tatteberryredux

I Courted A Wee Girl is a heartbreaking tale, Scottish in origin though the Irish lay claim as well. The Brits made it popular as a broadside ballad. It’s also known as “The False Bride,” “The Week Before Easter”, “The False Hearted Lover”, “The Forsaken Bridegroom” or “Love Is The Cause Of My Mourning” or “The False Nymph”.

I Courted A Wee Girl

I courted a wee girl for many’s the long day,
And slighted all others who came in my way.
But now she’s rewarded me to the last day;
She’s gone to be wed to another.

The bride and bride’s party to church they did go.
The bride she rode foremost she put the best show
And I rode behind, my heart filled with woe
To see my love wed to another.

The bride and bride’s party, in church they did stand,
Gold rings on their fingers, a love hand in hand
The man that she’s wed to has houses and land—
He may have her since I could not gain her.

The last time I saw her she was all dressed in white;
The more I gazed on her she dazzled my sight,
So I tipped her my hat and bade her goodnight.
Here’s bad luck to all false-hearted lovers

So dig me a grave and dig it down deep,
And strew it all over with primrose so sweet.
And lay me down in it for no more for to weep,
For  love was the cause of my ruin.

HERE’S A NEWFOUNDLAND VERSION of a British murder ballad, which drifted its way all over North America, and found some success later on as a cowboy song.

It found its way to us via an album titled Green Fields Of Illinois,” put out by the Campus Folksong Club of the University of Illinois in 1963. The album was a collection of folk songs sung by regular folks who hailed from southern Illinois, so it’s possible at least, that at the time of our fair city’s founding it was already a part of the musical repertoire of the area.

Fair Fanny Moore
Traditional, origin and date unknown

Down in yonder cottage all forsaken and alone,
Its paths all neglected, with grass overgrown;
Look in and you will see some dark stains upon the floor,
They say it is the blood of the fair Fanny Moore.

To Fanny so blooming two lovers there came,
One offered to Fanny his wealth and his fame;
But neither his houses nor his lands could secure
A place in the heart of the fair Fanny Moore.

The first was young Randal so bold and so proud,
He to the young Fanny his haughty head bowed;
But neither his gold nor his silver could secure
A place in the heart of the fair Fanny Moore.

The next was young Henry of the lowest degree,
He gained her fond heart and in rapture was he;
That night at the altar he was bound for to secure
A place in the heart of the fair Fanny Moore.

As Fanny was sitting in her cottage one day,
And business had called her fond husband away,
Young Randal so haughty came in at the door,
And clasped in his arms the fair Fanny Moore.

Saying, Fanny, oh Fanny, reflect on your fate,
And grant me one favour before it’s too late;
For there is one thing I am bound for to secure,
The love or the life of the fair Fanny Moore.”

“Spare me, oh spare me,” the fair Fanny cried,
While the tears swiftly flowed from her beautiful eyes.
“Go,” said her traitor, “to the land of thy rest.”
And he buried his knife in her snowy-white breast.

Fanny so blooming in her bloody beauty died,
Young Randal was taken, found guilty and tried.
At length he was hung on a tree in front the door,
For shedding the blood of the fair Fanny Moore.

Young Henry the shepherd he ran ‘stracted and wild,
And wandered away from his own native isle;
At length struck by death he was brought to the shore,
And laid by the side of the fair Fanny Moore.

Whiskey has a prominent place in the history of the frontier. There is of course the obvious reason. But one must not discount the economics. It takes a lot of grain to make whiskey, and a barrel of whiskey is easier and cheaper to transport than wagons full of grain.

Whiskey You’re The Devil seems to have its source in a broadside ballad titled John and Moll, which dates from Ireland sometime after 1790. If it was popular in the Ohio River Valley prior to the Civil War then it would likely have had very different lyrics.

These lyrics were popularized by the Irish folk group, The Clancy Brothers in the late fifties. These lyrics were more or less compiled by a Jewish-American lawyer for James Bracken, Esq., a New York City Irish/American judge in 1873.

It’s a fascinating journey that the lyrics took, the military part of the song apparently dating to the Napoleonic Wars, then blending with what was likely a traditional Irish drinking song. War and whiskey once made a very good match. Perhaps if the world would have less of one, we might have ended up with less of the other.

Those who preach temperance have long drawn the association between drinking and violence. Or as Zappa so eloquently put it, “whiskey makes you want to beat your wife, beer makes you want to do it with your buddies around.”

Whiskey You’re The Devil
Traditional, Ireland, 19^th Century

Now brave boys, we’re on the march
Off to Portugal and Spain
Drums are beating, banners flying
The Devil at home will come tonight

So it’s go, fare thee well
With a too da loo ra loo ra doo de da
A too ra loo ra loo ra doo de da
Me rikes fall too ra laddie-o
There’s whisky in the jar

Oh, whisky you’re the devil
You’re leading me astray
Over hills and mountains
And to Amerikay
You’re sweetness from the Bleachner
And spunkier than tea
Oh whisky you’re my darling drunk or sober

The French are fighting boldly
Men are dying hot and coldly
Give every man his flask of powder
His firelock on his shoulder

So its go, fare thee well
With a too da loo ra loo ra doo de da
A too ra loo ra loo ra doo de da
Me rikes fall too ra laddie-o
There’s whisky in the jar

Oh, whisky you’re the devil
You’re leading me astray
Over hills and mountains
And to Amerikay
You’re sweetness from the Bleachner
And spunkier than tea
Oh whisky you’re my darling drunk or sober

