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The Ancient Ballads

Edward

The American Folk Experience

Edward

by John Fitzsimmons | The American Folk Experience

Child Ballad #13

What makes that blood on the point of your knife?
My son, now tell to me
It is the blood of my old grey mare
Who plowed the fields for me, me, me
Who plowed the fields for me.

It is too red for your old grey mare
My son, now tell to me
It is the blood of my old coon dog
Who chased the fox for me, me me
Who chased the fox for me.

It is too red for your old coon dog
My son, now tell to me
It is the blood of my brother John
Who hoed the corn for me, me, me
Who hoed the corn for me.

What did you fall out about?
My son, now tell to me
Because he cut yon holly bush
Which might have been a tree, tree, tree
Which might have been a tree.

What will you say when your father comes back
When he comes home from town?
I’ll set my foot in yonder boat
And sail the ocean round, round, round
I’ll sail the ocean round.

When will you come back, my own dear son?
My son, now tell to me
When the sun it sets in yonder sycamore tree
And that will never be, be, be
And that will never be.

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I am indebted to the many friends who share my love of traditional songs and to the many scholars whose works are too many to include here. I am also incredibly grateful to the collector’s curators and collators of Wikipedia, Mudcat.org, MainlyNorfolk.info, and TheContemplator.com for their wise, thorough and informative contributions to the study of folk music. 

I share their research on my site with humility, thanks, and gratitude. Please cite their work accordingly with your own research. If you have any research or sites you would like to share on this site, please post in the comment box.  Thanks!

Source: Wikipedia

"Edward" is a traditional murder ballad existing in several variants, categorised by Francis James Child as Child Ballad number 13[1] and listed as number 200 in the Roud Folk Song Index. The ballad, which is at least 250 years old (a text of its Swedish counterpart has been dated to the mid-17th century[2]), has been documented and recorded numerous times across the English speaking world into the twentieth century.

Synopsis

A mother questions her son about the blood on his "sword" (most likely a hunting knife, given the era when the story is occurring). He avoids her interrogation at first, claiming that it is his hawk or his horse (or some other kind of animal depending on the variation of the song), but finally admits that it is his brother, or his father, whom he has killed. He declares that he is leaving and will never return, and various creatures (wife, children, livestock) will have to fare without him. His mother then asks what she will get from his departure. He answers "a curse from hell" and implicates his mother in the murder.

Traditional recordings

Several Appalachian musicians recorded the ballad; Jean Ritchie sang the Ritchie family version in 1946 with her sister (recorded by Mary Elizabeth Barnacle)[3] and in 1961 on the album Jean Ritchie: Ballads from her Appalachian Family Tradition,[4] whilst Bascom Lamar Lunsford (1935),[5] Horton Barker (1941),[6] and Almeida Riddle (1972)[7] also had their traditional versions recorded. The children's writer Edith Ballinger Price was recorded by Helen Hartness Flanders performing a traditional version in 1945.[8]

The song was recorded a handful of times in England; Mike Yates recorded Frank Hinchliffe of Sheffield, Yorkshire singing his version in 1977[9] and Danny Brazil of Gloucestershire singing a different version the following year.[10] George Dunn of Quarry Bank, Staffordshire was recorded by Roy Parmer singing another version in 1971, which can be heard online via the Vaughan Williams Memorial Library.[11]

In Scotland, the song was generally known as "My Son David". Recordings were made of traditional Scottish traveller Jeannie Robertson (1953),[12][13] her nephew Stanley Robertson (1987)[14] and daughter Lizzie Higgins (1970)[15] singing the ballad; Lizzie Higgins' recording publicly available on the Vaughan Williams Memorial Library website.[15]

Irish traditional singers such as Thomas Moran of Mohill, Co. Leitrim (1954),[16] John "Jacko" Reilly of Boyle, Co. Roscommon (1967),[17] Paddy Tunney of Co. Fermanagh (1976)[18] and Christy Moore of Co. Kildare were also recorded singing versions of the ballad. Versions collected orally in Ireland are usually named "What Put the Blood" or something similar. Tunney's version, for example, (released on his Folk-Legacy CD The Man of Songs) was entitled "What put the Blood on Your Right Shoulder, Son?"[19]

Parallels

This ballad may not be complete in itself. Large portions of the ballad are also found in the longer ballads "The Twa Brothers" (Child 49) and "Lizie Wan" (Child 51).[20]

Parallels in other languages

This ballad type was also found in Northern Europe, where it is often known under "Svend i Rosensgård" or a similar name. Its general Scandinavian classification is TSB D 320, and it is known in Danish (DgF 340), Icelandic (IFkv 76), Norwegian, and Swedish (SMB 153). In Finland, it is popular as "Poikani Poloinen", both as a poem and as a song, first published in the collection Kanteletar.

In the Scandinavian versions, and the Finnish one, the stress is more on the gradual divulge of the fact that the son will never return home to his mother.

