This song was found in the Bristol Radical History pamphlet (#6) ‘The Life and Times of Warren James’ about the Forest of Dean enclosures:
Arouse ye, free miners, who delve in old Dean, and all ye freeholders with rights o’er its green, ‘Tis time to be stirring for danger is nigh; and if ye bestir not, you’ll find by and by, that truth, and truth only, is this now I tell, They’ll suck out the egg if they once prick the shell!
Say will you surrender, or barter away, your Father’s old charter – twelve months and a day, while yours, the bad bargain, to take what they please, in rents and in taxes, in fines, and in fees. Remember, free miners, yea, ponder it well, They’ll suck out the egg if they once prick the shell!
Anon., The Foresters’ Egg! A Timely Warning! Dean Forest Mercury, 23 may 1884
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:
A Lanthorne for Landlords was published as a broadsheet ballad to the tune of The Duke of Norfolk, and was clearly directed towards a popular audience in the countryside. Its narrative develops themes apparent in some of the earlier works in this section: most notably Robert Crowley’s poem, which ends with the voice of God promising retribution against an exploitative landlord.
In this ballad, the landlord’s crimes and punishments are described at greater length, in a mode of popular melodrama. Indeed the attention lavished on the downfall of his family assumes among the readership a reservoir of barely suppressed resentment directed against landowners. The narrative of divine retribution is designed to appeal to all readers who have felt aggrieved by the actions of those in positions of economic power.
Recommended edition – The Pepys Ballads, ed. W. G. Day, 5 vols (Cambridge, 1987).
With sobbing grief my heart will break asunder in my breast, Before this story of great woe, I truly have expressed: Therefore let all kind-hearted men and those that tender be, Come bear a part of this my grief and jointly say with me,
Woe worth the man, etc.
Not long ago in Lincoln dwelt, As I did understand, A labouring man from thence set forth to serve in Ireland: And there in prince’s wars was slain, as doth that country know, But left his widow great with child as ever she could go.
This woman having gone her time, her husband being dead, Of two fine pretty boys at once was sweetly brought to bed: Whereat her wicked landlord straight, did ponder in his mind, How that their wants he should relieve, and succour for them find.
For being born upon his ground, this was his vile conceit, That he the mother should maintain and give the other meat: Which to prevent he hied fast, unto this widow poor, And on the day she went to church, he turned her out of door.
Her household goods he strained upon, to satisfy the rent, And left her scarce a rag to wear, so wilful was he bent. Her pretty babes that sweetly slept upon her tender breast, Were forced by the miser’s rage, by nights in streets to rest.
Quoth she, ‘my husband in your cause, in wars did lose his life, And will you use thus cruelly his harmless wedded wife? O God revenge a widow’s wrong, that all the world may know, How you have forced a soldier’s wife a-begging for to go.’
From Lincoln thus this widow went, but left her curse behind, And begged all the land about, her maintenance to find. At many places where she came she knew the whipping post, Constrained still as beggars be, to taste on such like roast.
[The woman’s twins, at the age of two, get lost and die in a field of barley, where later the woman discovers their corpses in the course of the harvest. The woman determines to return to Lincoln ‘To prosecute the law against / The causer of this deed’.]
But see the judgement of the Lord, how he in fury great, Did bring this miser to distress, though wealthy was his seat. For when to Lincoln she was brought, the caitiff he was gone. Of all his cursed family, remaining was but one.
For first the house wherein she dwelt, did prove unfortunate, Which made the landlord and his friends, to marvel much thereat. For tenants four there dwelt therein, A twelve month and a day, Yet none of them could thrive at all, but beggars went away.
Whereat this miserable wretch did turn it to a barn, And filled it full in harvest time with good red wheat and corn: To keep it safely from the poor, until there came a year, That famine might oppress them all and make all victuals dear.
But God forgetting not the wrongs, he did this widow poor, Sent down a fire from heaven, which soon consumed all his store: By which this wicked miser man, was brought to beggary, And likewise laid a grievous scourge upon his family.
His wife she proved a cursed witch, and burned for the same, His daughter now a strumpet is at London in defame. At Leicester at the ‘sizes last was hanged his eldest son, For there consenting wickedly unto a murder done.
