BESS

Chorus - No better friend a man could have
No truer heart, no keener eye,
No better friend a man could have,
As the sun sets in the western sky.

I've had her since I was a boy
Since first I came onto the farm,
Her company has brought me joy,
Her courage kept me safe from harm

She's been with me on all my walks, 
By rushing stream and bracken glen, 
And listened close to all my talks,
And never disagreed with them.

And as we walked by moorland stream,
We watched the wild hare running by, 
Relived those walks in all our dreams, 
As skylarks sang in summer skies.

But now she lies close by the hearth, 
No hares they race, no skylarks fly, 
She takes that one last lonely path, 
As the sunlight fades from western skies.


[When I was seven our old dog died:  eventually my mother agreed that we should have another pup, Bess.  When I first moved from the town to live on a farm, Bess was my constant companion.]


Bess

LAST LULLABY

Chorus
Lay your weary head at last, for the long, long day is over and past
Loose the moorings you’ll need no oars, for the river will take you to far distant shores

In the morning you rose as a child with the sun
Looked out o’er the fields where the wild deer they run
Looked o’er the meadows,  with trees and with flowers
The day lay before you, the long happy hours

As the sun burned down at the noon of the day
You fought battles, forged friendships to help on the way
And then in the long afternoon’s gentle heat
You looked at your world, you knew it complete

But now evening shadows their long fingers spread
Creep into your room, touch the foot of your bed
And though you are weary, the long day is done
And the river will carry you safe to your home.

(He had become very ill and very tired but persuaded the hospital, where he had been for many weeks, to let him go back home to die there.  His bed was put in the corner of the living room where the sun came in in late afternoon.  He died at home – I think he was ready.)


Track Last Lullaby

Sorry – you were probably expecting to hear something!  I created the track to share the words here.  I’d thought the tune was traditional when I used to hear it at music sessions and I used it, with very few changes, for these words.  I later learned it was written by Helena Torpy and called the Attingham Waltz.  She has kindly given me permission to carry on singing the words to the tune but, obviously, it isn’t mine to post here.  If you’ve heard me, or one of the others who sing it, singing the song, here are the words.  

THE HIRING FAIR

Chorus: To the “A” music
Now the Hiring Fair is drawing near
Hark, the steeple bells they ring so clear
Now the Hiring Fair is drawing near
Hire me at the Fair

Verses: To the “B” music
When I was barely six years old
Father died of fever so I’m told
And to apprenticeship then I was sold
Hire me at the Fair

Chorus

And so I learned to tend to the stock, 
Hedge and ditch and do an honest day’s work
I’m not a lad who will ever shirk
Hire me at the Fair

Chorus

And I grew to a stockman strong
I can work and toil the whole day long
And in the evenings I’ll sing you a song
Hire me at the Fair

Chorus

And there are lads the county round
Hoping that a master here may be found
Many’s the one here will rue them I’m bound
Hire me at the Fair

Chorus

But if you choose me for to hire
I will work for you and never tire
For I’m the best worker ‘twixt Mersey and Wyre 
Hire me at the Fair

Chorus


Hiring Fair

Here are the words to the song I sing about an episode in the life of my great grandfather (Taid).  I’ve not posted the tune I’m afraid.  I’d been singing it a couple of years when I heard Archie Fisher’s “Final Trawl”.  Although my tune’s not identical it’s far too similar for me to be comfortable posting an audio version here.  If you’ve ever heard me sing it though and wondered what I was singing about, here are the words.

Taid's Song

My name’s John Brookfield from the Rhos I come
Here’s Adieu to South America
And it’s ten long years since I left my home
And it's farewell Patagonia

To Gresford Pit and to Wrexham town
It’s fare you well I’m Buenos Ares bound

(So from Liverpool I then set sail
To cross the sea in storm and gale)

From Argentina south did go
To Patagonia’s great railroad

We laid the iron rails by hand
Watched the mighty engines silent stand

With Spaniard then as driver’s mate
I soon was king on my own footplate

But I never found the gold I sought
And all my dreams they came to nought

For I missed the Rhos that I called my home 
Caegwrly's fields where I once roamed

And I missed the one I left at home
My cariad fair that I'd left alone

And so once more on this shore I stand
To bid farewell to this barren land

It's ten long years since I left my home
The wild Atlantic for to roam


Taid's Song (Farewell Patagonia)

Dartmoor Rivers

(Chorus)
Ockments, Dart, Taw and Teign, 
Dartmoor rivers call to me
Of Mist and mire and open moor
Cist and cairn and rocky tor

The old Taw River’s moorland streams
Past Belstone flow as sunlight gleams
On grazing flocks and rocky pools
Then shady banks where otters rule
 
From Kneeset Foot and Okemont Hill
Past blacksmith’s forge and water mill
The Okemonts join the Torridge roar
They greet the sea close by the Taw

The Teign at Cranmere Pool begins
In marshy ground and cutting winds
Then through the gorge past great estates 
To Teignmouth where the Bay awaits

The River Dart as I’ve been told
It means the river where oak trees grow
Both East and West join at Dartmeet
Then down to Dartmouth and the Fleet

These Dartmoor rivers, wild and free
They hold my heart and call to me
Of open sky, of sun and rain 
They will not set me free again.


