Country Life

For the final Sunday song of the year, Rob leads us in a popular chorus;

"Fantastic chorus song, everbody seems to know it, even when they don't. Like so many songs, its origins are suitably obscure, but if anyone is interested, here's a good place to start looking: http://mudcat.org/thread.cfm?threadid=47543.
I learned it originally from Mike Waterson, as, I suspect, did most people, though the recorded Watersons' version on "For Pence and Spicy Ale" only has verses 1 and 4 (plus chorus).

The "layland" (or leyland, or lealand, or laylum) upon which the small birds merrily sing, is probably meadowland, or land laid down for pasture, though again there are plenty of different theories. I think "laylum" is an especially interesting word, as I had always just thought of it as a nonsense word which I know from the refrain from one version of The Derby Ram, but apparently it could mean "branch" or possibly "chorus" and much else besides. Incidentally, there are one or two parodies around:

"....And a pox on the life of a country boy

Who's allergic to the new-mown hay."

This is a great 'year round' song to end the Sunday Song blog year with, and fitting too; most of the songs posted on the blog through the year have been perfomed by just one or two musicians, whereas this recording gives a flavour of what those Sunday evenings in the Star are like when we all really get going. Many thanks to Tim for recording the songs and taking the time to run the website, and thanks also to Paul, our host at the Star who has put up with so much from us over the last 12 months."Rob
Ch:
I like to rise when the sun she rises,
early in the morning
And I like to hear them small birds singing,
Merrily upon their layland
And hurrah for the life of a country boy,
And to ramble in the new mown hay.In spring we sow at the harvest mow
And that is how the seasons round they go
but of all the times choose I may
To be rambling in the new mown hay.

Ch:

In summer when the summer is hot
We sing, and we dance, and we drink a lot
We spend all our nights in sport and play
And go rambling in the new mown hay

Ch:

In autumn when the oak trees turn
We gather all the wood that's fit to burn
We slash and we stash and we stow away
And go rambling in the new mown hay

Ch:


In winter when the skies are gray
we hedge and we ditch our time away,
and dream of the summer when the sun shines gay,
And we ramble in the new mown hay.

Ch:


Oh Nancy is my darling, she's so gay
She blooms like the flowers every day
But I love her best in the month of May
When we're rambling through the new mown hay

Ch:

The Nailsbourne Beast Song

A lovely little Somerset carol sung by Chris and Anne, it was collected from Ruth Tongue who was a folklorist, collector of stories and performer throughout most of the 20th Century. She says of this song in the book 'Folklore':

"The Nailsbourne Beast Song in the Cowman's mystery. It may only be sung by him to the cattle in the barn on Christmas Eve. If he is ill, or gives up his work, he must hand it on to a successor. The widow who sang it for me knew it because her husband had not, apparently, considered his successor a fit recipient, and had therefore taught it to his wife in order that she might hand it on to the 'raight one'. I, although a girl, was allowed to learn it because I was born in the chime-hours

The reference... to the Holy Thorn is of interest because there was a Glastonbury thorn at Nailsbourne that flowered on Old Christmas Eve, when all beasts can speak, and will, unless tethered, come to kneel there"

Tim

The Nailsbourne Beasts' Song

Oh the beasties all heard the angel call
When the cock sang “Christ is born”
And they all kneeled to pray down upon the hay
When the cock sang “Christ is born”

Chorus:
And the ruddick sang, oh the little ruddick sang
So sweetly sang-ed he
On Chrissimas morn on the blessed thorn
On a twig of the holy tree.

The oxen did low and the ponies they did bow
When the cock sang “Christ is born”
And the donkey roared “Praise our sweet Lord”
When the cock sang “Christ is born”

Chorus:

Let us kneel in the hay for 'tis Chrissimus Day
When the cock sang “Christ is born”
And there's bloom on the twig and the little lambs do jig
When the cock sang “Christ is born”

Chorus:

The Cause and the Colliery Board

This week's song is sung by James Froud, an excellent singer songwriter who has recently started attending the session:

"Inspired by the documentary 'all our working lives' the song is a fictional story of a man starting his mining career during the reign of the national coal board only to find the mine is closed years later. I was struck by the Victorian living conditions in mining towns and the optimism felt by people after the formation of the coal board, only to be betrayed."

James

Said you were a coal mining man
Said you worked hard all your life
And if anyone had ever given you the chance
You would have shone like the brightest light

Don't remember much about the swinging sixties
Don't remember much about free love
Just your mother scrimping and saving
Trying to make sure you had enough

In nineteen sixty five,
You started your job for life
Proud to follow in the footsteps
Proud to know what was right

Your fathers had been calling for years
To be working for the public and the pockets of their peers
Yea these really were the good old days
Taking the very first steps towards the socialist state

Ch: And now when your sitting on your own,
You haven't been back since the day you were gone
It's like what you get ain't what you ordered,
The difference between the cause and the colliery board

Investment was poorest into the pit,
Starting the mechanisation of the seems that had been hit
Older men said you didn't know you're born,
Working in the days of the national colliery board

Well then that truly was the case
Your skin got thick and tough and your back began to break
Looking back you began to love the toil,
Getting out became your mantra, in your heart this was your home.

Ch

Do you remember that day back in June,
Everyone gathered outside the gates to hear the news.
It hit you like a hammer had been swung,
The colliery band marched home playing a slow marching drum

You took it as an opportunity,
Said it was your chance to be free,
Always wanted to go see the world some day,
Eke out some of that severance pay.