His second son was fled away unto the enemy, And proved disloyal to his prince, and to his own country. His youngest son had like mishap, or worser in my mind, For he consented to a bitch, contrary unto kind:
For which, the Lord without delay, rained vengeance on his head, Who like a sinful sodomite defiled Nature’s bed. For there were two great mastiff dogs that met him in a wood, And tore his limbs in pieces small, devouring up his blood:
Whereof when as his father heard, most like a desperate man, Within a channel drowned himself, that down the street it ran, Whereas water could scarce suffice, to drown a silly mouse. And thus the ruin you have heard of him and all his house.
The widow she was soon possessed of all the goods he left, In recompence of those sweet babes mischance from her bereft. Wherefore let all hard-hearted men, by this example take, That God is just, and will be true, for woeful widows’ sake.
A very old ballad borrowed from the private library of some aristocratby a friend of Roy Palmer’s, who spent years trying to obtain a copy. Probably connected to the Midland Revolt.
You gentlemen that rack your rentes, and throwe downe Land for corne The tyme will com that som will sigh, that ever they were borne.
Small care you have for to maintayne trueth or godlines. Yee seek your gayne and still the poore oppresse.
Yee throw downe townes and houses to, and seek for honors more. When we your tenantes arre constraynde to beg from doore to doore.
Redres we will have, or we will knowe whye no. We will adventure lief & goods and so the matter shall goe.
The king commaundes and wisheth all thinges well he askes if all be don nothing but lies you tell.
Therfoer we have agreed even for the comons sake a blooddye entreprise to take.
Yet meanyng no harme to our gracious King Quene Prince or any of those But to pull downe those hawghty myndes which against his commandmentes themselves oppose.
For usurping Jupiter we will throwe downe and restore dispossessed Saturne to his princely Crowne.
Then will not Ambicious Phaeton seeke Phebus chariot to guide. nor hunger sterved Midas covet gold or worldly pride.
It is that which our Tyrantes have, and we do lack for they cary whole townes upon their back.
They are as Cruell as Titius which never did good nay, worse than Meda for seeking after blood.
They lyve secure and think to mak a golden voiage But what was Scipio Africanus either, when he had won great Carthage
Here they lyve in pompe & glory and may not be Controulde they think scorn of there faultes for to be told.
Lyving the poore doth wante, and lyving they shall have and the prowdest of all at our handes mercie shall crave
Their peacock plumes and golden coates, shall them nought avayll When soden death shall sodenly them call.
Do not Looke to Dye in bed, as others have don before But let som think to hand upon the dore.
This taske shall well be performed eare Martilmas be one fortenight gone. and of your goodly howses we will not leave one stone upon a stone
we will be merry and take our full of ioye (joy) as Priamus had to trayle Hectors body about the walles of Troye
Yee arre lyke to Esops curre in greediness which snatched at the shadow and so lost the flesh
Your Dealinges arre so bad, the peoples harts they break in tyranny you excell Gelon which not let his subiectes speak
what was his end, histories do shew as yyt was with him, so shall yt be with you
you feare naught, but we will make you all to quake with canon shot, we will your greedy myndes oure shak
when we com out, you tyrants to ynvade we neede not feare for helpe, thowsandes have sworn to Ayde
Then let som feare when the night ye hear the Drum or goon to enquire in the woodde that shalbe the true foreteller of his blood.
Yet that tyme you must Leave your whores & dainty dames whose lascyvious apparell & dainty chere, the poore man still maintaynes
therfore take order som, which be very good orelles as we have saied, yt shall cost the price of blood
but we care not, whether you order or noe forwardes the enterprise is lyke to go
yet Pelham & Hatton take courage still to you & Shefford we owe all good will
the howse of the Henneage let us call to mynde men good to the poore & to the commons Kynde
And so all otheres that arre Knighte or stand in Justice stedde Aganst them our sword the cause shall pleade
Oh yt shall do us good to see, these tyrantes wallowed in their Blood
God bless our King Quene and prince all waies God send them happy lief & old Nestors dayes.