Percy's "Edward"

The authenticity of one popular version of this ballad (Child 13B) has been called into question.[21] This version originally appeared in print in Bishop Thomas Percy's 1765 edition of Reliques of Ancient English Poetry. Percy reported that he received this Scottish ballad from Sir David Dalrymple, who said he heard it from an unnamed lady. This version appears inauthentic because it seems, in short, too "good": it makes exceptional use of literary devices for maximum impact. Moreover, unlike most other versions, the father is the victim rather than the brother, and the mother receives a curse at the end. There is also little evidence that this version was disseminated orally; it seems to have appeared most often in print form. The name "Edward" appears to have come from Percy's version; versions which seem to have existed independently of Percy's don't use this name for the protagonist.[22]

Adaptations

See also

References

  1. ↑ Francis James Child, English and Scottish Popular Ballads, "Edward"
  2. ↑ Jonsson, Bengt R., ed. (1983–1996). Sveriges medeltida ballader (in Swedish). Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell. p. 160. ISBN 91-22-01733-X. Retrieved 13 November 2022.
  3. ↑ "Edward (Roud Folksong Index S273288)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  4. ↑ "Jean Ritchie: Ballads from her Appalachian Family Tradition". Smithsonian Folkways Recordings. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  5. ↑ "Edward (Roud Folksong Index S259329)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  6. ↑ "Edward (Roud Folksong Index S397837)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  7. ↑ "The Blood of the Old Rooster (Roud Folksong Index S169512)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  8. ↑ "Edward (Roud Folksong Index S233995)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  9. ↑ "Edward (Roud Folksong Index S340552)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  10. ↑ "Edward (Roud Folksong Index S340575)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  11. ↑ "Edward (Roud Folksong Index S233987)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  12. ↑ "Edward (Roud Folksong Index S174287)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  13. ↑ "Son David (Roud Folksong Index S161735)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  14. ↑ "My Son David (Roud Folksong Index S433934)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  15. 1 2 "Son David (Roud Folksong Index S304847)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  16. ↑ "Edward (Roud Folksong Index S233972)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  17. ↑ "What Put the Blood (Roud Folksong Index S255692)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  18. ↑ "What Brought the Blood (Roud Folksong Index S165011)". The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 2020-11-20.
  19. ↑ "O'er his grave the grass grew green", Tragic Ballads, The Voice of the People vol. 3, Topic TSCD 653 (1975)
  20. ↑ Francis James Child, The English and Scottish Popular Ballads, vol. 1, p. 167, Dover Publications, New York 1965
  21. ↑ Most notable is Bertrand Bronson in "Edward, Edward. A Scottish Ballad and a Footnote," in The Ballad as Song (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1969).
  22. ↑ "The Yorkshire Garland Group". www.yorkshirefolksong.net. Retrieved 2020-12-31.
  23. ↑ John Reilly, Topic 12T 359, 1969 ("The Bonny Green Tree")
  24. ↑ Folktrax 175-C60 ("John Reilly"), 1967
  25. ↑ "Six Duets (Шесть дуэтов)", Tchaikovsky Research
source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_(ballad)

Source: Mainly Norfolk

Edward / My Son David / Henry

[ Roud 200 ; Child 13 ; TYG 35 ; Ballad Index C013 ; trad.]Jeannie Robertson sang My Son David to Alan Lomax in London in November 1953. This recording was included in 1961 on the Tradition Records LPHeather and Glen and in 1998 on the Rounder CD The Queen Among the Heather. Another recording made by Peter Kennedy was included in 1955 on the HMV LP Folk Song Today.

Angela Brazil, Weenie Brazil, and Alice Webb’s son sang three versions of Son Come Tell It Unto Me in recordings made in 1954, 1955 and 1968. They were all included in 2007 on the Brazil Family’s Musical Tradition anthology Down By the Old Riverside. The accompanying booklet commented:

This was also sung by Lemmie, Alice, Danny and Tom [Brazil], so it could be considered the family’s favourite song. One of the most striking things about these recordings of a significant number of singers from one family, is that—given the slight variations of text and melody from one singer to another—it seems fairly clear that all family members got their songs from one source; most likely their parents, or even grandparents.

Son Come Tell It Unto Me is unusual in that here we have three completely different tunes to the same song from three singers; Weenie’s is essentially the Family one, whilst Angela’s and young Mr Webb’s are not. (…)

This is a very popular song with 236 Roud entries, of which 59 are sound recordings. The great majority are from the USA (148 entries) and Scotland (46 entries). Only 4 other singers from England are named.

Danny Brazil sang another version, called The Two Turtle Doves, to Mike Yates in Gloucester in 1979. This was printed in 2006 in Yates EFDSS book of songs of English and Scottish travellers and gypsies, Traveller’s Joy.

