Jack in the Green 2017

Jack In The Green and Other Heroes

A collection of songs by

Martin Graebe

Published by Greenjack Publications, 59 Roberts Close, Cirencester, Gloucestershire, GL7 2RP Jack in the Green and other heroes

A collection of songs by Martin Graebe

A Sailor's Farewell Harry The Hawker A Hunting Song Harriet Lane Peter's Private Army Honiton Lace The Shropshire Union The Great Galleon of Plymouth Jack in the Green Newton Fair Eight Set's Song The Lavender Express From Severn, by the Somme November Drinking Song Stonecracker John Daniel's Ducks The Chorus Song The King of the Light-Finger Gentry The Knocker-up Woman The Singing Story Man Laying My Life on the Line The Road to Hell

A few (more) words ……….

In May 1978 I published a collection of my songs under the title 'The Singing Story Man'. That publication was a mix of hand-writing, drawings and Letraset - leading edge technology for the 70's. It sold steadily for many years and only a fragile few of that first collection are left. People asked me whether I was going to do it again and the answer was always ‘Someday!’ That day arrived in 1999. The technology was different but it was still my own work - with a lot of help from my family and friends. Some years ago I decided to make all my songs freely available on the internet and now, in 2017, I have re-created this book electronically for a revised and simplified version of the website. This is my own selection of the songs that I have written over more than forty years and includes all of those that have made it into other peoples repertoires. It has been a great pleasure to me that other people have wanted to sing my songs – even when they don’t know they have done so! It has also been a great surprise that some of them have endured so well. The whole business of song- writing remains as much of a mystery to me today as it always was - I don't know why songs come and to feel one take shape is sometimes a very strange experience. Talking with other writers I know I am not alone in feeling that it is not a process over which one has any real control. If these songs mean something to you and you want to sing them then that will make me very happy. You do not need my permission, which you'd be given in any case. If you should happen to record one I'd love to hear about it. Otherwise just enjoy them!

Martin Graebe

July 2017

A Sailor's Farewell

Martin Graebe 3 œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ & 4 œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ

As I sailed from the pier-head one day last Ju ly, Pret-ty Nan-cy came down for to wave me good- ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ & œ œ œ œ œ

bye, 'Dear John - ny' she cried as my boat slipped from ˙ œ œ œ œ œ & œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙

shore, 'I'm a - fraid that I may nev - er see you no more'

As I sailed from the pierhead one day last July Pretty Nancy came down for to wave me goodbye ‘Dear Johnny,’ she cried,as my boat slipped from shore ‘I’m afraid that I may never see you no more’

But as my boat faded to the size of a pin My cards they read 'lose' to another man’s ‘win’ When the boatman cried out ‘Come in number eleven’ I found she’d run off with a farmer from Devon

So if you go sailing on Regent’s Park Lake Just list to my song boys, don’t make my mistake Or when your boat is safe from the shore hid She’ll prove faithless to you - just like my Nancy did

I did spend a few weeks one summer holiday when I was a student living and working in central London and we would take a boat out on Regents Park Lake most evenings - I never saw any lost sailors though.

Martin Graebe

bb3 ™ & 4 œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ ˙ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Old Har-ry the Haw-ker is dead No more will he bring his boot-hooks and lac - es and bb œ ™ Œ & ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ ˙ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ ˙ fan - cy goods from for eign places old Har - ry the Haw-ker is dead

Final chorus bb & ˙ œ ˙ œ ˙ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ ˙ œ ˙ œ Jokes andsmiles and songs andsnatch - es rib-bions and sash-es and need-les and pins and lamps and cand - les, bb & ˙ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ Knives and forks and boot-hooks and lac - es and fan - cy goods from bb œ ™ Œ & œ œ œ œ ˙ ˙ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ ˙ for reign pla - ces Old Har - ry the Haw -ker is dead

1 Old Harry the Hawker is dead 3 No more will he bring his lamps and candles No more will he bring his boot-hooks and laces In holders of brass with graven handles And fancy goods from foreign places Old Harry the Hawker is dead 4 No more will he bring his needles and pins In penny packets and twopenny tins 2 Old Harry the Hawker is dead No more will he bring his knives and forks 5 No more will he bring his ribbons and sashes ….The finest Sheffield cutler's works To brighten our hearts with their colourful splashes Old Harry the Hawker is dead Knives and forks and boot-hooks and laces 6 No more will he bring his songs and snatches And fancy goods from foreign places His frisky jigs and his cheerful catches Old Harry the Hawker is dead 7 Old Harry the Hawker is dead Continue, using the following middle sections No more will he bring his jokes and smiles until the final verse, adding the words in Collected along England's many fair miles bold type to the beginning of each chorus Old Harry the Hawker is dead Jokes and smiles and songs and snatches, ribbons and sashes And needles and pins and lamps and candles, knives and forks And boot-hooks and laces and fancy goods from foreign places Old Harry the Hawker is dead

This was the first of my songs to be recorded by a ‘major folk artist’ when Martyn Wyndham-Read chose it as the title track for his 1973 album. Like many of the early songs it was written to fill a gap in my repertoire - I wanted a cumulative song. I still enjoy singing about Harry. One of the reasons for that enjoyment is the constant danger of forgetting what comes next in the chorus each time.

Martin Graebe #6 œ œ œ œ & 8 œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

'Twas last Box - ing Day morn -ing, the rude hunt - ing horn did break in - to my drink sod - den # j œ œ œ œ & œ œ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

slum-ber. So I threw off my sheets,put my shoes on my feet and out in - to the streets I did # j j & œ œ™ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ

lum - ber. Where,down at the cast - le, I joined in the bust - le, all watch-ing the soc - ial el - # œ™ œ œ œ œ & œ J œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ™

ite Who in crim-son and leath-er had all come to - geth - er to join in the Box-ing Day Meet.

