1. |
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Ye feasters up on Fiddler’s Hill
Where crossroads meet the harrow,
Take care you don’t disturb the sleeping
Bronze Age burial barrow.
O shun this ground from dusk to dawn
Or live a dreadful tale
Of a Black Monk at the tunnel’s mouth
To turn your red lips pale.
Don’t follow the fiddler and his dog
To Walsingham under the hill
To lay the foul Benedictine ghost:
That fiddler lays there still.
“I will play through the tunnel!” cried the jolly fiddler
To the cheering local crowd,
“Stamp time and follow my tune above,
For I play both brave and loud.”
And so he fiddled and so they stamped
His three mile course underground
But his fiddle stopped under Fiddler’s Hill
In the silence of the mound.
Each dared the next down the tunnel’s mouth
But none would dare themselves
And at midnight the fiddler’s dog emerged
Like a hound bewitched of the elves.
His tail thrust down between his legs,
His frame a shivering wrack,
He howled and pined at the dreadful hole
But his master never came back.
“I will play through the tunnel!” cried the jolly fiddler
To the cheering local crowd,
“Stamp time and follow my tune above,
For I play both brave and loud.”
A violent storm drove everyone home
And when they awoke from sleep
The entrance was gone, the fiddler too,
Into a Nameless Deep.
In this county of beet and barley and beer,
This county of fish and farrow,
There’s folk you can trust, there’s furriner folk,
And there’s folk who come out of a barrow.
The moral of this, and it’s old as the hill,
Is that mounds aren’t for tunnelling,
If a grave tune plucks the strings of your heart,
Keep the devil under your chin.
“I will play through the tunnel!” cried the jolly fiddler
And half his boast came true,
“Stamp time and follow my tune above!”
But he lost them half way through.
© Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
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2. |
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She is history not myth but remember
History is written by the vicar
And she neither wrote nor won.
No freedom, no future, no fun.
Rome had to win or lose an Empire,
Britain had to win or simply expire,
And with it the Western horizon,
No freedom, no future, no fun.
Procurator Decianus Catus
Spoke down his nose, spoke down his anus,
"The Emperor claims the dead king's kingdom"
No freedom, no future, no fun.
There’s no future in your Roman dream,
Your traffic lanes and your shopping schemes,
Your soapless baths and your manly steam,
The Iceni queen bee is making free
With your city!
She danced to the wardrums, warhooves, hornwhine,
Exhorting, as Romans were drilled into line,
Her race to fling back the squares of London:
No freedom, no future, no fun.
Now her rebels hole up, where home is none,
On roots thin as hope and a dream of Britain,
Hunted through nettles and thorns, their soles stung:
No freedom, no future, no fun.
Her hard core Iceni's last stand and fall
Is the longest, fiercest, stubbornest of all
But is crushed - like flint - in The Battle of Thornham:
No freedom, no future, no fun.
There’s no future in your Roman dream,
Your traffic lanes and your shopping schemes,
Your soapless baths and your manly steam,
The Iceni queen bee is making free
With your city!
"Our Roman matrons have a place too
In a civilised home: I could offer you
A place in mine: dresses, baths, decorum:"
No freedom, no future, no fun.
Death-and-glory queens, country dragons:
Whores of fashion in Camolodunum,
In Roman roses their own scent gone,
No freedom, no future, no fun.
The salts that she sowed in the Squareheads' wounds
Return in a wash that will sour our lands
But they couldn’t chain her to the History of Rome:
She chariots a tide in Whitehall home.
There’s no future in your Roman dream,
Your traffic lanes and your shopping schemes,
Your soapless baths and your manly steam,
The Iceni queen bee is making free
With your city!
© Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
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3. |
The Ballad of St Edmund
01:23
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Red as Christ's blood,
White as chivalry
But shouldn't our Saint
Be an Angle like me?
You can shoot me with arrows
And chop off my head
But the Christ within me
Will never be dead.
In a thick wood my people
Lose one another
"Where are you? And where's
The head of our Martyr?"
You can shoot me with arrows
And chop off my head
But the Christ within me
Will never be dead.
