Zebulon Tilton was a famous skipper of the coasting schooner Alice S. Wentworth, hauling everything from brick to oysters around New York and New England. Larry Kaplan compiled these stories about Zeb into this song. I was mate in the Wentworth the last year she sailed. (GB)
I'm not tired of the wind, I'm not weary of the sea,
But they've probably had a bellyful of a damned old coot like me,
So I'm going ashore, and she's bound for better days,
But I'll see her topsail flying when I come down off the ways.
Rosie, get my Sunday shoes, Gertie get my walking cane;
We'll take another walk to see old Alice sail again.
If I had a nickel for every man I used to know
Who could load three cord of wood aboard in half an hour or so,
Who could get on sail by hauling, instead of donkeying around,
I'd be the poorest coasterman this side of Edgartown.
Any fool can work an engine; takes brains to work a sail,
And I never see no steamer get much good out of a gale.
You can go and pay your taxes on the rationed gas you get,
But at least for me the wind is free, and they haven't run out yet.
If I ever get back to her, I'll treat her just the same;
I'll jibe her when I want to, and sail in the freezing rain.
I'll park old Alice on the beach and go dancing in the town,
'Cause a man that's born for hanging probably never will get drowned.
repeat first verse
A classic Gaelic love song. Ken and Priscilla Laws taped it at a ceilidhe in Stornoway in the early 1960's, and I sang it since then without knowing what it meant. Finally, Doug Hunt from Boston found a printed source and gave me a rough translation. At least the singer has the goodness of heart to wish his love well at the end, but some things sure lose their glory in English. Gordon: Vocal and cellamba; whistle. Paul Schaffner: Hanunered dulcimer. Nick Apollonio: Fiddle.
Dh'fhalbh mo nighean chruinn, donn
Uam do'n Iuraidh.
Dh'fhalbh mo nighean chruinn, donn,
'Cneas mar eal' air barr thonn,
Och is och! mo nighean donn
'Dh'fhag mi-shunnd orm.
'S truagh nach robh mi 's mo ghaol
An gleann cubhraidh;
'S truagh nach robh mi 's mo ghaol
Ri uisg' ann 's ri gaoith
'S fo shileadh nan craobh
Bhiomaid sunndach.
Ged tha thusa an drasd'
An Gleann Iuraidh,
Ged tha thus' ann a' tamh
Tha t'aigne fo phramh;
Agus mise gun sta
Le do ghradh ciurrta.
Bheir mo shoraidh le gradh
Uam do'n Iuraidh,
Bheir mo shoraidh le gradh
Dh'fhios na h-oigh' rinn mo chradh;
'S o'n nach math leath' mar tha
Thai fein tursach.
MY BROWN-HAIRED MAIDEN
My beautiful brown-haired maiden
has gone from me to Iuraidh.
Gone like a swan on the crest of the wave.
Oh my brown-haired maiden,
my joy has left me.
A pity my love and I were not in the warm glen,
A pity we were not in the rain and the wind,
Under the raindrops from the trees
We would be contented.
But now it is you in the Glen Iuraidh,
You at rest and your affection sleeping,
And I, useless with your tarnished love.
But I will give my blessing, with love
From me to Iuraidh,
My blessing with love. Knowing it is not good
With her has made my anguish and self pity.
Mauro Quai, from Udine, Italy, has been sending me a variety of folk music for years. This powerful ballad from the North, sung here in Piemontese, is also found in other European languages, with the same basic story. I heard it ,_from "La Ciapa Rusa" of Turin, one of my favorite groups singing traditional music today, and this version is basically theirs, with only the instrumentation changed. As I was learning this, I realized with delight that I already knew the other voices who could sing it with me, and all were within a couple hours drive of here: Glenn Jenks as the King, Ann Dodson as the over-protective mother-in-law, and Beth Borgerhof as the daughter, the young wife of the King. I'm the narrator. Beth plays accordion here; Ann a 'cello drone, and the double-accordion-sounding effect is my 'cellamba playing melody over the accordion. This song was recorded by Greg Marley, and Imero Gobbato provided us with the English translation.
Re Gilardin Lu'l va a la guera
Lu'l va a la guera a tirar di spada.
O quand'l 'e stai mita la strada
Re Gilardin 'l 'e restai ferito
Re Gilardin ritorna 'ndietro
Dalla sua mamma vo 'nda a morire
O tun tun tun, pica la porta
O mamma mia, che mi son morto
O pica pian caro 'l mio figlio
Che la to dona 'l g'a 'n picul fante
O madona, la mia madona
Casa vol dire ch'i sonan tanto?