1 'Twas last Boxing Day morning, the rude hunting horn 4 Willie let out a shriek and leapt onto his bike Did break into my drink-sodden slumber And he peddled towards the horizon So I threw off my sheets, put my shoes on my feet But he'd leapt on the rear from where he couldn't steer And out into the streets I did lumber When he crashed it was hardly surprising Where down at the castle I joined in the bustle Just then from the bush came the hounds in a rush All watching the social elite 'Till in fox hounds our William wallowed Who in crimson and leather had all come together Willie took to his heels, the fox fled for the fields, To join in the Boxing Day Meet 'Twas my fast running friend the pack followed

2 I stopped in for a gin at the old Castle Inn 5 Now you may well wonder, at this canine blunder Where I met my good friend Willie Brandon But the scent they no more could discern-o We conceived a plan that we'd join in the van You see in the jostle they'd broke Willie's bottle And go follow the hunt on his tandem And our Willie's weakness was Pernod So each bought a bottle and off we did wobble The hunt had good sport but when Willie was caught With William doing the steering He avowed foreign liquors too risky But our chase was in vain since we stuck to the lane Since that Boxing Day meet he has been more discrete, And the hunt soon passed out of our hearing Now he never drinks nothing but whisky

3 We stopped for a breath and a drop of refreshment The day being dry, warm and clear And we sat on the bank and we talked and we drank And we toasted the coming new year When back to our ears came the barks and the cheers And the usual old clatter and racket We paid no heed at all 'till the fox jumped the wall And fell right into William's jacket

I really did set out to write a serious song about fox-hunting - honest! It's just that it got subverted along the way

Freely bb2 j œ œ œ œ œ œ & 4 œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ There was a man came to our town, he looked a - long, he looked a- round,and then he laid his bb œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ™ j œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ™ & œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ bag-gage down and he be-gan to sing. Come list-en to the sto-ry man, run to hear the Sing-ing Sto-ry Man

1 There was a man came to our town He looked along, he looked around And then he laid his baggage down And he began to sing Come listen to the Story Man Run to hear the Singing Story Man

2 The townsfolk gathered in a ring To listen to the stranger sing He stood so proudly, like some king And filled the streets with song Come listen to …

3 He sang of knights and sailors bold Of summers hot and winters cold Of women young and women old Of love and lovers ways Come listen to …

4 He sang of poachers, priests and pigs Of lace and ladies, wax and wigs Of Derby's Ram and London's Rigs Of gold and galleons and gore Come listen to …

5 He finished with a chorus loud Then, songs all sung, he turned and bowed Picked up his bags and joined the crowd I hope he'll come again Come listen to …

A song about singing songs. Why do we do it? Why do you do it? Without wishing to get too precious about it I believe that, with a song, I can have a moments impact on another person's thoughts and feelings. Songs have the power to influence political or religious feelings, to inform, to change, to seduce or just to entertain. Maybe I'm trying to do all of those things in a small way at different times but mostly it is just the last of the above.

Martin Graebe

b2 œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ & 4 œ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ Stone-crack-er John wakes at five in the morn-ing ev-er - y day Cuts his bread an cheese then he œ œ œ œ ˙ œ™ œ œ &b œ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ J œ œ œ

waits for the cart to car-ry him a - way While the trades-men sleep, he must earn his b œ œ œ œ œ & ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ keep. In a hun - dred years it' - ll all be the same says Stone Crack-er John

1 Stonecracker John wakes at five in the morning every day Cuts his bread and cheese then he waits for the cart to carry him away While the tradesmen sleep, he must earn his keep 'In a hundred years it'll all be the same' says Stonecracker John

2 Stonecracker John rides off to his work with six other men With 'Good Morning!' said, their silence cloaks them once again For the chat's stillborn, they can only yawn 'In a hundred years it'll all be the same' says Stonecracker John

3 At the Five Mile Cross the cart will leave him out on his own With a mallet and a chisel and a ten pound hammer and a block of stone Through the long hot day, he must chip away 'In a hundred years it'll all be the same says' Stonecracker John

4 In the heat of Noon he'll find some shade to have his food And he'll watch the traffic moving up and down the road All the rich on wheels, and the poor on their heels 'In a hundred years it'll all be the same' says Stonecracker John

5 Stonecracker John fills the ruts in the road with broken stone When the hole is filled he moves aside and the wheels roll on He'll be homeward bound as the sun goes down 'In a hundred years it'll all be the same' says Stonecracker John

6 Stonecracker John peers out of his window, housetop high He can see his handwork cross the hill and touch the sky In the pale moon's light it's a ribbon of white 'In a hundred years it'll all be the same' says Stonecracker John (Repeat) 'In a hundred years it'll all be the same' says Stonecracker John

This song was inspired by two images, firstly that of the road-mender with whom Richard Hannay changes clothes in 'The Thirty Nine Steps' and secondly by the description of the stonecracker in Grace Bradbeer's book 'The Land that Changed it's Face' where she writes about South Devon in the years between the two wars. . At the time I hadn't ever heard Sir Edward German's song of the same name. Later I read Sabine Baring-Gould's account of Robert Hard, the old stonecracker from South Brent. Hard was the source of many of the finest of Baring-Gould's 'Songs of the West' including 'The Cuckoo' and was to meet his end '...frozen, on a heap of stones by the roadside'

bb4 œ œ œ œ œ œ & 4 œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Now peo-plecome and ga-ther round,though our coatsare rag-ged and our fa - ces brown.You see we are no b œ œ œ &b œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙

com - mon band, at the call of our count - ry we all did stand. b œ œ &b œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙

Tip - a - tap - tip, hop - and - skip it's Pet - er's Pri - vate Ar my

1 Now people come and gather round 5 And number four is Harry Taw Though our coats are ragged and our faces brown Caught a bullet in the throat in the Peninsula You see we are no common band But he's wind enough on his fife to toot At the call of our country we all did stand He can say as much as we although his voice is mute Tip-a-tap tip, hop and skip Tip-a-tap tip, hop and skip It's Peter's Private Army It's Peter's Private Army

2 Number one is Peter Dunn 6 And number five is Mad Jim Ives His arm blown away by a big French gun We sometimes wonder if he's dead or alive It's him our little band does lead But when he hears the fiddle thrum With the money bag tied to his sleeve He'll beat like hell on his pigskin drum Tip-a-tap tip, hop and skip Tip-a-tap tip, hop and skip It's Peter's Private Army It's Peter's Private Army

3 And number two is Peg-leg Hugh 7 And now we're marching off again His dancing done since Waterloo You can hear us fading down the lane With his fiddle tucked beneath his chin And we hope that you've been kind to us He'll wave his stump to keep the time ‘Cos we've given much for you in the foreign wars Tip-a-tap tip, hop and skip Tip-a-tap tip, hop and skip It's Peter's Private Army It's Peter's Private Army

