1. |
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Sherbrooke to Halifax Line
Lyrics and music: Clary Croft
Doseydotes Music [BMIC]
Well a miner dies in the bowels of the earth and a sailor dies at sea,
And a soldier dies a hero’s death, to keep his country free,
But me, I die on a cold dark road where the stars refuse to shine,
And my grave will be a mud-filled ditch, on the Sherbrooke to Halifax Line.
Now Sherbrooke she’s a fine little jewel on the brow of Guysborough’s crown,
And you’d be a fool in Halifax to turn employment down,
But a one-armed man must keep money in his hand, I’ll work for what is mine,
And I’ll take these folks in a dusty coach in a dusty road, on the Sherbrooke to Halifax Line.
Now the weather is my enemy, I hate the clouds in the sky,
And the passengers all think I’m mad ‘cause they never see me smile,
When I take them into Halifax where thrifty merchants dine,
I’ll be chewing on hard tack and bully beef, on the Sherbrooke to Halifax Line.
Now I curse the rain and I curse the mud and my horses feel the whip,
And the holes in the road just seem to know I’ve got one good hand to grip,
I know I’ll not reach heaven’s gate, and hell will suit me fine,
Cause its gotta’ be a damn sight better boys than the Sherbrooke to Halifax Line.
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2. |
Carrion Crow
01:59
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Carrion Crow
Traditional: Helen Creighton collection.
A carrion crow sat on an oak, to me inkum kiddy kum kimo,
Watching a tailor mend his coat, to me inkum kiddy kum kimo,
Chorus:
Kee-me-nee-ro kiddy kum keero, kee-me-nee-ro kimo,
Pop, pop, pop, pop, billy illy inkum, inkum kiddy kum kimo.
Fetch me an arrow and my bow, to me inkum kiddy kum kimo,
And I’ll go shoot that carrion crow, to me inkum kiddy kum kimo,
The miller shot and missed his mark, to me inkum kiddy kum kimo,
He shot the old sow through the heart, to me inkum kiddy kum kimo,
Fetch me some ‘lasses on a spoon, to me inkum kiddy kum kimo,
And I’ll go fix that old sow’s wound, to me inkum kiddy kum kimo,
Now the old sow is dead and gone, to me inkum kiddy kum kimo,
Her little ones go waddling on, to me inkum kiddy kum kimo,
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3. |
Parlour Organ
02:20
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Parlour Organ
Lyrics and music: Betty Belmore
Doseydotes Music [BMIC]
There’s a gold mine of sweetgrass and sunshine where columbines and tiger lilies bloom,
A home in the hills with flowered windowsills in an old fashioned wallpapered room,
The rocking chair and the parlor organ, their memories are calling me home,
And I’d hear grandpa telling stories and grandma singing glories, sitting singing glories alone.
In the early evening you could hear grandma singing, Jesus Savior Pilot Me,
Distant relations on summer vacations would gather ‘round and sing in harmony,
When the Roll is Called Up Yonder, or Brighten the Corner, a chorus of The Royal Telephone,
And maybe grandpa telling stories and grandma singing glories, sitting singing glories alone.
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4. |
Cape Breton Lullaby
01:57
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Cape Breton Lullabye
Lyrics by Kenneth Leslie, traditional air.
Driftwood is burning blue, wild walk the wall shadows
Night winds go riding by, riding by the lochie meadows
On ‘til the ring of day, flows Mira's stream singing
(Chorus)
Cadil Gu La, laddie, la, laddie, sleep the stars away.
Far on Beinn Bhreagh's site, wanders the lost lambies
Here, there and everywhere, everywhere their troubled mammies
Find them and fold them deep, fold them to sleep, singing
Cadil Gu La, laddie, la, laddie, sleep the stars away.
Daddy is on the bay, he'll keep the pot brewing
Keep all from tumbling down, tumbling down to rack and ruin
Pray, Mary, send him home, safe from the foam singing
Cadil Gu La, laddie, la, laddie, sleep the stars away.
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5. |
Nova Scotia Diet
02:10
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Nova Scotia Diet
Lyrics and music by Jim Bennet
Bay Music Company [BMIC]
Now you can tell a Nova Scotian by the fragrance of the ocean,
For they always wear the perfume of the North Atlantic spray,
But if you can’t seem to smell ‘em, - there’s just one sure way to tell ‘em
For you’ll always know a Bluenose by his diet right away.