 
The sudden burst of activity which produced this and another song was, in part, stimulated by Dick (https://soundcloud.com/dickhenrywood), at Bow, asking me when I had last written a song.  I’d been wanting to write something appropriate to Devon for a while and it occurred to me that there might be something I could write about rivers.  I found a little rhyme about the way the River Dart tends to claim lives that went “River Dart, River Dart; Every year you claim a heart”.  This provided the rhythm and the idea of a sort of children’s rhyme.  A little work with a map to confirm some bits of the routes and locations and this emerged.


Dartmoor Rivers

Annie Brookfield

My name is Annie Brookfield as you may plainly see
I was born in Llangollen upon the banks of Dee
My parents were God-fearing folk and they did love me true
But now for five years I am bound all in this prison cruel.

My friend was called Ann Williams I’d known her from a child
But when she was but sixteen years her heart it was beguiled
By the very man who was to end my joy and liberty
By his treatment of this gentle maid, the only friend to me

Frank Roberts was this bargeman’s name he worked the waterside
And all along the old canal his horses at his side
But then he took unto the drink and he did treat her so
That very soon she came to me to tell me of her woe.

One day as I was walking along the waterside
So close unto the aqueduct where pleasant waters glide
I came upon my gentle friend with Roberts there close by
And he was sorely beating her and I did hear her cries

I boldly stepped up unto him and pushed him from her side
He stumbled o’er the towpath wall and vanished from my sight
One hundred feet or more he fell to the valley far below
And so to the assizes court in Chester I did go

And now here in my cell I lie for guilty I was found
And five years for manslaughter in prison I was bound
For aiding of my only friend whose treatment was so cruel
By a man who ever thought that he was given God’s gift to rule.

 
All the names in this song are fictional but the event happened to a distant relative of mine.  She lived in a row of cottages close by the Pontcysyllte Aqueduct on the Llangollen Canal and one of her neighbours was regularly ill treated by her husband.  One day my relative came across the two fighting and intervened, pushing the husband away.  Unfortunately he fell to his death over the low wall of the aqueduct, a distance of 138 ft at some points.  She was tried and found guilty of manslaughter, serving five years in prison. 

The song started ages ago when I’d first heard the story and felt I should add it to my collection of “family songs”.   I wrote a first verse but had no tune or further verses and there it sat.  Then Dick (https://soundcloud.com/dickhenrywood), at the Bow singaround in December 2014, asked me when I had last written a song.  The next day I dug out the first verse and the rest, including the tune, just fell out of my head.

Annie Brookfield

One that came to me on the way back from TDN AGM. (Not implying those there were old - and there was no singing that I can recall - but a 2 ½ motorway trip does need to be filled with something!)

Old Songs

And the old men will sing us an old song
As the day slowly fades into night
And the old gods creep out from the shadows
To sit by the fire’s flickering light

In the springtime the green man comes dancing
And new life sprigs up at his feet,
While the lads at the lasses are glancing,
Each hoping their true love to meet.

John Barleycorn falls with the harvest.
He gives up his body for all
And we give thanks for all nature’s largesse,
As we drink his good health from the bowl.

When the hounds of the Wild Hunt are baying,
As they take up the scent of their prey;
Behind bolted doors folk are praying
For a soul will be lost before day.

In winter the Cailleach comes calling
To pare nature back to the bone,
Whilst around us the snow it is falling
And water is turning to stone.

But the spring will return with the sun’s rays,
As Jack in the Green brings rebirth:
There’ll be dancing to welcome the May Days
And  witness the greening of earth.

Though thousands of years may have passed on
And some say the old gods have died,
While the old men still sing us the old songs,
The old gods still sit by their side.

The Green Man, and Jack in the Green, are personifications of the new growth of Spring while John Barleycorn is seen as the spirit of the corn, sacrificed each year at harvest.  Around Hallowe’en, the Wild Hunt rides out; a pack of hounds led by the king of the Underworld.  They hunt for the souls of those who have died throughout the preceding 12 months.  In Scotland, the Cailleach, an old woman, appears each winter to strip away all the death and decay ready to welcome the new growth of spring.  By remembering these figures in song we can keep alive the memory of these old beliefs and customs.

Old Songs

At last I seem to be able to write something about Devon - first Dartmoor Rivers and now this!