4 And number three is Blind Jack Bree Lost both his eyes in the King's navy But still his squeeze-box he can play And the notes roll out like an ocean wave Tip-a-tap tip, hop and skip It's Peter's Private Army

At one point in my career my interest in historical oddities and my professional life as a developer of new food products came together when I was working on Ambrosia 'Traditional Rice Pudding'. In establishing the background for that product I used information on the retail market in milk products in the middle of the last century from Henry Mayhew’s ‘London Labour and the London Poor’. This book also gave me the ideas for a couple of songs, one of which was ‘Peter’s Private Army’. Mayhew interviewed both legitimate tradesmen and the less honest with equal enthusiasm. One of his shadier interviewees described ‘The Shallow Lurk’ - the confidence trick in which the participants dressed up to pretend they were ex soldiers or sailors in order to elicit sympathetic small change. If all the ‘sailors’ who claimed to have served on the Victory at Trafalgar had actually done so the ship would have sunk under their weight before leaving harbour.

Martin Graebe b3 b 4 œ ˙ œ œ & œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Now winter is o- ver I'm happy to say and we're all met a- gaUin in our bb œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ & œ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ribbons so gay And we're all met a- gain, to rejoice in the spring And to bb ™ ™ & œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ ˙ go a- bout dancing with Jack in the Green Jack in the Green, bb œ ˙ œ œ & œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ Jack in the Green and we'll all dance each Spring-time with Jack in the Green

Now winter is over I'm happy to say And we're all met again in our ribbons so gay And we're all met again, to rejoice in the spring And to go about dancing with Jack in the Green Jack in the Green, Jack in the Green And we’ll all dance each springtime with Jack in the Green

Now Jack in the Green is a very strange man Though he dies every Autumn he's born every spring And each year on his birthday, we will dance through the street And in return Jacky will ripen the wheat Jack in the Green, Jack in the Green And we’ll all dance each springtime with Jack in the Green

Now all you young maidens I'd have you beware Of touching young Jack for there's strange powers there For if you but touch him there is many will tell Like the wheat in our fields so your belly will swell Jack in the Green, Jack in the Green And we’ll all dance each springtime with Jack in the Green

With his mantle he'll cover the trees that are bare Our gardens he'll trim with his jacket so rare But our fields he will sow with the hair of his head And the grain it will ripen till old Jack is dead Jack in the Green, Jack in the Green And we’ll all dance each springtime with Jack in the Green

Now the sun is half up and it signals the hour That the children arrive with their garlands of flowers So now let the music and the dancing begin And touch the good heart of young Jack in the Green Jack in the Green, Jack in the Green And we’ll all dance each springtime with Jack in the Green

Martin Graebe

Very freely, use second half of tune for the half verses j bb4 ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ & 4 œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ A sto - ry I will tell to you of the days of good Queen Vic, but I'll wait till sup-per's down and clear in b œ™ œ œ œ œ &b œ œ œ œ ˙™ œ J œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ case it makes you sick. So, if you're read - y I'll be - gin to tell of Har - ri - et bb ™ j œ œ œ œ ™ Œ & ˙™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ Lane, who walked the streets of South-wark where she played the old - est game

A story I will tell to you of the days of good Queen Vic Our scene now shifts to the southern seas where Jimmy sits to dine But I'll wait 'till supper's down and clear in case it makes you sick On salted biscuit, salted beef and salted 'Adam's Wine' So if you're ready I'll begin to tell of Harriet Lane But as he gobbled down his grub the hand of fate did move Who walked the streets of Southwark where she played the oldest game As an object became firmly lodged inside his guzzling groove

In Bermondsey lived Jimmy Brown who worked for Donkin and Hall He turned bright red and coughed and choked and vainly fought for breath Purveyors of preserved meats in tins both large and small It soon became quite evident that he was marked for death Now Jimmy used to tend the vats where the meat was salted down His shipmates gathered round him as his final cough came fast Before they stuffed it in the tin and soldered the cap around And his confession he coughed up before he coughed his last He'd boil away for hours long and sometimes through the night The sawbones slit his gizzard up just to see what caused the trouble To feed Victoria's martial hosts and fill them for the fight And found that he had been undone by a ladies corset buckle

One fateful winter evening Harriet wandered by the spot From that day sailors searched their meat before they wolfed it down Where Jimmy Brown was resting from his giant cooking pot For truth or not they all had heard the tale of Jimmy Brown She turned her wiles upon him and the lad fell in her snare And all canned meat for sailor's use acquired another name The talk soon turned to meat trade and he didn't have a prayer And many an old-time 'Shellback' got a taste for 'Harriet Lane'

So Harriet to the scaffolding above the vats he brought Well the canning trade's moved on since then, it's now done by machine And 'midst the steam a nest did make on soggy sacks of salt With yards and yards of stainless steel all scrupulously clean "I'll catch my death on there," she says, "I want a nice warm bed" And the Health and Safety at Work Act and the Food and Drugs Act too And with her rolled umbrella she hit Jim round the head All lay down very clearly what a canner cannot do Now Jimmy was a peaceful lad but he wouldn't stand for that But even the best precautions may sometimes prove in vain And he says "I'll make you warm all right!" and he shoved her in the vat So, if a button turns up in your Heinz Baked Beans - remember Harriet Lane!

I wrote this tale after reading that the sailors on the South American routes called canned meat ‘Harriet Lane’ in the same way that the Navy called it ‘Fanny Adams’ - in both cases after notorious Victorian murders. Because impossible co-incidences seem to happen all the time I should not have been surprised to discover later that copies of two broadside ballads relating to Harriet Lane’s murder had been passed down in my first wife, Cherri’s family. The real story is that Henry Wainwright, having murdered Harriet Lane, kept her in pieces in his cellar for some time before wrapping her in oilcloth and carrying her up to the street as a number of parcels which he asked a passer-by to look after while he went for a cab. The passer-by had a keen sense of smell and when Henry came back with the cab he found a policeman looking after his parcels. I was quite pleased to get some genuine food technology into the song but particularly to have succeeded in getting the Food and Drugs Act and the Health and Safety at Work Act in there.

