Από την Αγγλία και τη Σκοτία, την Ιρλανδία και την Ουαλία: Μπαλάντες και τραγούδια του λαού

[nickel]

Από την Αγγλία και τη Σκοτία, την Ιρλανδία και την Ουαλία: Μπαλάντες και τραγούδια του λαού
Ιστορία, μύθος και παράδοση, όπως τραγουδήθηκαν από τον τροβαδούρο, από τον εργάτη, τον ανώνυμο λαϊκό ποιητή

Έτσι ξεκινούσαν, με τη φωνή του Χρήστου Πήττα πάνω από μια ακαπέλα εκτέλεση του Scarborough Fair, οι είκοσι ημίωρες εκπομπές για το βρετανικό φολκλορικό τραγούδι που μεταδόθηκαν από την Ελληνική Υπηρεσία του BBC κάποιους μήνες του 1979. Η εκπομπή είχε επιτυχία στην Ελλάδα καθώς μεταδόθηκε και αναμεταδόθηκε τουλάχιστον δύο φορές από το κρατικό ραδιόφωνο. Έδινε μια ιστορία του φολκλορικού τραγουδιού των βρετανικών νησιών μέσα στα ιστορικοκοινωνικά του πλαίσια (ή μια κοινωνική ιστορία της Βρετανίας μέσα από τα τραγούδια του λαού).

Η Χριστίνα Κουκουναρά κι εγώ δουλέψαμε με πολύ μεράκι για τη σειρά, αξιοποιώντας την απίστευτα πλούσια δισκοθήκη του BBC και όση βιβλιογραφία μάς επέτρεπε ο χρόνος μας. Έχουν περάσει πάνω από τριάντα χρόνια και οι εκπομπές εξακολουθούν να ακούγονται πολύ φρέσκες (και η φωνή μου, ακόμα περισσότερο).

Με ιδιαίτερη χαρά έμαθα από ένα από τα καλά νέα μέλη της Λεξιλογίας ότι άκουγε την εκπομπή όταν ήταν παιδάκι (και, νομίζω, είπε επίσης ότι του άρεσε). Την αναβίωσή της εδώ την αφιερώνω, πρωτίστως, σ’ αυτόν.

Κατά δεύτερο λόγο, την αφιερώνω στο γιο μου, τον Αλέξανδρο, που μόνος του ζήτησε πριν από καιρό και πήρε να ακούσει τις μαγνητοταινίες και με δική του πρωτοβουλία φρόντισε να μετατραπούν σε ψηφιακά αρχεία (ποιοτικά mp3 των ±75 MB το καθένα). Έτσι διασώθηκε αυτή η δουλειά (με εξαίρεση δύο εκπομπές, την #17 και την #18) και έχω κι εγώ την ευκαιρία να την ξανακούσω. (Όταν έκλεισε η Ελληνική Υπηρεσία του BBC το 2005, το αρχείο των εκπομπών της παραδόθηκε στη Βιβλιοθήκη της Βουλής, σε 2.000 σιντί. Οπότε, εκεί υπάρχουν και οι δύο χαμένες εκπομπές.)

Κυρίως, την αναβίωση της εκπομπής την αφιερώνω στη Χριστίνα, την καλή φίλη και συνάδελφο εκείνης της εποχής, που απουσιάζει εντελώς από τη ζωή μας εδώ και τέσσερα χρόνια. Όταν είχα μάθει για το θάνατό της, είχα γράψει κάποιες σύντομες σκέψεις στο φόρουμ που με φιλοξενούσε εκείνο τον καιρό. Τις αντιγράφω στο επόμενο μήνυμα.

Ανέβασα τρεις από τις εκπομπές στο rapidshare. Επειδή ο Αλέξανδρος είναι σούπερ-απασχολημένος αυτές τις μέρες, δεν τόλμησα να τον ρωτήσω καν αν υπάρχει κάποιος καλύτερος τρόπος σερβιρίσματος του υλικού. Αν έχετε κάποιες προτάσεις, θα χαρώ να τις ακούσω. Αλλιώς, θα συνεχίσω να τις ανεβάζω με τον ίδιο τρόπο.

