Category: Listen

Introduced by Gwilym Davies

Mercifully, the days when you could be hanged for poaching are long gone but there must have been times when the scenario of “Georgie” was very real to many. Theories abound as to the historical truth of the events of the song, but none is convincing. The ballad “George Stoole” from the 17th Century sets much the same scene and even shares some verses with more modern versions. The ballad in something approaching its present form has been noted from the 18th century onwards. This version is from Hampshire, England, and was collected by Alice Gillington from an unnamed traveler.

Here’s Gwilym Davies singing the song:

Lyrics:

O, have you heard of a good little boy?
A good little boy as any?
Who will run five miles in one half an hour,
For to carry a letter to my Georgie,
For to carry a letter to my Georgie?

My Georgie has not robbed house, nor land,
Nor church, nor murdered any!
He have only killed six of the King’s fallow deer,
And sold them in Goenni.
And sold them in Goenni.

And when she reached to the King’s fair court,
There were lords and squires many,
Down on her bended knees she fell,
“O spare me the life of my Georgie!
O spare me the life of my Georgie!”

The up and spake the good lord Judge,
Saying, “Madam, you bide easy
For your own confession have hanged him now,
So I pity you, fair lady!
I pity you, fair lady!”

My Georgie shall be hung in a chain of gold
If he is hung in any!
Because he was of royal, royal blood,
And he courted a virgin lady!
And he courted a virgin lady!

I wish I was on Shooter’s Hill,
Where kisses I’ve had many,
With my broad sword and pistol to
I would fight for the life of my Georgie!
I would fight for the life of my Georgie!

Despite his Welsh name and ancestry, Gwilym Davies is a Hampshire man who has been resident in Gloucestershire since the 1970s. He is an experienced singer of traditional songs and, when not singing unaccompanied, accompanies himself on melodeon, concertina, banjo or guitar. For more than 40 years, Gwilym has been tracking down and recording traditional singers, and more that half his repertoire is based on songs from those singers. He sings a large number of songs from the English traveller community which he has learnt first hand. Most of his English songs come from the south and southwest of England, and he also sings a number of songs from his collecting trips to the USA.

Introduced by Denise and Stuart Savage

This song was collected in November 1899 by W. Percy Merrick, and can be found in the Journal of the Folk Song Society Vol.1 – No.3, 1901. Widely collected in Southern England, see the version in the Penguin Book of English Folk Songs, attributed to Henry Hills, a farmer from West Sussex who lived in Lodsworth, a village just 3 miles from Petworth, where Stuart was born. We have been singing this simple but lovely song for over 40 years, and still love it.

Listen to Denise and Stuart singing the song:

Lyrics:

A sailor’s life is a merry life,
They rob young girls of their heart’s delight
Leaving them behind to sigh and mourn
They never know when they will return.

Here’s four-and-twenty all in a row,
My sweetheart cuts the brightest show.
He’s proper tall, genteel withal
If I don’t have him, I’ll have none at all.

O, father, fetch me a little boat
That I might on the ocean float,
And every Queen’s ship that we pass by
We’ll make enquire for my sailor boy.

We had not sailed long upon the deep,
Before a queen’s ship we chanced to meet.
You sailors all come tell me true,
Does my sweet William sail among your crew?

“O no, fair lady, he is not here,
For he is drowned, we greatly fear.
On yon green island as we passed by,
There we lost sight of your sailor boy.”

She wrung her hands, and she tore her hair,
Much like a woman in great despair.
Her little boat ‘gainst a rock did run.
“How can I live, now my William’s gone?”

She wrung her hands, and she tore her hair,
Much like a woman in great despair.
She threw her body into the deep.
In William’s arms to lay fast asleep.

November 1899 – W.P.M.

Denise and Stuart Savage became involved in the folk music revival in the 60s while living in West Sussex, England, and have performed in various group combinations, now as a duo. They visited the USA in 2002 and again in 2004 when we were lucky enough to perform in a number of house concerts from Washington, DC, to Vermont.

