| | | | | | |  | | www.billadair.net | |
|
| |
| | |
About a hundred families lived here one day,
In houses round the square and by the railway.
Now they are long since gone,
But the memory lingers on,
And I remember how it used to be,
Along the miners’ rows.
On Saturday the children would all wander
To Aggie Bide’s wee shop down on the corner,
And there they’d stand and pick,
Penny chews and liquorice stick,
Then play among the ash-pits,
Along the miners’ rows.
Then men worked in the pit to make a living,
Where they mined and dug the coal for a few shillings.
You would see them every day,
With their faces lined and grey,
Going home to wives and families,
Along the miners’ rows.
Then in fifty-nine there came disaster,
And life would never be the same thereafter.
For forty-seven men,
Never came back home again,
And there were tears and sadness
Along the miners’ rows.
They came and built new houses down there one day.
The rows are long since gone and so’s the railway.
But if you listen there,
Sometimes, just like a prayer,
You can hear the children playing,
You can hear the pit shift changing,
You can still hear people crying,
All along the miners’ rows.
From the album "Along The Miners' Rows"
© W. J. Adair/Sad Jeb Music 2008
For more than fifty years he breathed the black dust of his trade,
His hands were hard and grimy from the digging of his spade.
A tin box for his bread and cheese, a tin flask for his tea,
He never made much money but he’d always time for me.
Though I never knew him very well, some things I can’t forget,
Like his ‘War Horse’ plug tobacco, I can smell it even yet.
And every day at dinner time he’d call me to his knee,
Where he always had a penny and a threepenny bit for me.
When he was only fourteen years they told him it was time,
To leave the little village school for a job in the local mine.
So he laid aside his books and slate, he put away his toys,
And one cold, grey dawn, with his moleskins on, he became a collier’s boy.
And when the world was mad with fire, he left to join the dance,
And swapped a three foot mining seam for a mud-filled trench in France.
With his mouth set hard and straight against the madness and pain,
Till he could change his gun for a shovel and a pick, a collier once again.
A quiet man in many ways, but words are cheap at best.
But what he did and how he lived spoke more than all the rest.
He took care of his business in the only way he knew,
By working till his shift was done, until the whistle blew.
And when his shift was over we were all sad for a while,
But slowly through the darkness came the mem’ry of his smile.
And I know that if we met again, somewhere across the sea,
He’d have a penny in his pocket and a threepenny bit for me.
A Threepenny Bit For Me
© W. J. Adair/Sad Jeb Music 2010
Coal Dust on the Fiddle (Sisters in the Coal)
Coal dust on the fiddle,
Coal dust on the bow,
Daughters of the mountain,
Working down below.
Coal dust on my body,
Coal dust in my soul,
Sisters in the coal mine,
Women digging coal.
People say that it’s unlucky
To have women down a mine,
But they’re working at the coal-face,
And they’re doing it just fine.
Muddy feet in muddy water,
Muddy face and hands and hair,
Underground and getting dirty,
Mud and coal-dust everywhere.
When Nancy started working there
The men all laid a trap,
But when she couldn’t find her dinner-pail
She just ate the bosses snap.
Digging coal to feed your family
And to keep them from the cold.
No support from state or husband,
Put your monthly pains on hold.
Libby Lindsay fought some battles
To make mining safe for all.
Fought for training, fought for bathrooms,
Closed the peepholes in the wall.
And they fought to join the union,
Went on strike and went to jail.
Some moved on and some got married,
Some were killed but no-one failed.
Coal Dust on the Fiddle
© W. J. Adair/Sad Jeb Music 2011
Come home Robert Johnson, my guitar is out of tune,
And the blues just ain’t so blue now that you’re gone.
Come home Robert Johnson; stop me howling at the moon,
Come and teach me how to play and sing your songs.
Come back Robert Johnson, it’s so dark now you’re not here,
And the wind goes whistling through the tall bamboo.
Come back Robert Johnson; lay some tunes upon my ear,
Play the melodies I need to hear from you.
