Hello Stranger
by Alvin Pleasant Carter
sung & played by Allan Murray
What better way to welcome you in than with this pleasant and friendly greeting? The rythmn of Allan’s guitar work gives his performances an endearing individuality, while the enthusiastic choruses are no less enjoyable! (more from Allan in volume 2)
Hello stranger put your lovin’ hand in mine
You are a stranger, but your a pal of mine
Lord I came down here just see that gal o’ mine
I got in trouble and I’ll soon be doin’ time
But every time I ride a 64th streetcar
I see my baby just a peekin’ through the bars
She bowed her head and waved both hands at me
I’m prison bound and longin’ to be free
Weepin’ like a willow moanin’ like a dove
There’s a girl up country that I really love
Lord I’ll see you when your troubles are like mine
Lord I’ll see you when you haven’t got a dime
Hello stranger put your lovin’ hand in mine
You are a stranger, but your a pal of mine
I need a friend, won’t you be a friend of mine
When All Men Sing
words by Keith Scowcroft, tune by Derek Gifford
sung by Tom Hanson
“Set around the rural life and seasons of the northern hemisphere, this song typifies for me the spirit of the folk singing session - the company of friends, the spontaneity, the joy of singing, and the sheer delight when all the harmonies fall into place. I adopt the bi-gender definition of ‘men’ in my interpretation of the title, and despite the fact that I sing it, it is not called ‘When Bald Men Sing’.”
When snows transform the hedgerow thorn
And frosting gilds the berry
Good men and true the fire logs hew
And in the inns make merry
Then, singing all as with one voice
It seems the very walls rejoice
And merriment about doth spring
When all men sing
Let every man so pitch his song
To help his neighbour sing along
To each and all contentment bring
When all men sing
When lambs are seen and trees spring green
Come forth in bloom the daisies
For winter’s end our thanks we’ll send
At Easter time sing praises
Then with a will, yea one accord
We’ll raise our voices to the Lord
And praise above our Heavenly King
When all men sing!
When in the fields his scythe he wields
Then hear his summer sound
As man and boy their lungs employ
The songs they echo ‘round
Resound from hill and roof and spire
Starting lowly building higher
So surely then his scythe will swing
When all men sing
When leaves they fall from elm tree tall
Then every back must bend
As young and old with courage bold
Their efforts they expend
Ensuring autumn’s gifts are stowed
‘Fore cold winter’s wind is blowed
Then comes an end to foraging
When all men sing
Here song’s in season every year
Some voices sweet while others strong
Gently round ascending
With harmonies a-blending
As unison accords the song
Uplifting beams of inn or hall
And shaking plaster from the walls
When all men sing!
A Wee Drappie O’t
by Robert Tannahill
sung by Carole Fyfe
This song by Robert Tannahill (1774-1810) a weaver bard from Paisley in Scotland, had some extra words added to it by Carole. “I grew up on the English/Scottish border where this song was often sung in sessions for its fine chorus, and also for the fact that it is a hymn to whisky!”
This life is a journey we a’ hae tae gang
And care is the burden we carry alang
Though heavy be our burden and poverty our lot
We’ll be happy a’ together owre a wee drappie o’t
Owre a wee drappie o’t, owre a wee drappie o’t
We’ll be happy a’ together owre a wee drappie o’t
The trees are all stripped of their mantle sae green
The leaves of the forest nae langer can be seen
And winter is here wi’ his cauld icy coat
But we’re a’ met together owre a wee drappie o’t
Job in his lamentation said ‘Man was made tae mourn”
There’s nae such thing as pleasure
From the cradle tae the urn
But in his meditations Job surely has forgot
The pleasure man enjoys owre a wee drappie o’t
So raise high your glass let your troubles lie the night
They surely will wait for you by morn’s clear light
Whate’er be your trade, be it loom, plough or boat
We’ll be happy a’ together owre a wee drappie o’t
The Perilous Gate
words anonymous, tune by Phyl Lobl
sung by Simon Campbell
When Phyl Lobl found the original 19th century poem describing these shipwrecks she abridged and set it to music. The author had altered some dates to accomodate rhyme and metre, but the essential drama of the story with its themes of courage and regret are unaffected. Rhymin’ Simon, long known as a reciter and humorist, revealed his singing voice with this one and hasn’t looked back.
A tale I’ll tell of a perilous gate upon the Eastern coast
Of many shipwrecks and ruins this narrow gate can boast
Beneath Newcastle harbour waves
Lie rotting hulks and sailors graves
Hero’s tombs are hidden caves
Below the Nobby’s post
Yes sir, a pretty entrance but were I homebound sail
I’d rather stand far out to sea when it blows a stiffish gale
Blowing from the south or east
Each huge wave a crest of yeast
Is charging like a wounded beast
And mounts the rolling rail
On the sixth day of November in 1858
The Eleanor Lancaster was caught
Entering that perilous gate
We watched those huddled in the top
With nothing but a slender prop
Which at each blow we thought would drop
As all the timbers failed
An awful sea was running and not in all that crew
Was one who thought boats could be brought
Those boiling breakers through
Then a little fair man
Pushed and panted as he ran
And urged us all the waves to scan
And to our mates be true!
“Come lads” he shouted shrill and clear
“Who’ll venture it with me?
Each minute lost a life may cost in such a tumbling sea
With four good men I’ll wager
We’ll bring them all to shore
Come who will try?” Three answered “I”
And I sir made up four
It was a roughish kind of trip
But Chatfield steered us well
I see him there with his fairish hair facing what befell
And when we’d brought them all to shore
He shook us by the hand once more
I’ve met no braver men before
The truth to you I’ll tell
For ten more years the oyster bank
Was beaconed by a spar
That stood in witness to the storm that sank the Lancaster
Five fathoms deep her rotting shell
A prayer the slender mast did tell
A brave deed done so nobly well
A good ten years before
Then toward the close of winter
Hard blowin’ all the night
The great sea horses tearing high
Raced madly past the bight
Many a man came down to see
If inbound craft there chanced to be
Sailors’ wives watched anxiously
Out on the surging flood
Cawarra was comin’ in I knew her bow so well
We watched her as she struggled on
And battled with the swell
We watched her through the mounting blast
And hoped that once the Nobby’s past
The harbour she might make at last
None but the gods could tell
She tried to turn again to sea
When a snow white whiff of steam
Told us that her fires were out
And she drifted on her beam
Her boilers by the waves were quenched
Her engines by the waves were drenched
Watchers hearts were sorely wrenched
And hope a fading dream
No boats set out to rescue those
Still clinging to the wreck
‘Though one was there with his fairish hair,
He now stood on that deck
His beacon pointing to the sky
Urged us not to let him die
But his same noble feat to try
No man would risk his neck
Many’s the time at midnight
I’ve heard the tempest roar
I’ve lain awake and wished that I
Could have the chance once more
To be the one to leave the crowd
To call his name out clear and loud
And free from Neptune’s salty shroud
Bring him back to shore
My Donald
by Owen Hand
sung by Jenny Fitzgibbon
As a lover both of traditional and of protest songs Jenny offers this advice: “I look forward to still singing when I am 90 and encouraging others to do so. Take your voice from the shower to the streets!”