"Hic hic, over here!"
My head wolf-cries,
Holy spirit of England
That never dies.
Between a wolf's paws
They find, in wonder
My head that to body
Returns un-sundered.
You can shoot me with arrows
And chop off my head
But the Christ within me
Will never be dead.
Yeah George kills for Christ
And worships Victory
But shouldn’t our saint
Be an angel like me?
© Gareth Calway 2016
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4. |
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For the soul of England
For your own spirit's sake,
Lift up your heart and voice
For Hereward the Wake.
A thousand years ago
In woodland and fen
A Goliath-slayer,
A David of men.
For the soul of England
For your own spirit's sake,
Lift up your heart and voice
For Hereward the Wake.
His underdog spirit
And story lives on
In the Freeborn English
Of this robin-song.
For the soul of England
For your own spirit's sake,
Lift up your heart and voice
For Hereward the Wake.
© Gareth Calway 2016
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5. |
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Call their names from the rubble: Alexander de Langley,
Mad as a scholar – ‘here’.
William de Somerton, William Dyxwell,
Priors and bad boys - ‘here.’
A mad monk in solitary, buried in chains,
Tortured to brake his devil;
Alchemy funded by holy sales,
Double and bubble and trouble;
Monks eating bran and drinking rain
Till King John raised the siege;
A wanderlust prior, administ-truant,
Deposed and then reprieved.
Chorus
‘As the green of summer breaks in spring
From hedgerow, field and tree
So let our souls in freedom burst
From the walls of this Priory.’
The peasants were revolting here
In 1381
When Master Lister led the charge
That started all the fun.
‘Enough!’ he cried, ‘of fattened bishops
Fed on Priory rolls,
Enough of tenants, rents and lords
And serfdom’s heavy loads.’
Chorus
The old order stood another six generations,
Its dead Norms carved in art
Then the ghost of Lister came back to haunt
The Priory’s stony heart.
He laughed as Henry’s inspector called,
Found ‘fault’ with the Priory rolls,
‘Down with these rood screens, saints and crowns
And idol Gods on poles;
‘Whitewash these saints from the walls of the nave,
A clear new page for the Word,
Your bishops’ bank is ruined now
There are no serfs to herd!
Chorus
This high Notre Dame of Norfolk shrunk
To a nave-sized Parish Church,
Abandoned wings sold off for stone
To men scarce more than serfs
But when Paston quarried the haunted pile
To build a house in the grounds,
A wall killed a workman and none to this day
Will build in Priory bounds.
Three miles to the West, Roman relics and smoke
Rise again from Celtic Earth
Like the re-appeared saints whose rooted gaze
Reclaims the walls of this church.
‘Let the holy rain of autumn fall
From the solitary tree
And the grass grow wild and the four winds blow
Through the grounds of this Priory.’
© Gareth Calway 2011 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
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6. |
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It was on a somer’s evening,
The merry month of May,
When buds are free and briddes sing
And leaves are brave and gay.
I met a surly abbot,
Cruel steward at his side
And now his guards lay slain or fled
But at me he did chide,
‘Pawn so soiled and churlish,
Living like a beast,
Your king crusades against the Turk,
Spare me and join the feast.”
“Norman,” I laughed, your danelaw’s
Ploughed every inch of this land,
You’ve snatched your danegeld twice and thrice
With chainmail on your hand,”
“Now stubborn as Danish sokeman
And true as Saxon thegn
With a ‘waes heal’ and a freeman’s shout,
We snatch it back again.
“In the name of good King Alfred
And the nation that he saved,
In the Lincoln green of an English knight,
We make our own crusade.”
“There’s knight blood on my longstaff
Fresh as the day I fled:
I hit him and hit him and hit him
And hit him until he was dead.
I’m much too far gone, Abbot,
For you to save my soul,
Besides in that great pile of flesh,
Where’s yours? The devil’s hole.
“For all your noble churches
With turrets and with towers,
For all your royal forest laws
The venison is ours.