Martin Graebe b3 ˙ œ ˙ ˙ œ ˙ œ &b 4 œ œ ˙ œ ˙ œ œ ˙™ ˙ œ ˙ œ œ œ

If ever you look out of a train, see fur - rows on the ground Just think a - while of the b ˙ œ ˙ ™ &b ˙ œ ˙ œ œ ˙ ˙ œ ˙ œ ˙ œ ˙ œ ˙ œ

steam-ploughmen who travel the count - ry round For as your train is speed - ing on so b ˙ œ ˙ ™ &b œ ˙ ˙ œ ˙ œ ˙ œ ˙ œ ˙ œ

steam does speed the plough Black hors - es fed on coal and wa - ter b &b ˙ œ ˙ œ ˙ œ ˙ œ ˙ œ ˙ œ ˙™ ˙

are the fash - ion now, my boys, they are the fash - ion now

1 If ever you look out of a train, see furrows on the ground 5 You pull her down and let her go and jump back on the seat Just think awhile of the steam-plough men who travel the country round And if the engine's pulling well your furrows will be straight For as your train is speeding on so steam does speed the plough You steer her through the goring just as tightly as you can Black horses fed on coal and water And when they've moved the engines up Are the fashion now, my boys, they are the fashion now You pull her down again, my boys, you pull her down again

2 Our foreman's name is Adam Bates and a tough old soul is he 6 We finish when the sun goes down below the chimney band Our drivers are two brothers bold called Ben and Timmy Lee We bank them up and check the gear and take our coats in hand Jack Harker is the steersman and the cookie is Bill Down We'll have our supper straight away if cookie's got it right We are the lads of Eight Set Then its off to the pub when we've had our grub, And we've come to plough your ground, my boys, we've come to plough It's the farmer's round tonight, my boys. it's the farmer's round tonight [your ground 7 All in the Springtime of the year we start out on our round 3 Before you see us on the road you'll know that we are near Through Summer's heat to Autumn mud we plough our patch of ground Two engines each of fourteen tons you feel before you hear We turn around when leaves fall down, we're home for Bonfire Night With plough and drag and water cart, our living van besides And then on Acreage Payment Day Sounds like some mighty army We'll set the town alight., my boys, we'll set the town alight Moving through the countryside, my boys, all through the countryside 8 Through Winter's dark and stormy days our time it will be well spent 4 To see us working in the field it is a pretty sight The rough repairs made on the road must be set right again The clouds of shivering steam reflected in our brass-work bright We'll strip them down and grease them up and make their paintwork shine To hear one engine pulling while the other's running free And get them fit for when we hit And the straining wire sings treble The road again next Spring, my boys, the road again next Spring To the gear-train's harmony, my boys, the gear-train's harmony

Expensive agricultural machinery is still often operated by contractors or co-operatives but the distances covered are minuscule compared to those covered by the old steam ploughmen. I have seen ploughing engines in action and to do so is an experience that excites all the senses - I hope that I've captured some of that magic in this song which is based on descriptions of steam plough gangs operating in Southern England in the early part of the century.

Martin Graebe

bb4 œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ & 4 œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ Come con-victs all and gath-er round while I re-late my story, Of Rob-in Hood I'm sure you've heard who b œ œ™ œ œ œ œ œ™ œ &b œ œ œ œ œ ˙ J œ J œ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ gained him-self great glory. Herobbed the rich to feed the poor, that'what we all bel - ieve in. But no-one was as bb œ œ œ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ & œ œ œ œ œ ˙ J J œ œ poor as me when first I start-ed thiev-ing With sleight of hand at my com-mand my trade is el - e - b œ œ œ œ &b œ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙

men - try, with a dip - dip - dip your pock-et I'll strip, I'm the King of the Light Fin-ger Gent - ry

1 Come convicts all and gather round while I relate my story Of Robin Hood I'm sure you've heard, who gained himself great glory He robbed the rich to feed the poor, that's what we all believe in But no-one was as poor as me when first I started thieveing With sleight of hand at my command my trade is elementary With a dip-dip-dip your pocket I'll strip I'm the King of the Light Finger Gentry

2 I was brought up in Devonshire, the son of wealthy people From Oxford I was first sent down for shinning up a steeple I shunned the country farmer's life of mares and mud and mooing But crooked cards and knackers nags soon proved to be my ruin With sleight of hand .....

3 So I was left upon the street with nothing left behind me By fortune I was taken in by folks who served me kindly My education served me well for forgery and screeving But paperwork is poorly paid and so I took to thieving With sleight of hand .....

4 My nimble fingers soon were taught the art of picking pockets Of purses, watches, kerchiefs, rings of necklaces and lockets At Epsom on a Derby Day we'd give the swells a sieving But a London Street is hard to beat for a good dishonest living With sleight of hand .....

5 'Twas by mischance they took me up with evidence a'plenty And up before some white-wigged judge they very soon have sent me He's promised me an ocean cruise for which John Bull is paying Our port of call is Botany Bay and there I will be staying With a stout steel band wrapped round my hand and guarded by a sentry It's a trip-trip-trip on a transport ship For the King of the Light Finger Gentry

This is another song that was, like Peter's Private Army, triggered by reading Henry Mayhew. In this song, though I was aiming to tell a story rather than striving for authenticity.

Martin Graebe

#6 j œ j œ œ j œ j j j j œ & 8 œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Nov - em-ber iscome on his rounds a-gain with his snow and frost and sleet and rain, so get your-self to some # j j œ œ j œ™ œ j ™ j j & œ œ œ œ J œ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

co - sy inn and drink the win-ter a - way And drink, and drink, and drink the win-ter a - # j j ™ j j œ œ œ œ œ œ ™ & œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ J œ œ œ way. So get your-self to some co - sy inn and drink the win - ter a - way

1 November is come on his rounds again 5 Straight to the fire goes the carrier's son With his snow and frost and sleet and rain He lifts up his greatcoat to warm up his bum So get yourself to some cosy inn Then he toasts the rest with a tot of rum And drink the Winter away To drink the Winter away And drink, and drink, and drink the Winter away And drink, and drink, and drink the Winter away So get yourself to some cosy inn So toast yourself with a tot of Rum And drink the Winter away To drink the Winter away