Oh my Donald he works upon the sea
In the waves that blow wild and free
He splices the ropes and he sets the sail
As southward he roams to the home of the whale
And he ne’er thinks of me left far behind
Nor of the torments that rage in my mind
He is mine for only a part of the year
And then I’m all alone with only my tears
So ye ladies that smell of wild rose
Think ye for your perfume to where a man goes
Think ye of the women and children who mourn
For a man ne’er returned from hunting the sperm
The Shoals Of Herring
by Ewan McColl
sung by Malcolm Menzies & Len Neary
guitar by Malcolm Menzies
“I have liked this song since I first heard it sung by Jim Jarvis. A song of the sea, it’s power and benevolence and of the men that worked along the English coastline forty to fifty years ago, from boyhood to manhood to old age, the fishermen who chased after and sometimes caught the silver herring.” - Malcolm
With our nets and gear we’re faring
On the wild and wasteful ocean
It’s out there on the deep
That we harvest and reap our bread
As we hunt the bonny shoals of herring
Oh it was a fine and a pleasant day
Out of Yarmouth harbour I was faring
As a cabin boy on a sailing lugger
For to go and hunt the shoals of herring
Oh the work was hard and the hours were long
And the treatment sure it took some bearing
There was little kindness and the kicks were many
As we hunted for the shoals of herring
Oh we fished the Swarth and the Broken Bank
I was cook and I’d a quarter-sharing
And I used to sleep, standing on my feet
And I’d dream about the shoals of herring
Oh we left the home grounds in the month of June
And for Canny Shiels we soon were bearing
With a hundred cran of the silver darlings
That we’d taken from the shoals of herring
Now you’re up on deck, you’re a fisherman
You can swear and show a manly bearing
Take your turn on watch with the other fellows
While you’re following the shoals of herring
In the stormy seas and the living gales
Just to earn your daily bread you’re daring
From the Dover Straits to the Faroe Islands
While you’re following the shoals of herring
Oh I earned my keep and I paid my way
And I earned the gear that I was wearing
Sailed a million miles, caught ten-million fishes
We were sailing after shoals of herring
Day and night the sea we’re daring
Come wind come hail or winter’s gale
Sweating and cold, growing up
Growing old and dying
As we hunt the bonnie shoals of herring
The Weary Cutters
traditional English
sung by Rhiannon Davis
“I did the cheapest thing that any folk singer could possibly do and ripped it wholesale off a Steeleye Span recording.”
Oh the weary cutters and oh the weary sea
Oh the weary cutters have taken my laddie from me
They’ve pressed him far away foreign
With Nelson all on the salt sea
Oh the weary cutters have taken my laddie from me
Oh the lousy cutters and oh the weary sea
Oh the lousy cutters have taken my laddie from me
They always come in the night; they never come in the day
They come in the night and steal the laddies away
Oh the weary cutters and oh the weary sea
Oh the weary cutters have taken my laddie from me
I’ll give the cutter a guinea; I can give the cutter no more
But I’ll give them a guinea to steal my laddie ashore
Lowlands
traditional English
sung by Len Neary
“Lowlands is a pumping shanty, and is notable not only because it is a fine song; unusually for a shanty it contains a coherent story. Its popularity in sessions and other venues is enduring.” Len Neary has been singing for many years, and ran the Glengarry Castle singing session for quite a few.
I dreamed a dream the other night
Lowlands, lowlands away my John
I dreamed a dream the other night
Lowlands, my lowlands away
I dreamed my love came standing by
Came standing close by my bedside
She’s drowning in the lowland sea
And never more coming home to me
The sea-green weed was in her hair
‘Twas then I knew there was no life left there
She lies there in the windy lowlands
She lies there in the windy lowlands
I dreamed a dream the other night
Pete’s Song
by Lis Frencham
sung by Kellie Stubbs
“This is a song that I heard Settlers Match do years ago and instantly fell in love with. Later I met the lovely Lis Frencham who graciously gave me her blessing to record it. I was attracted to Pete’s Song because of the emotion and intense longing it expressed.”
Mighty sea you have such power in your hand
Your waves they can turn the rock to sand
But all of the strength you wield can never set me free
If you can’t make that sweet boy love me
For all your great voice you can’t kneel by his bed
And whisper my name in his dreams
And all of nature’s power means nothing now to me
For I’ll die if he never loves me
Gentle Earth with your magic old as time
But I can only see it as a crime
That you give birth to the flowers, the ferns and the trees
Yet you can’t make that sweet boy love me
Sky above with your sunshine and your rain
Can you send me down something to ease the pain?
For all your thunder and lightning is useless can’t you see?
If you can’t make that sweet boy love me
Time After Time
by Cyndi Lauper & Rob Hyman
sung by Terry Clinton & Kate Andrews
lute by Terry Clinton
"This version of Cyndi Lauper's hit proves that pop music is not inherently evil - a good song is just that, no matter the genre." - Kate
Terry, Kate and Christina Mimmocchi (see volume 2) are members of the vocal trio Touchwood. Their album The Great City contains a different recording of this song where Terry plays lute instead of vihuela - collectors take note!
(lyrics copyright Sony Music)
Whatever Happened To You?
by Loudon Wainwright III
sung & played by Christy Reynolds
additional vocals by Judy Pinder
Christy’s is one of those voices capable of claiming attention amid the noise and smoke of even the busiest pub session. His tuneful brogue was often heard in between the jigs and reels at the Carlisle Castle in Newtown.
Hey whatever happened to you?
And whatever happened to us?
Hey we missed the proverbial boat
The plane and the train and the bus
Yeah we pushed and we shoved, we fell outta love
Tore each other apart
Yes, love is grand but I can’t understand
Why you broke my proverbial heart
Well we used to be in love
Now we are in hate
You used to say I came to early
But it was you who came too late!
Hey boy meets girl you give it a whirl
And the very next thing you know
You thinks she’s nuts, she hates your guts
And the bad blood starts to flow
Well it sounds like sour grapes
And that’s just what it is
Gonna send my subscription to Oracle
You can send my subscription to Male
Hey that’s a whole lotta crap about a tender trap
Love’s just a suicide snare
All I wanna do is forget you and our lousy love affair!
