dney Carter's songs, recorded by himself and various other English singers. Carter is the one who gave us "Silver in the Stubble (which may be heard on Cliff Haslam's Folk-Legacy recording, The Clockwinder, FSB-93) and the words to "The Lord of the Dance." According to Carter, Julian lived at about the time of Chaucer, in a cell (she was a hermit and a mystic) in what is now the Chapel of Julian in Norwich, England. According to my differing sources, Julian spoke to her God in a vision, asking why evil was necessary in the world. The answer she got was that it was indeed necessary, but that "All will be well; all manner of things shall be well." (Loosely remembered.) That then became her message, and she apparently brought peace to the troubles of her area at one time by repeating that message. (GB)
Loud are the bells of Norwich
and the people come and go.
Here by the tower of Julian
I tell them what I know.
Ring out, bells of Norwich,
and let the winter come and go.
All shall be well again, I know.
Love, like the yellow daffodil,
is coming through the snow;
Love, like the yellow daffodil,
is Lord of all I know.
Ring out, bells of Norwich,
and let the winter come and go.
All shall be well again, I know.
Ring for the yellow daffodil,
the flower in the snow.
Ring for the yellow daffodil
And tell them what I know.
Ring out, bells of Norwich,
and let the winter come and go.
All shall be well again, I know.
All shall be well, I'm telling you,
let the winter come and go.
All shall be well again, I know.
(repeat first verse and last chorus)
MY IMAGES COME
© 1983 Don Cooper, New Mutant Music
Gordon, Will, Matt, Kat, Jim, David, Anne –vocals
I got this song from my old friend, Bob Stuart. Only this year did I have the chance to hear Don’s singing of it – that’s well worth a listen.
My images come
From the people who do the work
From the people who sing the songs
From the people who get along
A bottle of rum
For the demon what always lurk
For the demon what do me wrong
For the fury what is my wife
For the struggle what is my song
Chorus:
It get me down but only
A little look around and I find
That I am not so lonely
We in the same boat brother!
My images come
From the pleasures I had before
From the pleasures I'm still to know
From the pleasures my dreams provide
From the pleasures what I bestow
A bottle of rum
For the trouble what's at my door
For the trouble where' ere I go
For the misfortunes what I abide
And for the courage I'm trying to show
My images come
From the woman what's on my knee
From the woman what's in my head
From the woman out in the sun
From the woman what shares my bed
A bottle of rum
For a broken love's misery
For a love what has grown so dead
Expectations my life's undone
For illusions what I've been fed
My images come
From the world in which I live
From the world I love so well
From the world of change and light
From the world of which I tell
A bottle of rum
For the feelings I cannot give
For the feelings what fears impel
For the screams of a fraughtful night
And for the time what is spent in hell
Another great song about gold mining, this time in Australia. It was written by Peter Metsers. I learned it, as I have so many, from Neal MacMillen who, in turn, learned it from Sara Grey. (ET)
Shotover River, your gold it is waning,
It's years since the color I've seen,
But there's no use just sitting and Lady Luck blaming,
I'll pack up and make the break clean.
Farewell to the gold that never I found,
Good-bye to the nuggets that somewhere abound,
For it's only when dreaming that I see them gleaming
Down in the dark, deep underground.
Well, it's nearly two years since I left my old mother,
For adventure and gold by the pound,
With Jimmy, the prospector, he was another,
For the hills of Otago was bound.
We searched the Cardrona's dry valley all over,
Old Jimmy Williams and me,
They were panning good dirt on the winding Shotover,
So we headed down there just to see.
We sluiced and we cradled for day after day,
Making hardly enough to get by,
When the terrible flood swept poor Jimmy away,
During six stormy days in July.
