C F There is a fine gent christened Ru Litherland C F Mulch, sow and then reap C C There is a fine gent christened Ru Litherland C C And he has green fingers on both of his hands C Em7 C F C G C I’ll be good to the land and the land will be good to me
With a coop of comrades he dreamed a bold dream To grow food for his kinsfolk as nature decreed.
By the edge the forest they spied a fine patch And to grow fruit and veg there a plan they did hatch.
But the men of the hour dreamed of buildings not plants A development would far more there profits enhance.
Our ancestors fought for this fair forest land So now against the law was the businessman’s plan.
After twelve months had past did the council relent Now we’ll work the earth as our ancestors meant.
Now if you pass by here you might hear a tune: Mulch, sow and then reap Now if you pass by here you might hear a tune, The melody is old and the words will be soon. I’ll be good to the land and the land will be good to me
In 1866, Lord Brownlow of Ashridge House tried to enclose a third of Berkhamsted Common by putting in iron fences “without any openings and entirely regardless of public rights of way”.
But the Commons Preservation Society got together a bunch of workmen and labourers to come up on a special midnight train from London and pulled all the fences out.
This is a delightful ballad which tells the story:
Released in 1968 and often referred to as Canada’s first music video, The Ballad of Crowfoot was directed by Willie Dunn, a Mi’kmaq/Scottish folk singer and activist who was part of the historic Indian Film Crew, the first all-Indigenous production unit at the NFB. The film is a powerful look at colonial betrayals, told through a striking montage of archival images and a ballad composed by Dunn himself about the legendary 19th-century Siksika (Blackfoot) chief who negotiated Treaty 7 on behalf of the Blackfoot Confederacy. The IFC’s inaugural release, Crowfoot was the first Indigenous-directed film to be made at the NFB.
Lyrics
Comes the spring and its warm thaw Around your neck, the eagle claw Upon your head, the buffalo horn Today a great new chief is born So raise him fast towards the sun A heart now beats, a life’s begun It’s eighteen hundred twenty-one Today a Blackfoot soul is, is born
Crowfoot, Crowfoot, why the tears? You’ve been a brave man for many years Why the sadness? Why the sorrow? Maybe there’ll be a better tomorrow
Your years have gone, the years have past Your heart is set, your soul is cast You stand before the Council Fire You have the mind and the desire Of notions wise you speak so well And in brave deeds you do excel And it’s eighteen hundred fifty-three And you stand the chief of Confederacy You are the leader, you are the chief You stand against both liar and thief They trade braves whiskey and steal your land And they’re coming in swift like the wind-blown sand They shoot the buffalo and kill the game And send their preachers in to shame And it’s eighteen hundred sixty-four And you think of peace and you think of war
Crowfoot, Crowfoot, why the tears? You’ve been a brave man for many years Why the sadness? Why the sorrow? Maybe there’ll be a better tomorrow
See the settlers in more numbers He takes whatever he encounters You’ve seen the Sioux all battered, beaten They’re all in rags, they haven’t eaten The Nez Perce’ were much the same It seems like such a heartless game And it’s eighteen hundred seventy-six And the enemy’s full of those death-dealing tricks Today the treaty stands on the table Will you sign it? Are you able? It offers food and protection too Do you really think they’ll hold it true? It offers a reserve, now isn’t that grand? And in return you cede all of your land And it’s eighteen hundred seventy-seven And you know the scales are so uneven
Crowfoot, Crowfoot, why the tears? You’ve been a brave man for many years Why the sadness? Why the sorrow? Maybe there’ll be a better tomorrow
Well, the buffalo are slaughtered, there is nothing to eat The government’s late again with the meat And your people are riddled with the white man’s disease And in the summer they’re sick and in the winter they freeze and Sometimes you wonder why you signed that day But they broke the treaties themselves anyway And it’s eighteen hundred eighty-nine And your death star explodes and then it falls
Crowfoot, Crowfoot, why the tears? You’ve been a brave man for many years Why the sadness? Why the sorrow? Maybe there’ll be a better tomorrow
