tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69692899095583129882024-03-14T10:27:56.477+10:00An Australian Folk Song A DayA daily posting of Australian folk songs - 26 January, 2011 to 26 January, 2012.<br><br>
Check out the Blog Archive for a full listing.cloudyjohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470840323861846078noreply@blogger.comBlogger368125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6969289909558312988.post-15885047727976695252019-02-25T12:49:00.003+10:002019-02-25T12:49:34.329+10:00The Banks Of The Brisbane River<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;"><b><br /></b></span>
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<audio controls="" src="http://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/banksofthebrisbaneriver.mp3">
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;"><b>Words and Music: John Thompson</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">The Turrbal people saw her born</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">The banks of the Brisbane river</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">Their memories, they still live on</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">The banks of the Brisbane river</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">The dreaming days they may be gone</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">But long may the dreaming continue on</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">We live the dreams and sing the songs</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">On The banks of the Brisbane river</span><br />
<br style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; text-size-adjust: auto;" />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">A storm blew Finnegan and Parsons North</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">To the banks of the Brisbane river</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">Mr Thompson never made it ashore</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">The banks of the Brisbane river</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">To the Illawarra they were bound</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">But on Moreton Island they ran aground</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">They laboured north until they found</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">The banks of the Brisbane river</span><br />
<br style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; text-size-adjust: auto;" />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">Lord Brisbane sent John Oxley north</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">The banks of the Brisbane river</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">He anchored the Mermaid just offshore</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">The banks of the Brisbane river</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">Though they thought him long since dead</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">Finnegan met them at the heads</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">The natives had kept the convict fed</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">On the banks of the Brisbane river</span><br />
<br style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; text-size-adjust: auto;" />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">Named for the governor of New South Wales</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">The banks of the Brisbane river</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">1823 saw white mans sails</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">By the banks of the Brisbane river</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">Thousands of settlers to her were bound</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">She soon became young Queensland’s town</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">Federation heard the cheers resound by</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">The banks of the Brisbane river</span><br />
<br style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; text-size-adjust: auto;" />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">The bridges they stretch from side to side</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">The banks of the Brisbane river</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">The mighty Story bridge was Queensland's pride</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">On the banks of the Brisbane river</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">The shipyards they are long since gone</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">The iron wood wharves have been torn down</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">The banks have burst through the streets of the town</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">The banks of the Brisbane river</span><br />
<br style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; text-size-adjust: auto;" />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">She saw our rise</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">She’ll see our fall</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">The banks of the Brisbane river</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">Her gentle waters will outlive is all</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">Long may her gentle waters run</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">Past the mangrove mud and past the town</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">That gave us our lives and gave her a name</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">The banks of the Brisbane river.</span><br />
<br style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; text-size-adjust: auto;" />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">The mighty serpent flows to this day</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">The banks of the Brisbane river</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">Through a great glass town she winds her way</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">Past the banks I’d the Brisbane river</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">From Stanley’s heights in the great divide</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">Damned at Wivenhoe then onto the tide</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">When the city cats purr</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">She’s our joy and pride</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px;">The banks of the Brisbane river.</span><br />
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A new song. I've had the subject in mind for some time it only recently emerged. The Brisbane River is the defining feature of my home town. The "Mr Thompson" referred to was the third of the convicts who escaped from the New South Wales colony and became significantly lost on their way to landing about 800km (500 miles) North as the crow flies from their planned destination.cloudyjohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470840323861846078noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6969289909558312988.post-46986496890469946642019-01-29T13:06:00.000+10:002019-01-29T13:06:37.373+10:00Our Jack's Come Out Today<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBaQ7gLHWP6HPF1o2H_G80Enbn2YDBYEXEgm8ml7QvvsgBjQSrVVatdbgnA4v8Pkda1vvWFE2_3Rf8TVYLq1pAUK_BbSekI8uPyRwulIWgTS1WjevvhyK_Hi5m7FCKp7njdCjJ5iHiazpv/s1600/jailgate.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 391px; height: 231px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBaQ7gLHWP6HPF1o2H_G80Enbn2YDBYEXEgm8ml7QvvsgBjQSrVVatdbgnA4v8Pkda1vvWFE2_3Rf8TVYLq1pAUK_BbSekI8uPyRwulIWgTS1WjevvhyK_Hi5m7FCKp7njdCjJ5iHiazpv/s400/jailgate.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5605663199347327154"></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Words: Unknown<br />Tune: WJ Devers</span><br /><br />
<audio src="http://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/jackscomeouttoday.mp3" controls>
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<br />Our Jack's come out today, my boys,<br />And very glad is he;<br />He got six months in Brisbane gaol<br />But now at last he's free<br />His hair's cut short, he had to work<br />For which he got no pay,<br />But all is past, he's out at last<br />Our Jack's come out today<br /><br />Our Jack's come out today, my boys,<br />And it would make you stare<br />To hear the yarns he spins about<br />The coves he met in there<br />Some in for life, which he thought hard<br />Some screwed up for a day,<br />But all is past, he's out at last<br />Our Jack's come out today<br /><br />Our Jack's come out today, my boys,<br />And isn't Polly glad<br />She had to pawn the things he shook<br />And found out she was had.<br />The price she got was not enough<br />To keep her for a day<br />But all is past, she's right at last<br />Our Jack's come out today!<br /><br /><br />One of two parodies of an older English song, <span style="font-style:italic;"><a href="https://jscholarship.library.jhu.edu/handle/1774.2/12940?show=full">Our Jack's Come Home Today</a></span>. Ron Edwards notes that this version was first published in <span style="font-style:italic;">The Native Companion Songster</span> of 1889.cloudyjohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470840323861846078noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6969289909558312988.post-23531734503901757332019-01-29T13:01:00.000+10:002019-01-29T13:01:23.674+10:00Song of the Sheet-Metal Worker<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWdsxIgLDpQu-Z6DlLK7zeCM3iEAVa9KbSOBvr2VdDaqtp-kfdOiGXwGXqdaAy1ghQge1ycZ7qr-4QeEc1pw7Wm0H1mBR9ubsonWYmeHoHSs0L4P8f1dwKH4FbeQdjaVB7tpscjkGMWV57/s1600/steelworker.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWdsxIgLDpQu-Z6DlLK7zeCM3iEAVa9KbSOBvr2VdDaqtp-kfdOiGXwGXqdaAy1ghQge1ycZ7qr-4QeEc1pw7Wm0H1mBR9ubsonWYmeHoHSs0L4P8f1dwKH4FbeQdjaVB7tpscjkGMWV57/s400/steelworker.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5605670247437353666"></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Words: John Dengate<br />Tune: Traditional (<span style="font-style:italic;">Valley of Knockanure</span>)</span><br /><br />
<audio src="http://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/sheetmetalworker.mp3" controls>
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<br /><br />Oh when I was a boy in Carlingford all sixty years ago,<br />The eucalypts grew straight and tall and the creeks did sweetly flow,<br />But times were hard when the old man died and the orchard would not pay<br />So I left the land for the factory bench and I'm working there still today.<br /><br />I have earned my bread in the metal shops for forty years and more<br />My hands are hard and acid-scarred as the boards on the workshop floor.<br />My soul is sheathed in Kembla steel and my eyelids have turned to brass<br />And the orchard's gone, and the apple trees where the wind whispered through the grass.<br /><br />The workbench is my altar where I come to take the host.<br />Copper, brass and fine sheet steel-father son and holy ghost.<br />The sacramental wine of work grows sour upon my tongue;<br />Oh the fruit was sweet on the apple trees when my brothers and I were young.<br /><br /><br />Another mighty song from a great writer from Sydney.cloudyjohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470840323861846078noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6969289909558312988.post-59148966006464711632019-01-29T12:53:00.000+10:002019-01-29T12:53:04.260+10:00Winds of Fortune<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp1zG7DGwZDyI8tBEwkTepBogCBW50nN0xnuUZdKw6WALZzVn-UsOzsXHtGnYHCOUriI9hbHZUtlErf5XogMv-_J8btCeX7Fxk5vW6WqRBzNCZC88mygtAQiPVrPUpF89Hg27D-A0vXSHS/s1600/mariner2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 391px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp1zG7DGwZDyI8tBEwkTepBogCBW50nN0xnuUZdKw6WALZzVn-UsOzsXHtGnYHCOUriI9hbHZUtlErf5XogMv-_J8btCeX7Fxk5vW6WqRBzNCZC88mygtAQiPVrPUpF89Hg27D-A0vXSHS/s400/mariner2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5605652637603978162"></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">John Caldwell<br /></span><br /><br />
<audio src="http://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/windsoffortune.mp3" controls>
