Category: Song of the Month

Submitted by Tim Edwards

Also known as “The Demon Lover” or “The House Carpenter,” this ballad is 243 in the Child collection. I first heard it sung by Pentangle about 1970, and the story of the lost love reappearing after the traditional 7 years in demonic form captivated me and led me to learn it a few years later.

While some versions downplay the supernatural element, it was this that appealed to me. No version worked perfectly for me, so I ended up with a blend of verses from three different versions in Child, set to a tune I wrote. However, I never recorded the tune, and eventually found I’d forgotten it (lesson learned!), so I now sing it to a tune based on one I heard used for a version of “The Unquiet Grave.”

Listen to Tim’s recording of “James Harris:”

Lyrics

“Where have you been, my long-lost love,
This seven long years and more?
I’ve come to seek my former vows
You granted me before.”

“O hold your tongue of your former vows,
For they will breed sad strife.
O hold your tongue of your former vows
For I have become a wife.”

“I might have married a king’s daughter
Far far across the sea
But I refused the crown of gold
And it’s all for the love of thee.”

“If you might have married a king’s daughter
Yourself you have to blame
For I am married to a ship’s carpenter
And to him I have a son.”

“But have you any place to put me in
If I should with you gang
I’ve seven brave ships upon the sea
All laden to the brim.

“And I’ll build my love a bridge of steel
All for to help her o’er
Likewise a web of silk by her side
To keep her from the cold.”

And as they were walking up the street
Most beautiful for to behold
He cast a glamour o’er her face
That shone like the brightest gold

“O how do you love the ship?” he said
“How do you love the sea?
And how do you love the bold mariners
That wait upon you and me?”

“It’s well I love the ship,” she said
“It’s well I love the sea
But woe be to the dim mariners
That nowhere I can see!”

And they had no sailed a league, a league
A league but barely one
When she began to weep and to mourn
And to think on her poor wee son.

“O hold your tongue, my dear,” he said
“And let all your weeping be
For it’s soon I’ll show you how the lilies grow
On the banks of Italy.”

And they had not sailed a league, a league
A league but barely two
When she espied a cloven foot
From his gay robe sticking through.

And they had not sailed a league, a league
A league but barely three
When dark, dark grew his eerie looks
And raging grew the sea.

“O what are yon yon pleasant hills
That the sun shines so sweetly upon?”
“O yon are the hills of heaven,” he said
“Where you shall never win.”

“And whaten mountain is yon,” she cried
“All dreary with frost and snow?”
“O yon is the mountain of hell,” he cried
“Where you and I must go.”

He stuck the topmast with his hand
The foremast with his knee
He broke that gallant ship in twain
And sank her in the sea.

Tim Edwards writes: Born and brought up in Hertfordshire, I started singing folk songs in the early 70’s—initially in Greater London, and since the 90’s in Cheshire, as well as around the country at various festivals and clubs. Since lockdown, I have combined ‘live’ singing with online sessions with friends around the world.

My main interest is unaccompanied traditional song, although I sing a good number of contemporary pieces, including the occasional self-penned one. In particular, I love traditional ballads and lyrical songs.

Submitted by Bob Bovee

This is not an “authentic” cowboy song, but an old-time one first recorded by The Rambling Duet (Howard Dixon & Frank Gerald) for the Victor company (Bluebird 7232) in 1937. In their duet version, one of them yodels behind the lead vocal on the last line of the “Roll on, little dogies” refrain. My late wife Gail Heil and I used to sing this together, but never recorded it; however, it’s on my solo CD Rails, Trails and Tall Tales.

Listen to Bob’s recording of “Back to My Wyoming Home:”

Lyrics

There’s a place in Wyoming I’m longing to be
Where the air is so fresh and the wind blows free
Where the cowboys gather ‘round the campfire so bright
To yodel and sing in the long, starry night
Roll on, little dogies, roll on roll on
Roll on, little dogies, roll on
Night after night I sit all alone
Watching the stars and the pale silvery moon
I fancy near by my pinto I see
Back in Wyoming I’m longing to be

Chorus:
Oh, my Wyoming home
My dear old Wyoming home
I’ll jump in my saddle and away I will ride
Over the hills and across the divide
Back to my Wyoming home

My Wyoming home I left long ago
The best sweetest memories that I cherish so
A gray-haired mother and a little red shack
The songs of the prairie is calling me back
Roll on, little dogies, roll on roll on
Roll on, little dogies, roll on
I’m leaving today for a Wyoming town
To see all my friends and the cowboys around
No one knows how happy I’ll be
If I can find mother a-waiting for me

Chorus

Bob Bovee is a Nebraska native whose family sang and played the old-time songs. Many of the western and railroad songs he performs were learned from his grandmother and uncle. Since 1971 he has been a full-time touring musician. He plays banjo, guitar, harmonica and autoharp, sings, and yodels.

