Author: Alex

Melrose Quartet learned it from the singing of Charlie Yarwood

The Melrose Quartet: https://melrosequartet.bandcamp.com/track/ware-out-mother

Nightmares, Mother had, of navvies in the cellar
And dark eyes looking through the window outside
How we used to vex her, how we used to taunt her
How we would laugh and chant to her dismay

Chorus:
‘Ware out Mother there’s a navvy in the cellar
and two more looking through the window outside

Mother heard there was to be a river builded
Just a stone’s throw away from the window outside
How we hugged each other, as we told our mother
“It’s a canal, there’ll be navigators too.”

We told Mother we’d see barges full of jewels
And wondrous things past the window outside
“But where’s this river from?” We said it flows from China
“Woah” thought Mom, “there’ll be alligators too.”

One night Jimmy led the navies into town
and they looked like beggars through the window outside
There were navvies in the ale house, arguments and street fights,
Mother was delicate, she stayed in bed all week

One night Jimmy had a gentle way with words
and more pairs of hands than was decent, alright
“Will you come along, me saucy little Susie,
Just let me put a few arms around your waist.”

Soon our mother saw the navvy with her daughter
and she locked her up in the cellar downstairs
“Do you get along, me naughty filthy hussy,
Else I’ll put this stick about your back.”

Jim gave a wink, or it might have been a blink,
and he organised a tunnel ‘neath the window outside
Not a body saw them, then they struck foundations
“Right” thought Jim, “I shall blow a little hole.”

Muffled bang! and there was dust and rubble everywhere
And Jim was in the cellar of his Susie once more
How they hugged each other, yet no-one told our mother
She still has her dreams, yet she’s never learnt the truth. 

Hannah Martin & Phil Henry 2018

"A song about accents, and the creeping homogenisation of the modern world; about the shapes of lives formed by capitalism, removed from the land; about how home should be defined by the work you put into building it, not by chance of birth place. A song of belonging, and of welcome."

Chorus:
It’s not about your blood or the mud around your bones
But the toil of your hands and the seeds they have sown
The roots that you dig when you make your home
For feet were made to wander
I have a love for the land that I’ve known
For the trees and fields by the sea where I’ve grown
But I believe you should choose where you make your home
For feet were made to wander

My father’s father left the west when the war led him to roam
His children they forgot the tongue that had been their father’s home
The shapes of words were broken, by the city’s endless roar
And the lines of accent spoken told their stories no more

Clearance and enclosure took our fathers from the land
They forgot their tongues, forgot the sun on their backs
They did not know their brothers, so how could they lend a hand?
They did not know themselves, so how could they make a stand?

Plants that know how to survive throw seeds to the wind
They put down roots in the place they thrive – that’s where they belong
They make a wild garden, singing in the heart of town
Such beautiful, varied weeds, they’re hard to trample down 

Dale Marxen 1967

Gordon Bok writes "In 1967, Dr. Seuss published "My Uncle Terwilliger" in The Cat in the Hat Songbook, with piano score and guitar chords by Eugene Poddany. Inspired by this song, Dale Marxen wrote "Waltzing With Bears,""

Chorus:
He goes wa-wa-wa-wa, waltzing with bears,
Raggy bears, shaggy bears, baggy bears, too.
There’s nothing on earth Uncle Walter won’t do,
So he can go waltzing, wa-wa-wa-waltzing,
So he can go waltzing, waltzing with bears!

I crept upstairs in the middle of the night,
I tiptoed in, I turned on the light;
To my surprise, there was no one in sight,
My Uncle Walter goes waltzing at night!

We bought Uncle Walter a new coat to wear,
When he came in it was covered with hair;
Lately I’ve noticed several new tears,
I’m afraid Uncle Walter goes waltzing with bears!

We told Uncle Walter that he should be good,
And do everything that we say he should;
I think he would rather be off in the wood,
I’m afraid we might lose Uncle Walter for good!

We begged and we pleaded, “Please won’t you stay?”
We managed to keep him at home for a day;
But the bears all barged in and they took him away,
Now he’s waltzing with pandas, he can’t understand us,
The bears all demand at least one waltz a day! 

Terry Conway 1988

Last line rewritten by Alex Ellis to make it a little less graphic. Learned from Rowan Lupton.