O nuretta, la mia nuretta
j g'fan 'legria al tuo fante
O madona, la mia madona
Casa vol dire ch'j cantan tanto?
O nuretta, la mia nuretta
j g'fan 'legria ai soldati
O madona, la mia madona
Disem che moda o da vestirme
Vestati ti rosso, vestati ti nero,
Ma le brunette stanno piu bene
O Quand l'e stai 'nt l'us de la chiesa
D'un cirighello si l'a incontrato
Bundi bungiur, an vui vedovella!
o no no no, che non son vedovella: (bis)
'go 'l fante 'n cuna e 'l marito in guerra
0 si si si, che vui sei vedovella,
Vostro mari l'e trei di che 'l fa terra
O tera o tera aprati 'n quatro
Volio vedere il mio cuor reale!
La tua boca la sa di rose
'nvece la mi la sa di terra
King Gilardin has gone to war
Gone to war with his sword
Then, in the middle of it all,
King Gilardin is wounded
King Gilardin then goes back again
To his mother, to die
Knock, knock, knock, he hits the door
Oh my mother, I am dead
Don't knock so hard, my son,
Your wife is having a little baby
Oh mother-in-law, mother-in-law,
Why are they knocking so hard?
Oh daughter-in-law, daughter-in-law,
It is the festivities for your child
Oh mother-in-law, mother-in-law,
Why are they singing so much?
Oh daughter-in-law, daughter-in-law,
They are making a feast for the soldiers
Oh mother-in-law, mother-in-law,
Tell me how I should dress
Dress in red, dress in black
But the black would be more appropriate.
When the daughter-in-law is on the threshold
of the church, she meets a young priest who
says: "Good morning, young widow."
Oh no no no, I am not a widow
I have a baby, and a husband in the war.
Oh yes, you certainly are a widow,
Your husb,nd is in the ground three days, now.
Oh earth, earth, open up
That I may see my true love!
Your mouth tastes like roses
But mine tastes of clay.
Ann and I have played these tunes for many years; we learned them from a tape a friend sent from South America. Someone told me that they thought "Para Pelusa" might have been written by J. Milchburg. Alan J. Rom wrote me from Bolivia that he had looked all over for it there, and finally found it on a tape by the group Urubamba - in his own collection. (It now occurs to me that Alan was my source for both of these tunes, in 1972.) He found three sources for "Vasija de Barro": the groups Inti-Illimani [Chile] and Los Chalchaleros [Argentina] have recorded it, as well as Jaime Torres [Bolivia]. No wonder we liked it so much. Thanks, Alan.Ann Muir: Flute Gordon: Cl a ssical guitar Seal Child: Black bodhran
Can't remember where· this particular version is from; I've known it for many years. I've always pictured two old fellows in a dory, handlining and grousing about their lot, though the lovely old "Parlor English" they're using belongs to a different breed and place. (Billows, indeed.) Gordon: Vocal and 'cellamba Nancy Mattila: Concertina
The springtime of the year has come,
And so we must away,
Out on the stormy Banks to go
In quest of fish to stay.
Where sea do roll tremendous strong,
Like mountaintops so high,
And the wild seabirds around us
In their mad career go by.
Out there we spend our summer months,
'Midst heavy fog and wind,
And often do our thoughts go back
To the dear ones left behind.
At midnight when the sky is dark
And heavy clouds do frown,
It's there we stand great danger
Of our small craft being run down.
And when those summer months are o'er,
We return with spirits bright,
To see our loved-ones and our wives
Who helped us in the fight.
From where the wild sea-billows roam,
There by cold breezes fanned,
Out on the stormy billows
By the Banks of Newfoundland.
I found the melody and words of this song
in a little book called The Chime Child at the
Patons' house. The book was written by Ruth
L. Tongue, and is a collection of songs from
Somerset singers.
Apparently there was a custom in England that
sailors or fisherman were not allowed to be
buried in the churchyard like other folks, because the townsfolk were afraid that the sea
would "come looking after them," thereby taking
a considerable part of the rest of the town
when it found them. So for a long time, seafaring men were buried below the hightide line.
Later they relented of this practice and decided that if they only buried their boots below
the hightide line the sea could find them quite
easily, and be satisfied with that.
I first arranged this for chorus and handbell
choir, and the Quasi Modal Chorus and the Belfast Handbell Choir performed it at the Rockport
Folk Festival. We couldn't get a good recording
of it, so I rewrote it for chorus and two dulcimers (with Paul Schaffner's help) and this
recording was made in the First Church of Belfast with the Quasi Modal Chorus, the Midcoast
Consort, and Paul Schaffner on dulcimers, Joanmarie Osier conducting.