The Streams of Bunclody

This week's song is a second track from Rosie Upton:

"I first heard the song in the early 1970s when I was in Ireland with a group of itinerant musicians from Bristol. We were in O’Donaghues’ Bar in Dublin just before Easter. I heard someone sing it and wrote down the words. I assume it’s a traditional song. The singer told me that the cuckoo referred to the British occupancy of Ireland. Even so it is a relatively common ‘floating verse’ found in many folk songs from these islands. I’ve heard many recordings including Emmett Spiceland who I heard in Ireland at that time, The Dubliners and of course Christy Moore have versions, all very similar, but I preferred this one. I’ve only recently started singing it again. For years I felt it important to sing material from the English tradition rather than stealing from other traditions. However, my great grandmother Helen Collins came from Dublin, so on the basis that there is some Irish blood tracking through my veins I’ve started singing it again!"

Rosie

Oh were I at the moss house where the birds do increase
By the foot of Mount Leinster or some silent place
By the streams of Bunclody where all fortunes do meet
Aye and all I would ask is one kiss from you sweet

Oh it’s why my love slights me as you might understand
For she has a freehold and I have no land
She has fine store of riches in silver and gold
And everything fitting a house to a home

Oh were a clerk and could write a good hand
I would write my love a letter that she might understand
Oh but I am a poor fellow that is wounded in love
Once I lived in Bunclody but now must remove

Oh the cuckoo she’s a pretty bird she sings as she flies
She brings us good tidings and tells us no lies
But she sucks other birds' eggs just to make her voice clear
And the more she sings cuckoo the summer draws near

So its farewell to my father, my mother adieu
My sisters and brothers farewell unto you
I am bound out for Americay my fortune to try
And when I think on Bunclody I am ready to die

On Christmas Day

Well it's December, everybody's starting to feel slightly Christmassy, now's the perfect time to bring them back down! I heard this song first on Spiers and Boden's album 'Songs' and was captivated by its narrative, message and moral. The story seems so out of place with the traditional image of Jesus and yet, on occasion, his nature as a player of tricks, sometimes vengeful. There is another example in the song 'The Bitter Withy' which is based upon a piece of gnostic literature written before the formation of what we more readily know as Christianity (a similar tale that may well have been rewritten later is here: 'The Holy Well'.) There are other carols though few and far between as well that deal and represent a more paganistic side to Christianity, the Corpus Christi Carol, or 'Down in yon Forest' is a lovely example. Going back to the song at hand there are different theories as to what lies behind this song, have a look HERE though my personal favourite is this:

'Another possible background to the song would be the Anglican/Puritan conflict in England. The Puritans did not believe in Christmas, as it has no biblical basis; the date of December 25 was in fact selected by the 4th Century Roman Emperor Constantine as Christ's birthday because it had been Mithras's birthday before that. Constantine had a vested interest in converting his armies (largely Mithraists) smoothly to Christianity, which he had selected as his state religion. The English Puritans thus essentially considered Christmas to be Pagan.'
Tim
On Christmas Day it happened so
Down in the meadows for to plough,
As we were a-ploughing on so fast
Up comes sweet Jesus himself at last.

“Oh man, oh man, what makes you plough
So hard upon the Lord's birthday?”
The farmer he answered him with great speed,
“For to plough this day we have great need.”

His arms did quaver to and fro,
His arms did quaver, he could not plough.
The ground did open and let him in
Before that he could repent of sin.

His wife and children are out of place,
His beasts and cattle they die away.
His beasts and cattle they die away
For the breaking of Our Lord's birthday.

Lay Me Down & Fundy Bay

Lay Me Down

Two tracks this week, the first was recorded at last Wednesday's Up in the Gallery by James Riley:


Fundy Bay



The second was sung by Alan Farrow who was passing through for the recent Mummers Festival last week:

"I picked (the song) up off of a Lou Killen Lp/cassette.Cannot find notes from said recording but I remember there being a reference to a singer/sailor with some Dutch sounding name who sailed on a scooner from Ann Harbour, Maine to Nova Scotia and got becalmed in a fog bank for 17 days with a 30 foot tide to contend with along with the shoals and the other coastal traffic in the late 19th century. (Otherwise there was "no pressure!" )

You now know as much as I do!"

With a little more searching I found the album that Alan referred to and a little more on the song though not much, have a look here and here, the song was originally written by Gordon Bok and recorded to the album "Bay of Fundy". In his sleeve notes, Bok wrote:

"This is about a long and weary, windless trip from Maine around to Halifax on a little black schooner that seemed to move only by the slatting of her gear. We had a coal stove in her, and the foresail used to downdraft onto the charlie noble, turn the stack into an intake and the cabin into a chimney. So, with the coalgas and the wet, the offwatch was not much more comfortable than the deadwatch"

Alan & Tim

All you Maine-men, proud and young,
When you run your easting down,
Don't go down to Fundy Bay,
She'll wear your time away.

Fundy's long and Fundy's wide,
Fundy's fog and rain and tide,
Never see the sun or sky,
Just the green wave going by.

Cape Sable's horn blows all day long;
Wonder why, wonder why.

Oh, you know, I'd rather ride
The Grenfell Strait or the Breton tide,
Spend my days on the Labrador
And never see old Fundy's shore.
All my days on the Labrador
And never see old Fundy's shore.

Cape Sable's horn blows all day long;
Wonder why, wonder why.

Give her staysail, give her main
In the darkness and the rain,
I don't mind the wet and cold,
I just don't like the growing old.
I don't mind the wet and cold,
I just don't like the growing old.

Cape Sable's horn blows all day long;
Wonder why, wonder why.