The years have gone, the years have flown A nation since has swiftly grown but Yet for the Indian, it’s all the same There’s still the hardship, there’s still the pain There’s still the hardship, there’s still the strife It’s bitterness shines like a whetted knife There’s still the hypocrisy, and the hate Was that in the treaties? Was that the fate? We’re all unhappy pawns in the government’s game And it’s always the Indian who gets the blame It’s a problem which money can never lessen And it’s nineteen hundred sixty-seven
Crowfoot, Crowfoot, why the tears? You’ve been a brave man for many years Why the sadness? Why the sorrow? Maybe there’ll be a better tomorrow
Maybe one day you’ll find honesty Instead of the usual treachery Perhaps one day the truth shall prevail And the warmth of love which it does entail Crowfoot, Crowfoot, why the tears? You’ve been a brave man for many years Why the sadness? Why the sorrow? Maybe there’ll be a better tomorrow
An Aboriginal land rights song written by Australia rock band in the 80’s, not my cup of tea to be honest but documented here for completeness sake! https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beds_Are_Burning
Out where the river broke The blood-wood and the desert oak Holden wrecks and boiling diesels Steam in forty-five degrees
The time has come To say fair’s fair To pay the rent To pay our share
The time has come A fact’s a fact It belongs to them Let’s give it back
How can we dance When our earth is turning How do we sleep While our beds are burning
How can we dance When our earth is turning How do we sleep While our beds are burning
The time has come To say fair’s fair To pay the rent Now to pay our share
Four wheels scare the cockatoos From Kintore East to Yuendemu The western desert lives and breathes In forty-five degrees
The time has come To say fair’s fair To pay the rent To pay our share
The time has come A fact’s a fact It belongs to them Let’s give it back
How can we dance When our earth is turning How do we sleep While our beds are burning How can we dance When our earth is turning
How do we sleep While our beds are burning The time has come To say fair’s fair To pay the rent now To pay our share
The time has come A fact’s a fact It belongs to them We’re gonna give it back
How can we dance When our earth is turning How do we sleep While our beds are burning
The wonderful singer and promoter Sophie Bostock was waxing lyrical about this book to me and I’m so glad that I bought it as soon as she recommended it to me. It is a gem. I learnt so much from this including songs such as The Cutty Wren, The Bitter Withy, and The Death of Bill Brown.
A.L. Lloyd is very thorough and includes lyrics, music and background to all manner of songs from around England and beyond going back as far as he dare go and then some.
A.L. Lloyd includes this song about poaching as resistance to enclosure in his book Folk Song in England where he noted that it was “obtained by Frank Kidson from a singer in Goole, Yorkshire” and comments:
There are two distinct broadsheet songs which tell of the unhappy death of Bill Brown, a poacher shot by the gamekeeper at the village of Brightside, near Sheffield, in 1769. That a version of one of them might still be collected from tradition as late as the beginning of this century should be attributed to the extraordinary vitality which many of the broadside ballads had in the minds and hearts of the commons of England. Certainly the character of Bill Brown and the desire to avenge his death was sufficient to raise the necessary sympathetic bond between street singers and their audiences.
A.L. Lloyd further commented in the sleeve notes of Roy Harris’s 1972 record The Bitter and the Sweet:
When the practice of enclosing common-land for the benefit of lofty landlords was stepped up in the 18th century, it caused hardship and fierce resentment over the broad acres. For some reason, resistance to this injustice was specially fierce in the triangle roughly bounded by Sheffield, Lincoln and Nottingham, and within this area for more than half a century there was virtual guerrilla was between poacher and keeper. The sullen bloodshot ballad of Bill Brown, who was shot dead at Brightside, near Sheffield, in 1769, is characteristic of the poacher broadsides that moved the disaffected villagers of the time (and for long after). The tune was noted in Lincolnshire by Frank Kidson’s devoted informant, Mr Lolley, about eighty years ago.
