Category: songs

Alex Ellis 2026

Inspired by New Orleans’ contaminated drinking water crises of 2022 and 2023. Tune is Balfour Road by Rhona Falling.

The plover doesn’t hear, a thousand miles away,
The wildfire in the north, her nest repaired today
When oil coats the marsh, she knows it’s someone’s fault
But Ohio’s in a drought, now the River’s full of salt

Chorus:
Salt marsh salt, fried chicken salt
You turn on the faucet you don’t want no salt
Crab boil salt, Pontchartrain salt
The Gulf is up the River and it’s too much salt

A million people drink the Mississippi’s gifts
When water’s flowing slow then the intake has to shift
Hundred million stopgap, two to go upriver,
Oil keeps burning what’s left of normal weather

Underwater sandcastle, holding back the tide
But the climate keeps changing and there’s nowhere left to hide
Implacable wedge, pushing up here from the sea
If you love New Orleans don’t go working for BP

The rhythm of the storms is nothing new here
In Plaquemines Parish the precarity is near
Most of us survive, most of us rebuild
But who will pay to do it if you leave or you are killed?

Mardi Gras beads add a sparkle to her nest
But the plover’s getting tired and she settles own to rest
The delta will endure the anthropocene’s assault
But her habitat’s wounded and we’re rubbing in the salt

John Grimshaw 

Ian Robb wrote in 1979: "This song dates from the beginning of the industrialisation of the textile trade in Lancashire. It deals with a particularly black period during which the supply of woven goods outstripped the market, partly due to mechanisation, causing a scarcity of jobs for weavers and a decline in wages for those fortunate enough to be employed. The 'gentlemen and tradesmen' of the song followed the official propaganda line in blaming the Napoleonic wars and Bonaparte himself for much of the starvation and hardship which resulted. Apparently, however, the working men and women of the factories and mills were not so easily taken in, and many of them, seeing little decline in the comforts of the ruling and merchant classes, held a sneaking respect and admiration for 'Boney', whom they regarded as a champion of the poor."

Arrowsmith:Robb Trio

You gentlemen and tradesmen, as you ride about at will,
Look down on these poor people, it’s enough to make you crill.
Look down on these poor people as you ride up and down.
I think there is a God above will pull your pride right down.

Chorus:
You tyrants of England! Your race may soon be run.
You may be brought unto account for what you’ve sorely done.

You pull down our wages, shamefully to tell,
You go into the market and you say you cannot sell;
And when that we do ask you when these bad times may mend,
You quickly give an answer, “When the wars are at an end.”

When we look on our poor children, it grieves our hearts full sore;
Their clothing it is torn to rags, and we can get no more.
With little in their bellies they to their work must go,
While yours do dress as manky as monkeys in a show.

You go to church on Sundays but I think it’s nowt but pride;
There can be no religion where humanity’s thrown aside.
If there be a God in Heaven, as there is in the exchange,
Our poor souls must not come near there like lost sheep they must range.

With the choicest of strong dainties your table’s overspread;
With good ale and strong brandy you make your faces red.
You invite a set of visitors, it is your chief delight,
To put your heads together for to make our faces white.

You say that Bonaparte has been the cause of all,
And that we should all have cause to pray for his downfall.
Well, Bonaparte is dead and gone and it is plainly shown
That we have bigger tyrants in Boneys of our own.

So now, my lads, for to conclude and for to make an end,
Let’s hope that we can form a plan that these bad times may mend.
So, give us our old prices, as we have had before,
And we can live in happiness and rub out the old score. 

trad 

The Teacups: https://haystackrecords.bandcamp.com/track/vignette-ii-the-harvest-jug

Now I am come for to supply your workmen
When in harvest dry they do labor, hot and sweat
Good drink is better for them than meat
In winter time when it is cold,
I likewise then good drink can hold
Both seasons do the same require
And most men do good drink desire 

trad 

Ewan MacColl wrote in 1962: "Poetic licence has been strained to breaking point in this vigorous ballad. The battle fought upon the plains of Cromdale in Strathspey did, in fact, result in the army of 1,500 Highlanders being defeated by Sir Thomas Livingstone's Hanoverians. Montrose, the hero of the song, was not present at the event. Some forty-five years before, however, he won a victory at the Battle of Auldearn against the Whig forces and it is probable that the two events have been dovetailed to provide us with a fine, optimistic, if somewhat chronologically inaccurate song."

As I came in by Achin doon, Just a wee bit frae the toun,
Tae the Highlands I was bound To view the haughs of Cromdale.
I met a man in tartan trews, I spiered at him what was the news,
Quo’ he, “The Highland ar my rues That e’er we came to Cromale.

“We were in bed, sir, every man, When the English host upon us came;
A bloody battle then began Upom the haughs of Cromdale.
The English horse they were so rude, They bathed their hoofs in Highland blood.
But our brave clans, they boldly stood Upon the haughs of Cromdale.