Of all the children I went to school with in Camden, four of them stood out to me, especially. Among the rest of us little tear-ups they seemed to have a special grace and dignity that seemed almost out of place, perhaps because it was so in place. We all went our separate ways, of course, and I don't think I even saw three of them again. But one day the schooner I was working o.n put into the little island of Matinicus;· and, while going up to the village for something, I recognized one of them, whose name was Judy, and for some reason she recognized me. She was lovely, a thin little thing, almost delicate, with a brand new baby on her hip; she had married one of the young fishermen on the island. We talked for close to an hour, and I left the island very happy for her; that she had found a place she loved and that she was happy. It seemed to make one corner of the world very right. A few years later, on the mainland, I heard that she had died of cancer. It wasn't neglect or anything, just incurable, and for years I could never bear to see the face of that island darken the horizon. But then in 1980 or so, I fell into a conversation with a slightly drunk fisherman in a local inn. He was fishing out of New Bedford, and we were talking aboutl that. At one point he mentioned that he was originally from Matinicus, and I thought to ask him if he had known Judy; he sobered up like I had hit him in the face. He said: "When that girl died, every soul on the island mourned her, and they never did that for anyone." And then he said: "Look: if you loved her like we did,there's something you ought to know. You know she had two daughters?" I said I knew she had one. He said: "Well, she had two, and one of them is exactly like her. She's got that same kind of awkward grace that reminds you of a deer. And she's got that same way of smiling that can light up the whole field she's standing in. And, for us, it's almost like Judy never went away." For years, I had been playing with a tune, a sort of vague lament for Judy that had never wanted to come together. I went home, then, and dug it out and took it apart, and from every sad part I built a happy part, and put it back together. And it is true that from the same ingredients that give us grief we are given our happiness. (GB)
Jim says that most of the known Scottish harp tunes are attributed to Rory Dall (Dall meaning "blind") whose real name was Roderick Morison (about 1660-1713) who became harper to the MacLeods of Dunvegin (Isle of Skye). Contemporary to him (some think) was an Irish harper, Rory Dall O'Cathain (O'Keene) who travelled in Scotland in the first part of the 17th century. It's hard to tell which tunes should be attributed to which man. The tune here is my own; the arrangement is TBM's. (GB)
Was it just last night or long ago
That Rory Dall was here?
Does anyone remember
The evening or the year?
He came in from the darkness
With the shadows in his eyes
And the night was full of yearning
And the wind was full of sighs.
We asked him where he came from
And how far he had to go.
He answered without speaking
That we surely had to know.
He placed his harp before him
In his laughter and his pain
And strings were weeping for the
world
Before he left again.
Does anyone remember
The evening or the year?
Was it just last night or long ago
That Rory Dall was here?
Boat of Silver
© 1980 J.B. Goodenough
It must have been a dozen years ago that Judy sent this to me. I took her second verse and made a chorus of it. Before she died, she told me she liked it with a simple voice and guitar, with maybe a few voices on the chorus, so I include it here that way, with the quiet Quasi Modals (with guest Wendy Cohn) and a nylon-strung six string.
There's many ships tarry in the harbor,
Many roads wind across the hill;
And many roses grow on the arbor,
Many's the girl waits for me there still.
For swiftly come all the tides returning;
Swiftly go then and will not stay.
There is no boatman can net the morning;
There is no boatman can net the day.
The fish run deep, oh, they run so deeply
I cannot find them in the seas.
The lonely road winds the hill so steeply,
I'll lay me down now and take my ease.
The rose that blooms blows its petals over
And the thorns lie upon the bough.
The girls have gone now to a different lover;
They will not linger beside me now.
I will build a boat of silver,
Steer it with a golden oar,
And I will row out of this sad harbor
And never sail back to this dark shore.
This nice , self-explanatory word picture was written by Jerry Rasmus - sen and may b e found on his Folk-Legacy record, Get Down Home ( FSI-77). We hope he enjoys our effort at it . Much of our way of doing the song comes from my sing ing of it with Cathy Barton and Dave Para . The cellamba, of course, is Gordon's distinctive contribution, since he is the only person in the world who plays it. (ET)
Down around the bend by the railroad
bridge ,
Just wading through the shallows
where the crayfish live .
Over by the cotton mill the catfish
bite ;
They'll be swimming in a skillet
before tonight .
Living on the river was nice and
easy ;
People on the river just take
their time .
The wind in the summer was warm and breezy;
The wind in the winter it cut
like ice .
Off down the hill on a winter's night ,
To go skating on the river in the
cold moonlight .
There's an old woodstove and a
hardwood floor;
And you can sit and take it easy
while your feet get warm.
Down around the bend where the
blackbird sings,
Over by the fountain there's a crystal spring .
Back in the shallows where the
watercress grows ,
Sweet spring water runs clear
and cold .
Up in the morning at four o ' clock;
Meet you on the landing at Johnson's
dock .
Drifting on the river 'till the sun
comes up ,
Drinking hot, black coffee from an
old tin cup .
