Let Me Fish Off Cape St. Mary's

© Otto P. Kelland

        I learned this version from Peggy Day. (GB)

Take me back to my Western boat
Let me fish off Cape St. Mary's
Where the hagdowns sail and the foghorns wail,
With my friends, the Browns and the Clearys,
In the swells off old St. Mary's.

Let me feel my dory lift
To the broad Atlantic cumbers
Where the tide-rips swirl and the wild ducks furl
And the ocean calls the numbers...
In the swells off old St. Mary's.

Let me sail up golden bays
With my oilskins all a-streaming
From the thunder squall where I hauled my trawl,
And the old "Cape Ann" a-gleaming
In the swells off old St. Mary's.

Take me back to my Western boat
Let me fish off Cape St. Mary's
Where the hagdowns sail and the foghorns wail,
With my friends, the Browns and the Clearys,
In the swells off old St. Mary's.

Astoria Bar

                        Little River

                                    Lyrics ©1975 Ruth Moore

                                    Music © 1986 Gordon Bok

           

            Ruth has written the definitive novels of the Maine coast as it was when I was growing up here.  One day she handed me this poem, claiming it wanted a tune.  This young fellow, most likely a lobsterman, is listening to the buoy off Cutler Harbor, but now it is above him, and he has  just figured out that he's drowning.

 

Gordon – 12-string guitar

 

          Little River lighted whistle, cry no more

            Sleepy sound from the breakers calling me back to shore

          Whistle it soft to the silver river

          Whistle it loud to the drumming sea

          Whistle it low to the moon and morning

          Not to me, never to me.

 

          For I'm swinging high in another country, swinging low

          Rolling it easy and the dolphins follow me where I go

 

          Whistle it loud to the flood tide making

          Whistle it soft to the wheeling sun

          Whistle it wild to my girl's heart breaking

          She'll remember; she was the one

 

          Spring comes warm over Little River, storm comes black

          I was headed home when the Indian Giver took me back'

 

          Whistle it high to the graybeard breakers

          Where the secret over the great shoals ran

          Whistle the world that was in my pocket

          When I had pockets, when I was a man

 

          repeat # 1

 

Snow Gull "The Seagull of the Land-Under-Waves"

Snow Gull "The Seagull of the Land-Under-Waves"

Trad, Arranged by Bok

        This one changes with the singing: I can't remember where I heard it. It was printed in Songs of the Hebrides, Volume I, by Marjory Kennedy-Fraser (London, 1909). She described it as "an old Skye air from Francis Tolmie, with words from Kenneth Macleod." In the published version, the accompanying sounds are slightly different, so we decided not to try to write them out. I've been told that there is a land to the Westward where the dead go; in this song the gull is the keeper of those who dwell there, and you'll have to ask him for the rest of it ...

Snow white seagull high ...
Tell to me
Where, ah, where thou rest them
Where our fair young lads are resting.
Grief within my heart is nesting ....

Heart to heart they lie,
Side by side,
Seafoam the sigh
From their cold lips coming;
Seawrack their shroud
And their harp the cold sea moaning.
Grief within my heart is nesting ....

Snow white seagull high ...
Tell to me
Where, ah, where thou rest them
Where our fair young lads are resting.
Seawrack their shroud
And their harps the cold sea moaning.
Grief within my heart is nesting ...

Apples in the Basket © 1978 JB Goodenough

Queer Bungo Rye

Traditional

 

A song I've known forever.  I can't remember where I learned it, but I associate this version with Newfoundland.  I've heard it sung "Bung-yer-eye," too.

 

Gordon – 12 string

 

Now Jack was a sailor and he walked up to town

And she was a damsel, she skipped up and down

And she says to Jack as she passed him by

"Would you care for to purchase some Old Bungo Rye?"

(Ruddy rye, fol de diddle dye, ruddy rye, ruddy rye)

 

Says Jack to himself, "Now what can this be

But the finest of whiskies from far Germany

Snuggled up in a basket and sold on the sly

And the name that it goes by is "Old Bungo Rye"

 

Jack gave her a pound, for he thought nothing strange

"Hold the basket, young man, while I run for your change"

Jack peeked in the basket and a child he did spy

"I'll be damned, (he did cry) this is Queer Bungo Rye"

 

Well, to get the child christened was Jack's next intent

And to get the child christened, to the parson he went

Says the parson to Jack, "What will he go by?"

"I'll be damned, (did he cry) call him Queer Bungo Rye!"

