Home Grown Mountain-River-Valley Music
“From the Mountains to the Valley" is a concert series celebrating the unique musical history of the Hudson Valley and Catskill mountains. For the latest updates, go to
posted by Unknown at 9:03 PM
Every area has it's own local history and folk music. For many years I have been researching the indigenous music of the Catskill mountains and the Hudson River Valley, including the landmark work done by Herbert Haufrecht, Norman Cazden and Norman Studer during the 1950's at Camp Woodland.
(From an article " 'Whirling' and Applejack in the Catskills by Norman Studer) "Moving eastward across the Catskills to the Hudson River Valley we found an amusing poem in Rosendale, once the center of the cement industry of the nation. This tall tale in verse was furnished by Pat Riley, who claimed to be the oldest resident of Rosendale. Mr. Riley says that the author was Willy O'Brien, who worked in the cement mines. Abe Sammons owned a distillery in Rosendale. The song follows:"
*ABE SAMMON'S APPLEJACK*
version by Bob Lusk
(based on a poem by Willy O'Brien)
Chorus
I'd like a drink of Applejack, or a little drink of ale
That good old stuff Abe Sammons made in the town of Rosendale
You can have your running rivers, your cozy mountain shacks
But just drain all the oceans and put in Applejack
Now, it cured a man at Rock Locks, they'd given up for dead
He took a drink of Applejack, and he jumped right out of bed
It was good for all that ails you, it would drive away the blues
It made a long ear rabbit bite a bullfrog right in two
Chorus
I'd like to turn the clock back some forty years or more
Just for a night of dances on Abe Sammons' bar room floor
I'd like to dance to 'Home Sweet Home' with those old friends of mine
And have one good old parting drink of apple, beer or wine
Chorus
Now Kentucky rye or bourbon, good old New England rum
Might warm the cockles of our hearts when winters days are done
But the juice of Ulster's apples will bring back many a dream
To the folks away up yonder, up in Rosendale I mean
Chorus
*ABE SAMMON'S APPLEJACK*
(Original)
From a poem by Willy O'Brien,
I'd like a drink of Applejack
Or a little drink of Ale,
That famous stuff Abe Sammons made
In the town of Rosendale.
It was good for all that ailed you,
It would drive away the blues;
Why, it made a long-ear rabbit
Bite a bull-dog right in two
It cured a man in Rock Locks
They had given up for dead;
He took a drink of applejack
And jumped right out of bed.
A drink of Abe's old apple
[was money well spent]
Just would make you talk of millions
Though you don't have a cent. (sic)
A woman lived in Edyville
Who had a lazy son;
He never did a lick of work
Till he was twenty-one.
One day a neighbor told her
What might induce the lad to work;
One charge of Abe's old apple
Made him labor like a Turk.
In Whiteport lived a pretty girl
Whose age was seventeen;
She loved a fine young farmer
By the name of Silas Green.
She would ask him to go walking,
Then invite him to her house;
But he'd sit there by the hour,
Just as quiet as a mouse.
One night she mixed him up
A drink of toddy for his cold;
A drop or two of Sammons' best
Just made young Silas bold;
They're married now and settled
She's happy as a queen,
Thanks to that shot of apple
Which she gave to Silas Green
Oh! the juice of Ulster's apples
Will bring back many a dream
Of the folks away up yonder up in Rosendale I mean.
I'd like to turn the old clock
Some forty years or more
Just for a night of dances
On Abe Sammons' ballroom floor
I'd drink a hooker just before
The hour for the ball,
And have another afterwards
We'd drink it in the hall.
I'd like to dance the Lancers
With the girl I loved the best;
I never will forget the rose
She pinned upon my breast.
I often wish I'd saved those cards
On which the bids were sent;
Inviting you and lady friend
Or lady and her gent.
I'd like to dance to "Home Sweet Home"
With those old friends of mine,
And have one good old parting drink
Of apple, ale, or wine;
Then bid them all good morning
As the sun begins to shine
While the band is softly playing
In the days of "Auld Lang Syne."
Kentucky Rye or Bourbon
Or good old New England rum
Might warm the cockles of our hearts
When Winter's chill has come.
But the stuff we most desired
When rude Boreas shook our shacks
Was old Ulster's famous Mountain Dew
Abe Sammon's Applejack.
*Acres of Apples* (Les Rice)
(Les Rice was an apple farmer in Highland. He was involved in progressive politics and wrote many songs. They were compiled by his wife and Carol Hanisch and published locally. This song was originally printed in the New York Folklore quarterly, but they left out the last two verses that talked about unionizing.)
I came to the Mid-Hudson Valley
A many a long year ago
I have spent all my time in the orchard
A making those red apples grow
A making those red apples grow
A making those red apples grow
And thinking each year as I labored
That someday I would make me some dough
I sprayed them and sprayed them and sprayed them
From early in April to fall
Those trees were so loaded with apples
You couldn't see green leaves at all (3x)
And what did I get for those apples?
