OT: The Caret and The Grid

Isn’t this a folk song from the British Isles?

Do you know what, I think you’re right…?

In a town where music breathes and lives,
'Neath the shadows where the old quill scribes,
Stands a humble caret, thin and fine,
With a grid of lines so pure, align.

Oh, caret bold, in Dorico’s light,
Guide our notes through the staves of night.
And the grid, it lays the paths so wide,
For the melodies to march with pride.

Through the ledger lines the caret glides,
Where the notes and rests and clefs abide.
Every bar and beat, it marks the space,
In the dance of dots, it finds its place.

Oh, caret bold, in Dorico’s light,
Guide our notes through the staves of night.
And the grid, it lays the paths so wide,
For the melodies to march with pride.

From the key of C to Dorian modes,
Past the sharps and flats and dotted codes.
Caret and grid, in silent vow,
Carve the music of the now.

So hear the tale of ink and line,
Of Dorico’s art both fair and fine.
Caret and grid, through time they’ll run,
Till the final bar is drawn and done.

Oh, caret bold, in Dorico’s light,
Guide our notes through the staves of night.
And the grid, it lays the paths so wide,
For the melodies to march with pride.

In the quiet studio’s twilight dim,
Sing the caret’s and the grid’s old hymn.
For in each score that the muses bid,
Lives the faithful caret and the grid.

(No, I didn’t write this one for a change – it was generated by ChatGPT, I’m afraid.)

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… and people are worried that AI will kill the creative industries… :stuck_out_tongue:

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Dear me.

You don’t say… :neutral_face:

You wouldn’t happen to have saved the prompt, would you? I find those often much more interesting than the output.

You always come through, @dspreadbury ! Yet another reason Dorico stands out from the pack.

I’m going to need a moment to process this…

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Did it recommend a suitable tune – 8.8.9.9 I think?

Almost as good as William McGonagall

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.

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Although McGonagall is often called The World’s Worst Poet, that excerpt is really very tragic and sad. I read that he was often moved to capture in verse disasters, “calamities" and freak accidents (from an article in The Guardian).

I think this is even OT for OT! :slight_smile: :slight_smile:

I’m fairly sure I’ve been for a pint at the Caret and Grid.

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