 

Says the parson to Jack, "That's a very queer name"

"I'll be damned (did he cry) and it's a queer way he came

Snuggled up in a basket and sold on the sly

And the name that he'll go by is Queer Bungo Rye!"

 

So come all you young sailors who walk up to town

Beware of those damsels who skip up and down

Take a peek in their baskets as ye pass them by

Or else they may pawn on you Queer Bungo Rye!

 

 

Fifteen Ships on Georges Bank

Fifteen Ships on Georges Bank

traditional

        Georges Bank is one of the great shoals off this coast. Once an abundant provider of fish, it can quickly become a lethal place in a gale. This is a true story of a winter gale that destroyed 15 schooners out of Gloucester, Massachusetts.

I pray you pay attention
And listen unto me
Concerning all those noble men
Who drownded in the sea.
‘Twas in the month of February
In 1862,
These vessels sailed from Gloucester
With each a hardy crew.

The course was East-South-East they steered,
Cape Ann being out of sight;
They anchored on the Banks that night
With everything alright.
But on the 24th, at night,
The wind come on to blow,
The seas rose up like mountain-tops,
Which proved their overthrow.

The thoughts of home and loving ones
Did grieve their hearts full sore,
For well convinced were all these men
They’d see their homes no more.
No tongue can ever describe the scene,
The sky was full of snow,
And fifteen ships did founder there
And to bottom go.

A hundred and forty-nine brave friends
Who lately left the land,
Now they sleep on George’s Bank,
In the rough and shifting sand.
One hundred and seventy children
These men have left on shore,
And seventy mournful widows
Their sorrows to endure.

So now, you’d think with gloomy thoughts,
As on life’s path you roam
Of many’s the happy hours and days
You’ve spent with them at home;
For you they left their native shore,
For you the seas did roam,
For love and duty called them forth
To leave their happy home.

So now, adieu to George’s Bank,
My heart it doth despise,
For many’s the gale I’ve seen out there,
And heard those widows cry.
And now I bid you all adieu,
Dry up your tearful eye;
Prepare to meet your God above
And dwell beyond the skies. Jute Mill Song (Mary Brookbank)

Mister, I Don't Mind 

© 1969 Gordon Bok, BMI

 

Threeboot was a happy man.  He used to say, "You've got to know what's yours, and why it's good."  --- and he did.

            He'd seen the old fishing and the new fishing, and baled a bloodshot eye at both, for different reasons.  But he'd retired, to his satisfaction, on that soggy old sloop tied up to the trees, with chimney staggered up through her decks so he'd have most of the comforts of home (to put his feet up on, on a cold night.)

            And so, when someone offered him a job lumping the fish out of a sardine carrier (lumping as in humping --- the old way --- as opposed to pumping --- the new way) and the wind happened to be blowing Northwest hard enough to crystallize a fellow's kneecaps, he took it as a personal affront.  As a matter of fact, he considered the Northwest wind a personal affront.  I don't blame him.

 

 

Mister, I don't mind you calling me a fool;

Better men than you have called me more.

But the man that's lumping fish out on this flying Northern wind

Hasn't got the brains to stay ashore.

 

Lord, I think of all them boats lying down the bay,

Riding back and stretching out their chain,

And I thank my cozy tones that I ain't on them, Mister Man,

I thank the Flying Pete that they ain't mine.

 

Well, you know that I don't mind her beating on my door,

I don't mind her howling 'round my head,

But she drives me and she grieves me all the weary winter day,

And then she wants to share my lonely bed.

 

Piled the foolish snow four feet up my door,

Scaled my pretty shutters down the bay,

Took the poor old shed apart and shingled half the hill;

Now she laughs to see a grown man cry.

 

You know, I'm pretty sure where I'm going when I'm done,

But I'd like to send the message on ahead;

Put the coal right to her, keep her jumping up and down,

'Cause that's the way I'll want her when I come.

 



Bay of Fundy

Bay of Fundy        

© 1977 Gordon Bok, BMI

 

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

            I think the one worked the hardest was Ed's wife Lainie, and you could hear her, working below or at the wheel, singing a little tune of her own, over and over.  It was a private comfort tune that probably became as much of a comfort to the rest of us as to her.

            When we got to Capt Breton Island, I asked her if I could borrow the tune and put words to it as a momento of the trip, and she said yes.  And I tried, all the next fall, to make that tune say what I remembered, but after all, 'twas Lainie's tune, and private, and I had to make my own. 

            I tried to keep the lovely sounds, and a few notes from Sable and the Sambro horn, but what she gave us then I have no way to give.

 

All you Maine men, proud and young,

When you run your easting down,

Don't go down to Fundy Bay:

She'll wear your time away.