You gentlemen, both great and small, Gamekeepers, poachers, sportsmen all, Come listen to me simple clown, I’ll sing you the death of poor Bill Brown, I’ll sing you the death of poor Bill Brown.
One stormy night, as you shall hear, ‘Twas in the season of the year. We went to the woods to catch a buck, But in that night we had bad luck, Bill Brown was shot and his dog was stuck.
Well, we got to the woods, our sport begun, I saw the gamekeeper present his gun, I called on Bill to climb the gate, To get away, but it was too late, For there he met his untimely fate.
Well, we got to the woods, our sport begun, I saw the gamekeeper present his gun, I called on Bill to climb the gate, To get away, but it was too late, For there he met his untimely fate.
I dressed myself next night in time, I got to the wood as the clock struck nine; The reason was, and I’ll tell you why, To find that gamekeeper I did go try, Who shot my friend, and he shall die.
I ranged the woods all over, and then I looked at my watch and it was just ten. I heard a footstep on the green, I hid myself for fear of being seen, For I plainly saw it was Tom Green.
I took my gun all in my hand, Resolved to fire if Tom should stand; Tom heard a noise and turned him round. I fired and brought him to the ground, My hand gave him his deep death wound.
Now revenge, you see, my hopes has crowned. I’ve shot the mam that shot Bill Brown. Poor Bill no more these eyes will see; Farewell, dear friend, farewell to ye, I’ve crowned your hopes and your memory.
The Bitter Withy was a popular carol carried in the oral tradition for many generations, believed to date back to the 15th century. In it some haughty young lords are drowned by a young Jesus after they mock him for being poor:
As it fell out on a bright holiday Small hail from the sky did fall; Our Saviour asked his mother dear If he might go and play at ball.
“At ball? At ball? My own dear son? It’s time that you were gone; Don’t let me hear of any complaints At night when you come home.”
So up the hill and down the hill Our sweet young Saviour ran Until he met three rich lords’, “Good morning to each one.”
“Good morn, good morn, good morn,” said they, “Good morning,” then said he, “And which of you three rich young lords Will play at ball with me?”
“We are all lords’ and ladies’ sons Born in a bower and hall, And you are nothing but a poor maid’s child Born in an ox’s stall.”
Sweet Jesus turned him round about, He did neither laugh nor smile, But the tears came trickling from his eyes Like water from the sky.
“If you’re all lords’ and ladies’ sons Born in your bower and hall, I’ll make you believe in your latter end I’m an angel above you all”
So he made him a bridge of the beams of the sun And over the water ran he; The rich young lords chased after him And drowned they were all three.
So up the hill and down the hill Three rich young mothers ran Saying, “Mary mild, fetch home your child For ours he’s drowned each one.”
“Oh I’ve been down in yonder town Far as the holy well, I took away three sinful souls And dipped them deep in hell.”
Then Mary mild, she took her child And laid him across her knee And with a handful of withy twigs She gave him slashes three.
“Oh bitter withy, oh bitter withy You’ve caused me to smart. And the withy shall be the very first tree To perish at the heart.”
This song is traditionally thought to date back to the 1300s and have been sung by participants of the Peasants’ Revolt in 1381. Worth noting that wikipedia and academia are both are keen to point out that there is no evidence of this, but people in the trad folk tradition are equally quick to point out in return that academics historically often have little idea about the oral tradition.
In A.L.Lloyd’s excellent Folk Song In England he states:
(The song) is often thought of as an amiable nursery piece yet when it was recorded from an old shepherd of Adderbury West, near Banbury, he banged the floor with his stick on the accented notes and stamped violently at the end of the verses, saying that to stamp was the right way and reminded of old times.
What memories of ancient defiance are preserved in this kind of performance it would be hard to say , but we do know that the wren-hunting song was attached to pagan midwinter ritual of the kind that the Church and authority fulminated vainly against- particularly in the rebellious perdio at the end of the Middle Ages when adherence to the forms of the Old Religion was taken to be evidence of subversion, and its partisans were violently persectuted in consequence.