A penny a pound for them all
I have raised in my time enough apples
To feed the whole state of New York
But I never have had enough money
To buy me a good roast of pork(3x)
The apples are raised in the valley
But the money is made in New York
But now I am joining a union
A union of farmers like me
I'm tired of paying the broker
His one hundred and ten percent fee(3x)
I'd like just a little left over
A little left over for me
And now that we're all in the union
Some fellows had better get wise
They've stolen our left and our right arms
But we're damned if we'll give them our eyes (3x)
The next time they come to the valley
We'll cut down those bastards to size
*As I Went Down to Port Jervis*
From Folk Songs of the Catskills, Cazden, Haufrecht, Studer
Collected from George Edwards (missing line in parentheses from
Marvin Yale)
As I went down to Port Jervis, one morning in July
A mother with two soldier boys, the tears were in her eye,
Saying, "God be with you, my two sons, as you are going to war
You'll face the bloody battles along the Southern shore."
"Why do you weep, dear mother? Why do you weep and mourn?
Why do you weep, dear mother, for the loss of your two sons?
For when our country calls us, and after our blood is shed,
And after we're dead and buried, we're numbered with the dead."
"Johnny, I've gave you good schooling, also a trade likewise;
You needn't have joined the army if you had took my advice.
You need not go to face the foe where cannons loud did roar
You'd escape the bloody battle along the Southern shore."
"Yes mother, you gave me good schooling, also a trade likewise;
I needn't have joined the army if I had took your advice.
I need not go to face the foe where cannons loud did roar
I'd escape the bloody battle along the Southern shore."
I joined the fourteenth infantry, it was a bloody score,
I traveled on those sandy plains, my feet were blistered sore
(We fought through many a battle along the Southern shore,)
And I wish to God that I was dead, my brother was no more.
Oh, the night was dark and stormy, and the moon kept shining bright,
And the stars cast burning rays down on the storm that raged the night
The lightning struck the cow-shed, and the cows all chewed their cuds,
And the moonlight set the prairie afire in the middle of the woods.
Oh, the barefoot boy with boots on came a-crawling down the street
His pants were filled with pockets, and his boots were filled with feet.
He was born when he was a baby, his grandma's pride and joy
His only sister was a girl, and his brother was a boy.
He never was one of triplets, came of being twins;
His legs were fastened to his knee, just above the shins
His feet were fastened to his hips, several inches from his shoulder,
When he was grown, he was a man, and every year got older.
At last he married a woman, who quickly became his wife,
He could not stay single and lead a married life.
His wife was full of notions, and her mouth was full of tongue,
She raised a dozen children, all born when they were young.
Six girls and five boys, and then another child,
They never tried to tame them, just let them all go wild.
The youngest was the baby, and the oldest was born first
The good one was the very best, and the mean one was the worst.
They never knew their ages, and they did not seem to care
They knew they had a birthday coming to them every year;
They never knew their father's age, but they always had a hunch
That he was born before their day, and was the oldest of the bunch.
And when they died, they could not speak, and their names they could not tell
And the girls all went to heaven, and the boys all went to Kingston.
*BEGGARMAN*
(To the tune of "Red Haired Boy". The wonderful thing about folk music is that so many songs have been around forever. This was collected by the famous scholar Colm O Lochlainn. It was performed by the Flanagan Brothers from Albany in the 1940’s. It was made famous in recent years by Tommy Makem, now resident in New Hampshire. His son now can be found playing music in the Hudson Valley)
I am a little beggarman a beggin' I have been
For three score or more in this little Isle of Green
I'm known from the Liffey, down to Segue
I'm known by the name of old Johnny Dhu
Of all the trades that's goin sure beggin' is the best
For when a man is tired he can sit down and rest
Beg for his dinner and he’s nothin' else to do
Only cut around the corner with his old rigadoo
Refrain:
A diddle eye, a diddle eye, a diddle eye’d a dum
A diddle eye, a diddle eye, a diddle eye’d a dum
A diddle eye, a diddle eye, a diddle eye’d a dum
A diddle eye, a diddle eye, a diddle eye’d a dum
I slept in a barn way down a’ Currabawn
A wet night came on and I slept ‘til the dawn
Holes in the roof and the rain coming through
And the rats and the cats they were playing peekaboo
When who should awaken but the woman of the house
With her white spotty apron and her calico blouse
She began to frighten and I said "Boo!
Arrah don't be afraid ma'am, it's only Johnny Dhu"
Refrain:
I met a little flaxy-haired girl one day
"Good morning, little flaxy-haired girl", I did say
"Good morning, little beggarman, a-how do you do
With your rags and your bags and your old rigadoo?"
