Songs of the Sea & Fo’castle

Coast of High Barbary

Coast of High Barbary

by John Fitzsimmons | The American Folk Experience

~Traditional

There were two lofty ships that from old England came,
Blow high, blow low, and so a-sailed we.
One was the Prince o’ Luther and the other Prince o’ Wales,
Sailing down along the coast of High Barbaree.

“Aloft there, aloft,” our jolly bosun cried,
Blow high, blow low, and so a-sailed we.
“Look ahead and look astern, a-weather and a-loo,
Look down along the coast of High Barbaree.”

“Oh there’s naught upon the stern and there’s naught upon the lee,”
Blow high, blow low, and so a-sailed we.
“But there’s a lofty ship to wind’ard and she’s sailing fast and free,
Sailing down along the coast of High Barbaree.”

“Oh hail ‘er, oh hail ‘er,” our gallant captain cried,
Blow high, blow low, and so a-sailed we.
“Are you a man-o’-war or a privateer,” says ‘e,
Sailing down along the coast of High Barbaree.

“Oh I’m not a man-of-war, nor a privateer,” says ‘e,
Blow high, blow low, and so a-sailed we.
“But I’m a salt-sea pirate, a-looking for my fee
Looking down along the coast of High Barbaree.”

So ’twas broadside and broadside, as hour on hour we lay,
Blow high, blow low, and so a-sailed we.
Until the Prince o’ Luther shot the pirate’s mast away,
Sailing down along the coast of High Barbaree.”

“Oh quarter! Oh quarter!” the pirate then did cry,
Blow high, blow low, and so a-sailed we.
The quarter that we gave them, we sunk ’em in the sea,
Sailing down along the coast of High Barbaree.”

And oh, it was a cruel sight and grieved us full sore,
Blow high, blow low, and so a-sailed we.
To see ’em all a-drowning as they tried to swim ashore,
Sailing down along the coast of High Barbaree.”

If you have any more information to share about this song or helpful links, please post as a comment. Thanks for stopping by the site! ~John Fitz

0 Comments

Submit a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

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!

Edit links

The "Coast of High Barbary" is a traditional song (Roud 134) which was popular among British and American sailors. It is most frequently sung as a ballad but can also be a sea shanty. It tells of a sailing ship that came across a pirate ship off the Barbary Coast and defeated the pirates, who were left to drown.

An earlier version of the ballad is found in the Stationers’ Register for January 14, 1595 and tells the story of two merchant ships, the George Aloe and the Sweepstake, both sailing to Safee. While the George Aloe was resting at anchor, the Sweepstake sailed on, but a French ship attacked the Sweepstake and threw the crew overboard. The George Aloe gave chase and defeated the French ship, whose crew were shown no mercy because of the fate of the crew of the Sweepstake.

The most common lyrics may refer to the problems European and North American traders had with the North African pirates in the second half of the 18th century and the early 19th century, which led to the Barbary Wars.

English version

American version

Recordings


Source: Mainly Norfolk

(High) Barbaree

Roud 134 ; Child 285 ; Laws K33 ; G/D 1:38 ; Ballad Index C285 ; trad.]High Barbary was the romantic name of the Rif Coast of North Africa. It was the home of the Barbary pirates or Barbary corsairs who preyed on European shipping to capture Christian slaves from the 16th century up to 1830.

Bob Robert sang High Barbaree in a BBC archive recording made by Peter Kennedy that can be found on the 1955 anthology Folk Song Today. and on the 1994 compilation CD Sea Songs and Shanties. A later recording made in Bob Roberts’ cottage on the Isle of Wight was published in 1981 on his Solent album Breeze for a Bargeman. The CD notes commented:

This classic story of pirate encounter was published by Ashton in 1891, though it is likely to have been extant before then, and has also been found in versions on the Eastern seaboard of the United States.

Peter Bellamy recorded Barbaree in 1979 for his Topic LP Both Sides Then. He accompanied himself on concertina and Dave Swarbrick played fiddle. According to the sleeve notes, this version is

A hybrid of Bob Robert’s East Anglian version and a Carolina variant collected by the late Frank Warner.

Brian Peters and Gordon Tyrall sang High Barbary, “found in a book of American sailors’ songs published in the 1920s”, in 2000 on their CD The Moving Moon.

Joseph Arthur sang Coast of High Barbary in 2006 on the theme album Rogue’s Gallery: Pirate Ballads, Sea Songs & Chanteys.

Jon Boden sang High Barbaree with his brother Tom as a bonus track of the September 16, 2010 entry of his project A Folk Song a Day.

