If I Were a Blackbird Traditional: Helen Creighton Collection. Adapted from the singing of Allister and Judson Armstrong, Sherwood, Nova Scotia, 1949. Helen Creighton is known as “Canada’s First Lady of Folklore”, which is also the title of the biography I wrote about my friend and mentor. I discovered this song while working as Archivist for Dr. Creighton’s collection at the Public Archives of Nova Scotia. When I asked her why she never published it, she replied, “Well, after a few thousand you miss one or two.” Judson and Allister were identical twins who stood soldier-straight before the microphone when they recorded this song for Helen. I once knew a maiden, a maiden so rare, Fell in love with a sailor, a young sailor bold. He courted her daily, by night and by day, ‘Til at length this young sailor, he sailed far away. And if I were a blackbird, I’d whistle and sing, I’d follow the ship that my true love sails in, And in the top rigging, I’d there build my nest, And I’d fly like a seagull to his lily-white breast. My love, he is handsome in every degree, My parents despise him, because he loves me, But let them despise him and say what they will, When there’s life in my bosom, I’ll love that boy still. Now, if I were a scholar, could handle a pen, One long loving letter unto him I’d send, I’d tell him my sorrow, my grief and my woes, And if I could but find him, I’d crown him with gold.

Rinordine Traditional: Helen Creighton Collection. Adapted from the singing of Freeman Young, East Petpeswick, Nova Scotia and Berton Young, West Petpeswick, Nova Scotia, 1952. This song of a werewolf-like creature is found in many l9th-century broadsides and has been collected in Ireland, Southern England, Nova Scotia and the United States. Berton Young told Dr. Creighton, “Rinordine must have been a dog out walking and met this young lady ... I guess he was something real anyhow.” As I rode out one May morning two miles below Primroy, I met a farmer’s daughter all on the mountain high, I says, “My pretty fair one, your beauty shines so clear, That on this lonesome mountain, I’m glad to meet you here.” She says, “Kind sir, be civil, my company forsake, For its of my good opinion, I fear you are some rake; If my parents they would know of this, my life they would destroy, For the keeping of your company all on the mountain high.” “Oh no, my dear, I am no rake brought up in Venus’ train, A-looking for concealment all in the judge’s name, Since your beauty has entranced me, I could not pass you by, So its with my gun I’ll guard you out on the mountain high.” Now, this pretty little fair damsel, she fell into a maze; With eyes as bright as amber upon her he did gaze; With her ruby lips and her cherry cheeks at last her form did die, And she fell into his arms there, out on the mountain high. Well he had not kissed her once nor twice ‘til she came to again, Most modestly she asked of him, “Pray tell to me your name?” “Go down to yonder forest glen, my castle there you’ll find It’s wrote down in ancient history, My name is Rhinordine.” So come all you pretty fair damsels, a warning take by me, Be sure to leave night walking and shun bad company; For if you do, you’ll surely rue until the day you die, For the meeting of Lord Rhinordine, out on the mountain high.

Tigh Solas Clary Croft, Wedge Island Publishing, SOCAN, 1990. Inspired by the summer home of dear friends, Tigh Solas is Gaelic for “House of Light”. Built in 1920, it overlooks the beautiful St. Margaret’s Bay in Nova Scotia, and for years was a guide to returning fishermen who could see the glow from the Aladdin lamps on the hill and steer safely for home. It is dedicated to Martha and Robin Creighton. With my day’s work gleaming silver And the Aladdins for my guide, At the closing of another weary day; As the Siren’s song at full tide Draws the stars down from the sky, And I pull the bow around and point the way, High - on your hilltop you call to me, Hear your echoes roll to the sea And I’m safe in your arms, Fly - I’ll fly straight to your side, I’m home, Tigh Solas. I can cast my bread on water, I can sail the seven seas, I may search the world’s adventures far and wide; Then you’ll sweep your net around me, Draw me safely to your shore, And you’ll offer me safe harbour by your side, When my voyages are over And I’ve come ashore at last, You will offer me the comfort of your fire; And the stormy seas I’ve sailed on Are illusions from the past, We together, we’ll have all that we desire.