East-by-North or East-North-East,
Give her what she steers the best;
I don't want the foggy wave
To be my far and lonely grave.
I don't want the foggy wave
To be my far and lonely grave.

Cape Sable's horn blows all day long;
Wonder why, wonder why.

Cape Breton's bells ring in the swells;
Ring for me, ring for me.

Reynardine

This week's song is Rob's masterly retelling of the classic ballad:

This is one of my all time favourite songs, originally learned from one of my all timefavourite albums, Liege & Lief by Fairport Convention. Since I first heard Sandy
Denny singing this, I must have heard a dozen or more different versions but hers tops
them all for me.

Among those different versions are different interpretations. Sometimes Reynardineis a handsome outlaw or sometimes a dashing young lord. It is usually a love song
or sometimes he is a magical sort of elvish type, or even a shape changer. Like most
great folk songs and stories it has prompted a wealth of academic analysis, and oceans
of ink have been spilled over it. Start with Mudcat, and you can spend days following
the links and reading the dissertations. To me though, the story is simple and dark,
very dark, and words like "serial" and "killer" spring to mind. Bluebeard rather than
Robin Hood.
I believe that Bert Lloyd is considered to be largely responsible for the Fairport
version, and if so I think it is one of his greatest works. I have hardly changed any
of the lyrics, though I can't help but make one alteration: Sandy Denny sings that he
leads the young woman "...over the mountains", I prefer "...into the mountains", as I'm
not sure that she makes it out again.

Rob
One evening, as I rode by among the leaves so green
I overheard a young woman converse with Reynardine.
Her hair was black, her eyes were blue
her lips as red as wine
and he smiled to gaze upon her
did that sly bold Reynardine.


She said "Kind sir, be civil, my company forsake
for in my low opinion, I fear you are some rake."
"Oh no" he said "no rake am I
brought up in Venus' train
but I'm seeking for concealment
all along the lonesome plain."


"Your beauty so enticed me I could not pass it by,
and its with my gun I'll guard you all across the mountains high.
And if by chance you should look for me
in a house you'll not me find
for I'll be in my castle
you must enquire for Reynardine."


The sun went dark.
She followed him.
His teeth did brightly shine.
And he led her into the mountains,
did that sly bold Reynardine.

Martinmas Time

Well this year is full of grand coincidences!

"The feast of St. Martin falls upon this day though it is far better known here as remembrance Sunday. This song has little to do with the celebration as it tells of a young woman of herself outwitting a group of soldiers who are out after her maidenhead by little more than a bit of cross dressing!

I particularly love how this particular version of the story skips over the woman's distress in verse 2 and revels in her trickery later on in the song, particularly her brashness stepping closer and closer to the barracks. The final chase and cry compounds the soldiers efforts without making the lady looking sneaky: just smart.

This recording is sung by Rose Lippard with me noodling behind. We, like most of the folk community were struck by Anne Briggs' singing of this, a version that she was given by Bert Lloyd that he in turn had compiled through several different versions and tunes"

Tim

It fell upon the Martinmas time, 
When the snow lay on the border
There came a troop of soldiers here
To take up their winter quarters.

Ch: With me right fol-lay-dle li-dle ly-la da-dee-o
With me right fol-lay-dle li-dle lar-ry.

They rode up and they rode down, and
They rode over the border.
There they met a fair pretty girl
And she was a farmer's daughter.

Ch:

They made her swear a solemn oath
and salt tear in her eye, oh,
That she would call at their quarter gates
When no-one did her spy, oh.

Ch:

So she goes to the barber shop
To the barber shop went soon, oh,
She's made them cut her fine yellow hair
As short as any dragoon, oh.

Ch:

Then she goes to the tailor shop
And dresses in soldier's clothes, oh,
A pair of pistols down her side
And a nice little boy was she, oh.

Ch:

When she comes to the quarter gates,
It's loud, loud she did call, oh,
"There comes a troop of soldiers here
And we must have lodgings all, oh!"

Ch:

The quartermaster he comes out
He gives her half a crown, oh,
"Go and find lodgings for yourself,
For here there is no room, oh."

Ch:

But she drew nearer to the gates
And louder did she call, oh:
"Room, room, you gentlemen,
We must have lodgings all, oh!"

Ch:

The quartermaster he comes out
He gives her eighteen pence, oh
"Go and find lodgings in the town
For tonight there comes a wench, oh."

Ch:

She's pulled the garters from he legs
The ribbons from her hair, oh,
She's tied them 'round the quarter gates
As a token she'd been there, oh.

Ch:

She drew a whistle from her side,
And blew it loud and shrill, oh
"You're all very free with your eighteen pence
But you're not for a girl at all, oh."

Ch:

And when they knew that it was her
They tried to overtake her.
She's clapped her spurs to the horse's side
And she's galloped home a maiden.

Ch:

North Country Maid

Despite being on the other side of the world, this week's song comes from Sue Harding:

"I learned this song from a guy called Terry. I learned a lot of my early repertoire from Terry who ran a folk session in a pub in Llanarthne in South Wales which is near to where I lived for five years, once upon a time. I love its long fluid melody lines which are delicious to sing and decorate and its evocative images of the natural world. It is a girl's song, both a little bit arch and knowing and at the same time with an intense emotional directness as it explores that old chestnut of homesickness and longing. I think I might sing it next week at my debut open mic in Al Ain Golf Club. I'm sorry I know so little about it's provenance. Someone once said it was big in Ireland but it doesn't sound at all Irish to me!"