Ewan MacColl sang My Son David in 1956 on his and A.L. Lloyd’s Riverside anthology The English and Scottish Popular Ballads (The Child Ballads) Volume II. This song and 28 other from this series were reissued in 2009 on his Topic double CD set Ballads: Murder·Intrigue·Love·Discord. Kenneth S. Goldstein commented in the album’s booklet:

The high esteem in which Child held this ballad is indicated by the statement in his introductory notes: “Edward … has ever been regarded as one of the noblest and most sterling specimens of the popular ballad.” Such praise is entirely deserved, for the ballad, employing throughout a simple dialogue device, builds to a climatic emotional peak unsurpassed in any other Child ballad.

The ballad is known in the Northern countries of Europe, the dialogue form being maintained in every instance. Since Child’s time, most reported texts do not implicate the mother in the crime, which in almost every case is fratricide (rather than patricide as in the Child “B” text). Archer Taylor, in his full-length study of the ballad, feels the fratricide factor relates recent findings to the earliest Scandinavian forms of the ballad, whence the English versions stem.

The ballad has been collected rather frequently in America; until recently it had been unreported in Britain for many years.

MacColl’s version was learned from Jeannie Robertson, housewife and former tinker from Aberdeen.

The anthology The Child Ballads 1: The English and Scottish Popular Ballads Numbers 2-95 (The Folk Songs of Britain Volume 4; Caedmon 1961; Topic 1968) has a track of Edward / My Son David that is patched up of verses from Jeannie Robertson, Paddy Tunney, and Angela Brazil.

Norman Kennedy sang My Son David in 1965 on the Topic LP New Voices from Scotland.

John Reilly sang What Put the Blood? to Tom Munnelly in his own home in Dublin in Winter 1967. This recording was released ten years later on his Topic album The Bonny Green Tree: Songs of an Irish Traveller.

Lizzie Higgins sang My Son David in a 1970 recording in Aberdeen made by Allie Munro. This was published on the 2006 Musical Traditions anthology In Memory of Lizzie Higgins. Rod Stradling commented in the album’s booklet:

This old ballad is almost universally called Edward (or something similar), and the Son David title appears only in Scotland. (…) When Hamish Henderson ‘discovered’ Jeannie Robertson in 1953 and demonstrated her repertoire to the world, this particular ballad caused a sensation amongst scholars, as it had been thought to have been completely lost from the oral traditions for well over a hundred years, and caused the rest of her repertoire to be examined with the greatest of interest. (…) Considering this very much her mother’s song, requiring Jeannie’s “big classical ballad” style, Lizzie nevertheless went on to perform it after her death.

Nic Jones, accompanying himself on fiddle, sang the grisly dialogue Edward in 1971 on his eponymous second album, Nic Jones. He commented in the album notes:

This is more or less a version of a large group of songs under the various titles of Edward, Lizzie Wan, Lucy Wan, What Blood is This?, etc. In this version the whole incident turns on the seemingly irrelevant statement:

It’s all about a little holly bush
That might have made a tree.

The lines are possibly explained by a glance at some of the other versions, where the son has made love to his sister and subsequently killed her when she turns out to be pregnant. The holly bush could reasonably represent some kind of guarded reference to this incident; the incident itself having been excluded from the song.

John Wesley Harding also sang this song on his Nic Jones tribute album, Trad Arr Jones.

George Dunn sang Edward in a recording made by Bill Leader in December 1971 on his eponymous 1973 Leader album, George Dunn. Another fragment of this song, recorded by Roy Palmer on December 3, 1971 was included in 2002 on Dunn’s Musical Tradition anthology Chainmaker.

Isabel Sutherland sang Son Davie on her eponymous 1974 EFDSS album, Isabel Sutherland.

Paddy Tunney sang What Brought the Blood? with quite a different story-line on his 1976 Topic album, The Flowery Vale. This track was also included in 1998 on the Topic anthology O’er His Grave the Grass Grew Green (The Voice of the People Volume 3). Another version of What Put the Blood?, sung by Mary Delaney, is on volume 17 of this series, It Fell on a Day, a Bonny Summer Day. Cathal Ó Baoill commented in Tunney’s album’s sleeve notes:

In this old English ballad we are given a slight clue as to a possible background of the story when Paddy sings, “all through mother’s treachery”.

In the version I heard from Frank Quinn on the Lough Neagh Shore the involvement of the mother was never mentioned in the text, so that the whole tale of her guile and her hidden desire for the inheritance of both her sons had to be told as a preliminary to the singing. Different versions suggest different motives, but in any case the story of how the boy is driven away from home to avoid his father’s anger is clear enough in every version. The Lough Neagh version also included a localising verse which said,

What will you do in the winter of your life,
Like a saggin on the Lough I’ll bow with the wind.

Frank Hinchliffe sang Edward on his 1977 Topic album of traditional songs from South Yorkshire, In Sheffield Park.

