These are some of the songs we have been learning.

Because they are not polished, there are mis-takes, but they are energetic and exciting, we think.

not always neat and pretty

Press More for more…

High Barbary

The first recorded version of this song dates from 1595, and refers to ships named the ‘George Aloe’ and the ‘Sweepstake’.

This version is an updating from the last half of the 18th century, when North African pirates were causing huge problems for English and American shipping.

These problems eventually led to the Barbary Wars of the early 19th Century. North America refused to pay the tributes demanded by North African Barbary states, for safe-passage of their ships.

This song, promoting Anglo/European high-seas success, acts as a piece of pro-government propoganda, convincing would-be sailors and investors that the merchant ships could fight back. Perhaps this indicates to the canny historian that the usual state of affairs was in fact the opposite…

Hit Me Baby

This is a Britney Spears number. It is sufficiently well-known, and covered by enough other performers, to be slotted into the folk canon, should such a thing exist. One day, we will learn the whole song. It is always popular with teens of the right era, and can be a useful attention keeper mid-gig.

Pleasant and Delightful

This song dates from the mid 19th cenury, in its earliest written form. It was sold as a ballad, as a printed sheet probably advertised by the seller singing it.

It was collected by Bert Lloyd from East Anglia singers, in 1939, and has today reached as far as you and us.

The Parting Glass

This is a classic farewell for friends. It was here sung with Sam Lee as a third part harmony, in our rained-upon dome house, this winter gone.

It was once allegedly the most popular song in Ireland and Scotland, and dates in its earliest records to 1605, when a verse of the song was written in a letter by one of the Border Reivers, who was executed a year later.

We learned it from a Robin Williamson recording, and we recommend that anyone, hearing it from us as a new song, should refer onwards to Robin’s excellent version.

Thankyou for listening.

Free Songs in Radnorshire

We present a selection of songs from our winter shows and gigs.

Our winter was not all rock and roll, it is true. Radnorshire is a pretty quiet place, with probably more sheep than humans. Nonetheless, we had intentions, when we arrived in the woods, to establish a settled routine of Water, Wood, Fire and Food, and to allow plenty of spare time for song in the local community.

But the cold, the rigours of house-building, and older fatigues (ourselves and each other) soon made things trickier than we’d guessed plausible.

The upshot is, we gigged far less than we hoped. Indeed, in the bleakest depths of winter, our brotherly resolve broke down entirely. But the wheel turns, as it must, and we’re now hoping our deep empty leaden foolishness might turn to gold. If not, it’s all character building stuff.

Even busking was tricky (in that we didn’t manage to do it much). Our main venue, when we tried, was in Llandrindod Wells, an old Victorian Spa town, which is a portrait-photographer’s dream, full of incredibly varied and interesting people. Some locals told us that the council sent all the troublemakers here, the people who caused community disturbances, which is a fitting myth. We learned, from Van, the owner of the town’s good food shop, that 1960s Llandrindod was a post-London mecca for weary hippies, and even the Incredible String Band (Ed’s faves) were here for a spell.

Busking in town won us few pennies, but the unpredictable social interractions made it always worthwhile.

Sovay – Llan Dod

Ryb An avon – Llan Dod

We also sung in a few Care Homes, the British Legion in Rhyader, the Bupa in Llan Dod, and in these places we faced our harshest audiences yet. If the majority did enjoy the old songs, they remained mostly silent; but the outspoken few were greviously embittered at the imposition of folk song on their restful afternoons, and told us so repeatedly.

“Is it over yet? Why’s the TV off?” was the chorus for every song.

There was also a slightly darker side to one care-home, for when no staff were about, an old lady, with spite and sufficient agility to pursue it,  told a frailer co-habitant: “You be quiet now Betty, or I’ll give you a push!”

Amongst OAPs, this was tantamount to a murder threat, and its sinister implications chilled us.

We also sung in Churches, three times on Easter Sunday. We thought it would be a good way to make friends in the local community, and it was; although the congregations were mostly countable on 2 hands.

for the third time today...

The vicar’s eye gleamed when he related how the non-conformist chapels, traditionally more popular than the Church of Wales, were nowadays doing even worse for ‘bums-on-pews’. It seems that Britain is not especially keen on churchgoing these days.

Ed and I enjoy diverse social rituals, and grew up within an Anglican tradition of worship, so we thought we could handle this triple dose of Church. But three services in one day is a startlingly difficult trial. Our bones ached, and our heads hummed with the same sermon told thrice. Our endurance levels just couldn’t cope with all the sitting, standing, muttering, and singing.

For the hymns were appalling, turgid lumps of Victoriana, whose unexpected melodic jumps were beyond the ability or ken of any singer there.  These hymns were actively depressing, and they were the same in all three services.

“Music makes the Church, the Church doesn’t make the music” someone once said, but here the music was un-making the service, and deflating any sense of wonder or awe that might accompany the most Holy day in the Christian calendar. Oh well. We contributed with a Shaker song, a methodist song, and a Gypsy song, for it is always a pleasure to sing good songs loudly in a well-built stone church.