Who killed you Bob? How did you die?
Why did you leave us alone?
Your song wasn’t finished, yet it finished you,
Was it because it cut them to the bone?
Come home Robert Johnson, from the crossroads come away,
Come back and sing the songs that ease my pain.
Come into my kitchen; don't wait ‘til Christmas Day,
Go riding on your Terraplane again.
Go riding on your Terraplane again.
From the album "Dusty Boots on a Gravel Road"
© W. J. Adair/Sad Jeb Music 2010
Dead Soldiers’ Wives Don’t Dance
See them marching to the railway in their uniforms and boots,
Self-conscious with their rifles, they’re the army’s new recruits.
Wives, already distant, see their husbands’ awkward stance,
But we cheered them into carriages and sang them off to France,
The day before they left we had a party in the hall,
With dancing to the parish band and plenty beer for all.
The country needs you, lads, we said, we’re proud of everyone,
We’ll build a land that’s fit for heroes on the day you all come home.
There’s no music on a battlefield except for pipes and drums,
That tells you when it’s time to charge and man the Lewis gun.
There’s no music on a battlefield save that which says advance,
And at the village victory ball, dead soldiers’ wives don’t dance.
The say they charged and conquered there, and to a man they stood,
Some crouched and bent like beggars, but giving all they could.
Some mad with thirst, some mad with pain, some crushed beneath the sand,
Some blind, some lame, some just insane, some lost in no-man’s land.
And death poured down from Heaven, and it roared across the ground,
Its stench in every nostril, its voice in every sound.
And he who seemed the strongest wept like a stricken child,
Betrayed in godless trenches, abandoned and defiled.
Dead Soldiers’ Wives Don’t Dance
© W. J. Adair/Sad Jeb Music 2011
Digging Coal
In nineteen hundred five, digging coal.
In nineteen hundred five, digging coal.
In nineteen hundred five,
Digging coal kept us alive,
Now I’m almost finished digging, digging coal.
In nineteen thirty-one, digging coal.
In nineteen thirty-one, digging coal.
In nineteen thirty-one,
We lost fathers, we lost sons,
Now I’m almost finished digging, digging coal.
I’m breathing coal dust down, digging coal.
I’m breathing coal dust down, digging coal.
I’m breathing coal dust down,
While working underground,
Now I’m almost finished digging, digging coal.
In nineteen fifty nine, digging coal.
In nineteen fifty nine, digging coal.
In nineteen fifty nine,
Fire and water closed the mine,
And everyone was finished digging coal.
The people stood and prayed, digging coal.
The people stood and prayed, digging coal.
The people stood and prayed,
The mine was now a grave,
Nobody there was saved, digging coal.
From the album "Along The Miners' Rows"
© W. J. Adair/Sad Jeb Music 2008
Dusty Boots On A Gravel Road
I don’t have any choirs left to help me,
It seems maybe my songs are almost sung.
The winters now seem colder; the summer sun no longer burns,
And yesterday’s old love will not return.
I don’t have any candles left to guide me,
My mouth is dry; I have no words to speak.
My old coat won’t keep the chill off, and my boots are letting in,
Let me walk a different road and start again.
Worn-out shoes on a lonesome highway,
Dancing shoes on a redbrick floor.
Rusty strings that sound off-key on my guitar,
Dusty boots on a gravel road.
I’ve seen them break his bread and sing his praises.
I’ve been fooled by what they said as we drank wine.
I’ve seen them counting money, and the souls they’ve saved from pain,
And every time he’s crucified again.
Then play some blues and sing the songs you taught me,
Amazing Grace and Let Me Fly Away.
Take me back to Ephesus, back to that sweet first love,
To home where that love waits for me some day.
From the album "Dusty Boots on a Gravel Road"
© W. J. Adair/Sad Jeb Music 2010
How Can a Poor Man Stand Such Times and Live?
Well the preacher come round here with his face all bright.
He told me in a little while it’ll be alright.