Chris Sarjeant learned Coast of Barbary from Peter Bellamy’s album and sang it in 2012 on his CD Heirlooms.

Lyrics

Bob Roberts sings High Barbaree

There were two lofty ships that from old England came,
Blow high, blow low, and so a-sailed we.
One was the Prince o’ Luther and the other Prince o’ Wales,
Sailing down along the coast of High Barbaree.

“Aloft there, aloft,” our jolly bosun cried,
Blow high, blow low, and so a-sailed we.
“Look ahead and look astern, a-weather and a-loo,
Look down along the coast of High Barbaree.”

“Oh there’s naught upon the stern and there’s naught upon the lee,”
Blow high, blow low, and so a-sailed we.
“But there’s a lofty ship to wind’ard and she’s sailing fast and free,
Sailing down along the coast of High Barbaree.”

“Oh hail ‘er, oh hail ‘er,” our gallant captain cried,
Blow high, blow low, and so a-sailed we.
“Are you a man-o’-war or a privateer,” says ‘e,
Sailing down along the coast of High Barbaree.

“Oh I’m not a man-of-war, nor a privateer,” says ‘e,
Blow high, blow low, and so a-sailed we.
“But I’m a salt-sea pirate, a-looking for my fee
Looking down along the coast of High Barbaree.”

So ’twas broadside and broadside, as hour on hour we lay,
Blow high, blow low, and so a-sailed we.
Until the Prince o’ Luther shot the pirate’s mast away,
Sailing down along the coast of High Barbaree.”

“Oh quarter! Oh quarter!” the pirate then did cry,
Blow high, blow low, and so a-sailed we.
The quarter that we gave them, we sunk ’em in the sea,
Sailing down along the coast of High Barbaree.”

And oh, it was a cruel sight and grieved us full sore,
Blow high, blow low, and so a-sailed we.
To see ’em all a-drowning as they tried to swim ashore,
Sailing down along the coast of High Barbaree.”

Peter Bellamy sings Barbaree

Now there was two jolly ships from out of England came,
Blow high, blow low, and so sail we.
One she was the Queen of Russia and the other Prince of Wales,
Cruising down along the coast of Barbaree.

“Step aloft, step aloft,” then our jolly bosun cried,
Blow high, blow low, and so sail we.
“Look ahead and look astern, look aweather, look alee,
And look down along the coast of Barbaree.”

“Well, there is no ship astern and there is no ship alee,”
Blow high, blow low, and so sail we.
“But there’s a lofty ship to wind’ard, she’s a-sailing fast and free,
She’s a-sailing down along the coast of Barbaree.”

“Oh hail ‘er! Oh, hail ‘er!” then our jolly captain cried,
Blow high, blow low, and so sail we.
“Oh, youse a man-o’-war or a privateer,” says he,
“A-cruising down along the coast of Barbaree?”

“I’m not no man-of-war, nor a privateer,” says he,
Blow high, blow low, and so sail we.
But I’m a salt-sea pirate, I’m a-seeking for me fee,
“I’m a-seeking down along the coast of Barbaree!”

So broadside to broadside, a long hour we lay,
Blow high, blow low, and so sail we.
Till at length the Queen of Russia blew the pirate’s mast away,
Cruising down along the coast of Barbaree.

And “For quarters! For quarters!” the jolly pirate cried,
Blow high, blow low, and so sail we.
“Oh, the quarter I will give you, I will sink you in the tide,
I will sink you down along the coast of Barbaree.”

So we tied them up by twos and we tied them up by threes,
Blow high, blow low, and so sail we.
Yes, we tied them up by dozens and we chucked them in the sea,
Yes, we drowned them down along the coast of Barbaree.

Acknowledgements

I found the lyrics in the Mudcat Café thread Lyr Req: Peter Bellamy’s Barbaree. See also Lyr Add: The Coasts of Barbary.

~By Under the Roger…

 

Performances, Workshops, Resources & Recordings

The American Folk Experience is dedicated to collecting and curating the most enduring songs from our musical heritage.  Every performance and workshop is a celebration and exploration of the timeless songs and stories that have shaped and formed the musical history of America. John Fitzsimmons has been singing and performing these gems of the past for the past forty years, and he brings a folksy warmth, humor and massive repertoire of songs to any occasion. 

