Do heathcliff and riff raff ever meet again lyrics

Heathcliff's Catillac Jam (Heathcliff Home Video) | Scratchpad | FANDOM powered by Wikia

do heathcliff and riff raff ever meet again lyrics

It features the voices of Frank Welker as Heathcliff, Tom Kenny as Riff Raff, Carlin, Alec Baldwin and Michael Brandon) for their biggest school jam ever. Leroy: And we know what we're gonna do today! . Kassie, Prudence and Penny : (singing the rest of the lyrics) Ooohhh, but my .. Cilan: Wait wait say that again ?. I don't know of any other Riff Raff and it's the weirdest thread ever. my coworker doubted any more recommendations from me ever again. Heathcliff > Garfield I wake up this morning, find this, and feel an odd sense of incredible .. Riff raff and his lyrics became a normal thing to hear for my tank crew. Kid's of today and yesterday will find Heathcliff and the Riff Raff Gangs escapades quite enjoyable and funny! Oh yeah they even include the pet tips on this.

Because Riff-Raff is still a homeless, low class tomcat. It doesn't matter if he's supposed to be the cool guy. How is Wordsworth The Smart Guy? Because you need a lot of intellect to rhyme on a dime, all of the time. Besides, he's named after Wordsworth the poet. There were also a few episodes where he seemed to be the inventor or mechanic of the group.

What's up with Hector trying to romance Cleo in the end credits? Even as a kid, I find it awkward since he and Riff Raff are pals. In the fifteenth century, however, the wild landscape was broken suddenly and very strangely by vast piles of brand-new masonry. There rose out of the sandhills and heaths of the Norfolk coast a huge bulk of stone, like a modern hotel in a watering-place; but there was no parade, no lodging-houses, and no pier at Yarmouth then, and this gigantic building on the outskirts of the town was built to house one solitary old gentleman without any children — Sir John Fastolf, who had fought at Agincourt and acquired great wealth.

He had fought at Agincourt and got but little reward. No one took his advice. Men spoke ill of him behind his back. He was well aware of it; his temper was none the sweeter for that. He was a hot-tempered old man, powerful, embittered by a sense of grievance. The gigantic structure of Caister Castle was in progress not so many miles away when the little Pastons were children. John Paston, the father, had charge of some part of the business, and the children listened, as soon as they could listen at all, to talk of stone and building, of barges gone to London and not yet returned, of the twenty-six private chambers, of the hall and chapel; of foundations, measurements, and rascally work-people.

Later, inwhen the work was finished and Sir John had come to spend his last years at Caister, they may have seen for themselves the mass of treasure that was stored there; the tables laden with gold and silver plate; the wardrobes stuffed with gowns of velvet and satin and cloth of gold, with hoods and tippets and beaver hats and leather jackets and velvet doublets; and how the very pillow-cases on the beds were of green and purple silk.

There were tapestries everywhere. Such were the fruits of a well-spent life. To buy land, to build great houses, to stuff these houses full of gold and silver plate though the privy might well be in the bedroomwas the proper aim of mankind. Paston spent the greater part of their energies in the same exhausting occupation. The Duke of Norfolk might covet this manor, the Duke of Suffolk that.

And how could the owner of Paston and Mauteby and Drayton and Gresham be in five or six places at once, especially now that Caister Castle was his, and he must be in London trying to get his rights recognised by the King? The King was mad too, they said; did not know his own child, they said; or the King was in flight; or there was civil war in the land. Norfolk was always the most distressed of counties and its country gentlemen the most quarrelsome of mankind.

Paston chosen, she could have told her children how when she was a young woman a thousand men with bows and arrows and pans of burning fire had marched upon Gresham and broken the gates and mined the walls of the room where she sat alone. But much worse things than that had happened to women.

She neither bewailed her lot nor thought herself a heroine. The long, long letters which she wrote so laboriously in her clear cramped hand to her husband, who was as usual away, make no mention of herself.