MEN OF STONE

Chorus
We were miners; we were tinners; we were men of stone
And we worked to reap our harvest from Dartmoor’s weathered bones.

In ages past before the days when Romans ruled the land 
Before the Saxon warriors fell to William’s Norman hand
Before the noble Brutus ever founded Totnes town
The tin miners of Dartmoor were the finest ever found 

We started out by streaming as the earth gave up its store
Reaping the rich harvest in the wild streams on the Moor
But soon the streams were all played out, not meeting the demand 
So with hammer and our own strength then we crushed the rocks by hand

When stamping mills came to our aid with leats we scored the Moor 
To bring to them the water to crush the rocks and ore
And then it’s to the blowing house for smelting it must go
While water drove bellows to feed the fire below

For centuries we worked the Moor, the Dartmoor men of stone,
Delving deep into its skin and answering to none
We had our own laws and our courts we kept the Moor alive
The Moor was filled with workers then like bees all in one hive

But all those days have passed now and the Moor it stands so still
No miners tramp the open wastes, no sound of stamping mill
But as the mist falls gently, ghosts rise up from the peat
You can hear the sounds of blowing house close by the rushing leat.


Men Of Stone

The lyrics follow this information about the song.

Grey Wethers is the name of a (restored) stone circle on Dartmoor.  It is said to be so called because the stones resemble grazing sheep; wethers being young, castrated rams. I found this myth about Grey Wethers on the Dartmoor National Park website.  

“A chieftain was due to make a sacrifice to the god Bel (Belus) but didn’t want to sacrifice one of his own sheep so he stole a neighbour’s for the sacrifice.  Bel was so angry that he turned the cheiftain’s flock into stones which remain on the moor except on midsummer’s eve when, between dusk and dawn, they turn back into sheep.

If you can find the chieftain’s shears, buried in his cist on Cosdon Hill and dip them in the river Teign you will find a tress of hair floating past which you can then use to catch and bind the sheep.  The shears will shear the fleece which you must dip in water from the pool on Kestor.   If you achieve all this before dawn the fleece will turn to pure gold but only one man has ever tried to break the spell on the sheep.  Bel placed obstacles in his path, the shears were blunt and, when placed in the Teign, the river turned as red as blood which meant he only caught a strand of hair so the sheep got free several times.  Eventually the man grew so tired he fell asleep and when he woke it was dawn.  As the sun rose so the sheep crowded round him, turning to stone and falling on him, crushing him.”  

I have modified the story slightly in my mind, picturing the stones as faerie sheep which return to life for one night of the year – on midsummer’s eve.  Being faerie sheep the task of catching and shearing them is not made easy.  For one thing, as you’ll know if you’ve ever been in involved with the Ten Tors Challenge walks or walked the Moor, getting from Cosdon Hill to the waters of the Teign, back to Sittaford Tor and then to Kestor is no easy bit of walking on the shortest night of the year!   Even if you’re not out there trying to catch stone sheep, it’s as well to beware of the Moor, and the Fae, on midsummer’s eve!

Grey Wethers

Chorus
 By Grey Wethers’ Circle near Sittaford Tor
On Midsummer’s Eve, beware of the Moor
For the stones that surround you may crush you beneath
And there isn’t a soul who can bring back the fleece

Now I’ve heard it said by travellers of old 
Who cross the wild lands of the Moor
That if you want great riches from a fleece of pure gold
You must go out by Sittaford Tor
For there stands a circle of grey stones so clear
They number near thirrty they say
But to sheep they return on one night of the year
On the eve before Midsummer's Day

Now the stones were once sheep who roamed the wild moor
But were turned into stone so they say
But they come back to life up by Sittaford Tor
On the night before Midsummer’s Day
And there, you must seek them while the moon’s shining still
You must catch one and bind it with hair
Then shear it with shears from on high Cosdon Hill
And dip in water from Kestor so fair

If you do these things before the day’s dawn
The fleece it will turn into gold
But if you should slumber before that bright morn
A much crueller fate will unfold
For the stones will surround you they'll crush you beneath
As you lie ‘neath the spell of the Fae
And you’ll ne’er see the treasure from pure golden fleece
And you’ll not see the light of another fair day


Grey Wethers

(Lyrics below)

My thanks to the residents of Rillaton in Cornwall whose own local revival of the ancient tradition of Crying the Neck was the inspiration for this song.  

At the end of harvest the last standing corn is cut with a scythe and bound into “The Neck”.    The Neck is then held aloft with the cry of “I’ave ‘un; I ‘ave ‘un; I ‘ave ‘un.” and the assembled company replies “What ‘ave ‘ee?  What ‘ave ‘ee?  What ‘ave ‘ee?” to which the scytheman cries “The Neck.  The Neck.  The Neck.” followed by cheers from the assembled company.   (I find I’ve altered the wording and phrasing slightly though not intentionally – songs just fall out of my head in one piece and this was how this one fell out.)