The Good Old Way (Charles Wesley)

outside Cwm Hir Church

The above song was sung in the village church of Abbey Cwm Hir, which is a lovely little village north of Llandrindod Wells. We had hoped to find the public house open after the service, but were told that this village maintained the Welsh tradition of no sunday opening. Forty years ago, we were informed, such a thing was the standard all across Cymru: “But once one pub started opening, and taking all that extra money, well everyone else just had to follow suit”

In Abbey Cwm Hir lies the grave of Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, the last King of independent Wales, who was tricked in battle by dishonourable Royalists, and whose death heralded the end of a period of fierce Cymraig resistance to English Dominion.

The Last King's Grave

Cromwell did the Abbey, the Forestry Commission did the Woods

But not all gigs were OAPs and Churches. We sung for beer too. The pub scene is notoriously reliable for welcoming old songs, and this is as true in Wales as anywhere. At the Oxford Arms in Kington, we sang alongside Kington band Ragged Glory, in a musical opening to the Kington Energy Week, which looked toward post-oil energy strategies for the villagers.

and they called them Ragged Glory

a song and dance

Bigmouth and the Slacker

And as a final gig in Radnorshire, we sung in the Fforest Inn at Nant Melan, which is a most excellent pub. We were not on top form, but the audience were having fun, so everything else followed.

Finishing Dance Lord, into 3 Drunken Maidens

The Burning of Auchidoon

My Husband’s Courage

It was lot of fun, but the show was fairly stolen by the 2 kichen girls, each aged 14, who sung rock and roll crooners with their grandad (Uncle?), a sort of ‘Saint Elvis of Preseli and the Kichenettes’ show. It blew us away, and rightly so.

Here is them, singing a Beach Boys number:

And here they are again:

And here is the man singing, without the girls. It is a quite amazing track, so do please listen:

We wish we could give you details of this family group, who have recently recorded something. To track them down, your best bet is probably through the Forest Inn, where they wash up.

Those who know nothing of the name, the man, or the songs, might wish to read on awhile…

heroically leaping herrings, Sam is well-known for his good leather boots

Sam Lee is a singer who knows where his songs come from. He works to turn dry old archive recordings into breath, ears, and living celebration.

He is a lineage-holder (with a silver ring to prove it). He was the last apprentice to Stanley Robertson, Scotland’s Traveller Song-King, who taught Sam the songs, the meanings, and the magic of his art and experience. Stanley died last year, God rest him (see obituary), leaving young Sam to maintain the traditions with which he has been entrusted.

Sam has a uniquely thorough grounding in the Folk Traditions of these islands. He worked for years at Cecil Sharp House, the English Folk HQ (see EFDSS). It was through a chance meeting with Sam’s (then) boss, Malcolm, in a Lewes pub, that we met with Sam, and were happily enthused. Our friendship has led us into recording sessions in Cecil Sharp House, to performances in the South Bank Centre, and has seen Sam join us en-walk, on sundry happy occasions.

Sam as MC, the South Bank Centre

An inspiring organizer, Sam’s motif seems to be ‘example and enthusiasm’, which people are always willing to follow. He puts on weekly gigs and sessions in London and beyond, with his (award-winning) collective “The Magpie’s Nest”. Last thing we heard, he was touring the USA. If there was ever a man to watch in the British Folk Scene, it is Sam Lee.

Sam is also a bushcraft expert, a thrivalist and outdoors man. This makes him even better company when out walking. Once, when walking alone beside a frozen Scottish river , he saw a mighty trout beneath the surface ice, and by tying his knife to a fallen bough, he improvised the spear with which he took the fish’s life, and ate it. We admire.

Wood Ant Feasting

Sam seems to agree with us that the most fitting place for traditional British songs is deep in the landscape that produced them. Concrete and car-horns are not the finest folk accompaniment, but birds of the field, wind through woods, and rhythmic sea-tide, most certainly are. These are the contexts that birthed the old songs, the invisible background to all ballads of Britain.

We are glad to have met Sam Lee, whose works so happily co-mingle with our own. If you’re in London, be sure to seek him out. If you’re far from there, his myspace site might suffice…

The Recordings

This winter, in the depths of the coldest snap, when every edge was smoothed and toothed by the enveloping ice, Sam came to visit us. His company was warming welcome, and he brought forth song, great slabs of the stuff, with which to cheer our cockles.

big teeth icy water

Here are those songs. The recordings speak amply for themselves. Please enjoy them greatly.

Van Dieman’s Land

This tells the tale of poachers. condemned to Tasmania, for trying to supplement family diets with the forbidden flesh of a rich man’s Game Park. The background sound is the rain, falling on our winter home, and the drone comes from Sam’s Shruti Box, an Indian hand-organ.

The Cherry Tree Carol

This song combines the lyric made famous by Shirley Collins, with the old carol of the Holly and the Ivy. We like it very much.