I’ve recently been learning about the failed attempts by the Scottish ruling class to start a new colony in the last 1600s and how this bankrupted them. It was financial ruin caused by this that led to their agreeing (being bribed?) to the formal union of Scotland with England and Wales in 1707 in exchange for lots of cash. This poem written in 1791 by Robbie Burns spells out his disdain for those people who sold out Scotland for money after years of Scottish blood being spilt to defend its freedom.
There are two versions below with quite different interpretations.
Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame,
Fareweel our ancient glory;
Fareweel ev'n to the Scottish name,
Sae fam'd in martial story.
Now Sark rins over Solway sands,
An' Tweed rins to the ocean,
To mark where England's province stands-
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
What force or guile could not subdue,
Thro' many warlike ages,
Is wrought now by a coward few,
For hireling traitor's wages.
The English steel we could disdain,
Secure in valour's station;
But English gold has been our bane -
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
O would, ere I had seen the day
That Treason thus could sell us,
My auld grey head had lien in clay,
Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace!
But pith and power, till my last hour,
I'll mak this declaration;
We're bought and sold for English gold-
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
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
By Seumas Mor Maceanruig (Hamish Henderson) to the tune: ‘Johnston’s Motor Car’.
The Seven Men of Knoydart was the name given, to a group of squatters who tried to appropriate land at Knoydart in 1948. The name evoked the memory of the Seven Men of Moidart, the seven Jacobites who accompanied the Young Pretender on his voyage to Scotland in 1745. Comprising seven ex-servicemen, their claim was to be the last land raid in Scotland – from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seven_Men_of_Knoydart
‘Twas down by the farm of Scottas, Lord Brocket walked one day, And he saw a sight that worried him Far more than he could say, For the “Seven Men of Knoydart” Were doing what they’d planned– They had staked their claims and were digging their drains, On Brocket’s Private Land.
“You bloody Reds,” Lord Brocket yelled, “Wot’s this you’re doing ‘ere? It doesn’t pay as you’ll find today, To insult an English peer. You’re only Scottish half-wits, But I’ll make you understand. You Highland swine, these Hills are mine! This is all Lord Brocket’s Land.
I’ll write to Arthur Woodburn, boys, And they will let you know, That the ‘Sacred Rights of Property’ Will never be laid low. With your stakes and tapes, I’ll make you traipse From Knoydart to the Rand; You can dig for gold till you’re stiff and cold– But not on this e’re Land.”
Then up spoke the Men of Knoydart; “Away and shut your trap, For threats from a Saxon brewer’s boy, We just won’t give a rap. O we are all ex-servicement, We fought against the Hun. We can tell our enemies by now, And Brocket, you are one!”
When he heard these words that noble peer Turned purple in the face. He said, “These Scottish savages Are Britain’s black disgrace. It may be true that I’ve let some few Thousand acres go to pot, But each one I’d give to a London spiv, Before any Goddam Scot!
“You’re a crowd of Tartan Bolshies! But I’ll soon have you licked. I’ll write to the Court of Session, For an Interim Interdict. I’ll write to my London lawyers, And they will understand.” “Och to Hell with your London lawyers, We want our Highland Land.”
When Brocket heard these fightin’ words, He fell down in a swoon, But they splashed his jowl with uisge, And he woke up mighty soon, And he moaned, “These Dukes of Sutherland Were right about the Scot. If I had my way I’d start today, And clear the whole dam lot!”
Then up spoke the men of Knoydart: “You have no earthly right. For this is the land of Scotland, And not the Isle of Wight. When Scotland’s proud Fianna, With ten thousand lads is manned, We will show the world that Highlanders Have a right to Scottish Land.”
“You may scream and yell, Lord Brocket– You may rave and stamp and shout, But the lamp we’ve lit in Knoydart Will never now go out. For Scotland’s on the march, my boys– We think it won’t be long. Roll on the day when The Knoydart Way Is Scotland’s battle song.”
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!
I used to sing this song in shows a lot but it seems to have been nudged out. I’ve yet to hear anyone else sing or record it. Might pop that on the to do list… Taken from Roy Palmer’s excellent The Painful Plough.
Says the Master to me is it true as I’m told, Your names on the book of the Union enrolled, I can never allow that a workman of mine, With wicked Disturbers of Peace should combine.
