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.”
Chorus: I am looking at a witch hazel blooming in a garden Bright, yellow flowers in the middle of wintertime And I tell my heart be strong like the witch hazel flower And you will not be injured by this dark and troubled time
I take myself alone to a place I know in winter And I look at that south sloping bank covered with ice And I tell my heart it all will melt and run down to the ocean And you will not be injured by this dark and troubled time
We must say goodbye to the ones we love, we must say goodbye to many And we must say goodbye in way too short a time And I tell my heart be strong like the witch hazel flower And you will not be injured by this dark and troubled time
Now is the start of winter, when animals get thinner Fa la la la la la la la la, fa la la la la la la The fat ones and the flabby get awfully thin and crabby Fa la la la la la la la la, fa la la la la la la
They burn up calories against the winter breeze Fa la la la la la la la la, fa la la la la la la And so I recommend we have some lunch my friend Fa la la la la la la la la, fa la la la la la la
When storm storms are forecast-a, got to use some pasta The cold winds should persuade us to eat some mashed potatoes
And meat and gravy too so we will not turn blue Remember until March, to make the servings large
Sugar is essential to keep away the windchill Before we take a walk, let us sit and eat some chocolate
Let’s eat another course, it’s awful cold outdoors It’s colder than a witch, why not go in the fridge
In days gone by, when the world was much younger Men harnessed the wind to work for mankind Seamen built tall ships to sail on the ocean While landsmen built wheels the corn for to grind
Chorus: And around and around and around went the big sail Turning the shaft and the great wooden wheel Creaking and groaning, the millstones kept turning Grinding to flour the good corn from the field
In Flanders and Spain and the lowlands of Holland And the kingdoms of England and Scotland and Wales Windmills sprang up all along the wild coastline Ships of the land with their high canvas sails
The Lancashire lads worked hard with the good earth Ploughing and sowing as the seasons declare Waiting to reap all the rich, golden harvest While the miller is idle, his mill to repair
Windmills so old, of wood blacked by weather Windmills of stone, glaring white in the sun Windmills like giants, ready for tilting Windmills that died in the gales and are gone
Fay Hield performed it in 2013, after she found it in the Lucy Broadwood Broadside Collection which largely contains songs compiled 1898-1928 when Broadwood helped found EFDSS. Final verse by Alex Ellis.
Chorus: O meet me in the willow glen, When the silvery moon is gleaming; Songs of love I’ll sing you then, When the world is still in dreaming, If you’ll meet me in the willow glen.
No prying eye will come, my love, No stranger foot be seen; And all the village hum, my love, Will echo on the wind If you’ll meet me in the willow glen.
To melodious mandolins, My song I’ll softly blend, love, While to thee my melody A soothing balm will lend If you’ll meet me in the willow glen.
So come if you’ll consent my love I’ll bring a merry bottle And all night long we’ll share in song Til silvery moon descends If you’ll meet me in the willow glen
Too many times I’ve fallen for a bold flirtatious smile My emotions had a way of breaking loose and running wild Till recently I reined them in behind a casual front I’m older now and wiser, not so quick to fall in love
Chorus: Why did I waken this morning with a song inside my head? And why the smile upon my lips, the lift in every step? And why when I walked among summer wildflowers of widest range of hue Were all the colors brightened by the memory of you?
Love for all its newborn joy may later take its toll For expectations not quite met may finally come to boil For all the pleasures gained in love, I’ve been too often burned I’ve sworn to live alone and keep the distance I have learned
Last night you warmed my kitchen with the crinkle of your eye You brought my home a comfort it has missed for a long time And though I’m scared of letting down the barriers inside Already you have touched my heart to melt away the ice
Final Chorus: And so I woke this morning with a song inside my head And with a smile upon my lips, a lift in every step And then when I walked among summer wildflowers of widest range of hue The colors all grew brighter with the memory of you.
If I had my life to live, I’d sure live it over. Only walk in brand new shoes and just lay down in clover. Only work on Christmas Day. All the rest go sportin’. Spend my days down at the creek, and ev’ry night go courtin’.
Chorus: Honey from the honey comb, water from the fountain. Sugar from the sugar cane and my wild rose of the mountain.
When I think of home sweet home, it makes my eyes grow misty. Poppa singing gospel songs and Momma sippin’ whiskey. Whiskey from a white oak barrel sure does make good liquor. Makes the nights seem twice as bright and the days go by much quicker.
If I had a pickup truck, I’d fill it up with water. Paint a catfish on the side and make believe I’d caught her. Drive it slowly down the road, try to keep from bumpin’. Park it down beside the creek and watch those fish come jumpin’.
If I had a new-made quilt, I’d fill it up with feathers. Take my Rosie by the hand and lay down there together. Oh, the days that I was young! Thoughts that keep returning Drive the winter night away just like a log fire burning.
Mainly Norfolk: "The lyrics and melody are a variant of the song The Braes of Balquhither by Scottish poet Robert Tannahill (1774-1810) and Scottish composer Robert Archibald Smith (1780-1829), but were adapted by Belfast musician Francis McPeake (1885-1971) into Wild Mountain Thyme and first recorded by his family in the 1950s." "Like Burns, Tannahill collected and adapted traditional songs, and this one may have been based on the traditional song "The Braes O' Bowhether" though there is much more similarity between McPeake's words and Tannahill's words than between Tannahill's and the trad song. According to Wikisource, the first known publication of Tannahill's poem was in 1812, but it was better known from Smith's publication in 1821-4. Below is a mashup of McPeake's more familiar words and Tannahill's words. Jim Malcolm in band Keltik Elektrik: Wild Mountain Thyme
The summer time is coming And the trees are sweetly blooming, And the wild mountain thyme A’ the moorlands perfuming.
Chorus: Will you go, lassie, go? And we’ll all go together To pull wild mountain thyme All around the blooming heather, Will you go, lassie, go?
I will build my love a bower By yon clear crystal fountain. And on it I will build All the flowers of the mountain.
To our dear native scenes Let us journey together, Where glad Innocence reigns ‘Mang the braes o’ Balquhither.
So merrily we’ll sing, As the storm rattles o’er us, Till the dear sheiling ring Wi’ the light lilting chorus.
"A children's song, the first of many, written for my older daughter, Daniela, when she reached the obstreperous age of about five."
Chorus: Why does it have to be me? Why can’t they just let me be Why do I have to do things I don’t want to do Why does it have to be me?
Each morning I lie in my bed Slippery dreams in my head I live in a fine fairy castle of stone, All on my own, no-one to moan Then a voice shouts get up and it isn’t a dream Hurry-up you’re late for school and wash your face and brush your teeth and are your fingers clean And it goes on and on ’till I’m ready to scream Why does it have to be me?
Why do I have to eat greens Cabbage and spinach and beans I don’t mind potatoes, I’ll even have meat Though I’d much rather eat Ice-cream and sweets They say greens are good for me, maybe they’re right But sometimes I think that they do it for spite And I’ve never seen them eating what they don’t like So why does it have to be me
Now why can’t I play my own games Somebody always complains Whenever I’m playing at monsters or bears Jumping off chairs, falling down stairs It’s don’t be so noisy, or go out and play Or look for a book if you’re going to stay But the problem is they always get in my way So why does it have to be me?
