The Golden Vanity

©Trad, Arranged by Bok

        This has been in my family a long time. Two or three of my mother's people sang it to me and, as usual, each had a different version. I've sung it all my singing life, and I hope it never leaves me. This is probably the fourth tune I've sung to it; it's a derivation of a tune Bob Stuart thought he learned from a book ... He didn't know he couldn't read music at the time. The words are a mixture of various family versions. The only version I can place is the "Some were playing poker ... " verse - from my aunt Ethewyn, but even that has probably changed. (If I replace "her" with "him," ,it's because we often speak of a vessel of another country as "he" - "the Spaniard," "the Frenchman," etc., as though we were talking of the man that sails her. Don't know why. (G.B.)i>

There was a lofty ship and they put her out to sea,
And the name of the ship was the Golden Vanity,
And they sailed her on the low lands, low lands low,
They sailed her on the lowland sea.

And she had not been sailing but two weeks or three
When she was overtaken by a Turkish Revelry
As she sailed along the lowland, lowland low,
As she sailed along the lowland sea.

Then boldly up spoke our little cabin boy,
Saying, "What would you give me if the galley I destroy?
If I sink her in the lowland, lowland low,
If I sink her in the lowland sea?"

"To the man that them destroys," our Captain then replied,
"Five thousand pounds and my daughter for his bride,
If he'll sink them in the lowland, lowland low,
If he'll sink them in the lowland sea."

Well, the boy he made ready, and overboard went he,
And he swam to the side of the Turkish enemy
As she lay along the lowlands, lowlands low,
As she lay along the lowland sea.

And he had a brace and auger made for the use,
And he bored nine holes in her hull all at once
As she lay along the lowland, lowland low,
As she lay along the lowland sea.

And some were playing poker and some were playing dice;
Some were in their hammocks, and the sea as cold as ice,
And the water rushed in and it dazzled to their eyes,
They were sinking in the lowland sea.

Well, he swam back to his ship and he beat upon the side,
Crying, "Shipmates, take me up, for I'm wearied with the tide,
And I'm weary of the lowlands, lowlands low,
I'm weary of the lowland sea."

"Well, I'll not pick you up," the Captain then replied,
"I'll shoot you, I'll drown you, I'll sink you in the tide;
I will sink you in the lowland, lowland low,
I will sink you in the lowland sea."

"If it was not for the love that I bear for your men,
I'd do unto you as I did unto them;
I would sink you in the lowland, lowland low,
I would sink you in the lowland sea."

The boy bowed his head; down sank he,
He said farewell to the Golden Vanity
As she lay along the lowland, lowland low,
As she lay along the lowland sea.

(repeat first verse)-

Wee Dark Engine Room

Wee Dark Engine Room

©Robertson

        Many songs are sung about whaling and whalers. Almost all describe a voyage, or the catch of a whale, or some of the men and their needs. This song, written by Harry Robertson, describes the bonechilling existence of the men who stayed with the ships when they were laid up for the winter, doing routine maintenance and engine overhaul in the clammy, unheated holds and engine rooms. I learned this song from Gary Gardner and Helen Kivnick. (E.T.)

In that wee dark engine room,
Where the chill seeps through your soul,
How we huddled 'round that wee pot stove
That burned oily rags and coal.

How the winter blizzards blow,
and the whaling fleet's at rest,
Tucked in Leith harbor's sheltered
bay, safely anchored ten abreast.
The whalers at their stations,
as from shed to shed they go,
Carry little bags of coal with them,
and a little iron stove.

The fireman Paddy worked with me
on the engine, stiff and cold.
A stranger to the truth was he;
there's not a lie he hasn't told.
And he boasted of his gold mine,
and of all the hearts he'd won,
And his bonny sense of humor shone
just like a ray of sun.

Then one day we saw the sun and the factory ships' return.
Meet your old friends, sing a song,
hope the season won't be long.
Then homeward bound when it's over,
we'll leave this icy hold,
But I always will remember that
little iron stove.