(lyrics reprinted by kind permission of Snowden Music)
Naked
written, sung & played by Dennis Aubrey
Dennis describes himself as a “smartarse songwriter” and a practitioner of the “country and redfern” genre. He regularly hosts an open stage for songwriters, and is a veteran of the campaign to legalise street singing in the 1970s and 80s.
I dreamed that I was naked, standing in the street
Nothing but my guitar and the shoes on my feet
I didn’t know what to do so I sang a song
Some guy who said he was a Christian came along
And he said “Shame on you heathen!
Standing naked is a sin!”
I said “I’m sorry you’re embarrassed
By this predicament I’m in”
I didn’t choose to be here like this, wearing only skin”
He said “Shame on you heathen!” again
A guy with lots of money came up
And when he saw me there
He said “I started out with nothin’ once” I said “Oh yeah?
Could you help me out now please?
I need to buy some clothes”
He said “I’m sorry, my adviser told me not to issue loans”
I said ‘Thanks a lot mate, for your generosity”
Then a woman and a five year old boy came up to me
She looked at me and turned bright red
And started to scream
To everybody in the street there “It’s obscene!”
I remember thinkin’ “lady if you don’t like what you see
Why do you insist on starin’ at me?”
I was more embarrassed by her than she was by me
I hid behind my instrument and I hoped she’d go away
Then the little kid came up to me, he said
“Why’ve you got no clothes on, standing in the street?”
I said “I dunno kid I just got here in a dream”
He said “So did I, I know what you mean”
I dreamed that I was naked, standing in the street
Nothing but my guitar and the shoes on my feet
I didn’t know what to do so I sang a song
Beetles In The Basin - I Can’t Spell Hippopotamus
by unknown author & by J Fred Coots
sung by Isobel Andrews
Kate says “This was recorded when Isobel was 4 years old. Now that she is 6 she can spell hippopotamus, and her repertoire has expanded to include Burt Bacharach and Crowded House. She says she likes music because it makes her happy.”
Beetles in the basin in the bathroom
Striped with black and blue
Beetles in the basin in the bathroom
I’m in the bathroom too
How embarrassing! I’m in the bathroom too!
-
I can spell hat, h-a-t
I can spell cat, c-a-t
I can spell fat, f-a-t
But I can’t spell hippopotamus
I can spell dog, d-o-g
I can spell log, l-o-g
I can spell hog, h-o-g
But I can’t spell hippopotamus
H-i-p-p-o I know, and then comes p-o-t
But that’s as far as I can go and that’s what bothers me, Gee!
Suicidal Shrubbery
written, sung & played by Matthew Hobbs
“I was in love with a girl who gave me a beautiful orchid which I kept in my kitchen. Then one day she decided she didn’t want to continue our relationship. Next day the plant died. So every time I sing this I am simply asking ‘Why? Why?’”
Here’s my story, sad but true
About a pot plant I once knew
I met it at the nursery, took it home to stay with me
But soon its little leaves it shed
It shrivelled up, then dropped dead
Was it something that I said?
Why don’t my houseplants like me?
Next day I bought another one
If plants had legs it would’ve run
This fern thought it would rather die
Than live with me, don’t ask me why
I treated it exactly right with water, fertiliser, light
But it didn’t make it through the night
Why don’t my houseplants like me?
Well soon the pattern was quite plain
Plants all treat me with disdain
Steadily decrease in size, refuse to photosynthesise
Oh, suicidal shrubbery it’s a mystery to me
This botanic conspiracy
Why don’t my houseplants like me?
I only wanted something to love
A pretty plant to call my own
A very special floral friend
To brighten up my empty home
But now the only thing that’s left of them
Is curled-up leaf and dried-up stem
Guess I’ll never come to terms
With anti-social angiosperms
But there’s just one thing that will make me calm
A plant that cannot come to harm
Now I’m shopping for a plastic palm
Why don’t my houseplants like me?
The Activity Room
by Ruth Pelham
sung by Jane Maze
Jane from the Solidarity Choir describes this as “a song about organising - how to build the networks that can change the world.”
Would you like to play bridge and have a nice cup of tea
In the morning, Mrs Abrams?
We’re starting out at ten
Mrs Iltis and Flora Hazleton
What we need is a fourth ‘cause Ida Yancey’s not here
She’s at her sister’s in New Jersey
So, Mrs Abrams, will you play - what d’ya say?
Well, I haven’t played bridge since my husband died
It’s been a while, Mrs Reilly
I can hardly remember the rules
I’m really rusty and I know I’d feel like a fool
But since you ask I could give it a go
Mrs Iltis has a book she’d lend me I know
So, Mrs Reilly, it’s tea at ten - see you then
Would you like to play pool in the tournament?
We could be partners, Mr Gaffney
There’s a game that starts at two
Mr Sheen and Ted Fine against me and you
Yes, you’re my pick you bank ‘em in every time
We could both win a trophy
Mr Gaffney, will you play - what d’ya say?
I like to catch a few winks, take a snooze at noon
I get so tired, Mr Rosen
There are times when I’m so stiff
I can hardly keep a hold of the darn queue-stick
But since you ask, it doesn’t feel like rain
Last night I slept great
With those pink pills for the pain
So, Mr Rosen, see you at two
We’ll take ‘em on, me and you!
Would you like to play horn in the orchestra?
You’d be terrific, Mr Lopez
We’re tuning up at three
Your friend Hal Herschel’ll play the tympani
We’re gonna play a little Gershwin and some J S Bach
Can you even believe
We’re gonna try a little pop and some rock?
So, Mr Lopez, will you play - what do you say?
My lip is not in shape, my horn is worn and old
It’s at my brother’s, Mrs Malcolm
My sight-reading’s awful slow
It’s been years, I’d hold you up I know
But since you ask I could just stop by
I could sit in for a while if you need me
So, Mrs Malcolm, I’ll see you at three at the do-re-
I’ll even bring my brother with me to the do-re-
And thanks for asking me to the do-re-mi!
Tupperware Massacre
written & sung by Peter Willey
additional vocals by Miguel Heatwole &
Matthew Hobbs
“I wrote this song with a rhyming dictionary in one hand and a Tupperware catalogue in the other. All the names in the song are people I know. I really have an Aunt Mel.”
