The Old Crooked Hat CD

Apple Acre Mill

‘Apple Acre’ is a book by Adrian Bell. There’s only one passing reference to the mill and a hidden letter so I embellished that reference and set the story to this tune.

The old mill stood there a feature on the hill
Grinding wheat and barley, many sacks did fill

Chorus:
Made of solid oak, stood strong and proud
Sails gently turning the grinding stone around

The old mill had fallen into dangerous disrepair
They took her down so carefully, with due respect and care

The old mill gave up secrets as she was taken down
Of the carpenters and craftsman who once lived in the town
They carved their dates and names into the solid oak
One even left a letter of how his heart was broke

His love had been rejected, he’d never be the same
He wrote for her a sonnet, who set his heart aflame
Into a dovetail joint the letter it was hidden
He knew she’d never read of how his heart was smitten

Where the old mill once stood, there upon the hill
A plaque regales us stories of Apple Acre Mill

Scarborough Fair

I have set this popular traditional song to a new tune.

Are you going to Scarborough Fair?
Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme
Remember me to one who lives there
For she once was a true love of mine

Tell her to make me a cambric shirt
Without seam or needlework

Tell her to find me an acre of land
Between the salt waters and the sea strand

Tell her to plough it with a sickle of leather
Bind it all in a bundle of heather

Halfway Hill

Purely fictitious story though probably inspired by the little homesteads dotted around the Preseli Hills where I have the good fortune to live.

See the little homestead halfway up the hill
I was born and raised there, my heart’s there still
The land was poor and rocky, no crops would grow
It weren’t even fit for grazing so we had to go
From the little homestead halfway up the hill

I’ll go back to that homestead once more
Live there with my memories, go travelling no more
Wildlife and birdsong it’s abundant there
Rabbits in the heather, Skylarks in the air
Around the little homestead halfway up the hill

See the little homestead halfway up the hill
I was born and raised there, my heart’s there still
I’ll go back to that homestead once more
Live there with my memories go travelling no more
From the little homestead halfway up the hill

Rosemary Lane

My take on this lovely traditional folk song.

Once I was in service in Rosemary Lane
I had a kind mistress the master the same
Till a sailor came there one night for to stay
And that was the beginning of my misery

Once supper was over he bowed down his head
He called for a candle to light him to bed
I brought him the candle as a good maid would do
Then he said now pretty Polly will you not come to

This young pretty maiden, she thought it no harm
To climb into bed and keep herself warm
Now what was done I would never disclose
But I wish that short night had been seven long years

Like a rose in the garden whose beauty’s all gone
You can see what I’ve come to from loving that man
No father, no mother, no hope at all
So me and the baby to the workhouse must call

So all you young maidens take a warning by me
Don’t trust a sailor who ‘er he be
He’ll court you, he’ll gift you, he’ll vow to be true
Then the very next morning he’ll bid you adieu

The Old Crooked Hat

A little song, you can make of it what you will.

Through the stain glass window of the old front door
The sunlight paints pictures on the hallway floor
The pictures keep changing as the hours tick by
The house is still and quiet just the buzzing of a fly
Hanging on the hook is the old crooked hat

We used to go out walking with the gloves and cane
Stroll around the park, trip down memory lane
Hear the kettle whistle it’s time for tea and cake
Happy and contented a lovely home we make
Hanging on the hook is the old crooked hat

The daylight is fading, supper is all done
We’ll sit by the fire, another day has gone
The wireless is playing some popular old tune
The pictures in the hallway now painted by the moon
Hanging on the hook is the old crooked hat

The eastern sky is glowing, dawn begins to break
Stirring from its slumbers the house begins to wake
Busy in the kitchen, making tea and toast
Share the breakfast table with the ghost
Hanging on the hook is the old crooked hat

The Derby Ram

This traditional ‘bragging’ song was sung all over Britain from as early as 1790. The song has evolved and had many different versions all with the same theme. This is my version.

As I was going to Derby sir all on the market day
I saw the biggest ram sir that ever was fed on hay

Chorus:
Indeed sir, it’s true sir, I never was given to lie
And if you’d have been to Derby sir
You’d have seen it the same as I

The ram was fat behind sir, the ram was fat before
He measured nine yards round sir, It might have even been more….

He had four legs to stand on sir, he had four feet to stand
Every foot that that ram had did cover an acre of land….

The wool upon his back sir, it reached up to the sky
There the eagles built their nests, I heard the young ones cry….

The man who killed this ram sir, he drowned in all the blood
The boy that held the dish sir, was swept away in’t flood….

The mutton from that ram sir, gave all the army meat
And from what was left over sir, fed all of the fleet….

The wool upon his belly sir, reached down to the ground
The wool was sold in Derby town for forty thousand pounds…

Alone

There seems to be such a lot of child abuse being reported, which I suppose is better than it being hidden, but why…….?

The camera never lies, see in her eyes
Pain running deep, she cries in her sleep
Please leave me, please leave me……..Alone

She bears the scars, her performance stars
Such a good girl, she gave you a twirl
Please leave me, please leave me……..Alone

See the tattoo, a reminder of you
Running wild an innocent child
Please leave me, please leave me……..Alone

What did he take that man you did make?
Childhood dreams, sordid secret schemes
Please leave me, please leave me……..Alone

The Lancashire Weavers

Part of my heritage having spent my early years growing up around these parts. The riots in Lancashire predate the Luddite rebellion and though some mill owners wanted to provide decent working conditions and pay the profit motive held sway.

1826 the Lancashire weavers rioted against the power loom
As the factory system grew the cottage industry
Rose up prepared to fight
1100 looms they did destroy, all on four dark nights
The soldiers on their horse, they would not charge
Against their fellow man, they gave to them their food
The rioters against the power loom

There was a big debate, pay the going rate or raise a minimum wage
If you pay a minimum wage, you’ll justify their rage
Don’t pay no minimum wage
We’ve cut the wage in half, the weavers they will starve
We must pay a minimum wage
No your profits must stay high, or the business will die
Don’t pay no minimum wage
That argument held sway, the Liberal lost the day
There was no minimum wage
In 1826 when the Lancashire weavers rioted against the power loom

The owners recruited, special constables, root those weavers’ leader’s out
On Chorley, Clitheroe, Bacup and Bury, the riots took their toll
6 men did die, 10 were transported, and 30 they were sent to gaol
In 1826 when the Lancashire Weavers rioted against the power loom

The Foolish Boy

This song has travelled over to America and become a favourite in the Bluegrass/Appalachian repertoire where it is known as the swopping song with seemingly endless verses. The song has many versions with different verses and choruses.

My father died, I cannot tell how
He left me six horses to follow the plough

Chorus:
With a whim, wham, wobble – O
Strim, strum, strobble, – O
Bubble O pretty boy
Over the brow

I sold my horses, bought me a cow
Isn’t that a funny thing to follow the plough?

I sold my cow, bought me a calf
Made a sorry bargain, lost the better half

I sold my calf, bought me a dog
He lay in his basket, sleeping like a log

I sold my dog, bought me a cat
She lay by the fire, warmed her little back

I sold my cat, bought me a mouse
Her tail caught fire, burnt down the house