            Fundy's long and Fundy's wide,

            Fundy's fog and rain and tide;

            Never see the sun or sky,

            Just the green wave going by.

 

                        Cape Sable's horn blows all day long;

                        Wonder why,

                        Wonder why.

 

Oh, you know, I'd rather ride

The Grenfell Strait or the Breton tide,

Spend my days on the Labrador,

And never see old Fundy's shore.

            All my days on the Labrador,

            And never see old Fundy's shore.

 

Give her staysail, give her main,

In the darkness and the rain;

I don't mind the wet and cold,

I just don't like the growing old.

            I don't mind the wet and cold,

            I just don't like the growing old.

 

East-by-North or East-Northeast,

Give her what she steers the best;

I don't want this foggy wave

To be my far and lonely grave.

            I don't want this foggy wave

            To be my far and lonely grave.

 

                        Cape Sable's horn blows all day long;

                        Wonder why,

                        Wonder why.

 

                        Cape Breton's bells ring in the swells,

                        Ring for me,

                        Ring for me.

 

 

Come By The Hills

Come By The Hills

©Gordon Smith

         This was learned from Ed Trickett and Cliff Haslam. The lyrics were written by Scottish television producer Gordon Smith, and set to the traditional Irish air "Buchal an Eire."

Oh, come by the hills to the land where fancy is free.
Stand where the peaks meet the sky and the laughs meet the sea,
Where the rivers run clear, bracken is gold in the sun;
Oh, the cares of tomorrow can wait till this day is done.

Oh, come by the hills to the land where life is a song.
Stand where the birds fill the air with their joy all day long,
Where the trees sway in time, even the wind sings in tune;
Ah, the cares of tomorrow can wait till this day is done.

Oh, come by the hills to the land where legend remains.
The stories of old fill the heart and may yet come again,
Where the past has been lost, the future is still to be won;
Ah, the cares of tomorrow can wait till this day is done.

- repeat first verse.

Kirsteen/Christinn

Kirsteen/Christinn

Trad, Arranged by Bok

        I can't remember where I heard the first "Kirsteen," but it struck me with its simplicity, and how thoroughly it covered the lady's life - from the high Spring-tides to the end of it. The second one is sadder, and I thought it was Irish by its gentle way of introducing such news, but Norman Kennedy told me it was Scottish. I heard it at Annie Muir's house and may have misremembered som@ of the words, but it will do for me.

I) Who will walk with thee, Kirsteen,
By the shining sea, Kirsteen,
O'er the fragrant lea?

Who'll be by thy side, Kirsteen,
At the high Spring-tide, Kirsteen,
Walking with his bride?

And when thou grown frail, Kirsteen,
Winds do bring the veil, Kirsteen.
Who longs with thee to sail?

II) Soft be thy pathway and light be thy stepping,
Sweet be the song on thy lips, Christinn.
Lone on the hillside, thy lover is lying,
And pale ~s the hue of his cheek, Christinn.

The bird in the woodland, the trout in the river,
The deer on the hillside are fair,. Chris tinn,
But he who was fairer lies low in the bracken;
He's emptied his heart of his cares, Christinn.

Bright blow the flowers by clear, winding cutty,
Like bonnie white clouds in the blue, Christinn,
But their glory at noontide is darkened with mourning
For joys that can never return, Christinn.

- repeat first verse of I

Dublin City

Dublin City

Trad, Arranged by Bok

        "Thank you, Brother-Boe."

As I was a-walking through Dublin City
About the hour of twelve at night,
It was there I saw a fair pretty maiden
Washing her feet by candle-light.

First she washed them and then she dried them,
And around her shoulder she pegged the towel,
And in all my life I ne'er did see
Such a fine young lass in all the world.

She had twenty, eighteen, sixteen, fourteen,
Twelve, ten, eight, six, four, two, none;
Nineteen, seventeen, fifteen, thirteen,
Eleven, nine, seven, five, three and one.

Round, round the wheel of fortune:
Where it stops wearies me;
Fair maids, they are so deceiving,
Sad experience teaches me.

Twenty, eighteen, etc .....

Oh, but tides do be running the whole world over:
Why, 'twas only last June month, I mind that we
Were thinking the call in the breast of the lover
So everlasting as the sea.

Twenty, eighteen, etc .....

But here's the same little fishes that swims and spin,
And the same old moon on the cold wet sand,
And I no more to she, nor she to me,
Than the cool wind passing over my hand.

Twenty, eighteen, etc .....

