About April 1812 Luddite uprising in Horbury, West Yorkshire. Recorded by Bill Price in 1972 and by Swan Arcade 1976. Price wrote that the song, a fragment of a longer song, was found in 1880 by Frank Peel, while collecting material for his book about the Luddites.
Chorus: Come all you croppers stout and bold, Let your faith grow stronger still, For the cropper lads in the county of York have broken shears at Foster’s Mill.
And around and around we all do stand And firmly swear we will, We’ll break the shears and the windows too And we’ll all set fire to Foster’s Mill.
O the wind it blew and the sparks they flew, And the flames they had their fill, And out of bed poor folks did creep, And they cheered the fire at Foster’s Mill.
All drear and dark it is the day When a man has to fight for his bread; Some judgement sure will clear the way And the poor to triumph shall be led.
"Written at Uncle Prescott's summer home in Half Way Cove, Nova Scotia, shortly after I met my wife. It's the only love song I've ever written, and it pleases me greatly that so many people like it still. It has been recorded by more artists than any other song of mine."
Where the earth shows its bones of wind-broken stone And the sea and the sky are one I’m caught out of time, my blood sings with wine And I’m running naked in the sun There’s God in the trees, I’m weak in the knees And the sky is a painful blue I’d like to look around, but honey, all I see is you
The summer city lights will soften the night ‘Til you’d think that the air is clear And I’m sitting with friends, where forty-five cents Will buy another glass of beer He’s got something to say, but I’m so far away That I don’t know who I’m talking to Cos you just walked in the door, and honey, all I see is you
Chorus: And I just want to hold you closer than I’ve ever held anyone before You say you’ve been twice a wife and you’re through with life Ah, but honey, what the hell’s it for? After twenty-three years you’d think I could find A way to let you know somehow That I want to see your smiling face forty-five years from now
So alone in the lights on stage every night I’ve been reaching out to find a friend Who knows all the words, sings so she’s heard And knows how all the stories end Maybe after the show she’ll ask me to go home With her for a drink or two Now her smile lights her eyes, but honey, all I see is you
There are fortunes in a life time All our money cannot buy Like the tiny little snowflake Slowly floating down from the sky There are wonders never ceasing Created by our Master’s hand But the greatest of all our fortunes Its in God’s promised land
Chorus: Oh the rich man with all of his money All of his silver and all of his gold He can’t buy one breath of life Or a home for his weary soul For that is bought and it is paid for By the blood of the blessed Lamb Yes the greatest of all our fortunes Its in God’s promised land
There are fortunes in a teardrop There are fortunes in a smile In the face of a weary pilgrim Or the face of a little child There are fortunes right in your Bible If you’ll read it well then you’ll understand But the greatest of all our fortunes Its in God’s promised land
On 31 March 1879, disaster befell a squadron of 10th Hussars attempting to cross the Kabul River. Swept away by rapids, weighted down by their cloaks and equipment, 46 men were drowned or kicked to death by frantic horses. Though no major loss in the context of the bloody second Afghan War, the tragedy (no doubt because it was an accident, not a battle) caused deep shock at home and evidently made its mark on the 13 year old Kipling.
Kabul town’s by Kabul river- Blow the trumpet, draw the sword- There I lef’ my mate for ever, Wet an’ drippin’ by the ford. Ford, ford, ford o’ Kabul river, Ford o’ Kabul river in the dark ! There’s the river up and brimmin’, an’ there’s ‘arf a squadron swimmin’ ‘Cross the ford o’ Kabul river in the dark.
Kabul town’s a blasted place- Blow the trumpet, draw the sword- ‘Strewth I sha’n’t forget ‘is face Wet an’ drippin’ by the ford ! Ford, ford, ford o’ Kabul river, Ford o’ Kabul river in the dark ! Keep the crossing-stakes beside you, an’ they will surely guide you ‘Cross the ford o’ Kabul river in the dark.