Ακούστε τις εκπομπές, αν σας ενδιαφέρει η μουσική και η κοινωνική ιστορία. Αν κάνω κάποια λάθη, αποδώστε τα στο νεαρόν της ηλικίας μου αλλά και στη σφαλερότητα της ανθρώπινης φύσης.

1η εκπομπή
2η εκπομπή

Τα παρακάτω αντιστοιχούν σε νεκρούς συνδέσμους. Γίνεται νέο ανέβασμα αρχείων.
3η εκπομπή

4η εκπομπή
5η εκπομπή
6η εκπομπή

7η εκπομπή
8η εκπομπή
9η εκπομπή

10η εκπομπή
11η εκπομπή
12η εκπομπή

13η εκπομπή
14η εκπομπή
15η εκπομπή

16η εκπομπή
17η και 18η λείπουν
19η εκπομπή
20ή εκπομπή

 

[nickel]

In memoriam: Χριστίνα Κουκουναρά (Δημοσίευση της 25/6/2006)​

​

Τώρα που συνήλθα κάπως, νιώθω την ανάγκη να γράψω δυο λόγια για μια παλιά φίλη που αιφνιδιαστικά, μόνη της, άφησε την τελευταία της πνοή στα ξένα: τη Χριστίνα Κουκουναρά.​

​

Με τη Χριστίνα συνδέθηκα σε μια άλλη φάση της ζωής μου, στα τέσσερα πανέμορφα χρόνια (1976-80) που δούλεψα στην Ελληνική Υπηρεσία του BBC. Η Χριστίνα είχε προσληφθεί ένα χρόνο πριν από μένα και πήρε τη σύνταξή της το 1996. Τα τελευταία χρόνια ήταν ανταποκρίτρια της Deutsche Welle και της Αυγής. Τη φωνή της την άκουγα από τον Sky, παλιότερα στις ειδήσεις του BBC, ύστερα στις ειδήσεις της γερμανικής υπηρεσίας. Από την τελευταία άκουσα προχτές και το δυσάρεστο.​

​

Η Ελληνική Υπηρεσία του BBC έκλεισε στο τέλος του 2005 και δεν βρίσκεται πια κανένας Έλληνας εκεί να γράψει δυο λόγια για τη Χριστίνα. Αλλά τα είχε γράψει παλιότερα η ίδια.​

​

Με τη Χριστίνα συνεργαστήκαμε στενά σε μια σειρά 20 προγραμμάτων για το βρετανικό φολκλορικό τραγούδι. Εκείνη είχε αναλάβει τη μουσική έρευνα κι εγώ την ιστορικοκοινωνική. Η σειρά άρεσε τόσο πολύ που μεταδόθηκε και αναμεταδόθηκε δυο-τρεις φορές από το ραδιόφωνο της ΕΡΤ.​

​

Αλλά η σχέση μας εκείνα τα χρόνια ήταν σχεδόν καθημερινή. Και η Χριστίνα, με το πληθωρικό της πνεύμα, με το αυστηρό της γούστο, με την οξυδέρκειά της, δεν ήταν μόνο μια φίλη αλλά και μια δασκάλα.​

​

Ύστερα ήρθαν η απόσταση, το ξέκομμα, οι διαφορετικές διαδρομές – αυτοί οι μικροί θάνατοι που πρόωρα μας χωρίζουν από αγαπημένα πρόσωπα. Μόνο τη φωνή της άκουγα όλα αυτά τα χρόνια από τα ερτζιανά. Από προχτές σίγησε κι αυτή.​

 

[daeman]

Χρειάζεται να πω κάτι, να παρακαλέσω, να τάξω ανταλλάγματα για ν' ακούσω και τις υπόλοιπες;
Αν χρειάζεται, just say the word nod! :)

 

[nickel]

Δούλεψαν νυχτέρι τα ανεβαστικά και ολοκληρώθηκε αυτό το εγχείρημα. Σκέφτομαι να αρχίσω να προσθέτω εδώ τους στίχους των τραγουδιών. Μερικά τη θέλουν πολύ τη βοήθεια.