The banner rides the winds of peace, the pilgrim takes the road
To advertise and civilize, and try to spread the gold
But the cities fall to hatred’s call, the hero smells the flood
To celebrate the nation’s state and dip their hands in blood

Chorus:
And you’ll hear them come around again
Hear the trumpets sound again
Hear the drums resound again
Beneath the walls of Troy

When nations seek to find their friends they first compare their foes
And if the list turns out the same a sour alliance grows
The patriot must be revered, he has no need to hide
But the man of peace is damned unless he’s on the other side

You’ll hear them talk of natural laws and population trends
They’ll set the wise to rationalize and talk of means and ends
They’ll say that man was made to hunt, it’s all part of the game
Or maybe they’ll blame religion if they think it clears their name

Now all the world’s a patchwork quilt, all nations must be free
The hate, the fear, it’s so sincere – it’s all too much for me
Your freedom is the right to war, to plunder and to brag
To genocide and lie with pride and all to show the flag 

trad

I am wading deep waters trying to get home (x2)
I am wading deep waters, wading deep waters
Wading deep waters trying to get home

I am climbing high mountains trying to get home…

I am walking deep valleys trying to get home…

 

 

Robert W. Service / David Perry 1993

Ian Robb: "My late Friends of Fiddler's Green bandmate David Parry was a big fan of Scots-Canadian ballad poet Robert W. Service, and he set a fair number of Service's poems to music, releasing them on a wonderful CD entitled "The Man from Eldorado." This is one of those, and describes the excruciating dilemma faced by a poor family man who is shamed into volunteering to fight in WW1, a war he doesn't believe in."

Ian Robb: https://ianrobb1.bandcamp.com/track/the-volunteer

Sez I: My Country calls? Well, let it call!
I grins perlitely and declines wiv thanks.
Go let ’em plaster every blighted wall;
‘Ere’s one they won’t stampede into the ranks.
Them politicians with their greasy ways,
Them empire-grabbers, fight for them? No fear!
I’ve seen this mess a-coming from the days
Of Algyserious and Aggydear.
I’ve felt my passion rise and swell,
But…wot the ‘ell, Bill? Wot the hell?

Sez I: My Country? Mine? I likes their cheek
Me mud-bespattered by the cars they drive,
Wot makes me measly thirty bob a week
And sweats red blood to keep meself alive!
Fight for the right to work that they might spend?
Them in their mansions, me ‘ere in me slum?
No, let ’em fight wot’s something to defend:
But me, I’ve nothing – let the Kaiser come.
And so I cusses hard and well,
But…wot the ‘ell, Bill? Wot the hell?

Sez I: If they would do the decent thing,
And shield the missus and the little uns,
Why even I might shout “God save the King”
And take me chances wiv them ‘ungry guns.
But we’ve got three, another on the way;
It’s that what makes me scowl and set me jaw
The wife and nippers, wot of them, I say,
If I get’s knocked out in this blasted war?
Get’s proper busted by a shell,
But…wot the ‘ell, Bill? Wot the hell?

Ah, wot the ‘ell’s the use of all this talk?
Today some boys in blue was passin’ me,
And some of them they ‘ad no legs to walk,
And some of them they ‘ad no eyes to see.
And – well, I couldn’t look ’em in the face,
And so I’m goin’, goin’ to declare
I’m under forty-one, and take me place
To face the music with the lads out there.
A fool you say? Well, perhaps you’re right.
I’ll get no peace until I fight.
I’ve ceased to think; I only know
I’ve gotta go, Bill, gotta go. 

Leon Rosselson 1988

"I was a frequent guest at the Vancouver Folk Festival during the 1980s. It was unusual in not having any alcohol or corporate funding and in giving everyone, big and small, equal billing. In 1987, Frankie [Armstrong], Roy [Bailey] and myself were honoured to be given the final spot on the Sunday night main stage concert. I wrote this song for us to sing to close the festival. Anyone who knows Hungarian folk will recognise the tune of the chorus. I'd been carrying it around in my head for thirty years before I found a use for it."

Melrose Quartet: https://melrosequartet.bandcamp.com/track/the-voice-that-lives-inside-you

When you’re new in the world, you’ve a dream that is wild,
And they tame you and mold you, ’til one day, behold,
You’re obedient soldiers, commuters, consumers,
Reality rules, and there’s no room for dreamers,
They teach you your place in the obstacle race
With a prize that you chase, always just out of reach,
And you’re urged on by megaphone voices that offer you
Choices that are not your own.

Chorus:
Only listen for the voice that lives inside you;
Like a songbird in a cage, it waits in silence.
Find the key to set it free and soaring skyward;
Now the sky is filled with voices, hear them sing beside you.

When the powers that be in their wisdom decree
That you’re no longer needed to feed the machine,
The wheel turns, you’re dismissed; if you dare to resist,
There are walls, there are laws to confuse you and bruise you.
They’ll label you scroungers and wasters and sponges;
They’ll call you subversives, reds, traitors, and worse.
If you don’t fit the norm, if your ways don’t conform
To the rules, then you’re out of the game.