Submitted by Joel Mabus

The song is my own version of a very old ballad that shows up in history. Folklorists might tag it as a variant of “The Unfortunate Rake,” which is the name of an early broadside ballad. Other songs in the catalog would include: “St. James Infirmary (or Hospital),” “The Dying Crapshooter’s Last Request,” “Streets of Laredo,” and “The Dying Cowboy”—or simply “Dead Cowboy.”

I like to think of it as a great ghost story. My setting is the Great Dust Bowl of the 1930’s—though I don’t say that explicitly. Many from Appalachia resettled in the panhandles of Oklahoma and Texas, looking for easy riches in the 1920’s by busting up the thick prairie sod with iron plows—only to be blown away with the wind and dust storms of the 1930’s.

Listen to Joel’s recording of “Panhandle Prairie:” 

Lyrics

© Joel Mabus, 2013
as sung on his album, Pepper’s Ghost and Other Banjo Visitations

I was drinking one night in a panhandle barroom
Stepping outside for a change in the air
I spied a tall figure all wrapped in white linen
With cold gray eyes and raven black hair

He shot me a glance and a shiver run through me
With a chill to the bone that hangs on me yet
He labored one breath and then drew another
And the words that he spoke I will never forget

He said I traded my home way back in the mountains
For the smell of cheap whiskey and a harlot’s perfume
And I gambled my life on the panhandle prairie
Got shot in the breast, now death is my doom

Go write me a letter, to my gray headed mother
She’ll tell the news to my sister so dear
But there is another, more dear than my mother
Don’t tell her I died a drunkard out here

Take a pearl handled pistol to nail up my coffin
Read God’s holy word, and sing a sad song
Then bury me deep in the panhandle prairie
Where the buffalo grass can feed on my bones

I asked for his name, but he gave me no answer
I pressed him once more and he made this reply
The wind tells my name when it blows on the prairie
It moans and it whispers, it screams and it cries

Just then the west wind blew hard on the prairie
And a devil of dust spun up in the air
I wiped out my eyes, but I never could find him
That pale dead man with the raven black hair

Joel Mabus is a songwriter, folksinger, instrumentalist and music teacher living in Kalamazoo, Michigan. Genealogical records show he is the scion of William Brewster of Scrooby, England and Plymouth, Massachusetts. Also the scion of a thousand anonymous potato farmers, barrel makers, and free thinkers from the German lowlands and Scottish highlands. His mom and dad toured the Midwest in the 1930s playing hillbilly music on fiddle & banjo. (That is how he got this way.) He has recorded 27 albums since 1978; his latest is titled Lonesome Road.

Submitted by Ken Willson

“Winter Grace”—a Jean Ritchie song with starkly beautiful winter images. Learned from a friend, altered to work with a lever harp and our own ‘brand’ of arranging, which weaves our vocals around the melody.

Listen to Dublin Gultch and Willson & McKee’s version: 

Lyrics

This is the time so well we love
The time of all the year

When winter calls, with chilling breath

For fireside and good cheer

A time for man and beast to stand

And feel the seasons turn

To watch the stars for secret signs

And God’s true lessons learn


For the time when the corn is all into the barn

The old cow’s breath’s a frosty white

And the moon along the fallow field

Doth silver shine


And when cold morning’s radiant star

Shines over hill and plain;

We know anew another day

Is born to us again


And man and beast and bird in tree

Each one in his own placе;

We bow our hearts and thank our God

For winter rest and grace

For the time when the corn is all into the barn

The old cow’s breath’s a frosty white

And the moon along the fallow field

Doth silver shine

Ken Willson writes: Willson & McKee met in a folk club in Arizona. Moved to western Montana. Now based in Southern Colorado. 34 years of making music together, on the road for 30 of those (still doing it—avoiding the settled life). 14 albums later, Willson & McKee are a ‘mutt mix’ of trad (learning from tradition bearers in Ireland and Scotland), American folk, and award-winning originals. Odd instruments and ‘marital harmonies’ (yes that’s a thing), create what we call ‘Rocky Mountain Celtic.’