"I'll buy a pair of leggings, a collar and a tie
And a nice young lady I'll fetch bye and bye
I'll buy a pair of goggles and color them blue
And an old-fashioned lady, I’ll make out of you"
Refrain:
Over the road with my pack on my back
Over the fields with my great heavy sack
With holes in my shoes and my toes peeping through
Singing "Skinny-ma-rink-a-doodle-o and old Johnny Dhu
I must be going to bed, for it's getting late at night
The fire's all raked and out goes the light
Now you've heard the story of me old rigadoo
"It's goodbye and God be with you", said old Johnny Dhu
Last refrain – to “B” music
Na, na, na, na, na, na, na
Na, na, na, na, na, na, na
Now you've heard the story of me old rigadoo"It's goodbye and God be with you", said old Johnny Dhu
*BIG BILL SNYDER* Tune: Old Dan Tucker
(8-10-02 was the157th Anniversary of the Anti-Rent War Confrontation on Dingle Hill, during which Under Sheriff Osmond Steele was fatally shot. Hundreds of "Calico Indians" from the gathered towns were arrested and many sentenced to death, later commuted by the State, winning a victory for the right to land ownership for NY farmers. Recorded by Pete Seeger and Ed Renehan on "Fifty Sail on Newburgh Bay" Folkways)
The moon was shining silver bright
The sheriff came in the dead of night
High on a hill an Indian true
And on his horn this blast he blew
Chorus: Keep out to the way, Big Bill Snyder
We’ll tar your coat and feather your hide, sir
The Indians gathered at the sound
Bill cocked his pistol and looked around
Their painted faces by the moon
He saw and heard that same old tune
Says Bill, This music’s not so sweet
As I have heard, I think my feet
Had better be used, and he started to run
But the tin horn still kept sounding on
Legs do your duty now, says Bill
There’s a thousand Indians on the hill’
When they catch Tories they tar their coats
And feather their hides, and I hear the notes
Bill ran and ran till he reached the wood
And there with horror still he stood
For he saw a savage tall and grim
And he heard a horn, not a rod from him
Bill thought he heard the sound of a gun
And he cried in fright, My race is run
Better that I had never been born
Than to hear the sound of that tin horn
And the news flew around and gained belief
That Bill was murdered by an Indian Chief
And no one mourned that Bill was slain
But the tin horn sounded again and again
Next day the body of Bill was found
His writs were scattered on the ground
And by his side a jug of rum
Told how he to his end had come
*Blackbird*
(Mary Avery - several tunes including Sweet Betsy from Pike)
*Blue Mountain Lake*
(To the tune of Down, Down Down Derry Down)
Come all of you fellers, where'er you may be,
Come set down a while and listen to me.
The truth I will tell you without a mistake
'Bout the rackets we had down at Blue Mountain Lake.
Derry down, down, down derry down
There's the Sullivan brothers and big Jimmy Lou,
And old Moose Gilbert and Dandy Pat, too.
As fine lot of fellers as ever was seen
And they all worked for Griffin on Township 19.
Bill Mitchell you know, he kept our shantee.
As mean a damn man as you ever did see.
He laid round the shanty from mornin' till night.
If a man said a word he was ready to fight.
One mornin' 'fore daylight, Jim Lou he got mad,
Knocked hell out of Mitchell and the boys was all glad.
His wife, she stood there, and the truth I will tell,
She was tickled to death to see Mitchell catch hell.
Old Griffin he stood there, the crabby old drake.
A hand on the racket we thought he would take.
When some of the boys came and took him away,
"By Christ," says old Griffin, "I've nothin' to say."
You can talk of your fashions and styles to be seen,
But there's none to compare with the cook of 19.
She's short, thick, and stout, without a mistake,
And the boys call her Nellie, the belle of Long Lake.
And now my good fellers, adieu to you all,
For Christmas is comin' and I'm goin' to Glens Falls,
And when I get there I'll go out on a spree,
For you know when I've money, the devil's in me.
*Bluestone Quarrys*
(Written by Harry Seimsen, town of Kingston historian)
In 1841, they put their long red flannels on
The Irishman put their flannels on
To work in the Bluestone Quarrys
Chorus
Tither-ee-oor-i-oor-i-ay
Tither-ee-oor-i-oor-i-ay
Tither-ee-oor-i-oor-i-ay
To work in the Bluestone Quarrys
They left old Ireland far behind
To search for work of a different kind
The work was hard, but they didn’t mind
To work in the bluestone quarrys
---more to come
See http://www.town.kingston.ny.us/html/body_history.html
*Brennan on the Moor*
Well, tis of a well known highwayman
This story I will tell;
His name was Willie Brennan,
And in Ireland he did dwell;
Twas on the Kilworth mountains
He commenced his wild career,
And many a wealthy gentleman
Before him shook with fear.