But all he gave me was a humbug pill,
A dose of pity and a great big bill,
How can a poor man stand such times and live?
He said he could remember when he used to play down there.
What happened to you mining people well it’s just not fair.
He took a look around and he breathed a sigh,
He said what a shame men had to die,
How can a poor man stand such times and live?
There are women and children crying all round the square.
Already some families are moving away from there.
The mine won’t open like it did before,
So there’s no work here anymore,
How can a poor man stand such times and live?
I got a brother in Australia who said I should go out there.
But I know I’ll never feel settled down anywhere.
I borrowed some money for to pay my way,
But I’ll have nothing when I hit the bay
How can a poor man stand such times and live?
Now I’ve got some time left here before I go.
My case is packed and sitting outside the door.
I’ll get paid off on down the line,
But till that time I’ll work the mine,
How can a poor man stand such times and live?
From the album "Along The Miners' Rows"
© W. J. Adair/Sad Jeb Music 2008
In the Heart of the Argentine
She was a nurse on a hospital ward; he was a sailor at sea,
And they met in the land where Evita was queen, and they sang the harmony.
She was a nurse on a hospital ward; he sailed on a merchant line,
And they met in the Plaza de Mayo in the heart of the Argentine.
His father came from Irish stock and worked in a Scottish mine,
But cutting coal was not for him, he had dreams of a different kind.
So he served his time as an engineer, then he joined a merchant line,
And with his papers in his pocket he sailed away for the heart of the Argentine.
Her family came from the heart of Wales; they’d sailed across the sea,
For a different life in an unknown place, faraway from tyranny.
With pure Welsh blood running in their veins, and the valleys far behind,
They settled down in a farming town in the heart of the Argentine.
And in a Buenos Aries bar, across miles of sea and land,
With unfamiliar, strange new words, a future there they planned.
And neither thought to break the spell, as hearts and hands entwined,
In a tango bar, far from all they knew, in the heart of the Argentine.
She was a nurse on a hospital ward; he was a sailor at sea,
And they met in the land where Evita was queen, and they sang the harmony.
She was a nurse on a hospital ward; he sailed on a merchant line,
And they met in the Plaza de Mayo in the heart of the Argentine.
She was a nurse on a hospital ward; he sailed on a merchant line,
And they married one day, and then sailed away, from the heart of the Argentine.
In The Heart of the Argentine
© W. J. Adair/Sad Jeb Music 2010
Living a Lie (The Ballad of Helen Percy)
I saw your picture in the paper today,
I read that you were now doing ok,
I’m glad that they didn’t scare you away,
And that you’re not living a lie.
They called you harlot and they branded you a whore,
You said you’d leave them but they wanted more,
They even criticised the way you opened your door,
As if you’d invited the lie,
There’s a cold wind blowing,
And it blew you away from a job that you loved.
There’s no love growing
In a place that you thought was blessed from above.
He came in the guise of a friend that you need,
Preaching a gospel of lust and of greed,
Using your body but paying no heed
Of how he was part of the lie.
They brought a woman to Jesus one day,
They tried to trick him by what he might say,
But when she looked up she saw they’d run away,
Run back to living their lie.
And the silver pieces,
They threw you will never repay.
All the broken pieces,
Of the life and future that they stole away.
I saw your picture in the paper today,
I read that you were now doing ok,
I’m glad that they didn’t scare you away,
And that you’re not living a lie.
No, you’re not living a lie.
From the album "Dusty Boots on a Gravel Road"
© W. J. Adair/Sad Jeb Music 2010
Fisher men on stormy sea,
Sail on and bless your sailing.
Out to where the shoals might be,
Sail on and bless your sailing.
At fishing grounds you toil away,
Taking risks on deck each day,
For less reward to pay your way,
Sail on and bless your sailing.
Sail on, sail on,
Sail on and bless your sailing.
Sail on, sail on,
Sail on and bless your sailing.
Up on deck it’s wet and cold,
Sail on and bless your sailing.
