Daisy Roots

A song about a pair of boots ("daisy roots" as my grandfather John Cawdery would have called them in his Cockney rhyming slang). But this is not just about his boots but the boots - and roots - of many of my ancestors and the roads they trod.

Daisy Roots

When these old boots had soles, my boys,

They walked the country round

From Cornwall to Northumberland

And on the Scottish ground

Just like some wayward vagabond 

Or like some Irish rover

They tramped about in search of work

From Liverpool to Dover.*

And they don't make 'em like that any more.

When these old boots had soles, my boys,

They never thought to shirk

Rose early every morning, boys, 

And they tramped their way to work

They carted coal round London town

And navvied on the line**

They walked the ground behind the plough

And down the dark coal mine.

And they don't make 'em like that any more.

When these old boots had soles, my boys,

They marched to foreign lands

With brothers, fathers, uncles

And a mil-i-tary band

The drums were beat so loudly

And the bugles they were blown

Till one rainy April morning

They came limping home alone

And they don't make 'em like that any more.

When these old boots had soles, my boys,

They danced the whole night through

On flagstone floors in many a pub

They beat a fine tattoo

If someone played the fiddle, boys,

These boots would never rest

To a good old Yarmouth hornpipe tune

They stepped it with the best.

But they don't make 'em like that any more.

Now these old boots have holes, my boys,

The leather's worn right through,

The missus says to chuck 'em out

But that I'll never do

They walked a land I'll never know

'cos these old boots ain't mine

No, these are granddad's "daisy roots"

And he's been gone some time.

And they don't make 'em like that any more.

* the last two lines of this verse are lifted directly from an old comic song my mother sings called Paddy And The Rope (And they don't write 'em like that any more.) 

** the men who built the railways and canals in England were known as Navvies or Navigators.

Take care.

The Old Grey Ferguson

The Old Grey Ferguson

When I was a young fella-me-lad

I worked down on the farm

They gave me lots of jobs to do

Where I could be no harm

But when nobody was about

And no one to complain

I climbed up on the Ferguson

And rattled off down the lane.

 Oh! Crunch go the gears

  Clatter, bang and groan

  So long as I'm on me Ferguson

  I never curse or moan

  I'm twice as well contented

  As any man alive

  Me and the old grey Ferguson

  A-Rattling down the drive

It's not much good for ploughin'

That suits me to the ground

What could be more tedious

Than drivin' up an' down

I takes the hens their corn

And then I takes the horse his hay,

Then I jumps up on me tractor

And I rattles along me way.
Crunch go the gears...  

The chaps that does the ploughin'
They work so late at nights

But lucky for me the Ferguson

She don't have any lights

So seven o'clock in the mornin'

Is the time of my departures

An' I'm always home in time enough

To listen to The Archers.
Crunch go the gears...

So if perchance you travel

Down some English country road

And find your way's obstructed

By a slowly movin' load

Just sit and watch the scenery

Enjoy the flowers of spring

You can blow your hooter if you like

But I shan't hear a thing
 For crunch go the gears...

A rather silly song made up at a time when I felt that many so called Modern Folk Songs weren't being written for "folks" at all, but for "posh people and hinty-lek-chewalls" as Old Bert would have said. I hope he'd have approved of this little ditty which is a sort of updated version of a semi-real folk song called "Rattling Old Grey Mare" or "The Country Carrier". For those in foreign parts I should perhaps point out that The Archers is a very long-running British radio programme that was billed as "an everyday story of countryfolk".

Take care, tractor boys!

The Singing Of England

Once upon a time, in a land far away, a young man dreamed a dream. He dared not to speak of this dream so wrote down the words in a song. From time to time during his life he glimpsed little scenes from this dream - cycling down a country road, hearing the birds sing at dawn, stumbling through an old tune on the squeezebox or maybe watching the joyous steps of the GogMagog Molly Dancers - and the dusty words of that song floated up into his mind for a while and waltzed in the sunlight..... 

The Singing Of England

Come you young men, come you girls of the springtime,

Come hand in hand across the green land

To greet this new day with the music of singing,

The valley so wide and the mountains so grand.

The troubles and fuss of the times we are born in

We'll lay to one side and let them pass by,

Crawl out from your sleeping bag on this bright morning

For the lark she is risen into the blue sky.

