The Song Collector

The Folk Society meet on Thursday nights
Clear their throats and put their coughs to flight
To sing the dusty cobwebs from the room
A repertoire both in and out of tune
Don't assume a singalong, or worse
This history in song and countless verse
Pays homage to the man who, long ago
Collected all the songs the singers know
Collected all the songs the singers know

Edward Alexander, man of action
Armed only with his reel-to-reel contraption
One hundred years ago in mac and boots
Set out to faithfully preserve the region's roots
And every night in some small village inn
Fortified with fortitude and gin
Mr Alexander, for a shilling
Would thus record your song, if you were willing
Would thus record your song, if you were willing

So word got round, and soon there formed a queue
And the line of willing singers grew and grew
Brass for oohs and aahs? You can't go wrong
When there's someone paying a shilling for a song
When all his tapes are filled up, Edward leaves
There's a history preserved, so he believes
But all the so-called singers back inside
They know they took a city scholar for a ride
They know they took a city scholar for a ride

For they shook the man for every coin he'd got
With words and tunes all made up on the spot
Invented tales not twenty minutes old
So history, like ale, is bought and sold.
The old contraption's packed away and boxed
And a century is marked upon the clock
So tradition holds that Edward's great collection
Is honoured with a weekly resurrection
Honoured with a weekly resurrection

And now the old Society sing the songs
Word for word, and kept where they belong
As once again, they eulogise the past
You can hear the ghosts of history laughing last
You can hear the ghosts of history laughing last

Похожие новости.

Недумано, Негадано…

Недумано, негадано Забігла в глухомань, Де сосни пахнуть ладаном В кадильницях світань. Приспів: Де вечір пахне м’ятою, Аж холодно джмелю... А я тебе, а я тебе, А я тебе люблю... Ловлю твоє проміння Крізь музику беріз, Люблю до оніміння, До стогону, до

Sch?n Sein

Manche Menschen sind so sch?n, da bleibt einem das Herz fast stehn. Man staunt und denkt: "Verdammt nochmal, sowas von sch?n ist nicht normal." Die meisten Menschen sind nicht sch?n. Sie haben eine Scheiss-Figur. Sie haben

Летний Сад

Муз: Н.Тагрин Сл. А.Боголюбов Я вновь к тебе иду - мой Летний сад, Я так люблю твой листопад. Я принесла тебе радость и боль, От бед меня, ты скрой листвой. Мой Летний сад

С Неба В Небо

Ты был живой водой, моей суперзвездой, моим супер-героем… Каждый час, каждый день я брела словно тень, словно тень за тобою… Но не так всё, поверь – я другая теперь, я могу что угодно… Ты не знаешь меня – я же

My Mary

I take a trip every evening scrolling down memory lane I'm walkin' again those familiar paths dreaming those dreams again And I can always see my sweetheart just as she used to