The Ballad of Mary Rose ...

Last week St. Anley, in the company of two wives, visited the Mary Rose Museum in Portsmouth's Historic Dockyard.

He met a friend who was an official guide.

Barry was barely recognisable in his Tudor attire: cap, tunic, breeches, hosen and shoon.

Barry took us in hand and delivered an eloquent account of the Battle of the Solent, (1545.)

A large crowd gathered to listen.

Saint Anley was thereafter inspired to poetry ...

The Ballad of Mary Rose

As I walked through the dockyard to see Mary Rose,
I spied an old man wearing very strange clothes.
The old man was erudite ‘bout maritime things:

Of historical seamen and ships of the Kings

He adopted a most magisterial pose,

Went on to declaim in eloquent prose.

*[His language was strange, archaic you’d say.

For ‘S’ he’d use ‘F’ like they did on that day.
(Be careful if you mean to say ‘suck!’)]

On 19th July, MDXLV of our Lord,

Mary Rose weighed her anchor, 400 on board.

Little room for manoeuvre, a very slight breeze,

She made for the French fleet upon the high seas.

She tacked onto starboard, her port side went down.

Gun-ports left open, so now they must drown.

Thirty-seven crewmen survived on that day

To speak of the chaos and dreadful affray.

On 19th July, in those days of yore,

The old man survived … he’ll tell you more.
The cabin-boy survived ... he'll tell you more!

CT, July 2014

It scans, with only a little shoe-horning, to the tune Shores of Old Blighty, (Graham Miles.)

* I might miss out that unsavoury interjection about 'S' and 'F'.

With many thanks to Barry who enlightened our visit considerably.

I suppose we should have tipped him a groat-or-two, but we'd run out!

Brave Benbow ...

For reasons explained in earlier posts, St. Anley is currently unable to play any musical instruments.
(OK, there are those who are relieved about that!)

So, he found some free music software called Audacity. It's rather good, but a better microphone would help.
He has been experimenting with multi-tracking. Hear this ...

Alright ... that's 'work in progress'. 

 

So, who was Admiral Benbow?

 

He appeared thus ...

 

Admiral John Benbow, 1653 - 1702

He was an officer in the British Royal Navy who, during the War of the Spanish Succession, engaged with a French squadron commanded by Admiral Jean du Casse during August, 1702.
Two of Benbow's captains: Kirkby and Wade, declined to take part in the action. They were subsequently convicted and executed for cowardice.
Benbow received a leg-wound during the battle and died in Jamaica three months later from 'melancholia'.

There are accounts that he was a drunken, dissolute and abrasive individual, but he must have done something good to be so commemorated in song.



I Never Knew That ...

Now, there was I looking on the web for a song: 'I Wonder as I Wander'.
I always considered it to be traditional, but ...
Google came up with one John Jacob Niles, (1892 - 1980.)
Here he is:

I pursued this link http://www.john-jacob-niles.com/music.htm and discovered that Mr. Niles claims to have collected a snippet of the song in 1933 from an impoverished 'unwashed blond' girl, whom he reports to have been 'very lovely'.
Her name was Annie Morgan.
Perhaps she appeared thus:

JJN was clearly enchanted.
What man wouldn't be if she looked like that?
He claims to have added additional verses.
If you click on the above link, hit the 'play' option, and fast-forward to about 2min. 37secs, you will hear him sing and play it.
I was not engaged by the peculiar voice, and I continue to question the origin.
I have a book that simply entitles the piece 'Appalachian Carol', credited 'trad.', with no mention of JJN.

I continued in my search and came across a youtube post of another of JJN's recordings:
http://youtu.be/fMO-b8FM2OE
(The embed code seems to be corrupt.)
This is truly delightful.

Things not to say at a job interview ...

Thirty-odd years ago I applied for a job.

Back in those days you were expected to hand-write a short letter of application, accompanied by a professional-looking CV. All applications would be acknowledged by the advertiser, even if you were considered a non-starter.
That was an era of courtesy and accepted protocol.

Now, I say, ‘a job’, but this was to be a professional partnership that would involve my domestic translocation.

For this particular position I was adequately qualified and had suitable experience. I had rehearsed my responses to anticipated questions at the interview I hoped to be offered. I even had some naïve political views that I was prepared to share and justify.

The interview was going well, and my well-practised responses to the interviewers’ delving enquiries regarding professional aspects of the position seemed to meet with approval. I began to relax.

Then we came to, “… and how would you go about integrating with the local society?”
Now, I hadn’t practised this one.
Hobbies and pastimes would have been OK, but ‘social integration’?!

“I would probably attend Church,” I offered, rather too hastily.

(Now, bear in mind I am referring to a bygone age when it was entirely PC to advertise: “Christian practice requires someone of similar views …” So-worded had been this advertisement. We all knew that in reality that meant “British, white and middle class.” Applicants were expected to lie!)

My response was met with warm smiles that perhaps belied some circumspection on the part of my interviewers, who appeared to be wringing their hands rather nervously.

“Anything else?” one of them asked.
I paused.
Should I tell them about my passion for steam engines?
What about philately?
Do I tell them that I am a competent bicycle maintenance person?

“Yes,” I replied after thinking for a while; “I like folk music so I intend to seek out any local folk clubs.”