2 So off we go to the old Red Deer 6 Then in comes Bessie the blacksmith's daughter And we draw our chairs up around the fire She's built like her father though six inches shorter And we keep the jug topped up with Beer She keeps up her strength with a quarter of Porter To drink the Winter away And drinks the boys away And drink, and drink, and drink the Winter away And drinks, and drinks, and drinks the boys away So keep the jug topped up with Beer If all the young women drank quarts of Porter To drink the Winter away The boys they would all run away

3 Then Wallace the roadmender lifts up the latch 7 Here's Fletcher the Lawyer who's dressed like a dandy The frost shining silver upon his thatch The wind whistles through him his legs are so bandy And he cups his hands round a glass of Scotch He has to have Shandy, he can't manage Brandy To drink the Winter away To drink the Winter away And drink, and drink, and drink the Winter away And drink, and drink, and drink the Winter away So cup your hands round a glass of Scotch If you can't take Brandy you'll have to have Shandy To drink the Winter away To drink the Winter away

4 Then old Mary Miller she does come in 8 So now we've all gathered and started to sing Her raggedy muffler about her chin Our poor frozen hands to our pots they will cling And she treats herself to a nip of Gin So why don't we stay till the coming of Spring To drink the Winter away And drink the Winter away And drink, and drink, and drink the Winter away And drink, and drink, and drink the Winter away So treat yourself to a nip of Gin So why don't we stay till the coming of Spring To drink the Winter away And we'll drink the whole Winter away

In the early 70s Martyn Wyndham Read put together a show called 'Maypoles to Mistletoe' which moved through the calendar in songs, poetry and prose. The singing duo Geoff and Penny Harris were part of the team and Geoff lamented the lack of songs about November and wondered if I could do anything about it. This was the result. I am not sure whether it was ever used in the show (though 'Jack in the Green' was). It has made its way around the clubs, though and been recorded by a few groups.

Martin Graebe œ œ #4 œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙™ œ œ œ œ œ œ & 4 œ œ œ œ œ œ œ It was in the Horse and Groom one night,the lads all sat a - round, when from the cor-ner of the bar a - # œ œ ™ œ œ œ œ œ ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ & œ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ rose a mourn-ful sound. It was Bob Chalk the carp-en-ter who raised his voice in song, and when he reached the # œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ & œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ chor - us all the oth - ers sang a - long, they sang Fa - lay, fa - lay, roo dum dum day,whack 19 # œ œ œ œ ™ œ œ œ œ & ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙™

fol down der - ry down, Ri tol - de - rid - dle fol - de - ray, bow - wow, fal did-dle I dum.

1 It was in the Horse and Groom one night, the lads all sat around When from the corner of the bar arose a mournful sound It was Bob Chalk the carpenter who raised his voice in song And when he reached the chorus all the others sang along, They sang -Fa-lay, fa-lay, roo-dum-dum-day, whack fol down derry down Ri-tol-de-riddle fol-de-ray bow-wow fal diddle-i-dum

2 We sang that chorus several times along with several more And I will never know what time they threw us out the door But I woke at noon, my boots still on, laid underneath my bed And as my eyes rolled round the room these words rolled round my head, They went -Fa-lay .....

3 I walked down to the chemist’s shop to see my friend Jack Crane And see if he’d a potion that would clarify my brain But he was in a right old state, his eyes shot through with red And when I asked his help, he smiled but this is all he said He said - Fa-lay .....

4 So we slunk outside and shut the shop, we felt a sorry pair We sloped off to the Horse and Groom to seek some succour there The place was filled with all the lads we’d seen the night before And every voice was raised to sing this one melodic roar They roared - Fa-lay .....

5 Just one man sat in silence in the corner of the room It was Bob Chalk the carpenter, his face all full of gloom I pushed my way across to him to ask him what was wrong He said ‘They’ve got the chorus but I’ve been and lost the song It went - Fa-lay .....

6 Well several months have passed since then, Jack can’t recall the verse The chorus just goes on and on and things are getting worse It’s spread out from the village and it’s now sung country-wide And Just last week the Queen herself threw out her arms and cried She cried - Fa-lay, fa-lay, roo-dum-dum-day, whack fol down derry down Ri-tol-de-rye, my husband and I bow-wow fal diddle-i-dum

Another silly song - or is it an expression of the search for meaning within the genre of folk music? I think I'll settle for a very silly song!

Martin Graebe Uœ U b4 œ j œ œ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ œ &b 4 œ™ œ œ œ J œ œ œ œ Come all you boat - ers far and near, my stor - y now I'd have you hear, How I've U 3 b j œ œ œ œ™ œ &b œ™ œ œ œ Œ J œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ Œ given a life of fif - ty years, to the Shrop- shire Uni on

Come all you boaters far and near And in forty years the skills I found My story now I'd have you hear To keep the water in the pound How I've given a life of fifty years And the working boats churned up and down To the Shropshire Union Along the Shropshire Union

My father was a number one Now the boats are painted yellow on blue On a Birmingham to Chester run For the roses and castles they will not do And my mother bore her only son Now the government sends the orders through On the Shropshire Union For the Shropshire Union

My father's death hit mother hard And the maintenance aint done so well And we sold the boats at Norbury yard And the lock gates they all leak like Hell And we went to live upon the land And the pounds are silting up as well By the Shropshire Union All down the Shropshire Union

And the company did me employ Well the horse-drawn boats all passed away At Audlem as a lengthsman's boy Then the diesel engines had their day It was damn hard work and little joy Now the cruisers wash the banks away On the Shropshire Union All down the Shropshire Union

This song was the result of a magical canal holiday delivering a boat from Market Harborough to Llangollen. I was enchanted by the Shropshire Union Canal and can still call it to mind vividly. The story is based on my reading about canals and material gathered by hearsay and from a number of other sources. The sentiments are those of the old boaters who worked through the difficulties of the first part of the century only to see the canal system finally destroyed by nationalisation in the years following the Second World War.