To the clattering and rattling of rusty old pushbikes,

To the plod of our walking boots as the day starts

With dust on our faces, who cares what we look like

The music of England will rise from our hearts.

There's mouth-organ music and melodious melodeons,

There's Tom the mad fiddler with never a care,

Little tin whistles and thumping great accordions

And best of all dancers with steps light as air.

Once long ago you well could have found us

All in the tall cities of England the green,

But now that we've seen all the beauty around us

With wide awake eyes we will sing out our dream.

The brambly briar and the wild rose of Albion,

Entangled, embracing in every hedgerow

Rejoicing, resplendent on King Arthur's Island,

Beside ancient highways we ramble and grow.

Take care.



Another World

What kind of people...

What kind of people

live on boats.

trees are rooted,

driftwood floats

What kind of people

 coil those ropes,

paint their castles,

live their hopes.

What kind of people

cast off here,

slip their moorings,

disappear.

What kind of people

so remote

still need wheels to

float their boat

What kind of people

decorate 

the means by which they

navigate.

What kind of people

freedom seek,

then find shelter 

cheek to cheek.

What kind of people,
might just choose,

set their roots in

dancing shoes

What kind of people

live on boats.

Trees get cut down,

Driftwood floats.

Take care,

ye mariners all,

take care

Strawberry Fair Forever

Just last year I wandered off to Strawberry Fair. I used to go there every year to catch up with old friends who'd drifted away but got blown back home to Midsummer Common for the fair. You can still meet some of them there, flower children now rather gone to seed. And now Strawberry Fair weekend has come around again. A long time ago I met an old friend (still blooming then and maybe she still is) and the next day wrote her this song.....

I was feeling down

when I went into town

and I ended up at Strawberry Fair,

I was looking around

with the jugglers and clowns

just wishing that I was elsewhere,

I wasn't too far

from the queue for the bar

when I noticed your face in the crowd

Never knew how I'd missed you

but the minute I kissed you

made me feel like singing out loud...

And I can almost taste the home-made wine

Of a bygone afternoon

When everybody's sitting down beside the river

Just picking out an old-time tune.

Meeting you here

must be all of ten years

since we said our goodbyes with a smile,

You with your dreams

and me with my schemes

must have travelled down many long miles.

You'd never believe

some of the people I've seen

and the fools I've met along the way,

But in the end

it's the old time friends

got something worthwhile to say

And I can almost taste the home-made wine

Of a bygone afternoon

When everybody's sitting down beside the river

Just picking out an old-time tune.

Those times were lazy,

times were crazy,

but didn't those times just fly

Since we used to float

on an old river boat

just watching the times roll by.

We lived for each other

like sister and brother

but somehow we let it all fall

And nowadays

you can hear people say

that it wasn't that way at all.

And I can almost taste the home-made wine

Of a bygone afternoon

When everybody's sitting down beside the river

Just picking out an old-time tune.

And now the sun is shining

I'm feeling fine and

the music's beginning to flow,

Tomorrow's Sunday,

forget about Monday,

here's hoping the time'll go slow

We've been here and there
 and collected our share

of memories, babies and lovers,

We've all been dancing

to different tunes

getting out of step with each other

And I can almost taste the home-made wine

Of a bygone afternoon

When everybody's sitting down beside the river

Just picking out an old-time tune.

Take care.

Whitsuntide

This week is "Whitsuntide". Today is Whit Monday, though in the UK this may easily have passed you by. It always used to be a public holiday but in recent years the Spring Bank Holiday, as it's now known, has not co-incided with Whitsun and the old holiday is almost forgotten and certainly rather neglected.

It was once celebrated in a number of different ways in various parts of the country, often involving a deal of singing and dancing - both of which often proved to be thirsty work! In case you feel moved to song, here are the words to "The Whitsuntide Carol"

Now Whitsuntide is come you very well do know,
Come serve the Lord we must before we do go.
Come serve him truly with all your might and heart
And then from heaven your soul shall never depart.

How do you know how long we have to live?
For when we die oh then what would we give?
For being sure of having our resting place
When we have run our sinful wretched race.

Down in those gardens where flowers grow in ranks,
Down on your knees and to the Lord give thanks.
Down on your knees and pray both night and day,
Pray unto the Lord that He will lead the way.

