all lyrics c. Chris Hytch
Wink
There be whispers round the harbour, the run from Guernsey’s in
Let’s go round to Bessie’s get a bellyful of gin
There may even be brandy, perhaps a tot of rum
So remember the signs, use your hands and your eyes and most of all
You gotta keep mum.
One wink with your left for brandy, twice with your right for rum
And if you’re short of baccy, well, a couple of winks and your thumb
For tea make assign with your fingers, a tap on the chin for gin
And if it’s wine just make the sign, three fingers and plenty of tin.
There’ll be Jago, Jed and Jacka and old Granfer Clemmo
The miners from Wheal Kitty, well, they’re surely bound to go
And if the Revenue comes sniffin, some says they’re bound to come
Remember the signs, use your hands and your eyes
But most of all-you gotta keep mum.
Now Bessie mind that rug there, that one right by the fire
It’s all askew and if they ask you well you baint be such a good liar
Cos we know what you’re hiding in that there hidey hole
But we never would betray you girl, god rest our trusty souls.
Annie George
There’s an old, old story, it’s long but not tall
Revenge is a dish best served not at all.
The reason is clear, there may be no rest
As old Annie George can very well attest.
For vengeance and spite she betrayed her host
Now she wanders the shoreline each night as a ghost
Knowing no rest till she feels avenged
On all those who caused her pitiful end.
Oh, Annie, you have to let it go
Oh, Annie, it’s painful still I know
Oh Annie may your spirit be appeased
Then Annie you will surely find your peace.
The owner, old William, fair trader was he
With Joseph and Annie landlord and lady
Of the First and Last Inn down Sennen Cove
Where the goods could be stored in the tunnels below.
Now Annie got greedy, turned King’s evidence
Old William, arrested, to Bodmin was sent
When others objected, their names she supplied
Which caused the whole village to rise up and decide.
To kidnap old Annie, put her life to an end
On the beach at low tide under nets she was pinned
And when the tide turned they ignored her cries
And so she was drownded that December night.
Cut The Redruth Rug
Brylcreem, tight jeans, white T, look at me
Don’t come near me ‘less you’re lookin like a beauty queen
We’ll cut the Redruth Rug, yeah we cut the Redruth Rug
Cut the Redruth Rug, never mind the jitterbug
Camborne boys go and play with your toys
We’re the Redruth men, gonna say it once again
Chuck Berry, Gene and Eddy, don’t want no Top 20
DJ take the test, purple hearts’ll do the rest
Young Jed Bray, well he’s saving up his pay
Got it stashed into his leather, James Dean for a day
Jed meets Poppy up around East Pool
Two port and lemons and she’s jigging like a fool
Three hours later and he’s back up there again
Kissin and a-huggin with her best friend
Poppy from the shop ‘Can I help you?’ all the week
But in her poodle skirt she’s the queen of Fore street
In my jeans and my leathers with my Triumph up the road
Don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows
Meanwhile at home I’ve got my mother in a state
She can’t stand the bass on ‘Rocket 88’
King Of Bodmin Moor
At the midnight hour the torches sway
The white quartz glistens to mark the way
Ahead the priestess, her face is set
In silence the procession-but all in step.
Oh, Rough Tor, spread your energy right over the moor
Oh, Rough Tor, sacred king of Bodmin Moor
Pacing the serpent path to the top
The priestess reaches the guardian rocks
On her signal the drumbeat pounds and pounds
Til a bright light appears above the ground
The bright star descends on the plateau below
The old gods return in the torches glow
They meet with the priestess til the sunrise
The people stand in silence, averting their eyes.
New lessons passed on from the gardeners of old
New ways to use the energy the tor doth hold
Build circles to contain it and intensify
To radiate it out for miles and miles.
The Unseen Hand
Chorus:
Beware, oh, man, of the unseen hand
Twill charm thy feet to the old enchanted land
Wild music and song May last til dawn
But one night of theirs is a thousand of yourn.
Old Tom raised his lantern, the darkness lay thick
He’s spied dancing lights at the top of the ridge
Wild fires or wild witches, he could not be sure
As he turned up the path that led to the tor.