Un Matin Je Me Lève Traditional: Helen Creighton Collection. Adapted from the singing of Mesdames Henri Pothier, Louis Amirault and Sephora Amirault, West Pubnico, Nova Scotia, 1948. This form of traditional song, where the lover sings to his sweetheart from under her window, is known as “aubade”. While this song originated in France, it has been sung in Nova Scotia for over 300 years. Un matin je me lève, plus auror’ que le jour, Au château de la belle, j’m’en va y fair’ l’amour: “Belle, dormez-vous, sommeillez-vous? Chère Nanon, si vous dormez, réveillez-vous, C’est votre amant qui parle à vous.” Elle allum’ sa chandelle et prend son jupon blanc, Elle va ouvrir la porte à son fidèle amant, Elle se jeta dedans ses bras en lui disant: “Oh! C’est-y toi mon cher amant Qu’es revenu du régiment?” “Retire-toi, la belle, car tu me fais mourir, Le régiment m’appelle, il faut bien obéir, Je suis engagé pour six an en Orient, Je suis engagé pour six an, C’est pour servir le régiment.” “Six an, mon cher amant, six an c’est bien longtemps, Qui compteras mes peines, mes chagrins, mes tourments? Je m’en irai dedans ces champs, toujour pleurant, Toujour pleurant mon cher amant, Celui que mon coeur aimait tant.” Les garcons du village vraiment de bons enfants, Ils vous feront l’amour-e tandis que j’ serai absent, Ils vous diront de temps en temps, ‘Pleurez pas tant, Pleurez pas tant, pour votre amant, Car il est mort au régiment. Les garcons du village ne sav’ pas fair’ l’amour, Ils ont toujours le mêm’ langage, Toujours le mêm’ discours, Il ne sont pas comm’ toi, hélas!, mon cher amant, A tout’ les fois que tu reviens, Y a toujours du changement.” One morning, I get up when the dawn has broken, I go to my beauty’s castle to make love to her. “Beauty, are you asleep, are you dozing? Dear Nanon, wake up, if you are asleep, wake up, It is your lover who is speaking to you.” She lights her candle and takes her white petticoat, She opens the door to her faithful lover, She threw herself into his arms, saying, “Oh, it is you my dear lover, Have you returned from your regiment?” “Go back, my beauty, for you are putting me to death, The regiment is calling me, I must obey, I have enlisted for six years’ service in the Orient, I have enlisted to serve with the regiment for six years.” “Six years, my lover, that is very long, Who will count my pain, my sorrow, my torment? Weeping all the time, my dear love, For you, whom my heart loves so well.” “The boys from the village, those good fellows, They will make love to you while I am away, They will tell you from time to time, ‘Don’t weep so much, Don’t weep so much for your lover, Because he has perished with his regiment.’” “The boys from the village don’t know how to make love, They always say the same things, always the same approach, They are unlike you, alas! My dear lover, Each time you return you are different.

The Swan Traditional: Helen Creighton Collection. Adapted from the singing of Fred Redden, Middle Musquodoboit, Nova Scotia, 1955. Fred Redden was one of the finest traditional singers in Nova Scotia. I had the great privilege of singing with him and knowing him as a friend. I never sing this song without hearing his voice in my head. As I was returning home from Wexford Viewing the plains where I used to roam, I espied a damsel, a fair young maiden, Who oft times grieved my heart full sore. “You’re like the swan that flies o’er the ocean, Making the motion with both your wings, Your loving form it would be a portion, For any lord or an Irish king.” “You lovely creature, you pride of nature, Why do you differ from all female kind? For you are youthful, so fair and handsome, And for to marry you might incline.” “You need not tease me, or try to please me, For I’ve been promised, ten years or more, To one young Riley in a foreign country, Who will ne’er return to his native shore.”

