FOR THE IRISH FOLKIES AMONG US

[Kvetch]

Untill I heard it sung by an Irishman, i didn't see how 'fever' could rhyme with 'save her' - that was a revelation. Going back to the Lord of the Dance, of of my favorite school assembly songs (along with When a Knight Won his Spurs, but that isn't on topic), there is a song that I always thought was written by the same person (although I am told I am wrong) and that has much of the same lyrical beauty:


THE CALL AND THE ANSWER
Phil Colclough

You called and I ran
Wild as the wind which blows across the moor
All we needed is each other
Like the eagles we will soar

Chorus:
You are the call, I am the answer
You are the wish and I am the way
You're the music, I the dancer
You are the night and I am the day
You are the night and I am the day

You and I we're like two rivers
Run and fall down to the sea
When we meet we're lost forever
Lost forever you and me

Lay your head upon my shoulder
Let your heart beat close to mine
There's no past and no tomorrow
Two hearts lost in space and time

[laurie]

Wow, Kvetch, that's gorgeous ! We never sang songs as beautiful as that when I was in school - you are really lucky. (and I'm jealous)


This is probably # 2 on my list of favorites, right after "Four Green Fields". Strange how I prefer the sad ones...


The Band Played “Waltzing Matildaâ€

[laurie]

On a lighter note, this is a great song for children - if you can make them stop laughing for long enough to sing it !


A Place in the Choir

Chorus:
All God's creatures got a place in the choir
Some sing low, and some sing higher,
Some sing out loud on the telephone wires,
Some just clap their hands, or paws, or anything they got now

Listen to the top where the little birds sing
On the melodies with the high notes ringing
The hoot owl hollers over everything
And the jaybird disagrees

(chorus)

The dogs and the cats they take up the middle
While the honeybees hum and the crickets fiddle
The donkey brays and the pony neighs
And the old coyote howls

(chorus)

Listen to the bass it’s the one on the bottom
Where the bullfrog croaks and the hippopotamus
Moans and groans with a big to-do
And the old cow just goes “Mooâ€

[Kvetch]

we are allowed to go non irish then?

Waltzing Matilda is such a sad song.

how about:
Now I'm Easy
For nearly sixty years I've been a cocky,
Through drought fire and flood I've lived plenty,
This conutry's dust and mud has seen my tears and blood.
But it's nearly over now, and now I'm easy.

I married a fine young girl when I was twenty ;
But she died in giving birth when she was thirty,
No flying Doctor then, just a gentle old black gin ;
But it's nearly over now, and now I'm easy.

She left me with two sons and a daughter ;
And a bone-dry farm whose soil cried out for water,
My care was rough and ready but they grew up fine and steady ;
But it's nearly over now, and now I'm easy.

My daughter married young, and went her own way ;
My sons lie buried by the Burma Railway ;
So on the land I've made my own, I've carried on alone,
But it's nearly over now, and now I'm easy.

City folks these days despise the cocky,
Say with subsidies and all, we've had it easy,
But there's no drought or starving stock, on your sewered suburban block
But it's nearly over now, and now I'm easy.

For nearly sixty years I've been a cocky,
Through drought fire and flood I've lived plenty,
This conutry's dust and mud has seen my tears and blood.
But it's nearly over now, and now I'm easy.

that 'silly' one is much ceerier.

[laurie]

Weird coincidence - I heard "Now I'm Easy" for the first time last week on one of those radio shows Brad mentioned. They were doing songs by Australia's Irish/Scottish/English folk musicians, and I wanted to hear Eric Bogle doing "...Waltzing Matilda" - instead they played his "...Easy." I'd like to get a selection of his stuff - any suggestions as to which album(s) you'd recommend?

As for non-Irish, go for it. I listen to some Scottish folk music, but most of it is bagpipes, so I can't post lyrics. And I'd love to see some old English songs - we don't get many recordings of English music on this side of the pond. (too many Irish rebels with issues over here - I've often thought the only thing that made the Beatles acceptable was that Lennon and McCartney were Irish lads from Liverpool )

[Kvetch]

I heard Jacqui McShee sind this a few weeks ago. the chorus goes between eatch couplet.