The Clydeswater

This is a Stanley Robertson classic, as told and sung by his protege Sam.

Robin Hood and the Pedlar

A Robin Hood ballad, from the tradition that placed Hood and his merry men in Scotland. In this tale the outlaws are bested by an anonymous peddlar, who they discover (after a sound thrashing) is a fighting man of some repute, sent to Scotland as exile from his own lands. This is one of a great body of Robin Hood ballads. See Child Ballads for more details.

Gower Wassail

This is but a verse of the Gower wassailing song, sung to bless the Orchards, to celebrate the harvest, and to refresh the social contract in which its participants were living. It is a song very much worth learning. We love the choral ‘fal-dee-daddy’ especially…

Henry Martin

A wonderful song of piracy and treachery, where the English do not come off best, but sink sink sink.

The Sheepstealer

A final song, which describes a poor man’s cut-throat economic aspirations.

Sebastian-Stan

The Beach Tomorrow

And for a caveat, please press more…

It is a bit like being haunted…something is following you…with a simple tune and inane lyric. And when someone in the group blurts it out, everyone has to re-ingest it.

So, if you wish for a clear-headed day, with no such tricksy melody traipsing round your brainpan, don’t listen.

But if you hold that the mark of an educated person is the ability to entertain any theory, without needing to believe it, then perhaps you’ll be fine. You should listen right up.

It is a tough call. Like a popular film, a sure-to-be trashy novel, or a glitzy pop-song, the yea/nay choice is hard to make. For how can you reasonably decide, till you’ve already let it in? And once in your head, the decision becomes null, for at that stage you can’t take it out again.

It’s a strange idea, the call to unreasonably pre-judge input stimuli from a position of ignorance, but is undeniably worth considering. Such an act would be instinctive censorship, a social condom, to ensure we are not simply open to the osmosis of information media pointed at us.

For, in the same way that we look back on the diet or medicine of 200 years ago, and say: “I can’t believe they let that into their bodies”, so, in years to come, will people look back on our time, and say: “I can’t believe they let that into their minds.”

How many violent images, scenes of horror, appalling things which our eyes should never have witnessed, have been indelibly imprinted into us by the innocent sitting down and watching of movies? Very many, we think.

This is not exactly the case with Will’s 2 little songs. They are not violent, nor probably dangerous. At worst, they might be a little catchy.

But they serve to illustrate this point well. Make your choice before you listen. If you don’t want a new little ditty in your skull, and don’t press play.

And if you so decide, then consider cultivating this decision. Feel more free with your self-protective discrimination, using it to block off  the unconscious consumption of mass-culture. If we don’t protect ourselves, if we simply say ‘yes!’ (or say nothing, forgetting we have a choice), our interior protests will be overwhelmed and lost, and we shall be acting as consumption devices for studio output, experimental terminals in the global digital transfer process.

After all, whose head is it anyway? Who is the custodian of your inner-peace?

Bear this in mind now.

A Bitter Song to Chew

But apart from our own ego-flattery, this article provokes many good questions about the nature of modern traditional music in our societal context.

We like it. Read it HERE.

the debut album

]]> http://www.awalkaroundbritain.com/music/album/first-review-of-cd-album/feed/ 2 http://www.awalkaroundbritain.com/music/album/all-lyrics-to-cd-album-songs http://www.awalkaroundbritain.com/music/album/all-lyrics-to-cd-album-songs#comments Fri, 15 Jan 2010 23:14:02 +0000 Branching Arts http://www.awalkaroundbritain.com/journey/ Here are all the Lyrics to our debut album, Songs.

Please take these songs, and make them yours, and your friends’ and childrens’.

Keep them, and give them away. Learn them, sing them, change them.

In the shower, while washing up, to the stars and starlings, please sing them.

home is where the song's sung

1.    Ryb an Avon

This song’s title is Cornish for “Beside the waters”, or at least that’s what the oral tradition of East Cornwall informed us. Because its title seems so disconnected from the lyrics, we ponder whether this song has come from the combination of an old melody, a Cornish air of unknowable antiquity, and a natty new set of lyrics about love and madness.

Like a pedigree dog, this current ‘setting’ of melody and lyric have become established together, and now look natural. And who are we to argue?

The decision to start the album with this song was kindly and fairly made by Ed and Ginger’s mum.

Abroad, as I was walking,
One evening in the spring,
I heard a maid in Bedlam, so sweetly for to sing,
Her chains she rattled with her hands,
And thus replied she,
“I love my love, because I know
My love loves me.”

“But O, my cruel parents,
They have been too unkind,
They drove and banished me,
And tortured my mind,
Although I’m ruined for his sake,
Contented will I be,
I love my love because I know
My love loves me.”