I had the privilege to attend last year’s Crying the Neck in Rillaton and, a couple of days before I went  again this year, I woke up with this song in my head.  I actually got to give it its first airing (literally!) in the field as the Neck was still being held aloft (and the jug of ale was being passed around.)

I’m sometimes asked what a song is called.  Usually I just give the first line or part of the chorus as a sort of title but in this case the song was so closely linked in my mind to the actual ceremony and location that I have asked permission to call it The Rillaton Neck.  My thanks again to all those who are making the effort to keep the old ways alive. /|\

Rillaton Neck

The fields that once were bare and brown
With furrows straight where seed was sown
Then turned to green as shoots did show
And barleycorn began to grow.

Chorus
Across September’s fields the cry
Is heard by all as they pass by
I have he - What have ye?
I have he - What have ye?
I have he - What have ye?
The Neck, the Neck, the Neck.

When bearded heads have turned to gold
And earthwards bow and nights grow cold
It’s time for Barleycorn to fall
His body food and drink for all

Chorus

And when the final sheaf of all
Is ready then at last to fall
We’ll to the fields with jug and scythe
To toast his spirit, take his life.

Chorus

The sickle swings, the last sheaf falls
The scytheman gives the ancient call
Within the Neck the corn-god lives
And waits ‘til Spring new life to give.

Chorus



Rillaton Neck

The land it calls out to me

The land it calls out to me and weeps for what used to be;
And our ancestors mourn, for a land that is torn;
And our children who’ll never be free, in a future we’re too blind to see.

We poison the crops in our fields, in hopes that more money they’ll yield;
While the bees that they need, they are killed by our greed;
And the cost of our greed is revealed as the fate of our children is sealed.

The land it calls out to me and weeps for what used to be;
And our ancestors mourn, for a land that is torn;
And our children who’ll never be free, in a future we’re too blind to see.

We fracture the land ‘neath our feet, in the endless death-race to compete;
Our ground-water brings death, Earth takes her last breath;
And our children fall sick in the heat, and the air they must breathe on the street.

The land it calls out to me and weeps for what used to be;
And our ancestors mourn, for a land that is torn;
And our children who’ll never be free, in a future we’re too blind to see.

We’ve cut down the forests of trees, we’ve poisoned the life giving bees;
We’ve fractured the land with our grasping hands;
Yes the fate of our children is sealed, in a land that now cannot be healed.

The land it calls out to me and weeps for what used to be;
And our ancestors mourn, for a land that is torn;
And our children who’ll never be free, in a future we’re too blind to see.
Oh why did we never quite see, this wasn’t the way it should be?

The Land It Calls Out To Me

Beneath the Moorland Sky

Come with me to moor and mountain; listen to the curlew’s cry;
Hear the skylark rising, singing; here beneath the moorland sky.
Come with me to moor and mountain; listen to the curlew’s cry;
Hear the skylark rising, singing; here beneath the moorland sky.	

Walk with me the hidden pathways; show me where the wild hares lie;
Ancient standing stone and circles; lie beneath the moorland sky.
Come with me to moor and mountain; listen to the curlew’s cry;
Hear the skylark rising, singing; here beneath the moorland sky.

Roam along the wooded valleys; where the wind in branches sighs;
Rise to heather-scented breezes; out beneath the moorland sky.
Come with me to moor and mountain; listen to the curlew’s cry;
Hear the skylark rising, singing; here beneath the moorland sky.

Climb with me to rocky hilltops; see the rushing clouds go by;
Come alive in wind and rainstorm; free beneath the moorland sky.
Come with me to moor and mountain; listen to the curlew’s cry;
Hear the skylark rising, singing; here beneath the moorland sky.

When my days on earth are numbered; and I pass, please let me lie;
On the heather moors forever; peace beneath the moorland sky.
Come with me to moor and mountain; listen to the curlew’s cry;
Hear the skylark rising, singing; here beneath the moorland sky.
Free beneath the moorland sky; peace beneath the moorland sky

Beneath A Moorland Sky

TRACKS IN THE SNOW

Chorus - Walk with me down hidden paths
White hare in the field, trout in the stream
Walk with me down hidden paths, 
To the land that is now just a dream.

I remember the paths I walked with my dog, 
Over high heather moors, past the cotton grass bog,
Saw the lark on the wing heard the curlew's lone call, 
Heard the grouse cry "Come back" over Matley Moor wall.

In the spring I would sit with my back at the Rocks,
Looking down o'er the field where I watched the hares box, 
Saw the vole in the stream, red kite in the sky, 
Never thinking those days they would pass by and by.

