Roy Bailey recorded it in 1989; Rosselson in 1994. "Written for Inter-Action's healthy learning project. I believe the brief was to write a song to show children how important it is to wash. How to turn such a very dull subject into a fun song?"
Chorus: You need skin, take good care of it Don’t harm a hair of it What would we do without it Keep it clean, soapy water every day Will wash the dirt and smells away ‘Cos you need skin
Whether you’re fat or whether you’re thin It keeps the germs from crawling in Whether you’re skinny or whether you’re stout It keeps the blood from trickling out
Whether you’re black or whether you’re brown It keeps you’re tummy from tumbling down Whether you’re silly or whether you’re smart It keeps your bones from falling apart
Whether you’re dark or whether you’re fair Skin’s the thing for growing hair It’s waterproof in rainy weather And keeps the bits of your body together
We lived over yonder banks Where those tall cranes touch the sky Down beside the dockyard wall Where those terraced houses lie And I think we lived at number four Or was it number six? It was such a long, long time ago I can’t remember which
Chorus: We lived over yonder banks Over there
We played tag on yonder tip When the watchman was away Up and down we used to run A hundred times a day When the shipyard’s sirens blew We’d chase each other home But that was quite some time ago Some thirty years or so
Well I’m at the station now Waiting for the evening train Wondering if by some small chance I might pass this way again Though I left the town where I was born Deep inside I know A little will remain with me No matter where I go
Wikipedia: "While the original version simply attacked the Jacobites from a contemporaneous Whig point of view, Robert Burns rewrote it in around 1791 to give a version with a more general, humanist anti-war, but nonetheless anti-Jacobite outlook. This is the version that most people know today
Chorus: Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear, Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, Ye Jacobites by name, Your fautes I will proclaim, Your doctrines I maun blame, you shall hear, you shall hear Your doctrines I maun blame, you shall hear.
What is Right, and What is Wrang, by the law, by the law? What is Right and what is Wrang by the law? What is Right, and what is Wrang? A short sword, and a lang, A weak arm and a strang, for to draw, for to draw A weak arm and a strang, for to draw.
What makes heroic strife, famed afar, famed afar? What makes heroic strife famed afar? What makes heroic strife? To whet th’ assassin’s knife, Or hunt a Parent’s life, wi’ bluidy war, bluidy war? Or hunt a Parent’s life, wi’ bluidy war?
Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in the state, Then let your schemes alone in the state. So let your schemes alone, Adore the rising sun, And leave a man undone, to his fate, to his fate. And leave a man undone, to his fate.
As I look out across the desert Shoshoni, Arapahoe, [Clovis], Cheyenne Homesteaders, ranchers, uranium miners We all watch the movement of clay and of sand
Chorus: Wyoming, I belong in your valleys Your wandering rivers, and your flowering meadows Wyoming your rocks, your eagles and skies I may wander all over, but my heart stays right here
Sifting through the depths of time Reptiles roamed here, by land and by sea [Merry] chickens they strut and they dance now Nothing stays here indefinitely
Antelope skip across the red desert Boom and bust it’s been all along Wyoming has a way of changing Someday soon this will all be gone
Like gods we purge the top of the mountain Crevices cradle the life within Live like the window, Wyoming will lose you A changing face of a timeless land
Wikipedia: Lightfoot drew inspiration from news reports he gathered in the immediate aftermath of the incident on November 10, 1975. Recorded before the ship's wreckage had been studied, the song reflects some speculation about how the disaster transpired. In 2010, Lightfoot changed a line ('At 7 p.m. it grew dark, it was then he said') to reflect new findings about how the ship had foundered, and also changed 'musty old hall' (referring to 'the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral' or the Mariners' Church of Detroit) to 'rustic old hall'.
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down of the big lake they called “Gitche Gumee.” The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead when the skies of November turn gloomy. With a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty, that good ship and true was a bone to be chewed when the “Gales of November” came early.
The ship was the pride of the American side coming back from some mill in Wisconsin. As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most with a crew and good captain well seasoned, concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms when they left fully loaded for Cleveland. And later that night when the ship’s bell rang, could it be the north wind they’d been feelin’?
The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound and a wave broke over the railing. And ev’ry man knew, as the captain did too ’twas the witch of November come stealin’. The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait when the Gales of November came slashin’. When afternoon came it was freezin’ rain in the face of a hurricane west wind.