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<br /><br />Wake up, wake up, my friends, the hour is late<br />The days go swiftly by, such is our fate<br />What is the life of man, we live, we die<br />The deck beneath our feet, above the sky<br /><br />Chorus:<br /><br />Blow winds of fortune and speed our boat<br />Ebb and flow ocean on which we float (repeat)<br />The waves roll round the world, the sweet rain falls<br />The breeze goes swiftly by, the sea-bird calls<br />The winds roll round the world, our sails to fill<br />Our helmsman holds the oar, blow where they will<br /><br /><br />And when the winds do fail, as fail they must<br />We shall unship the oars, our backs to trust<br />And we will work again with honest toil<br />If we're to walk again on native soil.<br /><br /><br />Nicole heard this beautiful song being sung by the writer, John Caldwell at the Guildford Folk Club in Victoria. Keryn Archer taught it to us at the National Folk Festival sessions a little later. This recording from the <a href="http://www.cloudstreet.org">cloudstreet</a> album, <span style="font-style:italic;">The Fiddleship</span>.<br /><br />The illustration for this post is an engraving by the French artist, Gustave Doré.cloudyjohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470840323861846078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6969289909558312988.post-72296324012352965742014-02-04T14:59:00.001+10:002019-02-02T07:29:35.277+10:00(What Will We Do With) Maud Butler<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Words and music: John Thompson</b></div>
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<a href="http://www.markcryle.com/">Mark Cryle</a> was kind enough to tell me about the amazing Maud Butler, a seventeen-year-old girl who was so keen to help the war effort in 1915, that she bought up a uniform one piece at a time and then stowed away on a troop ship. Twice!<br />
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Her amazing story is well worth telling. There are some especially good links online to original news stories about her exploits:<br />
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<a href="http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/129568967?searchTerm=maud%20butler%20stowaway&searchLimits=">http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/129568967?</a><br />
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and for her persistent offending:<br />
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<a href="http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/109949097?">http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/109949097?</a><br />
<br /><audio src="http://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/maudbutler.mp3" controls>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1.25cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1.25cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Maud
Butler had a brother in the army</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1.25cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And
so she made her way to Sydney town</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1.25cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">At
17 she knew her mind</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1.25cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She
wouldn't just be left behind</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1.25cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And
so Maud tried to join the army</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1.25cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 2.5cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Chorus:
<br />Oh, what will we do with Maud Butler?</b></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 2.5cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>She
dresses as a soldier and she wants to go to war</b></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 2.5cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>She
jumped a ship to cross the foam</b></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 2.5cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Better
than any stay-at-home</b></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 2.5cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>The
prettiest little soldier-boy the Army ever saw.</b></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 2.5cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1.25cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A
lovely farmer's daughter from old Kurri Kurri town</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1.25cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">When
she tried to sign on as a nurse they turned the poor girl down.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1.25cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So
she bought herself some soldier's gear</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1.25cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Cut
her hair and wiped her tears</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1.25cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And
she climbed up a rope to board a transport</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1.25cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 2.5cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Three
days in a life-raft with not a bite to eat</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 2.5cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Til
bold as brass she walked the decks, the sailor-boys to meet</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 2.5cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">An
officer saw her walking about</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 2.5cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Her
boots were wrong, they found her out.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 2.5cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Poor
Maud was put ashore in dear old Melbourne</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1.25cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1.25cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Only
two months later, Maud was back on board again</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1.25cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Another
attempt to see the front, in the company of men</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1.25cm;">
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I'll
do my bit to help the war”</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1.25cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She
told them when she was back on shore</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1.25cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"I
just want to be a soldier"</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1.25cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 2.5cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This
young girl's an example to all of those who shirk</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 2.5cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Where
other's would have given up, Maud Butler went to work</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 2.5cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A
lesser girl would have had enough</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 2.5cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But
Maud was made of sterner stuff</span></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 2.5cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So
raise a cheer and sing of Miss Maud Butler</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
cloudyjohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470840323861846078noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6969289909558312988.post-44596489249629550872012-01-26T10:26:00.001+10:002019-02-02T07:28:44.116+10:00Waltzing Matilda<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikr28XVU6GxpT45D8gYXKZXs0VjqsNacW5FImV2chlOtnhN-G3ZT1ZF6qSu3CdT8WtjYNQOByOwlHIlr_Z2VSoUNNKskvJNReAYIj_sFIy-QYy33l8nt-cEbQgpJip0b49qm2KJs3for5_/s1600/20120120-Music-Camp-2012-39-20-small-size.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikr28XVU6GxpT45D8gYXKZXs0VjqsNacW5FImV2chlOtnhN-G3ZT1ZF6qSu3CdT8WtjYNQOByOwlHIlr_Z2VSoUNNKskvJNReAYIj_sFIy-QYy33l8nt-cEbQgpJip0b49qm2KJs3for5_/s400/20120120-Music-Camp-2012-39-20-small-size.jpg" width="400"></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<b>Words: Andrew Barton (Banjo) Paterson</b><br />
<b>Tune: A variation on <i>Thou Bonnie Wood of Craigielea</i> by Robert Barr (1770-1836)</b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<audio src="http://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/waltzingmatildacampaspe.mp3" controls>
<embed src="https://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/waltzingmatildacampaspe.mp3" width="300" height="90" loop="false" autostart="false">
</audio>
<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Oh, there once was a swagman camped in the billabong,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Under the shade of a coolibah tree,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">And he sang as he looked at the old billy boiling,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">(Chorus:) Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda my darling,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Waltzing Matilda and leading a waterbag,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Down came the jumbuck to drink at the water-hole,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him with glee,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">And he sang as he put him away in his tucker-bag,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Up came the Squatter a-riding his thoroughbred,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Up came Policemen - one, two and three,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Whose is that jumbuck you've got in the tucker-bag?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">The swagman he up and he jumped in the water-hole,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Drowning himself by the coolibah tree,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">And his ghost may be heard as it sings by the billabong,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Australia's best known song has a rich history. Written in 1895 by Banjo Paterson it has been adopted and adapted many times. Dennis O'Keeffe's <i><a href="http://www.waltzingmatilda.net.au/">Waltzing Matilda</a></i> site is a great place to start the journey of research into this fascinating subject.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">I've printed the original lyrics above. Observant listeners will note that the version sung here varies a little from the original. These variations represent both the folk process and the varying ways in which this song is learnt by school-children around Australia. (Any timing variations are my responsibility as conductor). The suggestion at the very end of the recording came from James Rigby.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">This recording was made on Friday, 20 January, 2012 at the <a href="http://www.celt.com.au/summer.html">Celtic Southern Cross Summer School</a> in Victoria and was sung by all the attendees at the school. I thank them all for their support and their contribution to the blog. The illustration to this post is a photograph of the group by Phil Green.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<br />cloudyjohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470840323861846078noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6969289909558312988.post-23401912138447645242012-01-25T22:00:00.000+10:002019-02-02T07:27:47.053+10:00The Aeroplane Jelly Song<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjku010pw2Kv0MHmkUDex7Ld-l_g5UDq2yVcpafp6LN1rb5XDllV1MFWOkbGAi0hN5vHcFGTBDTrgaxpMZNGosqQ76RkrLz2UY375P1aGh9bZH-WbUEtT8H56G_j94jFyZTJ5Y-LPnf_usX/s1600/220px-Aeroplane_jelly_song.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjku010pw2Kv0MHmkUDex7Ld-l_g5UDq2yVcpafp6LN1rb5XDllV1MFWOkbGAi0hN5vHcFGTBDTrgaxpMZNGosqQ76RkrLz2UY375P1aGh9bZH-WbUEtT8H56G_j94jFyZTJ5Y-LPnf_usX/s400/220px-Aeroplane_jelly_song.jpg" width="255"></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<b>Words and Music: <span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20px;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Albert Francis Lenertz</span></span></b><br />
<br />
<b><br /></b><audio src="http://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/aeroplane.mp3" controls>
<embed src="https://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/aeroplane.mp3" width="300" height="90" loop="false" autostart="false">
</audio>
<br />
<br />
I've got a song that won't take very long,<br />
Quite a good sort of note if I strike it . . .<br />
It is something we eat, and I think it's quite sweet, <br />
And I know you are going to like it.<br />
<br />
I like Aeroplane Jelly <br />
Aeroplane Jelly for me.<br />
I like it for dinner, I like it for tea, <br />
A little each day is a good recipe, <br />
<br />
The quality's high as the name will imply, <br />