 

[SBE]

Ε, στείλτα μας, ντε! Άκουσα τις τρεις εκπομπές χτες, αναγνώρισα τη φωνή της εκφωνήτριας (σορυ, ο νεαρός συνεκφωνητής ήταν άγνωστη φωνή ;) ), θυμήθηκα το ύφος των παλιών πολιτιστικών εκπομπών της ελληνικής υπηρεσίας, αν και μόνο τις Όχθες του Τάμεση πρόλαβα, και διαπίστωσα για μια ακόμα φορά ότι παρά το λαογραφικό ενδιαφέρον, το συγκεκριμένο είδος μουσικής δύσκολα το χωνεύω, κυρίως γιατί το έχω ταυτίσει με γεροντοχίπησσες ερμηνεύτριες που το στολίζουν με άχρηστους λαρυγγισμούς. Είναι και τελείως περιθωριακό πλέον εδώ στο ΗΒ.

 

[nickel]

Το συγκεκριμένο είδος μουσικής έχει πολλά κουραστικά και αδιάφορα τραγούδια, σε όποια χώρα και να το δουλέψεις, αλλά ιδιαίτερα το φολκλορικό των Βρετανικών Νησιών μάς είναι πολύ γνωστό από τα καλάντά τους και από τις ξαναδουλεμένες εκδοχές. Δεν υπάρχει σοβαρός ροκάς που να μην έχει τραγουδήσει και κάποιο παραδοσιακό. Η Χριστίνα είχε κάνει πολλή δουλειά για να δώσει μια ισορροπημένη ποικιλία, που να ακούγεται όσο γίνεται πιο ευχάριστα χωρίς να καταφεύγει συνέχεια σε σημερινές εκτελέσεις, αλλά με σεβασμό και στην παραδοσιακή εκτέλεση. Υπάρχουν τραγούδια τραγουδισμένα ακαπέλα ή με ένα απλό μουσικό όργανο που είναι σκάλες ανώτερα από σύγχρονες εκτελέσεις. Πρέπει βέβαια να ομολογήσω ότι το αφτί μου έχει ακούσει πολλά παραδοσιακά και έθνικ πολλών χωρών, οπότε μπορεί και να μην είμαι ο καλύτερος κριτής. Διαφωνώ απόλυτα με το ότι το είδος είναι τελείως περιθωριακό στο ΗΒ. Δεν θα πιστέψεις πόσα γιουτιουμπάκια υπάρχουν με ιδιωτικές εκτελέσεις αυτών των τραγουδιών. Και αυτό που είπα για τους ροκάδες. Αλλά οι ροκάδες την ήξεραν αυτή τη μουσική.

 

[nickel]

Στίχοι:

Scarborough Fair

Are you going to Scarborough Fair?
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.
Remember me to one who lives there.
For once she was a true love of mine.
Tell her to make me a cambric shirt.
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.
Without a stitch of needlework,
For once she was a true love of mine.
Tell her to wash it in yonder dry well,
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme;
Where water ne’er sprung, nor drop of rain fell,
For once she was a true love of mine.

 

[nickel]

Στίχοι τραγουδιών 1ης εκπομπής:

Mary Hamilton

Διάφορες παραλλαγές:
http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/eng/child/ch173.htm

The Joan Baez version
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oh9_jdmcAhY