Sue

A North Country maid
Down to London had strayed
Although with her nature
it did not agree
And she's wept and she's sighed
And she's wrung her hands and cried
How I wish once again
In the North I could be

Where the oak and the ash
And the bonny ivy tree
Do all flourish and bloom
In my north country

I wish I could be
In my north country
where the lads and the lasses
Are making thee hay
Where the bells they do ring
And the bonny birds do sing
And the meadows and maidens
Are pleasant and gay

Chorus

I bet if I please
I could marry with ease
For where bonny lasses are
Lovers will come
But the lad that I wed
Must be north country bred
And must carry me back
To my north country home

Chorus

Sammy's Bar

It's hard to know what to say about Cyril Tawney, every new thing that I find out about him makes him seem all the more incredible. In my most recent performances I have been touching closely on the subject of honesty in folk song; honesty in song, in performance and in subject. It may seem obvious, trite or naive to say that, without a sense of honesty, folk music cannot survive but I feel it is an often overlooked subject in the many debates happening about folk music and its current state.

Whenever I listen to Cyril's voice and his music I understand that he really lived the events of which he sung, his travels around the globe aboard ship and the subsequent experiences have lead to songs that come across as raw and beautifully true despite them being fictional tales.

This song is a prime example of that; Sammy's bar was a real place, Cyril was involved in a car crash, the call of 'Hey, the last boat's a-leaving' and 'Haul away the daighsoe' reflect the final call for shipmates to get back to the ship at the end of a night ashore, failure to do so would mean either deserting or finding a far more expensive way back to the craft. The presentation of this song as a shanty, a work song, seems to be contradictory to a man who is simply giving up after his heart's broken first by a girl and then by her death and counterpoints his delusion in the need to work, to afford the fast car and impress the girls and further emphasises the overall effect.

This recording came just after Rosie Upton had told me that Cyril had actually drunk in The Star Inn in the 70's in between travelling to gigs as part of a Bath-wide pub crawl. I was so taken aback by the fact that this man had drunk (and been drunk) in the pub that our session takes place that I felt moved to sing this song in response. 

Tim

I went down to Sammy's Bar 
Hey, the last boat's a'leavin
By the shore at Pieta
Haul away the daighsoe

And my real love, she was there
There was sand all in her hair

How did sand get in your hair
Darling Johnny put it there

He's a better man by far
Because he's got a Yankee car

I went out from Sammy's Bar
To hire a Yankee car

Fourteen days I drank no wine
Saving for that love of mine

Then one day in Paula square
At a paper I did stare

Johnny tried a hairpin bend
For my love, it was the end

Going back to Sammy's Bar
I don't need no Yankee car

The Final Trawl & British Man O' War

The Final Trawl.

This first song is sung by Dave Stenton who came all the way from Oxford to join us:

"This song was written by Archie Fisher in 1979, after the Cod Wars with Iceland virtually completed the decimation of the British fishing industry. Shona MacMillan, in the notes to her compilation 'People and Songs of the Sea" [Greentrax CDTRAX 338, 2009], says: "In 1904, 143 boats, mostly herring drifters, were registered to Port Seton [on the Firth of Forth] and fishwives sold fish at the harbour. Today, about a dozen boats are locally owned and … fishing for prawns.'

I got the song from Roy Palmer’s "Boxing the Compass", pp. 306-307. Here are the words I sing: the "folk process" seems to have changed them a little! The only additional information I’ve got (also from Palmer) is that the Skerry Rock which Archie had in mind is the one that lies offshore between Peterhead and Aberdeen, and that a cran is 28st (392lb): so not the largest catch in the world."

Dave

It’s been three long years since we made her pay
sing Haul Away My Laddie O
and we can’t get by on the subsidy
and sing Haul Away My Laddie O.

So let’s heave away for the final trawl
it’s an easy pull for the catch is small.

Then we’ll stow the gear lads and batten down
and I’ll take the wheel lads and turn her round.

And she’ll join the "Venture" and the "Morning Star"
riding high and empty beyond the bar.

For I’d rather beach her on the Skerry Rock
than to see her torched in the breaker’s dock.

And it’s when I die you can stow me down
in her rusty old hold where the breakers sound.

Then we’ll find the Haven and the Fiddler’s Green
where the grub is good and the bunks are clean.

Well, I’ve worked the fishing now, boy and man
but the final trawl scarcely makes a cran.

British Man O' War


To celebrate 3 years of the session running I decided to start a new folk night in Bath at the St James Wine Vaults called Up in the Gallery. Held on the third Wednesday of each month it's aim is to bring some of the best young and emerging talent performing under the banner of folk today. Our first night was last Wednesday with the excellent James Findlay. He gave a cracking performance and ended with this song which is available on his first album 'As I Carelessly did Stray' from which this recording is taken.

Tim

It was down in yonder valley I carelessly did stray;
There I beheld a fair young damsel and a sailor gay.
He said, "My lovely Susan, I'm soon to leave the shore,
I'm sailing off to China a British man of war."

Ch: A Bristish man of war, a British man of war
I'm sailing off to China on a British man of war

Susan fell a weeping. "Oh sailor," she did say,
"How can you be so venturesome to throw your life away!
For it's when that I am twenty-one I shall receive my store;
Stay at home, don't venture on a British man of war."

Ch

"Oh, Susan, lovely Susan, the truth to you I'll tell,
The Chinese have insulted us, old England knows it well.
I may be crowned with laurels, so like a jolly tar,
I'll face the walls of China on a British man of war."

Ch

"Oh how can you be so venturesome as to face the proud Chinese,
For they will prove as treacherous as any Portuguese,
And by some deadly dagger you shall receive a scar,
So stay at home don't venture on a British man of war."