Kabul town is sun and dust- Blow the trumpet, draw the sword- I’d ha’ sooner drownded fust ‘Stead of ‘im beside the ford. Ford, ford, ford o’ Kabul river, Ford o’ Kabul river in the dark ! You can ‘ear the ‘orses threshin’, you can ‘ear the men a-splashin’, ‘Cross the ford o’ Kabul river in the dark.
Kabul town was ours to take- Blow the trumpet, draw the sword- I’d ha’ left it for ‘is sake- Him that left me by the ford. Ford, ford, ford o’ Kabul river, Ford o’ Kabul river in the dark ! It’s none so bloomin’ dry there; ain’t you never comin’ nigh there, ‘Cross the ford o’ Kabul river in the dark?
Kabul town’ll go to hell- Blow the trumpet, draw the sword- ‘Fore I see him ‘live an’ well- Him the best beside the ford. Ford, ford, ford o’ Kabul river, Ford o’ Kabul river in the dark ! Gawd ‘elp ’em if they blunder, for their boots’ll pull ’em under, By the ford o’ Kabul river in the dark.
Turn your ‘orse from Kabul town- Blow the trumpet, draw the sword- Him an’ ‘arf my troop is down, Down an’ drownded by the ford. Ford ford, ford o’ Kabul river, Ford o’ Kabul river in the dark ! There’s the river low an’ fallin’, but it ain’t no use o’ callin’ ‘Cross the ford o’ Kabul river in the dark.
Shaw was a weaver-poet of Forfar (1786-1856). As the story is fairly common, Shaw may well have adapted existing material. When it moved into folk currency, the text was altered and it was sung to many different tunes such as Johny Ladd, The Quaker Wife, and Robin Tamson's Smiddy.
In Forfar country I was born But faith I div think shame, sir Tae tell o the weary life I led Afore I left my hame, sir
Chorus: Hurra, hurra, wi my tilt a fal air al aye doh
My faither was a weaver poor As iver reeled a spool, sir And niver was meat came tae wir door But juist a pun at Yule, sir
When I was six, I gaed tae school Because it was the fashion And ivery Sunday tae the kirk Tae save me o a thrashin
Thay learnt me thare tae read and write And learnt the rule o three, sir But a nobler thought came tae my mind A sodger I would be, sir
So I gaed doun tae Forfar town All in the Forfar County And I signed up wi Sergeant Brown For forty pounds o boonty
Thay gaed me claes tae hap ma back And mittens for my hands, sir Swore I was the bravest chiel In aw the Hielan’ clan, sir
We spent the maist o aw our time Juist marchin up and doun, sir Wi a feather bonnet tae wir cap And peuthered tae wir croun, sir
Bit fegs thay gart me change ma tune And sent me aff tae Spain, sir Thare war forty regiments in a row Came marchin ower the plain, sir
For three long days and nichts we focht I thought ‘twould never end, sir Til a bullet came fusslin throu ma leg And I up and fired again, sir
The surgeon came and dressed ma wounds He said I would be lame, sir But I got haud o twa oxter staffs And I came hirplin hame, sir
Nou aw the things that I’ve been throu I’ve scarcely time tae mention For now I’m back in Forfarshire And livin fae my pension
Here’s adieu to Winter wailing. From now on it’s plain sailing: For the summer is a-come unto day As we welcome the First of May.
Chorus: When we’re following the Old Oss through the town When we’re following the Old Oss Padstow round, All on a bright May morning, All on the First of May.
And we rise in the morning early And remember Merv and Charlie, By the Golden Lion we’ll stand to greet The Old Oss on to the street.
And there’ll be no cries nor cribbin’, We’ll not wear the Blue Ribbon. It’s the Old Red Oss and a crate of beer That’ll bring us our good cheer.
And we’ll sing from morn till night time For one song it’s the right time. Only in Padstow will you hear The Day Song loud and clear.
So good friends, don’t ignore us, Join in the May Day chorus; Dance with the Old Oss, it’s no sin To watch the Summer come in.