Steeleye Span recorded Edward with somewhat changed lyrics courtesy of Bob Johnson in 1986 for their album Back in Line. A live recording from The Forum, London on September 2, 1995 was released on the CD The Journey.

Chris Coe sang Edward in 2001 on her Backshift CD A Wiser Fool.

Kieron Means sang Edward in 2003 on his Tradition Bearers CD of North American songs and ballads, Run Mountain. His mother Sara Grey commented in the album’s notes:

From the singing of Donal McGuire, a great singer from Ireland who has lived for several years in East Lancashire, England. It is the biblical parable of Cain and Abel. It has never been regarded as one of the best examples of popular ballads, it’s more like a detached part of a ballad rather than a complete one. It is known to have Finnish and Swedish counterparts. These Scandinavian versions are closer to the American ones but the ‘Edward’ story was too strong for Americans. The mother had no part in the crime, as she did in Scottish versions. There’s no more powerful ending in a ballad than the final realisation that the mother helped in or committed the murder of her son. Being ‘put to sea’ was a medieval punishment for fratricide.

The Demon Barbers learned Edward from Nic Jones’ Trailer album and sang it in 2005 on their CD Waxed.

Jeana Leslie and Siobhan Miller sang Edward in 2008 on their Greentrax CD In a Bleeze.

Al O’Donnell sang What Put the Blood? in 2008 on his CD Ramble Away.

Rubus sang My Son David in 2008 on their CD Nine Witch Knots. Emily Portman commented in their liner notes:

Perhaps the sequel to Rolling of the Stones, here a mother gradually uncovers the truth about the origin of the blood on her son’s sword. I imagine that this mother already knows what has happened, as mothers often do. The incomparable Louis Killen gave me this song, whose own source is Jeannie Robertson.

Nick Wyke & Becki Driscoll sang Edward on their 2009 CD Beneath the Black Tree.

Alasdair Roberts sang What Put the Blood on Your Right Shoulder, Son? in 2010 on his CD Too Long in This Condition.

June Tabor and Jon Jones sang My Son David in 2011 on her and the Oysterband’s second collaboration, Ragged Kingdom. Their sleeve notes commented:

From the singing of Margaret Stewart of Aberdeen. Long thought to be preserved only in Scandinavian and American traditions, this ancient ballad of mindless violence, fratricide ad exile was found to be treasured still by Travellers.

This video shows them on Later with Jools Holland on May 18, 2012:

Fay Hield sang this ballad as Henry in 2012 on her CD with the Hurricane Party, Orfeo. She commented in her liner notes:

More commonly known as Edward, or in Scotland My Son David, this song is pretty unusual for being entirely developed through dialogue. It’s not a song I’ve been attracted to before, perhaps because of the lack of direct action. However, I wrote this version to fit a tune I’ve been humming which I felt needed a repetitive lyric to complement it. The tune is Mandad ei Comigo, from the Codax manuscripts of 13th century Spain. The longer I spent with the song, the deeper it began to affect me and what I could once switch off as tediously repetitive I now struggle to reach the end of without a catch in my throat. It’s intensely powerful to take the role of the mother and discover, during the course of a conversation, that you have lost your daughter, your unborn grandchild, and that there is no other choice than for your son to leave for an unknown destiny. Then, consider the twisted feelings of anguish she must be feeling towards all of these people as a result of their activities. An incredible song, essentially delivered through just one line of text: “It’s the blood of my sister dear, she would have my baby.”

Jeff Davis sang Edward in 2013 on his and Brian Peters’ CD of songs collected by Cecil Sharp in the Appalachian Mountains, Sharp’s Appalachian Harvest. Sharp collected this version from Jane Gentry of Hot Springs, North Carolina, on August 24, 1916.