In the sleeve notes of an Ian Campbell Folk Group record, A.L. Lloyd had this further explanation:
Some of the most ancient, most enduring and at the same time most mysterious English folk songs are those concerned with the attributes and sacrifice of monstrous animals. At the end of the 14th century, when peasant rebellion was in the air, the old magical song of the gigantically powerful bird (presented by a kind of folklore irony as a tiny wren) took on a tinge of new meaning. For here was the story of a great fowl so hard to seize, so difficult to dismember but so apt for sharing among the poor; and what did that suggest but a symbol of seignorial property?
Lyrics
“O where are you going?” said Milder to Maulder “O we may not tell you,” said Festle to Foes “We’re off to the woods,” said John the Red Nose
“What will you do there?” said Milder to Maulder “O we may not tell you,” said Festle to Foes “We’ll hunt the Cutty Wren,” said John the Red Nose
“How will you shoot her?” said Milder to Maulder “O we may not tell you,” said Festle to Foes “With bows and with arrows,” said John the Red Nose
“That will not do then,” said Milder to Maulder “O what will do then?” said Festle to Foes “Big guns and big cannons,” said John the Red Nose
“How will you bring her home?” said Milder to Maulder “O we may not tell you,” said Festle to Foes “On four strong men’s shoulders,” said John the Red Nose
“That will not do then,” said Milder to Maulder “O what will do then?” said Festle to Foes “Big carts and big waggons,” said John the Red Nose
“How will you cut her up?” said Milder to Maulder “O we may not tell you,” said Festle to Foes “With knives and with forks,” said John the Red Nose
“That will not do then,” said Milder to Maulder “O what will do then?” said Festle to Foes “Big hatches and cleavers,” said John the Red Nose
“Who’ll get the spare ribs?” said Milder to Maulder “O we may not tell you,” said Festle to Foes “We’ll give them all to the poor,” said John the Red Nose
Dr John Baxter has a project exploring intersection of folk and music hall, the songs and social history at http://folksongandmusichall.com/.
On the below blog he details a number of other songs about the Three Acres And A Cow election campaign of 1885/6 other than the one that we share in the show. It seems that the others were mocking the labourers for hoping for such a thing, or even for being fooled into thinking it would ever be possible!
Mo mhallachd aig na caoraich mhòr My curse upon the great sheep Càit a bheil clann nan daoine còir Where now are the children of the kindly folk Dhealaich rium nuair bha mi òg Who parted from me when I was young Mus robh Dùthaich ‘IcAoidh na fàsach? Before Sutherland became a desert?
Tha trì fichead bliadhna ‘s a trì It has been sixty-three years On dh’fhàg mi Dùthaich ‘IcAoidh Since I left Sutherland Cait bheil gillean òg mo chrìdh’ Where are all my beloved young men ‘S na nìonagan cho bòidheach? And all the girls that were so pretty?
Shellar, tha thu nist nad uaigh Sellar, you are in your grave Gaoir nam bantrach na do chluais The wailing of your widows in your ears Am milleadh rinn thu air an t-sluagh The destruction you wrought upon the people Ron uiridh ‘n d’ fhuair thu d’ leòr dheth? Up until last year, have you had your fill of it?
Chiad Dhiùc Chataibh, led chuid foill First Duke of Sutherland, with your deceit ‘S led chuid càirdeis do na Goill And your consorting with the Lowlanders Gum b’ ann an Iutharn’ bha do thoill You deserve to be in Hell Gum b’ fheàrr Iùdas làmh rium I’d rather consort with Judas
Bhan-Diùc Chataibh, bheil thu ad dhìth Duchess of Sutherland, where are you now? Càit a bheil do ghùnan sìod? Where are your silk gowns? An do chùm iad thu bhon oillt ‘s bhon strì Did they save you from the hatred and fury Tha an diugh am measg nan clàraibh? Which today permeates the press?