When suppertime came the old cook came on deck Sayin’ “Fellas, it’s too rough t’feed ya.” At 7 p.m., it grew dark, it was then he said, “Fellas, it’s bin good t’know ya!” The captain wired in he had water comin’ in and the good ship and crew was in peril. And later that night when his lights went outta sight came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.
Does any one know where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours? The searchers all say they’d have made Whitefish Bay if they’d put fifteen more miles behind ‘er. They might have split up or they might have capsized; they may have broke deep and took water. And all that remains is the faces and the names of the wives and the sons and the daughters.
Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings in the rooms of her ice-water mansion. Old Michigan steams like a young man’s dreams; the islands and bays are for sportsmen. And farther below Lake Ontario takes in what Lake Erie can send her, And the iron boats go as the mariners all know with the Gales of November remembered.
In a rustic old hall in Detroit they prayed, in the “Maritime Sailors’ Cathedral.” The church bell chimed ’til it rang twenty-nine times for each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald. The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down of the big lake they call “Gitche Gumee.” “Superior,” they said, “never gives up her dead when the gales of November come early!”
We were drinking down to Reedy’s house When first we heard the blow It seemed to come from Ripper Rock So boldly forth to go And sure enough the rusty tub Could just be barely seen As her stern was high up in the air We made out Athens Queen O, the lovely Athens Queen
Me boys I must remind you There’s a bottle left inside So let us go and have a few And wait until low tide And if the sea’s not claimed her When the glasses are licked clean We will then set forth some dories lads And see what may be seen On the lovely Athens Queen
Some songs and old tall stories then Came out to pass the time Nor could a single bottle Keep us all until low tide And so it was before we left The house we were at sea So we scarcely can remember How we made the Athens Queen O, the lovely Athens Queen
O the waves inside me belly Were as high as those outside And though I’m never seasick I lost dinner overside T’was well there was no crew to save For we’d have scared ’em green We could scarcely keep ourselves From falling off the Athens Queen O, the lovely Athens Queen
Well Reedy goes straight down below And comes up with a cow Hello I said now what would you Be wantin’ with that now You’ll never take the cow home In a dory on such sea Well me friend he says I’ve always fancied Fresh cream in me tea For the lovely Athens Queen
I headed for the galley then Cause I was rather dry And glad I was to get there quick For what should I spy O what a shame it would have been For to lose it all at sea Forty cases of the best Napolean Brandy ever seen On the lovely Athens Queen
I loaded twenty cases boys Then headed for the shore Unloaded them as quick as that And then pulled back for more Smith was pullin’ for the shore But he could scarce be seen Under near two hundred chickens And a leather couch of green From the lovely Athens Queen
So here’s to all good salvagers Likewise to Ripper Rock And to Napolean brandy of which Now we have much stock We eat a lot of chicken And sit on a couch of green And we wait for Ripper Rock To claim another Athens Queen O, the lovely Athens Queen
Recorded as early as 1961 by Ewan MacColl but all sourced from John Ord's Bothy Songs and Ballads published in Glasgow in 1930, a compilation of collected Scottish songs, but it apparently also appears in the Greig-Duncan Folk Song Collection which was collected between 1902-1914. Ord apparently indicates the song is at least as old as 1883. Below is a mashup of the Ewan MacColl, Martin Carthy, and Billy Ross versions with tweaks especially to second verse by Alex Ellis.
O the working man as you can see That is what he was born to be He’s neither haughty, mean nor proud Nor ever take to things too rude And he never lives above his means Or begs assistance from his friends But day and night, through thick and thin He’s working life out to keep life in
Chorus: No matter friends what e’er befall The poor folk they must work away Through frost and snow, and rain and wind They’re working life out to keep life in
The poor homeless woman that we saw A cardboard sign “God bless” she’s scrawled A picture sorrowful to see, I’m sure with me you’ll all agree. What work she finds can’t feed a mouse, Far less to get herself a house, Though her faith in man’s lost to chagrin She’s working life out to keep life in.