Submitted by Ruairidh Greig

This song is linked in the UK with a traditional seasonal house-visiting custom. Most records are from the North of England and in particular from Yorkshire.

The performers, usually during the Christmas period, went round from house to house, including both private dwellings and local inns and alehouses, with a horse’s skull on a pole, with a black cloak behind. The man under the cloak would move the jaws to the rhythm of the tune, as his companions sang the song. He would also provide entertainment and amusement by approaching people in the company.

Soon after moving to Sheffield in 1969 to start my teacher training, I discovered that there was still a small team performing the custom at New Year in the village of Dore. This was not a modern revival, but a survival, a continuing tradition dating back into the early years of last century. Following the death of one of the team, the final performance was in 1971.

Listen to Chris Ralphs and Billy Palmer’s version, recorded in 1970: 

Lyrics

Poor Old Horse Dronfield Text
Received in Dore January 1, 1971

1. We have a poor old horse,
And he’s standing at your door
And if you wish to let him in,
He’ll please you all I’m sure.
Poor old horse, poor old horse.

2. He once was a young horse
And in his youthful prime,
His master used to ride on him,
And he thought him very fine.
Poor old horse, poor old horse.

3. But now he’s getting old,
And his nature does decay.
He’s forced to nab yon short grass,
That grows beneath yon way.
Poor old horse, poor old horse.

4. He’s eaten all my hay
And he spoiled all my straw.
He’s neither fit to ride upon
Or e’en attempt to draw.
Poor old horse, poor old horse.

5. We’ll whip him, cut him, slash him,
And a-hunting let him go;
Over hedges, over ditches,
Over fancy gates and stiles.
Poor old horse, poor old horse.

6. I’ll ride him to the huntsman,
So freely I will give
My body to the hounds then,
I’d rather die than live.
Poor old horse, poor old horse.

7. Thy poor old bones,
They shall lie beneath yon ground
And never more be thought of
By all the hunting round.
Poor old horse, thou must die.

(Spoken) Get up Bob.

Ruairidh Greig is a retired school principal, living near Grimsby in Lincolnshire, UK. He has had a lifelong interest in folk culture, both from his own Scottish family roots and from the areas in which he has lived and worked in eastern England. He sings and writes songs and plays the fiddle and the anglo concertina.

Submitted by Lee Murdock

This song was sung by Captain Pearl Nye of Akron, Ohio to a number of folklorists—John and Alan Lomax and Ivan Walton, to name just a few. Having worked the Ohio and Erie Canal for many years, Nye was a treasure trove of songs, stories and anecdotes from the canal era. These canals needed portage lakes to supply water for navigation, to keep water levels up. After most of the canals closed operations, the lakes became vacation destinations for the growing middle class of the early twentieth century, and remain so to this day.

Listen to Lee’s version:

Lyrics

We’re Going to Pump Out Lake Erie
By Captain Pearl R. Nye; arrangement by Lee Murdock

The season is dry, old timer,
And water won’t run uphill.
So let’s do our best to forget the rest
and keep our levels full.

Chorus:
We’re going to pump out Lake Erie.
We’re going to begin next June.
And when we get done, you can tell by the sun
they’ll be whiskers on the moon.

The portage lakes sometimes fail us
and often are much too low.
Oh, and then for rain we’d have to wait,
for loaded we cannot go.

We will watch our gates and paddles. Yes, the tumbles and wasteways, too.
They’ll help us along with their merry song,
and we’ll see that we get through.

For the canal needs the water to keep things afloat
and never will put wheels on my old canal boat,
for I love the old tow-path and anything afloat.
So you cannot make a wagon of my grand old boat.

Lee Murdock has one foot in contemporary folk music, and one foot firmly planted in the folk music tradition. After studying the traditional folk songs of the British Isles and Appalachian American music, Lee has uncovered a boundless body of music and stories about the Great Lakes. Lee has released 21 CDs from 1981 to 2018, with each recording presenting a balance of traditional, original and contemporary music with a ear to expanding the audience of folk music lovers.