Kilkelly Ireland Peter Jones, Stephen Jones. Some Sweet Music, BMI, 1983. When my maternal ancestor Thomas Byrne left County Wexford, Ireland in the 19th century I suppose he never expected to see his family again. There must be thousands of stories like his. This is the most eloquent I ever heard. This song is for Wendell Boyle - a treasure sorely missed. Kilkelly, Ireland, 1860, my dear and loving son John Your good friend, the schoolmaster, Pat McNamara So good as to write these words down. Your brothers have all gone to find work in England, The house is so empty and sad, The crop of potatoes is sorely infected, A third to a half of them bad. And your sister Bridget and Patrick O'Donnell Are going to be married in June. Your mother says not to work on the railroad And be sure to come on home soon. Kilkelly, Ireland, 1870, my dear and loving son John Hello to your Mrs and to your four children, May they grow healthy and strong. Michael has got in a wee bit of trouble, I suppose that he never will learn. Because of the dampness there's no turf to speak of And so we have nothing to burn. And Bridget is happy you named the child for her Although she has got six of her own. You say you found work, but you don't say what kind Or when you’ll be coming home. Kilkelly, Ireland, 1880, dear Michael and John, my sons I'm sorry to give you the very sad news That your dear old mother is gone. We buried her down at the church in Kilkelly, Your brothers and Bridget were there. You don't have to worry, she died very quickly, Remember her in your prayers. And it's so good to hear that Michael's returning, With money he's sure to find land For the crops have been poor and the people are selling For any price that they can. Kilkelly, Ireland, 1890, my dear and loving son John I suppose that I must be close on to eighty, It's thirty years since you’ve gone. But, because of all of the money you sent me, I'm still living out on my own. Michael has built himself a fine house And Bridget's daughters are grown. And thank you for sending your family picture, The lovely young women and men. You say that you might even come for a visit, What joy to see you again. Kilkelly, Ireland, 1892, my dear brother John I'm sorry I didn't write sooner to tell you, Father passed on. He was living with Bridget, she says he was cheerful And healthy right up to the end. Ah, you should have seen him playing with the grandchildren Of Pat McNamara, your friend. And we buried him alongside of mother, Down at the Kilkelly churchyard. He was a strong and a feisty old man, Considering his life was so hard. And it's funny the way he kept talking about you, He called for you at the end. Oh, why don't you think about coming to visit, We'd all love to see you again.

Theresa E Vince Morash, SOCAN, 1995 Built in 1938, Theresa E. Conner was the last of the salt bank schooners. She was retired in 1963 and is docked at the Fisheries Museum of the Atlantic in Lunenburg, Nova Scotia. Now I’ll just sit back and rest a while And think it through again, And watch my lines go overboard Then haul them back again; This is the last trip that I’ll make aboard Theresa E, And I know not how or what I’ll do to feed the family. So head her home to Lunenburg There’s no place left to go, No crew to haul the cod trawl back Against the undertow. Now its twenty-one or twenty-three - The years they go so fast, And the dory, cod line, and the trawl Will soon be in the past; These modern trawlers do it all With half the time and pain, For they’re only out a few shorts weeks And then they’re home again. And so it is no wonder That a crew cannot be found Who’ll go tossing for two lonely months Upon the fishing ground; Theresa E, you’ve been my life For more than just the dough, And I’ll shed a tear when I see you there With no crew left to go. But perhaps I’ll get a job on land You know I’m handy with a saw; But, I’ll only be but half the man I am aboard this trawl; I knew my place and it gave me A reason to be sane, Now I’m feeling just a bit undone Here staring through the rain.

