Willy caught a bus rollin' north from skid row;
He'd been working on the dockside all of the time.
So he packed himself a bag and he went away,
No work, no work for an Indian here.
Willy caught a bus rolling north from skid row.
Alex Muktoyok, now of Portland Oregon, came from King Island, Alaska. Until 1947 Alaskans and Siberians travelled freely back and forth across the Bering Strait. Then the Cold War and the 'Iron Curtain' cut them off from one another for four decades. Alex writes songs both in English and in his native language, Inupiaq.
Somewhere in America
©1993 Eric Bogle - Greentrax
Across the North Dakota hills, the twilit road unwinds.
The setting sun spreads showers of gold among the dark green pines.
Evening shadows change from grey to an ever deepening blue
And I'm somewhere in America, half a world away from you.
With sixteen towns behind me now, and sixteen more to go,
I've long since stopped believing in the romance of the road.
Though friends and kind hearts wait for me in the town I'm heading to,
Still I'm somewhere in America, half a world away from you.
And the road goes on and on and on, and the road goes on and on and on.
Here and there along the road, welcoming and bright,
the lights from farms and homesteads pierce the dark Dakota night.
But their brightness shines on others' lives, their welcome's for their own,
And I'm somewhere in America, half a world away from home.
But well you know I love this life, the endless road's a stage,
And music's a fever in the blood- a wild bird in a cage.
You and I let that wild bird fly, its bright dreams to pursue,
So now I'm somewhere in America, half a world away from you.
© K. W. Todd - Jaywalker Music
Here's a health to the Deveneaux, Jones and O'Malleys
Who rode from the east on a slow turning wheel,
Who forded wide rivers, crossed mountains and valleys,
To lose their young lives on the Oregon Trail.
Where the river ran, there was no ferry,
So the captain bade carry a line to the shore.
A young man of twenty named Michael J. Deveneaux
Stepped forward to swim to his final reward.
Where the mountains rise, the wagons got heavy,
So the ox teams were doubled to lighten their load.
It snapped the yoke shackle while Darcy Jones was droving.
She landed in pieces so far down below.
Where the black brush grows, and miles they are many
Were water is scarcely a dream in your mind.
Big Johnson O'Malley went fetching to find some,
But the water he found us was tainted with lye.
So my story's told. The people were many
Who lived and who died by the light of their dreams.
We lay down beside them our love for their journey,
And with it a curse on the Oregon Trail.
© Tania Opland (lyrics adapted from the traditional song 'Barbara Allen')
In old Scarlet town where I was born there was a fair maid
She made the boys weep and sigh, her name it was Barbara Allen.
It was in the merry month of May when green buds all were swellin'
Young Jenny Groves on his death bed lay for love of that Barbara Allen.
He sent a servant to her then, to the place where she was dwellin'
And he said, "Now you must come and see my master if you are the lady they call Barbara Allen!"
Oh so slowly she came. So slowly she came nigh him. (2x)
And when she got there, all she said was "Young man, I believe you are dying."
He turned his face to the wall, 'cause death was drawing nigh
And he said "Adieu my dear friends all, but you be kind to this Barbara Allen."
She was just walkin' across the field when she heard his death
bell knellin' (2x)
And every stroke seemed to say, "You hard-hearted Barbara Allen!"
"Oh my mother make my bed, for I am sick with sorrow.
This young Jenny Groves died today, and I believe I am gonna die tomorrow."
©1993 Peg Loughran - Low Rent Music
If unkissed we die today, A thousand miles apart we stay
Not so bitter a strong love tasted, Not so foolish to have waited
If as strangers we meet again, Standing naked with open hands
Not so hard a friendship blossomed, Not so wild a love imagined
Not too late, not too soon, To watch the rising of the moon
If we never feel the rain, Our souls will not have looked in
Not too much what we are giving, Not run dry the well of loving
If we speak from the heart, And catch our breath at the start
Not too deep the first emotion , Not too wide the rolling ocean
Not too late, not too soon, To watch the rising of the moon ( x2 )
If unloved we walk the earth, Ashamed to celebrate our birth
With blistered feet sore from wandering, Going blind from searching
If at last we find a place, Familiar ground, a loving face
We run the risk of joy and sorrow, A grief of letting go tomorrow
Not too late, not too soon, To watch the rising of the moon (x3)
© Huw Williams
Brother of disaster, sister of our fate, do you count the tragedy
And brother of confusion and sister debate, do you remember the sister of Rosemary?