The way they’ve arranged things, you think you can’t change things;
You’re one, you’re just you; but whatever they do,
Don’t forget to remember, you’re a name not a number,
And no one can think for you, dream for you, speak for you.
Don’t let them bind you down, don’t let them grind you down,
Don’t let them mold you, ’til one day, behold,
You’re obedient tools, you’re commuters, consumers,
And reality rules out your dreams. 

Roger Hussey 2005

Hussey wrote on Mudcat: "Barry Finn was the first one who learned it -- we used to sing it together, alternating verses, Wednesday nights at Cameron's in Gloucester. The song depicts life on the Norwegian tanker Margaret Unstad, and several months of short back back-and-forth trips between Venezuela and Trinidad. The ship was owned by the husband of skating star Sonja Henie, and their alcoholic son ("Lars" in the song) shipped around with us all over the world. They say this chantey is being sung in England and Australia. There are two middle verses I rarely sing, cuz I think it makes the song go on too long. And the words and tune seem to be evolving over time -- OK with me."

On the Venezuela to Trinidad run (Trinidad run)
Our ship goes to hell, we’re all having way to much fun (Way to much fun)

Chorus:
Venezuela to Trinidad, Trinidad to Venezuela

Venezuela is flamenco and hot guitar strums
Trinidad is calypso and loud steel drum

Carry crude oil to Trinidad refineries
To Venezuela for more crude we run back empty

For most tankers it’s long at sea short time in port
But we’ve tied up long and our sea time is short

Lars is locked in his cabin, the rich owner’s son
He’s a drunken exile at 31

If we’re rowdy ashore we end up in jail
Rum and pesos from Lars and we’re soon out on bail

Miss our sailing, hung over, roll over and then
Wait a week, stay drunk, and our ship’s back again

After 8 trips the chief’s at the end of his wits
After 10 trips they send us back home to refit

So it’s pack up and back to the hiring hall
And it’s farewell to flamenco and steel drums all 

Zeke Hoskins 1997

Hoskins writes: "The price of liquor is mostly tax. Unsold booze is often kept in a bonded warehouse, meaning the tax hasn't been paid. When you take whisky out of the warehouse, you have to pay the tax ... unless it's for export, of course. During Prohibition in the U.S., there was a dockside bonded warehouse in Windsor, Ont. (Across the river from Detroit). Men would bring a rowboat to the dock and check out a few cases of whisky. The Customs officer would ask, Are you paying tax, or exporting?" "Exporting", they would answer. "Where to?" "Valparaiso." The Customs man would nod and write it down in his book, and away they'd row. Half an hour later, they'd do the same thing again. This is a sea chantey for them. I wrote it on Canada Day, while returning from cross-border shopping for my Dusty Strings Harp. I left the verse about the cat off the recordings"

Windsor is a lovely port we’re proud to sing about
There’s a warehouse full of whisky, though the Yankees do without
And when Customs asks us where we’re bound, we ship our oars and shout:
“We’re bound for Valparaiso in a rowboat”

Chorus:
Pull your oars! (Pull your oars) We’re on our way! (We’re on our way)
With a thousand quarts of whisky bound for Valparaiso bay
And we haven’t no intention for to see the USA
We’re bound for Valparaiso in a rowboat

Some say that for an ocean trip our craft is very small
But we bold Canadian lads don’t fear a little Cape Horn squall
And a deep sea schooner’s just too big to shoot Niagara Falls
We’re bound for Valparaiso in a rowboat

Though Michigan is very near and Chile’s very far
We are expert navigators, we can steer by any star
But the cat pissed on the sextant and we don’t know where we are
We’re bound for Valparaiso in a rowboat

We’ve sailed for Valparaiso twenty seven times this week
But every time we’ve gotten to the mouth of Muddy Creek
We’ve had to jettison our cargo ’cause the oarlock sprung a leak
We’re bound for Valparaiso in a rowboat

Now some sing of Vancouver, of St John and Halifax
But those salty water cities, they have nothing Windsor lacks
We’ve a doryload of whisky and the muscles in our backs
We’re bound for Valparaiso in a rowboat 

Paul Clark 1981

Written for a play called Days of Pride, produced at Stantonbury Theatre

Our great attack had failed, We’d nothing left to give,
The wounded hanging on the wire had little time to live;
The German shells came screaming down to shred them as they lay,
Abandoned in the Valley of the Shadow.

The battle ground that night, Would look as bright as day,
As fairy flares turned blackness into bitter lifeless gray;
The twisted shapes that once were men in senseless patterns lay,
The tenants of the Valley of the Shadow.

The torn and shattered fields, The bits of wire and steel,
No blade of grass or leaf or tree to make the place seem real;
An ancient traveller passing by just couldn’t help but say,
This surely is the Valley of the Shadow.

Let pictures of that scene, Be hung on every wall,
In rooms where governments decide if men should stand or fall;
They’d never go to war again if leaders had their say,
While looking at the Valley of the Shadow.