The Braes of Belquether Traditional: Helen Creighton Collection. Adapted from the singing of William Ireland, Elgin, New Brunswick. The famous Paisley poet Robert Tannahill, [who also gave us the origins of Nova Scotia’s unofficial folk song “The Nova Scotia Song”] wrote “The Braes o' Balquhidder”. It was published in many Scottish sources and Dr. Creighton found it in Nova Scotia as well. Mr. Ireland’s version has little of Robert Tannahill’s original dialect, but the meaning remains the same. Will you go lassie go to the braes of Belquether Where the keen winds do blow and the bonny blooming heather, Where the roe, hind and deer do go bounding together, Spend their long summer days by the braes of Belquether. I will build you a bower by yon silvery fountain And deck you all around with the roses from the mountain, And there we would go spend our long days together, Spend our long summer days by the braes of Belquether. “Oh, no, no, sir,” she said, “I’m too young to have a lover, My age is scarce sixteen and I dare not for my mother, And besides being too young, I fear you’re some deceiver Who would come along to charm me here by the braes of Belquether.” “Fare you well my pretty fair maid, your beauty soon may wither, I’ll deprive you of your chance and live happy with some other, I will search the wide world over till I find a maid of honour Who will come along with me to the braes of Belquether.” “Oh, come back, oh come back, I see you’re no deceiver, Oh come back, oh come back, I will never love no other, I’ll forsake all my kind friends, father, mother, sister, brother, And I’ll go along with you to the braes of Belquether.” So now they have gone to the braes of Belquether Where the keen winds do blow and the bonny blooming heather, Where the roe, hind and deer do go bounding together, Spend their long summer days by the braes of Belquether.

Beautiful Pain Clary Croft Clary Croft, Wedge Island Publishing, SOCAN, 2000. With love for my brother Steve. I speak my name and I hear your voice, I look in the mirror - I see your eyes; You’ve left me, and I have no choice But to let you go, and still I know my heart lies, I’ve got the photographs; I’ve got the souvenirs, I’ve got the memory of the love we shared together through the years, I’ve got that sad goodbye; and I’ve got the night we cried, But when I close my eyes, I’ve got your smile. I realize there’s no one there, When I pick up the phone at night to call you; Still it brings me peace to know we cared, And no words were left unspoken, like “I love you”. I’ll relive memories time and time again, And though my heart is breaking - it’s a beautiful pain I’ve got the photographs; I’ve got the souvenirs, I’ve got the memory of the love we shared together through the years, I’ve got that sad goodbye; I’ve got the night we cried, But when I close my eyes, I’ve got your smile, Yes when I close my eyes, I’ve got your smile.

The Sackville Clary Croft, Wedge Island Publishing, SOCAN, 1996. I was commissioned to write this song for the Canadian Navy’s film “HMCS Sackville: Our Naval Heritage”. It was an honour to meet some of the veterans who served aboard the corvette and to have them hear the song for the first time aboard “HMCS Sackville”. She actually does rest by a pier in Halifax under the care of the Canadian Naval Memorial Trust. Once more the deck heaves a sign ‘neath his feet On the Corvette at rest by the pier; He’s carried back to those earlier days And his memory rolls back the years. And his breast fills with pride, of the mates by his side And the salt water tears fill his eyes, This band of brothers that he came to trust And the life they shared under black skies: They were Ready Aye Ready It was Hell’s game and peace was the prize! They were his comrades, the youth of the land Sharing friendships and hardships untold; Red lead and bacon, and strawberry jam Served on bread held together with mold. Still they worked side by side, sailed the Black Pit with pride They were farm boys and lads from the towns, Seeking adventure and life on the sea But it was boredom and danger they found. Yet they stood Ready Aye Ready For whatever the Fates would throw down! Shoulder to shoulder, they challenged the foe Leaving Slackers to crisscross the sea; Bringing relief to a war-beaten shore Never knowing what dangers they’d see. With their lives on the line, from torpedoes and mines Fighting wolf packs from under the sea, Facing the danger with hearts full of fire As they fought for the right to be free. Always Ready, Aye Ready Met the challenge whatever the deed! Spray-drenched or ice-covered, wet to the bone Tossed on swells that would make the sea boil; To see Hell ablaze on the top of the foam Or to swim through five inches of oil. Still the job must be done, and the fight must be won So you’d stand with your feet wet in Hell, But you stood your watch and you helped turn the tide And you knew that your mates would as well. They stood Ready, Aye Ready And their valour no story can tell! Once more his eyes show the light of his youth As he thinks of the victories they won; He shares a pride and he holds to the truth That together, they got the job done. And his spirits give rise, for he sees in new eyes The tradition and pride of the past, Brave men and women now answer the call And the virtue of courage will last. Always Ready Aye ready For the future will rise to the task. Its still Ready, Aye Ready, For the future will rise to the past! - Red lead and bacon - canned tomatoes and barely cooked bacon - the Black Pit - area of the North Atlantic not protected by radar or air support - Slackers - derogatory term for Halifax