Lyrics

Jeannie Robertson sings My Son David Nic Jones sings Edward
“O what’s the blood that’s on your sword,
My son David, O son David?
What’s the blood it’s on your sword?
Come promise, tell me true.”“O that’s the blood of my grey mair,
Hey lady mother, ho lady mother;
That’s the blood of my grey mair,
Because it widnae rule my me.”		 “What’s that blood all on your shirt?
Son, come tell to me.”
“Oh, that’s the blood of my own grey hound,
He wouldn’t run with me, with me,
He wouldn’t run with me.”
“O that blood it is owre clear,
My son David, O son David;
That blood it is owre clear,
Come promise, tell me true.”“O that’s the blood of my grey hound,
Hey lady mother, ho lady mother;
That’s the blood of my grey hound,
Because it widnae rule my me.”“O that blood it is owre clear,
My son David, O son David;
That blood it is owre clear,
Come promise, tell me true.”“O that’s the blood of my huntin’ haak,
Hey lady mother, ho lady mother;
That’s the blood of my huntin’ haak,
Because it widnae rule my me.”		 “Oh it’s too pale for your greyhound’s blood,
Son, come tell to me.”
“It is the blood of my own grey mare,
He wouldn’t hunt with me, with me,
He wouldn’t hunt with me.”
“O that blood it is owre clear,
My son David, O son David;
That blood it is owre clear,
Come promise, tell me true.”“O that’s the blood of my brother John,
Hey lady mother, ho lady mother;
That’s the blood of my brother John,
Because he drew his sword tae me.		 “Oh it’s too red for your grey mare’s blood,
Son, come tell to me.”
“Well, it’s the blood of me own dear brother,
He wouldn’t ride with me, with me,
He wouldn’t ride with me.”
“And what were you all quarrelling about?
Son, come tell to me.”
“Oh it’s all about a little holly bush
And it might have made a tree, a tree,
It might have made a tree.”
“I’m gaun awa’ in a bottomless boat,
In a bottomless boat, in a bottomless boat,
But I’m gaun awa’ in a bottomless boat,
And I’ll ne’er return again.”		 “And what will you do when your father comes to know?
Son, come tell to me.”
“Oh, I’ll set sail in a little sailing boat,
I’ll sail across the sea, the sea,
I’ll sail across the sea.”
“And what will you do with your pretty little wife?
Son, come tell to me.”
“Oh she’ll sail along in my little sailing boat,
She’ll sail along with me, with me,
She’ll sail along with me.”
“And what will you do with your eldest son?
Son, come tell to me.”
Oh I’ll leave him here for you to raise,
Rock all-upon your knee, your knee,
To rock all-upon your knee.”
“O whan will you come back again
My son David, O son David?
Whan will you come back again?
Come promise, tell me true.”“When the sun and the moon meets in yon glen,
Hey lady mother, ho lady mother;
When the sun and the moon meets in yon glen,
For I’ll return again.”		 “And when will you come back again?
Son, come tell to me.”
When the sun and the moon there on yonder hill,
I know that will never never be, never be,
Know that will never never be.”
Steeleye Span sing Edward Fay Hield sings Henry
“What’s that blood upon your sword, Edward?”
“’Tis the blood of my grey mare.”
“Your grey mare’s blood was never that red, Edward,
You’re telling lies, telling lies.”“What’s that blood upon your sword, Edward?”
“’Tis the blood of my greyhound.”
“Greyhound’s blood was never that red, Edward,
You’re telling lies, telling lies.”“What’s that blood upon your sword, Edward?”
“’Tis the blood of my great hawk.”
“Great hawk’s blood was never that red, Edward,
You’re telling lies.”

Chorus
And the sun will never shine, Edward,
And the moon has lost his light.
And the sun will never shine, Edward,
You’re telling lies, telling lies.

“What’s that blood upon your sword, Edward?”
“It is the blood of my brother.”
“Why did you kill your own brother, Edward?
You’re telling lies, telling lies.”

Chorus

What will you do, where will you go, Edward?
What will you do, how will you live?”
“I’ll sail away, I’ll sail away, Mother,
And you’ll never see more of me.”

“What of your wife, what of your son, Edward?
And what will you leave to your mother dear?”
“The curse of Hell to burn her with, Mother
But telling lies, telling lies.”

Chorus

 “Oh what is the blood on your shirt sleeve?
Oh my son Henry, come tell unto me.”
“It’s the blood of my grey hound;
He would not run for me.”“Oh that’s not the blood of your greyhound,
Oh my son Henry, don’t lie unto me.
It would be a far redder blood,
This can never be.“Oh what is the blood on your shirt sleeve?
Oh my son Henry, come tell unto me.”
“It’s the blood of my grey mare;
She would not ride for me.”“Oh that’s not the blood of your grey mare,
Oh my son Henry, don’t lie unto me.
It’d be a far darker red,
This can never be.“Oh what is the blood on your shirt sleeve?
Oh my son Henry, come tell unto me.”
“It’s the blood of my goshawk;
He would not hunt for me.”“Oh that’s not the blood of your goshawk,
Oh my son Henry, don’t lie unto me.
It’d be a far thicker blood,
This can never be.“Oh what is the blood on your shirt sleeve?
Oh my son Henry, come tell unto me.”
“It’s the blood of my sister dear;
She would have my baby.“Oh set me a boat on the ocean,
Set it to sail over all the seven seas.
I must die for the love of
My sister and me.”
Paddy Tunney sings What Put the Blood?
“Where have you been the whole day long?
Son, come tell it unto me.”
“I was fishing and fowling the whole day long
All through mother’s treachery, all through mother’s treachery.”“What put the blood on your right shoulder?
Son, come tell it unto me.”
“’Twas the killing of a hare, that I killed today,
That I killed right manfully, that I killed right manfully.”“The blood of the old hare it could never be so red.
Son, come tell it unto me.”
“’Twas the killing of a boy, that I killed today,
That I killed most manfully, that I killed most manfully.”“What came between yourself and the boy?
Son, come tell it unto me.”
“It was mostly the cutting of a rod
That would never come a tree, that would never come a tree.”“What are you going to do when your daddy finds out?
Son, come tell it unto me.”
“I will put my foot on board a ship
And sail to a foreign country, and sail to a foreign country.”“What are you going to do with your lovely young wife?
Son, come tell it unto me.”
“She can put her foot on board of a ship
And sail e’er after me, and sail e’er after me.”“What are you going to do with your two fine young babes?
Son, come tell it unto me.”
“I’ll give one to my father and the other to my mother
For to bear them company, for to bear them company.”“What are you going to do with your two fine racehorses?
Son, come tell it unto me.”
“I will take the bridles off their necks
For they’ll run for more for me, they’ll run for more for me.”“What are you going to do with your two fine greyhounds?
Son, come tell it unto me.”
“I will take the leads all off their necks
For they’ll run for more for me, they’ll run for more for me.”“What are you going to do with your houses and your lands?
Son, come tell it unto me.”
“I will lay them bare to the birds on the air
For there is no more welcome there for me, there’s no more welcome there for me.”