Said I to the Master it’s perfectly true, That I’m in the Union I’ll stick to it too, And if between Union and you I must choose, I’ve plenty to win and little to lose.
For twenty years mostly my bread has been dry, And to butter it now I will certainly try, And though I respect you remember I pray, No Master in England shall trample on me.
Says the Master to me in a word or two more, We never have quarreled on matters before, If you stick to the Union ‘ere long I’ll be bound, You’ll come and ask me for more wages all round.
Now I cannot afford more than two bob a day, And look at the taxes and rent that I pay, And the crops are so injured by game as you see, If it’s hard for you it’s hard for me.
Says I to the Master I do not see how, Any need has arisen for quarreling now, And though likely enough we shall ask for more wage, I promise you we shall be first in a rage.
I loved this song as a teenager but knew nothing about the subject matter, nor would I have known where to find any in my Daily Telegraph reading Thatcher-lite household and community. But now we have wikipedia and easy to find interviews with the band about writing it.
I thought i heard someone calling me I’ve seen the pictures on TV And i made up my mind that i’d go and see With my own eyes
It didn’t take too long to hitch a ride With a guy going south to start a new life Past the place where my friend died Two years ago
Down the 303 at the end of the road Flashing lights – exclusion zones And it made me think it’s not just the stones That they’re guarding
Hey hey, can’t you see There’s nothing here that you could call free They’re getting their kicks Laughing at you and me
As the sun rose on the beanfield They came like wolf on the fold And no they didn’t give a warning They took their bloody toll
I see a pregnant woman Lying in blood of her own I see her children crying As the police tore apart her home And no they didn’t need a reason It’s what your votes condone It seems they were committing treason By trying to live on the road
If I could marry a song it would probably be this one. Alistair Hulett on fine form writing about Mary Barbour and the Glasgow Women’s rent strike at the start of the 1914-1918 war.
Mrs Barbour’s Army by Alistair Hulett
In the tenements o’ Glesga in the year one nine one five It was one lang bloody struggle tae keep ourselves alive We were coontin’ oot the coppers tae buy wor scraps o’ food When the landlords put the rent up just because they could A’ the factories were hummin’, there was overtime galore But wages they were driven doon tae subsidise the war Oot came Mrs. Barbour from her wee bit single end She said, I’ll organise the lassies if I cannae rouse the men
‘Cos I’m from Govan and your from Partick This one here’s from Bridge o’ Weir and they’re from Kinning Park There’s some that’s prods, there’s some that’s catholic But we’re Mrs. Barbour’s Army and we’re here tae dae the wark
Mrs. Barbour made a poster sayin’, We’ll no’ pay higher rent Then she chapped on every door of every Govan tenement She said, Pit this in the windae when you hear me bang the drum We’ll run oot an’ chase the factor a’ the way tae kingdom come When the poor wee soul cam roon’ he was battered black and blue By a regiment in pinnies that knew just what tae do Mrs. Barbour organised the gaitherin’ o’ the clans And they burst oot o’ the steamie armed wi’ pots an’ fryin’ pans
Mrs. Barbour’s Army spread through Glesga like the plague The maisters got the message and the message wisnae vague While our menfolk fight the Kaiser we’ll stay hame & fight the war Against all the greedy bastards who keep grindin’ doon the poor If ye want tae stop conscription stand and fight the profiteers Bring the hale big bloody sandpit crashin’ doon aroon’ their ears We’ll no’ starve, said Mrs. Barbour, While the men we care for ain Are marchin aff to hae their heart’s blood washed like water doon a drain
Well it didnae take the government that lang tae realise If you crack doon on the leaders then the rest will compromise They arrested Mrs. Barbour and they clapped her in the jile Then they made an awfy big mistake, they let her oot on bail She called men out the factories on the Clyde and on the Cart They marched up tae the courthoose sayin’, We’ll tear the place apart Mrs. Barbour’s Army brought the maisters tae their knees Wi’ a regiment in pinnies backed by one in dungarees
I’ve still not got around to learning this, which is pretty poor – perhaps you can learn it and send us a recording?! Again taken from Roy Palmer’s excellent Ballad History of England. Tune is know nowadays as the Broom of the Cowdenknowes.