Come gather round and listen to this tale of misery
It happened long ago at some poor girl’s kitchen tea
It should have been a party but things turned sour instead
There were stains upon the carpet and over twenty dead
It started out okay I guess as the ladies gathered round
The bride-to-be was happy
With her crimplene dressing gown
The handy-bin from Grandma would be useful in her home
And Mrs Duke had painted her a hand-made garden gnome
Then Aunt Mel took exception
To a comment from her niece
And she responded angrily and kicked her friend Bernice
Fights broke out around the room and none got out alive
Of the kitchen tea Tupperware massacre of 1965
Well it turned into a melee - you could see the plastic fly
A gift-wrapped beetroot strainer
Caught Kate above the eye
Red and yellow lunchboxes flew about the place
And someone rubbed a cheese grater
Down Mrs Porter’s face
A see-through, freezer canister killed Mrs Ross stone dead
A sawn-off salad crisper protruded from her head
PVC had severed limbs before the police arrived
At the kitchen tea Tupperware massacre of 1965
Thirty years have come and gone
Since the bodies were entombed
The Forensic Squad sought evidence
And ordered them exhumed
They dug up Mrs Henderson and the mother of the bride
They were neatly stacked in Tupperware
Fresh and crisp as the day they died!
Freaks
written, sung & played by Paul Spencer
Paul is a songwriter whose work is prominent in Ecopella’s repertoire and also the Solidarity Choir’s. A young man with interesting hair and clothes he says: “Just like everyone else, I’m the standard against which normal behaviour is measured.”
There are strange people living in the city
They shave their chins and armpits
And dress up like cement
Their nervous eyes evoke a sense of pity
They’ve bought themselves a prison
Which was never their intent
The only way to free them is to shock them
Show them the reality that’s killing me and you
They’re the only ones who can unlock them
When I see them on the escalators all I want to do is yell:
“Freaks! What are you doing?
Dressing up like mannequins and marching up and down
Can’t you smell the poison you’re brewing
While you’re living in a bubble in the plastic part of town?”
They think its human nature to be selfish
To them co-operation is a weakness of the mind
They recognise the system isn’t healthy
But they’d rather just enjoy it, and leave it all behind
Now that’s just not acceptable behaviour
Tripping on consumption and the products of today
Excreting waste in our suburban graveyard
When they colonise my television
I just want to say to them:
They don’t believe in things outside the present
The future has no value if it can’t be sold today
They help to make each other’s moments pleasant
By building a reality that keeps the world away
We have to talk some holes into their fortress
Teach them to respect the future’s right to just exist
Use the lessons history has taught us
When I cycle past their traffic jams
The hardest to resist is yelling:
Wendy’s Song
written, sung & played by Dylan Curnow
additional guitar by Chuk Singh
I enjoy the surprise on my friends’ faces when I tell them there is a Dylan song on the album and then sing them a few bars of this elegant satire! The ‘woods between the worlds’ is a reference to ‘The Magician’s Nephew’ by CS Lewis and describes a still, inert place of trees and ponds that exists between realities.
Horoscopes and cigarettes and fancy hair
Chocolate cake and Rikki Lake and Marie Clare
Jenny Craig and calories
Reading Tarot cards and the Woman’s Day
With aliens coming down to take us all away
I’m sure they’ve been here for years
Like a dream within a dream, like a looking-glass world
Her life is like a spiral, how it curls
And she’s living in the woods between the worlds
Drinking Diet Coke and cappuccino
Keeping up with Quentin Tarantino
Mortgages and salaries
Stomach tuck and lipo suck are all the rage
But luckily you can’t afford them on your wage
You’ll have to age so gracefully
Tom
written, sung & played by Karen Cregan
“In 1998 I travelled with a man from California through the snow forests of Washington State to El Paso, Texas. People called him ‘Boxcar’ but his real name, that few knew, was Tom. For three months we journeyed on the freight trains and together learnt the pain it is to trust and to know each other. I don’t know where Tom is now but this heart-song keeps him with me.”
Tom rolled his cigarette, cursing the breeze
For blowing it half away
In green eyes made iron grey I see reflections of a boy
“Oh Tom your a clumsy one
Fall’n down and broke your arm again”
There’s a price you’ve paid from pain and it’s not freedom
Oh Tom the anger that you keep
Is the anchor to your father’s wrongs
Oh Tom don’t make him pay by punishing his son
At seven years of age too scared to run
From the only home he’d ever known
He kept it on his own and the secrets eat the man away
I believe him when he says his anger is a hidden thing
It’s disguised itself from even him
You can’t see your rage, the secret dragon in our love
Oh Tom, if you can’t forgive
How will you heal your father’s wrongs?
Oh Tom don’t make him pay by punishing his son
At thirty-seven years of age
Now you’re running away from home
Your bedroll on your arm by the freight train yards
And after childhood years of drunken hate
If you wish him dead maybe you can relate
To the pain in your heart that you’d wait
Just to hear ‘I love you son’
You deserve to live and be free
You deserve to love and be free
Victims and knaves and distributors of blame
Are players in a game of tears
In the end you waste those years
With bitter hearts still hungry
So come little Tom lay yourself in my arms
A kiss can make it go away
And if it helps today my breast will be your mother’s
Oh Tom, if you can’t forgive
How will you learn to love and live?
Tom don’t make him pay by punishing his son
Ramblin’ Boy
by Tom Paxton
sung by Tom Bridges
Here’s a different kind of love song for a man living the tough life of an itinerant worker. Perhaps we could name him Tom as well?
He was a man and a friend always
He stuck with me through the hard old days
He never cared if I had no dough
We rambled round through the rain and snow
So here’s to you my ramblin’ boy
May all your rambles bring you joy
Here’s to you my ramblin’ boy
May all your rambles bring you joy
In Tulsa town we chanced to stray
We tried to find some work one day
The boss said he had room for one
Says my old pal ‘we’d rather bum’
Late one night in the jungle camp
The weather it was cold and damp
He got the chills and he got ‘em bad
They took the only friend I had
He left me here to ramble on
My ramblin’ pal is dead and gone
If when we die we go somewhere,
I bet you a dollar he’s ramblin’ there
Farther Along
traditional USA
sung by Amalina Wallace
An artist as well as a folkie, Amalina is often seen sketching as the room fills with singing. Her choice of song seems to gravitate towards the funereal but it’s always uplifting to sing with her!
Tempted and tried we’re oft made to wonder
Why it should be thus all the day long
While there are others living about us
Never molested ‘though in the wrong
Farther along we’ll know all about it
Farther along we’ll understand why
Cheer up my brothers
Live in the sunshine
We’ll understand it all by and by
When death has come and taken our loved ones
Leavin’ our homes so lonely and drear
Then do we wonder why others prosper
Livin’ as sinners year after year
Often I wonder why I must journey
Over a road so rugged and steep
While there are others living in comfort
While with the lost I labour and weep
He Fades Away
by Alistair Hulett
sung by Miguel Heatwole
I’ve often thought of this song as the most difficult in my repertoire – something about it almost always chokes me up. Alistair wrote it after reading a letter in the newspaper from a woman who was watching her husband slowly die of asbestosis.