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Lenny Megliola

WEEI Radio

Concord

by | July 14, 2014 | Poetry, Raccoon | 0 Comments

The people, the music filledness of rush hour traffic skirting puddles work crews packing in laughswearingmudyellowed slickers lighting candle bombs. My sadness the euphoric detachment. I love this town. It breathes me.
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Last of the Boys

by | August 12, 2014 | Fires in the Belly, Songs | 0 Comments

Come on over here
and I’ll buy the next round:
cold beer and some shooters
for the boys on the town;
Darby ain’t drinkin’
so let’s live it up
‘cause he’ll drive us all home
in his company truck

Jesus Christ, Jimmy,
man you say that you’re well;
I say we drive into Boston
and stir up some hell;
put a cap on the weekend,
a stitch in the night,
watch the Pats play on Sunday
and the welterweight fight.

That’s all she wrote boys,
there ain’t any more;
that’s why we’re standing here;
that’s what it’s for.
That’s why we all go on working all day
busting our ass for short pay:
~Hey…

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Doing What Needs To Be Done

by | February 16, 2014 | Essays, Journal, Teaching | 0 Comments

The rain falls;The grass grows:Nothing is done.Nothing is left undone~Buddha        Sometimes you just do what you got to do, and that never changes from the first time you take out the trash as a kid until the time in life where you are taking care of little chores...
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The Blathering of Teachers

by | March 4, 2014 | Essays, Journal, Teaching | 0 Comments

To succeed, jump as quickly at opportunities  as you do at conclusions. ~Benjamin Franklin             Maybe we are born more to ignore than to listen. I understand too well how easy it is to ignore the blatherings of teachers. I was a master of it once myself, so why...
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A Priori

by | May 24, 2016 | Journal, Poetry | 0 Comments

How do I know what I know? The sharp angles of this simple cottage perfected  in every board sawn, shingle split and beam hewn into place goes together placed, splined, slid together, bound more by intuition than knowing.
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Molting

by | July 10, 2014 | Poetry, Raccoon | 0 Comments

I am always molting; leaving my hollowed skin in awkward places, scaring people and making them jump. They touch me and think I’m real; then laugh and say things like “What a riot.” I’m tired of this changing of skins. I’d rather stumble on myself and be fooled; and...
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Life Ain’t Hard; Its Just a Waterfall

by | August 12, 2014 | Fires in the Belly, Songs | 0 Comments

You say, hey,
who are you to say that you’re the one
to go telling me just where I’m coming from.
You can have your cake
but don’t frost me ‘til I’m done.
I can’t be fixed and I can’t afford to stall;
because life ain’t hard it’s just a waterfall.

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Make Something out of Something

by | February 26, 2014 | Essays, Journal, Teaching | 0 Comments

It's hard to make chicken salad out of chicken manure      Dirty hands are a good sign, so hopefully, you got some mental mud on your hands and created some content to work with today.  To a starving man, any food is good food--unless it...
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Joshua Sawyer

by | August 11, 2014 | Fires in the Belly, Poetry | 0 Comments

I doubt I’d ever have taken this road
had I known how fallen it really was
to disrepair: driving comically,
skirting ruts and high boulders, grimacing
at every bang on the oil pan.
I tell you it’s the old road to Wendell —
that they don’t make them like this anymore.

