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The Lonely Isle

by Rowan Piggott

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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...
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.


An additive EP of political songs.

1. The Lonely Isle
Obviously & ironically based on The Shamrock Shore (a traditional ballad about Irish oppression from c1850), here is a song I wrote about Brexit and the current political situation of our beloved country.

2. The Rambler's Song
A song originally written by Ewan MacColl called 'The Manchester Rambler', and later adapted by John Tams to include the chorus sung here.


released December 13, 2020

Track 1 – The Lonely Isle
Words: Rowan Piggott
Music: Traditional

Track 2 – The Rambler's Song
Music/lyrics: Ewan MacColl
Additional chorus lyrics: John Tams


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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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