Festivals & Celebrations

Coffeehouses

School Assemblies

Library Presentations

Songwriting Workshops

Artist in Residence

House Concerts

Pub Singing

Irish & Celtic Performances

Poetry Readings

Campfires

Music Lessons

Senior Centers

Voiceovers & Recording

“Beneath the friendly charisma is the heart of a purist gently leading us from the songs of our lives to the timeless traditional songs he knows so well…”

 

Globe Magazine

Join Fitz at The Colonial Inn

“The Nobel Laureate of New England Pub Music…”

Scott Alaric

Adventures in the Modern Folk Underground

On the Green, in Concord, MA Every Thursday Night for over thirty years…

“A Song Singing, Word Slinging, Story Swapping, Ballad Mongering, Folksinger, Teacher, & Poet…”

Theo Rogue

Songcatcher Rag

Fitz’s Recordings

& Writings

Songs, poems, essays, reflections and ramblings of a folksinger, traveler, teacher, poet and thinker…

Download for free from the iTunes Bookstore

“A Master of Folk…”

The Boston Globe

Fitz’s now classic recording of original songs and poetry…

Download from the iTunes Music Store

“A Masterful weaver of song whose deep, resonant voice rivals the best of his genre…”

Spirit of Change Magazine

<a href="https://geo.itunes.apple.com/us/album/campfire-the-greatest-camp-songs-of-all-time/id1032645681?mt=1&app=music" style="display:inline-block;overflow:hidden;background:url(//linkmaker.itunes.apple.com/assets/shared/badges/en-us/music-lrg.svg) no-repeat;width:110px;height:40px;background-size:contain;"></a>

“2003: Best Children’s Music Recording of the Year…”

Boston Parent's Paper

Fitz & The Salty Dawgs Amazing music, good times and good friends…

Listen here

TheCraftedWord.org

Writing help

when you need it…

“When the eyes rest on the soul…that’s Fitzy…”

Lenny Megliola

WEEI Radio

The Inn

        I realized that in all my years of writing and journal keeping, I seldom, if ever, write about "The Inn," which is and has been, the biggest and most enduring constant in my life for the past thirty plus years. Every Thursday night I load up my car, truck, bus...

Gambloria Casino: Your Mobile Slot Playground for Quick Wins

Gambloria casino has carved a niche for players who crave instant thrills without the commitment of a marathon session. Whether you’re on a coffee break or waiting for a bus, the platform delivers a punchy gaming experience that satisfies the itch for quick...

Rainmaker

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...

Thanksgiving

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.  

Thanksgiving

I am surprised sometimesby the suddenness of November:beauty abruptly shedto a common nakedness--grasses deadenedby hoarfrost,persistent memoriesof people I’ve lost.It is left to those of us dressed in the hard barky skin of experienceto insist on a decorumthat rises...

A Priori

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.

Marriage & Magnanimity

If we want to have the freedom to marry whom we want to marry, why is it so important that the state (government) recognise that marriage? Is it simply the expediency of dispensing the entitlements of a marriage certificate: tax benefits, employment benefits, or the...

Diesel Lullaby

I've been spending a lot of time lately writing sketches of songs—some more complete than others. I have found that it takes time for a song to evolve into its final form, so what I have posted here is more the end of the beginning, not the end. Denise gave me the...

The Silver Apples of the Moon.

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...

Many Miles To Go

I see it in your eyes
and in the ways you try to smile;
in the ways you whisper—I don’t know—
and put it all off for a while;
then you keep on keeping on
in the only way you know:
you’re scared of where you’re going
and who’ll catch you down below.

Me & God

        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...

Welcome

I, on my side, require of every writer, first or last, a simple and sincere account of his own life, and not merely what he has heard of other men's lives; some such account as he would send to his kindred from a distant land... ~Henry David Thoreau, Walden I’ve...

Chicken Road: Quick‑Hit Crash Game voor Snelle Winsten

De nieuwste crash‑stijl sensatie, Chicken Road, laat je grote multipliers najagen in minuten—geen lange marathon nodig. De kern van het spel draait om een dappere kip die probeert over een drukke weg te steken terwijl jij beslist wanneer je uitbetaalt voordat hij...

The Snow

has dropped a seamlessness before the plows and children can patch it back to a jagged and arbitrary quilting putting borders to design and impulse. I imagine myself falling everywhere softly, whispering, I am here, and I am here.

Yesterday did not become a poem

Nothing became something else; No thoughts filled my head With wonder or wisdom. Listless sky. Jumbled frames. Fleeting images: Chattering squirrels, Distant rumbling Of rush hour traffic. Today I am more determined, But all that is left Is the promise Of tomorrow.

A Monday Ramble

There is always a hard shift for me at the end of the summer, and today is that day for me. I miss the freedom of last week: I'd wake in the morning, come out to the deck to write poetry or work on my novel--but now today, I feel like I should be preparing for school,...

