In 2007 the Oxford Junion Dictionary caused a stir by dropping words it felt no longer had a connection with children, words like wren, willow, otter, acorn, ivy, and others. Author Robert Macfarlane and artist Jackie Morris created a lovely book The Lost Words to restore those missing words. Macfarlane's words are meant to be read aloud, a sort of spell to bring them back to life.
The book is beyond lovely, and every household should have a copy. Today is John Muir Day which gives the meaning of the book a special emphasis.
A group of renowned UK musicians got together to write songs as a companion to the book and a way 'to sing nature back to life.' Spell Songs is the result, and a more beautiful tribute can't be imagined. Julie Fowlis and Kris Drever took the word otter and created the lovely song I picked for this Trad Tuesday: Selkie-Boy.
Julie Fowlis is the well-known Scottish singer who often sings in Gaelic. Here we have a song about a young girls’ encounter with the ‘each-uisge’ or water-horse. Once you get on a water-horse, you can't get off and the horse will take you into the loch to drown.
Lyrics:
Love, let me home to my mother
Love, let me home to my mother
Darling, let me home to my mother
Love, let me home
to my mother
I only came for the cattle.
It was only last night
That I heard that my love was herding
And though you found me at the perimeter of the cattle fold
Love, let me home as you found me.
I was clambering up
the dykes
And descending the ridges
When a friendly lad met me
And he did not enforce his friendship on me.
Though you were to give me cattle and sheep
Though you were to give me tethered horses
Though you were to give me that and men
Love, let me home as you found me.
My mother and father will chastise you
My clan and my relatives will chastise you
But my three brothers will kill you
If I don’t return home as I came.
My mother promised me a gown
Decorated with the newest of ribbons
And she promised me a new plaid
If I return home the way you found me.
A lovely song about a lassie and her sea captain in the traditional mode by Emily Smith. Here she has some help from Julie Fowlis and Liam OMaonlai.
Lyrics:
A sailor and his true love sat doon to mak’ their moan When by cam’ ane o’ their ain countrymen Sayin’, Rise up my bonnie lassie, mak’ haste and come awa’ There’s a vessel lyin’ bound for Caledonia
And, Oh, says the sailor, Are ye willin’ for to pay Five hundred guineas, before on board ye gae I’ll pay them plack and farthing, before on board I go (plack – small copper coin) If you’ll tak’ me tae my bonnie Caledonia
And, Oh, says the sailor, Her money we will tak’ And when she’s on sea, we will throw her over deck Or sell her for a slave, lang or e’er she win awa’ And she’ll never see her bonnie Caledonia
But, Oh, says the captain, That’ll never do For there are no slaves sold intil oor country noo They would hang us ane and a’, they would hang us every man If we sold her for a slave in Caledonia
Well, said the sailor, She’s lyin’ doon below She’s bound hand and foot ready overboard to throw She’s bound hand and foot ready overboard to throw And she’ll never see her bonnie Caledonia
So the captain away to the fair maid has gane Sayin’, What is the reason that ye lie here so lang And what is the reason that ye lie here ava’ For ye’ve paid your passage dear to Caledonia
And, Oh, says the lassie, Oh wae is me That ever I was born sic hardships for to see But the sailor’s got a lassie he likes better far than me And it causes me to weep for Caledonia
So the captain away to the sailor has gane He’s ta’en him by the neck and him overboard has thrown Saying, Tak’ this cup o’ water, though the liquor be but sma’ And drink your lassie’s health tae Caledonia
And they’ve sailed east, and they’ve sailed west Until they reached the land that they loved the best For the winds they did beat and the seas they did roar And they’ve all arrived safe in Caledonia
And they hadnae been there but threequarters o’ a year When fine silks and satins he’s made her for to wear When in fine silks and satins he’s made her for to go Now she’s the captain’s wife in Caledonia
The Blackest Crow is a traditional Appalachian song with possibly English roots. It's been performed by a lot of musicians, but I like this version performed in the Transatlantic Sessions.
As time draws near my dearest dear when you and I must part How little you know of the grief and woe in my poor aching heart Each night I suffer for your sake, you’re the girl I love so dear I wish that I was going with you or you were staying here
I wish my breast were made of glass wherein you might behold Upon my heart your name lies wrote in letters made of gold In letters made of gold my love, believe me when I say You are the one that I will adore until my dying day
The blackest crow that ever flew would surely turn to white If ever I prove false to you bright day will turn to night Bright day will turn to night my love, the elements will mourn If ever I prove false to you the seas will rage and burn
And when you’re on some distant shore think of your absent friend And when the wind blows high and clear a light to me pray send And when the wind blows high and clear pray send your love to me That I might know by your hand light how time has gone with thee
This is a very moving song which is interesting as it is sung from the point of view of the ‘each-uisge’ the water-horse, who is usually portrayed as the frightening character in stories, but in this instance is the victim. He has been betrayed by his mortal lover, and she has left him with their child, which he cannot take care of. In the song, he begs her to return.
I arose early I arose early – would that I hadn’t. I was distressed by what sent me out. Hill ò bha hò Hill ò bha hò.
There was mist on the hill There was mist on the hill and showers of rain and I came across a pleasant maiden Hill ò bha hò Hill ò bha hò.
I’ll give you wine I’ll give you wine and all that will please you but I won’t arise with you in the morning. Hill ò bha hò Hill ò bha hò.
Girl of the calves Girl of the calves I was with you in the cattle-fold and the rest were asleep. Hill ò bha hò Hill ò bha hò.
The white brown wicked one The white brown wicked one bore me a son although coldly did she nurse him Hill ò bha hò Hill ò bha hò.
Tha calf of my song The calf of my song was beside a hillock without fire, protection or shelter. Hill ò bha hò Hill ò bha hò.
Mòr, my love Mòr, my love, return to your little son and I’ll give you a beautiful speckled withe. Hill ò bha hò Hill ò bha hò.