Ch

"Oh, Susan, lovely Susan, the time will quickly pass,
You come down to the ferryhouse to take a parting glass;
For my shipmates they are waiting to sail me far from the shore,
I'm sailing off to China on a British man of war."

Ch

The sailor took his handkerchief and tore it fair in two,
You keep half of me my love and I'll keep half of you
For when I am in battle, the cannons loudly roar,
I'll fight for fame and Susan in a British man of war."

Ch

It was down in yonder valley I carelessly did stray;
There I beheld a fair young damsel and a sailor gay.
He said, "My lovely Susan, I'm soon to leave the shore,
I'm sailing off to China a British man of war."

Ch

Help us to bring more folk music to Bath;
                                  

Townhouse Girl

This week's song is an unreleased track by Ali George:

"The concept of Townhouse Girl developed from a lyric that had been in my mind for a week or so (the first line of the song). I knew I wanted to expand the work and as soon as a melody emerged I got to work writing the rest... I also knew the narrator wasn't me, I found it interesting writing from someone else's perspective and that's a style of writing I've continued over the past year."

Ali

Townhouse Girl
Won't you treat me like a friend
I feel like a fool, I gave all my heart to you
Got nothing back

Townhouse Girl
Won't you open up the door
Out in the cold, with nowhere to go
Townhouse Girl

November wind,
won't you ease off again
It cuts straight through my coat
now I'm cold as a ghost
She's locked up safe inside
With her fire burning bright
I'm down here on the street
And you're blowing my heart apart

November wind,
Won't you ease off again
It cuts straight through my coat
Now I'm cold as a ghost
She's locked up safe inside
With her fire burning bright
I'm down here on the street
And you're blowing my heart apart

Townhouse Girl
Won't you treat me like a friend
I feel like a fool, I gave all my heart to you
Got nothing back

Help us to bring more folk music to Bath;
                                  

The Butcher Boy

This week's song is from Rosie Upton who came to her first session a couple of weeks ago::

"I've always loved ballads, hearing the story unfold often in a horrific almost cinematic form, this is especially so in murder ballads. I've wondered what the truth might be behind these stories. Asking myself whether the story is based on a myth or legend carried down over the centuries or based on more recent historical fact. Are they the oral tradition's equivalent of a crime or historical novel that is simply 'a good read' or merely a cautionary tale? It has always fascinated and appalled me that women come off particularly badly in ballads, nearly always the victim in a man's world, but regrettably that has been the reality for the greater part of history. Something feminism sought to redress and I am saddened that many young people today have disregarded and misunderstood the intention of the women's movement. I think that is why ballads, and more especially murder ballads, strike such a chord with me. Even from an early age I loved telling stories, as a teenager I enjoyed reading the Nordic sagas and I loved the theatricality of the ballad tradition long before I became a singer.

I already sang two similar songs within the same group of ballads - The Oxford Girl and Joseph Taylor's Worcester City - when I first heard the late Isabel Sutherland sing The Butcher Boy at a Sidmouth Festival back in the 1970s. The power of the song really hit me and the way she sang it really brought the story to life - so with some trepidation I asked her if she would mind if I sang it and she agreed. I've been singing it for more than 30 years and I still find it chilling. It is a powerful song which tells everything about the abusive power that a man can wield over a woman. As with most ballads it doesn't actually say why he killed her, she like so many in similar situations, has no voice. It is left for the listener to imagine. Did he rape her, was she pregnant, was it revenge, or was he simply a psychopath? We don't know but it ends with some redemption and retribution with the murderer hanged. Personally, I would have preferred him to be imprisoned in solitary confinement for the remainder of his miserable life. There is little justice for the murdered woman of whom we learn so little. The story has been copied so many times in detective fiction from Agatha Christie's crime novels to Colin Dexter's Inspector Morse and the dozens of television series they have spawned. Why do we relish such appalling stories.......? I really don't know the answer."

Rosie

My parents gave me learning, good learning they gave to me
For they sent me to a butcher's shop a butcher boy to be

It's there I met sweet Mary Ann with the dark and the rovin' eye
And I promised I would marry her in the month of sweet July

I went down to her mother's house 'tween the hours of eight and nine
And I asked her for to walk with him down by the foaming brine

Down by the foaming brine we'll go, down by the foaming brine
Now that won't be a pleasant walk, down by the foaming brine

We walked it east and we walked west and we walked it all alone
Till he took a knife from out me breast and he stabbed her to the ground

She fell down on her bended knee and for mercy she did cry
"Oh Willie dear, don't murder me, I'm not prepared to die"

I took her by her lily-white hands and I dragged her to the brim
And with a mighty downward push I pushed her fair body in

I went back to his mother's house 'tween the hours of twelve and one
And little, little did she think what her own poor son had done

I asked her for a handkerchief to tie around my hair
And I asked her for some candlelight to to light me up the stairs

No rest, no rest did the young man get, no rest he could not find
For he thought he saw the gates of hell approaching his bedside

And that murder it was soon found out and the gallows were his doom
For the murdering of sweet Mary Ann who lies where the roses bloom

Help us to bring more folk music to Bath;
                                  

Too Good to Burn

This week's song is based on a poem by Brendan Hamley:

Musician and poet Brendan Hamley has written verse online under the pseudonym of Stonepoem since the early days of the internet. In 2004 he created one of the web's first poetry blogs for the purposes of publishing a poem a day, everyday for a year.