Texas SOng

The Texas Song

Trad, Arranged by Bok

        Once again, from my mother's family. I can't remember which one of them sang it to me, but it feels like Beanto, this one. I've never heard this particular minor tune to it outside of the family (some say: "I sing that tune," but when pressed, they're still singing "Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie").

I'm going to leave old Texas now,
They've got no use for the long-horned cow.
They've plowed and fenced my cattle range,
And the people there are all so strange.

I'll say goodbye to the Alamo
And turn my head for Mexico;
Make my home on the wide, wide range
The people there are not so strange.

And when my ride on earth is done,
I'll take my chance on the promised land.

I'll tell St. Peter that I know
A cowman's soul ain't white as snow,
But in that far off cattle land
He sometimes acted like a man.

The Texas Song is recorded on the CD Bay of Fundy

BROKEN DOWN SQUATTER

© Charles Flowers circa 1880s, from the Penguin Australian Songbook, compiled by John S Manifold [Penguin Books 1964]

Gordon – vocal & 12-string guitar     

Will, Matt, Anne – vocals

 

I think I first heard this from Dave de Hugard, whom I’ve never met, but whose singing has taught me a lot over the years. A sad commentary, but one repeated over the years in many countries. The last double verse was found a few years ago by Bill Scott of Warwick, who thought to look in Charles Flowers’s journals, which his family had kept.  It is not commonly sung.

 

Come, Stumpy, old man, we must shift while we can

All your mates in the paddock are dead

We must say our farewells to Glen Eva's sweet dells

And the hills where your lordship was bred

 

Together to roam from our drought-stricken home

Seems hard that such things have to be

And it's hard on a horse when he's naught for a boss

But a broken-down squatter like me 

 

            And the banks are all broken, they say

            And the merchants are all up a tree

            When the bigwigs are brought to the bankruptcy court

            What chance for a squatter like me?

 

No more shall we muster the river for fats

Or spiel on the fifteen-mile plain

Or dash through the scrub by the light of the moon

Or see the old homestead again

 

Leave the slip-railings down, they don't matter much now

For there's none but the crow left to see

Perching gaunt on the pine as though longing to dine

On a broken-down squatter like me

           

            And the banks…

 

When the country was cursed with the drought at its worst

And the cattle were dying in scores

Though down on me luck, I kept up me pluck

Thinking justice might soften the laws

 

But the farce had been played, and the government aid

Ain't extended to squatters, old son

When me money was spent, they doubled the rent

And resumed the best part of the run

 

            And the banks…

 

It’s a mighty hard ride till we reach the divide

With the plain stretching out like the sea

But the chances seem best in the faraway west

For a broken down squatter like me

 

Well, they left us our hides and little besides

You have all I possess on your back

But stumpy, old sport, when we boil our next quart

We’ll be out on the Wallaby Track

 

            And the banks…

 

 

 

 

Freedom on The Wallaby

Freedom on The Wallaby

Trad, Arranged by Bok

         I suppose there's always been a stress between England and her "colonies" - implied or outspoken, as in this song. Ray Wales tells me that "grubbing" is humping out stumps, and the idea of Freedom hooting aroun- the outback because she got lonely for all the hardworking people who left England is a dear one to me. A good picture, painted by Henry Lawson, to a tune that was floating around Australia before the turn of the century. Annie Muir sings this one with me. * "humping bluey" - to shoulder a blanket and walk the outback. ** "cooey" - call

Australia's a big country and Freedom's humping bluey*,
And Freedom's on the Wallaby, ah, can't you hear her coaey**?
She's just begun to boomerang, she'll knock the tyrant silly,
She's going ta light another fire and boil another billy.

Our fathers toiled far bitter bread, while loafers thrived beside them,
For food to eat and clothes ta wear, their native land denied them.
And so they left their native land, in spite of their devotion,
And so they came, or, if they stole, were sent across the ocean.

Then Freedom couldn't stand the glare of royalty's regalia;
She left the loafers where they were and came out to Australia.
But now, across the mighty main, the chains have come to bind her;
She little thought to see again the wrongs she left behind her.

Our fathers grubbed to make a home (hard grubbing 'twas, and clearing);
They wasn't troubled much with lords when they was pioneering.
But, now that we have made this Zand a garden full of promise,
Old Greed must crook his dirty hand and come to take her from us.

So we must fly a rebel flag, as others did before us,
And we must sing a rebel song and join in rebel chorus.
We'll make the tyrants feel the sting of those that they would throttle;
They needn't say the fault was ours, if blood should stain the wattle.

----repeat first verse.