“Should I become a swallow,
I’d ascend up in the air,
And I f I lost my labour,
And should not find him there,
I quickly would become a fish
And search the flowing sea,
I love my love, because I know
My love loves me”

Just as she was sat weeping,
Her love came on the land,
Hearing she was in Bedlam,
Well he ran straight out of hand,
And as he entered in the gates,
He heard her sigh and say,
“I love my love, because I know,
My love loves me.”

He stood and gazed upon her,
Hearing his love complain,
His feet could stand no longer,
For he bled in every vein,
He flew into her lily white arms,
And thus replied he,
“I love my love, because I know
My love loves me.”

2. Tom o Bedlam

A second song of madness…

For to see mad tom of Bedlam,
10,000 miles I’ll travel,
Mad maudlin goes on dirty toes,
To save her shoes from gravel,

Still I sing bonny boys, bonny mad boys,
Bedlam boys are bonny,
For they all go bare, and live by the air,
And they want no drink nor money.

My staff has murdered giants,
By bag a long knife carries,
For to cut mince pies off of children’s thighs,
With which to feed the faeries,

Still…

Spirits clear as lightning,
shall on my travels guide me,
The moon would quake and the stars would shake,
Whenever they espied me,

Still..

It’s when next I have murdered
The Man in the Moon to a powder,
His staff I’ll break, his dog I’ll bake,
There’ll howl no demon louder

So drink to Tom of Bedlam,
He’ll fill the seas in barrels,
I’ll drink it all, all brewed with gall,
With Mad Maudlin I’ll travel.

Still…

3. Spenser the rover

A Copper Song, about Spenser and his journeys.
These words were composed by Spenser the rover
Who travelled Great Britain and most parts of Wales.
He had been so reduced, which caused great confusion,
And that was the reason he went on the roam.

In Yorkshire, near Rotheram, he had been on his rambles,
Being weary of travelling he sat down to rest,
At the foot of yonder mountain, there runs a clear fountain
With bread and cold water he himself did refresh.

It tasted more sweeter than the gold he had wasted,
More sweeter than honey and gave more content,
Butt he thoughts of his babies lamenting their father
Brought tears to their eyes, which made him lament

And the night fast approaching, to the woods he resorted,
With woodbine and ivy, his bed for to make,
There he dreamt about sighing, lamenting and crying,
“Go home to your family, and rambling forsake.”

On the 5th of November, I’ve a reason to remember,
When first he returned to his family and wife,
They stood so surprised, when first he arrived,
To behold such a stranger once more in their sight.

His children gathered round him with their prattle-prattling stories,
With their prattle prattling stories, to drive cares away,
Now they are united, like birds of one feather,
Like bees in one hive, contented they’ll be.

So now he’s a living in his cottage contented,
With woodbine and roses growing all around the door,
He’s as happy as those that have thousands of riches,
Contented he’ll stay, and go a rambling no more.
4. Harvest song

This is to wake up the harvesters, and is indeed a bracing morning number.

We gets up in the morn
And we sound the harvest horn
Our master has orders for to mind,
First thing we take in hand,
Is the stopper from the can,
That each man can drink
Until the bottom be found
Then each man may do his part,
And may work with hand and heart,
While the glorious sun do shine, do shine,
While the glorious sun do shine.

Our master brings the can,
O he’s a jolly hearted man,
Come on me lads
and take a drop of the best,
But don’t you stand and prattle
when you hear the wagons rattle,
For the sun he is a drawing to the west, to the west,
For the sun he is a drawing to the west.

O It’s the farmer’s daughter dear,
brews us plenty of strong beer,
And cheese enough to cheer up any soul,
Oh then each man may drink and say
Heaven bless this happy day,
When we crown the harvest with the flowing bowl,flowing bowl,
When we crown the harvest with the flowing bowl.

5. Albert Berry and the Coal

This is written by a man called Ted Edwards, who we hope to bump into when we are Lancashire bound. He has written a lovely song, and he was nearly an astronaut.
To the coal went Albert Berry,
Drill of iron in his hand,
Off to fight another battle,
For the people of this land.

Said the coal to Albert Berry,
“For forty years you’ve been a man,
You took away the best part of me,
Today I’ll kill you if I can.”

Albert took his drill of iron
And he drilled himself a hole,
“For forty years you’ve tried to kill me,”
Said Albert Berry to the coal

Said the coal to Albert Berry,
“I have scarred your back with blue,
And your lungs are black and tattered,
Today I’ll make an end of you.”

Albert took the shot and wire,
Plunged them deep into the hole,
“Do your worst, you black old devil,”
Said Albert Berry to the coal

Said the coal to Albert Berry,
As he pushed the plunger deep,
“I will make your wife a widow
I will your children weep.”

A ton of dirt flew down the tunnel,
As Albert crouched into a hole,
“So you didn’t get me this time,”
Said Albert Berry to the coal.

Albert stepped into the tunnel,
But he didn’t hear the sound
As a ton of dirt and rubble
Crushed Albert Berry to the ground.

Said the coal to Albert Berry,
As Albert’s blood seeped to the floor,
“Men have always won the battle
But I will always win the war.”