There’s a man in my bed I used to love him
His kisses used to take my breath away
There’s a man in my bed I hardly know him
I wipe his face and hold his hand
And watch him as he slowly fades away
And he fades away
Not like leaves that fall in autumn
Turning gold against the grey
He fades away
Like the bloodstains on the pillow case
That I wash every day
He fades away
There’s a man in my bed, he’s on a pension
Although he’s only fifty years of age
The lawyer says we might get compensation
In the course of due procedure
But he couldn’t say for certain at this stage
And he’s not the only one
Who made that trip so many years ago
To work the Wittenoom mines
So many young men old before their time
And dying slowHe fades away
A wheezing bag of bones his
Lungs half clogged and full of clay
He fades away
There’s a man in my bed they never told him
The cost of bringing home his weekly pay
And when the courts decide how much they owe him
How will he spend his money
When he lies in bed and coughs his life away?
Only Remembered
traditional English & John Tams
sung by Jennifer Lees
“I heard this version from the singing of Coope, Boyes and Simpson who credit it to John Tams. It is actually a hymn, probably Baptist, that John has slightly altered to make it more palatable to the Union movement - I am making an assumption here! as it appears to have been taken up as a Union anthem.”
Fading away like the stars in the morning
Losing their light in the glorious sun
Thus would we pass from this earth and its toiling
Only remembered for what we have done
Only remembered only remembered
Only remembered for what we have done
Thus would we pass from this earth and its toiling
Only remembered for what we have done
Only the truth that in life we have spoken
Only the seed that in life we have sown
These shall pass onwards when we are forgotten
Only remembered for what we have done
Who’ll sing the anthem and who’ll tell the story
Will the line hold? Will it scatter and run?
Shall we at last be united in glory
Only remembered for what we have done
The People Have Songs
written & sung by Miguel Heatwole
Some have described it as an anthem for singing sessions, but I often look on it as a manual giving content and etiquette. I went to England and found it emblazoned on a socialist choir’s banner so maybe the former is true. My friends have flattered me with two fine parodies. I’ll stop bragging now...
Here voices are tuned to each other in gladness
To all here in common affection belongs
Here joy and laughter meet keening and sadness
Here tyranny’s cursed for the people have songs
Let us set the room ringing with the sound of our singing
When we come to the end let us hold the chord long
Hear the harmonies rise and all close our eyes
’Til the last cadence dies the people have songs
Here is war parting sweethearts
Here are strong sweating sailors
And poets for beauty who ardently long
Here are people at work singing loud at their labours
Here are marriage and drinking for the people have songs
Respect for each other gives each one a hearing
And whether the voice be uncertain or strong
We listen with love if the heart is endearing
Supported in harmony the people have songs
Disdaining oppression like others before us
Our gentleness angered by history’s wrongs
Our tradition endures, and our voices in chorus
Are lifted in hope for the people have songs!
Raise Your Banners
by John Tams
sung by Hazel Keziah Waters
“ I have sung with the Sydney Trade Union Choir, Solidarity Choir, and performed at the New Theatre Newtown where I was involved in the revival of Reedy River in 2002. Basically I just love singing! This song was given by a friend but came from a UK production of the story of the Tolpuddle Martyrs.”
Joined together through the land
Keep the spirit, keep the way
Brother, sister take a hand
Unity will win the day
Raise your banners high!
Strength to strength and line by line
Unity must never die!
Raise your banners high!
Those who live in face of strife
Those who fight for liberty
Fight to win a better life
Fight to keep the future free!
‘Though the struggle brings us pain
‘Though the struggle gives us tears
Ours will be the final gain
We shall raise the victor’s cheers!
Mark Allen
traditional tune ‘The Ram of Derby’
words written & sung by John Warner
“Mark Allen was a young union organiser who was killed in 1996 when he fell from the roof of a building site in Perth.” John Warner is a prolific and gifted songwriter with many worthwhile albums to his credit.
The roof Mark Allen fell from was a hangman’s trap of shame
But from the day Mark Allen died the union sings his fame
He’s every worker’s brother, he is the union’s son
And in Mark Allen’s memory we’ll fight ‘til we have won!
He went to inspect safety – a union worker’s right
But those who had the contract tried to bar him from the site
You contractors with cheap tin souls the truth you can’t deny
It was your unsafe practices that let Mark Allen die
“The union doesn’t pay your wage, you climb back up that wall”
So frightened young men went back up and saw Mark Allen fall
You bureaucrats of government who blame him for his death
His blood is on your murdering hands you lie with every breath
Mark Allen’s aching mother weeps, Mark Allen’s father grieves
The union’s weeping with them but it’s rolling up its sleeves
The Liberals’ Darling
written & sung by John Dengate
“At Bob Pringle’s wake at the Harold Park Pub:
Me: Costello’s a bastard.
Someone else: Yair, but only because his mother hated him when he was little.
Me: No! His mother hated him because he was a bastard!”
To sing you a song is my purpose and aim
Concerning a pollie, Costello by name
The Liberals’ darling, a financial whiz
He’s Federal Treasurer that’s what he is
When he was a baby his mother said “Pete
Most little children are cuddly and sweet
Most mothers their dear little babies adore
But you are a bastard and that is for sure”
His childhood was spent doing horrible things
Like tearing off poor little butteflies’ wings
Bullying infants, reneging on bets
Robbing his Granny and torturing pets
When he was just fourteen his father said “Son
I’m really ashamed of some things that I’ve done
I poisoned my mates with a tainted home-brew
But my cardinal error was fathering you”
He sugared the petrol, he short-sheeted beds
He filled up the air vents with rotten prawn heads
He was selfish, vindictive and shallow and cruel
He was king of the dobbers when he went to school
The neighbours took up a collection one day
To buy him a ticket and send him away
To Bathurst or Beijing or Belfast or Rome
But no one would have him so he stayed at home.
Now he is Treasurer wielding his axe
On national broadcasting, students and blacks
Hacking and burning and kicking at heads
Til’ thousands lie trembling in fear in their beds
He derives satisfaction and joy from his work
You can tell by his cynical satisfied smirk
But don’t lose your temper and don’t lose your nerve
Remember we’re getting just what we deserve
That’s Not The Way
by Leon Rosselson
additional words by Robin Connaughton
sung by Robin Connaughton
“I am an occasional songwriter, Tech teacher, singer and unionist. Exasperated by the rise of economic rationalism and the sustained move to the right in the major Australian political parties, I wrote new words to ‘The Plan’, a song by Leon Rosselson that I’d learned and couldn’t get out of my head. Don’t try for an exact birthday for the current version, the song keeps acquiring and losing new verses as needed!”