The waters they washed them ashore, ashore,
And they never will sail the seas no more.
We laid them along by the churchyard wall
And all in a row we buried them all,
But their boots we buried below the tide
On Severn-side.
The gulls they fly over so high, so high,
To see where their bodies all safe do lie;
They fly all around, and loud they do call
All over the place where we buried them all,
But their boots we buried below the tide
On Severn-side.
Paul's reprise of "The Banks of Newfoundland"
in the introduction of this piece is a holdover
from the days when Glenn Jenks and I would sing
"The Banks" and this song together. I still
connect the two songs in my mind.
Bernie Houlihan of New Brunswick, Canada, taught this to me; he sings it with our favorite Canadian folk group, "Hal an' Tow." It speaks well and gently to the kind of world we must keep envisioning if we are ever to bring it to be. (My apologies, Allister, for getting the last verse wrong; I copy it here from your songbook that King James sent to me.)
Out on the Mira on warm afternoons
Old men go fishing with black line and
spoons,
And if they catch nothing they never
complain,
And I wish I was with them again.
As boys in their boats call to girls on
the shore,
Teasing the ones that they dearly adore,
And into the evening the courting begins,
And I wish I was with them again.
Can you imagine a piece of the universe
More fit for princes and kings?
I'll trade you ten of your cities for
Marion Bridge
And the pleasure it brings.
Out on the Mira on soft summer nights
Bonfires blaze to the children's delight.
They dance 'round the flames singing songs
with their friends,
And I wish I was with them again.
And over the ashes the stories are told
Of witches and werewolves and Oak Island
gold.
Stars on the riverface sparkle and spin.
I wish I was with them again.
Can you imagine ...
Out on the Mira the people are kind -
They treat you to homebrew, and help
you unwind.
And if you come broken they'll see that
you mend.
I wish I was with them again.
Can you imagine ...
Now I'll conclude with a wish you go well.
sweet be your dreams, and your happiness
swell.
I'll leave you here for my journey begins;
I'm going to be with them again.
Can you imagine ...
Nick is a delightful singer, instrumentalist and composer; he's just learning to share that outside of his circle of friends. He built the 12-string guitars I have always played, and I treasure every hour I have spent with him.I learned "Love Lie Beside Me" from the good folks of Bellingham, Washington, and Turloch O'Carolan's "Morgan Megan" from friends in Nelson, New Hampshire. Nikos Apollonio: Nylon 6-string guitar (of his own building) Gordon: 'Cellamba (experimental viol-da-gamba on a 'cello body, converted by N. Apollonio)
All I remember of this is Jim Couza singing it to me in a parking lot ins. E. Massachusetts many years ago. I remember that he somehow imparted the heft of the harmony to me at the same time. I've sung it off and on with Ann Muir, so the 'cellamba part here is taken from her flute harmony. Jim said that Alasdair wrote it about the Thames River barges.
When you come afloat before the morning gulls
And you're towing through the summer weather,
And you keep no clock but the ebb and flow,
She's a gentle, easy flowing river.
Oh, I've punched my way through the deep
Spring gales,
When you stand on board your barge and shiver,
And go creeping slow 'gainst the weight of
water
With the ebbtide pushing down the river.
And it's cold on board in the Winter's dark
And you think that the night will last
forever,
And you crouch and wait below in your cabin
'Til the dawn tide takes you down the river.
And I've stood on deck in the lightning
storms,
When the big waves bump the boats together,
And the thunder shakes the sea below you (*)
And you're working on the open river.
Well, she ebbs and flows with her rain and
oil:
When London's gone, she'll flow on forever.
To the sea and brine, to the black salt water,
She's a gentle, easy flowing river.
(Repeat last verse)
(*) I've seen this. -GB)
The Orkney Islands, off the Northern end of Scotland, are a lovely, grim, windswept desolation of a place. There's nothing to stop the wind there, the gales are almost incessant; most of the boats are small and it would be suicide to take them· out to fish on many, many days of the year. This day, they're sitting around home and a tinker ("tinkler") comes to the door looking for free rags, so they're having some sport at his expense. Gordon: Vocal and laud Jan Harmon: Vocal Paul Schaffner: Hammered dulcimer
Here's a tinkler seekin' rags,
Seekin' rags, seekin' rags,
He begs wi' plea that never flags,
Though Collie growls a warning.
What's the use of comin' here?
We're siller-less, wi' little gear.
All the time the billows roar
Men wha fish must bide ashore.
So come ye back some ither day,
Ither day, some ither day.
