Category: songs

 

 

Beeswax Sheepskin

http://ellisnasqc.quickconnect.to/as/sharing/w8B3S30x/L011c2ljL0JlZXN3YXggU2hlZXBza2luL0JlZXN3YXggU2hlZXBza2luLzA5IFRoZSBEYXJrZXN0IE1pZG5pZ2h0IEluIERlY2VtYmVyXy5tcDM=

Weathering the northern winter takes a knack for hibernating Stack up every kindling splinter, you’re best off overestimating Provisions for the months of waiting One day you won’t hear the water Winter stills the river’s power Full the [moil] full to bursting Frozen in its finest hour Storm winds bring the bitter blessing, Wise old farmers take its measure Braced and ready, cold and cursing, Trusting almanac and rumor Grumbling half to hide their pleasure Only when the swamp mud buckles Press the seeds in, deep as knuckles And if the spring crop never flowers Take it up with higher powers Try to sleep, the forest snapping, All the pines are fishbone-brittle Old men pass the season napping, They say the frost is beneficial Feed the fire, bow the fiddle

 

 

Patrick James Rooney 1878

 

Brian Miller writes: “Rooney (1844-1892) was a ‘clog dancer’ who, along with his son, Pat Rooney Jr., had one of the most famous vaudeville song-and-dance men of his day. Irish performers like the Rooneys dominated American popular music in the late 1800s. This song was one of Pat Sr.’s few successful compositions. It was eventually overshadowed in 1908 by another baseball song, ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game.'”

Brian Miller: https://thelostforty.bandcamp.com/track/the-day-i-played-baseball

https://thelostforty.bandcamp.com/track/the-day-i-played-baseball

Oh, me name it is O’Houlihan, I’m a man that’s influential. I mind my business, stay at home, me wants are few and small. But the other day a gang did come. They were filled with whisky, gin, and rum, And they took me out in the boiling sun to play a game of ball. They made me carry all the bats, I thought they’d set me crazy, They put me out in center field, sure I paralyzed them all; When I put up me hands to stop a fly, holy murther, it struck me in the eye, And they laid me out by the fence to die on the day that I played baseball. There was O’Shaughnessy of the second nine, he was throwing them underhanded, He put a twirl upon them and I couldn’t strike them at all; The umpire he called strikes on me; “What’s that?” says I; “You’re out,” says he. Bad luck to you, O’Shaughnessy, and the way that you twirled the ball. Then I went to bat and I knocked the ball I thought to San Francisco, Around the bases three times three, by Heavens, I run them all. When the gang set up a terrible howl, saying, “O’Houlihan, you struck a foul,” And they rubbed me down with a Turkish towel on the day that I played baseball. The catcher swore by the Jack of Trumps that he saw me stealing bases, And fired me into a keg of beer, I loud for help did call; I got roaring, slaving, stone-blind drunk, I fell in the gutter, I lost my spunk, I had a head on me like an elephant’s trunk on the day that I played baseball. The reporters begged to know my name and presented me with a medal, They asked me for my photograph to hang upon the wall, Saying, “O’Houlihan, you won the game,” though me head was sore and my shoulder lame, And they sent me home on a cattle train the day that I played baseball.

 

 

trad 1700s

 

The earliest known publication circa 1790. The song is associated with a mumming custom called The Old Tup involving a ram character, similar to Mari Lwyd in Wales, the Old ‘Oss, and Hobby Horses.

Chorus Wasn’t he a big one boys Wasn’t he a big one boys Wasn’t he a big one boys ‘Til the butcher cut him down As I was going to Darby, Sir, All on a market day, I met the finest Ram, Sir, That ever was fed on hay. The horns on this ram sir They reached up to the moon A boy went up in January And he didn’t come down till June The Wool upon his back, Sir, Reached up unto the sky, The Eagles made their nests there, Sir, For I heard the young ones cry. He had four feet to walk, sir, Her had four feet to stand, And every foot he had, sir, Covered an acre of land. It took all the men in Darby To carry away its bones It took all the women in Darby To roll away its stones The Butcher that killed this Ram, Sir, Was drownded in the blood, And the boy that held the pail, Sir, Was carried away in the flood.