And it's made from pure fruits, one more good reason why...<br />
<br />
I like Aeroplane Jelly <br />
Aeroplane Jelly for me.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It is difficult to describe the significance of this song to those who did not experience it growing up in Australia.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The song was written by Albert Lenertz, the business partner of Bert Apleroth, founder of the company which created Aeroplane Jelly crystals. Originally performed as a radio jingle in 1930 it has continued in use to the present day. In the 1940s it was played on radio up to 100 times a day (charming as it is, this is a horrifying thought). Aeroplane Jelly Crystals are still Australia's best-selling brand.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
An indication of this commercial jingle's impact on the Australian psyche can be found by its presence in both the <a href="http://www.nla.gov.au/apps/cdview?pi=nla.mus-an5892255-s1-v">National Library</a> and <a href="http://aso.gov.au/titles/ads/aeroplane-jelly-song/clip1/">Australian Film and Sound Archive</a> collections.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
While I am a great fan (lime being my favourite flavour) I am in no way sponsored by Aeroplane Jelly. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
NB. The applause on this track occurs only in my imagination.<br />
<br />
This (the last official song on this blog) was recorded using three of my tiredest voices and a bass concertina.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfLUmwd9ov_DnahpDjNDo3MgpI1pIAQFKfGsFGUVP3ENNLkU0TPXtlusZ3C4AIsYZY3LW-gsT41ZvzJoztyYB7LkeC7UpkMapX7QA4uPONOMU1GDt2zn7Mb_yWG7uWPBIn7R26y7C53B-K/s1600/banner-aus.ashx" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfLUmwd9ov_DnahpDjNDo3MgpI1pIAQFKfGsFGUVP3ENNLkU0TPXtlusZ3C4AIsYZY3LW-gsT41ZvzJoztyYB7LkeC7UpkMapX7QA4uPONOMU1GDt2zn7Mb_yWG7uWPBIn7R26y7C53B-K/s400/banner-aus.ashx" width="400"></a></div>
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<div>
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>cloudyjohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470840323861846078noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6969289909558312988.post-9880582052125395872012-01-24T22:04:00.001+10:002019-02-02T07:23:42.660+10:00What Shall We Do With The Daily Papers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyR6UNYsgR4oquhzfwPuLC0VuZEwwsNPpQv06axXOasy0mP2f9mguGUyEZ-QNKkrNnyb1FNWgL9XEd-eC6MrQaDO67TjmcvqOi9fn-5nO7LsPD14KXbdYmOH646A6QMKNLuYDwb8VL2T0u/s1600/Screen+Shot+2012-01-24+at+Tuesday%252C+24+January+%252C+22.26.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyR6UNYsgR4oquhzfwPuLC0VuZEwwsNPpQv06axXOasy0mP2f9mguGUyEZ-QNKkrNnyb1FNWgL9XEd-eC6MrQaDO67TjmcvqOi9fn-5nO7LsPD14KXbdYmOH646A6QMKNLuYDwb8VL2T0u/s400/Screen+Shot+2012-01-24+at+Tuesday%252C+24+January+%252C+22.26.png" width="400"></a></div>
<b><br /></b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Words: Unknown</b><br />
<b>Tune: Traditional (<i>What Shall We Do With The Drunken Sailor</i>)</b><br />
<br />
<b><br /></b><br /><audio src="http://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/dailypapers.mp3" controls>
<embed src="https://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/dailypapers.mp3" width="300" height="90" loop="false" autostart="false">
</audio>
<br />
<br />
Down in old Melbourne four harlots do dwell<br />
The four daily papers that we know so well,<br />
The Sun and the Herald, the Argus and Age<br />
Just four little birds in the one gilded cage.<br />
<br />
Four workers one cribtime sat down in a bunch;<br />
They were reading their papers and eating their lunch,<br />
When the eldest, a fellow called Militant Mick<br />
Says, "The lies that they print, why they fair make me sick"<br />
<br />
"Now the front page is full of the wars, hot and cold,<br />
That are helping the millionaires pile up more gold,<br />
And appeals to us workers to please do our bit"<br />
He turns over the page, as the boys all say "S . . t!"<br />
<br />
"The second page holds all the editor's thoughts<br />
On how to smash unions by using the courts,<br />
And how to make money by growing more wool"<br />
He turns over the page as the boys yell out "B . . l!"<br />
<br />
"Three, four and five are for killers and drunks,<br />
And the Folies Bergeres in their transparent trunks,<br />
The rapes and divorces, the scandal and shock."<br />
He turns over the page, as the boys shout out "C . . k!"<br />
<br />
"Six is the page for the Toorak to-do,<br />
Who's getting married, and who is up who,<br />
And the frantic old antics of the socialite sluts."<br />
He turns over the page and the boys all say "N . . ts!"<br />
<br />
"The next fifteen pages for the births and the deaths,<br />
Use Chlorophyll toothpaste to sweeten your breaths,<br />
Buy from Foy and Gibson, Myer or Buck."<br />
He turns over the page as the boys mutter "F . . k!"<br />
<br />
"The back page says Jan's a good thing for the Cup,<br />
Or maybe Morse Code, if they smarten him up,<br />
Or they might all dead heat, that's if none of them falls."<br />
He turns over the page and they all shout out "B . . ls!"<br />
<br />
"Now listen here, comrades, this press isn't free,<br />
It's bought by the bosses for hard L.S.D<br />
This I must tell you, no matter what comes --<br />
It's sole use for us is for wiping our b . ms!"<br />
<br />
So they folded their papers and cut them up small,<br />
Put a string through the corner, hung them up on the wall,<br />
And in this way found a use for each page<br />
Of the Herald and Argus, the Sun and the Age.<br />
<br />
The following Tuesday a letter they read<br />
From the Acting Director of Sewage, who said,<br />
"Dear Sirs, the papers you've flushed down the drain<br />
Are corrupting my t . . ds, so don't do it again."<br />
<br />
Now the moral of this is quite easy to see,<br />
If we want a press that really is free,<br />
That will help all us workers get out of the mess<br />
We must pitch in and fight for the working-class press.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I find myself in Melbourne today and had the misfortune to read a copy of the Herald-Sun in a cafe this morning. Accordingly, I was delighted to find this ditty among the material I have collected in the process of assembling the blog. I've added the chorus at beginning and end to round it out.<br />
<br />
From John Meredith's notes in the National Library of Australia. The bowdlerised lyrics are as they appear in the original typed notes.<br />
<br />
The illustration to this post is the header from the Melbourne Argus on Melbourne Cup Day (Tuesday, November 4, 1952). Morse Code (who had placed third in 1950 and fallen in 1951) failed to place. This likely dates this song to that year. Morse Code had been a clear favourite for some weeks leading up to the Cup.<br />
<br />
<br />cloudyjohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470840323861846078noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6969289909558312988.post-31539199283078436752012-01-23T22:23:00.000+10:002019-02-02T07:21:11.762+10:00The Hardest Bloody Job I Ever Had<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvtG4k5KgDG1ToaHsfO5VJGNasYlOO6xg8WzgukW5Q2D7opi3nj8pEhoNBIn_A3RaClKA_39TYv47p2N3QguGPgqur1WZD0eTG_9V-mLZ_Ou9XHS5Ps7clZIbUBBfoL7T12y_2J2sJbNiW/s1600/shearer-NLA-nma.img-ex20092168-422-vi-vs1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvtG4k5KgDG1ToaHsfO5VJGNasYlOO6xg8WzgukW5Q2D7opi3nj8pEhoNBIn_A3RaClKA_39TYv47p2N3QguGPgqur1WZD0eTG_9V-mLZ_Ou9XHS5Ps7clZIbUBBfoL7T12y_2J2sJbNiW/s400/shearer-NLA-nma.img-ex20092168-422-vi-vs1.jpg" width="400"></a></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<b></b><br />
<div>
<b><b><br /></b></b></div>
<b>
Words: Unknown</b><br />
<div>
<b>Tune: Traditional (<i>'Ard Tack</i>)</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<audio src="http://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/hardestjob.mp3" controls>
<embed src="https://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/hardestjob.mp3" width="300" height="90" loop="false" autostart="false">
</audio>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
I'm a shearer, yes I am, and I've shorn them sheep and lamb</div>
<div>
From the Wimmera to the Darling Downs and back,</div>
<div>
And I've rung a shed or two when the fleece was tough as glue</div>
<div>
But I'll tell you where I struck the hardest tack.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I was down by Yenda way, killin' time from day to day,</div>
<div>
Till the big sheds started moving further out;</div>
<div>
When I struck a bloke by chance that I summed up in a glance</div>
<div>
As a cocky from a vineyard round about.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Now it seems he picked me too, well, it wasn't hard to do,</div>
<div>
As I had my tongs a-hanging at the hip,</div>
<div>
"I've got a mob", he said, "of about two hundred head,</div>
<div>
And I'd give a ten pound note to have the clip."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I says: "Right, I'll take the stand": it meant getting in me hand;</div>
<div>
And by nine o'clock we'd rounded up the mob</div>
<div>
In a shed sunk in the ground - yeah, with wine casks all around,</div>
<div>
And that was where I started on me job.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I goes easy for a bit while me hand was gitting fit,</div>
<div>
And by dinner time I'd done some half a score,</div>
<div>
With the cocky picking up, and handing me a cup,</div>
<div>
Of pinkie after every sheep I shore.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The cocky had to go away about the seventh day,</div>
<div>
After showing me the kind of kegs to use:</div>
<div>
Then I'd do the pickin' up, and handing me a cup,</div>
<div>
Of pinkie after every sheep I shore.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Then I'd stagger to the pen, grab a sheep and start again,</div>
<div>
With a noise between a hiccup and a sob,</div>
<div>
And sometimes I'd fall asleep with my arms around the sheep,</div>
<div>
Worn and weary from me over-arduous job.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And so six weeks went by, until one day with a sigh,</div>
<div>
I pushed the poor old cobbler through the door,</div>
<div>
Gathered up the cocky's pay, then staggered on me way,</div>
<div>
From the hardest bloody shed I ever shore.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Another from Warren Fahey's <i>Australian Folk Songs and Bush Ballads, </i>published with the following note:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>Wine grapes have been grown in Australia from the days of early European settlement and they are celebrated here in this wonderful song charged with bush humour and imagery, especially when the shearer falls asleep "with his arms wrapped around the sheep, worn and weary from the over-arduous job." This version is taken from the singing of Mr Jack Davies, a soldier-settler in the Leeton district, New South Wales, and included in John Lahey's "Great Australian Folk Songs" under the title "Ard Tack", with a note: "It is a song any shearer would relish, but more so in that part of Murrumbidgee, where vineyards and sheep can so easily go together."</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
The illustration to this post is a photograph from the National Library of Australia entitled "<a href="http://nla.gov.au/nla.pic-vn4312924">Shearer shearing a sheep's back with mechanical shears, Australia, ca. 1890</a>"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>cloudyjohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470840323861846078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6969289909558312988.post-36447357435542507982012-01-23T21:41:00.000+10:002019-02-02T07:16:32.510+10:00Come, Sing Australian Songs To Me!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirhWQuBWJjTJU4ihyfIOig3YkClOYo6j3_peJwqaKlM01ULL0Md8WAp1Uz8-1VHqcP2jBUpeS623lcSRbCIzUSVVnOiU_zpHWBiBA6MwNqvn-OA8B_ALMIXpxBPg94r1gaksIahjsRi69v/s1600/9780732287153.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirhWQuBWJjTJU4ihyfIOig3YkClOYo6j3_peJwqaKlM01ULL0Md8WAp1Uz8-1VHqcP2jBUpeS623lcSRbCIzUSVVnOiU_zpHWBiBA6MwNqvn-OA8B_ALMIXpxBPg94r1gaksIahjsRi69v/s400/9780732287153.jpg" width="252"></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<pre><b>Words: John O'Brien (Patrick Joseph Hartigan)</b></pre>
<pre><b>Tune: John Thompson</b></pre>
<pre><b>
</b></pre>
<b><br /></b><br /><audio src="http://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/comesingaustraliansongs.mp3" controls>
<embed src="https://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/comesingaustraliansongs.mp3" width="300" height="90" loop="false" autostart="false">
</audio><br />
<br />
<pre></pre>
<pre>Come, Little One, and sing to me
A song our big wide land to bless,
Around whose gentle parent-knee
We've twined the flowers of kindliness.