Cruel Sister

There lived a lady by the North Sea shore

Lay the bent to the bonny broom
Two daughters were the babes she bore
Fa la la la la la la la

One grew as fair as in the sun
So cold, dark, grew the elder one

A knight came riding to the ladies' door
He travelled far to be their wooer

He courted one with gloves and rings
But the other he loved above all things

"Oh, sister, sister won't you walk with me
To see the ships sail o'er sea"

And as they walked the windy shore
The dark girl pushed her sister o'er

Sometimes she sank, sometimes she swam
Crying "Sister, reach to me your hand

Oh sister, sister please let me live
And all that's mine I'll surely give

"It's your own true love I want, and more
That thou shalt never come ashore"

And as she floated like a swan
The salt sea bore her body on

Two minstrels walked by the windy strand
They saw her body float to land

They made a harp of her breast bone
Who's sound would melt a heart of stone

They took three strands of her yellow hair
And with them strung this harp so rare

They took this harp to her father's hall
There to play before them all

But when they set the harp upon a stone
It began to play alone

The first song sang a doleful sound
"The bride her younger sister drowned"

The second string, when this they tried
In terror sits the black haired bride

The third string sang beneath their bow
"And now her tears will surely flow"

EDIT: corrected verse

[Echus Cthulhu Mythos]

That song is very 'raa'.

I like.

[Kvetch]

The classical music disussion has inspired me to resurrect this.

I heard this one sung not long ago.

What You Do With What You've Got
( Words & Music : Si Kahn )

You must know someone like him
He was tall and strong and lean
With a body like a greyhound
And a mind so sharp and keen
But his heart, just like a laurel,
Grew twisted round itself
Till almost every thing he did
Caused pain to someone else

It's not just what you're born with
It's what you choose to bear
It's not how big your share is
But how much you can share
And it's not the fights you dreamed of
But those you really fought
It's not what you've been given
It's what you do with what you've got

Now what's the good of two strong legs
If you only run away?
And what use is the finest voice
If you've nothing good to say?
And what good is strength and muscle
If you only push and shove?
And what's the use of two good ears
If you can't hear those you love?

Between those who use their neighbours
And those who use a cane
Between those in constant power
And those in constant pain
Between those who run to evil
And those who cannot run
Tell me which ones are the cripples
And which ones touch the sun?



cheery innit. i like the sentiment though.


I recently came acrose a description of the music I like.

ose.

as in ose, ose, and mor-ose

bad isn't it.

[laurie]

Nice, Kvetch ! And you're right about the sentiment.

I recently came acrose a description of the music I like.

ose.

as in ose, ose, and mor-ose

bad isn't it.

NOT bad - very funny and probably applicable to me, also.

/me goes around telling people me likes "ose" music - people respond:

[Kvetch]

I recently came acrose a description of the music I like.

ose.

as in ose, ose, and mor-ose

bad isn't it.

NOT bad - very funny and probably applicable to me, also.

It's my word of the day. I must admit it wasn't my invention, but if it was, I might be able to give brad a run for his punmeister title.

I've been looking at the CDs nexto my player: at least 80% is ose.

/me ma'am? no, of course I'm not depressive. depressING maybe, but not depressive

[Kvetch]

this isn't quite the version I was looking for, but:


There Were Roses
(Tommy Sands)

My song for you this evening, it's not to make you sad
Nor for adding to the sorrows of this troubled northern land,
But lately I've been thinking and it just won't leave my mind
I'll tell you of two friends one time who were both good friends of mine.

Allan Bell from Banagh, he lived just across the fields,
A great man for the music and the dancing and the reels.
O'Malley came from South Armagh to court young Alice fair,
And we'd often meet on the Ryan Road and the laughter filled the air.

There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of the people
Ran together

Though Allan, he was Protestant, and Sean was Catholic born,
It never made a difference for the friends, it was strong.
And sometimes in the evening when we heard the sound of drums
We said, ``It won't divide us. We always will be one.''

For the ground our fathers plowed in, the soil, it is the same,
And the places where we say our prayers have just got different names.
We talked about the friends who died, and we hoped there'd be no more.
It's little then we realized the tragedy in store.

It was on a Sunday morning when the awful news came round.
Another killing has been done just outside Newry Town.
We knew that Allan danced up there, we knew he liked the band.
When we heard that he was dead we just could not understand.

We gathered at the graveside on that cold and rainy day,
And the minster he closed his eyes and prayed for no revenge.
All all of us who knew him from along the Ryan Road,
We bowed our heads and said a prayer for the resting of his soul.

Now fear, it filled the countryside. There was fear in every home
When a car of death came prowling round the lonely Ryan Road.
A Catholic would be killed tonight to even up the score.
``Oh, Christ! It's young O'Malley that they've taken from the door.''

``Allan was my friend,'' he cried. He begged them with his fear,
But centuries of hatred have ears that cannot hear.
An eye for an eye was all that filled their minds
And another eye for another eye till everyone is blind.

So my song for you this evening, it's not to make you sad
Nor for adding to the sorrows of our troubled northern land,
But lately I've been thinking and it just won't leave my mind.
I'll tell you of two friends one time who were both good friends of mine.

I don't know where the moral is or where this song should end,
But I wondered just how many wars are fought between good friends.
And those who give the orders are not the ones to die.
It's Bell and O'Malley and the likes of you and I.

There were roses, roses
There were roses

An eye for an eye was all that filled their minds
And another eye for another eye till everyone is blind.

this was what really caught my attention.

[Darb]

I hear that one fairly frequent on WFUV Radio's various celtic programs

Say, did I mention that I was raised protestant, and that my wife is Irish catholic ?

/me pretends to don orange attire and march through laurie's living room (kidding)

[laurie]

Say, did I mention that I was raised protestant, and that my wife is Irish catholic ?

American Protestant is NOT Irish Protestant. The Paisley-ites make the American religious-right look like liberal secularists.

/me pretends to don orange attire and march through laurie's living room (kidding)

You forgot the "beating a Lambeg drum" part.


KVETCH: Nice "ose" song !

[Evaine]

To do Ulster Protestant properly, you need a bowler hat.
I believe that the only factory in the world that still makes bowler hats is in Ulster, by the way.

I heard the Roses song performed at a folk club a few years ago by a man with an instrument that resembled a giant egg-slicer and that I've completely forgotten the name of. The song, though, was absolutely unforgettable.

[Kvetch]

the version I'm listening to is off Cara Dillon's Sweet Liberty. Compared to her other (basicly apolitical) songs, it stands out.

[etitameh]

i love heather alexander's irish-celtic stuff, especially this one -- it's a yeats poem set to music, and it's just haunting, as well as beautiful.

The Stolen Child

Where dips the rocky highland of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats.
There we've hid our fairy vats full of berries,
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O, human child!
To the woods and waters wild with a fairy hand in hand,
For the worlds more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses the dim grey sand with light,
Far off by farthest Rosses we foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances, Mingling hands, and mingling glances,
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap, and chase the frothy bubbles;
While the world is full of troubles.
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away! O, human child! To the woods and waters wild.
With a fairy hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes from the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes, that scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout, And whispering in their eaars;
We give them evil dreams,
Leaning softly out from ferns that drop their tears
Of dew on the young streams.
Come! O human child! To the woods and waters wild,
With a fairy hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us, he's going, the solemn-eyed;
He'll hear no more the lowing of the calves on the warm hill-side.
Or the kettle on the hob sing peace into his breast;
Or see the brown mice bob round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes the human child, to the woods and waters wild,
With a fairy hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.

there's an audio clip here.

[Kvetch]

it seems sad, but good.

here's a rather more boisterous one:


MOUNTAIN DEW
Trad.
Oh let the grasses grow and waters flow in a free and easy way,
But give me enough of the rare ould stuff, that's made near Galway Bay,
Come gougers all from Donegal, Sligo and Leitrim too,
And we'll give them the slip and we'll take a sip, of the rare ould mountain dew.

Chorus:
Skiddery idle diddle dum, Sidddery idle diddle dum,
Skiddery idle diddle dum dum day.
Skiddery idle diddle dum, Skiddery idle diddle dum,
Skiddery idle dum a diddle dum day.

There's a neat little still at the foot of the hill, where the smoke curls up in the sky,
By a whiff and a smell you can plainly tell, that there's poitin boys close by.
For it fills the air with a perfume rare, and betwixt both me and you,
As home we rowl, we'll drink a bowl, or a bucketful of mountain dew.

Now learned men that use the pen, have written the praises high,
Of the sweet poitin from Irelands green, that's made from wheat and rye.
Go away with your pills, it will cure all ills, whether pagan, Christian or Jew,
So take off your coat and grease your throat with a bucketful of mountain dew.

Repeat 1st verse

[laurie]

I see you found the song.

I'll try to post some more later.

[Kvetch]

here's another one I rather enjoy:

DAUGHTERS OF THE REVOLUTION (Armstrong)
by Berni Armstrong.
Berni says the song came to him through an Appalachian dulcimer that had belonged to a friend’s grandmother – a Daughter of the
American Revolution.

The men marched away, their guns slung over their shoulders,
They looked far too few to stop the British in their stride.
Some kissed them farewell, some looked on with their babies,
Most turned away and took the children back inside.
But what could we do? The men had made the decision.
What could we say as they marched up out of the glen?
No tears stained our eyes; we had too many chores to attend to.

For we were sixteen unarmed women and they a platoon of fighting men.
No sooner had they gone than the redcoats had us surrounded.
Said they’d hold us hostage ‘til our men gave up the fight.
“We’ll billet in the church,â€

[Evaine]

That's fantastic, Kvetch!