(repeat first verse)
Three stray tunes of mine. The first was written thinking about Archie Fisher, and how he was always flaming around whenever I saw him. It's properly called "Archie, Take Your Boots Off and Stop Chasing Yourself Around." "Namagati" (a direction of wind) is a dance from "Song for Vela" which appeared as a guitar duet with John Pearse on Another Land Made of Water (Folk-Legacy FSI-72). "Odivair is a Lonely Man" is one of the many tunes I put to the old Shetlandish saga : The Play of the Lady Odivere . (GB)
It is fascinating to trace the chain of transmission of a song through the folk revival. Ed Trickett learned this love ly and gentle version of Child Ballad #1 from Joanie Bronfman and Neal MacMillen, who in turn learned it from Peter and Mary Alice Amidon. The Amidons he a rd the song from Ricky Rackin, who heard it f rom English musician and instrument builder Stefan Sobell. This particular version comes from Cornwall. in the west of England, and was first pr inted in Gilbert's Christmas Carols in 1823. (Caroline Paton )
There were three sisters, fair and
bright,
Jennifer Gentle Fair Rosie Marie,
Wanted to wed with a valiant knight,
As the dew flies over the mulberry
tree.
The eldest sister took him in,
Also bolted the silver pin.
The second sister made his bed;
Placed the pillow right under his
head.
But the youngest sister, fair and
bright,
Wanted to wed with the valiant knight.
Well, if you will answer my questions
three,
Then, fair maid, I would marry thee.
Oh, what is whiter than the milk?
What is softer than the silk?
Oh, snow is whiter than the milk;
Down is softer than the silk.
And what is sharper than the thorn?
What is louder than the horn?
Oh, hunger is sharper than the thorn;
Thunder's louder than the horn.
And what is broader than the way?
What is deeper than the sea?
Oh, love is broader than the way;
Hell is deeper than the sea.
Well, now you've answered my questions
three;
Now, fair maid, I would marry thee.
It was a year or so ago that Gordon first heard this powerful song sung by Margaret MacArthur who had learned it from Jim Couza. The month was February, and Gordon, always on the lookout for comforting songs to help us (and himself) through the long New England winter, decided that this was a fine and fitting addition to his store of "February songs." (Caroline Paton)
Though my sails be torn and ragged
And my mast be turned about,
Though the night wind chill me to
my very soul,
Though the salt spray sting my eye
And the stars no sight provide,
Give me just enough morning light
to hold.
I will not lie me down,
This rain a-raging,
I will not lie me down
In such a storm.
And if this night be unblessed,
I shall not take my rest
Until we reach another shore.
If the only water's salt
And I cannot quench my thirst,
I will drink the rain that falls
so steady down.
If night's blindness be my gift,
If there be thieves upon my drift,
I will praise the dark that shelters
me from them.
If my friends be drained and weary
And it seems their hopes are lost,
There's no need for their bones on
this blackened bottom.
And if death wait just off the bow,
We need not answer to him now;
We'll stand on and face the morning
light without him.
I am told that, even though this tune is now played on the island of St. Thomas in the Virgin Islands as a “folk” tune, it was originally written by the jazz musician Sonny Rollins. I learned it from Debbie Suran, who learned it from Andy Cohen, and in the transition from guitar to hammered dulcimer to 12-string, I can’t vouch for the accuracy of my version of it.
I learned this as a child from my
Aunt Beanto, who later taught it to
Ann. It is a translation of a Gaelic
song from the Hebrides, and even the
surviving Gaelic in the chorus has
suffered some grammatic misfortunes
over the years.
Thanks to Jean Redpath for additional
words, and thanks to the various people
who have, at one time or another, sent
me their written versions of the song.
This version is a compilation of all
of the above. (GB)
The chorus, as translated by Lachlan
MacBean in Alfred Moffat's The Minstrelsy
of the Scottish Highlands, may be sung:
O, my boatman,
na horo aila;
O, my boatman,
na horo aila;
O, my boatman,
na horo aila,
May joy await thee,
where'er thou sailest. (SP)
Fear a' bhata, na horo aila,
Fear a' bhata, na horo aila,
Fear a' bhata, na horo aila,
Mo shoraidh slan dhuit's gach
ait a teid -thu.
Forever haunting the highest hilltop,
I scan the ocean, thy sails to see.
Wilt come tonight, love, wilt come
tomorrow,
Wilt ever come, love, to comfort me?
They call you fickle, they call you
false-one;
They seek to change me, but all in
vain,
For thou art with me throughout the
dark night,
And every morning I watch the main.
There's not a hamlet but well I know it
Where you go walking or stay awhile,
And all the old folk you win with
talking,
And charm its maidens with song and
smile.
From passing boatmen I would
discover
If they had heard of or seen
my lover.
I'm never answered; I'm only chided
And told my heart has been sore
misguided.
(chorus sung twice at end)