Submitted by Cate Clifford

This celebration of social singing in a few of its most popular forms is in fact a poem by English folk song luminary Bob Copper, which Kipling aficionado Peter Bellamy set to a melody.

The first time I heard the recording below, the truth of it resonated so deeply with me that I started to tear up—and knew I must add it to my repertoire. I have altered some of the lyrics slightly (i.e. “that bring our elders joy” rather than “that give our fathers joy”)—not because I was somehow unsettled or unhappy with the originals, but to give a nod to more of the humans I get to share this community and these traditions with. 

Listen to Peter Bellamy’s version:

Lyrics

O, you may moan with plaintive tone your gormless modern tune,

But I will roar along the shore beneath a blood-red moon,

And songs that Nelson’s sailors sang shall ring across the wave

And fifty thousand sailors bold will join the chorus brave

A chorus brave and tarry that savours of the sea,

And a fifty thousand sailors bold will rise to sing with me.

Chorus:
The old songs, yes, the old songs that gave our elders joy,

The songs they sang till the welkin rang when Nelson was a boy.

Or in the dusty, sunlit barn a farmer’s song I’ll sing,

A country rhyme to a rhythmic time of flails that thump and swing

All up and down the threshing floor to win the golden grain,

And fifty thousand threshers strong will join the bold refrain,

A bold refrain and fearless that springs from English soil,

And a fifty thousand threshers strong will join my song of toil.

Chorus

Or in the depths of cellar cool reclining on a bench,

When I’ve dispersed an honest thirst that ale alone can quench,

I will wake the vaulted echoes wide in praise of barley-brew,

And a fifty thousand drinking mates will join the chorus true,

A chorus true and hearty of hops and barley-malt,

And a fifty thousand drinking mates will harmonize worth their salt.

Chorus

They will echo onward down the years and never, never fade,

For fifty thousand singing friends will never be afraid

For to raise their lusty voices their spirits to revive

And tell to all eternity, “We’re glad that we’re alive.”

Cate Clifford is a typically unaccompanied singer based in Rhode Island. With powerful vocals, sensitive harmonies, and engaging context gleaned from intensive study, Cate creates a vivid and accessible pathway to the songs she offers, the people and stories behind them, and the profound, timeless delight of sharing both. She has sung in homes, venues, festivals and recording studios on both coasts of the USA. She maintains that no set is immune to a dash of Sondheim or a sprinkle of Shakespeare.


Submitted by David Jones

Cowboy Harry Jackson (1924-2011) was originally from Chicago but left home at 14 years old to become a cowboy in Wyoming. He learned many songs from traditional singers and recorded them for Folkways. He served in WWII and later became a successful artist, working on paintings and sculpture, focusing on western themes. I cannot pinpoint his accent—it is very strong. Maybe someone can identify it.

My thoughts on the song “Clayton Boone:”

The old man is referred to as a “mean old man,” but to find his young bride he chooses his finest horse with rich riding gear and sets off to find her.

When he does find her, he reminds her of not only what he has to offer, but that she has a baby. She says that she can’t forget her baby, but stays with Dave anyway, sleeping on “the hard cold ground.” One has to wonder how long this will last.

Listen to the original version by Cowboy Harry:

Listen to the version by Larry Hanks, from whom David learned the song:

Listen to David Jones’s version:

Lyrics

Away out in New Mexico, along the Spanish line
I was working for old Clayton Boone, a man well past his prime
He rides in and he asked of me, “What happened to my lady?”
I said to him “She’s quit your range and runs with the handsome Davy.”

“Go saddle for me that proud cut Dun with the coal black mane and tail
Point out to me their fresh-made tracks and after them I’ll trail
I’ll buckle on my leather chaps, I’ll tie my pistol over
And step aboard that proud dun and ride this wide world over

“I rode upon a saddle fine, a saddle made of silver
My bridle reins of beaten gold, not of your common leather
I rode until the midnight moon, when I seen their campfire burning
And I heard the sweetest mandolin and the voice of the young Dave singing.