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The Old Tote Road

by | July 25, 2019 | Essays, Journal | 0 Comments

I clabber down the old tote road towards the red pine forest, leaning on my staff, skirting boulder-strewn ruts and small gullies carved out by two days of heavy rain. It is only a mile or so from our cabin, still, my wife makes me wear a pouch with an iPhone and an...
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A New Beginning

by | November 10, 2013 | Essays, Journal | 0 Comments

 I guess if there is any constant in my life, it is new beginnings.  This blog--and this website--is another new beginning starting here late on a cold night on my back porch. I've been keeping a blog (in fact several blogs) since the first blogs made their way on to...
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The Emperor’s New Clothes

by | February 8, 2019 | Essays, Journal, Teaching | 0 Comments

"But he hasn't got anything on!" the whole town cried out at last. The Emperor shivered, for he suspected they were right. But he thought, "This procession has got to go on." So he walked more proudly than ever, as his noblemen held high the train that wasn't there at...
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The English Soldier

by | July 14, 2014 | Poetry, Raccoon | 0 Comments

There is a soldier dressed in ancient English wool guarding the entrance to the inn. He is lucky for this cool night awaiting the pomp of the out of town wedding party. He is paid to be unmoved by the bride's stunning beauty or her train of lesser escorts. He will not...
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The Late and Lazy Teacher

by | May 1, 2014 | Essays, Journal, Teaching | 0 Comments

I guess this is a good thing. I showed up five minutes late for class, and my classroom was empty. I walked the hallways of the school and could not find any of them. I sheepishly asked the assistant headmaster if he "happened to see a class of wandering boys?"No, he...
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Raccoon

by | July 14, 2014 | Poetry, Raccoon | 0 Comments

I’ve stopped the chinks with newspaper and rags wedged tightly against the wind blowing cold three days now. I feed the fire and curse its hissing and steaming mixing green oak with sticks of dried pine calling myself Raccoon grown fat in the suburbs sleeping in...
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Thinking of My Sister

by | September 23, 2014 | Journal | 0 Comments

When Cool Was Really Cool  Life is not counted by the amount of breaths we take,  but of the moments that leave us breathless. ~Unknown             We were coming home from church one morning and Jimmy Glennon pulled up beside us as we approached the Sudbury road...
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The Mystery Within

by | August 15, 2014 | Journal, Poetry | 0 Comments

EJ wanted a banana tree for Christmas so that early morning brought a plastic bag, a few meager roots and no directions. I bought some potting soil and a square cedar box EJ placed deliberately by a westward window. He gently splayed the roots, pressed the soil, and...
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Out of the Forge: April 6, 2017

by | April 11, 2017 | Journal, Out of the Forge | 0 Comments

Some nights I feel like I am singing in a mall. Tonight--in a fun way--it felt a bit like I walked into the Natick mall at Christmas time and pulled out my guitar in front of the Apple store and started to play, but like every night down at the inn it evolved into a...
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A Redemptive Moment

by | November 15, 2013 | Essays, Journal | 0 Comments

I see the clock ticking towards 7:00. The kids are deep in their weekday world of homework, juggling soccer balls around the house, watching TV, but I am in my “got to rally” and get to the inn mode that happens very Thursday. Tonight I am tired. I’ll admit it, but...
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Somewhere North of Bangor

by | August 12, 2014 | Fires in the Belly, Songs | 0 Comments

Somewhere north of Bangor
on the run from Tennessee.
Lost in back scrub paper land
in section TR-3.
It’s hit him he’s an outlaw
a Georgia cracker’s son,
who killed a man in Nashville
with his daddies favorite gun.
It’s hit him with the loneliness
of wondering where you are
on a long ago railway
stretched between two stars.

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Supermoon

by | August 10, 2014 | Journal, Poetry | 0 Comments

Last night the August supermoon reminded me of the fickleness of time and how substance becomes shadow and memories begin to etch themselves immutably into the hardness of what is already lost.
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Why Trump Is Not Flipping Me Out

by | March 18, 2016 | Essays, Journal | 0 Comments

I wonder why Trump is not flipping me out? I wonder if there is some bigoted, ignorant and right-wing element that lurks inside this folk-singing, poem writing, neo-socialist shell of mine. Maybe it is not that hard for me to make the empathetic reach to feel at least...
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Hallows Lake

by | August 2, 2014 | Journal | 0 Comments

Foreward Thanks for taking a look at this "work in progress. It originally started out as an experimental one-man play. Maybe it still will be. Later I thought of making it into a novel, but it's hard to see it happening as there is (intentionally) no real plot, and...
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Weekend Custody

by | August 21, 2014 | Out of the Forge, Songs | 0 Comments

Jesse calls up this morning—
“You can come downstairs now;
You see the grapefruit bowl?
Well, I fixed it all;
I fixed everything for you.”

Everything’s for you…

“Let me help you make the coffee,
Momma says you drink it too.
I can’t reach the stove,
But I can pour it, though—
What’s it like living alone?”

