© 1970 Gordon Bok, BMI
I made this after a trip as mate in the old Brixham Trawler Provident in 1964 (I believe). The Plymouth here is in England, Pedro Martir is a mountain on the coast of Spain where we made land, Cascais is a town down the river from Lisbon, and Isle au Haut is a mythical island off the coast of Maine.
Gordon – 12 string guitar
Anne, Carol, Cindy, Matt & Will vocals
Doreen – bass viol
It's away and to the westward
Is the place a man should go
Where the fishing's always easy
They've got no ice or snow
But I'll haul down the sail
Where the bays come together
Bide away the days
By the hills of Isle au Haut
Now, the Plymouth girls are fine
They put their hearts in your hand
And the Plymouth boys are able
First-class sailors, every man
Now the trouble with old Martir
You don't try her in a trawler
For those Bay of Biscay swells
Will roll the head from off your shoulder
And the girls of Cascais
They are strong across the shoulder
They don't give a man advice
And they don't want to cook his supper
Now the winters drive you crazy
And the fishing's hard and slow
You're a damn fool if you stay
But there's no better place to go
This was originally a poem by John Mansfield, England's poet-laureate. I was first introdueed to his poetry by a rook on the Alice Wentworth whose only saving grace was his taste in sea-poetry.
When I was a little lad
With folly on my lips,
Fain was I for journeying
All the seas and ships.
But I'm weary of the sea-wind,
I'm weary of the foam,
And the Little Stars of Duna
Call me home.
When I was a young man
Before my beard was grey,
All to seas and islands
I gave my heart away.
But now across the southern swell
Every dawn I hear
The little streams of Duna
Running Clear.
I learned this from Bete Franklin, years ago on the Schooner Owl. He said he learned it from a record.
It's just a pretty female
The first song I learned by Atahualpa Yupanqui, I learned from a Bulgarian guitarist, Sergei Cherassow. Later, friends brought back tapes of him from South America. A phenomenal guitarist (and singer) from Argentina with a unique imagination and sense of humor.
This song was written by Ewan Maccoll about the efforts on the part of the British government to legislate the journeymen, tinkers and gypsies out of existence.
I'm a freeborn man of the travelling people,
Got no fixed abode, with nomads I am numbered.
Country lanes and byways were always my ways;
I never fancied being numbered.
Oh, we knew the woods and the resting places,
And the small birds sang when winter time was over. Then we'd pack our load and he on the road;
Those were good old times for the rover.
In the open ground you could stop and linger
For a week or two, for time was not your master;
Then away you'd jog with your horse and dog,
Nice and easy, no need to go faster.
Sometimes you'd meet all the other people
For the news or swapping family information;
At the country fair, we'd be meeting there,
All the people of the travelling nation.
All you freeborn men of the travelling people,
Every tinker, rolling stone, and gypsy rover,
Winds of change are blowing, old ways are going,
Your travelling days will soon be over.
This is probably the most well-known Newfoundland song. I played it for my old friend Leakyboot when I was a teenager, and he said, “You know how to kill a Newfoundlander? Nail his boots to the floor and play “I’se the B’y.” He’ll break every bone in his body.”
I'se The B'y that builds the boat and
I'se The B'y that sails her and
I'se The B'y that catches the fish and
Brings 'em home to Liza
[Chorus:]
Hip-yer-partner Sally Thibault
Hip-yer-partner Sally Brown
Fogo, Twillingate, Morton's Harbour,
All around the circle
Salts and rinds to cover your flake,
Cake and tea for supper
Cod fish in the spring of the year,
Fried in maggoty butter
[Chorus]
I don't want your maggoty fish
They're no good for winter
Well I can buy as good as that,
Way down in Bonavista!
[Chorus]
I took Liza to a dance,
As fast as she can travel,
And every step that she could take,
Was up to her knees in gravel
[Chorus]
Susan White she's outta sight,
Her petticoat wants a border,
Well old Sam Oliver in the dark,
He kissed her in the corner!
[Chorus]
I'se The B'y that builds the boat and
I'se The B'y that sails her and
I'se The B'y that catches the fish and
Brings 'em home to Liza
[Chorus]
The important thing about Saben, the Woodfitter is that he's such a good example of the fact that the more you put into a thing, the more you get out of it.
East wind's rain and north wind's clearing,
Cold old southwest wind's a fair wind home.
One bell, two bells, don't go grieving,
All our bad times past and blown alee .
Stars thy compass, cloud thy canvas,
Rock thy keelson, wind thy course to steer.
One bell, two bells, don't go grieving,
All our bad times past and blown alee.
When Lou Killen would play the whistle, he'd usually warm up with these two tunes: Boys of North Tyne, and Reedsdale Hornpipe.
A corruption from a sailor's "growl"- short work, perhaps stamp-and-go. -GB Stan Hugill, who first printed this in his excellent book, Shanties From the Seven Seas, describes this as a halyard shanty. He learned it from a West Indian sailor named Harding who "sang it with many wild yelps and 'hitches'."-Editor
Where am I to go, me Johnnies,
Where am I to go?