Word is to the kitchen gone,
And word is to the Hall
And word is up to Madam the Queen,
And that's the worst of all
That Mary Hamilton has borne a babe
To the highest Stuart of all.
Oh rise, arise, Mary Hamilton,
Arise and tell to me
What thou hast done with thy wee babe
I saw and heard weep by thee.
I put him in a tiny boat
And cast him out to sea
That he might sink or he might swim
But he'd never come back to me.
Oh rise arise, Mary Hamilton,
Arise and come with me
There is a wedding in Glasgow town
This night we'll go and see.
She put not on her robes of black
Nor her robes of brown
But she put on her robes of white
To ride into Glasgow town.
And as she rode into Glasgow town
The city for to see
The bailiff's wife and the provost's wife
Cried Alack and alas for thee.
You need not weep for me, she cried,
You need not weep for me
For had I not slain my own wee babe
This death I would not dee (=die).
Oh little did my mother think
When first she cradled me
The lands I was to travel in
And the death I was to dee.
Last night I washed the Queen's feet
And put the gold in her hair
And the only reward I find for this
The gallows to be my share.
Cast off, cast off, my gown, she cried,
But let my petticoat be
And tie a napkin round my face
The gallows I would not see.
Then by them come the king himself
Looked up with a pitiful eye
Come down, come now, Mary Hamilton,
Tonight you will dine with me.
Oh hold your tongue, my sovereign liege,
And let your folly be
For if you'd a mind to save my life
You'd never have shamed me here.
Last night there were four Marys
tonight there'll be but three
It was Mary Beaton and Mary Seton
And Mary Carmichael and me.

 

[nickel]

Στίχοι τραγουδιών 1ης εκπομπής:

The Carnal and the Crane

As I pass'd by the river side,
And there as I did reign [=run],
In argument I chanced to hear
A Carnal and a Crane.

The Carnal said unto the Crane,
If all the world should turn,
Before we had the Father,
But now we have the Son!

From whence does the Son come,
From where and from what place?
He said, In a manger,
Between an ox and ass.

I pray thee, said the Carnal,
Tell me before thou go,
Was not the mother of Jesus
Conceived by the Holy Ghost?

(She was the purest virgin,
And the cleanest from sin;
She was the handmaid of our Lord
And Mother of our king.)

 

[nickel]

Στίχοι τραγουδιών 1ης εκπομπής:

The Derby Run
(The Watersons' version)

As I was going to Derby, all on a market day
I've spied the biggest ram, sir, that ever was fed on hay

Chorus (after each verse):
Lay lum lay lum people lay lum lay

This tup was fat behind, sir, this tup was fat before
This tup was nine feet round, sir, if not a little more

And the horns upon this tup they grew, well they reached up to the sky
The eagles made their nests within, you could hear the young ones cry

Yes the horns that on this tup they grew, well they reached up to the moon
A little boy went up in January and he never got back till June

And all the men of Derby come begging for his tail
To ring St George's passing bell from the top of Derby Gaol

And all the women of Derby come begging for his ears
To make 'em leather aprons to last 'em forty years

And all the boys of Derby come begging for his eyes
To make themselves some footballs cause they were of football size

Took all the men of Derby to carry away his bones
Took all the women of Derby to roll away his stones

And now my story is over, and I have no more to say
Please give us all a New Year's box and we will go away

 

[nickel]

Στίχοι τραγουδιών 1ης εκπομπής:

The Two Magicians

The lady sits in her own front door
As straight as the willow wand
And by there come a lusty smith
With a hammer in his hand
And he said bide lady bide
There's nowhere you can hide
For the lusty smith will be your love
And he will lay your pride.
Well may you stand you lady fair
All in your robes of red
But come tomorrow at this same time
I'll have you in me bed.
And he said bide lady bide ...
Away away you coal-black smith
Would you do me this wrong
To think to have me maidenhead
That I have kept so long
I'd rather I was dead and cold
And me body laid in the grave
Than a lusty dusty coal-black smith
Me maidenhead should have
So the lady she held up her hand
She swore upon her soul
That she'd not need the blacksmith's love
For all of a box of gold.
But the blacksmith he held up his hand
And he swore upon the mass
Saying I'll have you in me bed young girl
For the half of that or less
Bide lady bide ...
So the lady she turned into a dove
And she flew up in the air
But he became an old cock pigeon
And they flew pair and pair
Crying bide lady bide ...
So the lady she turned into a hare
And she ran across the plain
But he became a greyhound dog
And he ran her down again
Crying bide lady bide ...
So she became a little mare
As dark as the night was black
But he became a golden saddle
And he clung onto her back
Crying bide lady bide ...