Your eyes are clear Australian blue,
Your voice like soft bush breezes blown;
Her sunshine steeps the heart of you,
Your tresses are the wattle's own.
What, no Australian song, my child,
No lay of love, no hymn of praise?
And yet no mother ever smiled
With our dear country's winsome ways:
You sing the songs of all the earth,
Of bower and bloom and bird and bee;
And has the land that gave you birth
No haunting, native melody?
Your poets' eager pens awake
The world-old themes of love and youth.
The pulse of life, the joy, the ache,
The pregnant line of earnest truth;
They dress you these in native guise,
And interweave with loving hand
The freshness of your rain-washed skies,
The colours of your sunlit land.
What, no Australian song, my dear?
And yet I've heard the cottage ring
With notes the world would pause to hear,
When at their work your sisters sing.
They sing the songs of all the earth,
Of tender sky, and dimpling sea,
But all their strains have not the worth
Of one Australian song, for me.
I've heard the harp the breezes play
Among the wilding wilga-trees;
I've swept my world of care away
When bush birds lift their melodies;
I've seen the paddocks all ablaze
When spring in golden glory comes,
The purple hills of summer days,
The autumn ochres through the gums;
I've seen the bright folk riding in
O'er blooms that deck the clovered plain,
And neath the trees, when moonbeams spin
Their silver-dappled counterpane.
What, no Australian song, my pet?
No patriot note on native horn,
To bind the hearts in kindness met,
And link the leal Australian-born?
Yet every exile, wandering lone
Our happy careless homes among,
May live the best his heart has known
Whene'er his country's songs are sung.
You sing the songs of all the earth,
Of alien flower and alien tree:
But no one, in my grief or mirth,
Will sing Australian songs to me.
You sing of every land but mine,
Where life is lifting neath the sun.
Still all its spirit seems ashine
In you, my little laughing one.
Your eyes are clear Australian blue,
Your face is towards the future set:
The bounding, gladsome heart of you
Is hers-and only hers, my pet.
Ah, Little One, what dreams would rise
If, nestled here upon my knee,
You'd flash those soft Australian eyes,
And sing your country's songs to me!</pre>
<pre></pre>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<pre></pre>
<pre></pre>
<pre></pre>
<pre></pre>
<pre>From <a href="http://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/hartigan-patrick-joseph-6593">John O'Brien</a>'s <i><a href="http://gutenberg.net.au/ebooks05/0500051.txt">Around the Boree Log</a>.</i></pre>
<pre><i>
</i></pre>
<pre><i>
</i></pre>
<pre><i>The Overlanders </i>set this poem to music on their album, <i>Songs of the Great
Australian Balladists. </i>I used the first line of their melody as a starting </pre>
<pre>point.</pre>
<pre></pre>
<pre></pre>
<pre></pre>cloudyjohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470840323861846078noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6969289909558312988.post-79167995800051638212012-01-22T22:01:00.000+10:002019-02-02T07:14:58.834+10:00The Ticket of Leave Man<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXdeNLwPXCD1cJRgkgdbQ3GmuyLz8QW2JK6XS9-K5Mht9tpyGPb8FnYtXBNavLod_oZZOo-0CdaPx3Bv2lDTxS7wRkMyCx8ReNU9ZcK46mc24031utEf98ECKbJENA3pe1H42PVbkOAeA-/s1600/ticketofleaveman.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXdeNLwPXCD1cJRgkgdbQ3GmuyLz8QW2JK6XS9-K5Mht9tpyGPb8FnYtXBNavLod_oZZOo-0CdaPx3Bv2lDTxS7wRkMyCx8ReNU9ZcK46mc24031utEf98ECKbJENA3pe1H42PVbkOAeA-/s400/ticketofleaveman.png" width="346"></a></div>
<b><br /></b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Words: Unknown</b><br />
<b>Tune: Traditional (<i>Pretty Polly Perkins</i>)</b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<audio src="http://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/ticketofleaveman.mp3" controls>
<embed src="https://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/ticketofleaveman.mp3" width="300" height="90" loop="false" autostart="false">
</audio>
<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
Once I was honest and worked at my trade<br />
Which was shoemaker and good shoes I made,<br />
Till once a fine fellow came into my place,<br />
And he was the cause of my present disgrace.<br />
<br />
CHORUS:<br />
He was a Ticket of Leave man, still inclined for to thieve,<br />
Although he was out on a Ticket of Leave<br />
<br />
He came to my shop and quickly 'twas,<br />
He ordered some boots and he ordered some shoes,<br />
For a twenty pound note, then, the change he did receive,<br />
I was sold by a Ticket of Leave<br />
<br />
A week after this note I did cash,<br />
It was forged and for me was a regular smash,<br />
They made me an example and sent me away,<br />
And gave me seven years at Botany Bay.<br />
<br />
But every convict bear this in sight,<br />
May he again receive this freedom, if he acts right,<br />
And the government there my story did believe,<br />
And I had but one year and a Ticket of Leave.<br />
<br />
Arrived here on shore, I idleness do shirk,<br />
And tried like a man to look for some work.<br />
But all the folks I saw did the one answer give,<br />
Where's the Police, you're a Ticket of Leave.<br />
<br />
I'm scorned by the rich, I'm scorned by the poor.<br />
My ticket drives me mad, from door to door,<br />
And now ere a week or fortnight is pass'd<br />
They make me a thief and dishonest at last.<br />
<br />
And this will be the end of the poor<br />
Ticket of Leave Man, who is not inclined to thieve<br />
Although I'm free, with my Ticket of Leave,<br />
And who do you think would employ a Ticket of Leave?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
This song from Warren Fahey's Australian Folk Songs and Bush Ballads, although originally collected by Hugh Anderson and Ron Edwards as part of their examination of English broadside ballads. It was Warren who joined these lyrics to this tune.<br />
<br />
The <i>Ticket of Leave</i> was an early form of parole. <br />
<br />
The illustration to this post is taken from a review of Tom Taylor's play <i>The Ticket of Leave Man</i>, published in <i>Punch</i>, Vol 104, February 4, 1893.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />cloudyjohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470840323861846078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6969289909558312988.post-9065445660076350112012-01-22T17:20:00.000+10:002019-02-02T07:13:41.389+10:00The Bold Kelly Gang<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3u3xr8-k3mNv8oBbwsvm9IEL37-kUD_gN9TNSTvu2ER-ChcNEmH6yic4dghlHt0kbzx-8eSafvH_IlAPKqLkXOzRb9FhsQ23Rfus00MvbiHvsHLZ71NEaahqzQdsdhY9CF5I6ofaadJ8H/s400/bmc_logo_shad.gif" width="400"></div>
<br />
<br />
<b>Unknown</b><br />
<br />
<b><br /></b><audio src="http://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/boldkellygang.mp3" controls>
<embed src="https://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/boldkellygang.mp3" width="300" height="90" loop="false" autostart="false">
</audio>
<br />
<br />
Oh there's not a dodge worth knowing or showing that's going<br />
But you'll learn (This isn't blowing) from the Bold Kelly Gang.<br />
<br />
We've mates where-e'er we go that somehow let us know<br />
The approach of every foe to the Bold Kelly Gang.<br />
<br />
There's not a peeler riding Wombat Ranges, hill or siding<br />
But would rather far be hiding, though he'd like to see us hang.<br />
<br />
We thin their ranks, we rob their banks and ask no thanks for what we do.<br />
Oh the terror of the camp is the Bold Kelly Gang.<br />
<br />
Then if you want a spree, come with me, and you'll see<br />
How grand it is to be in the Bold Kelly Gang.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Published as part of the excellent <a href="http://www.bushmusic.org.au/index.html">Bush Music Club</a> publication, Songs From The Kelly Country, (edited by <a href="http://folkstream.com/reviews/revival/merobit.html">John Meredith</a>) in commemoration of the 75th anniversary of the death of Ned Kelly.<br />
<br />
The publication notes this song as being also published as Bushwhacker Broadside No.9.<br />
<br />
The illustration to this post is the logo of the <a href="http://www.bushmusic.org.au/index.html">Bush Music Club</a>, Australia's oldest<br />
<br />cloudyjohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470840323861846078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6969289909558312988.post-86262102212697137392012-01-22T16:47:00.000+10:002019-02-02T07:10:46.271+10:00The Stolen Horse<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZPDJkUAPm5P9MNardyszf_6mFIRcqNLcw802Rkpao36P8O70TTdPiXvqNjsFfKVYHHLoapMB-vxAV2TGpwgrMWvTbeSGIREElEZXOBXKaic30LT3RK4SynOd4QhXDaX0QLFELLxR5pUng/s1600/big_ausfolk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZPDJkUAPm5P9MNardyszf_6mFIRcqNLcw802Rkpao36P8O70TTdPiXvqNjsFfKVYHHLoapMB-vxAV2TGpwgrMWvTbeSGIREElEZXOBXKaic30LT3RK4SynOd4QhXDaX0QLFELLxR5pUng/s400/big_ausfolk.jpg" width="287"></a></div>
<b><br /></b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Words: J Smail</b><br />
<b>Tune: Traditional (<i>Derry Down</i>)</b><br />
<br />
<audio src="http://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/stolenhorse.mp3" controls>
<embed src="https://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/stolenhorse.mp3" width="300" height="90" loop="false" autostart="false">
</audio>
<br />
<br />
Pat once on a time lost a puddling horse<br />
Which put him to some inconvenience, iv coorse;<br />
"Be me soul, then," says he, " But the nag shall be found,<br />
For I'll search all the district for fifty miles round."<br />
Derry down, down, down, derry down.<br />
<br />