Hauling nets and growing old,
Sail on and bless your sailing.
Hands are raw and heads are bare,
Your freezing breath hangs in the air,
Fighting winds that scream and tear,
Sail on and bless your sailing.
Sail on, sail on,
Sail on and bless your sailing.
Sail on, sail on,
Sail on and bless your sailing.
When you land your catch on shore,
Sail on and bless your sailing.
You swear you’ll go to sea no more,
Sail on and bless your sailing.
And fisher wives of fisher men,
Curse that deep, dark mistress when
She calls them back to her again,
Sail on and bless your sailing.
Sail on, sail on,
Sail on and bless your sailing.
Sail on, sail on,
Sail on and bless your sailing.
Walk across this stormy sea,
Sail on and bless their sailing.
Calm their troubled Galilee,
Sail on and bless their sailing.
From Peterhead to Yarmouth town,
Wherever trawler men are found,
We pray that they’ll be safe and sound,
Sail on and bless their sailing.
Sail on, sail on,
Sail on and bless your sailing.
Sail on, sail on,
Sail on and bless your sailing.
Sail On
© W. J. Adair/Sad Jeb Music 2011
Somewhere On Down The Road
And it’s one for the singing and two for the song,
Three for the fiddler who keeps us in time.
Four for the melody, five for the harmony,
Six for the mem’ries we all leave behind.
The nights drawing in and we’re sharing a glass,
With friends and relations who lighten our load.
With songs and with laughter the minutes all pass,
But we’ll all meet again, somewhere on down the road.
Through days that are dark and cross miles that are long,
When sometimes we think we get more than is owed.
But on some sunny day we will rise up I know,
And we’ll all meet again, somewhere on down the road.
Somewhere on down the road,
Somewhere on down the road.
We’ll all meet again, somewhere on down the road.
There’s a fair wind for travelling and songs to be sung,
And a welcome that says come you in from the cold.
If you look through the dark there’s a light and a sign,
And we’ll all meet again, somewhere on down the road.
Somewhere On Down the Road
© W. J. Adair/Sad Jeb Music 2010
Stumble and Fall
I counted sixty-nine men in this car,
Stumble and fall.
Nobody cares who these old men are,
Stumble and fall.
Stumble and fall with your back to the wall,
And you fight for a breath of fresh air.
Old Charlie’s been riding these rails most his life,
Stumble and fall.
Though they tell me he once had a job and a wife,
Stumble and fall.
Stumble and fall, don't mean nothing at all
When a boxcar is all that you know.
Troubled and tangled-up, messed-up old men,
Stumble and fall.
Hungry and dirty and screwed-up and mean,
Stumble and fall.
Stumble and fall, how can you stand tall,
When you’ve lost everything
And you’re tossed in the wind.
The road up ahead
Leaves you dying or dead
And life is just stumble and fall
Roaring and rumbling along the steel rails,
Stumble and fall.
Twisting and turning through snow, rain and hail,
Stumble and fall.
Stumble and fall with my back to the wall
My face in the wind
No one to call friend
The road up ahead
Leaves you dying or dead
And life is just stumble and fall.
From the album "Dusty Boots on a Gravel Road"
© W. J. Adair/Sad Jeb Music 2010
The Banks and Braes Are Still the Same
He was born to till the soil and walk the plough,
But there was more than farming in his veins.
He had a song that men would sing wherever men were free,
A song to ease their suffering and pain.
And the banks and braes are still the same.
The River Afton still flows gently on.
The Brigs of Ayr are both still there, landmarks to his name,
And the corn rigs still echo to his song.
A poet’s voice in tune with Nature’s laws,
A rebel heart that loved his fellow men.
Equality and freedom from the yoke of tyranny
Were the truths that ran eternal from his pen.
The hills and fields are empty now; he walks in them no more,
His kind alas, we’ll never see again.
‘But if there is another world we know he dwells in bliss,
If there is none he made the best of this’.