On reaching the summit old Tom rubbed his eyes
A banquet magnificent lit by lamplight
And dancing together small lords and ladies
In frock coats and ball gowns on daintiest feet.
Come hither one beckoned and join in the fun
As Tom stood enchanted unable to run
But fortune lay with him that wild stormy night
As he stepped in the ring and extinguished those lights.
No more tinkling laughter no fiddle and pipe
No more magic lanterns, just darkest of nights
With feet heavy and weary Tom trudged down the path
Awake or dreaming he dared not to ask.
His tale is remembered though few he did tell
Twas believed and recounted by those he knew well
To this day the summit bears witness to it all
Long known by the locals as old laughter tor.
Like the Roses
Neath an oak I watched the rainfall, pulled my coat up tight and stood, like a frightened snail I hid there trying not to see the good, but the roses loved the rainfall, turned their faces to the sky, grateful for the drink of water, looked at me and wondered why.
Oh rain fall on me, I can’t even say why, it might free my soul, liberate my mind. Rain fall on me till I almost drown, I need to feel my life turn around.
I can see a double rainbow but I don’t know how it’s made, could it be I’m not supposed to think about that perfect shape, If I try I might remember how to look and how to see, possibly I might just realise how to live and how to be.
It is so hard to remember what it’s like to walk and run, thinking only of the moment under wind and sky and sun, if I could be like the roses there would be no need for grief, thankful for the simple pleasures, feeling happy, sweet relief.
Deadwood Dick
Deadwood Dick soon got his name
Ridin shotgun on the Deadwood stage
Aint no outlaw in the wild wild West
Ready to tackle with that Winchester
There’s a Cornishman whose tale now needs to be told
Rode a Falmouth packet to join in the rush for gold
3 months later in Frisco Bay, fog was layin like a dog all day
Dickie hopped a wagon cross Californi-iyay
All the way to sierra Nevada they was headed that day
It was here they was told the richest goldfields lay
6 weeks later when they reached the camp all the 49ers thought he looked like a tramp
But Richard never cared what folks had to say.
For 10 long years he panned and hacked away
Though the camp was rough he was tougher than most of they
Then the day came when he needed a change, Signed up as a guard on the Deadwood stage
After that his problems went away.
Now Richard had handled a gun back in the day
He was the sharpest shooter in Californi-iyay
When Lame Johnny held up the stage didn’t take a minute ‘fore Dick had won the day
And that was how young Richard earned his fame.
Now the bandits who roamed the trails soon learned to hide
To go against young Richard was suicide
So Charley, Pegleg, Dunk and Bill found other ways to get their thrills
And his legend just grew stronger when he died.
Oh the Deadwood stage is rollin on over the plains
With the curtains flappin and the driver snappin the reins
A beautiful day, a wonderful sky
Whip crack away, whip crack away, whip crack away.
In Millook Wood
In Millook Wood by the celandines I saw a dark shape pass behind
It was no man, stood about knee high
I saw it from the corner of my eye.
Oh listen, man, why do you step here?
You have taken all that we hold dear
Once forest spread from coast to coast
You’ve cut down what we love the most
Oh I believe when the world was young that man and nature lived as one
And spirits all he could plainly see
As they danced around from tree to tree
Oh listen, man that you may perceive
Without us you would have no trees
Our sacred task has been all along
To keep the greenwood healthy and strong
No sight have I no way to perceive how nature sprites their magic weave
But if I try maybe I’ll succeed
And Millook wood will welcome me.
Browney In The House
I swear there’s a browney in this house
It can’t be a spriggan or a sprite
He helps with the building work, that’s true
But nearly all by night, nearly all at night.
Who’s that steppin’ on my roof at 1 o’clock in the morning?
Checking the chimney’s waterproof
Has to be that browney, oh, keeper of Bell cottage.
Who’s that sanding my new door at 2 o’clock in the mornin’?
Finishing the work that’s gone before
Must be Mr Browney, oh, guardian of Bell Cottage.
Who’s that crunching in my yard at 3 o’clock in the morning?
Checking the concrete’s nice and hard
Has to be that browney, oh, keeper of Bell Cottage
Who’s that scraping down below at 4 o’clock in the morning?
Checking the fire has lost its glow
Must be Mr. Browney, oh, keeper of Bell Cottage.