headlong (English) — in a rush; with reckless haste; carelessly
"headlong" in lyrics
Both of us lay the most appealing goods on the balcony
Headlong rushes and sundry inconveniences,
We are animals sensitive to scent
And we are humans in search of love...
Pulls his broadsword from his girdle,
From its sheath, the bone-divider,
Strikes with might of magic hero,
Headlong falls into the water;
And the blacksmith, Ilmarinen,
Lifts the wizard from the river,
Honey you're starting something deep inside of me
Honey you're sparking something this fire in me
I'm outta control
I wanna rush headlong into this ecstasy
If I could only reach you
If I could make you smile
I see the girl I wanna be
Riding bare back, care free along the shore
If only that someone was me
Jumping head first headlong without a thought
To act and damn the consequence
How I wish it could be that easy
You and I represent mankind in the face of the Lord
But still, I've suffered from all our differences since kindergarten
I've long thought that hating you would make me stronger
I've rushed headlong into a war where death was awaiting me
But you know, I'm feeling so remorse when I see race conflicts
I say no to whatever could leads us to fight
I daydream of living at your side for the rest of my life.
And such was the shock, that Rosa Maria stood without speaking
And Chico nevertheless fled headlong with blushing face
And nobody thought that Rosa accepted to get engaged to the lad
And contrary to expectations the marriage was arranged for May
I'm sure I had found a moment so alive
How did I get here?
Where am I going?
I'm running headlong down this long road
As I look back, there's a great deal of love there
I felt it every time I encountered each heart
Two are located at the front of the cockpit
The other two are located at the rear of the cockpit
For your safety, a package of party balloons is available directly underneath your seats
So, in case we plummet headlong into the raging surf below,
Simply blow up your balloon,
Tie them with strings,
And wave upon wave goes racing,
And hour after hour is chasing.
His courage he seizes, his fear makes him go
And headlong he dives in the thundering flow
And cleaves, in a powerful fashion,
The flood, and a god has compassion.
She gits way back, takes a little runnin' start
Gonna shove her old man in;
Old man jumps just a little to one side
And a-headlong she jumps in.
She whoops and she hollersAlan Lomax - The Rich Old Lady
Is truth so pure that you're willing to risk it all?
Pious eyes ignoring passers by
Headlong to their grave
Don't despair this world of toil and care.
This pilgrim lost his way
Great wits jump. The very same idea had not long before struck the celestial intellect of China. Amongst the presents carried out by our first embassy to that country was a state-coach. It had been specially selected as a personal gift by George III.; but the exact mode of using it was a mystery to Pekin. The ambassador, indeed, (Lord Macartney,) had made some dim and imperfect explanations upon the point; but as his excellency communicated these in a diplomatic whisper, at the very moment of his departure, the celestial mind was very feebly illuminated; and it became necessary to call a cabinet council on the grand state question--"Where was the emperor to sit?" The hammer-cloth happened to be unusually gorgeous; and partly on that consideration, but partly also because the box offered the most elevated seat, and undeniably went foremost, it was resolved by acclamation that the box was the imperial place, and, _for the scoundrel who drove, he might sit where he could find a perch_. The horses, therefore, being harnessed, under a flourish of music and a salute of guns, solemnly his imperial majesty ascended his new English throne, having the first lord of the treasury on his right hand, and the chief jester on his left. Pekin gloried in the spectacle; and in the whole flowery people, constructively present by representation, there was but one discontented person, which was the coachman. This mutinous individual, looking as blackhearted as he really was, audaciously shouted, "Where am _I_ to sit?" But the privy council, incensed by his disloyalty, unanimously opened the door, and kicked him into the inside. He had all the inside places to himself; but such is the rapacity of ambition, that he was still dissatisfied. "I say," he cried out in an extempore petition, addressed to the emperor through the window, "how am I to catch hold of the reins?" "Any how," was the answer; "don't trouble _me_, man, in my glory; through the windows, through the key-holes--how you please." Finally this contumacious coachman lengthened the checkstrings into a sort of jury-reins, communicating with the horses; with these he drove as steadily as may be supposed. The emperor returned after the briefest of circuits; he descended in great pomp from his throne, with the severest resolution never to remount it. A public thanksgiving was ordered for his majesty's prosperous escape from the disease of a broken neck; and the state-coach was dedicated for ever as a votive offering to the god Fo, Fo--whom the learned more accurately called Fi, Fi.