As sung by Martin Graebe on 'Dusty Diamonds' (Wildgoose WGS359CD)

Martin Graebe b6 œ j j œ œ œ œ j j j j j œ œ œ œ &b 8 J œ œ œ œ J J œ œ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ J J My name is Jim-my Mor-gan I'm the dri - ver of a train It ain't a crack exp-ress al-though you've b œ œ œ œ œ™ œ j j œ œ œ œ œ œ œ j œ™ œ œ œ j j &b J J œ œ œ œ œ œ J J J œ J œ œ œ cause to knowits name For our run it is quite famous,though we don't go ve - ry far, We are the Lav-en- b œ œ œ œ j j j œ œ œ j j &b J œ œ œ œ œ œ™ œ œ J œ œ œ œ œ œ

der Ex-press on the L. B. S. C. R. So, grab your pos - ies, cov - er your nos - es, j j b œ œ œ œ œ j œ œ œ œ œ j j &b J œ œ œ J œ œ œ J J J œ œ œ œ œ™ œ turn your backs till we've gone past, You can - not miss the pass-ing of the Lav - en-der Ex- press

1 My name is Jimmy Morgan, I'm the driver of a train 4 And in the town of Horley halfway down the Brighton line It ain't a crack express although you've cause to know its name They grow giant peas and cabbages and vegetables fine For our run it is quite famous though we don't go very far That the citizens of London for fresh greens may never lack We are the Lavender Express on the LBSCR But in a way you could well say they're getting their own back So grab your posies, cover your noses So grab your posies .... Turn your backs ‘till we've gone past You cannot miss the passing of the Lavender Express 5 The horse is causing problems in our city so they say Between them they produce about two hundred tons each day 2 We don't carry any passengers , we don't even have 3rd class They say that in another fifty years it will be worse You'll never find us pulling any fancy Pullman cars And they'll need another hundred like the Lavender Express Your cheap excursion ticket will not get you on our tour So grab your posies .... For we don't cart no passengers, we only cart manure So grab your posies .... 6 At night when I have finished I go home to take my rest And I catch the train to Brixton and my cosy little nest 3 Of Hercules and Gulliver you will have heard of course But as I get into the train the people move away How they laboured in the stables to clean up after the horse And from the far end of the carriage this is what they say Likewise the streets of London would be in an awful mess Oh grab your posies, cover your noses If it wasn't for the heroes of the Lavender Express Turn your backs ‘till he's gone past So grab your posies .... You cannot miss the driver of the Lavender Express

My Father told me the story of Mr Martin who had a contract for clearing the streets of London and used to carry the manure by rail to a large siding in his extensive market gardens between Horley town and the present Gatwick airport. The house in which I grew up lay in the middle of this area and my Dad grew lovely roses. I've never actually checked the story out but it was certainly possible to see the remains of railway tracks until they built houses over the rest of the land. The data on the volume of horse manure to be cleared from London's streets each day came, of course, from the remarkable Henry Mayhew.

Martin Graebe 4 j j & 8 œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ It's of a Lon - don fel - low that you now from me shall hear, and how he came on œ œ œ bœ œ œ œ œ™ j œ œ œ & œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ holi - i - day to our town in Dev - on - shire. He rolled up in his fan - cy car, in his bœ œ œ œ œ™ & œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ™ fan - cy clothes and all, and his man-ner was en - nough to try the pat-ience of St. Paul

1 It's of a London fellow that you now from me shall hear And how he came on holiday to our town in Devonshire He rolled up in his fancy car in his fancy clothes and all And his manner were enough to try the patience of St Paul

2 He put up at the Hare and Hounds and that evening in the bar He told us the life history of his fancy motor car And how he'd made some money with his finger in many a pie And how he'd come to Devonshire the country life to try

3 He rose next day at ten o' clock and said it was his plan To shoot his own game supper like a proper countryman And so he walked out with his fancy triple-barrelled gun And his orange leather shooting jacket all a' shining in the sun

4 And for the best part of three hours he walked all around the fields And he shot at anything that moved that wasn't borne on wheels But not a bird nor beast he hit in near an hundred rounds Except Tom Maggs the farmers boy and him he didn't count

5 But as he walked back home again with empty bag in hand He spied some ducks a' floating all upon a farmer's pond Now this London chap says to himself "well, here's a stroke of luck I'll get my supper after all - if it's only an old tame duck

6 He walked up to old Daniel who was standing by the pond "Allow me just one shot he says" and he gives the old chap a pound "alright" says Dan and so this fellow gives a mighty blast And sure enough five ducks were soon a' lying in the dust

7 Now this London chappy he could scarce believe this stroke of luck And soon into his bag he is a' shovelling bits of duck "You must admit, old chap" he said "I had you pretty fine" But Daniel says "dont 'ee be so sure - you see the ducks ain't mine!"

This song borrowed its plot from a dialect poem written in the 1900s by William Weeks of Exeter. I bought a copy of his 'Devonshire Yarns' in a jumble sale and discovered this story in it. This theme of the city smart-arse being bested by the wily yokel is the Westcountryman's revenge for all the 'ooh-aaarh' jokes.

Martin Graebe j #6 j j j j œ j j j & 8 œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ™ œ œ There was a weal - thy mer - chant- man did dwell in Ply - mouth town He # j j j j j œ œ œ j j œ & œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ™ œ built a migh - ty gall - e - on to sail up to the moon To # j j j œ œ œ œ œ œ j j ™ j & œ J œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ sail up to the moon my boys, I'll drink to that in ale The # j j j œ œ œ œ œ j j ™ & œ œ J œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ low - er that the bar - rel gets the tall - er grows the tale

There was a wealthy merchantman did dwell in Plymouth town And as they sailed along the coast her sails blocked out the light He built a mighty galleon to sail up to the moon The Cornish folk all went to bed, they thought it was the night To sail up to the moon , my boys, I'll drink to that in ale They thought it was the night, my boys, I'll drink to that in ale The lower that the barrel gets the taller grows the tale The lower that the barrel gets the taller grows the tale

They drained the Plymouth Sound, my boys, to build her in the dry And as they sailed along the coast their flags and pennons danced Her stern was up in Sutton and her bows in Cawsand Bay Her topmast pennon wiped the nose of Louis, King of France Her bows in Cawsand Bay, my boys, I'll drink to that in ale Old Louis, King of France, my boys, I'll drink to that in ale The lower that the barrel gets the taller grows the tale The lower that the barrel gets the taller grows the tale

Before they built this ship all Devon was a forest green They cruised to Biscay Bay, my boys, and found themselves a storm The wood they took left only field and moorland to be seen It blew them off the face of Earth and out towards the moon Just moorland to be seen, my boys, I'll drink to that in ale And out towards the moon, my boys, I'll drink to that in ale The lower that the barrel gets the taller grows the tale The lower that the barrel gets the taller grows the tale

