Showing posts with label Charles Thatcher. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Charles Thatcher. Show all posts

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Poll the Grogseller





Words:  Charles Thatcher
Tune:  John Medex Maddox (Philip the Falconer)




Big Poll the Grogseller gets up every day
And her small rowdy tent sweeps out;
She's turning in plenty of tin people say
For she knows what she's about.
Polly's good-looking, and Polly is young,
And Polly's possessed of a smooth oily tongue;
She's an innocent face and a good head of hair,
And a lot of young fellows will often go there;
And they keep dropping in handsome Polly to court,
And she smiles and supplies them with brandy and port
And the neighbours all say that the whole blessed day,
She is grog-selling late and early.

Two sly-grog detectives have come up from town,
And they both roam about in disguise;
And several retailers of grog are done brown,
And have reason to open their eyes:
Of her small rowdy crib they are soon on the scent;
But Polly's prepared when they enter her tent;
They call for some brandy - "We don't sell it here,
But", says Poll, "I can give you some nice ginger beer,"
And she adds, "do you see any green in my eye?
To your fine artful dodge and disguise I am fly;
For if Polly you'd nail, you'd have, without fail,
To get up in the morning early."



From Thatcher's Colonial Minstrel (1864), published with the note:

A new parody of Philip the Falconer as written and sung by Thatcher at the Shamrock.

This tune from the Joy Durst Memorial Song Collection.

The original song was published as part of a Christmas pantomine in 1847.  While JM Maddox is given as the author, he may not have written the song (unless it was a bizarrely popular song-title) as the following front-page (without music) is also available:


If you're really keen, here are the lyrics of the original (from the Arkansas Traveller's Songbook, a collection of 19th century show-tunes):


PHILIP THE FALCONER,
Young Philip the falconer's up with the day,With his merlin on his arm,
And down the mill meadows has taken his way
To hawk—and pray where's the harm?
Philip is stalwart, and Philip is young,
And Philip, they say, has a musical tongue.
The miller's young sister is fresh and is fair,
And Philip he always is hawking there!
For he vows and declares, believe it or not,
There's not in the kingdom, for herons, such a spot ;•
And falcons, they say, to fly true to their prey,
Should be trained in the morning early.


The miller's to market to buy him some corn,For work it should never stand still;
A maiden is loitering under the thorn,
In the meadow below the mill;
And Philip's grown tired of a bachelor's life—
Thinks the miller's young sister would make a good wife:
And so comes a whisper, and so comes a smile,
And then a long leave-taking over the stile.
Oh, when he returns from market, I guess,
The miller will find he's a sister the less I
For maidens, they say, do not always say " Nay"
When they're asked in the morning early.


The miller's returned to a comfortless home,No maiden's sweet voice is there;
He sought o'er the hills, through the valleys and field
For comfort his spirits to cheer.
But the birds sang less sweetly, the streams murmured low
 The winds were all cross, and the mill wouldn't go:
But he met little Mary just down by the lea— [hearts free
Now they both had long loved, when they thought they "
0 Mary," he said, and her hand pressed the while,
" Shall we talk of our wedding just down by the stile ?"
She blushed, turned away, but she didn't say " Nay,"
So they married one morning early.




Friday, September 16, 2011

The Jolly Puddlers

 


Charles Thatcher 






They want to stop our puddling as many of you know 
Contractors say that of our slush there is an overflow 
But if they stop us they'll be sure to injure Bendigo 

 CHORUS: 
Drive on my lads, heigho, wash on my lads, heigho 
For who can lead the life that we jolly puddlers do. 

These blessed road contractors are trying us to crush 
They say that they're impeded by our muddy dirty slush 
They want to make us knock off but they'll find it is no go 

Why have our escorts fallen off, the questions pray don't shirk 
'Tis because it's been so dry and our machines have had no work, 
'Tis puddling not quartz reefing now that keeps up Bendigo. 

If you crush the puddling interest and stay the puddler's hand, 
What becomes of your fine buildings here that on the township stand? 
The commerce of the this district then would sink down precious low. 

The winter soon is coming and our dams will then be full. 
We'll run the stuff through the machines and then we'll have a pull 
And it its pristine glory will shine forth Bendigo. 

The days of tub and cradle, alas, alas are past, 
An ounce to every tub of course, was far too good to last, 
But still we get a crust for now we wash the stuff below. 

When puddling ceases for all here 'twill be a bitter cup, 
Heffernan and Thatcher too may both of them dry up, 
And to some other diggings they both will have to go. 


