Practical Research Planning and Design Leedy 10th Edition Test Bank

Practical Research Planning and Design Leedy 10th

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 Contents

The fundamentals: The nature and tools of research

Focusing your research efforts: The problem : the heart of the research process ;

Review of the related literature ; Planning your research report ; Writing the research

proposal

Qualitative research methodologies: Qualitative research ; Historical research

Quantitative research methodologies: Descriptive research ; Experimental, quasi-

experimental, and ex post facto designs ; Mixed-methods research ; Strategies for

analyzing quantitative data

Preparing the research report: Writing the final research report

Appendix A: Using a spreadsheet : Microsoft Excel

Appendix B: Using SPSS

Summary:Written in uncommonly engaging and elegant prose, this text guides the

reader, step-by-step, from the selection of a problem, through the process of

conducting authentic research, to the preparation of a completed report, with

practical suggestions based on a solid theoretical framework and sound pedagogy.

Suitable as the core text in any introductory research course or even for self-

instruction, this text will show students two things: 1) that quality research demands

planning and design; and, 2) how their own research projects can be executed

effectively and professionally--Publishers Description

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 R W .
Rosy wine, rosy wine, wine we sip,
Sweeter far than woman’s lip;
If green-eyed grief assail the soul,
Why, drown him in the flowing bowl;
’Twere folly now to grieve or pine,
While seated near such rosy wine.
Rosy wine, &c.

Rosy wine, rosy wine, wine, they cry,

Doth beauty’s cheek by far outvie;
Thou to the soul art more sincere,
Her love is weaker than her tear;
Then wreathe my brow with laughing vine
While I quaff the rosy wine.
Rosy wine, &c.
J B .
 H W .
Heavy wet, heavy wet, still I cry,
Full and fair pots when I’m dry,
If so be, you ask me where,
They are drawn, I answer there,
Where our lips their thirst forget,
That’s the place for heavy wet!

Heavy wet, heavy wet, still I cry,

Meux’s, Whitbread’s, nought care I;
To the Blue Posts let us go,
There we’ll clouds of backey blow;
And, while we our cares forget,
All the year quaff heavy wet!
W. T. M .
 C P .
Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! Pie! I cry,
Kentish cherries you may buy.
If so be you ask me where
To put the fruit, I’ll answer “There!”
In the dish your fruit must lie,
When you make your Cherry Pie.
Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! &c.

Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! Pie! I cry

Full and fair ones mind you buy
Whereabouts the crust should go,
Any fool, of course will know;
In the midst a cup may lie
When you make your Cherry Pie.
Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! &c.
Punch.
 M C .
Mutton chops, mutton chops, chops I cry,
Fat or lean ones, both I’ll buy;
But if so be you’d have my coin
You must cut them off the loin!
When the cook for nothing stops,
That’s the time for mutton chops!

Mutton chops, mutton chops, chops I cry,

I as hungry am as dry;
Let me have them nice and hot.
With a murphy and shalot!
Heaven bless the butchers’ shops,—
All the year they’ve mutton chops!
 C B .
Cherry bounce, cherry bounce, bounce, I cry,
Fill a full glass on the sly;
If so be you ask me where,
To the wine-vaults we’ll repair,
When we heavy wet renounce,
That’s the time for cherry bounce!

Cherry bounce, cherry bounce, bounce I cry,

When my flame is standing nigh;
When with love I’m quite beguiled,
And I wish to draw it mild,
Then, each vulgar fear to trounce,
Then I call for cherry bounce!
 G -P .
Guinea-pigs, Guinea-pigs, pigs, I cry,—
As Directors qualify!
At your feet your shares we lay,—
Not a penny there’s to pay!
’Tis high-sounding names we want,
As decoy-ducks for our plant:
Names to draw the public in,
Place our shares, and sack their tin.
Guinea-pigs, Guinea-pigs, pigs, I cry,—
From the West-End, come and try!

Guinea-pigs, Guinea-pigs, pigs, I cry,—

Of the City why fight shy?
With shares for the taking, if you please,
And, besides, Directors’ fees:
Office work—an hour a day,
Lots to get, and nought to pay…
Flats agog to risk their tin.
Giv’n good names to draw them in.
So Guinea-pigs, Guinea-pigs, pigs, I cry,—
As Directors Qualify!
Punch. March 6, 1875.