The Banks and Braes Are Still the Same
© W. J. Adair/Sad Jeb Music 2006
The Day That All The Lights Went Out
Hear the miners’ heavy tramping,
See the loading of the coal.
Feel the coal dust as it settles
In your lungs, and in your soul.
I can see their hands are bloody,
I can see how hard they tried.
But one day all the lights went out,
And forty-seven died.
The pit wheels stopped their turning,
Like they knew they’d been condemned.
And all that day the news came down,
From Chryston to Bridgend.
I travelled in my memory,
To where the women cried.
The day that all the lights went out,
And forty-seven died.
They all heard the confusion,
They ran to the pithead.
The Salvation Army handed out
Tea and soup and bread.
Mothers, wives and sweethearts,
Asking questions, none replied.
The day that all the lights went out,
And forty-seven died.
There’s a woman by the railway
With a baby in her arms.
She is dressed in black and mourning
She is weeping for her man.
There’s a line of coffins waiting
To be buried, crucified.
The day that all the lights went out,
And forty-seven died.
The mine never did re-open,
It died as well that day.
Death took their breath, then took his leave,
And the people moved away.
Now I’m looking from my window,
And I remember those who cried.
The day that all the lights went out,
And forty-seven died.
From the album "Along The Miners' Rows"
© W. J. Adair/Sad Jeb Music 2008
The Miner’s Widow’s Lament
The life has been torn out from me,
My heart is breaking.
My children’s father sacrificed,
My soul is screaming.
The joy that once surrounded me
Has left me now, I’m mourning.
I am the miner’s widow
Bereft and just surviving.
Today a wounded sun arose,
Its rays were bleeding.
The coal dust thick upon the grass
To shroud the dying.
In widow’s garb, black as the coal,
I join the grieving.
The silence round the pithead gate,
A stark lamenting.
Last night I heard my sisters cry,
A bleak petition.
Too late to save those buried there,
No late salvation.
I think on yesterdays long past
When they were many.
I fear that soon will come the day
There are not any.
I am the miner’s widow
And this my hymn of sorrow.
All life inside of me has died,
I face a cruel tomorrow.
To end it all, life’s final call,
Would take me from this slaughter.
But from the grave I could not aid
Or guard my sons and daughters.
From the album "Along The Miners' Rows"
© W. J. Adair/Sad Jeb Music 2008
Through all the years that he’s away,
And all the years you’re on your own.
All that time you’re waiting for
The news that he’s not coming home.
You know the job he has to do,
You share his danger every day.
And you get angry when you think
The army stole your man away.
And through the lonely months and years
You struggle by to raise the kids.
While he’s away, with guns and blood,
You live in fear of widowhood.
And every day you listen hard,
To hear the step that rings the bell,
The warning bell that brings the news,
The dreaded news that they will tell.
Then work and want and bide your time,
And put your faith in God above.
And cry yourself to sleep each night
For anxious fear of him you love.
For soldiers march to earn their dole,
And soldiers fight to make their bread.
Some say the lucky ones come home,
Some say the lucky ones are dead.
From the album "Dusty Boots on a Gravel Road"
© W. J. Adair/Sad Jeb Music 2010
Where can a miner go?
When they tell him the pit is to close.
For all of his life he’s been digging the coal,
Where can a miner go?
Where can a miner go?
Where does a turner turn?
When the steel works are closing their gates.
When the ashes are cold and the furnace an urn,
Where does a turner turn?
Where does a turner turn?
What can a shipwright say?
When the stocks are laid empty and bare.
When the last of liners have all sailed away,
What can a shipwright say?
What can a shipwright say?
Where will our children go?
With closed factories, and industry gone.
No shipyards or steelyards, no digging for coal,
Where will our children go?
Where will our children go?
Where can a miner go?
When they tell him the pit is to close.
For all of his life he’s been digging the coal,
Where can a miner go?
Where can a miner go?
From the album "Along The Miners' Rows"
© W. J. Adair/Sad Jeb Music 2008
 |
|
|
|
| | | | |
|