Now he hunted a week, but his search was in vain,<br />
And so he returned to his tent once again;<br />
His mate, with an oath, said to Pat, "I'll be bound<br />
That some thief of a squatter has put him in pound."<br />
Derry down etc.<br />
<br />
As Pat was returning from labor one day,<br />
He spied his own horse wid some more in a dray.<br />
He seized him at once, and held on to him fast,<br />
"Be the powers," says he, "but I've got you at last."<br />
<br />
Wid the driver and Pat, a dispute then arose,<br />
From high words, be-gorra, they soon came to blows;<br />
The p'lice saw the row, and came down from the camp,<br />
And says Pat, "Take that man, he's a horse-stealing scamp"<br />
<br />
Now the case was called on, after several remands<br />
And the magistrate ask'd Pat to tell them the brands,<br />
"There's BO on the shoulder," says he, "and it's plain,<br />
He has three white fore-feet, switch tail and long mane.<br />
<br />
Here a terrible scrimmage occurred in the place<br />
For a fellow jumped and stared Pat in the face;<br />
"Why, you blackguard," says he, "that's my horse, you know<br />
For I lost the same baste about two years ago."<br />
<br />
The bench then ax'd Pat his receipt to produce,<br />
But Pat swore he wouldn't endure such abuse;<br />
For he'd plenty of witnesses there that were able<br />
To prove that he'd found him one night in a stable.<br />
<br />
Poor Paddy tried hard to get out of the scrape,<br />
But they'd got him so fast that he couldn't escape.<br />
Now the poor devil's reaping the fruit that he sow'd<br />
For he's doing his ten years' hard work on the road.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Published in Rod Edwards' <a href="http://ramsskullpress.com/products-page/folklore/big-book-of-australian-folk-songs/">Big Book of Australian Folk Songs</a> with the following note:<br />
<br />
<i>The Stolen Horse was composed around 1857 by J Smail and published in a <b>Colonial Songster </b>published by Hodgson of Castlemaine, Vic. A puddling horse was one used to drag around a rake-like apparatus set inside a circular tank. The tank was filled with gold-bearing clay and water and the rakes reduced this to a slurry, which could then be processed to recover the gold.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
The illustration to this post is a copy of Ron Edwards' book cover, available from <a href="http://ramsskullpress.com/products-page/folklore/big-book-of-australian-folk-songs/">Ramskull Press</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />cloudyjohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470840323861846078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6969289909558312988.post-26919017214689329122012-01-22T16:03:00.000+10:002019-02-02T07:05:04.442+10:00The Australian Alphabet<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0i5-Gk9SUTfJTLVuinx2WXRpBSwGXRdZ7hUVYBtfdEY8d7kt1AFzUv72OBn2GcqNEuprHJLpTbAncCjDX5WAD2rUAkFy_2ICFS2NJyizAGkdEKnN2XZG3sMNtiMZQSBLp7ww0Tb0uyPZ5/s1600/IMG_3989.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0i5-Gk9SUTfJTLVuinx2WXRpBSwGXRdZ7hUVYBtfdEY8d7kt1AFzUv72OBn2GcqNEuprHJLpTbAncCjDX5WAD2rUAkFy_2ICFS2NJyizAGkdEKnN2XZG3sMNtiMZQSBLp7ww0Tb0uyPZ5/s400/IMG_3989.JPG" width="400"></a></div>
<b><br /></b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Words: Unknown</b><br />
<b>Tune: John Thompson (A variation on <i>Flash Jack From Gundagai</i>)</b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<audio src="http://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/alphabet.mp3" controls>
<embed src="https://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/alphabet.mp3" width="300" height="90" loop="false" autostart="false">
</audio>
<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
A is for Australia, the land in which we are;<br />
B is for the bush, my boys, which stretches near and far;<br />
C is for the cattle which we are paid to mind<br />
D is for the dingo, a treacherous brute you'll find.<br />
<br />
CHORUS:<br />
So, my Australian brothers, I hope that you will see<br />
Signs of the times in our A B C.<br />
<br />
E is for the eagle hawk, which plays havoc with our flocks;<br />
F is for that little wretch - I mean the flying fox;<br />
G is for the gray-flyer, a kind of kangaroo;<br />
H is for the horse, my boys, we all have one or two.<br />
<br />
I is for the iguana, which we never catch asleep;<br />
J is for the jumbuck, colonial slang for sheep;<br />
K is for the kangaroo, of which we have a host;<br />
L is for the lyre-bird, the pheasant of the coast.<br />
<br />
M is for the morepork, a very curious bird;<br />
N is for the native, as curious as absurd;<br />
O is for that little wretch - I mean the opossum;<br />
P stands for the public0house, where we do get bad rum.<br />
<br />
Q is for Quirindi, where lives Mr Hope;<br />
R stands for his rations, and S stands for his soap;<br />
And of the netx letter I'd have you all beware,<br />
For if you drink too much of it you'll spoil your nerves, I fear.<br />
<br />
U is for all of you sitting here about;<br />
V is for our voics, with which we raise a shout;<br />
W is for our whips - Oh! what a crack they make;<br />
X is for the excitement, when a beast begins to break.<br />
<br />
Y it is, and how it is, we are so very wise,<br />
Has always been to me a matter of great surprise;<br />
And as I'm not just now prepared to find a rhyme for Z,<br />
I think we'll go into the bar, and have a nip instead.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Another from The Queenslander, via the Hurd Collection, this one ... "Supplied by A.M., Gayndah".<br />
<br />
The Hurd Collection of clippings held at the State Library of Queensland includes a selection from the <i>Songs of the Bush</i> series which appeared in the late nineteenth century as part of the <i>Flotsam and Jetsam </i>column.<br />
<br />
The clippings include this note:<br />
<br />
<i>Some correspondents who have been kind enough to respond to our request for contributions to this column have formed a wrong impression of the scope of the undertaking and have sent in bush poems - good enough in their way, but not what are wanted. We ask only for bush <u>songs</u> - songs that are <u>sung</u> every day by the camp fire and in the hut but to familiar airs. We fully appreciate the industry of those who have set themselves to compose songs since the first notice appeared, but we want only old ditties, such as "The Overlander" or "The Drover". ..</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
The illustration to this post is the cover of an unrelated book published in Melbourne by Valentine and Sons in 1915.<br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<br />cloudyjohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470840323861846078noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6969289909558312988.post-78589061977347110772012-01-22T14:49:00.000+10:002019-02-02T07:04:06.332+10:00Mustering Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4wOcFJZadOHrDqfGjijPXWUJdU-b8prOU3jUCIcfPWtXrDbVAbNH5C1FYukabQJWlEnZyHwrxmjcWFszN_T40pfFxA4DSbveN28XnEfMyCdfCGuqLB6c_avU4NzlVFdl7D6KCfzCUJqBW/s1600/rshurd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4wOcFJZadOHrDqfGjijPXWUJdU-b8prOU3jUCIcfPWtXrDbVAbNH5C1FYukabQJWlEnZyHwrxmjcWFszN_T40pfFxA4DSbveN28XnEfMyCdfCGuqLB6c_avU4NzlVFdl7D6KCfzCUJqBW/s400/rshurd.jpg" width="400"></a></div>
<b><br /></b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Words: Unknown</b><br />
<b>Tune: <i>So Early In The Morning</i></b><br />
<br />
<b><br /></b><audio src="http://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/musteringday.mp3" controls>
<embed src="https://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/musteringday.mp3" width="300" height="90" loop="false" autostart="false">
</audio>
<br />
<br />
Old master came to the old hut door<br />
And said, as he'd often said before<br />
"Tomorrow is mustering day<br />
So rouse up, boys and get away"<br />
<br />
The morning stars began to rise<br />
As we got up and robbed our eyes<br />
Our horses we quickly manned<br />
And started off with whip in hand.<br />
<br />
We met a mob not far away,<br />
Started back without delay;<br />
An old white cow ran off the track,<br />
Old master went to fetch her back.<br />
<br />
The mare he rode was rather free,<br />
Ran poor master against a tree,<br />
Threw him off upon his head,<br />
Broke his neck and killed him dead.<br />
<br />
Next morning I went to catch a horse<br />
To help to bury poor master's horse<br />
And in that most uncertain light<br />
I got a most tremendous fright<br />
<br />
For there I saw old master's ghost<br />
Sitting on top of the stockyard post<br />
Smoking the same old clay<br />
That master smoked on mustering day<br />
<br />
Where'er I roam, wheree'er I stray<br />
May I never forget that mustering day<br />
For then I saw old master's ghost<br />
Sitting on top of the stockyard post.<br />
<br />
<br />
From the Hurd Collection (Clippings from <i>The Queenslander </i> held in the State Library of Queensland).<br />
<br />
The illustration to this post is a photograph of Mr and Mrs RS Hurd "taken at Oskeid, 1920"<br />
<br />cloudyjohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470840323861846078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6969289909558312988.post-89970689648576752532012-01-18T16:44:00.000+10:002019-02-02T07:03:24.042+10:00The Wallaby Track<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgow03bVB0s6KPQEkJQjbo-Y98-iNMpit3LNKNSfJYM75OehqM7ELd8p-BE5KXw4OSIPStq7ReVqM_dhpY_x27HlsiuMkGqMagmJZWj69q8u06v44296hgsvttyV18q5QFENfcUYyicqr73/s1600/Swaggies+standing+under+a+tree+1905.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgow03bVB0s6KPQEkJQjbo-Y98-iNMpit3LNKNSfJYM75OehqM7ELd8p-BE5KXw4OSIPStq7ReVqM_dhpY_x27HlsiuMkGqMagmJZWj69q8u06v44296hgsvttyV18q5QFENfcUYyicqr73/s400/Swaggies+standing+under+a+tree+1905.jpg" width="287"></a></div>