Said the ghost of Albert Berry,
“Out of every bag of coal,
There’ll be other Albert Berrys,”
Said Albert Berry to the coal.

6 Diggers Song

This is righteous…

You noble diggers all, stand up now, stand up now,
You noble diggers all, stand up now,
The wasteland to maintain, seeing cavaliers by name,
You’re digging does maintain, and persons all defame,
Stand up now, stand up now.

Your house they pull down, stand up now, stand up now,
Your houses they pull down, stand up now,
your houses they pull down, to fright your men in town,
but the gentry must come down, and the poor shall wera the crown,
stand up now, diggers all.

With spades and hoes and ploughs, stand up now, stand up now,
With spades and hoes and ploughs, stand up now.
Your freedom to uphold, seeing cavaliers are bold,
To kill you if they could, and rights from you to hold,
Stand up now, diggers all.

The gentry are all round, stand up now, stand up now,
The gentry are all round, stand up now,
The gentry are all round, on each side they are found,
Their wisdom so profound, to cheat us of our ground,
Stand up now, stand up now.

The lawyers they conjoin, stand up now, stand up now,
The lawyers they conjoin stand up now,
To arrest you they advise, such fury they devise,
The Devil’s in them lies, and hath blinded both their eyes,
Stand up now, stand up now.

The club is all their law, stand up now, stand up now,
The club is all their law, stand up now,
The club is all their law, to keep poor men in awe,
That they a vision saw, to bind us to their law,
Stand up now, diggers all.
7 Lasses from Banyan

This is a paisley pantomime of a song. We like it.
There were two lovely lasses from banyan, from banyan, from banyan,
There were two lovely lasses from banyan,
And I am the best of them all,
O and I am the best of them all,

And my father has 40 white shillings, shillings, shillings,
And my father has 40 white shillings,
And an hook and a goat and a cow,
And a hook and a goat and a cow.

And my mother she says I can marry, marry, marry,
And my mother has said I can marry,
And she’ll leave me her bed when she dies.

And I’m sending my dress to the menders, menders, menders,
And I’m sending my shoes to the menders,
And my petticoat to be dyed green,

And tomorrow morning I shall meet him, meet him, meet him,
And tomorrow morning I shall meet him,
And I shall be dressed like a queen,
O, and I shall be dressed like a queen.

8 Rambling Sailor

It’s the young roving blade, the fellow about town, the rooster out strutting and wandering…

I am a sailor brisk and bold that oft has sailed the ocean,
And I’ve travelled the country far and wide,
For honour and promotion.
My shipmates all, I bid you adieu,
Now I may no longer go along with you,
I’ll travel the country through and through
And they call be the rambling sailor.

And if you want to know my name, my name it is young Johnson,
I’ve got a commission from the king
To court all girls is handsome,
With my false heart, and flattering tongue,
I’ll court them all, both old and young,
I’ll court them all, and marry none,
And they call me the rambling sailor.

Now first I came to Faversham town,
And there were lasses plenty,
I boldly stepped unto a one,
To court her for her money,
Says I, “my dear, be of good cheer,
I will not leave you, do not fear,
I’ll travel the country far and near,
And they call me the rambling sailor.

Oh next I come to Canterbury town,
And there were lasses plenty,
And I boldly stepped unto a one,
To court her for her beauty,
Says I, “my dear, what do you choose,
Here’s ale, wine and rum punch too,
Beside a pair of silk satin shoes,
If you’ll travel with the rambling sailor.

well then I rose up with the dawn,
Just as the day was peeping,
And on tiptoes down those stairs I went,
And I left my lover sleeping,
And if she waits, until I come,
Well she may wait right there till the day of her doom,
I’ll court some other girl in her room,
And they call me the rambling sailor.

9 Staines Morris

This is for dancing. Morris is our native Capoeira, a fertility, combat and community ritual.
Come ye young men, come along,
With your music, dance and song,
Bring your lasses in your hands,
For tis that which love commands,

Then to the maypole, haste away,
For tis now our holiday. X2

Tis the choice time of the year,
For the violets now appear,
Now the rose receives its birth,
And the pretty primrose decks the earth,

Then…

Here each batchelor may choose
One that will not faith abuse,
Nor repay with coy disdain,
Love that should be loved again,

Then…

And when you well reckoned have,
What kisses you your sweetheart gave,
Take them all again and more,
It will never make them poor,

Then…

When you thus have spent your time,
And the day be past its prime,
To your beds repair at night,
And dream there of your day’s delight,

And then…x2

10. Oats and beans

This quietens crying kiddies.
Oats and beans and barley grows
As you and I and everyone knows,
O oats and beans and barley grows
As you and I and everyone knows,
A waiting for the partner.

Now you’re married you must obey,
Must be kind in all you say,
Must be kind and must be good
And help your wife to chop the wood,
a-waiting for the partner

oats and beans…rep 1st.