That’s not the way it’s got to be
There should be jobs for you and me
Hiring not firing should be the master plan
The workers shouldn’t have to pay
Just to keep the boss at bay
The world shouldn’t turn just to please a wealthy man
I don’t like Keating, I didn’t like Hawke
All they bloody did was talk
And fight with each other while the country went to pot
The Labour party doesn’t seem
To know what the word labour means
Retrenchment and recession
They are now the workers’ lot
We’ve got John Howard for a year or three
Captain mediocrity
Cutting back on welfare and the poor old ABC
Costello, Reith and Vanstone too
And a Labour rat to spice the brew
Senate rat or rationalist they’re no friends to you or me
In NSW we’ve got Bob Carr
More like a Liberal every hour
Fighting with his workers, nurses, teachers and police
Who said the DLP was dead?
The Labour right lifts up his head
He’s just a Labour squatter
And were cockies on his lease
Victoria ran under Kennett’s rules
Closing down the government schools
Sacking public servants and stealing their back pay
Victoria is on the dole
And Kennett thought he was on a roll
If you want to help the workers mate there is a better way
Economic rationalism, now there’s another sacred cow
Sane as scientology, and as fallible as the pope
I don’t like trickle-down, y’see
No money trickles down to me
Meanwhile me wages goes on trickling up like smoke
Song For Ireland
by Phil & June Colclough
sung by Rosemary McArdle, guitar by Patrick McArdle
“Being from ‘over there’ at times we are attacked by bouts of flashback and mellowness for the missing of it. This song bounces off a lot of the characteristics, the hopes, the traditions that go to make up the island of Ireland. Hope you feel that stuff too in the singing of the song.”
Walking all the day
By tall towers where falcons build their nests
Silver-winged they fly
They know the call of freedom in their breasts
Saw Black Head against the sky
Where twisted rocks run down to the sea
Living on your western shore
Saw summer sunsets, asked for more
I stood by your Atlantic sea
And sang a song for Ireland
Drinking all the day
In old pubs where fiddlers love to play
Saw one touch the bow
He played a reel which seemed so grand and gay
We stood on Dingle Beach and cast
In wild foam we found Atlantic bass
Talking all the day
With true friends who try to make you stay
Telling jokes and news
And singing songs to pass the time away
Watched the Galway salmon run
Like silver dancing, darting in the sun
Dreaming in the night
I saw a land where no-one had to fight
Waking in your dawn
I saw you crying in the morning light
Lying where the falcons fly
They twist and turn all in your e’er blue sky
Bríd Óg Ní Mháille
traditional Irish
sung by Belinda Bennett
“I first heard the Irish language sung as an accompaniment to a toiletries commercial on tele. I didn’t buy the moisturiser but I did launch into a journey in Irish language and music.”
‘S a Bhríd Óg Ní Mháille ‘s tú d’fhág mo chroí cráite
Chuir tu arraing an bháis tri cheart-lár mo chroí
Tá na ceadta fear i ngrá le d’éadan ciúin náireach
Is go dtug tú barr breáhacht ar thír Oirghiall má’s fíor
Níl ní ar bith is áille ná’n ghealach os cionn an tsáile
Ná bláth bán na n-áirné bhíos ag fás ar an droighean
O siúd mar a bhíos mo ghrá-sa, nios trillsí le breáhacht
Béilín meala na h-ailleacht nach ndearna riamh claon
Is buachaill deas óg mé ‘tá ag triall chun mo phósta
’S ní buan i bhfad beo mé mura bhfaghaidh mé mo mhian
A chuisle is a stóirín, déan réidh is bí romham-sa
Cionn deireannach den Domhnach
Ar Bhóithrín Droim Sliabh
Is tuirseach ‘s is brónach a chaithimse an Domhnach
Mo hata ‘n mo dhorn, is mé ag osnaíl go trom
Is mé ag amharc ar na bóithre
A mbíonn mo ghrása ag gabháil ann
Si ag fear eile pósta ‘gus gan i bheith liom
My Lagan Love
traditional Irish, lyrics by Joseph McCahill
sung by Christina Mimmocchi, harp by Mark Davies
“When the record Irish Heartbeat was released by Van Morrison and The Chieftains I played it continuously (for some months) until the neighbours complained! I love this song for its haunting melody and evocative words. This version is not sung in the vocal style of Van.”
Where Lagan stream sings lullaby
There blows a lily fair
The twilight gleam is in her eye
The night is on her hair
And like a lovesick leannán sí
She hath my heart in thrall
No life I own nor liberty
For love is lord of all
And often when the beetle’s horn
Hath lulled the eye to sleep
I steal unto her shieling lorn
And through the dooring peep
There on the cricket’s singing stone
She stirs the bogwood fire
And sings in sad, sweet undertones
The song of heart’s desire
Her welcome like her love for me
Is from the heart within
Her warm kiss is felicity
That knows no taint nor sin
When she was only fairy-small
Her gentle mother died
But true love keeps her memory warm
By Lagan’s silver side
It’s With Kitty I’ll Go
traditional Irish
sung by Rosie Wells
“I learned this song over 30 years ago from a recording of American folk singer, Jean Ritchie. She had collected the song in Ireland. She has been a great inspiration for me, and this song remains my all-time favourite.”
It’s with Kitty I’ll go for a ramble
Over the mountains wild
Where the blackbirds nest in the bramble
In a home where the eagle chides
Or in some lonely valley
Where the birds in the evening nest
And mine with their prayers would mingle
For the sun to hurry west
Oh, I’ll buy the roughest of raiment
To last out the life of man
My whiskers unkempt and unshaven
‘Til the reach is a mile in span
Like the fleece of the grey mountain wether
They’ll tumble and dangle around
If I don’t get a wife in the heather
I’ll try in the new-mown ground
Labouring With The Hoe
words by Francis MacNamara
sung by Margaret Walters
These words were written by a spirited Irish convict, well-known in Australia’s penal colonies as Frank the Poet. In between collecting fine traditional material for her solo albums Margaret assembled the tune from folk sources.
I was convicted by the laws
Of England’s hostile crown
Conveyed across those swelling seas
In slavery’s fetters bound
Forever banished from that shore
Where love and friendship grow
That loss of freedom to deplore
And work the labouring hoe
Despised rejected and oppressed
In tattered rags I’m clad
What anguish fills my aching breast
And drives me almost mad
When I hear the settler’s threatening voice
Say “Arise to labour go!