Her crew was thousand strong and so her pantry was well stuffed But they sailed in too close and tore her sails upon it's horns The Derby Ram and Old Dun Cow were scarcely meat enough They fell into the Milky Way and everyone was drowned Were scarcely meat enough, my boys, I'll drink to that in ale And everyone was drowned, my boys, I'll drink to that in ale The lower that the barrel gets the taller grows the tale And now the barrels empty I will end my silly tale

Quite why the world needed another of these lying tales I forget - but it seemed a good idea at the time

bb6 j œ œ œ œ œ j j œ œ œ & 8 œ œ œ œ J J œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ J If you're ev - er up at five o'clock you can see me go-ing a - bout my work,with my stick on the win-dow bb œ œ œ œ œ œ j ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ & J œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ for to knock and they callme the knock-er up wo-man Well it's rap-a-tap-tap on your win-dow I go,when it's bb œ j j j œ j œ œ œ œ œ j ™ & œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ J J œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ time for work I'll let you know. I' - ll wan-der round come rain or snow to go rap-a-tap-tap on your win-dow

1 If you're ever up at five o' clock You can see me going about my work With my stick on the windows for to knock And they call me the Knocker-up Woman Well it's rap-a-tap-tap on your Window I'll go When it's time for work I'll let you know I'll wander round come rain or snow To go rap-a-tap-tap on your window

2 My name is Amy Pargeter And a widow I've been for many's the year But your penny a week will see me clear And I'll get you to work in the morning Well it's rap-a-tap-tap …

3 And as you're wakened from your dream By my knock upon your window pane You'll know it's time to rise again For the whistle will soon be a'blowing Well it's rap-a-tap-tap …

4 The Company killed my husband John A hard struggle I've had since he's been gone When I'm finished they'll miss the work I've done 'Cos the men'll be late in the morning Well it's rap-a-tap-tap …

5 So while the owner’s safe in bed I’ll wrap my shawl about my head And so it’ll be ‘till I am dead I’ll be out with my stick every morning Well it's rap-a-tap-tap …

I cannot remember now what influenced the creation of this song, though it was probably a combination of reading about knockers-up and an understandable aversion to the idea of getting up in the morning.

Martin Graebe 3 4 œ ˙ œ ˙ œ ™ œ & ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ ˙ ˙ œ ˙ My name is Bec - ky Tid - well and I've passed twice thir - ty years I crave a œ ˙ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ ˙™ ˙ ˙ œ ˙ œ & œ ˙ œ lit - tle of your time to tell of my hopes and fears I am a sing - le la - dy œ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ ˙™ œ ˙ & œ œ œ œ ˙ œ

and I think it no dis - grace for my life's been spent in ™ & ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ ˙ hon - est toil a' work - ing the Hon - i - ton lace

1 My name is Becky Tidwell and I've passed twice thirty years 4 Then Mr Gross he gives to me a pattern for to do I crave a little of your time to tell of my hopes and fears Sometimes there is a harder piece that must be done by two I am a single lady and I think it no disgrace So me and Bridget Harvey we sit in her window case For my life's been spent in honest toil a' working the Honiton Lace And we spend a pleasant day at talking and working the Honiton [Lace 2 A cottage near to Axminster is the place that I call home. My father left it to me and it's the one thing that I own 5 Now once there was a young man who spoke kindly unto me I rise each morning at the dawn when the Sun first shows his face But he became a soldier and he was lost in the Crimea For that is when the light is best for working the Honiton Lace He was my only suitor and no-one has took his place And never for myself I'll work a veil of the Honiton Lace 3 At nine o' clock I go down to the shop and I take my work My friends are gathered there and we can spend some time in talk 6 But sometimes as the night draws on I let my bobbins fall We get paid off in tokens we can use just in that place And I think the piece I'm working on some lady at a ball And their value is but fivepence for a day at the Honiton Lace So all you London ladies whose fine clothes our work does grace Just think of those West-Country women who dressed you in [your fine Honiton Lace

This song was one of the first two songs that I wrote in 'traditional style', both of which were intended for a competition organised by the EFDSS and which was judged by Bert Lloyd. The other has long since been axed from the list of songs that I admit to having written. ‘Honiton Lace’ did not meet the requirements of the competition since the tune was not original - I borrowed it from ‘The Handsome Cabin Boy’. It has, however, gone on to be one of the more frequently sung and most often requested of my songs. I’d like to believe that this was due to the meticulous research that went into it - in fact it is pure serendipity. I had been in the Rougemont House Museum in Exeter and, as part of an exhibit on Honiton Lace, there was on display a blown-up print of a letter written to the ‘Girls Own Paper’ by a Honiton Lace Worker as a description of her daily work. The song started to form itself over the next couple of days. I went back some time later and was surprised how well I had remembered the detail of the letter. The letter was written from Branscombe in 1897 and signed ‘Primrose’ though it is now known that it was written by Miss Ida Pike, later to become Mrs Allen, who ran the lace shop in Beer for 45 years. At one time she employed about ninety people and, when she was interviewed at the age of eighty by the ‘Express and Echo’ in 1965 she still had five people working for her. The full text of the letter can be found in Exeter Museums Publication No 55 ‘Honiton Lace’ by P M Inder published in 1971.