 

 

trad 

 

Texas Gladden: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NicqYRmPe10

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NicqYRmPe10

O you must answer my questions nine Sing ninety-nine and ninety, Or you ‘re not God’s, you’re one of mine And you were the weaver’s bonny. What is whiter than the milk? Sing ninety-nine and ninety, And what is softer than the silk? And you were the weaver’s bonny. Snow is whiter than the milk Sing ninety-nine and ninety, And down is softer than the silk, And I am the weaver’s bonny. O what is higher than a tree? Sing ninety-nine and ninety And what is deeper than the sea? And you were the weaver’s bonny. Heaven’s higher than a tree Sing ninety-nine and ninety, And Hell is deeper than the sea And I am the weaver’s bonny. What is louder than a horn? Sing ninety-nine and ninety, And what is sharper than a thorn? And you were the weaver’s bonny. Thunder’s louder than a horn Sing ninety-nine and ninety, And death is sharper than a thorn And I am the weaver’s bonny. What ‘s more innocent than a lamb? Sing ninety-nine and ninety, And what is meaner than woman-kind? And you were the weaver’s bonny. A babe’s more innocent than a lamb Sing ninety-nine and ninety, And the devil is meaner than woman-kind And I am the weaver’s bonny. Oh you have answered my questions nine Sing ninety-nine and ninety, And you were God’s, you’re none of mine And you were the weaver’s bonny.

 

 

trad 

 

Archie Fisher recorded in 1976 on The Man With a Rhyme, where he wrote: “An Ayrshire love song that has more of the drawing room about it than the tradition. Unclaimed by Burns, the melody more than justifies its place in the Scottish folksinger’s repertoire. I borrowed it from Geordie Hamilton of Edinburgh.”

Archie Fisher: The Echo Mocks the Corncrake

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Xak-VRRuV4

The lass that I loved first of all was handsome, young and fair. Wi’ her I spent sae many a nicht doon by the banks o’ Ayr. Wi’ her I spent sae many a nicht where scented clover grows, And the echo mocks the corncrake amang yon whinny knowes. We loved each other dearly and disputes we seldom had, As constant as the pendulum, our hearts beat ever glad. We sought for joy and found it where yon iwee burnie rows, And the echo mocks the corncrake amang yon whinny knowes. Ye ladies fair and pleasure dames drive tae the banks o’ Doune. Ye dearly pay yer every cent tae barbers for perfume. But rural joys are free for all where scented clover grows, And the echo mocks the corncrake amang yon whinny knowes. The corncrake is noo awa’ and the bank is tae the brim. The whinny knowes are capped wi’ snaw tae tap the highest whin. But when cold winter is awa’ and summers pierce the sky, We’ll welcome back the corncrake, the bird of rural joy.

 

 

Colin Dryden 1969

Colin Dryden moved to Australia in 1965 at the age of 22. He never published an album, and died at 43 in 1986. Margaret & Bob Fagan contributed to the popularity of this song. Most likely autobiographical. Upon arriving in Australia he listed his occupation as "fitter" and apparently worked on building tractors.

You wake up in the morning the sky is black as night
Your mother shouting up the stairs and you know she’s winning the fight
You tumble down to the breakfast table and grab a bite to eat
Then it’s out the door and up the road and through the factory gate

Chorus:
Turning steel how do you feel As in the chuck you spin?
If you felt like me you’d roll right out And never roll back in

Cold and dark, the morning as you squeeze in through the gate
As you clock in, the bell will ring, eight hours is your fate
Off comes your coat, up go the sleeves, and “Right, lads” is the cry
With one eye on the clock and the other on the lathe, you’ll wish that time could fly

But time can’t fly as fast as a lathe, and it’s work you must
With the grinding, groaning, spinning metal hotter than the dust
And it’s many’s the time I’m with my girl and we’re walking through the park
Whilst I’m gazing on that turning steel and a million flying sparks

Well Old Tom, he left last week, his final bell did ring
With his hair as white as his face beneath and his oily sunken skin
Now he’s made a speech and he’s bid farewell to a lifetime working here
And as I shook his hand I felt I’d labored forty years

When my time comes as come it must and I will leave this place
I’ll walk out past the charge-hand’s desk, never turn my face
Out of the door and into the sun, I’ll leave it all behind
With one regret, for the friends I’ve left to carry on their grind 

Jules Peiperl 

Chorus:
Roses grow and the roses twine
And the hills around this land are mine
And you see me as a roving sprite
But I’ll be a man tomorrow

I ran afoul of the fairy queen
She flew into a rage like you’ve never seen
She cursed me to wander the fields of green
But I’ll be a man tomorrow

I met a maid in the morning late
Coming from a castle with an iron gate
And she says a shade is no kind of mate

The queen she cared not for my strife
She chose me to give as a fairy tithe
Only my love can save my life

Hold me close in your loving arms
As I cast off this fairy charm
Woman or wolf I won’t do you no harm