Introduced by Pete Coe

I went to Ireland in 66, new to all this traditional folk stuff. I ended up in Tralee Co Cork, met up with some chaps who persuaded me to join their folk group for the Tralee Folk Group Competition where they’d planned to sing The Mingulay Boat Song. But they didn’t know the words. I did, hence the invite. We came in 3rd, it would have helped us if the winners weren’t called Finbar, Eddie, Paul & Ted Furey! One of the lads had some interesting songs including Banks of Red Roses which he said he’d learned from his next door neighbour in Belfast. So I learned it from him & it turned out that his neighbour was Sarah Makem. Chris Coe and I recorded the song on our first LP Open The Door and Let Us In in 1971. However, I’ve added a couple more verses recently, from Scottish Travellers, which fill out the grim story.

Listen to Pete playing & singing Banks of Red Roses.

Lyrics:

Now when I was a young man, I heard me mother say
That Mary was a foolish girl and easily led astray;
That rather than work, she would sooner sport and play
With her Johnny on the banks of red roses

By the banks of red roses, me love and I sat down
And I took out me fiddle, for to play me love a tune
In the middle of the tune, o the bonnie lassie cried,
“O my Johnnie, lovely Johnnie, don’t you leave me!”

He took her to his lodge and he treated her to tea
Saying, “Drink, me dearest Mary, and come along with me.
Won’t you drink me dearest Mary, and come along with me
To the lovely, lovely banks of red roses.”

Well they walked and they talked, ‘til they came to a cave
Where young Johnny all the day had been digging of a grave
Where young Johnny all the day had been digging of a grave
For to lie his lassie low among red roses.

“O Johnny, dearest Johnny, that grave is not for me?”
“O yes, me dearest Mary, it’s a bridal bed for thee.
O yes, me dearest Mary, it’s a bridal bed for thee.
For I’ll leave you lying low among red roses.

And he took out his pen knife, it was both long and sharp,
And he plunged it right in to his own dear Mary’s heart.
He plunged it right in to his own dear Mary’s heart,
And he left her lying low among red roses.

Now as he was going homewards, his heart was full of fear,
For every face along the road, he thought it was his dear
Every face along the road, he thought it was his dear
But he’d left her lying low among red roses.

So all you young maidens, a warning take by me
Beware, o beware of this young man’s company
Beware, o beware of this young man’s company
For he’ll leave you lying low among red roses.

By the banks of red roses, me love and I sat down
And I took out me fiddle, for to play me love a tune
In the middle of the tune, o the bonnie lassie cried,
“O my Johnnie, lovely Johnnie, don’t you leave me!”

Pete Coe in many ways represents the backbone of the modern folk revival. A fine solo performer and an energetic activist for the scene as well, founding Ryburn 3 Step, running folk clubs, dances and workshops in Ripponden and beyond while also teaching music and dancing in schools. He’s still one of the most committed, most versatile, most important folk artists in Britain. —Colin Irwin, MOJO

Introduced by Shelley Posen

The Boy That Wore The Blue, also known as The Soldier’s Letter, is an American Civil War song of unknown origin, Roud #4389. For some reason, it found favour in the logging camps of Eastern Canada and the Northeast U.S. over the next century.

I learned it in 1977 from Loy Gavan in Chapeau, Quebec, a village on Allumette Island in the Upper Ottawa Valley. It’s one of the most poignant and eloquent songs I’ve ever heard. The song’s vague and seemingly random provenance gives some insight into how traditional singing worked in a community, how offhand and precarious it could be, and how lucky we are to have what traditional songs we have.

The Boy That Wore The Blue came to Chapeau in the 1930s via an itinerant man-of-all work named Carl Brian—an “Englishman” (from England? an Anglophone?) who came from Quebec, no one knew exactly where. He cleaned the stables at the village hotel and did farm chores. Always short of money, Brian sang in the hotel bar after work for drinks: “He’d sit and sing that song I betcha four times in the night,” said Loy. “He sang lots of songs, but that was the best—the best song, the best story.” Loy’s older brother Cliff learned it from Brian, and Loy learned it from Cliff.

The Boy That Wore The Blue captivated me the first time I heard Loy sing it, and was the first of many songs I learned from him. It was “Loy’s song” in Chapeau: if I asked someone else to sing it, they’d demure: “That’s Loy’s song”—meaning not his property, but that he sang it best.