Herrick had no occasion to steal, yet there is little doubt but that his
Cherry Ripe was adapted from Allison’s earlier, and prettier poem,
There is a Garden in her Face; whilst the following lines (which occur
in his poem upon Mistress Susanna Southwell,)
Her pretty feet
Like snails did creep
A little out, and then,
As if they playéd at bo-peep,
Did soon draw in again.
were stolen (and spoilt in the stealing), from Sir John Suckling’s
inimitable Ballad upon a Wedding:
Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice, stole in and out,
As if they feared the light:
But oh! she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter-day
Is half so fine a sight.
 THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.
(Born in Bath, 1797. Died at Cheltenham, April 22, 1839.)
songs of this prolific writer, which but sixty
years ago were exceedingly popular, are now
nearly forgotten, A few old-fashioned people
may be heard to warble “She wore a wreath of
Roses,” or “I’d be a butterfly,” whilst
“Perfection,” perhaps the best known of Bayly’s
dramatic pieces, is still occasionally played to
afford some graceful actress an opportunity of
displaying her varied attainments. The author of
“Perfection” had to contend with many
difficulties before he could get his piece performed. It was rejected at
Covent Garden Theatre and several other houses, but was finally accepted
at Drury Lane. With Madame Vestris, as Kate O’Brien, it achieved a great
success, but several of Bayly’s other dramatic productions were less
fortunate, and he had nothing to depend upon but the precarious income of
a journalist for his support. His songs, though exceedingly popular, brought
him small pecuniary returns during his lifetime, but after his death his
widow derived a small sum from the sale of his collected works. Although
but a poor and struggling author, it suited the editor of Fraser’s Magazine to
sneer at this amiable and harmless versifier, and in volume iv. of that
magazine these lines will be found in the Lay of the Twaddle School:—
“Satins and silks I sang gravely and gaily,
And the bard of the boudoir was Thomas Haynes Bayly;
With my butterflies, buttercups, butter-flowers daily,
I buttered my bread,—heigh, for Thomas Haynes Bayly.
With my songs and my sonnets, the girls I wooed frailly,
Tom Moore, the chaste model of Thomas Haynes Bayly;
Apollo,—though radiant his rays,—shines but palely,
When the eyes of the fair shine on Thomas Haynes Bayly.
 With miniature Lyrics, the muse did I waylay,
And a miniature picture of Thomas Haynes Bayly;
I sang about Bath, till I bothered them really,
And eclipsed was Kit Anstey by Thomas Haynes Bayly;
Herrick, Waller, Burns, Byron, Moore, Morris and Shelley,
Were poor sing-song strummers to Thomas Haynes Bayly.”
But these songs, which sixty years ago every one was singing, are now so
seldom heard, that some of the parodies would be quite unintelligible unless
accompanied by the originals.
 SHE WORE A WREATH OF ROSES.
She wore a wreath of roses that night when first we met,
Her lovely face was smiling beneath her curls of jet;
Her footsteps had the lightness, her voice the joyous tone,
The tokens of a youthful heart where sorrow is unknown.
I saw her but a moment, yet methinks I see her now,
With a wreath of summer flowers upon her snowy brow.

A wreath of orange flowers when next we met she wore,

The expression of her features was more thoughtful than before,
And standing by her side, was one, who strove, and not in vain,
To soothe her leaving that dear home she ne’er might view again.
I saw her but a moment, yet methinks I see her now,
With a wreath of orange blossoms upon her snowy brow.

And once again I saw that brow, no bridal wreath was there,
The widow’s sombre cap concealed her once luxuriant hair;
She weeps in silent solitude, for there is no one near,
To press her hand within his own, and wipe away the tear!
I see her broken-hearted, and methinks I see her now,
In the pride of youth and beauty, with a wreath upon her brow.
T H B .
 T B ’ F .
He wore a brace of pistols the night that first we met,
His deep-lined brow was frowning beneath his wig of jet;
His footsteps had the moodiness, his voice the hollow tone,
Of a bandit-chief who feels remorse and tears his hair alone.
I saw him but at half-price, yet methinks I see him now,
In the tableau of the last act with the blood upon his brow.

A private bandit’s belt and boots, when next we met he wore,

His salary, he told me, was lower than before;
And standing at the O.P. wing he strove, and not in vain,
To borrow half a sovereign, which he never paid again.
I saw it but a moment—and I wish I saw it now—
As he buttoned up his pocket with a condescending bow.

And once again we met; but no bandit-chief was there;

His rouge was off, and gone that head of once luxuriant hair:
He lodges in a two-pair back, and at the public near,
He cannot liquidate his “chalk,” or wipe away his beer.
I saw him sad and seedy, yet methinks I see him now,
In the tableau of the last act with the blood upon his brow.
Punch, November 11, 1843.
 H D B ’.
He dined at Bertholini’s, the day when first we met,
A pint of single stout was on the board before him set;
His dinner had the lightness—his voice the humble tone
Of one to whom a shilling was not intimately known;
I saw him but a moment, but I think I see him now,
In that hat of time-worn gossamer that drooped upon his brow.

A new dark Llama Paletot when next we met he wore,

The expression of his dress was not so seedy as before;
And, dining at his side, was one, in Hemming’s room upstairs,
Who deem’d his Line a good one, and who took five hundred shares.
I saw him but a moment, but methinks I see him still,
At the café in the Haymarket, where yet he owes the bill!

And once again I saw him, but this time it was not here;
In coat of questionable age he traversed Boulogne Pier!
He stept in shabby solitude, for, on one fated day
The bubble of his Line had burst, and he had run away.
I saw him quite down-hearted, with his paletot all but rags,
As he underwent the fate of all Provisionary Stags.
A S .
 H W G W S .
He wore grey worsted stockings the term when first we met,
His trousers had no straps, his highlows had no jet;
His look it had the greenness, his voice the sleepy tone,
The tokens of a raw young man who’d lately left his home.
I saw him but a moment, yet methinks I see him now,
With his cap the wrong end foremost upon his freshman’s brow.

