fairly swanky restaurant would give her succor. No, they called her "Poser!" and threw fish at her as she walked past, lugging her cello in lonely ignominy.One might be tempted to think, based upon these systematic rejections, that Rosie was a poor cellist. Well, she was a poor cellist, if you were to go by the rents in her pockets, the stitches in her cloak and the holes in her heart. But if you were to go by the nimbleness of her fingers, the tilt of her head, and the shining mass of sienna-colored notes that wafted from her cello, you might think again.No, Rosie was not a poor cellist. She was simply chronologically challenged. Everywhere she went she found she was one note ahead of the pack. No one wanted her music— till the week after she'd left and the musical opportunist who followed in her wake had a chance to polish it up and present it as his own gleaming chestnut.Just when the rabble began to rally round, she never could remember. But suddenly there was a violinist at her elbow who hadn't been there before. Robin fiddled quite well, never claiming to be a genius, but was certainly no hack. Then came Evelyn, who truly was a hack, but a hack with such flair that no one noticed the rough notes tripping from her lute. John appeared somewhere between Brussels and Madrid, joining the minstrels-in-search-of-a-stage, bringing an offering of scores and scores of scores, composed out of his own brain, written by hand, and lovingly packed between his feet and the gaps in his shoes. Perhaps they were penniless because they gave away most of what they earned to those less fortunate than they (though it is hard to imagine anything less fortunate than a songbird muzzled as it threshes out the wheat from the chaff), but if they lacked pennies it was a poverty much less stinging than that poverty of understanding which kept them from an audience's esteem. One by one the Posers (for so they had come to be called by those who acknowledged their existence at all) drifted in and drifted out, always yearning for that stage, for that one big chance to show their stuff, humble stuff though it was. Across the years they traveled, halted occasionally by brief promises of glory, nefarious managers, brushes with greatness, the promise of "Reality At Last!" But still they searched. Rosie herself fell by the wayside and was replaced by another Rosie with another cello. Robin faded away and was replaced by another Robin, this one a better-than-average violinist who's claim to fame was that Schubert once said he liked to hear him whistle. Evelyn the Hack was replaced by Evelyn the Pretender, a girl who flouted her way through flute pieces with such charm and dexterity that no one would have guessed she couldn't read a note of music. John eventually scored his scores over on a traveling salesman and retired into friendly, better-paying obscurity to be replaced by Joanna who tried to bring gypsy music to the masses and was mostly stoned for her pains. Each left a fingerprint as they wove in and out, blues travelers and polka dots on the vast canvas of musical history. Yet it was a print that remained invisible unless you just glimpsed it from the corner of your eye; rests at the beginning of a measure.But out of the mists around the rabble began to grow a legend.......a legend, or a prophecy, no one knew which. Someday the veil of their ephemeral existence upon the fringe of Reality would be torn asunder. One would rise from the Emerald Isle to lead the downtrodden and marginalized Siblinghood of Posers into the light, spilling it upon all those who aspired to more than the school stage, more than the fireside, more than silent journals full of brilliant poetry unheard by eager ear, light full, pressed down and running over, with plenty to spare for those who had nothing at all. Not even music.But the time has come. The promised one from the Isle of Musical Dreams has arisen and the Posers are composing themselves from among the ashes of deluded hopes, bringing music to the masses by bringing the masses to the music. Everyone will join the band and together they will usher in the music the world has never heard.This is their hour. This is their stage.
Submitted by Jessie MacInnis
Submitted by Jessie MacInnis
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