Chorus:
And it’s Brennan on the Moor,
Brennan on the Moor.
Bold Brave and undaunted
Was young Brennan on the Moor.
One day upon the highway,
As Willie he went down,
He met the Mayor of Cashel
A mile outside the town:
The Mayor he knew his features;
And he said, young man, said he,
Your name is Willie Brennan
You must come along with me
Chorus:
Now Brennan's wife had gone to town,
Provisions for to buy,
And when she saw her Willie,
She began to weep and cry;
He said, "Give me that tenpenny";
And as soon as Willie spoke,
She handed him a blunderbuss
From underneath her cloak.
Chorus:
Then with his loaded blunderbuss,
The truth I will enfold,
He made the Mayor to tremble,
And he robbed him of his gold;
Five hundred pounds was offered
For his apprehension there,
And he with horse and saddle
To the mountains did repair
Chorus:
Then Brennan being an outlaw
Upon the mountains high,
With cavalry and infantry
To take him they did try;
He laughed at them with scorn,
Until at length, 'tis said,
By a false-hearted woman
He was cruelly betrayed.
Chorus:
*BURNING OF KINGSTON*
This was a poem written by William Geckle, set to music by Ed Renehan. Geckel makes the poetic allusion of the colors of the trees in the fall to the color of the flames as the towns. I sang this for a senior citizen program in Gardiner New York in August of 1993. An 80 year old woman told me her ancestors sailed upriver with the British. She said she that was something she hesitated to say because it “upset people”.
Autumn burned in the Ulster hills before the British came
The elms and maples smoldered there, the oaks were yellow flame
Fields were empty, barns were full, wrapped in October haze
While British ships up river sailed, all through the golden days
As in a dream the white sailed ships past the farm lands glide
All quiet now as if in peace, northward on the tide
Two thousand men aboard those ships gaze on the golden shore
They dream of making homes and farms, instead of making war
This was a land they could have loved and shared it’s homes and farms
This was a land they could have had without recourse to arms
But Kingston was burned in the Ulster hills, every house but one
And it burned in the hearts of Ulster men until the war was won
*CUTTING DOWN THE PINES*
Friends, if you will listen, I'll sing to you a song,
All about the pine woods and how they get along.
A jovial lot of fellows as ever you will find
Spent the winter pleasantly cutting down the pines.
Some will leave their own dear homes and friends they love so dear
To the lonesome pine woods the boys will have to steer.
The sawyers and the choppers, the quiet mechanics too.
Learn all sorts of trades as part of the lumber crew.
The sawyers and the choppers, they lay the timber low:
The skidders and the swampers, they haul it to and fro;
On come the teamsters before the break of day:
They load up their log teams, to the river haste away
"Noontime is coming!" loud the foreman screams,
"Lay down your saws and axes and haste to pork and beans
Time for your dinner!" you hear the foreman cry:
You ought to see them bound around, for they hate to lose their pie.
"Hurry up there, Tom, Dick or Joe,
You'll have to take the water pail and for some water go
Arriving in the shanty is when the fun begins,
Bringing out the water pails and rattling of the tins.
After dinner's over, 'tis amongst the crew,
We'll load up our pipes and smoke till all is blue
"Time for the wood, boys," you'll hear the foreman say;
We'll gather up our hats and caps, to the woods we'll haste away.
So merrily ring their axes until the sun goes down
"Hurrah! Now, my boys, your day's work is done."
Arriving at the shanty with cold and wet feet
All hands pull off our hats and caps, for supper we must eat
Our boots and our shoes are all thrown to one side;
Our mittens and our socks are all hung up and dried
"Time for your supper!" You all get up and go;
'Tain't the style for one of those boys to miss his hash, y'know!
Nine o'clock and thereabout, into our bunks we'll climb
To dream away the dreary hours while cutting down the pine
Four o'clock and thereabout, you'll hear the foreman shout,
"Hurrah, there, you teamsters, it's time that you were out!"
The teamsters, they'll get up all in a frightened way:
One cries, "I've lost my socks; my mittens've gone astray!"
Another one cries, "I've lost my cap, I don't know what to do
While another one says, "I've lost my hat, and I'm ruined too."
The choppers, they'll get up: their mittens they cannot find;
They lay it to the teamsters, and curse' em almost blind.
If any of you from this way should happen there,
You'd kill yourself a-laughing at the boys in despair.
Springtime is coming, merry be the day;
Lay down your saws and axes, and haste to clear the way
The floating ice now is gone, and business is to a ram:
Three hundred able bodied men are wanted on the jam.
If any of you disbelieve in this song, or think these lines aren't true,
Just go to Bravy's shanty, ask one of Bravy's crew.