My Chapeau recordings and field notes, including everything I had of Loy, are in the Archives of the Canadian Museum of History.

The only time I myself was recorded singing The Boy that Wore the Blue was for Global TV, who came to the Canadian Museum of History to interview me about traditional singing in the Ottawa Valley. I was ill that day, but the show had to go on. The song shines through, I think.

Lyrics:

1. Dear Madam, I’m a soldier boy, my speech is rough and plain,
I am not used to writing and I hate to to cause you pain;
I promised him I would do this, he thought it might be so,
But it comes from one who loved him and perhaps might ease the blow.

2. Now in reading this you will plainly see the woes I cannot hide.
If you listen to a soldier boy, I will tell you how he died.
The night before the battle, we were in a crowded tent.
There was many a brave boy to mourn and many a knee was bent.

3. We left the tent at ten to nine, the soldier boy and I.
As we sat freely talking beneath the clear bright sky,
he seemed to want to talk of home and friends he loved so dear.
While I had none to talk about, but always liked to hear.

4. He told me of the morning that he first went away.
How sadly they did mourn for him they never bid him stay.
He named his sisters one by one until a dark blush came.
He told me of another one but never spoke her name.

5. “Oh Johnny, dearest Johnny, if it’s now that I should fall.
Would you write home and tell them that I loved and spoke of all.
Last night I wanted so to live I seemed so young to go.
And last week past my birthday I was eighteen years you know.

6. The morning of the battle, fast came the shot and shell.
I was standing close beside him and I saw him when he fell.
I raised him in my arms and I laid him on the grass.
It was going against the orders but I guessed they’d let it pass.

7. “Oh, underneath my pillow is a lock of golden hair.
There is a name upon it, send it in my mother’s care.
I promise her I did not think my time would come so soon.”
The fight it was three days ago, he died today at noon.

8. We wrapped him up in a soldier’s cloak. We bore him out at night.
We buried him under a bunch of trees while the moon was shining bright.
We carved him out a headboard as skillful as we could.
And if you want to see the spot, I’ll show you where it stood.

9. I am sending you his hymn book and the cap he used to wear.
And a lock we cut the night before from his dark, curly hair.
I’m sending you his Bible the night before he died.
We turned the leaves together and I read them by his side.

10. I kept the belt he used to wear, he bid me so to do.
There is a hole in the left side, just where the ball went through.
And now I’ve done his bidding and I’m sending all to you.
And sure we will all mourn for him, the boy that wore the blue.

Shelley Posen is a retired folklorist and songwriter living in Ottawa, Canada. Formerly Curator of Canadian Folklife at the Canadian Museum of History, his Ph.D. dissertation was based on research he conducted into singing in the Irish-French Ottawa Valley community of Chapeau, Quebec. Shelley has sung at folk festivals, in clubs and kitchens, and on concert stages in the U.S. and Canada. He was a member of the close harmony folk trio, Finest Kind, who toured North America and the U.K. for two and a half decades and recorded some 7 CDs. Shelley has recorded 4 CDs of his own.

Introduced by Harry Tuft

The origin of this song, “The Bay Of Biscay,” eludes me, even after a search of the internet. It appears that versions have been done by Shirley and Dolly Collins and Tim Hart and Maddy Prior, before the version I heard and have used in my own singing, by Norma Waterson on the album Waterson/Carthy. I imagine it would fall into the category of the ghost return of a dead lover. The melody is appropriately haunting, and Ms. Waterson’s version is impressive. I included it on an album I released in 2011, Treasures Untold, on my own label, Manasses Records.

Listen to Norma Waterson singing “The Bay of Biscay:”

https://youtube.com/watch?v=j_BK-e9mlvI

Lyrics:

My true love sailed on board a tender,
And where he is I do not know
For seven long years I have been waiting
Since he has crossed the Bay of Biscay-oh

One night as Mary lay a-sleeping
A knock came to her bedroom door
Saying arise, arise, my only Mary
It is your true love, I, William-oh.

So, Mary rose, put on her clothing
And swift she opened the bedroom door
And there she spied her true lover standing
His cherry cheeks they were as white as snow

Oh, William dear where are your blushes
Your blushes you got so long ago?
Oh Mary dear the clay has changed them
And I am the ghost of your William-oh.

