Сценарий "Литературная Британия" 8-9 класс

Сценарий внеклассного мероприятия
по английскому языку
«Литературная Британия»
Учитель английского языка
МБОУ гимназии №33 г. Краснодара
Карпенко О.С.
Звучит музыка: «Home, Sweet Hom
Pupil 1: Dear guest! I invite you to join us in our exciting literature tour around Britain. British
literature is very rich. You can always find a town, a city or a piece of country connected with a
famous writer. All of us know the names of the great British writers like Shakespeare, Byron,
Burns, Dickens and Sir Walter Scott.
England is the birthplace of such writers as Jerome K. Jerome, the author of the popular novel
“Three Men in a Bout”, the Bronte sisters, Charles Dickens, William Shakespeare and others.
The historic town of Stratford-upon-Avon is known as William Shakespeare’s birthplace.
William Shakespeare
Pupil 2: William Shakespeare was one of the greatest and famous writers of the world. Many
people know and like his works but facts of Shakespeare’s life are still unknown.
William Shakespeare was born in 1564 in Stratford-upon-Avon, a small English town. He
studied at local grammar school because his father wanted his son to be an educated person.
While studying at school, William did not have much free time but he liked to go to the forest
and river Avon.
Young William liked to watch actor and actresses who visited Stratford-upon-Avon. He was
found of actor. With this purpose he went to London. There he played and wrote his plays as
well. In his works he described the events of England’s contemporary life. In all Shakespeare
wrote 37 plays. He cooperated with the best English theatres during 25 years. His best and the
most famous plays are “Othello”, “King Lear”, “Hamlet”, “Romeo and Juliet”. Besides plays
Shakespeare wrote a lot of poetry, which is translated into many languages and is well-known
throughout the world.
William Shakespeare died in 1616. But his creations are still popular now and millions of
people still admire them.
Sonnets of Shakespeare
Sonnet № 60
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light.
Crawls to maturity, where with being crowed
Crooked eclipses gainst his glory fight,
And time that gave doth now his gift confound
Time doth transfix the flourish set on you
And delves the paralles in beauty s brow.
Feeds on the rarities of nature s truth
And nothing stands but for his scythe of mow
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
Sonnet №130
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun*;
If hairs be wires**, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked***, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks,
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go -
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare****
As any she belied with false compare.*****
To be, or not to be; that is the question:-
Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageuous fortune:
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And, by opposing, end them?- To die; -to sleep,
No more; - and , by a sleep, to say we end
The heart ache, and the thousand natural shecks
That flesh is heir to,- tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die; - to sleep;-
To sleep! Perchance to dream; ay, there s the rub;
When we have stuffled’eff this mortal coil
Must give us pause: there s the respect,
That makes calamity of so long a like:
For who would bear the whips and sconrs of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the low’s delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unevorthy takes,
When he himself might his quitus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear
To grund and sweat under a weary life;
But that the dread of something after death,-
The undercover d country, from whose bourn
No traveler returns,-puzzles the will:
And make us rather bear these ills we have,
Then fly to others thef we know not of!
“Romeo and Juliet”
Juliet: Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.
Romeo: It was the lark, the herald of the morn;
No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks.
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder, east.
Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
Juliet: Young light is not daylight; I know it, I:
It is some meteor that the sun exhaled
And light thee on thy way to Mantua.
Therefore stay yet; thou needest not to be gone.
Romeo: Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I’ll say yon gray is not the morning’s eye,
Tis but the pale reflex of Cyntia’s brow;
Nor that is not the lark whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads.
I have more care to stay than will to go:
Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so.
How is’t, my soul? Let s talk; it is not day.
Juliet: It is, it is! Hie hence, be gone, away!
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.
Some say the lark makes sweet division:
This doth not so, for she divideth us.
Some say the lark and loathed toad changed eyes;
O now I would they had changed voices too,
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence with hunt’s up to the day.
O now be gone! More light it grows.
Romeo: More light and light, more dark and dark our woes.
Juliet: Then, window, let day in and let life out.
Romeo: Farewell, farewell; one kiss, and I’’ll descend.
Juliet: Art thou gone so, love, lord, ay husband, friend?