The sheep had wasted the hay. A dyke had been broken and a bullock stolen. They needed treacle badly, and really she must have stuff for a dress. Paston did not talk about herself.

Thus the little Pastons would see their mother writing or dictating page after page, hour after hour, long long letters, but to interrupt a parent who writes so laboriously of such important matters would have been a sin. The prattle of children, the lore of the nursery or schoolroom, did not find its way into these elaborate communications.

For the most part her letters are the letters of an honest bailiff to his master, explaining, asking advice, giving news, rendering accounts. There was robbery and manslaughter; it was difficult to get in the rents; Richard Calle had gathered but little money; and what with one thing and another Margaret had not had time to make out, as she should have done, the inventory of the goods which her husband desired.

This world is but a thoroughfare, and full of woe; and when we depart therefrom, right nought bear with us but our good deeds and ill. The soul was no wisp of air, but a solid body capable of eternal suffering, and the fire that destroyed it was as fierce as any that burnt on mortal grates.

For ever there would be monks and the town of Norwich, and for ever the Chapel of Our Lady in the town of Norwich. There was something matter-of-fact, positive, and enduring in their conception both of life and of death. With the plan of existence so vigorously marked out, children of course were well beaten, and boys and girls taught to know their places.

They must acquire land; but they must obey their parents. Agnes Paston, a lady of birth and breeding, beat her daughter Elizabeth.

Margaret Paston, a softer-hearted woman, turned her daughter out of the house for loving the honest bailiff Richard Calle. The fathers quarrelled with the sons, and the mothers, fonder of their boys than of their girls, yet bound by all law and custom to obey their husbands, were torn asunder in their efforts to keep the peace. With all her pains, Margaret failed to prevent rash acts on the part of her eldest son John, or the bitter words with which his father denounced him.

He treated his parents with insolence, and yet was fit for no charge of responsibility abroad. But the quarrel was ended, very shortly, by the death 22nd May of John Paston, the father, in London. The body was brought down to Bromholm to be buried.

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Twelve poor men trudged all the way bearing torches beside it. Alms were distributed; masses and dirges were said. Great quantities of fowls, sheep, pigs, eggs, bread, and cream were devoured, ale and wine drunk, and candles burnt. Two panes were taken from the church windows to let out the reek of the torches. Black cloth was distributed, and a light set burning on the grave.

He was a young man, something over twenty-four years of age. The discipline and the drudgery of a country life bored him. Whatever doubts, indeed, might be cast by their enemies on the blood of the Pastons, Sir John was unmistakably a gentleman. He had inherited his lands; the honey was his that the bees had gathered with so much labour.

Yet his own indolent and luxurious temperament took the edge from both. He was attractive to women, liked society and tournaments, and court life and making bets, and sometimes, even, reading books. And so life now that John Paston was buried started afresh upon rather a different foundation. There could be little outward change indeed. Margaret still ruled the house. She still ordered the lives of the younger children as she had ordered the lives of the elder.

The boys still needed to be beaten into book-learning by their tutors, the girls still loved the wrong men and must be married to the right. Rents had to be collected; the interminable lawsuit for the Fastolf property dragged on.

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Battles were fought; the roses of York and Lancaster alternately faded and flourished. Norfolk was full of poor people seeking redress for their grievances, and Margaret worked for her son as she had worked for her husband, with this significant change only, that now, instead of confiding in her husband, she took the advice of her priest.

But inwardly there was a change. It seems at last as if the hard outer shell had served its purpose and something sensitive, appreciative, and pleasure-loving had formed within.

At any rate Sir John, writing to his brother John at home, strayed sometimes from the business on hand to crack a joke, to send a piece of gossip, or to instruct him, knowingly and even subtly, upon the conduct of a love affair. And I shall always be your herald both here, if she come hither, and at home, when I come home, which I hope hastily within XI. But still Sir John delayed; no tomb replaced them. He had his excuses; what with the business of the lawsuit, and his duties at Court, and the disturbance of the civil wars, his time was occupied and his money spent.

do heathcliff and riff raff ever meet again lyrics

But perhaps something strange had happened to Sir John himself, and not only to Sir John dallying in London, but to his sister Margery falling in love with the bailiff, and to Walter making Latin verses at Eton, and to John flying his hawks at Paston. Life was a little more various in its pleasures.

They were not quite so sure as the elder generation had been of the rights of man and of the dues of God, of the horrors of death, and of the importance of tombstones.

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Poor Margaret Paston scented the change and sought uneasily, with the pen which had marched so stiffly through so many pages, to lay bare the root of her troubles. Perhaps her son had failed in his service to God; he had been too proud or too lavish in his expenditure; or perhaps he had shown too little mercy to the poor.

The money that might have bought it, or more land, and more goblets and more tapestry, was spent by Sir John on clocks and trinkets, and upon paying a clerk to copy out Treatises upon Knighthood and other such stuff. There they stood at Paston — eleven volumes, with the poems of Lydgate and Chaucer among them, diffusing a strange air into the gaunt, comfortless house, inviting men to indolence and vanity, distracting their thoughts from business, and leading them not only to neglect their own profit but to think lightly of the sacred dues of the dead.

For sometimes, instead of riding off on his horse to inspect his crops or bargain with his tenants, Sir John would sit, in broad daylight, reading. There, on the hard chair in the comfortless room with the wind lifting the carpet and the smoke stinging his eyes, he would sit reading Chaucer, wasting his time, dreaming — or what strange intoxication was it that he drew from books? Life was rough, cheerless, and disappointing.

A whole year of days would pass fruitlessly in dreary business, like dashes of rain on the window-pane. And then as he rode or sat at table he would remember some description or saying which bore upon the present moment and fixed it, or some string of words would charm him, and putting aside the pressure of the moment, he would hasten home to sit in his chair and learn the end of the story. To learn the end of the story — Chaucer can still make us wish to do that.

Nothing happens to us as it did to our ancestors; events are seldom important; if we recount them, we do not really believe in them; we have perhaps things of greater interest to say, and for these reasons natural story-tellers like Mr. Garnett, whom we must distinguish from self-conscious storytellers like Mr. Masefield, have become rare. For the story-teller, besides his indescribable zest for facts, must tell his story craftily, without undue stress or excitement, or we shall swallow it whole and jumble the parts together; he must let us stop, give us time to think and look about us, yet always be persuading us to move on.

Chaucer was helped to this to some extent by the time of his birth; and in addition he had another advantage over the moderns which will never come the way of English poets again. England was an unspoilt country. His eyes rested on a virgin land, all unbroken grass and wood except for the small towns and an occasional castle in the building.

No villa roofs peered through Kentish tree-tops; no factory chimney smoked on the hill-side. The state of the country, considering how poets go to Nature, how they use her for their images and their contrasts even when they do not describe her directly, is a matter of some importance.

Her cultivation or her savagery influences the poet far more profoundly than the prose writer. To the modern poet, with Birmingham, Manchester, and London the size they are, the country is the sanctuary of moral excellence in contrast with the town which is the sink of vice. It is a retreat, the haunt of modesty and virtue, where men go to hide and moralise. There is something morbid, as if shrinking from human contact, in the nature worship of Wordsworth, still more in the microscopic devotion which Tennyson lavished upon the petals of roses and the buds of lime trees.

But these were great poets. The wider landscape is lost. But to Chaucer the country was too large and too wild to be altogether agreeable. He turned instinctively, as if he had painful experience of their nature, from tempests and rocks to the bright May day and the jocund landscape, from the harsh and mysterious to the gay and definite.

Without possessing a tithe of the virtuosity in word-painting which is the modern inheritance, he could give, in a few words, or even, when we come to look, without a single word of direct description, the sense of the open air. And se the fresshe floures how they sprynge — that is enough.