Mo mhallachd aig na caoraich mhòr My curse upon the great sheep Càit a bheil clann nan daoine còir Where now are the children of the kindly folk Dhealaich rium nuair bha mi òg Who parted from me when I was young Mus robh Dùthaich ‘IcAoidh na fàsach?
I was told about Hamish Henderson a few weeks ago and just spent a delightful hour making friends with his best known song ‘Freedom Come All Ye’.
There have been a few translations into English but I didn’t really like any of them so I’ve written my own, building on unattributed previous efforts. It’s such a shame that ‘down’ and ‘bloom’, and ‘more’ and ‘bare’ don’t rhyme in my southern English accent!
Hamish Henderson – Freedom Come All Ye
Original scots:
Roch the wind in the clear day’s dawin Blaws the cloods heilster-gowdie owre the bay But there’s mair nor a roch wind blawin Thro the Great Glen o the warld the day
It’s a thocht that wad gar oor rottans Aa thae rogues that gang gallus fresh an gay Tak the road an seek ither loanins Wi thair ill-ploys tae sport an play
Nae mair will our bonnie callants Merch tae war when oor braggarts crousely craw Nor wee weans frae pitheid an clachan Mourn the ships sailin doun the Broomielaw
Broken faimlies in lands we’ve hairriet Will curse ‘Scotlan the Brave’ nae mair, nae mair Black an white ane-til-ither mairriet Mak the vile barracks o thair maisters bare
Sae come aa ye at hame wi freedom Never heed whit the houdies croak for Doom In yer hoos aa the bairns o Adam Will find breid, barley-bree an paintit rooms
When Maclean meets wi’s friens in Springburn Aa thae roses an geans will turn tae blume An the black lad frae yont Nyanga Dings the fell gallows o the burghers doun.
Robin’s English translation
Rough the wind in the clear day’s dawning Blows the clouds topsy turvy about the bay, But there’s more than a rough wind blowing Through the great glen of the world today.
It’s a thought that will make our tyrants (Rogues who fancy themselves so fine and gay) Take the road, and seek other pastures For their ill ploys to sport and play
No more will our bonnie callants March to war when our braggarts crousely craw, Nor wee ones from pit-head and hamlet Mourn the ships sailin’ down the Broomielaw.
Broken families in lands we’ve harried, Will curse our names no more, no more; Black and white, hand in hand together, Will drive the tyrants from every shore
So come all ye at home with Freedom, Never heed the crooked hoodies croak for doom. In your house all the bairns of Adam Can find bread, barley-bree and painted room.
When MacLean meets with friends in Springburn Sweet the flowers will all bloom that day for thee And a black boy from old Nyanga Will break his chains and know liberty
This is a lovely old Germany song which may be super old, but as ever, no one really knows… Here is what wikipedia has to say, and below is Pete Seeger’s adaptation into English. Note that these words are slightly different to the version embedded above. You can hear another version here but for some reason it will not embed outside of YouTube.
Die gedanken sind frei, my thoughts freely flower Die gedanken sind frei, my thoughts give me power No scholar can map them, no hunter can trap them No man can deny, die gedanken sind frei
I think as I please and this gives me pleasure My conscience decrees, this right I must treasure My thoughts will not cater to duke or dictator No man can deny – die gedanken sind frei
Tyrants can take me and throw me in prison My thoughts will burst forth like blossoms in season Foundations may crumble and structures may tumble But free men shall cry – die gedanken sind frei
Original German lyrics (with translation below)
Die Gedanken sind frei, wer kann sie erraten, Sie fliegen vorbei wie nächtliche Schatten. Kein Mensch kann sie wissen, kein Jäger sie schießen Mit Pulver und Blei: Die Gedanken sind frei!
Ich denke was ich will und was mich beglücket, Doch alles in der Still’, und wie es sich schicket. Mein Wunsch und Begehren kann niemand verwehren, Es bleibet dabei: Die Gedanken sind frei!
Und sperrt man mich ein im finsteren Kerker, Das alles sind rein vergebliche Werke. Denn meine Gedanken zerreißen die Schranken Und Mauern entzwei: Die Gedanken sind frei!