It was in Jack Bravy's shanty this song was sung with glee,
"This is the end of The Lumber Woods," says L. D. E.
*Dewey Dens of Yarrow*
There were five sons and two were twins
There were five sons of Yarrow
They all did fightn for their own true loven
In the dewy dens of Yarrow
Oh mother dear I had a dream
A dream of grief and sorrow
I dreamed I was gathering heather blooms
In the dewy dens of Yarrow
Oh daughter dear I read your dream
Your dream of grief and sorrow
Your love, your love is lying slain
In the dewy dens of Yarrow
She sought him up and she sought him down
She sought him all through Yarrow
And then she found him lying slain
In the dewy dens of Yarrow
She washed his face and she combed his hair
She combed it neat and narrow
And then she washed that bloody bloody wound
That he got in the Yarrow
Her hair it was three quarters long
The color it was yello
She wound it round his waist so small
And took him home from Yarrow
Oh Mother dear go maken my bedn
Go make it neat and narrow
My love my love he diedn for me
I'll die for him to-morrow
Oh daughter dear don't be so grieved
So grieved with grief and sorrow
I'll wedn you to a better one
Than you lost in the Yarrow
She dressed herself in clean white clothes
And away to the waters of Yarrow
And there she laid her own self down
And died on the banks of the Yarrow
The wine that runs through the water deepn
Comes from the sons of Yarrow
They all did fightn for their own true loven
In the dewy dens of Yarrow
*DOWN BY THE HUDSON*
(Written in the 1950's by a Long Island school teacher)
More to post 7/11/07
The girls of the Deer, they're plump and their pretty
The Grass and Allegany has many a beauty
The Chenango flows slowly past girls by the score
So down by the Hudson I'll wander know more
Aye la lie lee lee lee give me your hand (3x)
There's may a river that waters the land
ERIN'S GREEN SHORES*
(A popular ballad of the 1800's. Variations with different tune strains have been found all over the U.S., including Canal Captain Pearl Nye, and lumberman George Edwards.
Packy Dolan, an Irish fiddler and singer from the Bronx, recorded `Erin's Green Shores' in 1929 for RCA Victor, using the tune `Rosin the Bow'. He was later killed in a steamboat explosion on the Hudson River. "Erin's Green Shores" represents one of the first fundraising songs for the Irish struggle. Daniel O'Connell, "Ireland's Liberator" is a frequent figure in Irish patriotic song. Here his daughter appears as a dream spirit, and is symbolic of Ireland. )
On a bright summer's evening I rambled
Along by a clear, purling stream
All down by the banks of primroses,
When I quickly fell in a dream.
I dreamed I saw a fair damsel,
Her equal I'd never seen before,
he seemed to sigh for her country
As she strayed along Erin's green shores
Her cheeks were two blooming roses,
Teeth of an ivory so white,
Eyes were like two sparkling diamonds
Or a star on a cold winter's night.
She was dressed in the richest of tidings,
Green was the mantle she wore,
Bound round with shamrocks and roses
That growed along Erin's green shores.
Modestly I stepped to the fair maiden,
Boldly I asked her her name,
Knowed she were in the midst of great danger,
Or I would not have asked her the same
"I'm the daughter of Dan'l O'Connor,
From England I've lately sailed o'er,
Come to warn my true brothers
Of the dangers along Erin's green shores. "
She was dressed in the richest of tidings,
Green was the mantle she wore,
Bound round with shamrocks and roses
That growed along Erin's green shores.
When I woke from my slumber,
Found that all but a dream,
Found the dear one had left me,
I longed to be slumbering again.
May the great God of Heaven direct her,
I may never see her no more,
May the great God of Heaven protect her
As she strays along Erin's green shores.
She was dressed in the richest of tidings,
And green was the mantle she wore,
Bound round with shamrocks and roses
That growed along Erin's green shores.
*Felix the Soldier*
Song of the 7 years war. From Traditional American Folk Songs, Warner and Warner
Collected from Lena Bourne Fish
They took away my brogues
And they robbed me of my spade
They put me in the army
And a soldier of me made
But I couldn't beat a drum
And I couldn't play a flute
So they handed me a musket
And they taught me how to shoot.
But the Injuns they were sly,
And the Frenchies they were coy,
So they shot off the left leg
Of this poor Irish boy.
We had a bloody fight
After we had scaled the wall,
And the divil a bit of mercy
Did the Frenchies show at all.
Then they put me on a ship,
And they sent me home again,
With all my army training,
After battle's strife and din.
They headed for the Downs,
And we landed at the quay,
My mother came to meet me,
And these words to me did say,
"O Felix, are you drunk,
Or Felix are you mad?
And whatever has become
Of the two legs you had!"
