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)-
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.
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.
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.)
The October winds lament around
the castle of Dromore;
Yet peace is in her lofty halls,
my loving treasure-store.
Though autumn leaves may droop and
die, a bud of spring are you.
Sing hushabye loo, low loo, low
lan,
Hushabye loo, low loo.
Dread spirits all of Black Water,
Clan Owen's wild banshee,
Bring no ill will to him nor us,
my helpless babe and me,
And Holy Mary, pitying us,
to Heaven for grace doth sue.
Take time to thrive, my ray of hope,
in the garden of Dromore;
Take heed, young eaglet, 'til thy
wings are feathered fit to soar.
A little rest, and then the world
is full of work to do.
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.)
Ten miles flown Reedy River
a pool of water lies,
And all the year it mirrors
the changes in the skies.
Within that pool's broad bosom
is room for all the stars;
Its bed of sand has drifted o'er
countless rocky bars.
Around the lower edges
there waves a bed of reeds,
Where water-rats are hidden
and where the wild duck breeds,
And grassy slopes rise gently
to ridges long and low,
Where groves of wattle flourish
and native bluebells grow.
Beneath the granite ridges
the eye may just discern
Where Rocky Creek emerges
from deep green banks of fern,
And, standing tall between them,
the drooping she-oaks cool
The hard, blue-tinted waters
before they reach the pool.
Ten miles down Reedy River
one Sunday afternoon,
I rode with Mary Campbell
to that broad, bright lagoon;
We left our horses grazing
'til shadows climbed the peak,
And strolled beneath the she-oaks
on the banks of Rocky Creek.
Then home along the river
that night we rode a race,
And the moonlight lent a glory
to Mary Campbell's face.
I pleaded for my future
all through that moonlight ride,
Until our weary horses
drew closer side by side.
Ten miles from Ryan's Crossing
and five below the peak,
I built a little homestead
on the banks of Rocky Creek.
I cleared the land and fenced it
and plowed the rich red loam;
My first crop was golden
when I brought Mary home.
Now still down Reedy River
the grassy she-oaks sigh;
The water holes still mirror
the pictures in the sky.
The golden sand is drifting
across the rocky bars,
And over all forever
go sun and moon and stars.
But of the hut I built
there are no traces now,
And many rains have leveled
the furrows of my plow.
The glad bright days have vanished,
for somber branches wave,
Their wattle-blossom golden,
above my Mary's grave.
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)
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.)
Been three long years since we made
her pay,
Haul away, my laddie-o,
And we can't get by on the subsidy,
Haul away, my laddie-o.
Then heave away for the final trawl;
It's an easy pull, for the catch
is small.
So stow your gear, lads, and batten
down,
And I'll take the wheel, lads, and
turn her 'round.
And we'll join the Venture and the
Morning Star,
Riding high and empty towards the bar.
For I'd rather beach her on the
skerry rock
Than to see her torched in the
breaker's dock.
And when I die, you can stow me down
In her rusty hold, where the breakers
sound.
Then I'd make my haven the Fiddler's
Green,
Where the grub is good and the bunks
are clean.
For I've fished a lifetime, boy and
man,
And the final trawl scarcely nets
a cran*.
*Cran = a measure of herring taken from
the net, averaging 750.
"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. )
Since we parted yestereve,
I do love thee, love, believe
Twelve timee dearer, twelve times
longer,
One dream deeper, one night stronger,
One sun surer - thus much more
Than I loved thee, love, before.(*)
*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.
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
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
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.)
Well, how do you do, Private William
McBride?
Do you mind if I sit here down by
your graveside?
Been walking all day (I'll rest here
awhile) in the hot (warm) summer
sun,
(Been) walking all day, and I'm
nearly done.
I can see by your gravestone you were
only nineteen
When you joined the glorious fallen
in nineteen sixteen.
Well, I hope you died quick, and I
hope you died clean,
Or, William McBride, was it slow
and obscene?
Did they beat the drum slowly,
Did they sound the fife lowly,
Did the rifles fire o'er you as
they lowered you down?
Did the bugles sing (play) "The
Last Post" in chorus?
Did the pipes play "The Flowers
of the Forest?"
Did you leave a wife or a sweetheart
behind?
In some faithful heart is your memory
enshrined?
And, though you died back in nineteen
sixteen,
In some faithful heart are you ever
nineteen?
Or are you a stranger without even
a name,
Enshrined forever behind a glass pane
In an old photograph, torn and
tattered and stained,
Fading to yellow in a bound leather
frame?
The sun's shining down on these
green fields of France;
Warm winds blow gently and the
poppies dance.
Trenches have vanished under the
clouds (plow);
There's no gas and no barbed wire,
no guns firing loud (now).
But here in the graveyard that is
still No Man's Land,
Countless white crosses in mute
witness stand
To man's pained indifference to
his fellow man,
And a whole generation that's
butchered and damned.
(Oh) I can't help but wondering, poor
William McBride,
Did all those who died here know just
why they died?
Did you really believe them, when
they told you "the Cause,"
Did you really believe that that
war would end wars?
Oh, the suffering and the sorrow and
the glory and the shame,
(The) killing and the dying was all
done in vain,
For, William McBride, it all happened
again
And again, and again, and again, and
again.