A revolution of this same Chinese character did young Oxford of that era effect in the constitution of mail-coach society. It was a perfect French revolution; and we had good reason to say, _Ca ira_. In fact, it soon became _too_ popular. The "public," a well known character, particularly disagreeable, though slightly respectable, and notorious for affecting the chief seats in synagogues, had at first loudly opposed this revolution; but when the opposition showed itself to be ineffectual, our disagreeable friend went into it with headlong zeal. At first it was a sort of race between us; and, as the public is usually above thirty, (say generally from thirty to fifty years old,) naturally we of young Oxford, that averaged about twenty, had the advantage. Then the public took to bribing, giving fees to horse-keepers, &c., who hired out their persons as warming-pans on the box-seat. _That_, you know, was shocking to our moral sensibilities. Come to bribery, we observed, and there is an end to all morality, Aristotle's, Cicero's, or anybody's. And, besides, of what use was it? For _we_ bribed also. And as our bribes to those of the public being demonstrated out of Euclid to be as five shillings to sixpence, here again young Oxford had the advantage. But the contest was ruinous to the principles of the stable establishment about the mails. The whole corporation was constantly bribed, rebribed, and often sur-rebribed; so that a horse-keeper, ostler, or helper, was held by the philosophical at that time to be the most corrupt character in the nation.
There was an impression upon the public mind, natural enough from the continually augmenting velocity of the mail, but quite erroneous, that an outside seat on this class of carriages was a post of danger. On the contrary, I maintained that, if a man had become nervous from some gipsey prediction in his childhood, allocating to a particular moon now approaching some unknown danger, and he should inquire earnestly, "Whither can I go for shelter? Is a prison the safest retreat? Or a lunatic hospital? Or the British Museum?" I should have replied, "Oh, no; I'll tell you what to do. Take lodgings for the next forty days on the box of his majesty's mail. Nobody can touch you there. If it is by bills at ninety days after date that you are made unhappy--if noters and protesters are the sort of wretches whose astrological shadows darken the house of life--then note you what I vehemently protest, viz., that no matter though the sheriff in every county should be running after you with his _posse_, touch a hair of your head he cannot whilst you keep house, and have your legal domicile on the box of the mail. It's felony to stop the mail; even the sheriff cannot do that. And an _extra_ (no great matter if it grazes the sheriff) touch of the whip to the leaders at any time guarantees your safety." In fact, a bed-room in a quiet house, seems a safe enough retreat; yet it is liable to its own notorious nuisances, to robbers by night, to rats, to fire. But the mail laughs at these terrors. To robbers, the answer is packed up and ready for delivery in the barrel of the guard's blunderbuss. Rats again! there _are_ none about mail-coaches, any more than snakes in Van Troil's Iceland; except, indeed, now and then a parliamentary rat, who always hides his shame in the "coal cellar." And, as to fire, I never knew but one in a mail-coach, which was in the Exeter mail, and caused by an obstinate sailor bound to Devonport. Jack, making light of the law and the lawgiver that had set their faces against his offence, insisted on taking up a forbidden seat in the rear of the roof, from which he could exchange his own yarns with those of the guard. No greater offence was then known to mail-coaches; it was treason, it was _laesa majestas_, it was by tendency arson; and the ashes of Jack's pipe, falling amongst the straw of the hinder boot, containing the mail-bags, raised a flame which (aided by the wind of our motion) threatened a revolution in the republic of letters. But even this left the sanctity of the box unviolated. In dignified repose, the coachman and myself sat on, resting with benign composure upon our knowledge--that the fire would have to burn its way through four inside passengers before it could reach ourselves. With a quotation rather too trite, I remarked to the coachman,--Thomas De Quincey - The English Mail-Coach
The girls from Capodichino<fn>A district of Naples.</fn>
make love to the Moroccans,<fn>Meaning black men in general.</fn>
the Moroccans throw themselves headlong
and the girls get pregnant.