 

[sarant]

Η πρώτη εκπομπή πάντως, καλά ακούγεται :)

 

[SBE]

Διαφωνώ απόλυτα με το ότι το είδος είναι τελείως περιθωριακό στο ΗΒ. Δεν θα πιστέψεις πόσα γιουτιουμπάκια υπάρχουν με ιδιωτικές εκτελέσεις αυτών των τραγουδιών. Και αυτό που είπα για τους ροκάδες. Αλλά οι ροκάδες την ήξεραν αυτή τη μουσική.

Ιδιωτικές εκτελέσεις βρίσκεις, όπως και σε μαθήματα τραγουδιού που έκανα παλιότερα μόνο παραδοσιακά μας έβαζαν να τραγουδάμε (ίσως είχε να κάνει και με κοπιράιτ), αλλά το είδος δεν παίζει καθόλου σε ραδιόφωνα και τηλεοράσεις, ούτε έχει τύχει τόσα χρόνια να γνωρίσω κανέναν οπαδό, έχει εκτοπιστεί κυρίως από την world music. Εννοείται ότι σύγχρονη φολκλορική μουσική ακούγεται, και ειδικά από Ιρλανδία, αλλά δεν είναι το ίδιο.

 

[nickel]

Μα έχετε ακούσει καλύτερο τραγούδι καλύτερα εκτελεσμένο; (Εξίσου καλά, πολλά.) :)
Από την παλιοσειρά μου (του ρίχνω δυο βδομάδες).

Traffic / Steve Winwood: John Barleycorn

 

[nickel]

Στίχοι τραγουδιών 2ης εισαγωγικής εκπομπής:
(Μπαλάντες – Βιομηχανική Επανάσταση)

Hugh the Graeme

The Lord Home is a-hunting gane,
Over the woods and valleys clear,
And he has taen Sir Hugh the Graeme,
For stealing o the bishop’s mare.
They hae taen Sir Hugh the Graeme,
And led him down thro Strieveling town;
Fifteen o them cried a’ at ance,
‘Sir Hugh the Graeme he must go down!’
‘Were I to die,’ says Hughie the Graeme
‘My parents would think it a very great luck;’
Through fifteen feet in the air he jumped,
With hands bound fast behind his back.
Then out and spake the lady Black,
And o her will she was right free:
‘A thousand pounds, my lord, I’ll gie,
If Hugh the Graeme set free to me.’
‘Ye hold your tongue, ye Lady Black,
And ye’ll let a’ your pleadings be!
Though ye woud gie me thousands ten,
It’s for my honour he must die.’

Πλήρεις παραλλαγές εδώ: http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Child's_Ballads/191


The Durham Lockout

In our Durham County, I am sorry for to say
That hunger and starvation is increasing every day
For the want of food and coals, we know not what to do
But with your kind assistance, we’ll see the battle through.

I need not state the reason why we have been brought so low
The masters have behaved unkind, which everyone well knows
Because we won't lie down and let them treat us as they like
To punish us they've stopped their pits and caused the present strike.

The pulley wheel have ceased to move which went so swift around
The horses and the ponies too are brought from underground
Our work is taken from us and they care not if we die
For they can eat the best of food and drink the best when dry.

The miner and his marra, too, each morning have to roam
To seek for bread to feed the hungry little ones at home
The flour barrel is empty now, their true and faithful friend
Which makes the thousands wish today the strike was at an end.

(We have done our very best as honest working men
To let the pits commence again, we've offered to them ten
The offer they will not accept, they firmly do demand
Thirteen and a half percent or let the collieries stand)

Well, let them stand or let them lie to do with them as they choose
To give them thirteen and a half we ever shall refuse
They're always willing to receive, but never inclined to give
Very soon they won't allow a working man to live

With tyranny and capital they never seem content
Unless they are endeavoring to take from us percent
If it was due, what they request, we willingly would grant
We know it's not, therefore we cannot give them what they want

The miners of Northumberland, we shall forever praise
For being so kind in helping us, those tyrannizing days
We thank the other counties too, that have been doing the same
For every man who hears this song will know we're not to blame

 

[nickel]

Στίχοι τραγουδιών 3η εκπομπής
Στον κόσμο του υπερφυσικού και της δεισιδαιμονίας
(Συμμετέχει και η Χριστίνα Κουτσουδάκη.)