I Knew This Place

I Knew This Place

©Dave Mallett

        Written by David Mallett, of Dover Foxcroft, Maine (who also wrote "The Garden Song"), about visiting a farm quite like the one where he was raised (though the original one burned). This appears through the courtesy of Dave and Neworld Records (Blue Hill Falls, Maine), whose new release contains this and many more of Dave's songs. (G.B.J I first heard Dave Mallett's song · during a period in my life when my own childhood home, back in Michigan, was being sold. I was having a series of nightly dream battles where I fought constantly to save the home which will always be mine. This song stirred my memories, focused my feelings, and helped me deal with that curious internal trauma - a trauma which I've since discovered many listeners share with me . ( A.M )

I knew this place, I knew it well,
Every sound and every smell,
And every time I walked I fell
For the first two years or so.
There across the grassy yard,
I, a young one, running hard,
Brown and bruised and battle-scarred
And lost in·sweet illusion.

And from my window I can see
The branches of an ancient tree;
Reaching out, it calls to me
To climb its surly branches.
But all my climbing days are gone,
And these tired legs I'm standing on
Would scarcely dare to leave the spot
Upon which they are standing.

And I remember every word
Of every voice I ever heard,
Every frog and every bird -
Yes, this is where it starts.
My brother's laugh, the sighing wind:
This is where my life begins,
This is where I learned to use
My hands and hear my heart.

This house is old, it carries on
Like verses to an old-time song,
Always changed, but never gone,
This house can stand the seasons
Our lives pass on from door to door,
Dust across the wooden floor;
Like feather rain and thunder roar,
We need not know the reason.

And, as these thoughts come back to me
Like ships across the friendly sea,
Like breezes blowing endlessly,
Like rivers running deep -
The day is done, the lights are low,
The wheels of life are turning slow,
And, as these visions turn and go,
I lay me down to sleep.

I knew this place, I knew it well,
Every sound and every smell,
And every time I walked I fell
For the first two years or so.
The day is done, the lights are low,
The wheels of life are turning slow,
And, as these visions turn and go,
I lay me down to sleep.