Come all those little children all in the streets we meet
All in their pastimes so even and complete
It's how you may hear them lie, boast, curse and swear
Before that they do know one word of any prayer.

Now we have brought you all this royal branch of oak,
God bless our Queen Victoria and all the royal folk
God bless our Queen and all this world beside
That the Lord may bless you all this merry Whitsuntide.

The song was collected many years ago from one Thomas Coningsby of Whaddon, which is just a couple of miles from where I live. If you want to hear the tune, it was recorded by Peter Bellamy's Young Tradition back in the 1960s in typical uncompromising style. This link will take you there http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CSK50_di5lo.

Whaddon Church 

It is reported that Mr Coningsby recalled that on Whit Monday the men of the village went to the wood to cut oak boughs which they brought back to the village and laid on the doorsteps. They then went around the village as a group singing the carol. 

The words of the carol have a very Victorian feel to them. Quite apart from the reference to Victoria herself, the high moral tone is more typical of the 19th century than older times. My suspicion is that it's been got at by some Victorian clergyman, possibly the vicar of Whaddon. Many of the old songs were collected by rural vicars; they were educated men, of course, who had contact with people from all walks of life, they often had a musical education and also had time to undertake the task.

Unfortunately, in the spirit of the age, they often thought they could 'improve' the old songs, so words were tidied up, all bawdy references were removed and they tunes were sometimes changed from the old modal melodies to something which sounded better to their ears. But without their efforts many songs would have been lost forever.

The old tradition was revived recently in Whaddon village, complete with Morris dancers, though I saw no evidence on my visit to suggest that it was going to take place this Whitsuntide. Lets hope that I'm wrong!

Take care. 

Broken Homes

When people get old they get ugly and mean,

They often play dirty and never come clean.

Your elders and betters are supposed to be wise,

But all they can tell you are little white lies.

When people get old they're inclined to be dumb;

You wouldn't believe how naive they become.

They think they can fool you with presents and stuff

When one goodnight kiss would be comfort enough.

When people get old they want everything nice,

Want everything perfect whatever the price.

They claim to be clever and know all the tricks

Then take things to pieces they never can fix.

When everything's broken they want something new;

They don't always do what they said they would do,

They want what they can't have and lose what was theirs

And jump into bed without saying their prayers.

This world's full of wonders and miracles too;

The angels love Jesus and Jesus loves you.

To all little children it's plain as can be

When people get old it gets harder to see.

(After reading a few comments I realise that I should have included a little explanation. So this is a rather belated introduction! The feelings behind the words are not based on my experience of the world but on the, often unspoken, words of children I've known and worked with. Besides I'm pretty old myself and would not want to be thought of as mean or dumb - ugly's another question! I'm lucky; I come a family that's held together through everything the world could throw at it, but so many kids are not so fortunate. It's often not only the home that's broken, little people get damaged too. So this one's for them.)

Take care.

Ralph Beddoes' Ground

Poaching was once a life or death matter in the English countryside - without taking game from the big estates, be it pheasant, deer, trout or anything else they could lay their hands on, agricultural labourers and their families could go very hungry during the winter months. But if you got caught in the act you could hang for your crime. Poaching still goes on, sometimes with highly organised and ruthless gangs, but more often it's just a local making use of his knowledge of his home area.

The following song, written long ago, was loosely based on a conversation with such an individual in a pub. I've no idea where I got the name Ralph Beddoes from, but it immediately felt right. I'm sure I remember that it wasn't chosen just to rhyme with "meadows". The expression "ran like longdogs" came from my Irish aunt, Sugie, and sparked the song into life.

Ralph Beddoes' Ground

As we went out one night

When the moon was shining bright

There was frost all on the branches and a stillness in the air,

We searched Ralph Beddoes' ground

The woods and fields all round

For to see what game there might be found where only poachers dare.

So here's to old Ralph Beddoes

Let his health go round

The woods and ditches, fields and meadows

On Ralph Beddoes ground.

'Twas out near Highfield Wood

And the getting it was good

When here comes Beddoes' keeper a-comin' 'cross the hill

We did not intend to stay

For to pass the time of day

But instead we ran like longdogs coming homewards with the kill.

So here's to old Ralph Beddoes

Let his health go round

The woods and ditches, fields and meadows

On Ralph Beddoes ground.