Wur wearin' a' the rags we hae
And weary o' the darnin'.
Here's a man wha winnae ploo,
Winnae ploo, winnae ploo.
Ne'er a thowt tae keep a coo;
He cinno thole the farmin'. (1)
Cauld the wind wi' whistle seeks
The muckle holes in Willie's breeks. (2)
All the time the billows roar
Men wha fish must bide ashore.
So come ye back...
In and oot the needle flies,
Needle flies, the needle flies;
We've patches here o' sic a size,
'TWill keep her goin' 'til morning.
Gang we all wi' tattered sarks (3)
While faither's creels lie oot o' wark.
All the time the billows roar
Men wha fish must bide ashore.
So come ye back...
(Repeat first verse)
(1) cannot abide (2) large/britches (3) shirts
From yet another tape sent to me by a friend, with a lot of unidentified tunes on it. (I've loved this kind of music since friends used to bring it back from South America in the early 60's. These friends of mine who get together once a week just to play heard this and said: "Let's try that; that's beautiful!" So we did, with what we had. There were more musicians on the tape than we had, but our indomitable Will Brown decided that the tambourine (which was playing a different rhythm from the others) could, indeed, be played, so we strapped (with masking tape) a borrowed tambourine to his right foot and he played guitar with both hands and the odd rhythm with his foot - and having seen that, we were committed. I'm not sure what the original instruments were (turns out the tape was from the ubiquitous group: Inti-Illimani; "Viva Chile"), but this is how we reconstructed it. Gordon: Laud (A small, gourd-shaped 12-string: Canary Is./Apollonio) Christine Statler: Flute Carol Rohl: Black bodhran Will Brown: Rhythm guitar and (simultaneous) foot-tambourine Thanks to Molly Schauffler for help, and to Debbie Suran for locating the source of the tune.
The melody of this song is ancient; it probably was wandering the hills north of Rome before the Romans knew how to sing. It came to Northern Spain with the bagpipes of the Gallicians and went to sea with the Portuguese in the last century. Once at sea, it moved a little faster; this is mostly an Australian version that I heard Dave de Hugard sing many years ago, with a kink or two of my own. Only part of fishing is fierce and bloody; most of it is just hanging about waiting for things, and this is delightfully typical of the kind of foolishness your head comes up with in those times. (For the standard, or "movie" version, listen to Ed Trickett's album "The Telling Takes Me Home" - FSI-46.) Someone remarked that this is the only song I sing with the words "yeo ho" in it.
Oh, the crew is asleep and the ocean's at
rest,
And I'm singing this song to the one I love
best.
Yeo ho, little fishy, don't cry, don't cry.
Yeo ho, little fishy, don't cry, don't cry.
Little fish, when he's hooked, he fights like
a whale,
And he thrashes the water with his long,
narrow tail.
Now the anchor is weighed and the weather
is fine,
And the captain's on deck hanging out other
lines.
(Yeo ho, little fish, we'll be back
bye and bye)
I'm singing this song for the one I love
best,
And her picture is tattooed all over my
chest.
(Yeo ho, little fishy, I'll be back
bye and bye)
I first heard this sung at a kitchen table, probably around 1960, in New Jersey, by a group of Khalmyk (Mongolian) friends. Save for the few times we sang it in those years, I have not heard it since. I taught it (as well as I remembered) to Ed Trickett and Ann Muir, and we sang it, off and on, for many years. Once, after we sang it in Minneapolis, Frank Kane presented me with a written version of it, which helped me "ungarble" our version. Even the Khalmyks, most of whom spoke Russian better than English at that time, couldn't give me a full translation - "Too many very old words there, " they said. ( Same with every other Russian-speaker I've sung it to.) It is attributed to Dmitri Bortnianski, who was the Court Musician to Catherine the Great, but I call it "traditional" because the Khalmyks (who are Tibet an-type Buddhists) loved it enoughto add it to their already-rich musical tradition. I thank them for the peace and joy it has given me. I arranged it here for Quasi Modal Chorus, Bok and 'cellamba.
(My phonetics:)
KOL SLAVYEN NASH,
GAS POD F'SIDNYE
NYI MOZJET TI ZYAS NIT YIZIK
VI LIN KON VNYI
BI SACH NA TRONYE
V'BILYNKAKH NA
ZIM LI VILIK
Cho: VEZ DIEH, GAS POD
VEZ DIEH TUI SLAVYEN
V'NOZH DJI VADNYI
SIONYE RA-AVEN
Partial translation: from various friends;
a compendium: )
All over is God
All over everything
Night and day, all the same,
The friend.