“Call for beef and mutton,
It tastes like sheep and cow,
Stuff your pork till you’re blue in the face,
It’s villein’s boar and sow.
“You can keep your cuckoo’s feathers,
Your fancy foreign drawl,
All we want back is the silver and gold
You loot by cross and law.
“In the name of good King Alfred
And the nation that he saved,
In the Lincoln green of an English knight,
We make our own crusade.”
The swift as the sunlight’s flicker
Behind the still-leafed tree,
I caught the chink of a tinkling spur
And a mounted lady’s plea.
“Stout yeman, I beg your mercy
Upon yon abbot’s life,”
Golden hair flowed from her golden crown,
In my heart went a long cold knife.
“She’d never meant to parley
Though she used the English tongue,
You slew a knight whose daughter I am.
Now your bowstring music’s sung.”
I planted my last arrow
Deep in the forest green,
“Where it lands I live an outlaw forever.”
I fell at the feet of my queen.
Now the light is painfully fading
On the merry songs we sang
And the flight for our lives through the trees
And the future left to hang…
“In the name of God’s King Alfred
And the harvest that he saved,
Against these king of the castle knights,
We’ve made our last crusade.”
© Gareth Calway 1991, published in the 2015 Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
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7. |
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The Angevins were Very Bad,
And Worst of All was John:
As foul as hell is, it’s defiled
By Eleanor’s Little One.
Usurped his Lionhearted Bro,
The One Good Angevin;
Jugged Merry Freeborn English (yay!)
Forest-flying Robin.
Villain of the Good/Bad History
School and book and song,
‘Inadequate with some Capone’
John. King John. …Bad King John.
In 1216 at all time low,
His ‘soft sword’ half advanced,
His shrunk-crown empire Richard-pawned,
Normandy lost to France, (pah!)
Despised by all those Magna barons
Carting him to heel
Flinging him to French invaders
And Abdullah’s deal:
England given to Mohammed!
A rock moored off Morocco,
Hapless John at bay and 4 years
Excommunicado.
Villain of the Good/Bad History
School and book and song,
‘Inadequate with some Capone’
John. King John. …Bad King John.
From Lynn, he armied up to Lincoln
As the Wellstream rose[5],
Despised by Emperor, peasant, guild;
His Rome-rule churches closed;
3000 men, wheels coming off,
Up creek without a guide;
The royal dosh lost in the Wash -
He never lost our pride.
Three wheels on my wagon
But I’m still rolling along
I’m wicked, selfish, lecherous, cruel,
You learned about me in your school
Now I’m under the cosh
Lost my dosh in the Wash
But I’m singing a happy song.
For out in Norfolk we do different,
And his haven, it was Lynn,
Their domain he made our borough[6],
Gallant little Linnet king.
Victim of the Good/Bad History
School and book and song,
His Brother’s Bad Book Good Book Keeper
John. King John. …Good King John.
© Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
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8. |
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“He said not 'Thou shalt not be tempested, thou shalt not be travailed, thou shalt not be dis-eased'; but he said, 'Thou shalt not be overcome…’
‘All shall be well al shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.’
They buried me alive in here,
The dead they’ll never raise
The maid a parish came to love,
A movement came to praise.
No motion has she now, her course
Is inward, grave and still;
The church behind her every move,
The tomb her anchored will.
‘’So, Julie, can I ask-’ A hush.
It’s ‘Julian’ she sighs.
‘You after some big bishopric?’
‘I need no name that dies.’
‘I’m out of here if that’s your tale,
My column talks the town.
I’ll lose my pitch, my job, my mind,
I’ve got to nail this down.’
‘O frightened child, just run to Him,’
I’m not like you – you’re dead!
‘Dead to the world yet still attached,
All shall be well,’ she said.
‘He showed into my mind a nut.’
I’m seeing one, I grin.
‘In it we seek its maker, rest
Where there no rest is in.’
‘You saw Eternity last May
Through Death’s wedged-open door?’
‘This crucifix - like rain from eaves,
I saw its hot blood pour.’
‘I saw in sixteen shewings how
We must – we can - abide
Dis-ease, travail and storm, for we’re
The thorn in God’s soft side.