Polwart was at a Shetland Folk Festival singing at an outlying island event, and as she was being taken home by sea, in the early morning, a heron rose in front of the boat and flew ahead. In the song the heron represents the return of Spring, light after darkness, hope after grief.
The back of the winter is broken And light lingers long by the door And the seeds of the summer have spoken In gowans that bloom on the shore
Chorus: By night and day we’ll sport and we’ll play And delight as the dawn dances over the bay Sleep blows the breath of the morning away And we follow the heron home
In darkness we cradled our sorrow And stoked all our fires with fear Now these bones that lie empty and hollow Are ready for gladness to cheer
So long may we sing of the salmon And the snow-scented sounds of your home While the north wind delivers its sermon Of ice and salt water and stone
"The original version of this song is entitled "The Warlike Lads of Russia", and is credited to British Folk artist Nic Jones. He has stated in album notes that he found some of the song's lyrics in an old English broadside (a publication of Victorian street songs), added fresh lyrics of his own, and wrote the associated tune."
Oh when Gregory Bovino to Minnesota went With all his troops and all his men their minds were fully bent For to break those northern cities oh they had been employed But the whole town rose against them and their spirits did destroy
Chorus: Oh the folks from Minnesota they fight all in one mind Making Bovino to run and leave his troops behind
When in two Sister Cities the common man did stand Old Bovino and all his men took anyone they’d get But in two Sister Cities the common man’d retreat They flooded all their sidewalks and they froze hard all their streets
Well it’s all across Twin Cities the common man held fast Against Bovino and all his men They marched and drove them back The action being so hot from right and left and front and rear “Well damn you all” said Bovino “I’ll stay no longer here”
Well away then went poor Bovino as fast as he could run Over snowy fields and ditches he left cars and plans and guns The carnage of his actions, the rage of neighbors too He left it all behind him for it’s all he knows to do
Said “It’s full 3,000 men of mine, their dignity you’ve taken Likewise you’ve robbed them of their sleep and nobody will feed them But never more to Minneapolis I dare advance For if I do I may be sure they’ll teach me how to dance”
So it’s to conclude and so to finish up our song Old Bovino can run from state to state but not for long For it’s each and every tyrant, and every cruel small man Must turn and face the music or else see his soul be Damned
"Priscilla Herdman may have touched this one off. Certainly it was at her urging that the Bermuda Folk Club first brought me in for a concert, and I was so impressed with the beauty of the place, and its long, rich history that I just had to write a song. This one is rather hard to sing, at least at the tempo I do it at. Get a good breath before each chorus, and a short one after the world 'coal'. In the verses you are on your own."
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-3kRhtuiq-M
Chorus: He was the Captain of the Nightingale Twenty-one days from Clyde in coal He could smell the flowers of Bermuda in the gale When he died on the North Rock Shoal
Just five short hours from Bermuda in a fine October gale There came a cry Oh, there be breakers dead ahead from the collier Nightingale No sooner had the Captain brought her round, came a rending crash below Hard on her beam ends, groaning, went the Nightingale and overside her mainmast blows
“Oh, Captain, are we all for drowning?” came the cry from all the crew! “The boats be smashed! How then are we all to be saved? They are stove in through and through!” “Oh, are ye brave and hardy collier men or are ye blind and cannot see? The Captain’s gig still lies before ye whole and sound, it shall carry all o’ we.”
But when the crew was all assembled and the gig prepared for sea, ‘Twas seen there were but eighteen places to be manned, nineteen mortal souls were we. But cries the Captain “Now do not delay, nor do ye spare a thought for me. My duty is to save ye all now, if I can; see ye return as quick as can be.”
Oh, there be flowers in Bermuda. Beauty lies on every hand, And there be laughter, ease and drink for every man, but there is no joy for me; For when we reached the wretched Nightingale what an awful sight was plain. The Captain, drowned, was tangled in the mizzen-chains smiling bravely beneath the sea.