And Mary dear, the dawn is breaking
The time has come for me to go
And, I must leave you broken hearted
Since I have crossed the Bay of Biscay-oh

Oh, If I had all gold and silver
And all the money in Mexico
I would give it all to the queen of England
For just one kiss from my William-oh.

For, my true love sailed on board a tender,
And where he is I do not know
For seven long years I have been waiting
Since he has crossed the Bay of Biscay-oh

In addition to his own label, Manassas, Harry Tuft has been a recording artist for Folk Legacy Records. His album Across The Blue Mountains, recorded in 1977, is currently back in print. Harry says, “I regard myself as a ballad singer, as it is the ballad story and melody that excite me so often. And I’ve been accumulating songs for over sixty years, even during the years as owner of the Denver Folklore Center.”

(Now Westlin Winds)

by Robert Burns
Introduced by Andrew Calhoun

This was first published in the Kilmarnock edition of Robert Burns’ Poems: Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect, in 1786. Burns’ first draft was written ten years before in 1776. Robert was then 17 and its addressee, Peggy Thomson, of Kirkoswald, was 13. Burns indicated that it was to be sung to the tune of a humorous Ayrshire ballad, “I Had A Horse, I Had Nae Mair.”

Here is the first verse of the model:

‘I had a horse, and I had nae mair,
I gat him frae my daddy;
My purse was light, and my heart was fair,
But my wit it was fu’ ready.
And sae I thought me on a time,
Outwittens of my daddy,
To see mysell to a lawland laird,
Wha had a bonny lady.’

Mr. Burns later sent his lyric to The Scots Musical Museum, indicating that it could be set to the tune, “Port Gordon.” Scholars for well over a century have taken this gesture as evidence that Burns was disaffected with his original choice, which has never been published with the lyric; but they are missing something. “I Had a Horse, I Had Nae Mair” (I Had No More) had already been published, with its tune, in the second volume of the Musical Museum, where it is song #185; James Johnson (and Burns) preferred not to repeat melodies, hence his flexibility. The tune to which this is now commonly sung is neither of those to which he assigned it. Robert Burns is unique among major poets of his time in composing to melodies; he played fiddle, and needed to become deeply engaged with a tune before he could write lyrics for it; he was also a major collector of traditional lyrics and tunes. I explain in the linked video why this particular tune is of inseparable artistic importance to this particular lyric.

Burns borrows phrases freely from Alexander Pope’s poem, “Windsor Forest,” from these lines written in 1704:

See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs,
And mounts exulting on triumphant wings…

With slaught’ring guns th’ unwearied fowler roves…
Where doves in flocks the leafless trees o’er-shade,
And lonely woodcocks haunt the wat’ry glade.

Burns’ punctuation is as distinctively expressive as Emily Dickinson’s. An example is “all fading-green and yellow.” With the hyphen, only the green is fading, and the yellow stands out. This can be suggested by the singer, with a pause.

Here’s a version by Sheena Wellington, which showcases some of the birds mentioned.

Lyrics:

Note: Some of the words Burns uses may be unfamiliar – they translate as:
Westlin – western
Moorcock – grouse
Cushat – wood pigeon
Fell – level area on mountain
Hern – heron

Now westlin winds, and slaught’ring guns
Bring Autumn’s pleasant weather;
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings,
Amang the blooming heather:
Now waving grain, wide o’er the plain,
Delights the weary Farmer;
The moon shines bright, as I rove at night,
To muse upon my Charmer.

The Partridge loves the fruitful fells;
The Plover loves the mountains;
The Woodcock haunts the lonely dells;
The soaring Hern the fountains:
Through lofty groves, the Cushat roves,
The path o’ man to shun it;
The hazel bush o’erhangs the Thrush,
The spreading thorn the Linnet.

Thus every kind their pleasure find,
The savage and the tender;
Some social join, and leagues combine;
Some solitary wander:
Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,
Tyrannic man’s dominion;
The Sportsman’s joy, the murd’ring cry,
The flutt’ring, gory pinion!