A pink and snowy buckskins, when next we met he wore,

The expression of his banker was more thoughtful than before;
And riding by his side was one who strove, and not in vain
To borrow five and twenty pounds he ne’er might see again;
I saw him lend the money; and methinks I see him now,
With his hunting cap of velvet upon his sportsman’s brow.

And once again I see that brow; no sporting cap is there:

An article at four-and-nine sits on its untrimmed hair;
I see him playing racquets in the Fleet,[6] yet even now
Methinks I see my freshman with verdure on his brow.
The face is somewhat dirty, yet methinks I see it now,
With the cap the wrong end foremost upon the freshman’s brow.
From Hints to Freshmen. Oxford: J. Vincent.
 T B - F ’ P .
He wore a suit of Moses,
The night when first we met,
And knowingly his hat was cocked
Upon his curls of jet;
Flash “Publics” he frequented,
Where “Sporting cards” were seen;
And many a Derby Sweep got up
To ease them of their “tin.”
I saw him in his glory—
(The word seems doubtful now),
When to his stable wisdom
His admiring chums would bow.

A betting-book he’d started,

When next this youth I saw;
And hourly he was lounging at
Some Betting-office door;
Or standing treat to stable-boys,
With a “weed” between his lips,
And listening to their sage discourse
Of “great events” and “tips.”
He told me then he stood to win
A fi’ pun’ note or two,
Upon a “certain” prophecy—
I doubt if it came true.

And once again I see this youth,

No betting-book is there:
The prison scissors close have cropped
His once luxuriant hair.
They tell that “cleaned” completely “out,”
He closed his short career
By bolting with his master’s till,
When “settling” time drew near.
I see him shipped—the Government
His passage out will pay:
 And at some penal settlement,
He’ll spend his Settling Day.
Punch.
 T V O H .
She wore a wreath of roses
The night that first we met;
Her lovely face was smiling,
Beneath her curls of Jet.
Her curls of jetty brightness,
Were charmingly in tone,
With the colour on her features,
For the hue was Nature’s own.
I saw her but a moment,
Yet methinks I see her now;
With the hair that Nature gave her,
Above her snowy brow.

A head of Paris fashion

When next we met, she wore;
The expression of her features,
Was sharper than before.
And standing by her side was one,
Who seemed to give her pain,
As he rubbed the reddening fluid on
What should have held a brain.
I saw her but a moment,
Yet methinks I see her now,
With the barber’s nasty liquid,
Smeared on her snowy brow.

And once again I met her,

No radiant locks were there;
An unmistaken wig she wore
Instead of lovely hair.
She weeps in silent solitude,
Because she looks so queer!
The barber’s poison has destroyed
Her hair from ear to ear.
I saw her but a moment,
Nor want to see her now,
With those ugly proofs of folly
Above her snowy brow.
S B . 1866.
 H W P “M .”[7]
He wore a pair of “mittens,”
That day when first we met,
His stony face was smiling
As on himself he bet;
He stood with saucy firmness,
Or danced upon his feet,
In token of a confidence
That had not known defeat.
I saw him but a moment,
Yet methinks I see him now,
With his hands well up for boxing,
All eager for the row.

Two eyes, both black and swollen

When next we met he wore,
The expression of his features,
Was less pleasant than before;
And standing close beside was one,
Who strove with might and main
To make them still less beauteous,
Nor did he strive in vain.
I saw him but a moment,
Yet methinks I see him now,
As he diligently sought a tooth,
He’d swallowed in the row.

And once again I saw that man,

No joy at all was his;
For many knocks had quite effaced
Expression from his “phiz.”
He wept as weeps a boy at school
When beaten in the rear,
Nor did he bless his second,
Who sponged away the tear.
I saw him but a moment,
Yet methinks I see him now,
 As his length on earth he measured,
Less eager for the row.
From The Corkscrew Papers.
London: W. H. Guest, Paternoster Row. 1876.
 T G R .
He rode a tandem trycycle
The day when first we met,
He wore a pair of spectacles,
Perhaps he has them yet!
I saw him but a moment,
But methinks I see him now
With the same old cap upon his head
And frown upon his brow.

His face looked white as driven snow

Against his bags of blue,
His pedalling was marvellous
As round the track he flew.
I saw him but a moment,
But methinks I see him now,
Lying whole length o’er the track,
And the frown still on his brow.

The last I heard of that young man,

Was through the weekly W ;
“Whee-ling”-er o’er those words of his
So full of kindly feeling.
I saw them but a moment,
But methinks I see them now
With the author bending o’er them,
And that frown yet on his brow.
M .
When people speak of others’ faults,
It’s time they knew their own,
So take a lesson, dear young man,
And try ye to atone.
Wheeling Annual, 1885.