–

11. Fiddlers green

Death, fish, and optimism. John Connelly’s excellent 60’s song has all.
As I walked by the dockside one evening so rare,
To view the still waters and take the salt air,
I heard an old fishermen, singing this song
O take me away, boys, my time os not long.

Dress me up in my oilskins and jumper,
No more on the dock I’ll be seen,
Just tell me old shipmates I’ve gone for a trip mate,
And I’ll see you someday on fiddler’s green.

O fiddler’s green is a place I’ve heard tell,
Where the fishermen go if they don’t go to hell,
Where the weather is fair and the dolphins do play,
And the cold coast of Greenland is far far away.

Dress me up..

Where the sky’s always clear and there’s never a gale,
Where the fish jump on board with a swish of their tale,
Wher eyou’ll lie at your leisure, there’s no work to do,
And the skipper’s below making tea for the crew.

Dress me up…

When we get to the dock and the long trip is through,
There’s pubs and there’s clubs and there’s lasses there too,
Where the girls are all pretty and the beer is all free,
And there’s bottles of rum growing from every tree.

Dress…

O I don’t want a harp nor a halo not me,
Just give me a breeze on the good rolling sea,
And I’ll play me old squeeze box as we sail along,
With the wind in the rigging to sing me this song,

Dress me up…

12. Topsoil

This is our doing, the odd one in the mix.

And if they were alive today
All of our good kin would be erased,
And closed in doors, under that reign
Each sudden early leaping flame

For here on the topsoil fresh seasons do meet
Feeding and flaying us, dancing through our feet,
And in times like these, folk do merrily greet
All fellow travellers under blessed sol’s heat.

So with hearts atuned to minds we’ll a gather in the time,
I’m told was sweeter in days that aren’t mine,
But I swear to dwell never in such hasty lies,
For now is the fairest time to be alive.

For here on the topsoil old stories still fight,
Playful and bitter, our souls to ignite,
And in times like these manfolk just really might,
Whisper their dark tales to welcome in the light.

O the oldest of law tell us it’s wicked for to love,
Those givers of order who can’t take enough,
They rant at our raves and they huff at our puff,
With smooth bloody promises, the snake eats the dove.

For here on the topsoil sharp spells have been said,
Fact fable fiction blending in this cauldron head,
And in times like these, each folk do really tread,
Most gentle, most certain, on the bones of their dead.

For the ploughshare and the swordblade are one and the same,
Rose petals and iron bombs play but one game,
For the oldest of legends did not hear your name,
And death grows to greet us, that rare tasteless grain.

For here on the topsoil our words gather might
Quicken all hastening never to take fright
And in times like this, dearfolk know well by right,
Each other strange one, near by the nigt.

13. The Hartlake Bridge Tragedy

This happened, musically and historically, which lends some credence to the theory that these old songs are not merely ‘archtypes’, but in fact refer to living folks doing real things.

This is a sad song, sung by Ginger.

Now 7 and 30 strangers, a-hopping they had been,
They were ployed by mr coxes, o near old Golden green,
It was in thaprish of hadlow, that’s near old Tonbridge town,
They heard the screams of those poor souls,
When they were going down.

Now some were men and women, and others gorls and boys,
They kept in contract with the bridge, till the horses they took shy,
They kept in contract with the bridge, till the horses they took shy,
Thy heard the screams of those poor souls, when they were going down.

Now some were men and women, and others girls and boys,
They were ployed near mr coxes, o near old golden green,
It were in the parish of Hadlow, that’s near old Tonbridge town,
That’s where they laid all those poor souls, after they were drowned.

14. The Seven Virgins – The Leaves of Life

A very special song…
All under the leaves and the leaves of life
I met with virgins 7, and one of them was Mary mild,
Our Lord’s best mother in heaven.

O what are you seeking you 7 pretty maids,
All under the leaves of life,
We are seeking for no leaves, Thomas,
But for a friend of thine.

Go down, go down, into yonder town,
And sit in the gallery,
O and there you’ll see sweet Jesus Christ,
All nailed to an elder tree.

So down they went into yonder town,
As fast as foot could fall,
O and many a bitter and a grevous tear,
From them virgins eyes did fall.

O peace, mother, o peace, mother,
Your weeping does me grieve,
For I must suffer this, he says,
For Adam and for Eve.

O how can I my weeping cease,
my sorrows under gall,
When I must watch my own son die,
And sons I have no more.

He’s laid his head on his right shoulder,
And death has struck him nigh,
The Holy Ghost be with your soul,
Sweet mother, now I die.

O, the rose, the gentle rose,
The fennel it grows so strong,
Amen, sweet lord, your charity,
Is the ending of my song.

15. My son John

To be whack a diddled out in protest, we say. Youngsters are still being sent away, to return from far lands with metal torn limbs. This is a timely song, and a critical one.
My son john was tall and slim,
And he had a leg for every limb,
But now he’s got no legs at all,
They were both shot away by the cannonball.