‘Which side is that?’ ‘His female side’
‘The Trinity has another?’
‘Christ bears us all upon His breast,
His wound’s our womb and mother.
‘O frightened child, just run to him,’
I’m not like you – you’re dead!
‘Dead to the world yet still attached,
All shall be well,’ she said.
© Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
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9. |
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“If by this act I can light a flame
Feed the wax of Flesh to burn Love’s Name
In the unlettered lives of Jesu’s people,
The ground down to earth, the poor, the meek, the faithful:
The pain of Flesh passing is well worth the candle.
It’s a heaven to die for!”
(from A Nice Guy: The Burning of William Sawtrey)
They told me that the bread became
Christ’s Body not His Ghost.
I said a priest’s no sorcerer
That did it: I was toast.
They tortured me, ‘recant
Your reasoning, or roast!’
I said ‘I cannot bear your Cross.’
That did it: I was toast.
They told me that Richeldis saw
Our Lady not a ghost.
I said ‘chalk eggs to Falsingham!’
That did it: I was toast.
They said a Roman prayer or Mass
Would keep me in my post.
I said ‘An English sermon’s best.’
That did it. I was toast.
‘Our Sacraments are spirit gold,’
The brassy bishops boast
‘And all that gilders isn’t God!’
That did it: I was toast.
They Credo-bashed, defrocked and lashed
My body to their post.
I answered them with Balaam’s ass.
That did it: I was toast.
They told me that the bread became
The hostage not the host.
I said ‘Man needs the bread as well.’
That did it: I was toast.
They burn me like a fallen Eve,
A holy without smoke,
I climb up like a morning star,
The dreamer’s gleam of hope.
© Gareth Calway 2014 published in the 2015 Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
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10. |
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I cut a dash through Bishop’s Lynn,
Proud daughter of its Mayor,
My cloaks with modish tippets slashed,
And gold pipes in my hair.
I burned to die, I sinned a sin
That’s never been confessed
- Except to God - a Lollard sin
To hold it in my breast.
This Book I weep in blood
Up from the heart’s deep well
Would drown the earth in heaven tears
And church the tongues of hell.
But hearing heaven’s Song of Songs
I shun the gutter’s Ouse
And though you rule me, husband, priest,
A single life I choose
And every pilgrim step I trudge
From wedlock’s grave mundane
And married flesh and churchman’s plot
Is singing with God’s name.
This Book I weep in blood
Up from the heart’s deep well
Would drown the earth in heaven tears
And church the tongues of hell.
I bend my will to holy men
Confessors clerks and seers
Yet drown their prayers and sermons in
A Noah's Flood of tears.
I wash away my sins with tears
That heaven and earth should meet.
My heart is bleeding as I kiss
His tender face and feet.
This Book I weep in blood
Up from the heart's deep well
Would drown the earth in heaven tears
And church the tongues of hell.
© Gareth Calway 2014 published in the 2015 Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
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11. |
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12. |
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Go steady stairwise as you come and go, Sir.
I lived here once; I am the ghost of Wood
- County Sheriff Alderman Edmund Wood -
A big-framed, sturdy, rich-grained merchant grocer
As solid and as warm as you could know, Sir,
With roots in river trade and limbs that stood
Through Henry’s heady scythings and made good,
A Mayor of Norwich, but not lofty, No, Sir!
For Edmund’s goods sail up the river, his goods sail down
And wholesome business there is done and nourishes the town.
What noble feet, I wonder, trod this Hall
When smoke could not escape from fires below
Except to drift from high hole or from window?
What blessedness a chimney brings to all!
Who cares to live in parlours like the noble,
And keep their Hall for entrance, feasts and show?
I build my nest above but, in a glow,
Stand grounded at my fireplace when you call.
For Edmund’s goods sail up the river, his goods sail down
And wholesome business there is done and nourishes the town.
I’ve made a tidy pile so why not build one?