The Elfin Knight
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Elfin_Knight
(Ewan MacColl)

There stands three trumpeters on yon hill
Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw
And they blaw their trumpets sae loud and shrill
And the wind it blaws my plaid awa'

Gin I'd his trumpet in my kist
Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw
And was in the lad's arms that I like best
And the wind it blaws my plaid awa'

Gin ye would be wed wi' me
Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw
There's ae thing ye maun dae for me
And the wind it blaws my plaid awa'

Ye maun mak' me a linen sark
Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw
Without a stitch o' needlewark
And the wind it blaws my plaid awa'

Ye maun wash it in yon draw-well
Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw
Where water never sprang or fell
And the wind it blaws my plaid awa'

Ye maun drt't on yon hawthorn
Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw
That hasna seen blossom since man was born
And the wind it blaws my plaid awa'

(And gin I mak'a sark for thee
Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw
There's ae thing ye maun dae for me
And the wind it blaws my plaid awa'

My faither has an acre o' land
Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw
Ye maun plough it wi' you ae hand
And the wind it blaws my plaid awa'

Ye maun sow it wantin' corn
Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw
And roll it wi' a sheep's shank-bone
And the wind it blaws my plaid awa'

Ye maun shear it wi' a scythe o' leather
Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw
And bind it wi' a peacock's feather
And the wind it blaws my plaid awa'

Ye maun stook it in the sea
Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw
And bring the whaetsheaf dry to me
And the wind it blaws my plaid awa'

And gin ye wark noo all this wark
Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw
Come to me and you'll get your sark
And the wind it blaws my plaid awa' )


Scarborough Fair
Marianne Faithfull

Have you been to Scarborough Fair
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.
Remember me to one that lives there
For once she once was a true lover of mine.

Tell her to make me a cambric shirt
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.
One with no seams, of fine needlework
And then she'll be a true lover of mine.

Tell her to dry it upon yonder thorn
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.
That never bore fruit since Adam was born
And then she'll be a true lover of mine.

Ah, can you find me an acre of land
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.
Between the salt sea and the sea sand
Or never be a true lover of mine.

And can you plough it with a sheep's horn
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.
And sow it all over with one peppercorn
Or never be a true lover of mine.

And when you have done and finished your work
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.
Then come to me for your cambric shirt
And then you'll be a true lover of mine.


The Unquiet Grave
(version sung by Joan Baez)

Cold blows the wind to my true love,
And gently drops the rain.
I've never had but one true love,
And in greenwood he lies slain.
I'll do as much for my true love,
As any young girl may,
I'll sit and mourn all on his grave,
For twelve months and a day.
And when twelve months and a day was passed,
The ghost did rise and speak,
Why sittest thou all on my grave
And will not let me sleep?
Go fetch me water from the desert,
And blood from out of a stone,
Go fetch me milk from a fair maid's breast
That a young man never has known.
How oft on yonder grave, sweetheart,
Where we were wont to walk,
The fairest flower that e'er I saw
Has withered to a stalk.
The stalk is withered and dead, sweetheart,
The flower will never return,
And since I've lost my own true love,
What can I do but yearn.
When will we meet again, sweetheart,
When will we meet again?
When the autumn leaves that fall from the trees
Are green and spring up again.

 

[nickel]

Στίχοι τραγουδιών 4ης εκπομπής
Carols – Θρησκευτικά τραγούδια


The Cherry-Tree Carol
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Cherry-Tree_Carol

Now Joseph and Mary walked in the garden green,
where the cherries hung heavy on every limb

"Pick me some cherries, Joseph,
pick me some cherries, do,
pick me some cherries, Joseph,
that hang on the bough"

Then up spoke old Joseph with his words so unkind:
"Let the man gather the cherries that owneth the child."

Then up spoke our Saviour all in his mother's womb (?):
"Bow down, thou lofty cherry tree, that Mary may have some"
The very top branches bowed down to her feet
"Now you can see, Joseph, there are cherries for me."


The Bitter Withy
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Bitter_Withy

(The Bert Lloyd version)

As it befell 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 is time that you were gone.
But don't let me hear of any mischief
At night when you come home

So up the hill and down the hill
Our sweet young Saviour run
Until he met three rich young 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?