With the swaling long done and the heather shoots grown, 
And the bilberry fruit on the banks near my home, 
And haymaking done and the dusk folding round, 
We'd watch as the owls hunted mice o'er the ground.

And autumn comes round and the grey clouds roll in, 
There's a blanket of list hides the high moorland rim, 
As you walk through the fields and the rain turns to sleet, 
And the whole of your world is the ground at your feet.

With the winter comes snow and the fields turn as white, 
As the coat of the hare that was waiting each night, 
As we walked down the track and the lights of the farm, 
Brought their promise of comfort, fire and warmth.

But those days are long gone and the ground at our feet, 
Is concrete and metal on the hurrying street, 
And tractor and link box are lost long ago, 
But I still see the tracks of white hare in the snow.

Though those days are long gone, I can still hear so clear
The cry of the curlew again in my ear
And though you have left me I know that you go
To follow the tracks of white hare in the snow

When I first wrote the song my father, with whom I had shared many of these walks, was still alive.  Since his death I often add the "new" last verse which is not on the audio track.

Tracks in the Snow

WHERE WERE YOU THEN IN OUR NEED?

Now the frost was set hard on the field
And the sun it hung low in the sky
The crops they had ceased for to yield
And the ewes and the cattle all died

Chorus - And where were you then in our need
When we called for your aid and we cried
Oh help us our children to feed
But you turned your head and passed by

So we fled from the land in our droves
To the dark of the mills were condemned
Farewell to the pastures and groves 
But our children were still cold and clemmed

The depression it robbed us of pride
And the mills they were all closing down
So we marched with the new union tide
To the south from our bleak northern towns

And you gathered your wealth from our need
Making money from money again
Making greed your religion and creed
And ignoring the working man’s pain

Now you sit in your country estates
With your bonuses keeping you warm
Just hope that your fortified gates
Will help you to weather the storm.


Frost was set hard on the field

THE KNARRS

One autumn day I rambled by the ruins of a farmhouse high.
I heard the sad and eerie sigh as the wind blew o'er the Knarrs.
Come hear the music of the stones as the wind blows o'er the Knarrs.

And as I stood to hear enthralled I saw an old man by the wall,
(And) gently I unto him called “How the wind blows o'er the Knarrs.
Come tell to me old man I pray, whence come these sounds I hear today,
For I fear I hear some piper play beneath the rocks of Knarrs
Come hear the music of the stones as the wind blows o'er the Knarrs.

The old man then this story told how long ago in days of old
The faerie folk in halls of gold did dwell beneath the Knarrs.
And in the old farmhouse of stone there lived an old man all alone
But the faerie sent a changeling home for him to raise on Knarrs.
Come hear the music of the stones as the wind blows o'er the Knarrs.

This faerie child right from the start she fairly won the old man's heart
But years went by and they must part as the wind blows o'er the Knarrs.
So they vowed each year as leaves they fall the child would on the old man call
And play for him from the golden hall, the pipes beneath the Knarrs
Come hear the music of the stones as the wind blows o'er the Knarrs.

And though this happened long years past both child and man kept the bargain fast
Vows made in love forever last as the wind blows o'er the Knarrs
I turned to look at the ruined stones that once had been an old man's home
When I turned back I stood alone though the pipes still played from the Knarrs
Come hear the music of the stones as the wind blows o'er the Knarrs.
Come hear the music of the stones for the pipes still play from the Knarrs.



{Background
The farm and music existed.  The farm was close to a round barrow mound.  When we started to make it habitable in the 60s it had been empty for decades and had no electricity, gas, running water, windows, doors etc.  perhaps the music came from the wind blowing through the stonework, perhaps it was from the underground stream that fed the well, perhaps it was from something else.  (I wonder if the present occupants of the site, recently on the market for nearly £1/3  million, ever hear anything.)}

The Knarrs

THE GREEN MAN

Chorus
Til the Green Man walks again
Til the Green man walks again
Bird and beast will sing no more
Til the Green Man walks again

Once the earth was fair and fine once the earth was whole
Soft rain fell and rivers ran, a web of life unfolds
Where now are the rivers, where the teeming seas?
Where now is the web of life, torn by mankind’s greed?

Chorus

Seasons came and seasons went, cycles of the earth
Autumn brought the harvest, springtime brought rebirth
Mankind honoured nature, old gods turned the wheel
Time enough for friendship, time enough to heal

Chorus

Yes mankind walked with nature part of nature’s plan
‘Til he stole the reins of power; at the centre man.
Mankind now the conqueror covets all he can touch
Touches all of nature turning her to dust.