I will bid my spade adieu,
For I cannot dig the bog,
But I still can play the fiddle,
And I still can drink my grog.
I have learned to smoke a pipe
And I've learned to fire a gun,
To the divil with the fighting,
I am glad the war is done.
*FOGGY DEW*
(This was one of the many songs collected from George Edwards. The text was written by the poet Milliken, and arranged by Mrs. Charlotte Milligan Fox {as a beautiful lament} in 'Songs of the Irish Harpers'. It was recorded by John McCormack in the early 1900's, and was very popular in the Irish American community in that era.)
It was over the hills, I went one morn,
a lovely maid I spied
With her coal black hair and her mantle of green
A vision to perceive
And where go ye sweet maid said I
As she came hurrying through
And she smiled and she said 'The boy I'm to wed
I'm to meet him in the foggy dew'
Go hide your blooms near roses red
and ruby lilies rare
For you must pale for very shame
before a maid so fair
Says I dear girl, will you be my bride
And she lifted her eyes of blue
And she smiled and she said the boy I’m to wed, I’m to meet him in the foggy dew'
Over the hills I went next morn
A-singing I did go
Met this lovely maid with her coal black hair
And she answered soft and low
Said she, 'Dear boy, I will be bride
If you'll promise to be true'
It was then, in my arms, that all her charms
Were casted in the foggy dew
*Girl I Left Behind Me *
The dames of France are fond and free
And Flemish lips are willing,
And sof the maids of Italy
While Spanish eyes are thrilling.
Still, though I bask beneath their smiles
Their charms all fail to bind me;
And my heart goes back to erin's isle
To the girl I left behind me.
She says,"My own dear love, come home
My friends are rich and many
Or else with you abroad I'll roam
A soldier stout as any.
If you'll not come nor let me go
I'll think you have resigned me."
My heart near broke when I answered,"No."
To the girl I left behind me.
For never shall my true love brave
A life of war and toiling.
And never, as a skulking slave
I'll tread my native soil on.
But were it free, or to be freed
The battle's close would find me
To Ireland bound, nor message need
From the girl I left behind me.
*Hudson River Rolling On* c 1970 by Ken Gonyea
I like your snow capped mountains and your valleys oh so fair
And the beauty of your countryside I’m sure can’t be compared
So many things to see and do, I’ll sing them in my song
But still I like to travel home, It’s there that I belong
Chorus
If you could see my Hudson River Rolling On
You’d know why I want to be back home where I belong
Her beauty and her majesty still lingers on my mind
I just love to stand beside her as she moves on down the line
They say that she is born high in the mountains way up north
In a tall stream down a rocky ledge
She finds her place of birth
A lot of tiny streams combine to make this river mine
Flowing through the Adirondacks to the valley that’s my home
You ought to see those lumberin’ barges heading north to Albany
Oil tankers headed south to New York City then out to sea
But still my river flows along just like the hands of time
You see I just can’t get that Hudson River off my mind
*Hudson River Steamboat*
Hudson River steamboat, steamin' up and down.
New York to Albany or any river town.
Choo-choo to go ahead, choo-choo to back 'er.
Captain and the first mate, they both chew
tobacker.
cho: Oh, choo-choo to go ahead, choo-choo to back 'er.
Packet boat, towboat, and a double-stacker.
Choo-choo to Tarrytown, Spuyten Duyvil all around.
Choo-choo to go ahead, choo-choo to back 'er.
Shad boat, pickle boat, lyin' side by side.
Fisherfolk and sailormen waitin' for the tide.
Raincloud, stormcloud over yonder hill.
Thunder on the Dunderberg _ the rumble's in the kill.
The Sedgwick was racin', and she lost all hope.
Used up her steam on the big calliope.
She was hoppin' right along, she was hoppin' quick,
All the way from Stony Point to Popalopen Creek.
(final chorus):
Aww, choo-choo to go ahead, choo-choo to back 'er.
Packet boat, towboat, and a double-stacker.
New York to Albany, Rondout and Tivoli.
Choo-choo to go ahead, choo-choo to back 'er.
*Hills of Glenshee *
One morning in springtime as day was a-dawning
Bright Phoebus had risen from over the lea
I spied a fair maiden as homeward she wandered
From herding her flocks on the hills of Glenshee
I stood in amazement, says I, "Pretty fair maid
If you will come down to St. John's Town with me
There's ne'er been a lady set foot in my castle
There's ne'er been a lady dressed grander than thee"
A coach and six horses to go at your bidding
And all men that speak shall say "ma'am unto thee
Fine servants to serve you and go at your bidding
I'll make you my bride, my sweet lass of Glenshee
"Oh what do I care for your castles and coaches?
And what do I care for your gay grandeury?