While we've got traps and snares

We'll have rabbits, we'll have hares

And while we've got guns and cartridges there's pheasants and there's partridges,

Though Beddoes makes a fuss

And the keeper likes to cuss

Still the local bobby* sleeps quite soundly he'll not bother us.

So here's to old Ralph Beddoes

Let his health go round

The woods and ditches, fields and meadows

On Ralph Beddoes ground.

Here's a rabbit for a stew

And partridge or two,

Here's a hare that I shall give to a policeman friend of mine,

And some pheasant I can sell

To the Golden Lion hotel

Where Ralph Beddoes takes his wife to lunch and thinks it very fine!

So here's to old Ralph Beddoes

Let his health go round

The woods and ditches, fields and meadows

On Ralph Beddoes ground.

* bobby - a policeman, named from the politician Robert Peel
who founded the modern police force.

Take care.

The Woods Of Trugh

Walking home the other evening after work I found myself humming an old song, a traditional Irish ballad that I hadn't thought about in decades. Even more remarkably, with a few hesitations and a little searching through my mind, I found I had the whole song. It's now been following me around for a couple of days.

Usually with traditional ballads it's impossible to know when they were written or whether the events actually took place. In this case a little judicious Googling will tell you that the events almost certainly happened much as the song reports them. The song was composed in 1646, probably in late summer or early autumn. I wouldn't mind betting that it was first performed at a wedding later that year and that the composer was the harper employed by one MacMahon of County Monaghan in Northern Ireland. How can I be so certain? The lyrics give all the clues:

The Woods Of Trugh

Out from the shady Woods of Trugh M'Kenna rides at noon,

The sun shone brightly, not a cloud darkened the sky of June,

No eye had he for nature's charms, they don't annoy his brain

As by flowery hills he makes his way and never drew a rein.

Until before him stands the tall grey tower of Glaslough Castle old

That bears a treasure in its walls more dear to him than gold,

For in it dwells his fair young love, the dark-eyed young Maureen,

Who yet, he hopes, may bless his home in the Woods of Trugh so green.

"I have come," he cried, "to see you, love, for tomorrow I must go

With my bold troopmen to Benburb, there to defend Owen Roe.

"I've come," he cried, "to see you, love, and to hear your accent sweet

Lest I might in that battle fall and we might never meet."

"Go forth, my love, my blessings, go and smite the Saxon horde,

When you return I'll be your bride without another word."

With a fond embrace they bid adieu as the evening sun went down

Behind yon western wooded hill that o'erlooks Glaslough town.

M'Kenna lightly mounts his steed at the twilight of the day,

Over Dasser Hill to Trugh's green woods he quickly makes his way;

That night he'll lead his valiant men o'er the dark hills of Tyrone

For to meet the army of the North at Benburb on the Roan.

Right well O'Neill was pleased to see these gallant mountaineers,

Who had held the Saxon wolves at bay in ancient Trugh for years,

And well they fought on Benburb's plain as the English flag went down,

And few that night escaped them toward Carrickfergus town.

It was in the autumn of the year with the berries ripe and red

M'Kenna and his fair young love in Glaslough church were wed

And never in her father's hall a fairer bride was seen

Than MacMahon's only daughter dear, the dark-eye young Maureen.

Now isn't that a nice old song?

Take care.

Dance Away The Good Times

Time for a song. A rather silly one just made up for fun.