Fenn Speaks…

I am You, and You are me... Give a damn & figure it out        I feel like one of my students: it’s the night before my big presentation at All-school-meeting, and I still don’t know what I am going to talk about. I just know I am supposed to talk about me......

Guns, Me, and Rural America

     Sometimes I start writing without knowing where I stand—unsure of even where I stand. I have to trust some innate wisdom or audacity will cull through the bullshit we are all heir to in what Hamlet laments is “this earthly coil” we are forced to face when we wake...

Last of the Boys

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…

Joshua Sawyer Podcast

A New Paradigm

     Sometimes, like right now, I long for a pile of papers on my lap that I could speed through, grade with a series of checks and circles, a few scribbled lines of praise or condemnation, and drop into a shoebox on my desk and say, "Here are your essays!" But I...

Creating a Digital Workflow in the Classroom

One Teacher’s Solution To Everything  Years of teaching woodshop at my school has reinforced in me the utility of developing a workflow that works best for the project at hand using the tools and equipment already in the shop. The same can be said of my other life as...

Weeds

  Somewhere locked in this choke of weeds spread like a mangy carpet is the hardened vine of Pipo’s Concord Grape he planted in an eager spring three years ago. Gasping for air and sun and water perhaps it has found some way to hide from my flailing hoe and the...

Thanksgiving

I am surprised sometimes by the suddenness of November: beauty abruptly shed to a common nakedness— grasses deadened by hoarfrost, persistent memories of people I’ve lost. It is left to those of us dressed in the hard barky skin of experience to insist on a decorum...

The Emperor’s New Clothes

"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...

Waiting for a Poem

  It’s not like a poem to come curl by my feet on this morning too beautiful to describe, though I am looking and listening and waiting: A rooster crows above the low hum of morning traffic; the trash truck spills air from brakes and rattles empties into bins; my...

The Value of a Classic

“Classic' - a book which people praise and don't read.” ~Mark Twain A note to my 8th grade class:      All of you are supposedly reading a classic book, but what Twain says is true: few of us go thirsty to the well and willingly read the greatest works of literature...

Chores

The day sometimes slip away from me, a huge pine half-bucked in the backyard, the kids old tree fort cut into slabs, a ton of coal waiting to be moved in a train of buckets to the bin. Sipping cold water on the back deck, sharpening the dulled teeth of a worn...

Busy…

The start of the school year, and I have literally spent every free moment working on what is ostensibly pretty cool stuff, methinks...but it is work in every sense of the word, so I do miss those long summer mornings when  could literally write to my heart and heads...

China Journal: Part Three

III My teachers could have ridden with Jesse James For all the time they stole from me... ~Richard Brautigan, Trout Fishing in America      Today it was a temple built into the mountainside west of West Lake. Mr. Toe drove us out there. In most ways I just follow Rob...

China Journal: Part One

I           The dull staccato throb in light rain on a dark night. Unseen barges make their way up the QianTian River—concrete shores marked by the arch of the bridge, the spans of beam stretched on beam, the impeccable symmetry of the street-lights broken by a stream...

Don’t Let Go of Your Soul

Sometimes yeah.
Sometimes no.
Sometimes it’s somehow somewhere in between.
Sometimes it’s somewhere that no one has been–
no, nobody, nowhere, no nothing can end.
So don’t you let go and hope you’ll find it again.
Don’t you ever let go–

Why Trump Is Not Flipping Me Out

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...

Zenmo Yang Ni

I lost the time I hardly knew you,
half-assed calling:
“How you doing?
Laughing at my hanging hay field;
I never knew the time
that tomorrow’d bring,
until it brung to me.

Yuan lai jui shuo: “Zenmoyang ni?”
Xianzai chang shu: “Dou hai keyi”;
Xiexie nimen, dou hen shang ni.
Xiwang wo men dou hen leyi
Dou hen leyi

Out of the Forge: April 6, 2017

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...

Goathouse

Goat house 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...

In the unfolding chores

The day sometimes slip away from me, a huge pine half-bucked in the backyard, the kids old tree fort cut into slabs, a ton of coal waiting to be moved in a train of buckets to the bin. Sipping cold water on the back deck I hear Emma rustling for soccer cleats and...

What a Picture Tells

"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...

Pruning

These trees have driven so many friends batty, wedged in unstable crotches, embracing hollow, heart-rotted limbs, reaching tentatively, maddened with indecision. From a distance your gestures are very lobsterlike— waving a last embattled claw, as if dueling some...

Somewhere North of Bangor

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.

Contact John Fitzsimmons...and thanks!