Chorus

But deep beneath the surface seasons they still pass
Patience waits forever, tyrants fall at last
Earth herself far older, wisdom like the sea,
Time will wash away the wounds setting nature free

When the Green Man walks again
When the Green man walks again
Bird and beast will sing once more
When the Green Man walks again

Chorus


When the Green Man Walks Again

THE BARD

Chorus - I am the bard the story teller
In me the old tales they still live
And though the world go on for ever
The old tales still their comfort give

My tale began when earth was younger 
And when the old gods walked the land
And the heart of man was filled with wonder
As the seasons turned in the old gods' hands.
I told my tale in forest clearing
Of Herne the Hunter's mighty arm
And Shiovre, fairy barque still steering  
Cross starry bog until the dawn

I used my tales to warn of danger
Of Jack O' Lantern's impish ways
To comfort friend and welcome stranger
To speed through winter's iron days.
My tales brought rest to lovers parted
By foreign wars and icy seas
For, though they lay quite broken hearted,
The old tales gave to them some ease.

Old tales, old songs, old gods, past glories
I lay before you as I stand
And as you hear these old, old stories
Give thanks that bards still walk the land

[Herne is one aspect of Cernunnos, a nature god, and Shiovre is a celtic fairy.  Jack O’ Lantern is also known as Willow the Wisp and was thought to use false lights to lead travellers astray into bogs.]

The Bard

SAIL AWAY

Sail away on the evening tide
There’s a better land o’er the far horizon
Sail away on the evening tide
As the sunset leads me on

Farewell unto my family dear
Farewell unto my childhood’s places
Do not grieve as I leave here 
For the sunset leads me on

Although we may not meet again
Your hearts and mine still beat together
One last smile from me and then 
The sunset leads me on

The sails unfurl the anchor weighs
The harbour lights are slowly passing
I think on happy childhood’s days
But the sunset leads me on

And as the sun slips to the sea
Away across the western ocean
The same moon shines for you as me
Now the sunset leads me on

And somewhere o’er that rolling sea
There lies a safe but distant harbour
I’ll carry all your dreams with me 
As the sunset leads me on


SAIL AWAY

MIDWINTER SONG


Chorus - Burn the fires at midwinter
Dance the season round
Cold winds blow and sun hangs low
‘Til we dance him from the ground

Frost lies on the hedgerows bare
Mists roll o’er the hills
Winter ghosts of fox and hare
Dance o’er frozen rills

Autumn’s gifts long past and gone
Lean times lie ahead
Look unto the setting sun 
The old year is dead

Sun stands still in winter skies
Has these seven days
Aging year now fades and dies
In the sun’s last rays

But beneath the frozen ground 
Green shoots pierce the earth
As we dance the season round 
And the sun’s rebirth
OR And the New Year’s birth


MIDWINTER SONG

WASSAIL SONG


[Chorus]
Sing Wassail, Sing Wassail
The boughs they do lie bare 
Until you sing Wassail

Come all you lords and ladies fair
Sat by your fireside bright
Come out into the woods this e’en
By pale Diana’s light and….

Now Elder she’s the witch’s tree
You cut her if your dare
For cut without her leave you see
Brings bad luck all the year so …..

And Rowan is a northern tree
Of magic and of charm
For May-plucked sprigs hung by the door
Will keep you safe from harm

And Hawthorn he’s a fairy tree
Though touched by Joseph’s hand
He watches safe o’er you and me
And we watch o’er this land so ..

The Oak he is the king of trees
In winter golden-boughed
He stands outside the orchard wall
A sentry tall and proud so ..

But Apple she’s the fairest tree
Her blossom pure as snow
Come wassail to the apple tree
And watch the cider flow and ..

So all you lords and ladies fair
You’re sitting at your ease
Come give us hungry wassailers
Some cider and some cheese and …

And now we’ve sung our wassail here
The boughs they may grow green
Here’s health unto our woodland lord
His lady fair and queen so ..

I’ve since added a verse about the Yew – how could I have missed out such a tree? – which I sing between Hawthorn and Oak.

And Yew he is a mighty tree 
For staff and hunting bow
He marks the site of sacred ground
As ages round it roll so ..


WASSAIL

HARVEST HOME

Chorus - Harvest Home, Harvest Home, 
Raise up your glasses, sing Harvest Home

Now the sun it is setting and the sky's turning gold,
And we weary labourer, both young and both old, 
The last of the harvest bring in from the field,
Another day's work and another year's yield.

I've worked on this harvest in sunshine and rain,
From stripping the wild oats from out of the grain,
To the last weary bale and the last weary sack, 
I've carried them homeward on my aching back

As we walk from the fields with the dust in our eyes, 
Our throats are like deserts all parched, cracked and dry,
And the swallows fly low as the insects take wing,
And down to the alehouse we’ll laugh drink and sing.

And in fields of stubble there's rabbit and hare, 
They'll make a fine banquet for us all to share
For I've worked on the harvest the long summer through,
And I must raise a tankard to bid you adieu.

