Category: songs

trad 

Eliza Carthy & Tim Eriksen

Awake, awake, good people all, awake and you shall hear
That Christ has died all for our sins and he loveth us so dear
So dearly, dearly, Chris loved us, and for our sins was slain
Christ bids us leave off of wickedness and attend to The Lord again

The early cock so early crows passing the night away
The trumpet shall sound and the dead shall be raised at the great judgment day
A bunch of May I’ve brought to you and at your door it stands
It is but a sprout and it’s all budded out by the work of our lord’s hand

For the life of a man is but a span, He’s cut down like the flower;
He makes no delay, he is here today And he’s vanished all in an hour.
And when you are dead and you’re in your grave You’re covered in the cold, cold clay.
The worms they will eat your flesh, good man, And your bones they will waste away.

Repent, repent you wicked old men, Don’t die before you do.
And when the day of judgement comes The Lord will think on you.
Now my song it is sung and I must be gone no longer can I stay
God bless you all both great and small and I wish you a joyful May 

Dave Webber 1985

Winter time is gone and past-o,
Summer time has come at last-o.
We shall sing and dance the day
And follow the ’obby ’oss to bring the May.

Chorus:
So, Hail! Hail! The First of May-o!
For it is the first summer’s day-o!
Cast you cares and fears away,
Drink to the old horse on the First of May!

Blue bells they have started to ring-o,
And true love, it is the thing-o.
Love on any other day
Is never the same as on the First of May!

Never let it come to pass-o
We should fail to raise a glass-o!
Unto those now gone away
And left us the ’obby ’oss to bring the May!

Emma Azelborn 2023

"Just before midnight one evening, Harris and I were in Central Square looking for a snack. Harris really wanted pizza, so we looked up the closest pizza-by-the-slice place and walked that direction. As we walked, we passed so many other places and I realized it would be a fun song idea. Originally the idea was that it would be a list building song, where every verse you add another snack you don't want, but I ended up going a different direction."

Late at night we’ve got the munchies (No, no, not the munchies )
We could go for something crunchy (We don’t want the munchies)

Chorus:
We know what we are wanting Midnight, midnight pizza (x2)

That grilled cheese smells so delicious (No, no, not the grilled cheese)
Crispy with a melty finish (We don’t want the grilled cheese)

We could stop and get some tacos…I hear they make cheesy nachos

Those burritos are so wide…meat and cheese and veg inside

We could order spicy wontons…eat em up until they’re all gone

How about some gourmet waffles…with real syrup, fake is awful 

Neely Bruce 1989

How long, thou faithful God, shall I
Here in thy ways forgotten lie?
When shall the means of healing be
The channels of thy grace to me?

Sinners on ev’ry side step in,
And wash away their pain and sin;
But I, a helpless sinsick soul
Still lie expiring at the pool.

Thou cov’nant Angel, swift come down,
Today thine own appointments crown;
Thy pow’r into the means infuse,
And give them now their sacred use.

Thou seest me lying at the pool,
I would, thou know’st, I would be whole;
O let the troubled waters move,
And minister thy healing love. 

Hugh Robertson 1938

Sir Hugh Roberton (1874-1952) was conductor of the Orpheus Choir of Glasgow for which he made many choral arrangements of Scots songs. Mingulay was a crofting and fishing community of about 160 people until 1912. Isolation, infertile land, lack of a proper landing place and the absentee landlord problems familiar to the Western Isles and Highlands, resulted in a gradual disintegration of Mingulay's culture. The process of voluntary evacuation began in 1907 with land raids by the impoverished crofters to the neighbouring island of Vatersay, and Mingulay is now completely deserted. But summer visitors to Barra regularly brave the two-hour journey in exposed seas from Castlebay to Mingulay, inspired by Roberton's evocative but sentimental song, which has no connection with either the island or its people. Ben Buxton's 2017 book about Mingulay says "neither the words nor the melody originate anywhere near Mingulay; it is a romantic invention of the 20th century. It was devised in 1938 by Glasgow-born Sir Hugh Roberton, who was very fond of the melody of 'Creag Ghuanach', a song from Lochaber, which celebrates a crag near Loch Treig. He needed a sea shanty, and so he adapted the music, chose the romantic name Mingulay, and composed the words."

Chorus:
Hill you ho, boys; let her go, boys;
Bring her head round, now all together.
Hill you ho, boys; let her go, boys;
Sailing home, home to Mingulay.

What care we though white the Minch is?
What care we for wind or weather?
Let her go, boys! ev’ry inch is
Wearing home, home to Mingulay.

Wives are waiting on the bank, or
Looking seaward from the heather;
Pull her round, boys! and we’ll anchor,
Ere the sun sets at Mingulay. 

Nancy Kerr 2019

Inspired by removal of trees from Sheffield's streets; celebration of altruistic human spirit in the face of adversity. 5000-6000 trees felled in 2014-2018 before community pushback stopped it.