Too Good to Burn was written after an evening of campfires, kinship and song beneath the magnificent 3,000 year old White Horse and Downland Neolithic site at Uffington, Oxfordshire. "At the end of the night, whilst tending the dying flames and watching the embers flicker and rise into the night sky, It felt like we were part of a tradition stretching back hundreds if not thousands of years. It is a poem about being called out to by unknown ancestors and answering them through fire and song. Tim's interpretation of the spirit of this, is uncanny. It was written in a metre and with folk song in mind, and has been patiently waiting to be sung by the right person for several years"

Brendan & Tim

Below the moon at Uffington
between the folds of chalkhill gown,
we sit beneath the White Horse stars,
see flames and sing this song.

O’ Stars and embers dance your crown
as woodsmoke turns the hour’s dust,
and as we do these things we must,
this night it shall be ours

Above, see nervous lanterns rise
like strange birds from another time,
we wait below this all tonight,
and contemplate the flow.

Stars and embers dance your crown
as woodsmoke turns the hour’s dust,
and as we do these things we must,
we know, this night is ours.

Below the moon at Uffington
we sing beneath your ancient night
we contemplate the eventide
and tell of White Horse downs.

So stars and embers raise your crown,
as woodsmoke turns, the hours must -
we hold our simple truth to trust,
the night indeed is ours.

Now sit, and sing with us.

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Ballad of Cursed Anna

This week's piece of psychoanalysis is sung by Rob Winder:

"This song is not a traditional song, but it has got woods in it, and a witch, so that’s alright then.

It was written by Jonathon Kelly, and appears on his album “Twice Around the House” (1972) along with such other gems as “Sligo Fair” and “Madeleine. Over the years, he has performed with, or been associated with many great artists, ranging from Eric Clapton, through the Bee Gees, Pink Floyd to Queen. I believe that Tommy Steele once performed a version of the Ballad of the Cursed Anna on TV.

I love the rhythms of this song, but, as with all great ballads it is the storyline which grabs me most. It is stark and simple, yet at the same time it resonates with so much in the way of folklore and fairy tale motifs. All around the world you will find tales of scary woods that contain magical or dangerous creatures and places – Hansel & Gretel’s gingerbread house, Baba Yaga’s house of bones, even Teddy Bears’ picnics, all must be approached with caution – and Kelly’s woodland is no different. The protagonist here throws caution to the winds, and pays a heavy price.

He also fits the picture of Jung’s archetype of The Innocent, who desires paradise / home, is happy, is naive, and is something of a romantic or dreamer. Jung also ascribes to The Innocent a fear of being punished for doing something bad or wrong, and we are told right at the outset that our man has just been released from prison, but doesn't know why he was there. The song ends with him being sentenced to a kind of imprisonment from which he may never be freed.

Anna is of course a succubus, the immortal seductress who gains her power by draining men of their souls. She is a Siren, she is Circe, she is Delilah. Like all good myths, it is a never ending story: the cycle of the foolish young man, gaining experience then becoming the wise but ignored old man, goes on forever, each man in turn playing the portrait to Anna’s Dorian Grey. I have no idea whether Jonathon Kelly drew on any kind of personal experience when writing it, but I suspect that at some level many men will relate to this song.

So much for psychobabble, just enjoy the song."

Rob



As I was walking homeward in the early morning light
Leaving far behind the prison where I'd spent the night
With no idea of what I'd done or why they'd punished me
But feeling nonetheless relieved and grateful to be free.

My path led through a woodland far behind a rusted gate
I knew it was a shortcut if I kept my walking straight
But then, like out of nowhere, this old wizened man appeared
Holding high his one hand while the other stroked his beard.

Ch: "Beware the cursed Anna's stare", this warning did he bring
"No-one makes it through this wood, going out as they came in!"

"But a change is what I'm looking for", I told the sad old man
And bidding him a last farewell into the wood I ran
I ran till I came to the river where I stopped to bathe my feet
And that is where I smelled her perfume delicate and sweet.

I stood up and I turned around and there in front of me
Stood a beautiful woman who simply stared at me
And then I knew it was all true what this old man had advised
"You must be Anna", I said, as I looked into her eyes.

Ch:

And then we came together in a passionate embrace
I felt my body weaken and my heart begin to race
And when at last the kissing stopped I saw to my alarm
This woman had turned into a young girl in my arms.

I heard her childish laughter as she vanished through the trees
I turned back to the river, my reflection for to see
And down there in the water saw exactly as I feared
To my horror I'd turned into an old man with a beard.

For seven long years I've waited by this gate, wishing that I could die
But that can never happen till some other young man comes by
I know that I must warn him to go round some other way
But hope that, like most men of his age, he won't believe what old men say.

Ch:

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Angel Ridge

This week's song is another beautifully penned number from Sue Harding:

Angel Ridge is a shiny new housing estate in Swindon that I'd pass every day on my way to work. I'd look at the sign pointing smartly up the hill and wonder what might happen to a soul in a place with such a resonant name. Later as I tried to craft lyrics for songs in the Americana style I listened to the folk singers of the last century, to bluegrass and gospel, early rock and roll and the blues. Angel Ridge had to be a love song but when I was done it had also soaked up some of the religious imagery and redemptive themes of the music I was listening to. I tried to keep the language simple, to re use some of the stock phrases and to embrace the naivety and unexpected quality of the juxtaposition of ideas and images that I so love in mountain music. Musically, the guitar part with its swinging base was a challenge for me but I wanted something old timey, up-beat and joyous and for the same reason I wanted the piece to have room for lots of harmonies and to build at the end in a way that lifts the heart as should a journey to Angel Ridge. Later Lou Baxter and I named our duo after the song and recorded it with full harmonies and a guitar solo.