We seldom sing this in the show, opting to go for the Leon Rosselson song as it is a bit more of a romp. Lady Maisery’s version is a favourite. Roy Palmer has the full and original lyrics in A Ballad History Of England, which I’ve also included a photo of below as I’m feeling a little too lazy to type them up, sorry.
You noble Diggers all, stand up now, stand up now, You noble Diggers all, stand up now, The waste land to maintain, seeing Cavaliers by name Your digging do disdain and your persons all defame Stand up now, Diggers all.
Your houses they pull down, stand up now, stand up now, Your houses they pull down, stand up now. Your houses they pull down to fright poor men in town, But the gentry must come down and the poor shall wear the crown. Stand up now, Diggers all.
With spades and hoes and ploughs, stand up now, stand up now, With spades and hoes and ploughs, stand up now. Your freedom to uphold, seeing Cavaliers are bold To kill you if they could and rights from you withhold. Stand up now, Diggers all.
Their self-will is their law, stand up now, stand up now, Their self-will is their law, stand up now. Since tyranny came in they count it now no sin To make a gaol a gin and to serve poor men therein. Stand up now, Diggers all.
The gentry are all round, stand up now, stand up now, The gentry are all round, stand up now. The gentry are all round, on each side they are found, Their wisdom’s so profound to cheat us of the ground. Stand up now, Diggers all.
The lawyers they conjoin, stand up now, stand up now, The lawyers they conjoin, stand up now, To arrest you they advise, such fury they devise, But the devil in them lies, and hath blinded both their eyes. Stand up now, Diggers all.
The clergy they come in, stand up now, stand up now, The clergy they come in, stand up now. The clergy they come in and say it is a sin That we should now begin our freedom for to win. Stand up now, Diggers all.
‘Gainst lawyers and ‘gainst priests, stand up now, stand up now, ‘Gainst lawyers and ‘gainst Priests, stand up now. For tyrants are they both even flat against their oath, To grant us they are loath free meat and drink and cloth. Stand up now, Diggers all.
The club is all their law, stand up now, stand up now, The club is all their law, stand up now. The club is all their law to keep poor folk in awe, That they no vision saw to maintain such a law. Glory now, Diggers all.
It’s fair to say that Professor Wallace House was probably a bit of a dude. An American who perfected the art of many regional English accents so he could sing his favourite folk songs authetically.
We adapted our version of ‘Robin Hood and the Three Squires’ from this record:
As Robin Hood ranged the green woods all round, all round the woods ranged he He saw a young lady in very deep grief, weeping against an oak tree weeping against an oak tree
O why weepest thou, my dear lady? What trouble’s befallen thee? Well I have three brothers in Nottingham jail, this day all hanged must be this day all hanged must be
O what have they done , my dear lady, to pay such a costly fee? Why they have killed three of the King’s fallow deer their children and wives to feed
Take courage, take courage, says bold Robin Hood, oh weep not against the oak tree, And I will away to Nottingham fair, the High Sheriff for to see
Then Robin Hood hastened to Nottingham town, to Nottingham town went he And there with the high master Sheriff he met and likewise the squires all three
One favour one favour I have to beg. One favour to beg of thee That thou wilt reprieve these three young squires, this day and set them free
O no, o no, the high Sheriff says, their lives are forfeit to me, For they have killed three of the King’s fallow deer and this day all hanged must be
One favour more I have to beg. One favour more of thee That I may blow thrice on my old bugle horn that their spirits to heaven may flee
O granted, o granted, the High Sheriff said. O granted O granted said he Thou mayest blow thrice on thine old bugle horn that their spirits to heaven may flee
Then Robin Hood climbed the gallows so high and blew both loud and shrill Three hundred and ten of bold Robin Hood’s men came marching across the green hill
O whose men are these? The High Sheriff asks. And Robin Hood answered with glee, They’re all of them mine and they’re none of them thine and they’ve come for the squires all three
O take them, O take them, the High Sheriff said. I’ll have no quarrel with thee, For there’s not a man in fair Nottingham that can do the like of thee.
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?
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