Gimme way, hey, hey,
Hey, the roll and go.
Where am I to go, me Johnnies,
Where am I to go?
I'm a young and sailor lad
And where am I to go?
Way out on that tops'l yard,
That's where you're bound to go,
Gimme way, hey, hey,
Hey the roll and go;
Way out on that iops'l yard
And take that tops'l in,
And I'm a young and sailor lad
And where amt to go?
Way out on that royal yard
That's where you're bound to go,
Gimme way, hey, hey,
Hey the roll and go;
Way out on that royal yard
That royal for to stow,
I'm a young and sailor lad
And Where am I to go?
You're bound away around Cape Horn,
That's where you're bound to go
Gimme way, hey, hey, '
Hey the roll and go,
You're bound away around Cape Horn
All in the ice and snow,
And I'm a young and sailor lad,
Where am I to go?
I don't know where this is from- I heard it when I was a kid. I don't even remember learning it. -GB Hugill prints several versions of this song, which he says was originally a pumping song, later used at windlass and capstan. Several versions have the. theme of a lost lover who appears in a dream, and Hugill believes this to be based on a shore-ballad from either the north of England or Scotland, but as the ballad passed into shanty use and filtered through the Gulf cotton ports it changed, losing much of its earlier sentimental nature. In fact, Hugill's southern version has lost the dream element altogether. The song, as sung by Gordon, seems closer to the latter. Colcord, in Roll and Go, says that this is what happened to the "lost lover" song after it had been adopted by the negro shanty-singers of Mobile.-Editor
Lowlands,
Lowlands no more, my John,
My old mother said to me,
Don 't go to sea no more.
Lowlands,
Lowlands no more, my John,
A dollar a day is hoosier's pay,
My dollar and a half a day.
Five dollars a day is sailor's pay,
Mm-mm-mm.
Lowlands,
Lowlands no more, my John,
I had a dream the other night,
Mm-mm-mm.
I dreamed I was coming home from sea,
Oh, mm-mm.
Lowlands,
Lowlands no more, my John,
My old mother said to me,
Don't go to sea no more. Don't go to sea no more.
I learned this from Ray Wales of Australia. -GB Lionel Long and Graham Jenkin, in Favorite Australian Bush Songs, note that the earliest version of this drover's song can be dated back to the 1840's. They also observe that "it seems particularly suited to be sung in the camp when the destination is not far away, or on the return trip, after recovery from the inevitable spree." This version seems to be the most recent and is the best known today. -Editor
There's a trade you all know well,
It's bringing cattle over,
On every track, to the gulf and back,
Men know the Queensland drover.
Pass the billy 'round, me boys,
Don 't let the pint pot stand there
For tonight we'll drink the health'
Of every Overlander.
There are men from every land,
From Spain and France and Flanders;
We're a well-mixed pack, both white and black,
Men call the Overlanders.
I come from the northern plains
Where the girls and grass are scanty,
Where the creeks run dry or ten foot high
And it's either drought or plenty.
When we ' ve earned a spree in town,
We live like pigs in clover,
And a whole month's check goes down the neck
Of many a Queensland drover.
As I pass along the road,
The children raise my dander,
Crying, "Mother, dear, take in the clothes,
Here comes an Overlander."
(Thanks to Michael Cooney and Ed Trickett, who dropped by
during the recording session and helped on this chorus . )
This is a mother deer's lament for her child. She warns the child not to go down to the land of the Khasi (Northwest India) for fear it will be killed. Khasi is of the Mon-Khmer language stock. I learned it from Mrs. George Allen, who is herself a Khasi.
Ko lapalang phrang sngi jong nga
Kum bating shein u mankara
Ha ba na nga kin rem me khlad
Do hnud sngew sih nga im suh sadh.
Wo la shet ka tieh pong deng
Y ka minsem u kinremreng
Wo la kjit u nam sarang
Y ka minsem u lapalang.
Made a long time ago when Bannard was feeling gloomy in Philadelphia.
When the wind backs around
To the North in November
Wile geese go a-ganging out to seas
There's snow on the wind
And it's ever been the same
That North wind don't even know my name
That North wind don't even know my name
Long time ago
I had a pretty little girl
She had pretty ways and silver in her tongue
But that winter wind come prowling 'round
That pretty girl did go
She found a man whose house was snug and warm
A man whose house was warm in the wind and snow
When the wind backs around
To the North in November
Wild geese go a-ganging out to sea
There's snow on the wind
And it's ever been the same
That North wind don't even know my name
That North wind don't even know my name
Now the days come 'round
I've got another kind of woman
She's got no teasing eyes
And her tongue is still
And she likes the snowflakes falling
She doesn't mind the rain
She knows what's in her heart like she knows her name
She knows what's in her heart like she knows her name
I'll build her a house
Of the winds of November
Shingled with the sun along the shore
With the wind for her blanket
The rain will be her door
The pine for her pillow and her floor
The pine for her pillow and her floor