<b><br /></b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Unknown</b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<audio src="http://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/wallabytrack.mp3" controls>
<embed src="https://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/wallabytrack.mp3" width="300" height="90" loop="false" autostart="false">
</audio>
<br />
<br />
One morning I rolled up the few things I'd got<br />
And I strapped to my saddle my quart and pint pot<br />
And I told the boss, I said I'd soon be back<br />
I was off for a trip on the wallaby track<br />
Oh the morning was fine, though it blew rather cold<br />
And the sun was just topping the mountains with gold<br />
And my favourite old dingo travelling close to the back<br />
And he knew we were off on the wallaby track<br />
<br />
With the tooraleye, ooraleye, tooraleye ooral,<br />
With the tidileye-dum dooral eye tooraleye- dum ay<br />
With my tooraleye, ooral, and a whack-fol the tooral<br />
Tidileye-dum dooral eye tiddle-dum all day.<br />
<br />
We'd a fair way to go to an old camping place<br />
So we're rattling along at a pretty good pace<br />
Where friends we would meet when provisions were slack<br />
And they all live close by to the wallaby track<br />
Oh well we hadn't gone very far I suppose<br />
When we met with the girl who said, "G'day Joe"<br />
I said, "You're mistaken, my name it is Jack"<br />
"And I'm off for a trip on the wallaby track"<br />
<br />
She said, "Get off your horse and rest yourself now"<br />
"Did you see on your travels me old Poland cow?"<br />
"You remember the one that we used to call Black"<br />
"I'm afraid she has gone on the wallaby track".<br />
So I got off my horse and I patted my dog<br />
And we both sat together on the stringybark log<br />
And I made up the fire and I ratted the pack<br />
And we both had a meal on the wallaby track.<br />
<br />
So we sat in the shade of the stringy bark tree<br />
As fine a young girl as you ever did see<br />
She asks where I'm going; when will I be back<br />
And why am I off on the wallaby track<br />
So i told her then I was looking for a wife<br />
And would she take on a partner for life<br />
And like a sensible girl, well, she said "It's a whack"<br />
That was the end of my trip on the wallaby track.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
From Dave de Hugard's <i>Magpie In The Wattle</i> album.<br />
<br />
<br />cloudyjohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470840323861846078noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6969289909558312988.post-33148679021988204592012-01-16T19:11:00.001+10:002019-02-02T07:02:26.550+10:00Saint Peter<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBk0h_3uhJzVZi8SoIiS_okbI0AiBDiotF6CkjnI4Igv-EX9wDXpjSNy71VJFH-O2-KsVQcU80rT1GAij20Ean1DQirJobZLFMXIzUCHe-uoPKbHtNyOb4_yoCr1kp7AsoHpQqn-cifMtU/s1600/st_peter_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBk0h_3uhJzVZi8SoIiS_okbI0AiBDiotF6CkjnI4Igv-EX9wDXpjSNy71VJFH-O2-KsVQcU80rT1GAij20Ean1DQirJobZLFMXIzUCHe-uoPKbHtNyOb4_yoCr1kp7AsoHpQqn-cifMtU/s400/st_peter_1.jpg" width="348"></a></div>
<b><br /></b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Words: Henry Lawson</b><br />
<b>Tune: Traditional (<i>The Wearing of the Green</i>)</b><br />
<br />
<audio src="http://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/saintpeter.mp3" controls>
<embed src="https://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/saintpeter.mp3" width="300" height="90" loop="false" autostart="false">
</audio>
<br />
<br />
Now, I think there is a likeness 'twixt St Peter's life and mine <br />
For he did a lot of trampin' long ago in Palestine<br />
He was 'union' when the workers first began to organize <br />
And I'm glad that old St Peter keeps the gate of Paradise <br />
<br />
When the ancient agitator and his brothers carried swags<br />
I've no doubt he very often tramped with empty tucker-bags <br />
And I'm glad he's Heaven's picket, for I hate explainin' things <br />
And he'll think a union ticket just as good as Whitely King's <br />
<br />
When I reach the great head-station which is somewhere 'off the track'<br />
I won't want to talk with angels who have never been out back<br />
They might bother me with offers of a banjo meanin' well <br />
And a pair of wings to fly with, when I only want a spell <br />
<br />
I'll just ask for old St Peter, and I think, when he appears<br />
I will only have to tell him that I carried swag for years<br />
'I've been on the track,' I'll tell him, 'an' I done the best I could' <br />
And he'll understand me better than the other angels would <br />
<br />
He won't try to get a chorus out of lungs that's worn to rags <br />
Or to graft the wings on shoulders that is stiff with humpin' swags<br />
But I'll rest about the station where the work-bell never rings <br />
Till they blow the final trumpet and the Great Judge sees to things<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />cloudyjohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470840323861846078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6969289909558312988.post-10817177870830958142012-01-14T22:54:00.000+10:002019-02-02T07:01:38.668+10:00The Sunshine Disaster<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7wss75n6C13tLDX7fBGAJh7u3F8WiwUwjEIynAPklWujRhixk330vZBI42-7MftZXBPo-9F0Rqh-SBAnd9dY_Mpx6E8NIq1saS5uDe_nvSU7yilfwNv4O_VJLpKFaskyUHMt29xfm_l1a/s1600/Sunshine_accident_1908.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7wss75n6C13tLDX7fBGAJh7u3F8WiwUwjEIynAPklWujRhixk330vZBI42-7MftZXBPo-9F0Rqh-SBAnd9dY_Mpx6E8NIq1saS5uDe_nvSU7yilfwNv4O_VJLpKFaskyUHMt29xfm_l1a/s400/Sunshine_accident_1908.jpg" width="400"></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<b>Unknown</b><br />
<br />
<b><br /></b><audio src="http://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/sunshinedisaster.mp3" controls>
<embed src="https://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/sunshinedisaster.mp3" width="300" height="90" loop="false" autostart="false">
</audio>
<br />
<br />
He was driving a Bendigo engine<br />
The train was running all right.<br />
It was going along as usual<br />
Till Sunshine came in sight<br />
He put on his brakes and he whistled<br />
For the signal was against the train<br />
He applied his brakes for emergency<br />
But alas 'twas all in vain.<br />
<br />
CHORUS:<br />
If those trains had only run<br />
As they should, their proper time<br />
There wouldn't have been a disaster<br />
At a place they call Sunshine<br />
If those brakes had only held<br />
As they did a few hours before<br />
There wouldn't have been a disaster<br />
And a death toll of forty-four<br />
<br />
The doctors and nurses arrived there<br />
And the sight it caused them pain<br />
To see all the wounded and dying<br />
In the wreck of that fateful train,<br />
The people of Sunshine ne'er faltered<br />
But assisted with all their power<br />
To help the doctors and nurses<br />
In that awful and painful hour.<br />
<br />
<br />
From Ron Edwards, published with the following note:<br />
<br />
<i>The Sunshine Disaster was collected at Lappa Junction, 21 August 1966 from the singing of Bill Leonard, who had learnt it in the area over thirty years before. </i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>It is in the broadside tradition of songs such as Les Darcy and Phar Lap and uses the tune "If Those Lips Could Only Speak" </i>(A choice I must say I find a little bizarre - JT)<br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>The following is an extract form the official book, "Victorian Railways to '62".</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>"On Easter Monday, 20 April 1908 one of the most deplorable catastrophes in Australian railway history occurred at Sunshine, 7 miles from Melbourne. The 6.50pm "up" Bendigo crashed into the rear o the 7.15pm "up" Ballarat which was standing at Sunshine station platform. Both trains, crowded with holiday-makers returning to Melbourne, were running late. Forty-four passengers in the Ballarat train were killed and over 400 on both trains were injured."</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
Follow this <a href="http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/10659447">link</a> to the contemporary coverage of the disaster in the Melbourne Argus.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i><br /></i>cloudyjohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470840323861846078noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6969289909558312988.post-16181687168338168362012-01-13T14:52:00.000+10:002019-02-02T07:00:52.342+10:00The Song Of The Thrush<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeysQQpV9ieY_onDHXT106WVfxrAOrjhLzncz-cyunWZ0986aAzLMW65PSWxFqB9o0q_gKk-hVJS97xtLIGRRMLGiUrvDsHbCj_1gYLaqxMDxPVYHwA4cEoMFwwTOOYbBGkRY56l24bcAW/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeysQQpV9ieY_onDHXT106WVfxrAOrjhLzncz-cyunWZ0986aAzLMW65PSWxFqB9o0q_gKk-hVJS97xtLIGRRMLGiUrvDsHbCj_1gYLaqxMDxPVYHwA4cEoMFwwTOOYbBGkRY56l24bcAW/s400/images.jpeg" width="294"></a></div>
<b><br /></b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Words: Walter Hastings</b><br />
<b>Music: George Le Brunn</b><br />
<br />
<b><br /></b><br /><audio src="http://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/thrush.mp3" controls>
<embed src="https://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/thrush.mp3" width="300" height="90" loop="false" autostart="false">