Drum will ich auf immer den Sorgen entsagen Und will mich auch nimmer mit Grillen mehr plagen. Man kann ja im Herzen stets lachen und scherzen Und denken dabei: Die Gedanken sind frei!
Ich liebe den Wein, mein Mädchen vor allen, Sie tut mir allein am besten gefallen. Ich sitz nicht alleine bei meinem Glas Weine, Mein Mädchen dabei: Die Gedanken sind frei!
Thoughts are free, who can guess them? They fly by like nocturnal shadows. No person can know them, no hunter can shoot them With powder and lead: Thoughts are free!
I think what I want, and what delights me, Still always reticent, and as it is suitable. My wish and desire, no one can deny me And so it will always be: Thoughts are free!
And if I am thrown into the darkest dungeon, All these are futile works, Because my thoughts tear all gates And walls apart: Thoughts are free!
So I will renounce my sorrows forever, And never again will torture myself with whimsies. In one’s heart, one can always laugh and joke And think at the same time: Thoughts are free!
I love wine, and my girl even more, Only her I like best of all. I’m not alone with my glass of wine, My girl is with me: Thoughts are free!
O’er plains and cities far away,
All lorn and lost the morning lay,
When sunk the sun at break of day,
In smoke of mill and factory.
But waved the wind on Blackstone height
A standard of the broad sunlight,
And sung, that morn, with trumpet might,
A sounding song of Liberty.
And grew the glorious music higher,
When pouring with his heart on fire,
Old Yorkshire came, with Lancashire,
And all its noblest chivalry.
The men, who give,—not those, who take;
The hands, that bless,—yet hearts that break;
Those toilers for their foemen’s sake;
Our England’s true nobility!
So brave a host hath never met,
For truth shall be their bayonet,
Whose bloodless thrusts shall scatter yet
The force of false finality!
Though hunger stamped each forehead spare,
And eyes were dim with factory glare,
Loud swelled the nation’s battle prayer,
Of—death to class monopoly!
Then every eye grew keen and bright,
And every pulse was dancing light,
For every heart had felt its might
The might of labour’s chivalry.
And up to Heaven the descant ran,
With no cold roof ‘twixt God and man,
To dash back from its frowning span,
A church prayer’s listless blasphemy.
How distant cities quaked to hear,
When rolled from that high hill the cheer,
Of—Hope to slaves! to tyrants fear!
And God and man for liberty!
We hosted a singers circle of songs about land and farming, and Robin and Roo penned lyrics for a song that Darla Eno performed closing the conference.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Sing ORFC by Robin Grey and Roo Bramley (to the tune of Sing Ovy Sing Ivy)
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Our Ruth and Colin had an idea (sing ovy, sing ivy) To gather good folk from far and from near (sing holly go whistling ivy)
A place for enlightened ideas to grow And host this whilst they schemed up the road
A few years did pass, the gathering grown At Oxford Town Hall we found a new home
The answers here, new wisdom and old A future for farming, our visions are bold
Good food produced with healthy soil Fair wages paid to all those who toil
A seasonal harvest, the fat of the land Godspeed to the plough and the watchful hand
In partnership with worms and with bees Flourishing herds in pastures of green
The ministers and the media come To find out about the things we have done
So here’s to the future in uncertain times Let’s nurture the land with our children in mind
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
(cc) This work is reproduced under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License
Gather round people ill tell you a story An eight year long story of power and pride British Lord Vestey and Vincent Lingiari Were opposite men on opposite sides
Vestey was fat with money and muscle Beef was his business, broad was his door Vincent was lean and spoke very little He had no bank balance, hard dirt was his floor
From little things big things grow From little things big things grow
Gurindji were working for nothing but rations Where once they had gathered the wealth of the land Daily the pressure got tighter and tighter Gurindju decided they must make a stand