The silence, after a sharp intake of breath, in unison, was palpable.
The four members of the interviewing panel exchanged enigmatic glances. The corporate hand-wringing became more obvious, and I am sure that one of them kicked her neighbour under the desk that separated me from them.

“Fine, kindly leave us to consider for a few moments.”
I was ushered into the ante-room of the WC.

Within seconds the practice secretary was despatched to convey the outcome.
I think she smiled as she said to me, “I am terribly sorry …”

I rarely attended Church after that.
I still like folk music.

That Concertina and The Gresford Disaster...

A few teething problems have been surmounted following the helpful advice of my concertina vendor, and some mechanical intervention and further recommendations from a friendly repairer.

Gresford by dogsbody

I tried to post this demo on facebook, but my extensively researched account of the Gresford Mining Disaster of 1934 was foreshortened.

Here goes:

The Gresford Mining Disaster

On 22nd September 1934 there was a notorious mining catastrophe at the Gresford Mine near Wrexham.
266 colliers died following an explosion.
The youngest, Duncan Bett, was 12 years old. The eldest was James Sam Edwards, 87.

The event is documented in an anonymously published broadside, sales of which helped raise money for the relief of the victims’ families.

Lyrics as follows ...

You've heard of the Gresford Disaster,
Of the terrible price that was paid;
Two hundred and forty two colliers were lost,
And three men of the rescue brigade.

It occurred in the month of September
At three in the morning the pit
Was racked by a violent explosion
In the Dennis where gas lay so thick.

Now the gas in the Dennis deep section
Was heaped there like snow in a drift,
And many a man had to leave the coal-face
Before he had worked out his shift.

Now a fortnight before the explosion,
To the shotfirer Tomlinson cried,
"If you fire that shot we'll be all blown to hell!"
And no one can say that he lied.

Now the fireman's reports they are missing
The records of forty-two days;
The collier manager had them destroyed
To cover his criminal ways.

Down there in the dark they are lying.
They died for nine shillings a day;
They have worked out their shift and now they must lie
In the darkness until Judgement day.

Now the Lord Mayor of London's collecting
To help out the children and wives;
The owners have sent some white lilies
To pay for the poor colliers' lives.

Farewell all our dear wives and children
Farewell all our comrades as well,
Don't send your sons down the dark dreary pit
They'll be doomed like the sinners in hell.

One source gives the tune as a variant of Botany Bay. (http://www.traditionalmusic.co.uk/song-midis/Gresford_Disaster.htm)
I’m not sure I like that.
More commonly I come across it to Alexander Reinagle’s music that accompanies John Newton’s hymn, 'How Sweet the Name of Jesus Sounds'.
That’s fitting because the colliery band is known to have played that tune at the pithead during unsuccessful rescue attempts. Thereafter it has popularly become known as ‘Gresford’ and ‘The Miners Hymn’.

John Tams is credited as having married up the words with that tune, as recorded by The Albion Band. (http://riseuplikethesun2.tripod.com/id11.html
 and http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WCKBhmK95q4)

Ny Kirree fo Niaghtey

Here's me showing off again.
It's a song about dead sheep and a terminally ill shepherd.



Just right for this time of year!

A Maying Song

This delightful young lady, Bella Hardy, sang in the choir at my wedding.
She probably doesn't remember that strange guy who wobbled off the train at Edale in 1994.



Well done, Bella.

The Foggy Dew

I have recently encountered this Australian folk enthusiast on Youtube. (See http://uk.youtube.com/user/raymondcrooke). He has a fine repertoire and gives very helpful information about his material. He reminds me of someone and he seems a very nice bloke. Here he is with The Foggy Dew.



Here are the lyrics I have. Raymond seems to have acquired two more verses and I await response to my formal enquiry.

The Foggy Dew
(Fr. P. O'Neill)

'Twas down the glen one Easter morn
To a city fair rode I.
When Ireland's line of marching men
In squadrons passed me by.
No pipe did hum, no battle drum,
Did sound its dread tattoo,
But the Angelus bell o'er the Liffey's swell
Rang out in the foggy dew.


Right proudly high over Dublin town
They hung out a flag of war.
'Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky
Than at Suvla or Sud el Bar.
And from the plains of Royal Meath
Strong men came hurrying through;
While Britannia's sons with their long-range guns
Sailed in from the foggy dew.


'Twas England bade our wild geese go
That small nations might be free.
Their lonely graves are by Suvla's waves
On the fringe of the grey North Sea.
But had they died by Pearse's side
Or fought with Valera true,
Their graves we'd keep where the Fenians sleep
'Neath the hills of the foggy dew.


The bravest fell, and the solemn bell
Rang mournfully and clear
For those who died that Eastertide
In the springing of the year.
And the world did gaze in deep amaze
At those fearless men and true
Who bore the fight that freedom's light
Might shine through the foggy dew.

Easter uprising 1916. I believe Fr. O’Neill wrote more verses and that. Originally, ‘Valera true’ was ‘Cathal Brugha’, otherwise known as Charles Burgess, who was second in command of the IRA during the uprising.

Thanks, Ray!

No offence intended, but I just had to add this. Here's Sinéad and The Chieftains: