1. |
The Lonely Isle
02:49
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Ye brave young souls of Albion
Who, spent by all and spared by none,
Are dealt a fateful fatal blow
By those I'll here revile.
We've lost our freedom for to roam
Far far away from our native home
For work in blind old Blighty
We now are bound a while
For from our continent we cleave
And cast a vote to take our Leave
To become that great grey nation
That they'll call The Lonely Isle.
Now England is with plenty blessed
But the people, they are sore oppressed
All by those wolfish tyrants
With a smirk behind their smile.
A well-placed lie of promised wealth
To spend upon the public health
Convinced our sheepish elders
For to opt for self-exile,
But still we have austerity
Supposed to bring prosperity
But cuts of such severity
They heap problems on the pile
And so it falls to younger hands
To hold the ties to union lands
And to heal the reputation
Of their sad and Lonely Isle.
Although it seems we're cut adrift
There is yet time to mend the rift
Put politicians in the dock
To face a public trial.
A concrete case we'll easily mount
To hold the bastards to account
With wink and nudge the high-court judge
Will smell their guilt and guile.
When rich men grow their greed to rue
We'll pay the working man his due
And march in solidarity
Among the rank and file,
We'll banish discord from our land
In harmony we'll make our stand
No more shall we be known as
A sad and Lonely Isle...
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2. |
The Rambler's Song
02:51
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I've camped out on Crowden, rambled on Snowdon,
I've slept by the Wain Stones as well,
I've sunbathed on Kinder, been burnt to a cinder,
And many's the tale I can tell.
My rucksack has oft been my pillow,
The heather has oft been my bed,
And sooner than part from the mountains,
I think I would rather be dead.
Nothing changes, it all stays the same,
They're selling the moorland for profit and gain.
They've sold all the rivers, bought all the rain
And you can't go up there, you're disturbing the game.
Cod's roe, caviar, milk stout and champagne,
Gold cards and dole cards but never the twain,
That's the game, that's their game
Nothing changes, it all stays the same.
So I'll go where I will over mountain and hill
And I'll lie where the bracken is deep;
I belong to these mountains, these clear crystal fountains
Where the rocks stand rugged and steep.
I've stood on the edge of the Downfall
And seen every valley outspread,
And sooner than part from the mountains
I think I would rather be dead.
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Rowan Piggott Sheffield, UK
Rowan is a fiddle-singer, writer and tunesmith who grew up in the foothills of the Burren on the west coast of Ireland, surrounded by traditional music. The author of two successful tunebooks, he has also written articles for The Living Tradition magazine and led fiddle workshops at festivals all over the country. In 2016, he won the Future of Young Folk Award at Bromyard Folk Festival. ... more
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