“Come home with me to your own sweet bed with the sheets turned down so gaily
Do not forget my silver and gold and your darling baby.”
“I’ll not come home to my own sweet bed with the sheets turned down so gaily
And I’ll forget your silver and gold all for the love of Davy, but I can’t forget my baby.

“Last night I slept with a mean old man in a golden room so stately
Tonight I’ll sleep on the hard cold ground by the warm side of my Davy
I’ll ride along with Dave”

David Jones, a South East Londoner, born in 1934, has been singing the old songs for many years. Earliest remembered folksongs are “The Lincolnshire Poacher” and “The Farmers Boy,” learned at school in the mid-1940s. He has sung in the USA more than anywhere else, but has made forays back to the UK, to Australia, and to parts of Europe. He has sung solo and with a number of groups, and, on the way, has recorded several albums of folksongs. Now, he lives in Leonia, NJ, Gateway to the Golden West, with his wife Louise, and tries to be involved as much as possible with the NYC folk music scene. He has appeared in a number of NYC theater productions to favorable reviews. Last local performance was as Alfred P. Doolittle in My Fair Lady.

Submitted by Phil Cooper

“Goin’ ’Cross the Mountain” is a song about a Union soldier volunteer leaving his home to join the army. It shows youthful enthusiasm (before he’s going to be confronted with harsh reality).


“Goin’ ’Cross the Mountain” has been passed along from Frank Proffitt’s family. Listen to Pete Seeger’s version, from his Live in ’65 album:

Lyrics

I’m goin’ across the mountain
Oh fare you well
Goin’ ’cross the mountain
You can hear my banjo tell

Got my rations on my back
My powder it is dry
Goin’ across the mountain
Oh Chrissy don’t you cry.

Goin’ across the mountain
To join the boys in blue
When this fightin’s over
I’ll come back to you.

Goin’ across the mountains
If I have to crawl
To give old Jeff’s men
A little of my rifle ball

’Spect you’ll miss me when I’m gone
But I’m goin’ through
When this fighting’s over
I’ll come back to you

Way before it’s good daylight
If nothing happens to me
I’ll be way down yonder
In old Tennessee

Phil Cooper writes: I am a guitar playing singer of mainly traditional songs. I also like a lot of unusual contemporary songs written in the folk style (I like clever word usage, regardless of its origins). Since 2007, I have been performing with my spouse, Susan Urban, as the duo February Sky. Previously, I performed with Margaret Nelson and Kate Early.  

Submitted by Lafayette Matthews

Heather Wood, musing in the liner notes of Poor Old Horse’s album The Curate’s Egg, called “Her Bright Smile Haunts Me Still” an “evocative song of love lost.” For such a short song, it packs a wallop of emotion and borderline-supernatural imagery befitting the dreary thoughts of a nineteenth-century sailor on the night watch. 

“Her Bright Smile Haunts Me Still” was written by J.E. Carpenter and set to music by W.T. Wrighton around 1864. It was then collected by Frank and Anne Warner from sisters Eleazar Tillett and Martha Etheridge on the Outer Banks of North Carolina in 1951. 

Listen to Poor Old Horse (Heather Wood, Tom Gibney, and David Jones) performing their version of “Her Bright Smile Haunts Me Still:”

Lyrics: Her Bright Smile Haunts Me Still

W.T. Wrighton, J.E. Carpenter
As Sung by Poor Old Horse

It’s been a year since last we met
We may never meet again
I have struggled to forget
But the struggle was in vain
For her voice lives on the breeze
Her spirit comes at will
In the midnight on the seas, her bright smile haunts me still
In the midnight on the seas, her bright smile haunts me still

I have sailed the seven seas
I have weathered winter’s blast
I have seen the storm arise
Like a giant in his wrath
Every danger I have known
That a reckless life can yield
Though her presence is now flown, her bright smile haunts me still
Though her presence is now flown, her bright smile haunts me still

At the first grey dawn of light
When I gaze upon the deep
Her form still greets my sight
While the stars their vigil keep
When I close my aching eyes
Sweet dreams my memory fill
And from sleep when I arise, her bright smile haunts me still
And from sleep when I arise, her bright smile haunts me still

Lafayette Matthews is a singer from Virginia, currently living in New York City. He sings with Jules Peiperl and Lindsey Smith as The Ranzo Boys.