The Castle of Dromore/title> <meta name="ivorthedriverlyrics" content="lyrics from Together Again for the First Time"> </head> <body> <h1>The Castle of Dromore</h1> <h6>©Trad, Arranged by Bok</h6> <p>        <i>A melody I've heard in varied clothing since I can remember listening; an ancient Irish air that sounds good on almost any instrument. I learned these words (mostly) from Tommy Makem, who could only tell me that the tune is much older than the words. (G.B.)</i> </p> <p> The October winds lament around<br> the castle of Dromore;<br> Yet peace is in her lofty halls,<br> my loving treasure-store.<br> Though autumn leaves may droop and<br> die, a bud of spring are you.<br><br> Sing hushabye loo, low loo, low lan,<br> Hushabye loo, low loo.<br><br> Dread spirits all of Black Water,<br> Clan Owen's wild banshee,<br> Bring no ill will to him nor us,<br> my helpless babe and me,<br> And Holy Mary, pitying us,<br> to Heaven for grace doth sue.<br><br> Take time to thrive, my ray of hope,<br> in the garden of Dromore;<br> Take heed, young eaglet, 'til thy<br> wings are feathered fit to soar.<br> A little rest, and then the world<br> is full of work to do.<br><br> </p> <!DOCTYPE html> <html> <head> <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=UTF-8"> <meta charset="utf-8"> <title>The Castle of Dromore/title> <meta name="ivorthedriverlyrics" content="lyrics from Together Again for the First Time"> </head> <body> <h1>Reedy River</h1> <h6>©Words by Henry Lawson, Tune by Chris Kemoter</h6> <p>        <i>Henry Lawson has given us many vividword pictures of Australia around the turn of the century. "Reedy River" is one such picture, more evocative than descriptive about the story. The tune for the poem was written .by Chris Kemoter for a show called "Reedy River" over twenty years ago. I learned most of the song from Joanie Bronfman and Neal MacMillan, and Priscilla Herdman supplied the rest. (E.T.) </i> </p> <p> Ten miles flown Reedy River<br> a pool of water lies,<br> And all the year it mirrors<br> the changes in the skies.<br> Within that pool's broad bosom<br> is room for all the stars;<br> Its bed of sand has drifted o'er<br> countless rocky bars.<br><br> Around the lower edges<br> there waves a bed of reeds,<br> Where water-rats are hidden<br> and where the wild duck breeds,<br> And grassy slopes rise gently<br> to ridges long and low,<br> Where groves of wattle flourish<br> and native bluebells grow.<br><br> Beneath the granite ridges<br> the eye may just discern<br> Where Rocky Creek emerges<br> from deep green banks of fern,<br> And, standing tall between them,<br> the drooping she-oaks cool<br> The hard, blue-tinted waters<br> before they reach the pool.<br><br> Ten miles down Reedy River<br> one Sunday afternoon,<br> I rode with Mary Campbell<br> to that broad, bright lagoon;<br> We left our horses grazing<br> 'til shadows climbed the peak,<br> And strolled beneath the she-oaks<br> on the banks of Rocky Creek.<br><br> Then home along the river<br> that night we rode a race,<br> And the moonlight lent a glory<br> to Mary Campbell's face.<br> I pleaded for my future<br> all through that moonlight ride,<br> Until our weary horses<br> drew closer side by side.<br><br> Ten miles from Ryan's Crossing<br> and five below the peak,<br> I built a little homestead<br> on the banks of Rocky Creek.<br> I cleared the land and fenced it<br> and plowed the rich red loam;<br> My first crop was golden<br> when I brought Mary home.<br><br> Now still down Reedy River<br> the grassy she-oaks sigh;<br> The water holes still mirror<br> the pictures in the sky.<br> The golden sand is drifting<br> across the rocky bars,<br> And over all forever<br> go sun and moon and stars.<br><br> But of the hut I built<br> there are no traces now,<br> And many rains have leveled<br> the furrows of my plow.<br> The glad bright days have vanished,<br> for somber branches wave,<br> Their wattle-blossom golden,<br> above my Mary's grave.<br><br> </p> <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.0 Transitional//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/REC-html40/loose.dtd"> <html xmlns:o="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" xmlns:w="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:word" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/TR/REC-html40"> <head><meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=UTF-8"> <title>Turning Toward The Morning © Gordon Bok 1975

The Ways of Man

© 1977 Gordon Bok, BMI

 

I wrote this song while doing the music for a public television documentary on the maritime history of Maine called "Home to the Sea." It became the theme song, with Ann Mayo Muir singing the full version of the song at the end of the film.  If it sounds bitter, remember that the day is late and not the fate of the small fisherman on the Northeast coast looks even darker than it did before.  There's no subsidy here for the "little fellow" – only more paperwork.

 

The ways of man are 'passing strange

He buys his freedom and he counts his change

Then he lets the wind his days arrange

And he calls the tide his master.

 

Oh, the days, oh the days,

Oh, the fine long summer days.

The fish come rolling in the bays

And he swore he'd never leave me.

 

But the days grow short and the year gets old

And the fish won't stay where the water's cold,

And if they're going to fill the hold

They've got to go offshore to find them.

 

So they go outside on the raving deep

And they pray the Lord their soul to keep

But the waves will roll them all to sleep

And the tide will be their keeper.

 

Oh, the tide, oh, the tide,

Oh, you dark and you bitter tide.

If I can't have him by my side,

I guess I have to leave him.

 

I gave you one, I gave you two:

The best that rotten old boat could do.

You won't be happy till I give you three,

But I'll be damned if you'll get me.

 

Oh, the tide, oh, the tide,

Oh, you dark and you bitter tide.

If I can't have him by my side,

The water's welcome to him.