O mischief mine where do you roam When reason called you weren’t at home If you take cheese from the rat Is he then free to hunt the cat If free from union’s free from dues Are you free from choice or free to choose Or free as birds blown by the wind To work life out just to keep life in
But rich men say that we’re to blame And we should hang our heads in shame While all their dreams of greed they sell The poor they’d leave to rot in hell And who’s to care when you grow old No chance for you the pot of gold Still the honest folk we try to win Working life out to keep life in
And though oftentimes the road is hard And hunger’s stalking in your yard It’s providence in trust we’ll keep The children in their beds shall sleep But times will change and live to see A better day for you and me From Peterheid to Gretna Green They work life out to keep life in
Chorus: Oh the Wolfe Island Ferry is a very nice ferry It’s a very nice ferry it’s the Wolfe Island Ferry The Wolfe Island Ferry is a very nice ferry It’s a very nice ferry, it’s the Wolfe Island Ferry!
General Wolfe beat General Montcalm on the Plains of Abraham And because of this, they liked him an awful lot in Kingston The town was named Kingston in the county Frontenac So they spotted an island, and they called it Wolfe Island!
Oh, it’s got a couple highways and a really nice restaurant Called the “General Wolfe”, and it’s named after General Wolfe Who won a couple of battles and had an island named after him It’s a really nice place and a good port to smuggle booze in from the States
Oh, the Wolfe Island Ferry doesn’t carry any wolves Or any source of animals, except for a couple of seagulls Who are really lazy, and so they land on the ferry And that way, they don’t have to fly all the way to Wolfe Island
Oh, the Wolfe Island Ferry doesn’t carry any fairies Cause fairies, unlike seagulls, don’t really mind the flying They fly over to Wolfe Island sprinkling fairy dust all over Except it’s really more like battery acid and it burns your skin until you die
Archie Fisher recorded in 1976 on The Man With a Rhyme, where he wrote: "I have borrowed, for this song, the form of the narrative ballad. The ingredients are a mixture of legend, superstition, and ballad themes brought into focus by the work of the Lakeland painter, Joni Turner. As far as I know, the female centaur is not a creature of mythology, and this role of witch disguise was suggested by the tales of antlered women with bodies of deer seen wading in the shallows of the lakes in the moonlight. There are many pleasant and hospitable inns in the Lake District."
Pale was the wounded knight That bore the rowan shield, Loud and cruel were the raven’s cries That feasted on the field,
Saying, “Beck water, cold and clear, Will never clean your wound. There’s none but the Maid of the Winding Mere Can mak’ thee hale and soond.”
“So course well, my brindled hounds, And fetch me the mountain hare Whose coat is as gray as the Wastwater Or as white as the lily fair.”
Who said, “Green moss and heather bands Will never staunch the flood. There’s none but the Witch of the West-mer-lands Can save thy dear life’s blood.”
“So turn, turn your stallion’s head Till his red mane flies in the wind, And the rider o’ the moon goes by And the bright star falls behind.”
And clear was the paley moon When his shadow passed him by; Below the hill was the brightest star When he heard the houlet cry,
Saying, “Why do you ride this way And wharfore cam’ you here?” “I seek the Witch of the West-mer-lands That dwells by the Winding mere.”
“Then fly free your good grey hawk To gather the goldenrod, And face your horse intae the clouds Above yon gay green wood.”
And it’s weary by the Ullswater And the misty brake fern way Till through the cleft o’ the Kirkstane Pass The winding water lay.
He said, “Lie down, my brindled hounds, And rest, my good grey hawk, And thee, my steed, may graze thy fill For I must dismount and walk.
“But come when you hear my horn And answer swift the call, For I fear ere the sun will rise this morn You may serve me best of all.”
And it’s down to the water’s brim He’s borne the rowan shield, And the goldenrod he has cast in To see what the lake might yield.
And wet rose she from the lake And fast and fleet gaed she, One half the form of a maiden fair With a jet-black mare’s body.
And loud, long and shrill he blew, Till his steed was by his side; High overhead his grey hawk flew And swiftly he did ride,
Saying, “Course well, my brindled hounds, And fetch me the jet-black mare! Stoop and strike, my good grey hawk, And bring me the maiden fair!”
She said, “Pray sheath thy silvery sword, Lay down thy rowan shield. For I see by the briny blood that flows You’ve been wounded in the field.”
And she stood in a gown of the velvet blue, Bound ’round with a silver chain, She’s kissed his pale lips aince and twice And three times ’round again.
She’s bound his wounds with the goldenrod, Full fast in her arms he lay, And he has risen, hale and sound, With the sun high in the day.
She said, “Ride with your brindled hound at heel And your good grey hawk in hand. There’s nane can harm the knight who’s lain With the Witch of the West-mer-land.”
