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)

The Last WW1 Veteran ...

Harry Patch died last week.



This man of great dignity and compassion said, "War is just organised murder, and nothing more."

When will they ever learn? ...

I am moved to publish these words from John Tams:

Scarecrow

I see the barley moving as the mowers find their pace.
I see the line advancing with a steady timeless grace,
And there's passion in their eyes, and there's honour in their face,
As they scythe down the castles and the courts.

Blame it on the fathers, blame it on the sons.
Blame it on the poppies and the pain.
Blame it on the generals, blame it on their guns.
Blame it on the scarecrow in the rain.

I smell the smoke of stubble when the harvest is brought down.
I see the fire a-burning as it purges all around,
And the field is turned to ashes, and the only living sound
Are the skylarks as they try to reach the sun.

Blame it on the fathers, blame it on the sons.
Blame it on the poppies and the pain.
Blame it on the generals, blame it on their guns.
Blame it on the scarecrow in the rain.

I see the barbed wire growing like a bramble on the land.
I see a farm turned to a fortress and a future turned to sand.
I see a meadow turn to mud, and from it grows a hand,
Like a scarecrow that is fallen in the rain.

Blame it on the fathers, blame it on the sons.
Blame it on the poppies and the pain.
Blame it on the generals, blame it on their guns.
Blame it on the scarecrow in the rain.


God bless you, Harry.