From The Joy Durst Memorial Australian Song Collection, published by the Victorian Folk Music Club, 1980.


The illustration to this post is from the Victorian Department of Primary Industries website, with the following caption: 

A horse-driven puddling machine in Central Victoria in the 1880s. Horse puddlers processed four times more sludge than a hand puddler. They created havoc in the creeks of Central Victoria as the fine sludge they produced was the consistency of batter. This clogged up waterways, flooding towns and goldfields.


Sunday, July 10, 2011

Who Wouldn't Be A Digger




Words: Charles Thatcher
Tune: Rev. E Bradley




A decided stop there's been of late
To the tide of emigration
And chaps at home would rather wait
Than boldly face privation
They've found out that a man must work
At mining like a nigger
And so Australia they shirk
Nor wish to be a digger.

What tales went home about the old -
They sounded quite romantic,
But when they came out and were sold,
It drove the new chums frantic:
Lean lawyers' clerks that pined for wealth,
Cut but a sorry figure,
With blistered hands and out of health,
They cursed the name of digger.

Pintpots were once filled from rich ground,
And in gold bags they sacked it,
Now strange to say in quartz tis found,
But it's harder to extract it:
To pick it up's the work of weeks,
And it requires great vigour.
And blasting rocks and damming creeks
Is done by every digger.

No more to Silver's in Cornhill
The gold-struck cockneys fly now.
Of bad reports they've had their fill,
And they're a deal more shy now:
Outfitters once sold clothes to fools,
And asked a tidy figure,
And shoved off lots of useless tools
To every new chum digger.

What lots of ships once crossed the foam,
With gals a tidy portion,
But the style in which they now write home,
I fancy is a caution:
With silk at seven bob a yard
They used to cut a figure,
But now they find it precious hard
To nail a lucky digger.

No one out here need toil in vain
If his mind to work he's giving,
In spite of hardships, it's quite plain,
Each one may get a living:
So in Australia stay a while,
And work away with vigour,
For many a one will make his pile
That's now a hard-up digger.


Another of Charles Thatcher's songs from the goldmining era in Australia, this to the tune of The Ratcatcher's Daughter. Ron Edwards notes its publication in The Colonial Minstrel (1864)

The illustration is a photograph of gold miners in the Daintree area of North Queensland in 1860.

Saturday, May 21, 2011

Look Out Below!




Charles Thatcher




A young man left his native shore,
for trade was bad at home.
To seek his fortune in this land,
he crossed the briny foam.

And when he came to Ballarat,
it put him in a glow,
to hear the sound of the windlasses
and the cry. "Look Out Below!".

Wherever he turned his wandering eyes
Great wealth he did behold,
and peace and plenty hand in hand,
by the magic power of gold.

Quoth he, ""As I am yong and strong
to the diggin's I will go,
for I like the sound of the windlasses
and the cry, "Look Out Below!".

Among the rest he took his chance,
and his lick at first was vile,
but still he resolved to persevere,
and at length he made his pile.

So says he, "I'll take my passage
and home again I'll go,
and say farewell to the windlasses
and the cry, "Look Out Below!".

Arrived in London once again,
his gold he freely spent.
And into every gaiety
and dissipation went.

But pleasure, if prolonged too much,
oft causes pain you know,
and he missed the sound of the windlasses
and the cry, "Look Out Below!".

And thus he reasoned with himself
"Oh why did I return?"
For a digger's independent life
I now begin to yearn.

Here, purse-proud lords the poor do oppress,
but there it is not so.
Give me the sound of the windlasses
and the cry, "Look Out Below!"

So he started for this land once again
with a charming little wife.
And he finds there's nothing that comes up to
a jolly digger's life.

Ask him if he'll go back one day,
he'll quickly answer, "No",
for he loves the sound of the windlasses
and the cry, "Look Out Below!".


Charles Thatcher was also the author of the song Where's Your License, posted here on April 9.

These words come from a post on Mudcat:

My parents had a book and record, published in 1970 by Jacaranda Press, by Peter O'Shaughnessy, Russell Ward and Graeme Inson, titled "The Restless Years".
Peter O'Shaughnessy, Marian Henderson and Alex Hood sing the song by Charles Thatcher, titled "Look Out Below", accompanied by band members Ron Carson, Richard Brookes and Robert Iredale.


The tune is from Mark Gregory's Australian Folk Song site (where slightly different words appear), reported as collected by John Meredith with the tune being from Sally Sloane.