(Oh we are lords and ladies' sons
Born in the bower and hall
And you are nothing but a poor Jew's child
Born in an ox's stall.

Well if I'm nothing but a poor Jew's child
Born in an ox's stall
I'll make you believe to your latter end
I'm an angel above you all.

So he's built him a bridge from the beams of the sun
And over the water ran he
And the rich young lords ran after him
And drowned they were all three.

Then it's up the hill and down the hill
Three rich young mothers run
Saying Mary mild, fetch home your child
For ours he's killed each one

So Mary mild fetched home her child
And laid him across her knee
And with a twig of willow wand
She gave him lashes three.

Oh bitter withy, oh bitter withy
Since you've caused me to smart
The willow shall be the very first tree
To perish at the heart.)


Από τον παγανιστικό κόσμο:
John Barleycorn

(Traditional version)
There was three men came out of the west,
Their fortunes for to try,
And these three men made a solemn vow,
John Barleycorn should die.
They ploughed, they sowed, they harrowed him in,
Throwed clods upon his head,
And these three men made a solemn vow,
John Barleycorn was dead.

They let him lie for a very long time
Till the rain from heav’n did fall,
Then little Sir John sprung up his head,
And soon amazed them all.
They let him stand till midsummer’s day
Till he looked both pale and wan,
And little Sir John growed a long long beard
And so became a man.

They hired men with the scythes so sharp
To cut him off at the knee,
They rolled him and tied him by the waist,
And served him most barbarously.
They hired men with the sharp pitchforks
Who pricked him to the heart,
And the loader he served him worse than that,
For he bound him to the cart.

They wheeled him round and round the field
Till they came unto the barn,
And there they made a solemn mow
of poor John Barleycorn.
They hired men with the crab-tree sticks
To cut him skin from bone,
And the miller he served him worse than that,
For he ground him between two stones.

Here's little Sir John in a nut-brown bowl,
And brandy in a glass;
And little Sir John in the nut-brown bowl
Proved the stronger man at last.
And the huntsman he can't hunt the fox,
Nor so loudly blow his horn,
And the tinker he can't mend kettles or pots
Without a little of Barleycorn.


(The Traffic version)

There were three men came out of the west, their fortunes for to try
And these three men made a solemn vow
John Barleycorn must die
They've ploughed, they've sown, they've harrowed him in
Threw clods upon his head
And these three men made a solemn vow
John Barleycorn was dead
They've let him lie for a very long time, 'til the rains from heaven did fall
And little Sir John sprung up his head and so amazed them all
They've let him stand 'til Midsummer's Day 'til he looked both pale and wan
And little Sir John's grown a long long beard and so become a man
They've hired men with their scythes so sharp to cut him off at the knee
They've rolled him and tied him by the waist serving him most barbarously
They've hired men with their sharp pitchforks who've pricked him to the heart
And the loader he has served him worse than that
For he's bound him to the cart
They've wheeled him around and around a field 'til they came unto a barn

And there they made a solemn oath on poor John Barleycorn
They've hired men with their crabtree sticks to cut him skin from bone
And the miller he has served him worse than that
For he's ground him between two stones

And little Sir John and the nut brown bowl and his brandy in the glass
And little Sir John and the nut brown bowl proved the strongest man at last
The huntsman he can't hunt the fox nor so loudly to blow his horn
And the tinker he can't mend kettle or pots without a little barleycorn

 

[oliver_twisted]

The lark in the morning. Παραδοσιακό

The lark in the morning she rises off her nest
She goes home in the evening with the dew all on her breast
And like the jolly ploughboy she whistles and she sings
She goes home in the evening with the dew all on her wings

Oh, Roger the ploughboy he is a dashing blade
He goes whistling and singing over yonder leafy shade
He met with pretty Susan, she's handsome I declare
She is far more enticing then the birds all in the air

The lark ...

One evening coming home from the rakes of the town
The meadows been all green and the grass had been cut down
As I should chance to tumble all in the new-mown hay
Oh, it's kiss me now or never love, this bonnie lass did say

The lark ...