“But, alas! We could no longer stay, For o’er the hills we came away,
And sore we do lament the day That e’er we came to Cromdale.”
Thus the great Montrose did say; “Can you direct the nearest way?
For I will o’er the hills this day, And view the haughs of Cromdale.”

“Alas, my Lord, you’re not so strong. You scarcely have two thousand men,
And there’s twenty-thousand on the plain, Stand rank and file on Cromdale.”
Thus the great Montrose did say, “I say, direct the nearest way,
For I will o’er the hills this day, And see the haughs of Cromdale.”

They were at dinner, every man. When the great Montrose upon them came;
A second battle then began Upon the haughs of Cromdale.
The Grant, Mackenzie and Mackay, Soon as Montrose they did espy,
O then they fought most valiantly Upon the haughs of Cromdale. 

They Might Be Giants 2002

There’s a house at the top of a tree
There’s a house at the top of a tree
In the house there’s a room
In the room there’s a chair
And sitting in the chair is you

There’s a nose at the end of a snout
Of a dog with his head out the window
Of a car that’s driving away from the tree
And at the top of a tree there’s a house And in the house
there’s a room and in the room There’s a chair
and in the chair is you

There’s a plan to eat the house
In the mind of a mouse in the woods
And the mouse in the woods has a smell that’s detected
By the nose at the end of a snout of a dog
And the dog has his head out the window of a car
And the car is driving away from the tree
And at the top of a tree there’s a house And in the house
there’s a room and in the room There’s a chair
and in the chair is you

There are no more potato chips left
In the empty bag in your hand
And the crumpling sound of the empty bag
Makes the mice get mad And when the mice get mad
It leads to a plan to eat the house
And the plan’s in the mind of the mouse in the woods
And the mouse in the woods has a smell that’s detected
By the nose at the end of a snout of a dog
And the dog has his head out the window of a car
And the car is driving away from the tree
And at the top of a tree there’s a house And in the house
there’s a room and in the room There’s a chair
and in the chair is you

And the reason there are no more chips
In the empty bag in your hand
Is that the crumpling sound of the empty bag
Makes the mice get mad Which leads to a plan
To eat the house But just in time
The dog arrives To give to the mouse
The potato chips That you took from the bag
And gave to the dog To deliver to the mouse
So the mouse would not eat you 

Sara Price mid-1800s

Peggy Seeger wrote in 1968: "This song was copied from the diary of Mrs. Sara A. Price of Ottawa, Illinois. She had seven children and lost them all. Some of her sons were killed in the American Civil War. Thus, this version can be dated about mid 19th century."

One day as I wandered I heard a complaining,
I saw an old woman the picture of gloom.
She stared at the mud on her doorstep (’twas raining)
And this was her song as she wielded her broom,

Chorus:
“Oh, life is a toil and love is a trouble,
Beauty will fade and riches will flee.
Pleasures will dwindle and prices will double,
And nothing is as I would wish it to be.”

“There’s too much of worriment goes to a bonnet,
There’s too much of ironing goes to a shirt.
There’s nothing repays the time you waste on it,
There’s nothing stays with us but trouble and dirt.

“In March there is mud, there’s sludge in December,
The hot winds of summer are laden with dust.
In fall the leaves litter, in muddy September
The wallpaper rots and the candlesticks rust.

“There’s worm in the cherries and fly on the roses,
There’s ants in the sugar and mice in the pies.
The rubbish of spiders no human supposes,
There’s ravaging beetles and damaging flies.

“There’s sweeping at six and there’s dusting at seven,
There’s victuals at eight and there’s dishes at nine.
There’s potting and panning from ten to eleven,
We’ve scarce finished breakfast, we’re ready to dine.

“With grease and with grime from corner to centre,
Forever at war, forever alert.
No rest for a day lest the enemy enter,
I spend my whole life in a struggle with dirt.

“Last night in my dreams I was banished forever
To a far distant rock in the midst of the sea.
My sole task in life, a constant endeavour
To brush off the waves as they swept over me.

“Alas, ’twas no dream! At last I behold it!
I see I am helpless my fate to avert.”
She laid down her broom, her apron she folded,
She lay down and died and was buried in dirt. 

Stan Rogers 1981

I often take these night shift walks When the foreman’s not around
I turn my back on the cooling stacks And make for open ground
Far out beyond the tank-farm fence Where the gas flare makes no sound
I forget the stink and I always think Back to that Eastern town

I remember back six years ago This western life I chose
And every day the news would say Some factory’s going to close
Well, I could have stayed to take the dole But I’m not one of those
I take nothing free, and that makes me An idiot, I suppose.

Chorus 1:
So I bid farewell to the Eastern town I never more will see
But work I must so I eat this dust And breathe refinery
Oh I miss the green and the woods and streams And I don’t like cowboy clothes
But I like being free and that makes me An idiot, I suppose.