But Peggy dear, the evening ‘s clear,
Thick flies the skimming Swallow;
The sky is blue, the fields in view,
All fading-green and yellow:
Come let us stray our gladsome way,
And view the charms o’ Nature;
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
And every happy creature.

We’ll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
While the silent moon shines clearly;
I’ll clasp thy waist, and fondly prest,
Swear how I love thee dearly:
Not vernal show’rs to budding flow’rs,
Not Autumn to the Farmer,
So dear can be, as thou to me,
My fair, my lovely Charmer!

And there, upon a mark of blood,
his brother he has slain.
See the widow tear her hair.
Hear her mournful wail;
Beware the lonely hunter’s fate
that makes her weep and rail.
Feel the lonesome summer’s wind.
Hear its mournful cry.
There’s many a youth whose life was spent,
all on the mountains high.

Andrew Calhoun is a gigging singer-songwriter/folk artist since 1975. He’s founder and president of Waterbug Records, Inc. since 1992. In 2012 he received the Lantern Bearer Award from Folk Alliance Region Midwest; in 2014, a Lifetime Achievement Award from the Woodstock Folk Festival. He’s currently (2017) at work on a Robert Burns songbook called Glorious Work, which will have 173 songs with background, translations and musical arrangements.

Introduced by Mark Gilston

This song was “gifted” to me by Ben Mendel from New York City in the late 1970’s. He told me he learned it from Bob Beers and that it was originally from Montana. I have been unable to find any other recorded sources or versions, though my understanding is that the huge evil cervine premonition of death is a legend in the northwestern states and in southwestern Canada. It certainly is a wonderfully eerie song, and I always included it in concerts around Halloween.

Listen to Mark sing the tune:

Lyrics:

It was a lonely summer’s day. Two brothers, they did go
To labor in the stony field, some harvest for to mow.

All in a row the three did reap: the lonely farmer’s wife,
And last of all the eldest son did wield the mighty knife

They scarce had followed once around, when in the clearing stood
The specter of a devil buck come bounding through the wood.

His eye did burn with evil, and his horn was dark with moss;
And on his mighty whistle side, they saw the bloody cross.

Now the brothers, they did shun the field, and threw away the blade;
And there, betwixt the two of them, a bitter oath was made.

“Oh, I will take the mountains high, and you, the river west;
And ere the sun does set again, we’ll snare him in his nest.”

And, oh, the widow tore her hair all on the farmer’s grave,
For it was this dreadful wicked beast did make her weep and rave.

Now the youngest one he did go west, but took the rise instead.
And there he spied the devil buck a-standing in his bed.

Oh he did waver in his spell, and trembled to the ground;
But with a sick and fevered eye, his bloody mark, he found.

The air was torn with thunder, as he took his dreadful aim.
And there, upon a mark of blood, his brother he has slain.

See the widow tear her hair. Hear her mournful wail;
Beware the lonely hunter’s fate that makes her weep and rail.

Feel the lonesome summer’s wind. Hear its mournful cry.
There’s many a youth whose life was spent, all on the mountains high.

Mark Gilston was born and raised in New York City. Both of his parents were steeped in the folk music revival scene of the 1950’s. He grew up listening to 78’s and LP’s of American, Russian, Spanish, Caribbean and Israeli folk music. Learning guitar and taking piano lessons starting at age 5, he was constantly immersed in music. In his youth, Mark gained a love of traditional American ballads and Old-Time songs and instrumentals from recordings and from his father, who often sang the old ballads which he had learned in his youth in Appalachia.

After earning a Bachelor’s degree in Folklore, Mark went to graduate school at SUNY Binghamton studying ethnomusicology and ended up settling there until 1994.

Mark has been giving concerts and leading workshops since 1971. He interned at the Library of Congress Archive of Folk Song, and has worked as a researcher for Alan Lomax. He has published numerous articles and books on music and folklore. Mark is also a multi-instrumentalist with an international reputation in English concertina and mountain dulcimer. He won the prestigious National Mountain Dulcimer Championship in 2016. Mark has 14 CDs on the Ramble Creek and Creative Engineering labels. “Devil Buck” is on Mark’s debut CD, “It Would Sure Be a Miracle.”