Take scourging convict for your choice
Or work the labouring hoe
Growing weary from compulsive toil
Beneath the noontide sun
While drops of sweat bedew the soil
My task remains undone
I’m flogged for wilful negligence
Or the tyrant calls it so
Oh what a doleful recompense
For labouring with the hoe
Behold yon lofty woodbine hills
Where the rose in the morning shines
Those crystal brooks that do distil
And mingle with those vines
There seems to me no pleasure gained
They but augment my woe
While here an outcast doomed to live
And work the labouring hoe
You generous sons of Erin’s isle
Whose heart for glory burns
Pity a wretched exile
Who his long-lost country mourns
Restore me heaven to liberty
Whilst I lie here below
Untie this clue of bondage
And release me from the hoe!
Mary Reiby
written, played & sung by Sue Gee
additional vocals by Jenny O’Reilly, Miguel Heatwole, Margaret Walters & Len Neary
“While researching a workshop on cross-dressing in folk music I discovered the teenaged Mary’s brief episode during which she stole a horse, resulting in her being transported to Australia. I have been writing songs for many years now and my pet topics include women in Austalian ‘herstory,’ especially controversial figures, and political satire.”
Tell me, convict boy James Borrow
What may be your fate tomorrow?
Streets of Sydney glowing gold
For Mary Reiby, merchant bold
When you’re next at Circular Quay
Take a stroll down Reiby Place
See a travel-worn ship docking
And a teenaged convict’s lonely face
Was she anxious, hopeless, fearful
Bitter, raging at her plight?
Or did she see sun on water glinting
Thanking God he’d spared her life?
Denied a loving place in family
Young Mary took a desperate ploy
To escape her situation
She masqueraded as a boy
James Borrow was the name she took
Three months she roamed a wandering course
Til penniless, in rags, and starving
From a field she stole a horse
Could she have known this reckless act
Her whole destiny would shape?
Despite all pleas she was transported
To spend her days in a strange landscape
Conditions on the ship were hard
A fever cost them many lives
But Mary, lucky and resourceful
Somehow managed to survive
Assigned to working as a servant
In Lieutenant Grose’s home
She caught the eye of a young sailor
Thomas Reiby was his name
On the banks of the Hawkesbury River
Together they farmed a grant of land
Began their lives as equal partners
In love and business, hand in hand
A flood destroyed their Hawkesbury home
So the Reibys moved to Sydney’s Rocks
Mary ran their trading stores
Tom sailed the world purchasing stock
For many years the business prospered
‘Til fever took Tom from her side
But Mary carried on undaunted
Although her tears had scarcely dried
Alone, she brought up seven children
Her sons upon her ships enrolled
Her steady hand made wise investments
Until an empire she controlled
She stood her ground among the men
With commonsense and business skill
Yes, we salute you Mary Reiby
Your life inspires all women still
Rugged ’n’ Buggered
written & sung by David Nipperess
“This song is directly inspired by Peter Brune’s book ‘Those Ragged Bloody Heroes’. The lyrics reflect the language of spoken accounts included therein. Apologies for any instances of historical inaccuracy - put it down to artistic license.”
I was working for my father
On a dairy farm out on Otway
When one day that thrice-poxed postie
With a conscription notice came
John Curtin said “boy you’re the one
To protect our dear home from the rising sun”
‘Cos the volunteers were fighting for England
Only the rugged and the buggered remained
So they placed me in a Choco battalion
39th AMF was its name
And they sent us on off to New Guinea
Even though we were only half-trained
I remember turning twenty quite well
‘Cos the very next day was when Singapore fell
And as the panic spread to Port Moresby
Only the rugged and the buggered remained
So we marched on up to Kokoda
And the track it was sheer muddy hell
And they told us to hold this great ridgeline boys
Before the Japs could get there as well
But they took us at about six to one
When the best thing we had was an old Lewis gun
And the cry went back to Port Moresby
Only the rugged and the buggered remained
Well we fought them off with our rifles
With our spades and our boots and our knives
And we gave those sons of the Emperor
The bloodiest fight of our lives
But we knew we hadn’t a hope
As we paid with our youth to retreat down the slope
And as the veterans sailed for Port Moresby
Only the rugged and the buggered remained
We were on our last bloody legs at Isurava
We were sick, we were starved, we were worn
Then the veterans came to fill out our line
Just when we thought we were gone
Well we staggered away from the front
Our clothes were old rags and our guns rusted up
And as I looked out amongst my companions
Only the rugged and the buggered remained
The Metho Man
by Graeme Connors
sung by Frank Moore
Daintry Frank – a mate of Simon’s from up north – was one of those discoveries that make folk festivals so worthwhile. I’ve not seen any of the films he’s in but oh, what a voice!
On the edge of the mangrove, down by Casey’s hole
There lives the Metho Man
’Neath rusting wrought iron, a fire’s burning low
There lives the Metho Man
Come my beauty and dance
They’re playing the Varsovienna
Come my beauty and drink
Drink to the memory of a younger man’s dreams
At night you can hear them float by on the wind
The songs of the Metho Man
His voice at times booming, sometimes high and thin
The songs of the Metho Man
My Grandfather knew him, from his time on the rails
Says he was real quiet, always kept to himself
On the edge of the mangrove, down by Casey's Hole
There died the Metho Man
And they say he just fell asleep in the flames
There died the Metho Man
Finisterre
by Ian Telfer
sung & played by Tony Eardley
“Nostalgia for departed youth and the sadness of loss are poignantly captured in this song of buccaneering on the Spanish Main, by the Oyster Band’s Ian Telfer. For the hearing challenged, no it’s not ‘farewell Fred Astaire’!” Tony is an original songwriter, watch out for his album appearing ‘at some point.’
Farewell Finisterre
Sleep away the afternoon
Rockin’ with the tide, drinkin’ with the moon
I found a ticket in my pocket
All the way from Port of Spain
And a warm wind from the Indies carried me again
Santander
The sky is falling
The tale we told each other has an end
Santander
D’you hear me calling?
You that never lost a friend
We’d off and search for gold: treasure’s buried in the sand
We hid it long ago, before our wars began
When the world was green and early
And time was on our side
Before the storm got up to blow us far and wide
So farewell Finisterre
Sleep away the afternoon
Just rockin’ with the tide, drinkin’ with the moon
Last night I turned the glasses over
And I drank the bottle dry
The moon stared out to sea all night and so did I
(lyrics reprinted by permission of Ian Telfer/Pukka Music 1990)
Hard Times
by Jim Ringer, chorus by Stephen Foster
sung by Allan Murray
“I get a lot of inspiration from American bluegrass. I first became interested in folk music about 40 years ago. At the time, I lived in Scotland and would often go to Glasgow Folk Club. Upon emigrating to South Africa, I got more deeply involved in playing music and found that the more I did it, the more I enjoyed it!”
We’ll play guitar all night long
When the good old days come back
When the Wabash Cannonball
Comes steamin’ down this rusty track
We’ll sing along with the bluebirds’ song
In the cool clear air for sure
There’ll be a chicken in every pot
When the hard times come no more
Oh hard times come again no more!