Nancy Kerr & James Fagan: https://kerrfagan.bandcamp.com/track/mr-weather

Good morning, Mister Weather, where will you spend the day?
I’ll kiss the elm of Nether Edge and blow her cares away
Good evening, Mister Weather, where is it that you go?
I shake the Pittsmoor cherries and we watch the blossom blow

Chorus:
And we’ll all hang on (Like the flowing of the sheaf)
And we’ll all hang on Together
And we’ll all hang on (Like the growing of a leaf)
And we’ll all hang on Together

Good morning, Mister Weather, why the heavy skies above?
There’s a willow by the Rother and I think it could be love
For I courted him in autumn, I clothed him in the spring
I loved him in the summer and in winter made him sing

Good evening, Mister Weather, where did you hide the sun?
She’s down behind the seven hills but still she isn’t done
For she shines on all the city and when I help her down
She shines within the heart of every lover in the town 

Tom Rowe 1985

The Great Molasses Flood of 1919 in Boston killed 21 and injured 150. Molasses was made into alcohol but also munitions, and was sent from this harbor storage tank to a processing plant in Cambridge by a pipeline. The company may have been racing against Prohibition, which was passed the following day and effective one year later. The 50ft tall tank had leaked since being built 4 yrs earlier, and multiple components were too weak even by the standards of the time. Fermentation in the tank may have increased the pressure, as did a rapid increase in temperature caused by warm January weather and by a new shipment filling up the tank. 13,000 tons of molasses burst from a storage tank and flowed at 35 mph through the streets.

Oh, the African man cuts the sugar cane (Oh, molasses!)
He works in the sun and he works in the rain (Oh, molasses rum!)
Then he loads it up on a wooden ship
and he sends it off on a northern trip

Chorus:
Singing, oh molasses, oh molasses rum
Oh, molasses Old New England tea
It killed my grandpa, killed my pa
And it sure as Hell is killing me
Singing, oh molasses, oh molasses rum

When they fought the war for the colonies
They fought it over New England tea
When Old King George put a tax on it
the colonies nearly took a fit

In the time of the 1917 war
Molasses sitting on the Boston shore
When they pumped it in it was twelve degrees,
a long cold night in a Boston freeze

In the morning it was 42
Molasses vat split clean in two
Two million gallons covered the bay,
26 people drowned in the flood that day

My grandpa he died cutting cane
My pa went down in the great brown rain
But I won’t go in a pool of blood,
no I won’t drown in a black-strap flood
Still, I’ll go down to molasses, oh molasses rum 

Robb Johnson 1993

There’s always the money for missiles & tanks
There’s always the money for generals & banks
There’s always the money for new ways to kill
But a limited budget for you if you’re ill
Yes there’s always enough for a war
But there’s never enough for the poor

There’s always the money for tunnels and roads
For opera and ballet, but not jobs and homes
For MPs’ expenses & fat subsidies
But there’s never the money for nurseries
And the well-off they always take more
So there’s never enough for the poor

There’s always the money for tests they can pass
Or fail you for not being white middle class
There’s always the goodies for those with most greed
But never enough for those in most need
There’s a pay-rise if you’re on the board,
But there’s never enough for the poor

Consider the little of life that we know
We bring nothing, take nothing, pass through and go
We’re all of us poor when it comes to the night
In need of the darkness, in need of the light
If we learned to want less and love more
There’d be enough for the poor 

Saro Lynch-Thomason 2016

"This is a song that I created back in March 2016 when the HB2 bill was passed here in North Carolina. Now in the early days of the Trump administration, this song feels deeply resonant. For me, this song is about seeing what's coming on the horizon: harder times that are inevitable and unavoidable. But the answer to the fear of what's coming is resiliency and claiming a strength within ourselves that has been there all along. Aspects of this song are inspired from elements of African-American Civil Rights and protest songs. This song is meant to be sung in groups. Please share this song, use it at protests, use it in church, use it in meetings, add new verses, spread it around!"

There are more waters rising, This I know, This I know.
There are more waters rising, This I know.
There are more waters rising, They will find their way to me.
There are more waters rising, This I know.

There are more fires burning…

There are more mountains falling…

I will wade through the waters…
I will wade through the waters, When they find their way to me…

I will walk through the fires…
I will walk through the fires, When they find their way to me…

I will rebuild the mountains…
I will rebuild the mountains, When they find their way to me…

Dillon Bustin 1975

In the fall of the year, when you feel the winter near
And the days are clear It surely isn’t good to
sit by the fire And want to stoke it higher
When you should be cutting more wood.
From November to march, the winter winds are harsh
On the fields and the marsh they’re covered up with snow
When you trudge to the shed you have to scratch your head
Because the dad-blamed pile’s getting low on

Chorus:
Wood (hard wood) Firewood (dry wood)
There’s not a stove in the world That’s going to do you any good
Without wood (stove wood) We could (you should)
Be out cutting more wood.

When the kindling is dwindling, the bottom logs get soggy
Those ricks of sticks and racks and stacks It makes you wonder where they go
and barnfuls of armfuls They only last a week or so
And then you’ll be hurting for wood.
Well the sassafras it burns too fast, It starts the fire but never lasts
And swamp oak likes to smoke you blow it till you think you’ll choke.
But hickory is just the tree to remind you of the ecstasy
Of having a pile of good wood, I said

Well the Scandia and Jotul brands are made so far across the sea
Vermont Castings and Timberline are made here in the country
With all the rest put to the test the one I like the best
Is the one my Uncle Wade he made for me.
He took an oil drum and welded some piping from the septic tank
And fore and aft he cut a draft, and then he made a damper crank
With an old broom from the back room.
He painted it fire engine red And said now watch her consume your

When the spring rolls around and I spade the muddy ground
I have often found I lay my saw away, The shed is
empty and yet you can make a bet
That I’ll forget to be cutting more wood.
The old timers say to split a little every day
And stack it away to season well, but
From March to November I rarely do remember
December will find me in a rut

Last Chorus:
Without wood (hard wood) Firewood (dry wood)
There’s not a stove in the world That’s going to do you any good
Without wood (stove wood) We could (you should)
Be out cutting some
Throw it in the oil drum
What do you think your saw is for
You can always use some more wood.