I must hear from thee every day in the hour,
For in a minute there are many days.
O, by this count I shall be much in years
Ere I again behold my Romeo.
Romeo: Farewell, I will omit no opportunity
That may conrey my greetings, love, to thee.
Juliet: O, think’st thou we shall ever meet again?
Romeo: I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve
For sweet discourses in our times to come.
Juliet: O God, I have an ill-divining soul!
Methinks I see thee, now thou art so low,
As one dead in the bottom of a tomb.
Either my eyesight fails or thou look’st pale.
Romeo: And trust me, love, in my eye so do you.
Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu!
Pupil 1: Byron is also one of the famous British poets.
George Gordon Byron
Pupil 3: On the 22
of January, 1788 Byron was born in London in an old aristocratic family.
His mother came from a rich Scottish family. His father was a poor army officer. George spent
his childhood in Scotland. There the boy went to a grammar school. He liked history and read
much about Rome, Greece and Turkey. At 17 Byron entered Cambridge University and there
his literature career began. Byron hated exploitation and symbolized with people fighting for
freedom and independence. In 1808 Byron graduated from the university and the next year
took his hereditary seat in the House of Lords. In 1809 he went travelling. The journey took two
years. The poet visited Spain, Portugal, Albania, Greece and Turkey. He described his travels in
a long poem “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage”. After the suppression of the Italian movement for
independence Byron went to Greece and joined the Greek people in their struggle for
independence against Turkey. Byron’s heart was buried in the Greek town of Missolongi. His
friends brought his body to England.
Adieu, adieu! My native shore
Fades o’er the waters blue,
The night-wights sigh, the breakers roar,
And shriekrs the wild sea-mew.
Yon son that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight
Farewell awhile to him and thee.
My native Land-Good Night!
A few short hours and He will rise
To give the Morrow Birth,
And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my Mother Earth
Deserted is my own good Hall,
Its heart is desolated,
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall,
My dog howls at the gate.
Moscow! Thou limit of his long career,
For which rude Charles had wept his frozen tear
To see in vain-he saw thee-how? With spire
And palace fuel to one common fire.
To this the soldier lent his kindling match,
To this the peasant gave his cottage thatch,
To this the merchant flung his hoarded store,
The prince his hall-and Moscow was no more!
Sublimest of volcanoes! Etra’s flame
Pales before thine, and quenchless Hecla’s tame;
Vesuvius shows his blaze, an usual sight
For gaping tourists, from his hackney’d neight
Thou stand’st alone unrivall’d, till the fire
To come, in which all empires shall expire!
Thomas Moor
Pupil 4: Thomas Moor is one of the well-known Romantic poets, an Irish poet who song his
native land in the same way as Robert Burns songs Scotland.
Thomas Moor came from a well-to-do Irish family. He was born in Dublin in 1779. He studied
law in London University.
He published his first verses of poems by Thomas Little in 1801. Later he wrote his romantic
stories in verses by Lalla Poth (1817).
He was a patriot of his native land and his poetry he often wrote about struggle of the Irish
people for their independence. The well-known Irish poet Thomas Moor was interested in
literature. And collected the melodies and music and wrote words to them. In the Russian
section of his works there were two songs on Russian melodies. One of them, “Those Evening
Bells”, was translated into Russian by I. Kozlov and became very popular.
Those Evening Bells
Those evening bells! Those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells,
Of youth and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime.
Those joyous hours are past away!
And many a heart, that than was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells!
And so twill be when I am gone,
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.
George Bernard Show
Pupil 5: George Bernard Show an outstanding British dramatist, was born in Dublin, Ireland,
on 26 July, 1856.
As the family was very poor Show had to leave school at the age of 15. He became a cashier in
Dublin land agency. He hated his job and after he had worked for 5 years he gave it up and left
for London.
Show tried to make a living by writing. He wrote 4 novels, which were published in magazines
but they were not a success. In 19 Show began to write for the theatre. He was the creator of new
publicist drama. Show write over 20 plays. In 1931 he made a tour visiting India, China, Africa,
America, Russia. In 1925 he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature and in 1934 the medal of
the Irish Academy of Letters. Show died at the age 94 in 1950.