I'd rather be home at my cot, at my spinning
Or herding my flocks on the hills of Glenshee"
"Away with such nonsense and get up beside me
E'er summer comes on my sweet bride you will be
And then in my arms I will gently caress thee"
'Twas then she consented, I took her with me
Seven years have rolled on since we were united
There's many's a change, but there's no change on me
And my love, she's as fair as that morn on the mountain
When I plucked me a wild rose on the hills of Glenshee
*I Know an Old Canawler *
(Learned from Alice Valentine, President of the D&H Canal Society about 1978. She remet her childhood sweetheart late in life, remarried and took off for other parts of the world.)
I know an old canaller, his name is Simon Slick
He had a mule with dreamy eyes, Lord how that mule could kick
He'd wink his eyes, he'd wag his tail and greet you with a smile
He'd gently telegraph his leg and send you half a mile
Whoa, mule, whoa. Why don't you hear them holler
Tie a knot right in his tail so he don't slip through his collar
Why don't they put him on a track, why don't they let him go
And every time he comes around, shout whoa, mule, whoa
Now this mule he was a daisy, he pulverized a hog
Dissected seven Chinamen, and he kicked a yellow dog
He'd kick as quick as lightning, and he had an iron jaw
He's just the mule to have around to tame your mother in law
Whoa, mule, whoa. I'm done with you forever.
You ain't no good, you never was, and you never will be neither
You're going to die and take a trip to that hot place below
Old Satan see you coming in, he'll yell, whoa, mule whoa
*I WALK THE ROAD AGAIN*
Jehila 'Pat' Edwards
Oh Katie Morgan, you are my darling
Sit you down, beside my knee
And tell to me, the very reason
That I am slighted, so by thee
I'm so deep in love, that I cannot deny it
My heart lies heavy, on my breast
It's not to you, for to let the world know it
A troubled mind, can know no rest
I leaned my head, against a cask of brandy
It was my fortune, I do declare
For when I'm drinking, I'm always thinking
Wishing Katie -- Morgan was there
I wish I was, in Pennsylvania
Where marble stones, are black as ink
And all the pretty, little girls adore me
I'll sing no more, till I have a drink
I'm drunk today, and I'm seldom sober
A high born man, of low degree
For when I'm drinking, I'm always thinking
Wishing Katie, would marry me
I wish I was, in some lonesome valley
Where woman kind, cannot be found
And all the little, birds sing their voices
And every moment, a different sound
Oh Katie Morgan, you are my sweetheart
Come sit you down, beside of me
And tell to me, the very reason
That I am slighted, so by thee
*Meeting of the Waters* (Samuel Woodworth)
During the 19th and 20th Centuries, the songs of Thomas Moore were popular in the Irish American community. It is recorded in the Kingston Weekly Leader, Feb. 17, 1916 that a canal captain sang 'Loves Young Dream'. Many of Moore's songs are still played in Kingston, Poughkeepsie, and New York City. On Saint Patricks' Day, marching bagpipe bands will frequently play his songs' 'Let Erin Remember' or 'The Minstrel Boy.
At the completion of the Erie Canal, Samuel Woodworth, who wrote 'The Old Oaken Bucket', penned fresh words to Thomas Moore's 'The Meeting of the Waters', which used the old tune, 'The Old Head of Dennis'. Woodworth dedicated his song, 'The Meeting of the Waters of Hudson & Erie' to Dewitt Clinton, and it was sung at the Grand Canal celebration in New York City.
There is not in the wild world a Valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet
O the last rays of feeling and life must depart
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart
Let the day be forever remember'd with pride
That beheld the proud Hudson to Erie allied
O the last sand of Time from his glass shall descend
Ere a union, so fruitful of glory shall end
Ere a union, so fruitful of glory shall end
Yet it is not that Wealth now enriches the scene
Where the treasures of Art, and of Nature, convene
'Tis not that this union our coffers may fill
O! no - it is something more exquisite still
'Tis, that Genius has triumph'd and Science prevail's
Tho' Prejudice flouted, and Envy assail'd
It is, that the vassals of Europe may see
The progress of mind, in a land that is free
All hail! to a project so vast and sublime!
A bond that can never be sever'd by time
Now unites us still closer, all jealousies cease
And our hearts, like our waters, are singled in peace
*Mermaid*
The towns of Hudson and Pougkeepsie were whaling ports during the 1800's. the ships would come in to escape the winter storms on the Atlantci and make repairs. Mermaids were supposed to be bad luck. This one is just an excuse for a rollicking good song. There are a lot of versions to this song. This is the one the Weavers taught to the Clancy Brothers. Insert the towns of your choice.