All my friends in the field and the foam
Looking at the self that you now call home
You might feel a change and you won’t be alone
We’ll all be our own tomorrow 

trad 

Collected 1924 from Mike Dean by Robert Winslow Gordon, recorded by Brian Miller 2013. Miller writes: "Dean said the song came from the Georgian Bay region of Ontario and dated back to a time (pre-1870) when "shanty boys" squared off the logs in the woods by axe* before binding them into rafts and driving them down river to Quebec City. From Quebec, the timber was often shipped out the St. Lawrence Seaway and over the ocean to Liverpool. Collectors who found other versions of The Falling of the Pine (in Maine, Pennsylvania, Michigan and Ontario) noted that it is likely one of the oldest songs to come out of the lumber camp tradition and that it may date to as early as 1825."

Brian Miller: https://thelostforty.bandcamp.com/track/the-falling-of-the-pine

Come, all young men a-wanting of courage bold undaunted,
Repair unto the shanties before your youth’s decline,
For spectators they will ponder and gaze on you with wonder,
For your noise exceeds the thunder in the falling of the pine.

The shanty is our station and lumbering our occupation,
Where each man has his station, some for to score and line,
It is nine foot of a block we will bust at every knock,
And the wolves and bears we’ll shock at the falling of the pine.

When the day it is a-breaking from our slumbers we’re awakened,
Breakfast being over, our axes we will grind,
Into the woods we do advance where our axes sharp do glance,
And like brothers we commence for to fall the stately pine.

For it’s to our work we go through the cold and stormy snow,
And it’s there we labor gayly till bright Phoebus does not shine;
Then to the shanties we’ll go in and songs of love we’ll sing,
And we’ll make the valleys ring at the falling of the pine.

When the weather it grows colder, like lions we’re more bolder,
And while this forms grief for others, it’s but the least of mine,
For the frost and snow so keen, it can never keep us in,
It can never keep us in from the falling of the pine.

When the snow is all diminished and our shanty work all finished,
Banished we are all for a little time,
And then far apart we’re scattered until the booms are gathered,
Until the booms are gathered into handsome rafts of pine.

When we get to Quebec, oh, me boys, we’ll not forget,
And our whistles we will wet with some brandy and good wine;
With fair maidens we will boast till our money is all used,
And, my boys, we’ll ne’er refuse to go back and fall the pine. 

trad early 19th century / Eric Winter 1976

The words were popular to inscribe in pottery and are commonly found throughout Hampshire. Winter says he found the full text in Colm à Lochlainn's Irish Street Ballads.

Come all jolly fellows who delight in being mellow
Attend unto me I beseech you
For a pint when it’s quiet, come boys let us try it
For thinking will drive a man crazy

Chorus:
I have lawns, I have bowers, I have fields, I have flowers
And the lark is my daily alarmer
So jolly boys now, here’s God speed the plough
Long life and success to the farmer

Come sit at my table, all those who are able
And I’ll hear not one word of complaining
For the tinkling of glasses all music surpasses
And I long to see bottles a-draining

For here I am king, I can laugh, drink and sing
And let no man approach as a stranger
Just show me the ass who refuses a glass
And I’ll treat him to hay in a manger

Let the wealthy and great roll in splendour and state,
I envy them not, I declare it
For I eat my own ham, my own chickens and lamb
And I shear my own fleece and I wear it

Were it not for my seeding you’d have but poor feeding
I’m sure you would all starve without me
But I am content when I paid my rent
And I’m happy when friends are about me. 

Walter Kino 1896

Rewritten by Alex Ellis

Roberts & Barrand: https://johnroberts1.bandcamp.com/track/the-fellow-that-played-the-trombone

Now, the other night my friends and I went down to a Music Hall.
And ever since that blooming night it has been my downfall.
We sat beside the bandsman, and he filled me with delight,
The fellow that played the trombone, he stole my heart that night.

Chorus:
With his rum-she-ra-ra, rum-she-ra-ra, rum-she-ra-ra-day,
The fellow that played the trombone, he stole my heart away,
He pulled that long thing in and out, he made me feel so gay,
He really tickled my fancy with his rum-she-ra-ra-day.

Now I really liked his music, I go there every week,
They said it would be my downfall if I don’t stop my cheek,
I’ll take no notice what they say, I’ll go from time to time,
And bring that bandsman home and help him make his horn to shine.

Now the other night I woke and found he’d gone with all his clothes,
He’d gone with all my money, to a land where no-one knows,
But if ever I should find him, I’d spoil his afternoon,
I’d smash his bloody instrument if I catched him playing a tune.