</audio>
<br />
<br />
Years ago out in the wilds of Australia<br />
Out in the minefields there once stood a camp<br />
The miners were made up of all sorts of classes<br />
many a scapegrace and many a scamp.<br />
When into their midst came a young man from England<br />
and with him he brought a small thrush in a cage,<br />
to hear the bird sing they would flock 'round in dozens.<br />
That dear little songster became quite the rage.<br />
<br />
CHORUS:<br />
There fell a deep hush. As the song of the thrush,<br />
Was heard by that motley throng.<br />
Many a rough fellows eyes grew moist<br />
As the notes rang out clearly and strong.<br />
Eyes lighted up with a bright yearning look<br />
As the bird trilled his beautiful lay<br />
For it brought to their minds dear old England and home<br />
Thousands of miles away.<br />
<br />
The miners though rough and fierce looking fellows<br />
were human and idolised, worshipped that bird<br />
in the midst of a quarrel they'd leave off and listen<br />
when the voice of their charmer, their favourite they heard.<br />
That bird from Old England at last got quite famous<br />
To hear it the miners would come from afar<br />
and many declared they preferred the bird's singing<br />
To the card and the dice at the round liquor bar.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It made them all think of the corn fields and meadows</div>
<div>
Of many a shady and quiet little lane</div>
<div>
And hearts ached and yearned as they thought of some village</div>
<div>
And some they had dearly loved, but all in vain.</div>
<div>
The bird still sang on and the miners still listend</div>
<div>
P'r'aps they got tired of the bird? no such thing:</div>
<div>
As one rough expressed it, "He came like and angel</div>
<div>
And make you feel good like to hear that bird sing.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
From the National Library of Australia collection: <a href="http://nla.gov.au/nla.mus-an21032329">http://nla.gov.au/nla.mus-an21032329</a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Recorded unaccompanied by Dave De Hugard on the 1974 Larrikin LP, <i><a href="http://australianfolk.blogspot.com/2009/03/warren-fahey-and-others-man-of-earth.html">Man of the Earth</a></i>.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>cloudyjohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470840323861846078noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6969289909558312988.post-24198689112492510722012-01-12T22:50:00.000+10:002019-02-02T07:00:16.153+10:00The Billy-Goat Overland<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMI71Gv_7MmjMvJcYcXfGXnOlpHq8JifOb4o9vqnSlKd3dBEwpgS6n7BQ2mSREaBbhkfmAeov1f98LOgJpGQpkiZ9jqw1aFHN5jm7DyStAdFGDlbFexhzid6Rx5DRrFhNfPt9EB0O8WeJ9/s1600/animalsnoahforgot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMI71Gv_7MmjMvJcYcXfGXnOlpHq8JifOb4o9vqnSlKd3dBEwpgS6n7BQ2mSREaBbhkfmAeov1f98LOgJpGQpkiZ9jqw1aFHN5jm7DyStAdFGDlbFexhzid6Rx5DRrFhNfPt9EB0O8WeJ9/s400/animalsnoahforgot.jpg" width="361"></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Words: Banjo Paterson Tune: </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Traditional (<i>The Lincolnshire Poacher</i>)</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<audio src="http://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/billygoatoverland.mp3" controls>
<embed src="https://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/billygoatoverland.mp3" width="300" height="90" loop="false" autostart="false">
</audio>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Come all ye lads of the droving days, ye gentlemen unafraid,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I'll tell you all of the greatest trip that ever a drover made,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">For we rolled our swags, and we packed our bags, and taking our lives in hand,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We started away with a thousand goats, on the billy-goat overland.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">There wasn't a fence that'd hold the mob, or keep 'em from their desires;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">They skipped along the top of the posts and cake-walked on the wires.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And where the lanes had been stripped of grass and the paddocks were nice and green,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The goats they travelled outside the lanes and we rode in between.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The squatters started to drive them back, but that was no good at all,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Their horses ran for the lick of their lives from the scent that was like a wall:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And never a dog had pluck or gall in front of the mob to stand</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And face the charge of a thousand goats on the billy-goat overland.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We found we were hundreds over strength when we counted out the mob;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And they put us in jail for a crowd of theives that travelled to steal and rob:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">For every goat between here and Bourke, when he scented our spicy band,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Had left his home and his work to join in the billy-goat overland.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The illustration to this post is the copy of the 1933 edition of Paterson's collection from which this poem comes, <i>The Animals Noah Forgot</i>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>cloudyjohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470840323861846078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6969289909558312988.post-31061229355146682562012-01-11T11:54:00.001+10:002019-02-02T06:59:21.704+10:00Adieu To All Judges And Juries<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTV5xIUaEbgxSioUcuVTjiUpnKY43ljhO5vBAazPqRhCNbcWzs_uAikd10-VDCuIigpJn-dVpCR-ybkvv3s2T3hYbikXU02VRHemgD3IDfbeVPMlkHoMZlePB2Lt3OaHwIzATIxIU-CShO/s1600/relics.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTV5xIUaEbgxSioUcuVTjiUpnKY43ljhO5vBAazPqRhCNbcWzs_uAikd10-VDCuIigpJn-dVpCR-ybkvv3s2T3hYbikXU02VRHemgD3IDfbeVPMlkHoMZlePB2Lt3OaHwIzATIxIU-CShO/s400/relics.jpg" width="263"></a></div>
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Unknown</b><br />
<b><br /></b><audio src="http://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/adieu.mp3" controls>
<embed src="https://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/adieu.mp3" width="300" height="90" loop="false" autostart="false">
</audio>
<br />
<br />
Here's adieu to all judges and juries!<br />
Here's adieu to you bailiffs also!<br />
Seven years you've parted me from my true-love,<br />
Seven years I'm transported, you know.<br />
<br />
Oh Polly, I'm going for to leave you,<br />
For seven long years, love, or more;<br />
But the time it won't seem but one moment,<br />
When I think on the girl I adore.<br />
<br />
Going to a strange country don't grieve me,<br />
Nor leaving old England behind;<br />
But it's all for the sake of my Polly love,<br />
And a-leaving my comrades behind.<br />
<br />
And if ever I return from the ocean,<br />
Stores of riches I will bring you, my dear;<br />
It's all for the sake of my Polly love,<br />
I'll cross the salt seas without fear.<br />
<br />
How hard is my place of confinement,<br />
Which keeps me from my heart's delight;<br />
Cold chains and cold irons all around me,<br />
And a plank for my pillow at night.<br />
<br />
Oftentimes I have wished that some eagle<br />
Would lend me her wings for to fly;<br />
I would fly to the arms of my Polly love,<br />
Once more in her bosom to lie.<br />
<br />
<br />
Obviously related to the well-known <i>Botany Bay </i>(which Bob Bolton has referred to as this song's "illegitimate offspring").<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Published by Frank Purslow in </span><b style="background-color: white;">The Constant Lovers</b><span style="background-color: white;"> (EFDSS 1972). Purslow has this to say:</span><br />
<br />
<i style="background-color: white;">Gardiner Hp.308. George Blake, St. Denys, Southampton, Hants. May, 1906. "Once extremely popular, but now almost forgotten, it probably had its origins in the early music halls. Some collected versions do seem to be of an earlier date, but a stage origin still seems likely. The tune is sometimes sung in the Mixolydian mode. The composer of <b>Wrap Me Up In My Tarpaulin Jacket</b> -Whyte Melville- appears to have been unconsciously aware of the tune when he composed his. I have slightly rearranged the order of Blake's verses to agree with the usual order."</i><br />
<i style="background-color: white;"><br /></i><br />
Sung to a number of tunes, I've adapted this one from Shirley and Dolly Collins version.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i style="background-color: white;"><br /></i><br />
<i style="background-color: white;"><br /></i>cloudyjohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470840323861846078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6969289909558312988.post-70389094711960164382012-01-10T20:30:00.000+10:002019-02-02T06:58:50.502+10:00The Gum Tree With Six Branches<br />
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<b><br /></b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Words: Walter P Keen</b><br />
<b>Tune: Traditional (<i>Australia's On The Wallaby</i>)</b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<audio src="http://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/gumtree.mp3" controls>