They picked up their swags and started off walking At Wattie Creek they sat themselves down Now it don’t sound like much but it sure got tongues talking Back at the homestead and then in the town
From little things big things grow From little things big things grow
Vestey man said I’ll double your wages Eighteen quid a week you’ll have in your hand Vincent said uhuh we’re not talking about wages We’re sitting right here till we get our land Vestey man roared and Vestey man thundered You don’t stand the chance of a cinder in snow Vince said if we fall others are rising
From little things big things grow From little things big things grow
Then Vincent Lingiari boarded an aeroplane Landed in Sydney, big city of lights And daily he went round softly speaking his story To all kinds of men from all walks of life
And Vincent sat down with big politicians This affair they told him is a matter of state Let us sort it out, your people are hungry Vincent said no thanks, we know how to wait
From little things big things grow From little things big things grow
Then Vincent Lingiari returned in an aeroplane Back to his country once more to sit down And he told his people let the stars keep on turning We have friends in the south, in the cities and towns
Eight years went by, eight long years of waiting Till one day a tall stranger appeared in the land And he came with lawyers and he came with great ceremony And through Vincent’s fingers poured a handful of sand
From little things big things grow From little things big things grow
That was the story of Vincent Lingiari But this is the story of something much more How power and privilege can not move a people Who know where they stand and stand in the law
From little things big things grow From little things big things grow From little things big things grow From little things big things grow
The Green Backyard in Peterborough have just signed a 12 year lease, winning an amazing victory saving land from some dubious business people and a council which has some amazing people in it …and others with more questionable motives. Read about it in the Peterborough Telegraph:
In twenty zero eight, two enterprising souls
Set to work to realise their very worthy goals
They met allies and met baddies, now listen as i tell
A tale of Peterborough’s finest and some pond scum straight from hell
There’s pair of Antonelli’s, both grafters through and through
Give them tools and wellies… there is nothing they can’t do
I sure want them on my team when we build the barricades
As we fight the fight for all that’s right with rascals and comrades
Three cheers for the green backyard, ’tis a glorious hour for people power
On two acres of good land that never knew concrete
They set to work creating a paradise complete with
Veg and flowers and people, and ponds and compost loos
But a few in power (with faces sour) had some other views
In twenty and eleven, the council battle began
Machen and Kneally, they worked an evil plan
And we mustn’t forgot Cereste, they don’t get more corrupt
Someone should him soon arrestie, cos he’s such an evil fuck ….refrain
But in our growers’ corner we’ve Gillian Beasly who was
A very early ally and the council chief exec too!
And props to Jay and Allan, more people joined the team
Now the scene is set, the players met, all captured in one tune
We mustn’t forget ‘Metal’, who invite arty sorts
And let them loose around here, to sow creative thoughts
Like ‘if this were to be lost’ and ‘this land is our land’
And ‘people before profit when when we all together stand’ ….refrain
‘For sale’ the sign was raised, this was a big mistake
Gave our growers marching orders, even set a date
But the town and country planning act, a couple of VIPs
Plus a tonne of people power brought the blighters to their knees
so to conclude my story, there’s still much work to do
but this is quite a victory, so credit where its due
and i hope our children’s children can be nurtured by this land
and people far from peterborah will know of this fine stand ….refrain
We had the pleasure of singing for Frack Free Lancashire and Reclaim The Power on Friday. During the show, Robin had an excuse to teach the audience a song he wrote for Newham Woodcraft Folk group last year called ‘Let’s Lock Ourselves Here For A While‘. Here are the lyrics and a recording so anyone who wants to learn it can:
D G
I’ve a hundred old bike locks and they won’t undo
A D
Any idea who I could give them to?