Martin Graebe # 4 œ œ œ œ œ ™ œ œ œ & 4 œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ Comef,riends and ga-ther round me and my sto - y I will tell Of the day we went to New-ton fair and # œ œ ™ œ œ #œ œ & œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ what out there be - fell. Twas Dan - ny James and Jeth - ro Sprig that went al - ong with # ˙™ œ œ œ œ œ ™ & œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ me, And now I'll tell you all a - bout the strange sights we did see

1 Come friends and gather round me and my story I shall tell 2 ‘Twas there we spent the money we’d been saving through the weeks Of the day we went to Newton Fair and what out there befell On tests of strength and whirligigs and laughing at the freaks ‘Twas Danny James and Jethro Sprigg that went along with me But there was one show that did make the people stand to stare And now I’ll tell you all about the strange sights we did see That was Professor Symington’s Black Russian Dancing Bear

Patter: “And here my lords and Ladies, Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls we have this ferocious black Russian bear. This horrendous creature was captured by a division of the Russian Army after having terrorised a village in the Steppes and devoured every last inhabitant. This terrifying creature I have purchased, at no little expense I might add, and after years of hard and dangerous work - I could show you my scars but modesty forbids me to terrify your sensibilities further - after years of hard and dangerous work I have trained the creature sufficiently that he will dance for me when I play upon this pipe”

3 So then he played his whistle and the bear began to dance 6 Young Mary Thorpe was in the barn a’waiting for Tom Kirk But then we all were witness to unfortunate mischance She ran up to him as she saw him coming through the dark A hornet flew into the tent and landed on his coat But then “Oh Tom!” she cried “although I love your hairy chest At which the bear did panic and did break his chains and bolt I will not kiss you ‘cos I cannot stand your smelly breath”

4 I need not tell you that I could not see no more for dust 7 The bear got caught up in old Mother Tucker’s washing line You’ve never seen so many people move away so fast She rushed right out though, as you know, she’s more than half-way blind As they ran for the open fields the bear made for the town “You dirty tramp, You’ve stole my Sunday petticoat” she cried And finding it deserted he began to wander round Picked up her broom and broke it in one swipe across his head

5 Old Sammy Jenkins rolled out of the pub into the street 8 This was too much for Bruin and he off and running went He saw the bear a’coming, turned the colour of a sheet He ran and didn’t stop ‘till he was safe inside his tent He gave a mighty scream and then he leapt into the ditch And soon the tale of Newton fair spread o’er the hills and downs And since that day a drop of liquor hasn’t touched his lips And how old Mother Tucker taught the bear a brand new dance

A fantasy set in motion by reading about the dancing bears that toured the countryside around the turn of the century. I set the song in Newton, the non-existent but definitely Devonshire village that I've used for a number of songs. Though it makes a good story, like hunting, whaling and many other traditional themes for song I feel uncomfortable with it. I have seen dancing bears in India and the experience made me feel profoundly sad

bb4 j œ œ™ œ œ j & 4 œ œ™ œ œ œ œ œ œ J œ œ œ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ The swan floats ov - er flood-ed fields, the he-ron hunts the haw-thorn brake.The way - ward streams have bb œ œ™ œ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ & œ œ œ J œ œ œ œ J J drowned the land, the green grass turned to sil - ver lake.Through win - ter's dark and stor - my days I j ™ bb œ™ œ j œ œ œ œ œ œ & œ œ œ nœ œ œ œ™ œ œ œ œ œ J œ œ ˙ tend my sheep up - on the hill and think of you so far a - way and wish that I was with you still.

1 The Swan floats over flooded fields, the Heron hunts the Hawthorn brake, The winter streams have drowned the land, the green grass turned to silver lake And through the dark and stormy days, I tend my sheep upon the hill, And think of you, so far away, and wish that you were with me still

2 Like Severn's floods the storms of war have drowned my hopes for you and I With deadly grace the hunters kill and lord and lowly learn to die To serve my King and those I love, I would have gone to play my part But the doctors saved me for the hills to nurse my over-tender heart

3 You smiled so sadly when you said though I'd remain, I'd stay alone The carriage window framed your face, above your spotless uniform For women too must go to war, although they face a different fight To use their skills with broken men and help them face their fears at night

4 I'd read your letters on the hill, they told of madness, mud and pain How tired you were, how angry with the wasted lives for little gain Of quieter times when guns were cool and blackbirds sang though trees were gone And how you wished to smell again a rose from Severn, by the Somme

5 I've walked through twisted woods and fields that fifty years of healing soothed The painful harvest garnered there defies a man to stand unmoved I've seen the grave in which you lie, my tears have washed the snowy stone And there I left a single flower, a rose from Severn, by the Somme

` A visit to the battlefields of the Somme in April 1992 re-kindled my interest in the Great War and this song is a product of the combination of that memorable visit with the image of the floods along the Severn Valley lit by winter sun. The final ingredient was the book 'The Roses of No Mans Land' by Lynne Macdonald which describes nursing in the Great War and takes it's title from a popular song of the period about the nurses near the front lines.

I have since re-visited the battlefields of Northern France and, in the Commonwealth War Graves Commission cemeteries, have sought out the graves of some of the few hundred women who lie there alongside the thousands of soldiers. Like the men, they came from all corners of the world to die, and they seem to have been forgotten. One day their story should be told. This is a small start.

Copyright ©1996 Martin Graebe Laying My Life on the Line Martin Graebe 3 Frjeely j j j j j j & 4 œ œ j j j j j œ j j œ œ œ œ j œ™ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ™ œ œ ˙ œ™ œ Steel rails reach-ing for the skyline Bignails weigh my pock-etsdown Old watch stretch-ing j j j j j j j j j j j j j j j j j & j œ j j j j œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ™ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ on a short chain Tells me that I'llsoon be go-ing home 'Cos I've done my time, lay-ing my life on the line

1 Steel rails, reaching to the skyline Big nails, weigh my pockets down Old watch, stretching on a short chain Tells me that we’ll soon be going home ‘Cos I’ve done my time Laying my life on the line

2 Bright sound, from the whistle that I’m holding Red flag, and my mates lay hammers by Boat train, thundering down the main line Blasting grit into our faces as it flies That’s how we spend our time Laying our lives on the line

3 Backs strain, lifting up the long rails Red steel, hasn’t borne a train Black pine, ties new metal to the old earth As I’m tied by ropes of love to bear the pain While I serve my time Laying my life on the line

4 Grey smoke, over the embankment Red brick, the cottage where I stay Two kids, chattering in the doorway Lead me in to share the best part of the day ‘Cos I’ve done my time Laying my life on the line

5 Pillow, feels as rocky as the road bed Night mail, shakes the china on the stand Three hours, then again it will be morning But I lie awake, ‘cos I can’t understand How come I’ve spent so much time Snow and wind, rain or shine Laying my life on the line `

Another song about the nature of work. The images come from my own childhood, watching men at work on the Brighton line and seeing and feeling the steam-hauled boat trains bound for Southampton thundering over the embankment by the cottage where I used to visit my Aunt Rose. Her husband Bert worked on the line and, though this song is more about my own feelings than about him, it was time spent in his company that kept coming back to my mind.