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<br />
<br />
I roamed the bush one summer's eve, while wattle trees were blooming<br />
And aided by the Myall wood, in a land so sweet perfuming,<br />
At sunset, feeling tired, I slept beneath the bowers,<br />
And as I dreamt a spirit arose, from out of the flowers,<br />
The spirit of Australia, was what it said to me<br />
Oh son of mine I'll show to you your magic native tree.<br />
<br />
CHORUS<br />
One branch is called Victoria and one is New South Wales,<br />
Then South and West Australia, each gallantly prevails.<br />
With Queensland and Tasmania, dll rich in mines and ranches,<br />
That's federal Australia, the gumtree with six branches.<br />
<br />
The spirit said: 'In that tree, there's untold wealth awaiting,<br />
The labour of her children, so why be hesitating,<br />
The task is not beyond you, each healthy son and daughter,<br />
But chiefly you must always—supply that tree with water.<br />
Then she will freely yield the things that you require,<br />
And to its independence your nation will aspire.'<br />
<br />
The spirit said: Then rest not, till your task it is completed,<br />
Tis only curs who tell you in childhood they're defeated,<br />
That tree is only growing but she will bloom tomorrow,<br />
For you can't raise a nation without a little sorrow.<br />
Then may each branch united dispel all jealousy,<br />
Advance as one Australia—upon that magic tree.<br />
<br />
<br />
An example of a type of patriotic song all-too-rare in these cynical times (although I'm not totally convinced by the thought that we should all band together and advance on a tree).<br />
<br />
From Warren Fahey's inestimable <a href="http://warrenfahey.com/Sydney-Folklore/SECTION-2/sfp-2-gumtree.html">Australian Folklore Unit</a> site. Published with the following note:<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #212121; font-family: verdana, arial; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="line-height: 13px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #212121;"><span style="line-height: 12px;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>This song was sung at the Tivoli Music Hall about 1910 and the words are attributed to Walter P. Keen with music by that old trouper, Joe Salter. The tune has been suggested by Warren Fahey who unearthed the song in 1979. The gumtree now has eight branches with the addition of the Northern Territory and the ACT. A recorded version appears on the 2MBS-FM record Ryder Round Folk, Sydney.</i></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #212121;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="line-height: 12px;"><i><br /></i></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #212121;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="line-height: 12px;"><i><br /></i></span></span></span></div>
<br />cloudyjohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470840323861846078noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6969289909558312988.post-70778103406165691182012-01-09T14:12:00.000+10:002019-02-02T06:58:00.547+10:00A Bush Lullaby<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEpOW7lEu-7tiFRjcb2INjXf-wGagltZv-3BDznJuIBkyb8YWmjQkCFldIY4WJQjKzZgwRlbcEiaY4-q3k4iwSWQKLn3GxCZKP2MMcwsV0uw7ma-9fwSKG8PSN-4c-piJeXOm1nvujHSDj/s1600/A080465_246x550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEpOW7lEu-7tiFRjcb2INjXf-wGagltZv-3BDznJuIBkyb8YWmjQkCFldIY4WJQjKzZgwRlbcEiaY4-q3k4iwSWQKLn3GxCZKP2MMcwsV0uw7ma-9fwSKG8PSN-4c-piJeXOm1nvujHSDj/s400/A080465_246x550.jpg" width="300"></a></div>
<b><br /></b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Words: Thomas (Louis) Esson</b><br />
<b>Tune: Chris Kempster</b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<audio src="http://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/bushlullaby.mp3" controls>
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<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
Baby, O baby, fain you are for bed<br />
Magpie to mopoke, busy as the bee<br />
The little red calf's in the snug cow-shed<br />
And the little brown bird's in the tree<br />
<br />
Daddy's gone a-shearing down the Castlereagh<br />
So we're all alone now, only you and me<br />
All among the wool-O; keep your wide blades full-O!<br />
Daddy loves his baby, parted tho' they be<br />
<br />
Baby, my baby, rest your drowsy head<br />
The one man that works here, tired you must be<br />
<br />
The little red calf's in the snug cow-shed<br />
And the little brown bird's in the tree<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The illustration to this post is a photograph of <a href="http://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/esson-thomas-louis-buvelot-6115">Louis Esson</a>. Follow this link to <a href="http://folkstream.com/reviews/chris/keith.html">Chris Kempster's obituary</a> by Keith McKenry. Below is a photograph of Chris.<br />
<br />
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<br />cloudyjohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470840323861846078noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6969289909558312988.post-4134703061599275942012-01-09T13:24:00.001+10:002019-02-02T06:57:03.056+10:00The Sparrow and the Emu's Egg<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Words: Unknown (<i>The Perfeser</i>)</b><br />
<b>Tune: John Meredith</b><br />
<b><br /></b><audio src="http://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/sparrow.mp3" controls>
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<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
There was a little sparrow, and he was out of work<br />
So he humped his bluey on his back and he set out for Burke<br />
He walked till he had bunions, then thought he would enquire<br />
And found that he had only got as far as Nevertire.<br />
<br />
He was hungry and so weary, he could hardly drag a leg<br />
When suddenly beside the track he spied an emu's egg,<br />
He popped it in his billy can to boil it for his tea,<br />
And by his Waterbury watch, he counted minutes three.<br />
<br />
And when the minutes three were up, he thought it time to stop<br />
So he took his little tomahawk and he cut off the top<br />
'Twas a pity that he boiled it, 'twould have been much better fried<br />
For when he stooped to sup it up, he tumbled down inside<br />
<br />
And when he fell in to the egg, he to his sorrow found<br />
Three minutes wasn't long enough, and the poor little chap was drowned:<br />
The moral of this story is: if emu eggs you seek<br />
For supper, you should take great care and boil them for a week.<br />
<br />
<br />
From the <i>Joy Durst Memorial Song Collection</i>, Victorian Folk Music Club, 1980. Noted as being by <i>The Perfesser, Sydney, about 1920</i>.<br />
<br />
The illustration above is a photograph of an emu's egg and a chicken's egg.<br />
<br />
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<br />cloudyjohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470840323861846078noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6969289909558312988.post-91835762597345365042012-01-09T12:58:00.001+10:002019-02-02T06:55:33.264+10:00The Academy of Mr Paddy West<br />
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<b><br /></b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Unknown</b>.<br />
<br />
<audio src="http://www.cloudstreet.org/ozfolksongmusic/paddywest.mp3" controls>
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<br />
<br />
You have heard of the academy of Mister Paddy West?<br />
For style and popularity, my school it is the best.<br />
For I've only room for forty and I'm boarding seventy-four<br />
And sure, by Jesus, who is that, comes knocking on my door?<br />
<br />
O me name is Patrick Dooley and I've dragged me weary way<br />
All the way from dear old Ireland and I wants to go to sea.<br />
"Come in, me friend," says Paddy, "you're as safe as house ashore,<br />
You're an Irishman and a gentleman and a townie of me own."<br />
<br />
"Now, observe this hole within the wall, that is a furnace door,<br />
And there is the shovel and stone, me boys, that lay upon the floor.<br />
You take the shovel and the stones and through the furnace go,<br />
And I'll make you a western Ocean fireman with a dungaree jacket, O!"<br />
<br />
Oh we know the way to Auckland and the lights on Sydney Head<br />
We've saved our lives and a little beside on a cold and North Sea wreck;<br />
O I've crossed the Western Ocean in the Gulf of Capricorn.<br />
And I've doffed me glass to a Chinese lass in the ricefields of Siam,<br />
<br />
And I've said adieu to a wild old life as a sailor on the seas<br />
I've been down South and way up North and odd ports in between.<br />
I've sung me songs and doffed me cap as I rounded of the Horn<br />
And by cripes I've sworn by Paddy West since the day that I was born.<br />
<br />
<br />
From Warren Fahey's <i>Australian Folk Songs and Bush Ballads. </i>This song from the History Workshop pamphlet, <i>Shellback: Reminisces of Ben Bright, Mariner, </i>collected by Ewan MacColl and Peggy Seeger.<i> </i>From Warren's notes:<br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Paddy West is a mythical figure in maritime folklore known for operating a dodgy school for would-be sailors.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<div>
The illustration to this post is a photograph of Hobson's Bay Railway Pier, Sandridge (Now Station Pier, Port Melbourne) about 1878.<br />
<br /></div>cloudyjohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16470840323861846078noreply@blogger.com0