And it's down to the alehouse for ale we must go, 
Where first barley serves you then lays you down low, 
So here's to the barley both servant and king,
Come raise up your glasses, his praise we'll sing.

(Sorry about the muttering at the start; recorded by friends at a club - I was going to sing something else then changed my mind!)

HARVEST HOME

ADIEU OLD FRIEND


The parting glass is drained at last, the velvet dusk descends,
Mist’s fingers coil from dew-damp soil, another day now ends
But, as I sit, I’ll not forget the time that we did spend
With comrades old, in tales retold; but now adieu old friend.

When Aoibheall from the earth has come, her mantle to cast wide,
I do recall, as shadows fall, that we stood side by side.
For sparks they fly and embers die but memories don’t end
As love is sure, they do endure; but now adieu old friend.

If wealth and gold from realms of old, or nations powers and might,
Were granted me, from o’er the sea, they’d not hold back the night,
But as one small star can light afar, I know that, at the end
Your friendship strong, still guides me on; but now adieu old friend.

So farewell all to you I call, my time here’s at an end.
I’ll not forget, nor e’er regret the time that we did spend.
But the sands have run, I must be gone but these words do now attend,
Your memory I’ll keep with me; but now adieu old friend.

Alternative last verse

So farewell all I hear you call, your time now at an end.
I’ll not forget, nor e’er regret the time that we did spend.
Though the sands have run, and you’re now gone, these words do now attend,
Your memory I’ll keep with me; but now adieu old friend.


(Here's to the "Second Saturdays" - long may they continue.)

Adieu old friend

Oak, Meadowsweet And Broom

(Lyrics below)  I don’t write songs; they write themselves and I try to catch them as they pass by.  Afterwards I sometimes try to work out what they mean or why they came my way.  This is what I make of this song that I caught as it flew by.
There’s a ‘Selkie Bride’ story where a fisherman makes a Selkie marry him by refusing to return her sealskin, shed when she came ashore.  Eventually, having born a son, the child finds the skin and returns it to his mother so that she can return to her undersea home.  Still loving the child (and even the father!) the Selkie returns regularly to give them gifts of fish: he’s a fisherman so that’s the sort of thing he values.  What would a grateful Selkie give now?  For centuries, perhaps millennia, humans cast valuable gifts into lakes, rivers and the sea.  Perhaps what we most value can be found in the gifts we ourselves give.

The Selkie's Gifts from the Sea

He was searching the strand-line for flotsam and jetsam,
His spirits as low as the day’s ebbing tide
When he came to the point at the forbidden headland,
Where he heard the strange cries from the far distant side.
He knew that the point was a place no-one went to;
It belonged to the grey-folk the old ones would say;
Those that could dwell far past the white breakers;
Those who were part of the race of the Fae

He stepped to the headland; the moon rose before him
And looked o’er the rocks at the forbidden bay 
And there saw the figures, the silver-grey Selkies,
Shedding their skins in the last light of day.
The shapes they revealed were like humans but perfect,
No blemish was there, no fault to be seen:
He crossed o’er the rocks but they vanished like sea mist
And he wondered if dusk had just brought him a dream.

But there, by the tide line, a silver grey seal-skin,
Cast just by the side of the rocks where he lay:
He stepped o’er the rocks and he picked up the garment
And there he did wait ‘til the dawn of next day.
And just as the sun rose, the figures returning
Were donning their skins and as seals once again
Were slipping back into the grey rolling waters 
Until only one, a young maiden remained.

“Oh, give me my seal-skin”, the maiden she begged him,
“Without it condemned on the land I’ll be tied”.
He’d once heard the story of one such young Selkie
Who’d been held in such torment and withered and died. 
So he sadly passed over the silver grey seal-skin
And slipping into it she dived into the foam
But in grateful thanksgiving each year she returned there
To bring him the gifts of her undersea home.

So if, as you walk alongside a wild ocean,
You hear a strange call from over the waves
And you see on the strandline the gifts from the ocean,
Remember the Selkie and the promise she made.
For still she returns with her gifts from the ocean
Once amber and jet were the treasures she’d leave
Now oil-slick and plastic are the treasures she gives us
The very same gifts that we give to her seas.