So come all you fine young fellows Who’ve been beaten to the ground
This western life’s no paradise, But it’s better than lying down.
Oh the streets aren’t clean, and there’s nothing green, And the hills are dirty brown,
But the government dole will rot your soul Back there in your home town.

Chorus 2:
So bid farewell to the Eastern town You never more will see.
There’s self-respect and a steady cheque In this refinery.
You will miss the green and the woods and streams And the dust will fill your nose.
But you’ll be free, and just like me, An idiot, I suppose. 

Dave Goulder 1970

The January man, he walks the road in woollen coat and boots of leather.
The February man still wipes the snow from off his hair and blows his hands.
The man of March he sees the spring and wonders what the year will bring
And hopes for better weather.

Through April rain the man goes down to watch the birds come in to share the summer.
The man of May stands very still watching the children dance away the day.
In June the man inside the man is young and wants to lend a hand
And grins at each newcomer.

And in July the man in cotton shirt, he sits and thinks on being idle.
The August man in thousands takes the road to watch the sea and find the sun.
September man is standing near to saddle up and lead the year
And Autumn is his bridle.

And the man of new October takes the reins and early frost is on his shoulder.
The poor November man sees fire and wind and mist and rain and Winter air.
December man looks through the snow to let eleven brothers know
They’re all a little older.

And the January man comes round again in woollen coat and boots of leather
To take another turn and walk along the icy road he knows so well.
The January man is here for starting each and every year
Along the way for ever. 

trad 

Collected by the Reverend Geoffry Hill in Durrington and published in his 1898 book Wiltshire Folk Songs and Carols

The Teacups: https://haystackrecords.bandcamp.com/track/labouring-man

You Englishmen of each degree, A moment listen unto me.
To please you all I do intend, With these few lines that I do to pen.
From day to day you all may see, The poor are frowned on by degree.
By them, you know who never can Do without the labouring man.

Chorus:
Now let England do the best she can,
She can’t do without the labouring man.
Old England always leads the van,
But not without the labouring man.

In former days, you all do know, A poor man cheerful used to go.
Neat and clean, upon my life, With his children and his wife.
And for his labour it was said, A fair day’s wages he was paid.
But now to live he hardly can- May God protect the labouring man.

When Bonaparte and Nelson too, And Wellington at Waterloo.
Were fighting both by land and sea, The poor man gained the victory!
Their hearts were cast in honour’s mould, The soldiers and the sailors bold.
And every battle, you must understand Was carried by the labouring man.

Now, if wars do rise again, And England be in want of men.
They’ll have to search the country round To find the lads that plough the ground,
Who harrow the ground and till the wheat, And every danger boldly meet.
For England always leads the van, But not without the labouring man. 

The Arrogant Worms 1992

Oh, I used to be a farmer and I made a living fine
I had a little stretch of land along the CP line
But times were hard and though I tried, the money wasn’t there
And bankers came and took my land and told me fair is fair
I looked for every kind of job, the answer always “no”
Hire you now, they’d always laugh, we just let twenty go!
The government, they promised me a measly little sum
But I’ve got too much pride to end up just another bum

Bridge:
Then I thought who gives a damn if all the jobs are gone
I’m gonna be a PIRATE! on the River Saskatchewan!

Chorus:
Cause it’s a heave-ho! hi-ho! Coming down the plains
Stealing wheat and barley and all the other grains
And it’s a ho-hey! hi-hey! Farmers bar your doors
When you see the Jolly Roger on Regina’s mighty shores

Well you think the local farmers would know that I’m at large
But, just the other day I found an unprotected barge
I snuck up right behind them and they were none the wiser
I rammed their ship, and sank it, and I stole their fertilizer!
A bridge outside of Moose Jaw spans a mighty river
The farmers cross in so much fear, their stomachs are a-quiver
Because the know that TRACTOR JACK! is hiding in the bay
I’ll jump the bridge and knock them cold and sail off with their hay!

Well Mountie Bob he chased me, he was always at my throat
He’d follow on the shoreline because he didn’t own a boat
But cutbacks were a-coming and the Mountie lost his job
Now he’s sailing with me and we call him Salty Bob
A swingin’ sword, and skull n’ bones, and pleasant company
I never pay my income tax and screw the GST – SCREW IT!
Prince Albert down to Saskatoon, I’m the terror of the sea
If ya wanna reach the Co-op, boy, you gotta get by me!

Well, pirate life’s appealing, but you don’t just find it here
I’ve heard that in Alberta, there’s a band of buccaneers
They roam the Athabasca, from Smith to Fort McKay
And you’re gonna lose your Stetson if you have to pass their way
Well winter is a-coming and a chill is in the breeze
Our pirate days are over once the river starts to freeze
I’ll be back in springtime, but now I’ve to go
I hear there’s lots of plundering down in New Mexico!