When twenty long weeks they were over and were past
Her mommy chanced to notice how she thickened round the waist
It was the handsome ploughboy, the maiden she did say
For he caused for to tumble all in the new-mown hay

The lark...
Here's a health to y'all ploughboys wherever you may be
That likes to have a bonnie lass a sitting on his knee
With a jug of good strong porter you'll whistle and you'll sing
For a ploughboy is as happy as a prince or a king

The lark...

 

[oliver_twisted]

(Trad)
Curfá (Chorus)
Téir abhaile riú
Téir abhaile riú
Téir abhaile riú Mhary
Téir abhaile riú 's fan sa bhaile
Mar tá do mhargadh déanta

Chorus:
Go home with you
Go home with you
Go home with you, Mary
Go home with you and stay at home
Because your match is made

Is cuma cé dhein é nó nár dhein
Is cuma cé dhein é Mhary
Is cuma cé dhein é nó nár dhein mar
Tá do mhargadh déanta

It doesn't matter who made it or who didn't
It doesn't matter who made it, Mary
It doesn't matter who made it or who didn't
Because your match is made

Pós an piobaire
Pós an piobaire
Pós an piobaire Mhary
Pós an piobaire dtús na hoíche
Is beidh sé agat ar maidin

Marry the piper
Marry the piper
Marry the piper, Mary
Marry the piper early at night
And you'll have him in the morning

Níl do mhargadh
Tá do mharghad
Níl mo mhardadh déanta
Tá do mhargadh
Níl do mhargadh
Tá do mhargadh déanta

My match isn't
Your match is
My match isn't made
Your match is
My match isn't
Your match is made

 

[daeman]

(Παραδοσιακό, οι στίχοι από εδώ με μπόνους την τελευταία στροφή)

Och weel dae I mind in the days o' lang syne,
When I wis a laddie sae wee,
If ever I'd gand tae dae onything wrang
Ma mither wid lecture tae me,
She'd say tae me then, "Bairn stay awa' frae the wimmin,
Or ye'll rue it the day ye begin."
So I never thocht twice aboot tak'n advice
For twa heids are better than yin!

Translated:
Oh well do I remember in days long ago
When I was a little lad,
If I ever tried to do anything wrong,
My mother would lecture to me,
She'd say to me, "Child stay away from the women
Or you'll regret it the day you begin."
So I never thought twice about taking advice
For two heads are better than one!

But me being young, all my wantin' was spun,
So the first thing that I look'd for was a wife.
And I found a wee tart wi' a wee warm heart
Tae sew on my buttons for life.
I called her my one and my wee cuttin' bun
And I tickled her under the chin,
And she'd say to me, lad, will ye nae mair gad,
For Twa heids are better than yin.

Last Saturday night, mon, I got such a fright
That I nearly jumped oot o' my skin,
For as sure as I'm here, my wee wife, I declare,
She gae me a present o' twins!
Says I tae her, Jean, what the hell do ye mean?
It's a terrible thing that ye done!
But she cried it out loud, "Mon, ye ought tae be proud,
For twa heids are better than yin!"

Ma mither-in-law is a crabbit aul' craw,
She calls me a loafer and such,
And a visit fae her, every weekend or so,
Is a thing that I dinna like much,
To the boozer I'll go,
Wi some fella's I know,
And I'll drink till my eyes start tae blin'
But the sicht when I'm hame,
Pits me right aff ma gemme,
'Cos she's got twa heids instead o' her yin,

Παρεμπιπτόντως, αυτό το βινύλιο ξαναστριφογύρισε χτες στο πικάπ μου μετά από 35+ χρόνια·
το βρήκα καθώς τοποθετούσα τους δίσκους στα ράφια μετά τη μετακόμιση.
Το είχε φέρει δώρο στους γονείς μου το 1963 ένας θείος που σπούδαζε τότε στη Γλασκόβη.
Χαραγμένο το βινύλιο, μα σε καλύτερη κατάσταση από τον θείο που μας άφησε χρόνους πέρυσι τέτοια εποχή.