The gorge under the rock of revelation
A valley grinning under the pressure, opened by a fusion
Stags laden by lure
They plunge headlong into the depths of the earth
. . From the indigo strait to the seas of Ossian, on the pink and orange sands that the vinous sky has washed, crystal boulevards have risen and intersected, occupied at once by poor young families who shop at the fruiterers. No riches. – The city!
. . From the desert of bitumen, in headlong flight under sheets of fog spread in frightful layers through the sky that curves, retreats, descends formed of deeply sinister black smoke that the Ocean in mourning delivers, flee helmets, wheels, ships, cruppers – The battle!
. . Raise your head: that arched wooden bridge; the last kitchen-gardens of Samaria; those masks illumined by the lantern fluttered by the cold night; the foolish undine with the noisy dress, in the river depths; luminous skulls among the pea-plants – and the other phantasmagoria – the countryside.Arthur Rimbaud - Metropolitan
All safe -- when, as the hurrying coursers round
The fatal pillar dashed, the wretched boy
Slackened the left rein: on the column's edge
Crashed the frail axle: headlong from the car
Caught and all meshed within the reins, he fell;
And masterless the mad steeds raged along!
With idle Arms the Gallick Legions ſeem
To ſtem the Rage of the reſiſtleſs Stream,
At once it bears 'em down, at once they yield,
Headlong are puſh'd and ſwept along the Field;
Reſiſtance ceaſes, and 'tis War no more,
At once the Vanquiſh'd own the Victors Pow'r;
Anyone with half a life would have one friend who's not a deer!
Any fool who jumps headlong is gonna bang their head!
Any fool who doesn't jump right now is probably gonna end up dead!Frozen (musical) - What Do You Know About Love?
With ten thousand degrees of stimulus, your throat goes into hyperpnea!!!!
Is the horizon your numbed fingers point to heaven or hell?
Rushing headlong into a sadistic love,
The logic of this abusive language syndrome――――…………!!!!
There's no time, we save up for silk, but the devil'll eat even the tree of the cross.
Sadness's so empty, filled with bile in laughter, there's no time.
There's no time, autumn in a cheap coat, skeletons of birches in the horizon, gaze the eyes.
The foliage rushes headlong past, will not whisper: there's no time, the frost will grind the window
With cold fingers, someone will write only two words, giving glass all the warmth and bitterness of pain.
There's no time, death will hardly be heard, sits like at home at the table.
I ... I ... I ... I ..."
The raven stood on top of the wall
and after a while he had a headlong tumble.
Here, the bread basket must be made
and, unfortunately, in the thoughts, never again.
I’m going, I’m gone, I’m going back to Ireland
You were the King of Dublin and I was your Queen Maeve
We ran headlong through the fields, we knew every lane
We knew the land had a wisdom of its own
Laying back on ancient stone
[Narrator: Richard Burton ("The Journalist")]
Never before in the history of the world had such a mass of human beings moved and suffered together. This was no disciplined march, it was a stampede, without order and without a goal, six million people, unarmed and unprovisioned, driving headlong. It was the beginning of the rout of civilization, of the massacre of mankind...
A vast crowd buffeted me toward the already packed steamer. I looked up enviously at those safely on board - straight into the eyes of my beloved Carrie! At sight of me she began to fight her way along the packed deck to the gangplank. At that very moment it was raised, and I caught a last glimpse of her despairing face as the crowd swept me away from her...Jeff Wayne - 04. Forever Autumn