Selkie's Gifts

Off to the Workhouse

Now I’m off to the workhouse at dawn
Where the mist it still lies on the meadows
Off to the workhouse at dawn
Where my memories they’ll be just shadows
I’ve been infant, child labourer, sturdy mill hand
Been your soldier, your neighbour I’ve led your brass band
Now I’m thrown on the scrapheap, no more use to this land
And I’m off to the workhouse at dawn

When I was a young lad of eight
With my new sparking clogs to the factory gate
Where I’d work all the day just to earn my own keep
And we were so tired we could sleep on our feet
But all of our family had food for to eat
Now I’m off to the workhouse at dawn

The recruiter he came by one day 
And he said “What d’you say lad will you march away?”
So I took the Queen’s shilling and marched off to the war
At the Cop and Colenso, well we saw it all
But my fighting was stopped by a stray musket ball
Now I’m off to the workhouse at dawn

As I hero I then came back home 
I vowed in my heart never more for to roam
And I wed my own Jinny went back to the mill
For the rest of my life I worked there with a will
If I just had the strength I’d be working there still
But I’m off to the workhouse at dawn

We had three pretty babes of our own
A lass and two lads just to make it a home
Though the lass died a child the lads they grew strong
Till the war to end wars well it just came along
Now they lie in the in the mud in a place called the Somme  
And I’m off to the workhouse at dawn

Seems I’ve worked in the mill all my life
Both me and my own darling Jinny my wife
And I played the best trumpet in our mill brass band
We won ribbons and trophies when we played so grand
But my playing days over my end is at hand
And I’m off to the workhouse at dawn

But I’ve not seen my Jinny for days
And I’m sure that they’ve taken her somewhere away
They’ll put her in one wing and then me in the other
Tearing husbands from wives, tearing sisters from brothers
For to put us together would be just too much bother 
And I’m off to the workhouse at dawn

So I’ll polish my boots to a shine
And march as I once proudly marched to the line
And I know that you say that this new Welfare State
Has closed down the workhouse, and it’s not my fate
But if it’s a hospital, why lock the gate
So I’m off to the workhouse at dawn.

Repeat first verse.

In spite of the repeal of the Poor Laws and supposed closure of the workhouses from c1929/1930 - they continued in use until the establishment of the Welfare State in c1948 by the Atlee Labour Government of 1945-1950.  This continuance was mainly because those already in the workhouse had become institutionalised and had nowhere else to go.  During the 1950s the shadow of the workhouse still hung over the older generation.  The subject of this song, who I knew, developed Alzheimer’s shortly after his wife died and eventually came to believe she’d been taken away to the workhouse.  When his condition became so bad that he had to be looked after in the local secure geriatric hospital it was ironic that this was situated in the buildings formerly occupied by the local workhouse.

See http://www.historyextra.com/qa/british-institution for further information on the workhouses.


Off to the Workhouse

N.B.  This one's for the summer solstice, if you're looking for a Winter Solstice Song there's one called Midwinter Song.

SOLSTICE SONG

For six long moons the Oak King’s ruled
His breath lay o’er the land
Now his day is done and his time is gone
And the Holly King rules the land
The Holly King rules the land
The Holly King rules the land
And the Holly King rules the land

At Yule so chill, the sun stood still
And the Oak King came to power
And he danced the way for the light of day
And the bud, the leaf, the flower 
etc

In the ground the Holly King lay
Healed the wounds he’d won that day
As the days grew long, the Holly grew strong
‘Til the dawning of the May
etc

And the sun rose high in a brightening sky
Then in June the Holly King rose
At Litha he was the stronger tree
And the Oak King he laid low
etc

Now until the Yule the Holly King rules
And the days grow short again
But the Oak King’s strong and it won’t be long
‘Til the Yule brings back his reign
etc

So the seasons turn around
And we draw life from the ground
As the seasons turn, from them we learn
That by nature we are bound.
etc

[There is a cyclic battle between the Oak King and the Holly King.  At Yule (winter solstice) the Oak King triumphs and presides over the waxing year.  At Litha (summer solstice) the Holly King regains his crown and presides over the waning year.  The tune is (more or less) the Candlelight Fisherman. This one is designed mainly for the summer solstice; I've got a different one for the winter solstice.]

A Solstice Song (Oak and Holly King)

PLEASE READ THIS IN FULL IF YOU'RE INTERESTED IN MY SONGS. IT EXPLAINS WHY I'VE PUT THEM HERE.

The songs are not here to be passively listened to but are for those who want to learn them to sing themselves. The greatest compliment you can pay to a song is to sing it better than the person you learned it from. 

Following a recent conversation I’ve put the lyrics to my songs on each song’s page now. They may not be exactly the words on the accompanying recording; the thing I love about live music is that each time you do something it’s unique. If you want to sing any of these songs at singarounds etc, feel free to adapt them to your own style but, if you’re going to sing them, please don’t just learn the tune and sing the words from a sheet, songs are for singing not reading!!! (If you forget any words, just make your own up.)

If you're interested in more of the mythology-based songs then try Gwion'sSongs (https://soundcloud.com/gwionssongs accessible via the "Following" list) and there’s also lots to inspire you about about Nature and mythology to be found on The Druid Network (druidnetwork.org/).

Most importantly, whether these songs are of any interest or not - go out and enjoy some LIVE MUSIC at a singaround/session - preferably, get up and sing/play yourself!

Sthomason

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