With me roo dumma die,
Rubba diddle eye,
Whack for me riddle
With me roo dum die.

O were you drunk, or were you blind,
When you left your 2 fine legs behind?
Or was it sailing on the sea
Wore your 2 fine legs right down to your knee?

With me…

I was not drunk and I was not blind
When I left me 2 fine legs behind.
Nor was it sailing on the sea,
Wore me 2 fine legs right down to me knee,

With me…

For I was tall, I was slim,
I had a leg for every limb,
But now I’ve got no legs at all,
They were both shot away by the cannonball,

With me roo dumma die,
Rubba diddle eye,
Whack for me riddle with me roo dum die,
O with me roo dum die,
Rubba diddle eye,
Whack for me riddle with me roo dum die.,

16. The Barley Mow.

If we ever meet you, please don’t ask us to sing this. It is a headache next day song, and not for dry tongues.

Here’s good luck to the pint pot, good luck to the barley mow,
Jolly good luck to the pint pot, good luck to the barley mow,

O the pint-pot, half-a-pint, gill-pot, half-a-gill,
quarter-gill, nipperkin, and the brown bowl,
Here’s good luck, good luck, good luck to the barley mow.

ADD ON ONE MEASURE PER VERSE,
FOR CHORUS, COUNT THEM ALL DOWN BACKWARDS.

Half-gallon, gallon, half-bushel, bushel, half-barrel, barrel, landlord, landlady, barmaid, brewer, company.

Last chorus:

O the company, brewer, the barmaid, landlady, landlord, barrel, the half-barrel, bushel, the half-bushel, gallon, the half-gallon, pint-pot, half-a-pint, gill-pot, half-a-gill, quarter gill, nipperkin and the brown bowl,
Here’s good luck, good luck, good luck to the barley mow.

The secret track…is a strange little nursery rhyme, set to a razzing pace by ed and will. A fine rhyme, whose last word is root, with which this album ends.

O, the goose and the gander went over the green,
The goose she went barefoot for fear of being seen,
For fear of being seen, boys, for fear of being seen,
And the goose she went barefoot for fear of being seen.

O I had a black hen, and she had a white foot,
And she laid an egg in a willow tree root,
In a willow tree root, boys, a willow tree root,
And she laid an egg in a willow tree root.

root

]]> http://www.awalkaroundbritain.com/music/album/all-lyrics-to-cd-album-songs/feed/ 2 http://www.awalkaroundbritain.com/music/album/our-cd-is-released http://www.awalkaroundbritain.com/music/album/our-cd-is-released#comments Tue, 15 Dec 2009 23:09:47 +0000 Branching Arts http://www.awalkaroundbritain.com/journey/ Our album, ‘Songs’ by Ed, Will and Ginger, is available on CD now.

Please buy it here, and enjoy the good old songs of this land, as sung by us.

Priced £10, it has 16 tracks, traditional classics and modern bangers alike.

If you would prefer to send us a cheque then let us know and we’ll give you and address.

Available right until Christmas, we will be walking it to the post-office each day from now until the last post.

Ancient corkers like ‘Tom of Bedlam’, as well 20th century staples like ‘Albert Berry and the Coal’, are featured. It has Ed on various stringed instruments, Ginger on drums and organ, and all of us singing our hearts right up.

It’s ideal for almost any family member or friend. It’s a beautiful object, with layers to unwrap. There’s kicks for all the gang in these good old songs, for old Auntie Jane and odd cousin Billy, for sister, boyfriend, dad or granny. It’s a good thing, and we are happy to put it out.

All the lyrics to the songs are written out HERE.

Our debut CD

Here comes more cherry chatter…

Ideally sized to fit snugly in most seasonal stockings, this is a stunning item, far more than just a CD, with a 20 page booklet, packed with stories and information, informative and amusing, and stunning full-colour illustrations and photographs. It also comes with a 2-sided poster!

We’re coming to enjoy saying that. It’s all eco-printed too, although our confusing requests to the printers meant it wasn’t tapped onto the packaging.

So please accept our small apologies for the delay, and please be assured of our great joy at reaching the final stage of our first CD project, this small but well-timed release. We hope you’ll find it a unique and worthwhile object, beautiful, educative and nourishing.

And may the very best of this cold season, much good deep rest, and all joys of the hearth, be found and held by you and yours at this time,

and cheerio for now.

Will and Ed (and Ginger too)

PS Click READ ON if you want to know more about how we got the CD out…

Ed and Ginger, in their earliest twenties, were in a band called ‘Ye Wiles’. Obscure though this may sound, they were big in the UK ska-punk scene, causing many a great explosion of teenage mosh-joy. They were signed to a label named ‘Household Name’, and when they stopped their seeming endless van tour of the UK, they wisely invested their gig and cd money into decent second-hand studio kit.

The upshot is that we have access, while in Kent, to an analogue/digital mix-up, varied bits and bobs that let us record this album ourselves.