Pickering: Oh, for God’s sake, Higgins. It must be three o’clock in the morning. Do be
Higgins: I’m always reasonable, Eliza, if I can go on with a blistering headache you can.
Eliza: I have a headache, too.
Higgins: Here, Eliza. I know your headaches. I know you are tired. I know your nerves are as raw
as meat in the butcher’s window.
But I think of what you are trying to accomplish. Just, think what you are dealing with the
majesty and grandeur of the English language. It is the greatest possession we have. The noblest
possession we have. The noblest thoughts that ever flowed to the hearts of men are contained in
its extraordinary, imaginative and musical mixtures of sounds. And that is what you are set
yourself up to conquer, Eliza. And conquer it you will. Now, try again.
Eliza: The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain.
Higgins: What was that?
Eliza: The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain.
Higgins: Again.
Eliza: The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain.
Higgins: I think she’s got it! I think she’s got it!
Eliza: The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain.
Higgins: By George, she’s got it! By George, she’s got it! Now, once again. Where does it rain?
Eliza: On the plain! On the plain!
Higgins: And where is that soggy plain?
Eliza: In Spain! In Spain!
Together: The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain! (dancing)
The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain!
Eliza: Hurricanes hardly happen. How kind of you to let me come.
Higgins: Now, once again. Where does it rain?
Eliza: On the plain! On the plain!
Higgins: And where is that blasted plain?
Eliza: In Spain! In Spain!
Together: The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain! (dancing)
The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain!
Robert Burns
Pupil 6: Robert Burns was born in 1759. He was a farmer but he was always poor. He became
famous because he wrote poetry. He wrote many love poems and some of these are now songs.
Burns also wrote angry poems about rich people and poor people. For Burns all men were the
same. They were all brothers. Rich people in Edinburg liked Burn’s love poems but they did not
like his other poems. They did not help him much. Once they give him small job. So Burns left
his farm and went to work.
A popular Burn’s poem is “Tam O’ Shanter”. Here is the short contents of it. Tam went to a pub
and stayed there till midnight. On his way to home he passed the church. He saw lights in the
church and looked in side. He saw witches and devils there. They came out the church and tried
to catch him. But Tam and his horse were safe, because the witches couldn’t cross water.
Though, on the bridge over the river, one witch caught his horse’s tail.
Burns took part in making a book of the old Scottish folk songs, writing words for many
melodies. Burn’s poems are known and loved by many people all over the world because he
glorified a human being.
“My heart’s in the Highlands”
My heart in the Highlands, my heart is not here.
My heart in the Highlands, a chasing the deer,
A chasing the wild deer and following the roe-
My heart in the Highlands, wherever I go.
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The Birthplace of valour, the country of worth,
Wherever I wonder, wherever I rove,
The Hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
My heart in the Highlands, my heart is not here.
My heart in the Highlands, a chasing the deer,
A chasing the wild deer and following the roe-
My heart in the Highlands, wherever I go.
“Red Rose”
O, my Love’s like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June:
O, my Love’s like the melody,
That’s sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonny lass,
So deep in love am I:
And I will love thee still, my dear,
Till all the seas gang dry.
Till all the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt with the sun;
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands of life shall run.
And fare thee, well, my only Love!
And fare thee well a while!
And I will come again, my Love,
Though it were ten thousand mile.
Pupil 1: The Scots over the world celebrate Robert Burns’ birthday every year on the 25
January. The celebration usually takes the form of supper called Burns’ Supper. Often a Scots
piper plays traditional Scottish songs and wears the national costume, which for men is a kilt.
Burns’ poems are recited and after the meal is finished there may be some Scottish dancing.
The best-known Scottish national anthem “Auld Lang Syne”, composed by Robert Burns, is
often sing on this celebration and parties or meetings of friends all over the world. And I think
that today we shall honor the memory of the great bard of Scotland by singing his song.
“Auld Lang Syne
Should old acquaintance be forgot
And never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot
And days of auld lang syne?
And days of auld lang syne, my dear,
And days of auld lang syne,
Should old acquaintance be forgot
And days of auld lang syne?
And there’s hand my trusty friend
And gi’s a hand o’thine,
We’ll take a cup of kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We’ll take a cup of kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.