Banks of Sweet Dundee Traditional: Helen Creighton Collection. Adapted from the singing of Walter Roast, Chezzetcook, Nova Scotia. Helen found several variants of this song in Nova Scotia - it seems to have been one of the traditional singers’ favourites. ‘Twas of a farmer’s daughter most beautiful I’m told, Her father died and left to her a large amount of gold, She lived with her uncle, the cause of all her woe, But you soon will hear this lady fair she proved his overthrow. Her uncle had a ploughboy who Mary loved right well, And in her uncle’s garden the tales of love did tell, Likewise a wealthy squire who oft came her to see, But Mary loved her ploughboy on the banks of Sweet Dundee. It’s early the next morning her uncle went straightway, And rapped unto young Mary’s door - these words to her did say, “Rise up you pretty fair one for a lady you shall be, For the squire’s waiting for you on the banks of Sweet Dundee.” “I care not for your squire, your dukes and lords likewise, My Willie his eyes appear to me like diamonds in the skies,” “Begone you unruly fair one, you ne’er shall happy be, For I mean to banish Willie from the plains of Sweet Dundee.” Her uncle and the squire rode out next summer’s day, “O Willie is her favourite,” her uncle he did say, “Indeed ‘tis my intention to tie him to a tree, And there to bribe the press gang on the banks of Sweet Dundee.” The press gang came for Willie when he was all alone, He dearly fought for liberty but there was two to one, The blood did flow in torrents, “Pray kill me now,” cried he, “For I will die for Mary on the banks of Sweet Dundee.” This maiden fair was walking, lamenting for her love, She spied the wealthy squire down in her uncle’s grove, He threw his arms around her, “Stand off base man,” cried she, “For you sent the only man I love from the banks of Sweet Dundee.” He threw his arms around her and tried to throw her down, Two pistols and a sword she spied beneath his morning gown, She took the weapons from him, the sword she used so free, She fired and shot the squire on the banks of Sweet Dundee. Her uncle overheard the noise and hastened to the ground, Saying, “Since you shot the squire I’ll give you your death wound,” “Stand off, stand off” cries Mary, “undaunted I shall be,” The trigger drew and her uncle slew on the banks of Sweet Dundee. O a doctor he was sent for, a man of noble skill, Likewise there came a lawyer for him to draw his will, He willed his gold to Mary who fought so manfully, Then he closed his eyes no more to rise on the banks of Sweet Dundee. Young Willie he was sent for and speedily did return, As soon as he arrived on shore, young Mary ceased to mourn, The banns were quickly published, their hands were joined so free, She now enjoys her ploughboy on the banks of Sweet Dundee.

Dearest Lavinia Larry Kaplan Hannah Lane Music, BMI, 1992. I heard Larry sing this song during a workshop we shared at Mystic Seaport’s Sea Music Festival in Connecticut in 1992 - I immediately fell in love with it. Dearest Lavinia, I trust all is well Our ship makes this passage on terrible swells, If I ever reach England, I shall welcome the day When I’ll walk by your side on safe land. By the time this note finds you, please God I’ll be home, I am sorry for leaving, please forgive me for going, But my words could stir oceans, there is much I must tell, Should I ever reach England again. I could not find my fortune on American soil; I bring nothing home to you but a years’ sweat and toil, And I was one of the many who stood long on the lines And I went to sleep hungry and cold. But I left my own country for the promise of wealth That I sought for our family, never once for myself; Now I see greater fortune in our stone-covered land, I shall make this long journey no more. There were thousands who journeyed to find this new land And thousands who settled with the new life they planned, But there were also the many who would miss their homeland And the dear ones who never said “go”. Now I dream I am sailing with the stars in the sky And I follow the brightest ones back to your eyes; The sea shakes and trembles and the clouds thunder so I may never see England again. Dearest Lavinia, I trust all is well Our ship makes this passage on terrible swells, If I ever reach England, I shall welcome the day When I’ll walk by your side on safe land.

Moonlight Tonight Traditional: Helen Creighton Collection. Adapted from the singing of Gordon Connelly, Glen Haven, Nova Scotia, 1950. Mr. Connelly told Helen, “We used to sing it getting underway ... it wasn’t a real chanty.” Moonlight tonight boys, starlight tonight, Moonlight shines on the water. When you are a-dreaming mother, When you are a-dreaming mother, When you are a-dreaming mother, Don’t forget to dream of me. Moonlight, starlight, moonlight shines so bright. Moonlight tonight boys, starlight tonight, Moonlight shines on the water. Moonlight tonight boys, starlight tonight, Take your sweetheart out for a stroll. Mind what you say boys, mind what you tell her, Tell her how you’ll court her when the night grows cold. Moonlight, starlight, moonlight shines so bright. Moonlight tonight boys, starlight tonight, Moonlight shines on the water.

Black Sails Clary Croft, Wedge Island Publishing, SOCAN, 1992 Mrs. Nellie Kingwell, Sonora, Nova Scotia told me this story when I was collecting in the Sherbrooke area. It was her mother who had the dream. The Annie M. Pride went down in 1894 with all hands lost, including Captain James Gasper Pride and his twelve-year-old son Thomas. The ship’s half-model hangs on my wall. Annie M. [Burns] Pride was my great-grandfather’s first cousin. Snug against the wharf, she rides the tide. Never been to sea, she sits a bride. Waiting for her voyage, her maiden run, The Annie M. Pride sails with the sun. Lying in her bed, she wakes with fright, Remembering the dream that split her night; A vision of a grey hull with all sails set, The colour of that canvas haunts her yet. She saw Black Sails, Black Sails, Black Sails. Waking him who lies there by her side She begs him not to take the morning tide, Tells him of her dream, how it brought her tears, He promises to stay and stop those fears From those Black Sails, Black Sails, Black Sails. But, in the morning, Captain Pride can’t wait. He needs a crew so takes his son as mate, And in a blinding snow storm the ship is doomed, The canvas is her shroud, her crew entombed By those Black Sails, Black Sails, Black Sails. Now, in a lonely church yard grave they lay. How could they know the price they’d have to pay? The captain and his son, only twelve years old Never thought their fate would be foretold By those Black Sails, Black Sails, Black Sails.

Still the Song Lives On Clary Croft, Wedge Island Publishing, SOCAN, 1997 When I first began collecting folklore Helen told me, “Remember, Clary, you are the student, they are the teachers.” I wrote this song for Helen, but also for the tradition bearers who shared their “sweet, sweet music”. I take a lifetime, turn it into song To hold it captive deep within my breast, And I call it to me whenever I can’t see your face For the words recall what time can’t erase. And I remember all the joys and laughter All the times of sharing from a life now gone, And the sweet, sweet music, so pure that I forget to breath, Though the singer ’s gone, still the song lives on. I take a lifetime, toss it in the wind To watch the sorrows falling to the ground, But the times of gladness Float upon the breeze so high To become as many songs as there are stars in the sky.