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The Fisher

by | July 14, 2014 | Poetry, Raccoon | 0 Comments

To cast far is to cast well. I’ve always believed that the biggest fish are just beyond my range and lie in dark water I could never swim to. But experience is the wisdom that has me now casting closer to shore, nearest the reeds and overgrowth — a subtleness geared...
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The Litter in Concord

by | July 12, 2016 | Journal | 0 Comments

I have been following a Facebook thread about the movement in my beloved hometown of Concord to ban plastic water bottles, plastic bags and styrofoam cups. I am trying to discern whether or not my initial responses are pure and true and not simply reactionary and...
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Goathouse

by | July 12, 2014 | Poetry, Raccoon | 0 Comments

In reaching for the scythe I’m reminded of the whetstone and the few quick strokes by which it was tested— the hardness of hot August; the burning of ticks off dog backs. It’s winter now in this garage made barn, and the animals seem only curious that I’d be here so...
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Ghetto of Your Eye

by | August 12, 2014 | Fires in the Belly, Songs | 0 Comments

I wrote this song back in the winter of 1989, in the dining car of a steam driven train, somewhere along the Trans-Siberian railway, after meeting a group of Russian soldiers fresh from battle in Afghanistan—that poor country that has been a battleground for way too long.

We stare together hours the snow whipped Russian plain—
rolling in the ghetto of your eye.
We share a quart of vodka
and some cold meat on the train—
you know too much to even wonder why;
I see it in the ghetto of your eye.

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The Silver Apples of the Moon.

by | January 29, 2014 | Essays, Journal, Teaching | 0 Comments

Stories are a communal currency of humanity. ― Tahir Shah, In Arabian Nights The most powerful and enduring connection we share as a human race is our desire and need to share stories. We engage in the art of storytelling more than most of us ever realize; whether we...
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The Gift Unclaimed

by | February 27, 2018 | Journal, Poetry | 0 Comments

I have an old lobster buoy Hanging dully from A wrought-iron basket hook— A rough cutaway Filled with suet, Clabbered in wire mesh. . I had imagined chickadees Squabbling with angry jays And occasional sparrows, finches— Maybe even cedar waxwings tired of scrounging...
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Rainmaker

by | August 28, 2014 | Essays, Journal | 0 Comments

I loved the rain last night. Last week, in a bow to reality, I reclaimed my gardens and made them into yard. Four of my kids got poison ivy in the process and I (and more "they") got an extra ten feet of width to add to the soccer field--for really that is about the...
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Another Wednesday

by | April 20, 2016 | Journal | 0 Comments

        It is a good night for meatballs. The same meal we have cooked every Wednesday night for thirteen years and counting. Tonight is a beautiful and warm night of vacation week, so more than likely we will have a big crowd joining us—but we never know who. The...
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The Storm of Fallibility

by | October 29, 2017 | Journal | 0 Comments

       One good cigar is better than two bad cigars, or so it seems right now. It is a beautiful and stormy night--pouring rain and howling wind, and I thought a good smoke would be a fitting end to a busy and over-booked week. As it goes, I bought a couple of cheap...
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The Queer Folk

by | April 18, 2016 | Journal, Songs | 0 Comments

True to my words of earlier this week, I finished this song last night, and at the time, I liked it--but in the clear light of day, too much of it seems forced, especially the rhymes. But that is part of the process. I think I am almost there. Let me get my saw and...
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Ring of Fire: The Power of Simplicity

by | March 28, 2017 | Journal, Songs, Teaching, The American Folk Experience | 0 Comments

In fifth grade my mother finally let me go to the Concord Music store and buy a "45" single.  I bought Johnny Cash’s version of “Ring of Fire” written by his future wife June Carter and Merle Kilgore, a noted country songwriter of his day. There was no doubt in my...
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Me & God

by | April 9, 2018 | Essays, Journal | 0 Comments

        I am not done with God, nor God with me. I remain obsessed with the notion of the unmoved mover who set the pattern of creation into its initial motion. I stubbornly try to trace my existence back to some infinite beginning—so much so that I loathe the...
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Once Burned. Twice Shy.

by | April 6, 2014 | Essays, Journal, Teaching | 0 Comments

Just because no one understands you,  it doesn’t mean you are an artist ~Bumper Sticker        I sometimes wonder why when you give a group of teenagers a video camera, the first impulse is to shoot something stupid. It’s as if there is some jackass switch...
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The Philanthropy of Maynard

by | December 13, 2015 | Essays, Journal | 0 Comments

 I woke up today with chores on my mind. My buddy Josh LoPresti lent me his woodsplitter, and I had dreams of a mindless day splitting wood and heaving it into a pile for my kids to stack along the fence. But the dryer was broken, and it needed to be fixed. Margret's...
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Thanksgiving

by | March 25, 2026 | Journal | 0 Comments

I wrote this poem, Thanksgiving, as a tribute to three older teachers from my school: Walter Birge, Read Albright, and Jim Carter--all men of tradition, celebration and commitment to community.  
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What a Picture Tells

by | May 6, 2014 | Essays, Journal, Teaching | 0 Comments

"Zou Ma Guan Hua" You can't ride a horse and smell the flowers ~Chinese Proverb Sometimes I love just browsing through old folders of pictures of my kids when they were just kids in every sense of the word. Just seeing the pictures is a visceral experience for me as I...
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