Many days you have lingered around my cabin door
Oh hard times come again no more!
All I see is poverty
When I look for a brighter day
The good Lord knows where the good times go
The good times sure go away
I’ll make a damn good wealthy man
I ain’t done good as poor
And there’ll be a chicken in every pot
When the hard times come no more
I’m tired of singin’ sad songs
I wanna dance an old time jig
I recall when the bills were small
A Cadillac was big
A government bond was as good as gold
A handshake meant for sure
Oh there’ll be a chicken in every pot
When the hard times come no more
I hope I’m here to stand and cheer
When nobody has the blues
When you watch TV and all you see
Is nothin’ but good news
I wanna see the old SP
Kick an Amtrak out the door
I wanna see a chicken in every pot
When the hard times come no more
Back In Durham Gaol
by Jez Lowe
sung by Adrian Hill
“Jez Lowe’s genius is in capturing the spirit, culture and humour of the North East of England in his songs.” This song was inspired by ‘Nee Gud Luck in Dorham Jail’ by Tommy Armstrong (1848-1919) known as ‘the Pitman Poet.’
I’m a poor man as honest as they come
I never was a thief until they caught me
And the judge said he saw my hands were red
No matter how I plead he found me guilty
There was no bail, off to Durham gaol
I went knowing nothing that could save me
Calamities they always come in threes
And that’s how many months it was he gave me
And no never in the livelong day
You won’t find me back in Durham gaol
‘Twas a grey day when first I went astray
The devil take the man that came to tempt me
‘Cause in no time my life was one of crime
And now you see the trouble that it’s got me
There’s four bare walls at which to stare
My board and my lodgings are all paid for
And you can’t see the turning of the key
To see it turnin’ back is all you wait for
Sad to say, here I am to stay
With only iron bars around to lean on
I get a cold bath to dampen down me wrath
‘Though it’s barely just a month ago I had one
And God knows I need a suit of clothes
You’d think they could’ve found a one to fit me
My boots would be fine if they were both a nine
I’m walking like a fall of stones has hit me
And I’m sure that me mother’s heart would break
To see me in a state of such repentance
And I’m glad she’s not around to see
‘Cause I’ll be out before she finishes her sentence
The sun will shine, I’ll leave it all behind
Knowing I’ve done my time and done my duty
Out through the gates on the narrow and the straight
To the place where I have buried all the booty!
(lyrics reprinted by permission of J.Lowe/Lowe Life Music)
The Judge That Liked To Gamble
tune ‘The Court of King Caractacus’
words by Dave Kennedy
sung by John Ross
“This is a great chorus song - it’s all chorus! It’s one of a series of ‘Rolf Harris’ parodies by my friend Dave Kennedy - who once convinced a punter in the Longyard Hotel (Tamworth) that he was the real Rolf!”
If you’re from the National Times
And you’d really like to find
All the cops and tape-recorders
Who were following the orders
Of the crooked politician
Seen on national television
With the well known racing figure
Taking compromising pictures
Of the judge that liked to gamble
With the payoffs that he handled
At the court of petty sessions...
Manyura Manyah
by Matt McGinn
sung by Bill Arnett
“I came to the folkie family by vicarious ways through exposure to Peter, Paul and Mary, Bob Dylan & Pete Seeger during the 1960s. My natural pixie tendency automatically picked up on toilet humour so this song was a natural. Later in life I learned that the song is actually a lament for past times while also a cultural comment about big business and the loss of the importance of the individual when a mogul has influence. It’s also great to sing along with.......”
I’ve heard men complain o’ the jobs that they’re dain’
When they’re hawkin’ the coal or diggin’ the drain
But whatever they are, there’s none that compar’
Wi’ a man that’s at shovellin’ manyura, manyah!
Wi’ manyura manyah, wi’ manyura manyah!
Wi’ manyura, manyura, manyura manyah!
Oh the streets o’ the toon were all kivvered aroon
Wi’ stuff that was beautiful gowden and broon
It was put there o’ course by a big Clydesdale horse
And its name was manyura, manyura manyah!
I ha’ followed its track wi’ me shovel and sack
And often as no wi’ a pain in me back
It was a’ for the rent and the beautiful scent
Of manyura, manyura, manyura manyah!
But I’m feelin’ so sore for my job’s been took o’er
And everything noo is mechanical power
And there’s nought left for me but the sweet memory
Of manyura, manyura, manyura manyah!
My Last Farewell To Stirling
traditional Scottish
sung by Anthony Woolcott
“The late Dave Alexander suggested this to me one night at the Glen. I’d asked him for suggestions and he said ‘Farewell to Stirling’ without batting an eye.” This is one of relatively few transportation ballads from Scotland, and it’s certainly a popular one – see Anthony, Judy and Miguel’s album ‘Triantan’ for another version.
No lark in transport mounts the sky
Or leaves with early plaintive cry
But I will bid a last goodbye
My last farewell to Stirling, oh
Though far away, my heart’s with you
Our youthful hours upon wings they flew
But I will bid a last adieu
My last farewell to Stirling, oh
No more I’ll meet you in the dark
Or go with you to the king’s park
Or raise the hare from out their flap
When I go far from Stirling,oh
No more I’ll wander through the glen
Disturb the roost of the pheasant hen
Or chase the rabbits to their den
When I go far from Stirling, oh
So fare thee well, my Jeannie dear
For you I’ll shed a bitter tear
I hope you find another, dear
When I go far from Stirling, oh
So fare thee well, for I am bound
For twenty years to Van Dieman’s Land
But think on me and what I’ve done
When I go far from Stirling, oh
The Parting Glass
traditional Irish
sung by Judy Pinder
“This is an ‘American wake’ song to farewell emigrants. Since anyone leaving Ireland in the 19th century was highly unlikely to return home again, their family and friends would hold a wake for them before they left.” For many years at the Glengarry Castle the session would only finish if Judy, or someone else, would sing this song.
Of all the money that e’er I spent
I spent it in good company
And of all the harm that e’er I’ve done
I swear ‘twas done to none but me
And all I’ve done for want of wit
To memory now I can’t recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night, and joy be to you all
If I had money enough to spend
And leisure time to sit awhile
There is a fair maid in this town
And she surely has my heart beguiled
Her rosy cheeks and ruby lips
I own she has my heart in thrall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night, and joy be to you all
Of all the friends that e’er I had
They were sorry for my going away
And of all the sweethearts e’er I had
They would wish me one more day to stay
But since it falls unto my lot
That I should rise and you should not
Then I’d gently rise and softly call
Good night, and joy be to you all
The People Have Songs - Miguel Heatwole: mheatwole@bigpond.com
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