 

Ah, Lord, I know that the day will come

When one less boat comes slogging home.

I don't mind knowing that he'll be the one,

But I can't spend my whole life praying.

 

I gave you one, I have you two:

The best that poor old boat could do;

You'll have it all before you're through –

Well, I've got no more to give you.

 

(repeat first first)

 

 

The Final Trawl/title> <meta name="ivorthedriverlyrics" content="lyrics from Together Again for the First Time"> </head> <body> <h1>The Final Trawl</h1> <h6>©Archie Fisher</h6> <p>        <i>Archie Fisher said that he wrote this song after seeing a couple of perfectly good steel trawlers rusting away on the ledges ("skerries") outside a harbor in northern Scotland, and was told by the fishermen that they were drove there by their owners because, even with the government subsidy to help the fishermen,the fishing was so poor they still couldn't make a living, and the men didn't want to see them cut into scrap by the ship-breakers. In other lands, you'd suspect that insurance might have something to do with it - but who's to say? It's not hard to miss your harbor in the fog ..• (G. B.) </i> </p> <p> Been three long years since we made her pay,<br> Haul away, my laddie-o,<br> And we can't get by on the subsidy,<br> Haul away, my laddie-o.<br><br> Then heave away for the final trawl;<br> It's an easy pull, for the catch is small.<br><br> So stow your gear, lads, and batten down,<br> And I'll take the wheel, lads, and turn her 'round.<br><br> And we'll join the Venture and the Morning Star,<br> Riding high and empty towards the bar.<br><br> For I'd rather beach her on the skerry rock<br> Than to see her torched in the breaker's dock.<br><br> And when I die, you can stow me down<br> In her rusty hold, where the breakers sound.<br><br> Then I'd make my haven the Fiddler's Green,<br> Where the grub is good and the bunks are clean.<br><br> For I've fished a lifetime, boy and man,<br> And the final trawl scarcely nets a cran*.<br><br> *Cran = a measure of herring taken from the net, averaging 750.<br><br> </p> <!DOCTYPE html> <html> <head> <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=UTF-8"> <meta charset="utf-8"> <title>Since We Parted/title> <meta name="ivorthedriverlyrics" content="lyrics from Together Again for the First Time"> </head> <body> <h1>Since We Parted</h1> <h6>©Bullwer-Lyton</h6> <p>        <i> "Since We Parted" is an ever fresh, tender love song. It puts me in touch with an innocence and passion which remains bright in my memory in spite oflasting for so brief a time. I learned it around 1963 from Gordon Bok. (A.M.) Given to me many years ago by a girl from Dayton, Ohio, named Patti Kincade. Since I've never heard anything like it, I assume the words and the music were her own . ( G. B. ) </i> </p> <p> Since we parted yestereve,<br> I do love thee, love, believe<br> Twelve timee dearer, twelve times longer,<br> One dream deeper, one night stronger,<br> One sun surer - thus much more<br> Than I loved thee, love, before.(*)<br><br> *Since these notes were originally written, we have learned that the poem "Since We Parted" was written by Edward Robert Bulwer-Lytton, an English statesman and poet (1831- 1891), who wrote under the pseudonym: Owen Meredith. Thanks to Pamela Gunnell for putting us on the right track. <br><br> </p> <!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.0 Transitional//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/REC-html40/loose.dtd"> <html xmlns:o="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" xmlns:w="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:word" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/TR/REC-html40"> <head><meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=UTF-8"> <title>Dancing At Whitsun

Dancing at Whitsun

Music:  Traditional                 Words:Austin John Marshall

 

In many places where ritual spring dances were done,  women were a part of them, though when you think of the Morris you usually think of men dancing.  I'm told there came a time when England's men were fighting on so many fronts around the world that women had to step in help remember and fill out the teams, to keep the tradition alive.  (GB)

 

It's 50 long spingtimes since she was a bride

But still you may see her at each Whitsuntide

In a dress of white linen with ribbons of green

As green as her memories of loving

 