Says the old wan do not wrong me
Don’t take me daughter from me
For if you do I will torment you
When I’m dead my ghost will haunt you

So its go, fare thee well
With a too da loo ra loo ra doo de da
A too ra loo ra loo ra doo de da
Me rikes fall too ra laddie-o
There’s whisky in the jar

Oh, whisky you’re the devil
You’re leading me astray
Over hills and mountains
And to Amerikay
You’re sweetness from the Bleachner
And spunkier than tea
Oh whisky you’re my darling drunk or sober

In rural Scotland, as well as Ireland and England, agents of the king would wander rural areas, looking for the poor, those who found themselves in trouble, or even the feeble minded to serve in the king’s wars. Some used strong arm tactics, others offered a glamorous life of a soldier, while the more disreputable ones just got the unfortunates drunk and shipped them off while they were passed out.

The quality of the man mattered little, because there was always a need for soldiers to fill out the front ranks. These poor fellows were little more than cannon fodder, their job being to be the first to march upon the enemy and get obliterated in the process.

The song is related directly to the song “Over the Hills and Far Away,” and relates to the Black Watch, a highland Scottish regiment known for wearing kilts, and red feathers in their headdress.

The song’s lyrics require the Scottish dialect to make the rhyme scheme work, which poses difficulties for midwestern American folks trying to sing the verses. Having no Scottish singers on hand, we settled for a drunk with an advanced sense of confidence.

We stole the version from the Waterboys, and it’s recorded more or less live in an unlicensed drinking establishment which shall remain nameless.

Two Recruiting Sergeants
Traditional, Scotland, 1770-1815

For it’s over the mountain and over the main
Through Gibralta to France and Spain
It’s a feather to your bonnet, a kilt upon your knee
So list bonny laddie and come awa’ wi’ me

Now, twa recruting sergeants came frae the black watch
Through markets and fairs some recruits for to catch
But all that they listed was forty and twa
So list bonny laddie and come awa’ wi’ me

Now, laddie, you canna know the danger that you’re in
If your horses was to fly and your house was to ruin
This greedy, old farmer will na’ pay your fee
So list bonny laddie and come awa’ wi’ me

For its out by the barn and in by the fire
This old farmer thinks he’ll never tire
It’s a slavery job of lowly degree
So list bonny laddie and come awa’ wi’ me

Now, laddie, if you have a sweetheart in the barn
You’ll easy be rid of her ill-spun yarn
Twa rattles on the drum and that will pay it all
So list bonny laddie and come awa’ wi’ me

One from the Paul Brady/Planxty songbook, the liner notes for Planxty’s version state that it was likely brought back to Ireland from soldiers fighting in the War of 1812, which is likely as it’s also listed as a traditional Creole song. The lyrics however must have gone through several revisions, as the train line which ran from New Orleans to Jackson, Mississippi didn’t open up till the 1860s, and skirted the lakes of Pontchartrain.

That the lyrics are from the Civil War can also be attested to by the line about his money “being no good,” as both Confederate money and money issued by southern banks was of little or no value as the north took command of the southern states.

Lakes of Pontchartrain
Traditional Creole Folk Song, mid eighteenth century

It was one fine March morning, I bid New Orleans Adieu
And I took the road to Jackson Town, my fortune to renew
I cursed all foreign money, no credit could I gain
Which filled my heart with a longing for, the Lakes of Ponchartrain

I stepped on board of a railroad car beneath the morning sun
I rode the rods till evening and I laid me down again
All strangers there no friends to me ’til a dark girl towards me came
And I fell in love with the Creole Girl, by the Lakes of Ponchartrain

I said “Me pretty Creole Girl, me money here’s no good,
If it weren’t for the alligators, I’d sleep out there in the wood”
“You’re welcome here kind stranger, Our house is very plain”
“But we never turned a stranger out, by the Lakes of Ponchartrain”

She took me into her mammy’s house and treated me right well
The hair upon her shoulders in jet black ringlets fell
To try and paint her beauty, I’m sure ‘twould be in vain
So handsome was my Creole girl by the Lakes of Ponchartrain

I asked her if she’d marry me, she said that ne’er could be
For she had got a lover and he was far at sea
She said that she would wait for him and true she would remain
Till he’d return to his Creole girl, on the Lakes of Ponchartrain

It’s fare thee well, me Creole girl, I’ll never see you more
I’ll never forget your kindness in the cottage by the shore
And at each social gathering, a flowing bowl I’ll drain
And I’ll drink a health to my Creole girl, by the Lakes of Ponchartrain

OLD ENGLISH SONG SMASHED together with Dylan’s version. Not sure if Dylan actually wrote or compiled Girl of the North Country. Some things are just mysteries.

Todd Lane and I sang it George and Tammy style, one mike. I’m sure in his mind as well, we were wearing rhinestones and cowboy hats.

Scarborough Fair

Are you going to Scarborough Fair,
Parley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
Remember me to one who lives there,
She once was a true love of mine

Tell her to make me a cambric shirt,
Parley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
Without no seams nor needlework,
She once was a true love of mine

See for me if her hair hangs long,
Curls and flows, down her breast,
See for me if her hair hangs long,
That’s the way I remember her best

Sometimes I wonder if she remembers me at all,
Many times I’ve often prayed,
In the stillness of my night,
In the darkness of my days.

So if you’re going to Scarborough Fair,
Parley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
Remember me to one who lives there,
She once was a true love of mine