We eat: pickled herring, oysters when we’re daring,
And we often take and bake a hake, and that’s a dandy dish,
To make a chowder good for gulpin’, throw in everything but sculpin,
And you ain’t a Nova Scotian if you don’t like fish.
What we eat until we’re bustin’, Manitobans find disgustin’,
For it seems salt cod, upsetting to the dainty Western tum,
And with faces stern and stony, they say, “herrin’ too darn boney”,
But here’s like dissolving bones like Nova Scotia rum.
So we eat: mackerel, pollock, never give you colic when you wash your tuna down with I little drink of swish,
Have some fish row, tommy cod and gaspereau,
You ain’t a Nova Scotian if you don’t like fish!
Now lest there should be a mix up, there’s just one thing I should fix up,
And that’s how you can tell us from Newfoundlanders tried and true,
We eat capelin, cod and kippers but we don’t eat seal flippers,
And that’s how you tell the difference, ‘cause the Newfoundlanders do.
But we eat: mackerel, pollock, never give you colic when you wash your tuna down with a little drink of swish,
Have some fish row, tommy cod and gaspereau,
You ain’t a Nova Scotian if you don’t like fish!
Pickled herring, oysters when we’re daring,
And we often take and bake a hake, and that’s a dandy dish,
To make a chowder good for gulpin’, throw in everything but sculpin,
You ain’t a Nova Scotian, by the holy Land of Goshen, no you’ve never seen the ocean, if you don’t like fish.
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6. |
I Won't Be Coming Home
03:36
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I Won’t Be Coming Home
Lyrics and music by Clary Croft
Doseydotes Music [BMIC]
Now Mamma, don’t be sad, I promised I would write,
This letter’s bound to reach you by October.
And Pappa, don’t be mad, you know I’ve got the right,
Remember all the times we talked it over.
But I won’t be coming home, half of what I believe in is still here,
I know I promised when I left, I’d make good or come home,
But I’m gonna’ stick it out another year.
My heart’s already broken but my spirit still keeps strong,
I’m holding on to memories but they won’t last for long,
‘Cause its memories I’ve left behind to make some of my own,
But if memories are made of this, they’re better left alone.
Its not like I’d been told, the streets aren’t paved in gold,
The gold is here but men still die to mine it.
Everything’s so new to me, nothing here is old,
Except the dream that one day I will find it.
So I won’t be coming home, half of what I believe in is still here,
And God knows that I’ve stood in line for such a long, long time,
But I’ve gotta stand in line another year.
The leaves have turned to red and left the trees to stand alone,
The hills above my camp look like the heather of my home,
A home I’d left to find a better life in this new land,
To try and find a future that keeps slipping through my hands.
Your letter came in June, it was good to hear the news,
Sometimes I really miss the hills of my homeland,
The money that you sent, well I’m afraid I had to spend,
‘Cause the camps I work in here don’t pay a fortune.
So I won’t be coming home, tell Pappa he must tend the farm alone,
I know I promised when I left, I’d make good or come home,
But I’m gonna’ try and make it on my own.
You see, my heart’s already broken but my spirit still keeps strong,
I’m holding on to memories but they won’t last for long,
‘Cause its memories I’ve left behind to make some of my own,
But if memories are made of this, they’re better left alone.
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7. |
Sun, Moon and Stars
02:41
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Sun, Moon and Stars
Lyrics and music by Clary Croft
Doseydotes Music [BMIC]
Moved over the kitchen and set up the loom,
With colours bewitching she shuttled a tune,
Fell in love with the dark eyes and soon she was wed,
With the Sun and the Moon and the Stars on her bed.
Send ribbons of darkness to tie up the sky,
The summer boiled down and the winter rose high,
On sweet summer puddings and cinnamon bars,
She conceived and bore sons ‘neath the Sun, Moon and Stars.
From the left to the right how the shuttle slides through,
Weaving her love in an onion dyed hue,
Making patterns of memories, a weaver of dreams,
From a warp that she’s wound with her heart strings.
The winters grew longer, the gold rush had gone,
The loom it grew idle, her fingers were drawn,
Like the lips of the stranger who sips milk from jars,
And burned out in her sleep ‘neath the Sun, Moon and Stars.
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8. |
Coopering
02:46
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Coopering
Lyrics by Ira Giffen [used with permission], music by Clary Croft
Doseydotes Music [BMIC]
‘Twas on one Friday morning, I took my crooked axe,
And jogged along the dreary road down to old Squire Mac’s,
For times they were so very hard that loafing did not pay,
So I tried my hand a coopering at fifty cents a day.
The morn indeed was very dark, my spirits they did droop,
When I saw the scraggy barrels that I had come to hoop,
But when I thought on going home, that I would jump the fence,
Then I’d hear my money jingle, my shiny fifty cents.
My feet I know were very cold, my boots were full of holes,
And yet I had no money to buy a pair of soles,
My pants indeed were very short, my jacket full of rents,
That’s why I prized so very much, my shiny fifty cents.
And there was dear old mother, and her I loved to please,
But won’t her fond eyes glisten when she my money sees,
And won’t my heart go pitta-pat, when I can stand and say,
That I earned it all by coopering at fifty cents a day.
My hard earned cash by coopering at fifty cents a day.
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9. |
Òran Do Cheap Breatainn
02:05
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Òran Do Cheap Breatainn
Lyrics and music by Dan Alex MacDonald
Helen Creighton collection. [used with permission: McGraw-Hill Ryerson Ltd.]
'S e Ceap Breatainn tìr mo ghràidh, tìr nan craobh 's nam beanntan àrd;
'S e Ceap Breatainn tìr mo ghràidh, tìr as àille leinn air thalamh.
Cape Breton is the land I love, land of lakes and might mountains,
Cape Breton is the home for me, loveliest land in all the wide world.
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10. |
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Sweet Dreams and Kerosene
Lyrics and music by Betty Belmore
Doseydotes Music [BMIC]
Sometimes I can hear the brook that ran down by the camp,
My mother spreadin’ clothes out in the sun.
And the smoky, yellow chimney of a kerosene lamp,
Takes me back to that summer ’51.
Chorus:
When the rhythm of the mill stamped out good times all around,
The pickaxe and the steel were swingin’ time,
And every day my daddy would go down underground,
With a bucket bringin’ gold up from the mine.
When the shift whistle blew we’d listen for the sound,
And run up on the hill so we could see,
We’d sit out on the doorstep while the sun was going down,
Daddy’s barefoot babies on his knee.
Chorus:
The hard rock miner’s laughter while he stepped a fiddle tune,
Shakin’ dust from the floorboards to the beams,
Thigh slappin’, foot tappin’ pounding in the room,
And my mother’s songs would filter through my dreams.
Chorus:
Last time I saw the brook it was dryin’ in the sun,
Weeds were tangled our cabin door,
And that mill has just been standin’ since that summer ’51,
And the miners don’t come don’t the hill no more.
But once the mill was stampin’ out good times all around,
The pickaxe and the steel were swingin’ time,
And everyday my daddy would go down underground,
With a bucket bringin’ gold up from the mine.
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11. |
Kettledrum
02:48
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Kettledrum
Lyrics and music by Clary Croft
Doseydotes Music [BMIC]
On Saturday next at the kettledrum, I’ll call by your house in my fly,
We’ll join those assembled out on the lawn, and play at croquet as the day passes by,
And all the town will beam ear to ear, for they’ll know you’re the girl I adore,
And I’ll ask for your hand at the kettledrum, as you swear to be mine ever more.
We’ll sit down to tea with the gentlefolk, and talk about Temperance and farms,
We’ll discover the world in a stereoscope, and all the while you’ll never once leave my arm,
We’ll laugh and be merry and toast to the Queen, as the day draws to close to an end,
And as I take you home from the kettledrum, you’ll be wrapped in my arms once again.
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12. |
Farewell to Nova Scotia
02:29
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Farewell to Nova Scotia [The Nova Scotia Song]
Traditional: Helen Creighton collection.
Gordon V. Thompson [CAPAC]
The sun was setting in the west, the birds were singing on every tree,
All nature seemed inclined for a rest, but still there was no rest for me.
Chorus:
Farewell to Nova Scotia, the sea bound coast; let your mountains dark and dreary be,
For when I am far away on the briny ocean tossed, will you ever heave a sigh and a wish for me.
I greave to leave my native land, I greave to leave my comrades all;
And my parents whom I’ve always held so dear, and the bonny, bonny lass that I do adore.
The drums they do beat and the wars do alarm, the captain calls; we must obey,
So farewell, farewell to Nova Scotia’s charms, for its early in the morning I am far, far away.
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Clary Croft Nova Scotia
Clary is a folklore researcher, author and recording artist. His newly published memoirs, Clary Croft: My Charmed Life in Music, Art, and Folklore, chronicles a career spanning over fifty years. His work with the traditional music from the Creighton Collection, has caused Clary to be called, “the acknowledged master of one of the richest repertoires in Canada.” [Halifax Mail Star] ... more
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