The doodlebugs were flying, the blitz was at its height.
Rosemary lay sleeping with her sister, only nine.
And no one heard the one that hit- the one that blew the lid-
But Rosemary came out crying, and her sister never did.
|You fly high, your dreams are all in vain;
One moment you are singing and the next you cry with pain,
And high above the heavens, in a host of angels' wings
Rosemary's sister will be dancing.
Her mother cried all that year, as so many others did, though
there were moments when she'd pull through now and then.
And the people there in Bethnel Street, in the rubble and the stone, just swept it up and started on again.
When tyranny is biting, you do your best to try to stifle all your heartaches 'til it's safe again to cry.
And when the darkness disappears and the light comes shining through, Gather all that you have left and start anew.
There's a teacher in the classroom, there's a mother in the
hall. The children sit and wait for the bell to go.
And Rosemary stands watching- she has a child there of her own, and she's waiting to collect and take her home.
Sometimes in the firelight in silence where she sits her mind goes back to Bethnel Street, the darkness and the blitz,
And she's heard if there's another one then the end will be complete. Well, I wonder what they'd say in Bethnel Street.
words: I. Surikov
Shto stoish', kachayas', Tonkaya ryabina,
A cheryez dorogu za ryekoy shirokoy
Kak bui mnye, ryabinye, k dubu pyerebrat'sya?
Tonkimi vyetvyami ya b k nyemu prizhalac'
No nel'zya ryabinye k dubu pyerebrat'sya,
Why do you stand, swaying, slender ash tree,
And across the way, over the broad river,
How could I, as the ash tree, go to the oak?
With my slender branches I'd press against him,
But it's impossible for an ash tree to move to the oak.
© TR Ritchie - Whitebark Music
Why does love make you stupid?
How can your heart be so cruel?
Watch out for that rascal cupid.
You may think you're smart, but when he shoots his dart
You will find yourself playing the fool.
I've monkeyed with the numbers and done lengthy calculations,
I've analyzed the spreadsheets in search of explanation,
I've looked the contracts over with a most judicious eye,
But I never see the loopholes 'til they hang me out to dry.
I've questioned all my friends, but they don't have a clue.
I asked a crystal ball to tell me what to do.
I even went to church to ask God for a sign,
But all he said was, "Kid, your guess is just as good as mine!"
So I'm developing a theory about the human race
Wherein love is just another cream pie in your face,
And I've made a - a commitment to the moon and stars above
To duck a little faster next time some jerk mentions love.
© 1994 Tania Opland
How many here are merely covering their confusion about leaving
Do they wish that they could stay, or are they ready to go, catch their plane and fly?
How many times have I looked over your shoulder at that clock
on the wall
And the black warning sign that says "last call"?
How many people passing bravely through security are hiding
Holding back tears about what they're returning to, or what they're leaving behind?
How many breaking hearts are lined up by the sign that says
Watching us go, leaving half-formed dreams and unresolved fragments of lives?
How many steps will take me down this ramp of no return? I
feel you behind me,
But the sign up ahead says "last call".
©1993 Brian Bedford - Bedspring Music
There are roads on which you're lonely, every turning seems
When the journey has no purpose, when no one speaks your name,
When you need someone to walk with just to say that you exist;
That's the road that seems the longest, like the path lost in the mist.
There are many roads to friendship, some are short and quickly
But the friends you make on troubled roads are those that will remain;
Those you carry when they're weary, those who'll guide you when you're lost,
Are the friends that you will warm to like the fires that melt the frost.
You will sit by many firesides seeking comfort from the road
'Til the fire of friendship burns you and you carry one more load,
Then you'll share a fire that warms you, glows beside you through the day,
And you'll walk the road together, taking turns to lead the way.
For there are many roads to travel...