Sue

Sue has been a regular attender of the session for a long time and is sadly leaving us to work in Abu Dhabi. We all wish her the very best... maybe we could do a skype session!?

Left my old ways on the bus

Headed out of town

Passed the pines and the old saw mill

Where we used to hang around

Walked a while beside the creek

Down by Baker's bridge

Took the steep old timer's trail

Up to Angel Ridge

My darling sent a message

The warmest sweetest sound

He said meet me up on Angel Ridge

To see the sun go down.

My baby's sweet as honey

And gentle as a dove

Gonna tell him I'm sorry

And offer him my love.

I'm dreaming by the river

Down by Baker's Bridge

Heading on up like a feather

Onto Angel Ridge.

I've been reckless, I've been wild

Lord knows I've been gone

Running like a wayward child

With my red shoes on

My baby's like a tiger

And patient as a stone

Gonna take me as I am

So I can come on home

I'm running to that river

Down by baker's bridge

Gonna see my sweet baby

Up on Angel Ridge

I'll find the warmest surest thing

I have ever found

Waiting up on Angel ridge

To see the sun go down

And I have his forgiveness

And he has sure got mine

We'll sleep out on a blanket

Underneath the pines

I'm running to that river

And over Baker's bridge

Gonna find my sweet sweet love

Up on Angel Ridge

Please help us bring more folk music to Bath;

Boys of Bedlam

This week's song is sung by Matt Bragg:

Versions of “Boys of Bedlam” have been around since at least the Sixteenth Century. The lyrics refer to “Tom O’Bedlam”, an expression used to describe mentally ill beggars: “Bedlam” being a reference to Bethlem Royal Hospital in London, the world's first and oldest institution to specialise in mental illnesses (a hospital bearing the name still treats mental health patients to this day). Indeed the character “Mad Maudlin” refers to Mary Magdalene Hospital, then the corresponding institution for female patients. The version I perform is actually more of an “answer song” to the original poem (variously “Mad Maudlin’s Search” or “Bedlam Boys”), although there are, typically, no “definitive” renderings and the various versions all blur into one another.

I first came across the song, a vivid evocation of madness, from seeing the great Maddy Prior perform it in support of her album “Year” (1993)http://spoti.fi/RSVemy . This then led me back to the Martin Carthy-led version that appears on the second Steeleye Span album “Please to See the King” (1971) http://spoti.fi/OFuzVM . I basically kept their lyrics and melody which are taken from the multi-volume “Wit and Mirth, or Pills to Purge Melancholy” by Thomas d'Urfey (published between 1698 and 1720), the earliest printed version of the song. I worked the guitar arrangement up from this in DADGAD tuning, the key shifting between D minor and D major.

Boys of Bedlam

For to see Mad Tom of Bedlam,
Ten thousand miles I've traveled.
Mad Maudlin goes on dirty toes,
For to save her shoes from gravel

Still I sing bonny boys, bonny mad boys
Bedlam boys are bonny
For they all go bare and they live by the air
And they want no drink or money

I went down to Satan's kitchen
To get me food one morning
And there I got souls piping hot
All on the spit a-turning.

Still I sing… etc

My staff has murdered giants
My bag a long knife carries
To cut mince pies from children's thighs
For which to feed the fairies.

Still I sing… etc


And when that I have murdered
The man in the moon to a powder
His staff I'll break and his dog I'll shake
And there'll howl no demon louder

Still I sing… etc

For to see Mad Tom of Bedlam,
Ten thousand years I've traveled.
Mad Maudlin goes on dirty toes,
For to save her shoes from gravel

Still I sing… etc


Please help us bring more folk music to Bath;

The King's Song

Another calling on song this week, this was sung by Rose at a session a little while ago and I took the chance of recording it again for a festival we were performing at. This song is taken from "The Hunton sword-dance' and would introduce the characters for the play, I can, however, find little information on the dance and play itself except that the song was collected from Kitt Wells by Maud Karpeles and published in the EDFSS Journal in 1928. This version was learned from an old Pete and Chris Coe recording entitled 'Out of Season, Out of Rhyme'.

Tim

Make us room for we are a-coming

All for to let you understand

What and of late we have been a-doing

Since we left your foreign land

The first to come in it is Lord Nelson

He is the hero of this isle

He that has won the garland of victory

At the battle of the Nile

The next to come in is the Duke of Wellington

He that has fought his passage through

He that has won the garland of victory

On the plains of Waterloo

The next to come in is Tom the tinker

All you kettles he will mend

So if you dare to let him venture

Tom will treat you as a friend

The next to come in is the highlander laddie

He's got ships all on the main

Merchandise of every description

Since he's returning home again

The last to some in is Dick the cobbler

He's got little for to lose

But for a poor and ragged waistcoat

And a pair of clouted shoes

Make us room for we are a-coming

All for to let you understand

What and of late we have been a-doing

Since we left your foreign land

Sam Hall

A little while ago we had the excellent Sam Brookes drop into the session and he performed this poignant song of an unrepentant criminal sentenced to death and his last waking thoughts. The song was originally called 'Jack Hall', the eponymous character being a 18th century criminal hung (hanged?) at Tyburn. Over the ensuing years the song has produced numerous offspring some of which cast the criminal as an embittered fellow with a twisted smile and a wry sense of humour. In Cecil Sharp's '100 English Folk Songs' he notes that in the versions he collected, all but one shared a variant of the tune to the song 'Admiral Benbow' and posits that as Jack was hung in 1701 and Benbow died in 1702, the latter song was written to fit the former tune.