It's a Friday night, it's a tidy night

To step out hand in hand

To have a ball at the old church hall

With Mr Jackson's band

The sound of his accordion

It is my heart's delight

And the finest girls in all the world

Will all be there tonight

So dance away the good times

While the moon shines down upon the frosty fens

Warm in the arms of a handsome boy

Until the music ends

Little Amy Robinson

She hurries home from school

To try on her new party dress

She shines just like a jewel

With mother's bracelets on her wrist

And ribbons in her hair

Oh me oh my, she'll make em fly

As soon as she gets there

So dance away the good times

While the moon shines down upon the frosty fens

Warm in the arms of a handsome boy

Until the music ends

And Suzy girl she's a crazy girl

How she loves to dance

She sets on fire the coldest heart

With just a fleeting glance

And the fiddler's going frantic

And the calling's all awry

For the tambourine plays twice as fast

When Suzy's passing by

So dance away the good times

While the moon shines down upon the frosty fens

Warm in the arms of a handsome boy

Until the music ends

Then Mr Smith and Mrs Smith

Can stand and watch no more

Before too long both old and young

Are dancing round the floor

Mrs Smith she likes the boys

She'll dance with all she can

But she keeps one eye on Suzy

When she gets near her old man

So dance away the good times

While the moon shines down upon the frosty fens

Warm in the arms of a handsome boy

Until the music ends

Now Uncle Bert you should see him flirt

With Old Mathilda Grimes

She's quite forgot her poor old back

That gives her gyp sometimes

She says "This beats the bingo

And the over-sixties club

It sets me all a-tingle 

Like a hot rheumatic rub"

So dance away the good times

While the moon shines down upon the frosty fens

Warm in the arms of a handsome boy

Until the music ends

And good old Granny Whitmore

She's throwed her sticks away

And everyone's still having fun

As the last waltz starts to play

Then the young ones leave in motor cars

With their husbands and their lovers

And the old uns totter down the street

Holding on to one another

So dance away the good times

While the moon shines down upon the frosty fens

Warm in the arms of a handsome boy

Until the music.......

None of the above really happened - though it must have happened thousands of times. It was inspired by a rollicking evening spent at a village dance many years ago. All the characters are people I've known at various times masquerading, in some cases, under different names and turning up, in my imagination at least, at this dance. Mr Jackson is an old friend, a multi-talented musician whose instruments include trumpet, accordion, piano, guitar, whistle, sitar, Northumbrian pipes...you get the picture. Suzy's his lovely wife. Uncle Bert wasn't my uncle but is already known to long-time readers of this blog. All the others are people whom I've encountered along the way.

Some other things might need a little explanation:
'Fridee' rhymes with 'tidee' in Cambridgeshire and tidy means "good" in this context.
'Calling's all awry' - country dances have a "caller" who explains the moves as the dance takes place. Many of the dances are "progressive" ie people change partners during the dance; this was the cause of Mrs Smith's concern!
'Gives her gyp' means 'causes her pain'

Take care.

The Rough Road To The Islands

While at university in the 70s many strange and attempting-to-appear-strange people drifted in and out of my circle of friends. Two of them drifted away to the island of Mull on the west coast of Scotland and were never to return, as far as I know. They left a few discarded ideas and memories, some of which surfaced unexpectedly in this song:

                            The Rough Road To The Islands 
                         
May your dreams not come to harm on the rough road to the islands
   as you search for deeper meanings where the mountains meet the sea
May good fortune bear you safely through the wild and lonely highlands
   and I hope it won't be long before you're rolling home to me
                                                                           rolling home to me
                                                                            rolling home to me
        and I hope it won't be long before you're rolling home to me.

May your spirit be unbroken, may your thoughts remain sincere there
   for the message of the ocean may well pound upon those shores
And though city friends won't understand, write down the words you hear there
   and I know it won't be long before their mystery is yours
                                                                       mystery is yours
                                                                         mystery is yours
        and I know it won't be long before their mystery is yours.

For it is long ago men came that way and stopped to build a church there
   and they loudly sang the praises of that land of rocks and rain
There are flowers grow among the rocks for those who care to search there
   and I hope it won't be long before our city blooms again                        
                                                                     city blooms again
                                                                 our city blooms again
          and I hope it won't be long before our city blooms again.


The ideas which they left me were these:
- a book by Jack Kerouac in which he mentions sitting beside the sea hearing voices in the sound of the waves.
- a tape of a tape of a tape of Gaelic hymns from the Isle of Lewis.
- the realisation that "Goodbye" doesn't always mean "See you later".

Take care.

Leafdancing

November morn as I looked out at the same old dreary skies

Through the same old dirty window pane and the same old bleary eyes

There was silver frost on every rooftop, gold on every tree

My old friend the autumn time he's coming home to me

Winter he's a miserly chap who seldom sings a song

And the Spring is just a youthful tune that will not last for long

The Summer he's a showman - slick and brightly dressed

But the Autumn sings the old time songs that I admire the best

So here comes Autumn

Raggedy and brown

With his boots all cracked and broken down

'Cause he's been tramping twelve month round

Now he's come to call again.

Take care.