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Nature, uncompromising, untamed, was no looking-glass for happy faces, or confessor of unhappy souls. Soon, however, we notice something of greater importance than the gay and picturesque appearance of the mediaeval world — the solidity which plumps it out, the conviction which animates the characters.

There is immense variety in the Canterbury Tales, and yet, persisting underneath, one consistent type. Chaucer has his world; he has his young men; he has his young women. He wants to describe a girl, and this is what she looks like: Ful semely hir wimpel pinched was, Hir nose tretys; hir eyen greye as glas; Hir mouth ful smal, and ther-to soft and reed; But sikerly she hadde a fair foreheed; It was almost a spanne brood, I trowe; For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe.

Then he goes on to develop her; she was a girl, a virgin, cold in her virginity: I am, thou woost, yet of thy companye, A mayde, and love hunting and venerye, And for to walken in the wodes wilde, And noght to been a wyf and be with childe. Next he bethinks him how Discreet she was in answering alway; And though she had been as wise as Pallas No countrefeted termes hadde she To seme wys; but after hir degree She spak, and alle hir wordes more and lesse Souninge in vertu and in gentillesse.

Each of these quotations, in fact, comes from a different Tale, but they are parts, one feels, of the same personage, whom he had in mind, perhaps unconsciously, when he thought of a young girl, and for this reason, as she goes in and out of the Canterbury Tales bearing different names, she has a stability which is only to be found where the poet has made up his mind about young women, of course, but also about the world they live in, its end, its nature, and his own craft and technique, so that his mind is free to apply its force fully to its object.

It does not occur to him that his Griselda might be improved or altered. There is no blur about her, no hesitation; she proves nothing; she is content to be herself. Upon her, therefore, the mind can rest with that unconscious ease which allows it, from hints and suggestions, to endow her with many more qualities than are actually referred to. Such is the power of conviction, a rare gift, a gift shared in our day by Joseph Conrad in his earlier novels, and a gift of supreme importance, for upon it the whole weight of the building depends.

We know what he finds good, what evil; the less said the better. Let him get on with his story, paint knights and squires, good women and bad, cooks, shipmen, priests, and we will supply the landscape, give his society its belief, its standing towards life and death, and make of the journey to Canterbury a spiritual pilgrimage.

This simple faithfulness to his own conceptions was easier then than now in one respect at least, for Chaucer could write frankly where we must either say nothing or say it slyly. He could sound every note in the language instead of finding a great many of the best gone dumb from disuse, and thus, when struck by daring fingers, giving off a loud discordant jangle out of keeping with the rest.

Much of Chaucer — a few lines perhaps in each of the Tales — is improper and gives us as we read it the strange sensation of being naked to the air after being muffled in old clothing. And, as a certain kind of humour depends upon being able to speak without self-consciousness of the parts and functions of the body, so with the advent of decency literature lost the use of one of its limbs.

Sterne, from fear of coarseness, is forced into indecency. He must be witty, not humorous; he must hint instead of speaking outright.

Nor can we believe, with Mr. When that it remembreth me Up-on my yowthe, and on my Iolitee, It tikleth me aboute myn herte rote. Unto this day it doth myn herte bote That I have had my world as in my tyme. But there is another and more important reason for the surprising brightness, the still effective merriment of the Canterbury Tales. Chaucer was a poet; but he never flinched from the life that was being lived at the moment before his eyes. A farmyard, with its straw, its dung, its cocks and its hens, is not we have come to think a poetic subject; poets seem either to rule out the farmyard entirely or to require that it shall be a farmyard in Thessaly and its pigs of mythological origin.