[ausfi]

LOCHNAGAR


Away,ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses,
In you let the minions of luxury rove,
Restore me the rocks where the snowflake reposes.
If still they are sacred to freedom and love.
Yet, Caledonia, dear are thy mountains,
Round their white summits tho' elements war,
Tho' cataracts foam 'stead of smooth flowing fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dark Lochnagarr.

Ah there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd,
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid;
On chieftains departed my memory ponder'd,
As daily I stray'd thro' the pinecover'd glade.
I sought not my home till the day's dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star,
For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story,
Disclos'd by the natives of dark Lochnagarr.

Shades of the dead, have I not heard your voices,
Rise in the night-rolling breath of the gale?
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,
And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale.
Round Lochnagarr, while the stormy mist gathers,
Winter precides his cold icy car;
Clouds there encircle the form of my fathers;
They dwell 'mid the tempests of dark Lochnagarr.

Years have rolled on, Lochnagarr, since I left you,
Years must elapse til I see you again;
Thought nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you,
Yet still you art dearer than Albion's plain.
England, thy beauties are tame and domestic
To one who has roved on the mountains afar;
Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic,
The steep frowning glories of dark Lochnagarr.


That is one of the most beautiful Scottish songs, for the melody and the words. And why not, as the words are by Lord Byron.

[Kvetch]

indeed.

[Kvetch]

Since I mentioned it elswhere, I'm going to post this heresince the thread has moved beyond the purview of strictly Irish.

Beeswing
by Richard Thompson

I was nineteen when I came to town
They called it the Summer of Love
They were burning babies, burning flags
The Hawks against the Doves

I took a job in the Steamie
Down on Cauldrum Street
I fell in love with a laundry girl
Was working next to me

CHORUS
She was a rare thing
Fine as a beeswing
So fine a breath of wind might blow her away
She was a lost child
She was running wild, she said
As long as there's no price on love, I'll stay
And you wouldn't want me any other way

Brown hair zig-zag round her face
And a look of half-surprise
Like a fox caught in the headlights
There was an animal in her eyes

She said, young man, O can't you see
I'm not the factory kind
If you don't take me out of here
I'll surely lose my mind

CHORUS

We busked around the market towns
And picked fruit down in Kent
And we could tinker lamps and pots
And knives wherever we went

And I said that we might settle down
Get a few acres dug
Fire burning in the hearth
And babies on the rug

She said O man, you foolish man
It surely sounds like hell
You might be lord of half the world
You'll not own me as well

CHORUS

We was camping down the Gower one time
The work was pretty good
She thought we shouldn't wait for frost
And I thought maybe we should

We were drinking more in those days
And tempers reached a pitch
Like a fool I let her run
With the rambling itch

Last I hear she's sleeping out
Back on Derby beat
White Horse in her hip pocket
And a wolfhound at her feet

And they say she even married once
A man named Romany Brown
But even a Gypsy caravan
Was too much settling down

And they say her flower is faded now
Hard weather and hard booze
But maybe that's just the price you pay
For the chains you refuse

She was a rare thing
Fine as a beeswing
And I miss her more than ever words could say
If I could just taste
All of her wildness now
If I could hold her in my arms today
Then I wouldn't want her any other way




Sadly I can't find a recording, but If you ever get a chance to hear it, take it.

[ChoChiyo]

Lovely.

[Kvetch]

being in a slightly depressing mood, I'm listening to this now. (it even just about manages to fit under Irish folk since it was written in Belfast)

If They Come In The Morning
(Jack Warshaw)

No time for love if they come in the morning
No time to show fear or for tears in the morning
No time for goodbyes no time to ask why
And the wail of the siren is the cry of the morning

They call it the law - apartheid, internment, conscription, partition and silence
It's the law that they made to keep you and me where they think we belong
They live behind steel and bullet-proof glass, machine guns and spies
And tell us who suffer the tear gas and torture that we're in the wrong

The trade union leaders, the writers, the rebels, the fighters and all
And the strikers who fought with the cops at the factory gate
The sons and the daughters of unnumbered heroes who paid with their lives
And the poor folk whose class or creed or belief was their only mistake

They took away Sacco, Vanzetti, Connolly and Pearse in their time
They came for Newton and Seal and the Panthers and some of their friends
In London, Chicago, Saigon, Santiago, Cape Town and Belfast
And the places that never made headlines, the list never ends

The boys in blue are only a few of the everyday cops on their beat
The CID, Branch men and spies and informers do their job well
Behind them the men who tap phones, take pictures and programme computers and file
And the ones who give the orders which tell them when to come and take you to a cell

So come all you people to give to your sisters and brothers the will to fight on
They say you get used to a war but that doesn't mean the war isn't on
The fish needs the sea to survive just like your comrades do
And the death squad can only get to them if first they can get through to you