And as St Clement’s is my place on earth,
My hive of city labour, my life’s work,
Let Sexton’s Manor, Aylsham, be my heaven;
It tickles me to build and run a mansion
Like those whose fortune comes to them by birth;
Though mine has come by labour, it is worth
More love for that, love arduously won.
For Edmund’s goods sail up the river, his goods sail down
And wholesome business there is done and nourishes the town.
“various sums for repairs to the city wall and the Fyeing (cleaning) of the river, and £10 to repair the road between Norwich and Attleborough…20 Shillings apiece to 20 poore maydens for their marriage… £20 to poore men’s children within Norwich to be brought up to lernynge….” The Will of Edmund Wood, Mayor of Norwich and creator of Fye Bridge House (d. 1548)
Some say my open-handedness was taint,
My last benevolence a sharp desire
To buy my soul from purgatorial fire;
That we rich men of Catholic times would fain
Give poor men twenty pounds for higher gain
With Mary Queen of Heaven and aspire
Repairing river, wall or road to hire her;
By aiding maids and scholars, buy a saint.
And Edmund’s goods sail up the river, his goods sail down
And wholesome business there is done and nourishes the town.
But heaven is the treasure we have given
To brides and scholars ... or to Fye the river,
For city wall ... or road to Attleborough -
An upstairs floor in air, or else a dungeon
In God the Father’s house, my life the mansion
Of rooms I earned from widow, woodman, weaver
(And Flemish Maddermarket-stinking dye and lucre!)
And joined as one, on earth as here in heaven.
And Edmund’s goods sail up the river, his goods sail down
And wholesome business there is done and nourishes the town.
For man must eat as well as bow and flatter
And cities grow from traffic, purse and labour
Since all is founded there, or else on sand;
Though nobled by my country house and land
(A family crest remains to clinch the matter)
My island’s one in substance with my neighbour.
And the river laughs softly under summer leaves
And the ghost of Catholic England floats away to the seas.
© Gareth Calway 2004 republished in the 2015 Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
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13. |
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(Wyatt)
A moon of May and a shining hour
Hunted hind harried in the gloom
And passing fair is the fading flower
Fa la la la la la la la la la.
You stalked me softly who later flew
Hunted hind harried in the gloom
And kissed me bold, wild and free and new.
Fa la la la la la la la la la.
With lips of young, sweet and dangerous rose
Hunted hind harried in the gloom
That like the blood-red of summer blows.
Fa la la la la la la la la la.
(Anne Boleyn)
So wild to hold though I seem so tame;
Hunted hind harried in the gloom
I lost my heart when I won the game.
Fa la la la la la la la la la.
A Tudor rose and a May queen’s throne.
Hunted hind harried in the gloom
I plucked them both and now both are gone.
Fa la la la la la la la la la.
I lost my soul for a golden band
Hunted hind harried in the gloom
That bows the neck as it forced the hand.
Fa la la la la la la la la la.
I lost my head for a peerless hour
Hunted hind harried in the gloom
And my True Thomas in the tower.
Fa la la la la la la la la la.
Six headless horses to lead me home;
Hunted hind harried in the gloom
A headless coachman; a hollow crown.
Fa la la la la la la la la la.
© Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
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14. |
The Rose of the World
02:06
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I stole to the door of Blickling Hall
On the nineteenth night of a moonlit May
And met the ghost of Anne Boleyn
Shining bright as day.
Six headless horses drew her coach
A haunted headless coachman drove,
‘Give them their head!’ she laughed, then turned
On me her look of love.
‘I lost my hart in the darkest chase,
On the dying fall of a hunting horn.
I lost my head for the rose of the world
And the rose withered on the thorn.
‘A death-white moon with a raven head
And a smile like a blossom of lovely May
I sold my heart for a worldly crown
And I’ll take your breath away.’
‘I’m not your True Thomas!’ I cried in dread
And her witch head turned in its rotting shroud
‘Ah! You’ve named the angel who guards my grave,’
And she hid her moon face in a cloud.
‘I lost your hart in the darkest chase
On the dying fall of a hunting horn.
I lost my head for the rose of the world
And the rose withered on the thorn.
© Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
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15. |
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As I lay down on Mousehold Heath,
I heard two corbies beak to beak,
‘It’s cold as death, fifteen below.
To Norwich Castle let us go.
‘Upon its wall, a traitor hangs
Who led last summer’s rebel gangs:
Twelve thousand men, a city strong,
Unfencing nine and twenty wrongs.’
The Commons’ land, he gave it back
Then led their time-honoured attack
And his bare bones shall be his plaque
Till crows are white and snows are black.
At Dussindale they broke his army;
His brother hanged on Wymondham Abbey;
His name is blood in church and state,
We’ll pick his bones to celebrate.
His brave old England: shabby crops
Outselling woollens in the shops;
The oak its heart until its bark
Is cut to build a new car park.’
The Commons’ land, he gave it back
Then led their time-honoured attack
And his bare bones shall be his plaque
Till crows are white and snows are black.
‘His brave new England on the hill
In narrow streets and arms fulfilled;
Its oak near Hethersett will stand
While people matter more than plans.’
The Commons’ land, he gave it back
Then led their time-honoured attack
And his bare bones shall be his plaque
Till crows are white and snows are black.[9]
"This Memorial was placed here by the citizens of Norwich in reparation and honour to a notable and courageous leader in the long struggle of the common people of England to escape from a servile life into the freedom of just conditions" Plaque on the wall of Norwich Castle
© Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
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16. |
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1. Battle Hymn
(Oliver Cromwell's tomb read
God not man is King.
Freeborn John Lilburne said
Man not King is God...)
'Cut off his head with the crown upon it,
God damn this king!' we cried
'Only tyrants will tremble recalling this day.
Good men recall it with pride. '
Cavalier tales of Cross-dressing Kings
Royal-escaping up oaks! (Ha)
Give us that heaven on earth achieved
And run by New Model blokes!
The greatest England for 400 years
From Agincourt to Waterloo
Won with God on our side at Naseby Field
For ever! For England! For you.
2. Freeborn John
The bloodiest war in our history
And one in four of us died
For a castled king on a stagnant throne
In a revolutionary tide.
‘I spilt my blood so I need a voice!’
Cries Freeborn John at Putney,
‘Who dies for England is England’s king,
We are no grandee’s army.
‘The poorest man in England has
The right to live as the greatest,
Our God’s the All in all, our king’s
The Christ in every breast.’
The bloodiest war in our history
And one in four of us died
For a castled king on a stagnant throne
In a revolutionary tide.
We’re the voice of the Freeborn Englishman
That was raised at Magna Carta,
The Dissenting flag of the Good Old Cause,
The common or garden martyr.
I rose with Tyler, Straw and Ball
When peasants shook the kingdom,
I was sold down that river of blood by a king
Who hawked the soul of England.
We need no manor house and land
To fix our permanent interest,
We fight for England, our rights and ourselves:
No mercenary business.
The bloodiest war in our history
And one in four of us died
For a castled king on a stagnant throne
In a revolutionary tide.
I will rise at Kett’s Hill and Tolpuddle,
I will fall at Peterloo,
March to Chartist hell and a Newport hotel
To win this Britain for you,
Die a million deaths in two world wars
Though the portion’s not so many
As died for Charles, that Man of Blood,
And in our redcoat Army.
A new model England truly advanced,
Through rank and royal sin
In a cavalry charge to a Future Now
Whose ‘God Not Man Is King’.
The bloodiest war in our history
And one in four of us died
For a castled king on a stagnant throne
In a revolutionary tide.
© Gareth Calway 2015 published in the Poppyland volume "Doin Different" https://www.poppyland.co.uk/products/B79622
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Peacock's Tale Musical Storytelling Sedgeford, UK
It's all right, folks, we're married. A marriage of melody and rhythm ( flirting with harmony & timbre.) Old married woke
folk, indie, Norfolk noir, beat poems, ghazals & Americana for the world from NW Norfolk. Maz lead & harmony vocals, acoustic guitar. Gaz lead & harmony vocals, drum & bass. Traditional tunes with contemporary beats.
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