Twas Friday morn when we set sail
And we were not far from the land
When the captain, he spied a lovely mermaid
With a comb and a glass in her hand
Chorus:
O the ocean's waves may roll (let em roll)
And the stormy winds may blow (let em blow)
While we poor sailors go skipping to the top
And the landlubbers lie down below (below, below)
And the landlubbers lie down below
And up spoke the captain of our gallant ship
And a well-spoken man was he
He said: ”I have me a wife in Kingston by the sea
And tonight she a widow will be”
And up spoke the first mate of our gallant ship
And a fine young man was he
He said: ”I have a girl friend in Poughkeepsie by the sea
And tonight she’ll be thinking there of me”
And up spoke the cook of our gallant ship
And he studied at the Culinary Institute
He said: ” I care much more for my pots and my pans
Than I do for the bottom of the sea
Then up spoke the cabin boy, of our gallant ship
And a dirty little buggerwas he.
He said “I have no one in Roundout by the sea
Who tonight will be thinking there of me”
Then three times around went our gallant ship
And three times around went she
Three times around went our gallant ship
And she sank to the bottom of the sea
*Moon in the Pear Tree *
Look up sailor and you'll see
The moon and the pear in the apple tree
The old pear tree on the top of the hill
Where the river
A sailor's always glad to see
The moon in the top of the old pear tree
Look up sailor and don’t be mad
The sun and moon are bringing up shad
- more to come
*Maid of the Mountain Brow*
Come all ye lads and lasses, and listen to me awhile
Ye tender hearts that weep for love to sigh you will not fail,
'Tis all about a young man, and my song will tell you how
He lately came a-courtin' of the Maid of the Mountain Brow
Said he, "My pretty young fair maid, could you and I agree,
To join our hands in wedlock bands, and married we will be;
We'll join our hands in wedlock bands, and you'll have my plighted vow,
That I'll do my whole endeavors for the Maid of the Mountain Brow
Now this young and pretty fickle thing, she knew not what to say,
Her eyes did shine like silver bright, and merrily did play;
Says she, "Young man, your love subdue, I am not ready now,
And I'll spend another season at the foot of the Mountain Brow."
"Oh," says he, "My pretty young fair maid, now why do you say so?
Look down in yonder valley where my verdant crops do grow.
Look down in yonder valley at my horses and my plough,
All at their daily labor for the Maid of the Mountain Brow."
"If they're at their daily labor, kind sir, it is not for me.
I've heard of your behavior, I have, kind sir, " said she;
"There is an inn where you drop in, I've heard the people say,
Where you rap and you call and you pay for all, and go home by the break of
day."
"If I rap and I call and I pay for all, my money is all my own.
I've never spent aught of your fortune, for I hear that you've got none.
You thought you had my poor heart broke in talkin' to you now,
But I'll leave you where I found you, at the foot of the Mountain Brow."
*Paddy on the Canal *
Supposedly popular on the NY canals.
When I landed in sweet Philadelphia,
The weather was warm and was clear;
But I did not stay long in that city
As you shall quickly hear.
I did not stay long in that city
For it happened to be in the fall;
And I ne'er reefed a sail in my rigging
'Til I anchored upon the canal.
cho: So, fare you well father and mother,
Likewise to old Ireland too,
And fare you well sister and brother
For kindly I'll bid you adieu.
When I came to this wonderful empire,
It filled me with the greatest surprise.
To see such a great undertaking,
On the like I never opened my eyes.
To see a full thousand brave fellows,
At work among mountains so tall.
A dragging a chain through the mountains,
To strike a line for the canal, So....
I entered with them for a season,
My monthly pay for to draw.
And being of very good humor,
I often sang "Erin go bragh."
Our provision it was very plenty,
To complain we'd no reason at all.
I had money in every pocket,
While working upon the canal.
When at night we all rest from our labor,
Sure but our rent is all paid.
We laid down our pick and our shovel,
Likewise our axe and our spade.
We all set a joking together,
There was nothing our minds to enthrall.
If happiness be in this wide world,
I am sure it is on the canal.
As I went out walking one morning in May,
I spied a young couple so fondly did stray;
And one was a young maid so sweet and so fair
And the other one was a soldier and a brave grenadier
Chorus:
And they kissed so sweet in Cuberton as they clung to each other
They went arm and arm down the street like sister and brother
They went arm and arm down the street till they came to a stream
And they both sat down together love to hear the nightingale sing
Then out of his knapsack he took a fine fiddle
And he played her such merry tunes that you ever did hear
And he played her such merry tunes the valleys did ring
Oh softly said the fair maid, hear the nightingale sing
And then said the fair maid, will you marry me
Oh no said the soldier, however can that be
For I’ve me own wife at home in me own country,
And she is the fairest pretty thing that you ever did see
Now I’m off to England for seven long years
A drinking strong whiskey instead of pale beers
And if ever I return it will be in the spring,
And we’ll both sit down together love to hear the nightingale sing
posted by Unknown at 2:17 PM