But Chaucer says outright: Three large sowes hadde she, and namo, Three kyn, and eek a sheep that highte Malle; or again, A yard she hadde, enclosed al aboute With stikkes, and a drye ditch with-oute. He is unabashed and unafraid. If he withdraws to the time of the Greeks or the Romans, it is only that his story leads him there. Therefore when we say that we know the end of the journey, it is hard to quote the particular lines from which we take our knowledge.

Chaucer fixed his eyes upon the road before him, not upon the world to come. He was little given to abstract contemplation. He deprecated, with peculiar archness, any competition with the scholars and divines: The answere of this I lete to divynis, But wel I woot, that in this world grey pyne is.

What is this world? What asketh men to have? Now with his love, now in the colde grave Allone, withouten any companye, O cruel goddes, that governe This world with binding of your worde eterne, And wryten in the table of athamaunt Your parlement, and your eterne graunt, What is mankinde more un-to yow holde Than is the sheepe, that rouketh in the folde?

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Questions press upon him; he asks them, but he is too true a poet to answer them; he leaves them unsolved, uncramped by the solution of the moment, and thus fresh for the generations that come after him. In his life, too, it would be impossible to write him down a man of this party or of that, a democrat or an aristocrat.

He was a staunch churchman, but he laughed at priests. He was an able public servant and a courtier, but his views upon sexual morality were extremely lax. He sympathised with poverty, but did nothing to improve the lot of the poor. It is safe to say that not a single law has been framed or one stone set upon another because of anything that Chaucer said or wrote; and yet, as we read him, we are absorbing morality at every pore.

For among writers there are two kinds: But Chaucer lets us go our ways doing the ordinary things with the ordinary people. His morality lies in the way men and women behave to each other. We see them eating, drinking, laughing, and making love, and come to feel without a word being said what their standards are and so are steeped through and through with their morality. There can be no more forcible preaching than this where all actions and passions are represented, and instead of being solemnly exhorted we are left to stray and stare and make out a meaning for ourselves.

It is the morality of ordinary intercourse, the morality of the novel, which parents and librarians rightly judge to be far more persuasive than the morality of poetry. And so, when we shut Chaucer, we feel that without a word being said the criticism is complete; what we are saying, thinking, reading, doing, has been commented upon.

Nor are we left merely with the sense, powerful though that is, of having been in good company and got used to the ways of good society. After Gordon had been washed and polished, he rushed away to meet the visitors. But a signal diverted Gordon into a siding. He was very upset. I'm going to be late! A huge engine rocketed by. Gordon soon found out. When he arrived at the shed, the huge engine was humming quietly.

He's the fastest engine in the world. But secretly Gordon was impressed. I'm the Duke and Duchess' private engine.

I take them everywhere. There will be a party for the Duke and Duchess at Maron station. That's far away over Gordon's Hill. You'll need to take on plenty of water. I had plenty of water. Weeshed Spencer and he raced away.

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I was only trying to be useful. Spencer showed the Duke and Duchess many beautiful places. But he never won't stop to take on more water. Gordon and Thomas were collecting passengers when Spencer raced through on his way to the party. Don't forget the water! He'll be in trouble soon. He ran out of water on Gordon's Hill.

Why didn't I listen? Sir Topham Hatt soon heard the news. When Gordon arrived, the stationmaster was waiting. You need to rescue Spencer. He's stuck on the hill. Gordon was looking forward to seeing Spencer. Run out of water? I must have a leaky tank. But we better hurry. Gordon switched to Spencer's line and was coupled up. Then they set off. We're right on time.

But Spencer was embarrassed. So what did you think of Spencer now? Too much puff and not enough steam. You are the fastest engine on Sodor. Gordon and Spencer ends Mr. So that's how Gordon met Spencer. Wind It Up from Gwen Stefani! Sung by Glitter Force leader, Emily Anderson!

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Yodelay yodelay yodelay, hey. Wind It Up ends Emily: I did it, I did it, I did it! Breakaway from Kelly Clarkson. Covered by Runo Misaki herself! Everyone claps and cheers as Runo sings Breakaway Runo: