THE SMUGGLER

THE SMUGGLER (Trad / Ian McCalman)

The boat rides south o’ Aisla Craig, in the waning o’ the light.

There’s thirty men in Lendalfit, tae mak our burden light.

And there’s thirty horse in Hazelholm, with the halters on their heeds

All set this night upon yon height, if wind and water speed.

Chorus

Smugglers drink o’ the Frenchman’s wine

And the darkest night, is the smuggler’s time.

Away we ran frae the excise man,

It’s a smuggler’s life for me!

It’s a smuggler’s life for me.

Oh, lass ye ha’e a cosy bed, and cattle ye ha’e ten.

Can ye no’ live a lawful life and live wi’ lawful men?

But must I live with hamely goods, while there’s foreign gear sae fine?

Must I drink at the waterside, wi’ France sae full of wine.

Oh, weel I like tae see wee Kate, wi’ a bairnie on her knee.

But my heart’s now wi’ the gallant crew, that ploughs the angry sea.

The bitter gales, and the tightest sails, the sheltered bay our goal.

It’s the wayward life, it’s the smuggler’s strife, it’s the joy o’ the smuggler’s soul

And when at last the dawn comes up and the cargo’s safely stored

Like sinless saints, to church we go God’s mercy to afford

And it’s Champagne wine for communion wine and the Parson drinks it too

With a sly wink prays: ‘Forgi'e these men, for they know not what they do’.

THE SHEPHERD'S WIFE (Robert Burns)

The Shepherd’s wife cries o’er the knowe,

Will ye come hame, will ye come hame:

The Shepherd’s wife cries o’er the knowe,

Will ye come hame again e’en, Jo?

What will I get to ma supper,

Gin I come hame, gin I come hame?

What will I get to ma supper,

Gin I come hame again e’en, Jo?

Ye’se get a panfu’ o’ plumpin parridge,

And butter in them, and butter in them.

Ye’se get a panfu’ o’ plumpin parridge,

Gin ye’ll come hame again e’en, Jo.

Ha, Ha, how! That’s naething that dow,

I winna come hame, I canna come hame:

Ha, Ha, how! That’s naething that dow,

I winna come hame gin e’en, Jo.

A reekin fat hen, weel fryth’d in the pan.

Gin ye’ll come hame, Gin ye’ll come hame

A reekin fat hen, weel fryth’d in the pan.

Gin ye’ll come hame again e’en, Jo.

A weel made bed and a pair o; clean sheets,

Gin ye’ll come hame, Gin ye’ll come hame

A weel made bed and a pair o; clean sheets,

Gin ye’ll come hame again e’en, Jo.

A loving wife in lily-white linens

Gin ye’ll come hame, Gin ye’ll come hame

A loving wife in lily-white linens

Gin ye’ll come hame again e’en, Jo.

Ha, ha, how! That’s something that dow,

I will come hame, I will come hame:

Ha, ha, how! That’s something that dow,

I will come hame again e’en, Jo.

THE DAY OF THE ORANGE (Ian M. Bruce)

It was ‘The Day Of The Orange’ - don’t misunderstand

There was no big parade, no swaggering band

But just as the walk brands visions on the brain

‘The Day Of The Orange’, for me has done the same.

It was a weekday morning, I rose far too late

Straightened my tie as I hurried from the gate.

Late for the bus - Can I catch it still?

The question kept repeating while I’m running down the hill.

I was nearly at the bottom when the call came.

My mother, at the top, was bellowing my name.

I screwed up my eyes, but far too small to see

Was the Orange in her hand, she intended it for me.

Well, with my mother being an intelligent old girl

She swiftly took account of our positions on the hill

Realizing also, that the fruit was almost round

Elected to save time and promptly bowled it down.

By this time of course, the bus would be away.

So, little I could do but start on up the brae.

The Orange trundled steadily down the steep incline

But in case it should slow down, mum was close behind.

While mum was running down, I was walking up

And somewhere in the middle the fruit decides to stop.

Mother caught it up - the remedy was quick!

She started it again with one almighty kick.

Any onlookers would have sworn us insane

For no advantage by this episode was gained.

By the time I’d stopped walking and mother dropped her pace

We’d surrounded the Orange and were standing face-to-face.

So, ‘The Day Of The Orange’, in my head is neatly framed.

When I think on it I laugh - and who could be blamed.

There was only one benefit, reaped from all this fuss …

I had something to eat, while waiting for a bus!

THE DAY OF THE FAIR (Ian M. Bruce)

There’s a hustling-bustling in the town

And magic in the air.

Great excitement in the park,

Celebration everywhere.

With sports and swings and merry-go-rounds

And ice-cream by the ton

While the men are preparing for the tug-o’-war

And all the racers run.

On the whole, the weather’s been good today

Shame we had that shower!

I’ll walk you down to the town-hall clock

The procession’s in half an hour.

When the floats came along with flowers and song

Such sights I’d never seen

Then last of all was the prettiest float

And the teenage Carnival Queen.

Now it’s all passed, the last camera’s flashed

And the sun is going down.

The magic’s starting to fade away

From the bandstand, not a sound.

Then kicking my way through the litter of the day

The last man took down his stall.

When he was gone, with all of his wares

There was no-one left at all.

I wandered home, all alone

And had myself some food.

Should I go down to the dance tonight

I decided: ‘Yes, I would’

I drank some beer, I danced and I sang

As round the room I sped.

I’m exhausted; I’ve had a wonderful day

But I can’t wait for ma …... BED!

AY WAUKIN O (Robert Burns)

Ay waukin O!

Waukin still and weary;

Sleep I can get nane

For thinking on my dearie.

Ay waukin O!

Simmer’s a pleasant time:

Flowers of every colour

The water rins owre the heugh.

And I long for my true lover.

When I sleep I dream.

When I wauk I’m eerie.

Sleep I can get nane,

For thinking on my dearie.

Lanely night comes on

A’ the lave are sleepin’.

I think on my bonie lad,

And I bleer my een wi’ greetin.

RANTIN ROVIN ROBIN (Robert Burns)

There was a lad was born in Kyle

But whatna day or whatna style

I doubt it’s hardly worth the while

Tae be sae nice wi' Robin

Robin was a rovin' boy

Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin'.

Robin was a rovin boy.

Rantin rovin' Robin

Our monarch’s hindmost year but ane

Was five and twenty days begun.

Twas then a blast o; Janwar win;

Blew hansel in on Robin.

The gossip keekit in his loof

Quo she wha lives shall see the proof.

This waly boy will be nae coof,

I think we’ll ca’ him Robin

He’ll hae misfortunes great and small

But aye a heart aboon then a’

He’ll be a credit tae us a’

We’ll a’ be proud o’ Robin.

But sure as three times three mak nine

I see by ilka score an’ line

This chap’ll dearly like our kin’

So leeze me on thee Robin.

‘ Guid faith’ quo she, ‘I doubt you gar

The bonnie lasses lie aspar

But twenty fauts you may hae waur -

So, blessins on thee Robin

LOUDMOUTH (Ian M. Bruce)

Everyone must laugh with the loudmouth!

He feels his jokes are best of all.

He’s no-one in particular, yet everybody’s friend

And insists that we enjoy ourselves until the bitter end.

He never seems to notice, that no-one wants him near,

But ‘close’ is no necessity if it’s him you want to hear.

If I’m not sitting singing, then quiet I shall be.

I may even pour another drink.

I’ll wallow in my paradise, my private little trance,

While maybe all the others have a shout and drink and dance.

He snaps his clumsy fingers - I drop my beer in fright!

He yells: ‘Cheer up, old boy! Things will be alright.

‘ Order for the singer,’ he’s appealing to the crowd

As the host sings and strums his old guitar.

Order once again!’ he’s yelling ‘girls and boys’.

Will he never know that he’s the greatest source of noise?

And when the songs over, he’s a martyr to the cause,

And asks a clapping audience to ‘…give it some applause’.

‘ Thank you for the party’ the guests say as they leave:

‘ The buffet was the best we’ve ever seen’.

Everyone is gone - well, everyone but one,

That loudmouth who swears he’ll drink until the dark is done.

He’s drunk far too much, but again he doesn’t know

He vomits on the carpet and says: ‘It’s time to go’.

JEALOUS OF ME? (Ian M. Bruce)

And why is it so important to you

That I should be right in all that I do?

Should I set the perfect example to you?

You know, I don’t know; I think you don’t know too.

And just because you think I wear a tie

Which is not quite the same as the blue in my eye

What gives you that god-given right to say?

And what makes you think that you’re right anyway?

Doo-be-datun-doo-da-dum etc.

And why is it so important to you

That you say I’m wrong in all that I do?

I wouldn’t be born, if it was up to you

Because I’m not one of your own chosen few.

If my taste isn’t yours, you consider me mad

Because you have said; you think I should be sad.

But because you hate fat, or mere chicken skin

Won’t make me throw all my meat in the bin.

Doo-be-datun-doo-da-dum etc.

So, why am I wrong, when I’m wrong right or fair?

I’ve asked for the reason, you’re up in the air.

There is an answer, but you don’t know where.

I’ll tell it to you when you’ve torn out your hair.

And whether you like what I say now or not,

You’d best take it in, ‘coz it’s good food for thought.

It’s painted all over your face you see.

And I don’t know why you’re jealous of me

BROOM OF THE COWDENKNOWES (Traditional)

How blithe each morn was I tae see

My lass came down the hill

She skipped the burn and ran tae me

I met her wi’ good will.

CHORUS

And it’s Oh the broom, the bonny, bonny broom

The broom o’ the Cowdenknowes!

Fain would I be, in the north country

Herding her father’s ewes

We neither herded ewes nor lamb

While the flock near us lay

She gathered in the sheep at night

And cheered me all the day.

Hard fate, that I should banished be

Gone way o’er hill and moor

Because I loved the fairest lass

That ever yet was born.

Adieu, ye Cowdenknoes, adieu.

Farewell all pleasures there

To wander by her side again

Is all I crave or care.

THE ROWAN TREE (Traditional)

Oh, Rowan tree! Oh, Rowan tree! Thou’lt aye be dear tae me.

Entwined thou art with mony ties o’ hame and infancy;

Thy leaves were aye the first o’ spring, thy flow’rs the summer’s pride;

There wasnae sic a bonnie tree in a’ the countryside.

How fair wert thou in summer time, wi’ a’ thy clusters white.

How rich and gay thy autumn dress, wi’ berriers red and bright.

We sat aneath thy spreading shade, the bairnies roond thee ran.

They pu’d thy bonnie berries red, and necklaces they strang.

On thy fair stem were mony names, that now nay mair I see.

But they’re engraven on ma heart, forgot they ne’er can be!

My mother Oh! I see her still, she smiled our sports tae see;

Wi’ little Jeannie on her lap, wi’ Jamie at her knee.

Oh! There arose ma fathers prayer, in holy evening calm,

How sweet was then ma mother’s voice, in the martyr’s psalm;

Now a’ are gane! We meet nae mair aneath the Rowan tree

But hallowed thoughts around thee twine o’ hame and infancy.

Oh, Rowan tree! Oh, Rowan tree! Thou’lt aye be dear tae me.

Entwined thou art with mony ties o’ hame and infancy;

Thy leaves were aye the first o’ spring, thy flow’rs the summer’s pride;

There wasnae sic a bonnie tree in a’ the countryside.

Oh Rowan tree!

ANOTHER SATURDAY NIGHT (Sam Cooke)

Another Sat’day night and I ain’t got nobody

I got some money, coz I just got paid

Now how I wish I had someone to talk to

I’m in an awful way!

Well, I got in town a month ago

I’ve seen a lot of girls since then.

If I could meet ’em I could get ’em

But as yet I haven’t met ’em

That’s why I’m in the state I’m in.

Another fella told me

He had a sister who looked just fine.

Instead of being my deliverance,

She had a faint resemblance

To a cat named Frankenstein.

It’s hard on a fella

When he don’t know his way around

If I don’t find me a honey

To help me spend my money

I’m gonna have to blow this town

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