D G
It’s a nice sunny day in the countryside
A D
Lets lock ourselves here for a while
So sorry Mr Big Truck what is that you say
Something quite cross about us being in your way
The birds are enjoying the day from the trees
Lets lock ourselves here for a while
No we ain’t going nowhere, let’s climb up the trees Someone must stick up for the birds and the bees The poor have no lawyers, the trees have no rights Lets lock ourselves here for a while
Mr blue badge and truncheon is also upset
Doesn’t seem that grace has quite got to him yet
Filmed by a smart phone as he beats up Dave
who locked himself here for a while
They arrested our Caroline it made the lead news
One day the greens will out number the blues
Well in the meantime we’ll do what we must
Lets lock ourselves here for a while
Chorus
Mr suit and tie construction has a seat in the Lords
Our tattered democracy just filed for divorce
One day the people will speak out as one
until then we’ll be locked here a while
Ye owners of woodlands, with all due submission,
We humbly beg leave to present our petition,
That you will be pleas’d to recall your decree,
Which tells us that acorns no longer are free.
In Sussex and Surrey and Middlesex too,
Pigs may ramble at large without such ado;
And why, then, in Kent should pretences be found,
To drive us like culprits and thieves to the pound,
Since we, and our fathers, and others before ‘em,
Have rang’d in your woods, with all proper decorum?
No poachers are we, for no game we annoy
No hares we entrap, and no pheasants decoy;
Contented are we, if an acorn we find,
Nor wish for a feast of a daintier kind.
Besides, we are told (and perhaps not mistaken)
That you and your friends love a slice of good bacon;
But if of good bacon you all love a slice,
If pigs are to starve, how can bacon be nice?
For these and for other wise reasons of state,
We again our petition most humbly repeat,
Ye owners of woodlands, with all due submission,
We humbly beg leave to present our petition,
That you will repeal this severest of laws,
So your woods shall resound to our grunting applause.
Severine from The Greenhorns just sent me this ace song about the Land Corporation of Ireland by Duncan Bourne.
Bill Finney was an ancestor of Duncan’s. His son (William) was born in Ireland and for a long time he thought that the Finneys were of Irish decent. Given that Finney is also an Irish surname. However further research revealed a long standing Staffordshire branch of Finney.
The Land Corporation of Ireland arose out of the 1879 – 1882 Land War, which saw the rise of Irish Nationalism and gave us the word “boycott”. From the summer of 1879 the Land League carried out various activities aimed at preventing the forced eviction of tenants who had fallen into arrears due to recession. These activities ranged from ostracism (the boycott), protests at the sale of leases, riots and, although not officially sanctioned, assassinations. One organiser Michael Boyton advocated that land grabbers (people who took the land of evicted tenants) should be “given the pill” ie. shot. By 1882 the Land League had been suppressed and the Reform Bills of 1884 & 1885 gave voting rights to tenants as well as the promise of reduced rents, though these did not always materialise. The Land Corporation of Ireland was set up to work land that had fallen idle due to evictions but due to the Land War it was nigh on impossible to recruit from the local population and so “caretaker” farmers were recruited from England through letters sent to local parishes. Bill Finney was one such farmer.
Lyrics
I come from Wootton, Staffordshire Bill Finney is my name
And I sought employment where I could you name it, I was game
I started down the Holly Bush serving in that drovers inn
And through talking with those droving lads my travels did begin
Come all you eager labouring lads keen for some work to do
The Land Corporation of Ireland has just the job for you
I tried my luck in the Potteries towns but my efforts came to nought
So I travelled up to Middlewich and worked there with the salt
T’was there I saw a letter requesting men to farm
For the Land Corporation of Ireland and I thought, “well what’s the harm?”
Come all etc.
We’ll pay you ten to fifteen bob to work some idle land
Where used to live a family evicted out of hand
You’ll have a house and garden and a free allowance of fuel
But don’t expect a social life your reception may be cruel
Come all etc.
So I went to Tipperary away from England’s shore
And I learned about the hardship caused by the old Land War
I learned about the ‘Boycott’ and the giving of the ‘Pill’
And of the broken promises caused by the Reform Bill
Come all etc.
And so I am a caretaker on land of sorrows shame
Don’t blame me for being English sir there’s Irish in my name
My name it is Bill Finney come drink with me a while
The Land Corporation of Ireland are the ones you should revile
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