The feet that were nimble tread carefully now

As gentle a measure as age will allow

Through groves of white blossoms by fields of young corn

Where once she was pledged to her true love

 

The fields they stand empty, the hedges grow free

No young men to turn them or pastures go see

They are gone where the forests of oak trees before

Have gone to be wasted in battle

 

Down from the green farmlands and from their loved ones

Marched husbands and brothers and fathers and sons

There's a fine roll of honor where the maypole once stood

And the ladies go dancing at Whitsun

 

There's a straight row of houses in these latter days

All covering the downs where the sheep used to graze

There's a field of red poppies a wreath from the queen

But the ladies remember at Whitsun

And the ladies go dancing at Whitsun

 

 

Gentle Miaden/Planxty Irwin

Gentle Maiden/Planxty Irwin

©Trad, Arranged by Bok

        Gordon learned the first part of "Gentle Maiden" so long ago he can't remember when or from whom it came. The second part he learned a few years ago from the group "The Sow's Ear" (Helen Stokoe, Ed and Jo-Ellen Bosson). Nick Apollonio taught "Planxty Irwin" to Gordon. It is one of the tunes attributed to the most famous of the Irish harpers, Turlough O'Carolan (1670-1738), and bears the name of Colonel John Irwin of Sligo. Though found in collections written as a jig, the tune is now often played at a slower tempo as a waltz. The origin and meaning of the word "planxty" is perplexing. As used with the Carolan tunes, it means "a tune written in someone's honor." It may be a corruption of the old Irish word "slainte," meaning "good health." The tunes became a medley mainly because Annie Muir had some trouble remembering which was which! Perhaps this happy confusion just goes to show the natural affinity these lovely Irish melodies have for one another

No Man's Land/title> <meta name="ivorthedriverlyrics" content="lyrics from Together Again for the First Time"> </head> <body> <h1>No Man's Land</h1> <h6>©Eric Bogle</h6> <p>        <i>Archie Fisher brought this powerful song to the U.S. about a year ago. Helen Kivnick taught it to me after learning it from the author, Eric Bogle. (E.T.) </i> </p> <p> Well, how do you do, Private William McBride?<br> Do you mind if I sit here down by your graveside?<br> Been walking all day (I'll rest here awhile) in the hot (warm) summer sun,<br> (Been) walking all day, and I'm nearly done.<br> I can see by your gravestone you were only nineteen<br> When you joined the glorious fallen in nineteen sixteen.<br> Well, I hope you died quick, and I hope you died clean,<br> Or, William McBride, was it slow and obscene?<br><br> Did they beat the drum slowly,<br> Did they sound the fife lowly,<br> Did the rifles fire o'er you as they lowered you down?<br> Did the bugles sing (play) "The Last Post" in chorus?<br> Did the pipes play "The Flowers of the Forest?"<br><br> Did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind?<br> In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined?<br> And, though you died back in nineteen sixteen,<br> In some faithful heart are you ever nineteen?<br> Or are you a stranger without even a name,<br> Enshrined forever behind a glass pane<br> In an old photograph, torn and tattered and stained,<br> Fading to yellow in a bound leather frame? <br><br> The sun's shining down on these green fields of France;<br> Warm winds blow gently and the poppies dance.<br> Trenches have vanished under the clouds (plow);<br> There's no gas and no barbed wire, no guns firing loud (now).<br> But here in the graveyard that is still No Man's Land,<br> Countless white crosses in mute witness stand<br> To man's pained indifference to his fellow man,<br> And a whole generation that's butchered and damned.<br><br> (Oh) I can't help but wondering, poor William McBride,<br> Did all those who died here know just why they died?<br> Did you really believe them, when they told you "the Cause,"<br> Did you really believe that that war would end wars?<br> Oh, the suffering and the sorrow and the glory and the shame,<br> (The) killing and the dying was all done in vain,<br> For, William McBride, it all happened again<br> And again, and again, and again, and again. <br><br> </p>