This helped us all a lot, as we were approaching the album in some haste, while trying to get organized to go walking again, build a website and write a book.

things grow...

It got mostly done, and each song evolved under the microphone’s ear, till we often didn’t recognize the outcome. Ginger mixed and mastered it all, and then, before we could take another breath, we strapped bags to backs and walked.

Many adventures followed, and the new experiment in our journey, the pretty website, took up far more spare time than we could muster. So the CD lingered, a master disc stashed at the bottom of each bag, a small weight that promised future greater lightenings..

The last of these discs perished 5 months later, in a cave flood on the edge of Wales, which nearly washed away Ed’s whole bag and kit, a tale we’ll later tell.

So after a while in Wales, we popped back to London to sing in the South Bank Centre, and decided to get the CD done. But again it took, as we should have guessed, far longer than anyone imagined.

So glorious it was, yesterday morning, when the CD arrived on a pallet. We managed to arrange them a ride to the edge of the woods, then carried the boxes down to our small home (which, we still marvel, really is warmer than outside…). We had it printed by Davis Rubin, a young British company who accommodated, with marvellous cheer, our vagueness and last-minute alterations.

The artwork was the fruit of our friendship with a girl named Shelley, who we knew through friends and parties in Brighton. Actually, we know her through a girl named Chrissy and a boy called Ryan, two beautiful legends from the edges of the Canterbury Scene. Anyroad, Shelley just drew some things, as she does, which were intensely complexly beautiful, real delights of artwork to look at and hold.

With the help of our good friend Alaric, who comprises our team, Shelly’s pictures were made digital, and could become the aesthetic heart of both website and album.

We have learned a great deal of the many stages of this process, and we hope you’ll agree that the final result is worth the slow build.

If you’ve questions about any of it, please write in asking.

Enjoy the album…

Action photo with Bakery boys

Back in July, Richard Dadd and Dan Fryer from The Bakery came to visit us. They came to take an interview, to form part of a mini series they were producing for BBC Radio Kent. This series was all about strange and exciting things, in and originating from Canterbury, the capital of East Kent. Our sing[-song wanderings apparently qualified.

So up to the woods, just above Monmouth, did Rich and Dan pop. We had been here a few days already, as many visitors were coming out all in rapid succession at that time. We had made a little camp, and an office, with a fern roof, ash poles, and pine rootlet and nettle binding. We had busked in the town, and met some lovely people. Details will come, soon we promise, just as soon as we've finished building our winter home (whose walls are being stuffed with straw right now).

So with Rich and Dan, a fine day and evening were spent wandering through the woods, finding springs and gathering food. Although strangers until now, the pair are friends of friends from our home town, Canterbury, so it was a little like going home to meet them.

Rich and Dan are also deft audio editors, and canny interviewers. After editing a radio-friendly 5 minute episode, culled from the hours of cherry-chatter with which we filled their audio recording device, Rich and Dan found themselves with a lump of excess material. Believing there were sufficient good-sounds to produce another 30 minute podcast, they set to.

Our great thanks to them, for this is what they made:

But we got there. And then, just before we brought the thing out properly, the wind called us, and out the door we went.

fal dee raddle o

Well, 4 months later we still haven’t released the CD. But that is fine, and it will come out when it is best suited. Soon would be better. We are broke, and need shiny pennies to re-sole boots, to buy girls red wine, to keep ourselves in bread and cheese.

But we trust that all will come as it is needed.

For now, we’re bandying about scraps of old recordings. It’s a strange job we have here, working flat out for YOU…whosoever you may be. A paycheque is not part of the bargain. But, we both agree, that makes the work more integral and fulfilling, and provides the proper motivation for furtherance (viz. honesty and education, not reward).

Still, if you like all this work, and you appreciate how we are doing it all in the middle of wherever we find ourselves around Britain, with nothing but busking money to sweeten our labours…and if you know sponsors, good folk with spare pound coins, or boots…consider putting our cause their way, please do.

Right then. Have these snippets:

(from: My husband’s got no courage in him)

(from: Country Life)

Please enjoy, and sing…

coo

While near the Sustainability Centre, Ayla’s ma, Annette, taught us this classic little song:

We found it a beautiful and compellingly catchy one, which we’re trying to learn as a pair.

Here are lyrics:

Fare you well, my dear, i must be gone, and leave you for a while.
If i roam away i’ll come back again, though i roam 10,000 miles, my dear,
though i roam 10,000 miles.

So fair thou art my bonny lass, so deep in love am i,
but i never will prove false to the bonny lass i love,
till the stars fall down from the sky, my dear,
till the stars fall down from the sky.

The sea will never run dry, my dear, nor the rocks never melt with the sun,
but i never will prove false to the bonny lass i love,
till all these things be done, my dear,
till all these things be done.

O yonder sits that little turtle dove, that doth sit on yonder high tree,
a making a moan for the loss of his love,
as i will do for thee, my dear, as i will do for thee.

Please enjoy, and sing…