In this version Sam is set out almost as a Robin Hood character with a strong sense of justice and a popular person as well, whilst considering this little bit of writing, I was reminded of Michel Foucault's essay 'Spectacle of the Scaffold' that looks at the change in punishment and justice from the time of hanging to the institutionalising of the judicial system: It's more complex than I can put here but have a look at this link. Either way, Sam (or Jack) has, over time, presented many different views on the criminal and his reflection on his actions.

Tim

For my name is Sam Hall, Chimney Sweep, Chimney Sweep 

For my name is Sam Hall, Chimney Sweep 

For my name is Sam Hall, And I've robbed both big and small
Now my neck must pay for all when I die, when I die
Oh my neck must pay for all when I die, when I die

I've just twenty pounds In store That's not all, Thats not all ,

I've just twenty pounds In store, That's not all

I've just twenty pounds In store, And I'll rob for tweny more 

Oh the rich must help the poor so must I, so must I 

Oh the rich must help the poor so must I 

Now I killed a man they said, so they said, so they said 

Oh I killed a man they said, so they said 

Oh I killed a man they said bashed in his bloody head 

Oh the rich must help the poor so must I, so must I 

Oh the rich must help the poor so must I

Ah They took me to Cooch Hill In a cart, in a cart

Ah They took me to Cooch Hill In a cart 

Ah They took me to Cooch Hill and I stopped to make me will

Oh The best of friends must part so must I, so must I 

Oh The best of friends must part so must I 

Up the ladder I did Grope that's no joke, thats no joke, 

Up the ladder I did Grope that's no joke 

Up the ladder I did Grope and the hangman pulled the rope 

 And ne're a word I spoke, tumblin' down, tumblin' down 

And ne're a word I spoke, tumblin' down

For my name is Sam Hall, Chimney Sweep, Chimney Sweep 

For my name is Sam Hall, Chimney Sweep 

For my name is Sam Hall, And I've robbed both big and small
Now my neck did pay for all when I die, when I die
Oh my neck did pay for all when I die, when I die

Bath Folk Festival Special part 2 of 2

Fly Away

This first track is by Lazibyrd, an excellent duo who play around several festivals and towns in the South West and who competed in the New Shoots competition at the Bath Folk Festival. The song is about the fact that you can always find things to do, even in the quietest villages in the country and if there's nothing happening... make something happen!

Why does gravity keep pulling me down?
Do I really need my feet on the ground?
And my head keeps spinning round and round

Is it wrong to want to reach the sky
Feel frustrated and I don't know why
Want to hide and yet I know I'll die

Ch: I just want to fly, I just want to fly, I just want to fly away

I just want to be the apple's eye
Straight and sober but I'm feeling high
All my dreams come true if I just try

Why does gravity keep pulling me down...

Ch:

When I was a Cowgirl

Angel Ridge finished their set today at the Wine Vaults with this take on the traditional American song 'When I was a Cowboy'

When I was a cowgirl, way out on the Western Plains,
When I was a cowgirl, way out on the Western Plains,
I made half a million pullin’ the buffalo reins.

refrain:
Coma-cow-cow, coma-cow-cow, yicky-yicky-yea.

What was the greatest battle here on the Western plains
When we an’ a bunch o’ cowgirls run into Jesse James

When me an’ a bunch o’ cowboys run into Jesse James.
De bullets was a-flyin’ jus’ like a shower of rain.

What was the greatest battle ever on Bunker Hill
When we an’ a bunch o’ cowgirls run into Buffalo Bill

When me an’ a bunch o’ cowgirls run into Buffalo Bill
We lassoed his ass and left him up on Bunker Hill

Maid on the Shore

I finished my time at the Bath Folk Week with Martin Vogwell, we met upon a shared billing a while ago and he has become a good friend since. Here is his lovely version of the British Ballad that tells the tale of clever lass outwitting, quite frankly, very dull-witted sailors

Oh there was a sea captain who ploughed the salt seas
And the weather was pleasant and clear-o
And a beautiful maiden he chanced for to spy
She was sitting alone on that rocky old shore
She was sitting alone by the shore

So the sailors did hoist out a very long boat
And it's off for the shore they did steer-o,
Saying, “Ma'am if you please will you enter on board
To view a fine cargo of costly ware,
To view a fine cargo of ware.”

And when they've arrived alongside of the ship
Oh the captain he ordered a chair-o
Saying, “First you will lie in my arms this night
And then I'll hand you to my jolly crew,
Then I'll hand you to my jolly crew.”

So she sat herself down in the stern of the ship
And the weather was pleasant and clear-o
And she sung so neat, so sweet and complete,
She sung the sailors and captain right off to sleep,
She sung sailors and captain to sleep.

Well she's robbed them of silver, she's robbed them of gold,
And she's plundered their bright costly ware-o.
And the captain's bright sword she's took for an oar
And she's sailed away for that rocky old shore,
And she's sailed away for the shore.

“Oh were my men drunk or were my men mad
Or were my men drowned in care-o
That they let her escape that made us so sad?
And the sailors all wish that she was there-o
Oh the sailors all with she was there

Well the captain he's gone to the stern of the boat
And away from the shore they sail-o
She saluted the captain and all of the crew
Saying "I'm a maid on the shore once more
I'm a maid on the shore once more.”
And so ends another week of Bathonian folk festivities, I hope you had a lovely time and we hope to see you again next year. To all of the performers a huge thank you as well, I hope you all have good luck with your music from here on and that I'll meet you again soon

Tim