1. |
Honest Poverty
03:13
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Is there for honest Poverty
That hings his head, an' a' that;
The coward slave-we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that.
Our toils obscure an' a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The Man's the gowd for a' that.
What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an' a that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;
A Man's a Man for a' that:
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that;
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.
Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that:
For a' that, an' a' that,
His ribband, star, an' a' that:
The man o' independent mind
He looks an' laughs at a' that.
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's abon his might,
Gude faith, he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities an' a' that;
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a' that,)
That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That Man to Man, the world o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.
hings – hangs / gowd – gold / hamely fare – homely foods /
hoddin grey – coarse woollen cloth /
birkie ca’d – fellow called /
coof – fool / aboon – above /
guid – good / mauna fa’ that – must not be like /
bear the gree – win the day / warld – world / brithers – brothers
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2. |
Champions of Freedom
00:59
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3. |
Song of Freedom
03:53
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Chorus
O! awa wi sic sangs as aft hae been sung,
The lyre to fond freedom has scarcely been strung;
Sae now strike the lyre, an’ this sang gie to me,
The sweetest o’ a’ sangs that breathes o’ the free
Weak puffs blawin’ praises baith empty an’ vain,
To favour the rich folk, an’ court a big name;
The maist o’ the sangs sung in years that’s awa,
An’ sung now a-days – a trows a – but a blaw
The bards* o’ langsyne sung loud praises to kings –
To proud peers, an’ princes, and sic pamper’d things;
Strung their lyres to the fame o’ the walthy an’ great,
Ranted awa about the Kirk an’ the State
To Love, War, an’ Wine, they hae mony sangs gien –
But few to sweet Freedom, their bosom’s best frien’:
And Freedom – fair Freedom – the night o’ our birth,
Smiles now like the simmer sun far o’er the earth
Lang tired wi’ the rants and the sangs o’ langsyne,
Mankind sing the sangs o’ a happier time;
When nations an’ nation an’ ane will agree,
An’ the hale earth resound wi’ sangs o’ the free.
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4. |
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We may not live to see the day,
But earth shall glisten in the ray
Of the good time coming.
Cannon-balls may aid the truth.
But thought s a weapon stronger;
We'll win our battle by its aid; -
Wait a little longer.
The pen shall supersede the sword.
And Right, not Might, shall be the lord
In the good time coming.
Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind.
And be acknowledged stronger;
The proper impulse has been given; -
Wait a little longer.'
Chorus
There's a good time coming,
A good time coming,
A good time coming,
There's a good time coming,
A good time coming,
A good time coming
War in all men's eyes shall be
A monster of inequity,
In the good time coming.
Nations shall not quarrel then
To prove which is the stronger,
Nor slaughter men for glory's sake,
Wait a little longer.
Hateful rivalries of creed
Shall not make their martyrs bleed
In the good time coming.
Religion shall be shorn of pride.
And flourish all the stronger;
And Charity shall trim her lamp; -
Wait a little longer.
Chorus
Little children shall not toil.
Under or above the soil,
In the good time coming ;
But shall play in healthful fields
Till limbs and mind grow stronger,
And everyone shall read and write;
Wait a little longer.
Let us aid it all we can.
Every woman, every man.
The good time coming.
Smallest helps, if rightly given.
Make the impulse stronger;
'Twill be strong enough one day; -
Wait a little longer.
Chorus
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5. |
My Heather Land
03:05
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My heather land, my heather land!
My dearest pray’r be thine;
Altho’ upon thy hapless heath,
There breathes nae friend o’ mine.
The lanely few that Heaven has spar’d
Fend on a foreign strand;
And I maun wait to weep wi’ thee,
My hameless heather land!
My heather land, my heather land!
Though fairer lands there be,
Thy gow’nie braes in early days,
Were gowden ways to me.
Maun life’s poor boon gae dark’ning doun,
Nor die whaur it had dawn’d,
But claught a grave ayont the wave!
Alas! My heather land!
My heather land, my heather land!
Though chilling winter pours
His freezing breath roun’ fireless hearth,
Whaur breadless misery cow’rs;
Yet breaks the light that soon shall blight
The godless reivin’ hand –
When withered tyranny shall reel
Frae our rous’d heather land!
Ayont, beyond; Baes, knolls; Claught, catch; Doun, down; Fend, struggle for subsistence; Gow’nied, daisied; Maun, must; Whaur, where; Reivin’, despoiling
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6. |
Bennachie
03:04
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O gin I were whaur Gadie rins,
Whaur Gadie rins, whaur Gadie rins,
O gin I were whaur Gadie rins
At the back o' Bennachie.
There’s plenty meal an’ plenty ale
Plenty ale, plenty ale
There’s plenty meal an’ plenty ale
Whaur Gadie rins sae free
Oh! Ye was ance a monarch hill
A monarch hill, a monarch hill
Oh! Ye was ance a monarch hill
Ye set freedom’s footsteps free
But noo unless their honours will
Their honours will, their honours will
But noo unless their honours will
We maunna tred on thee
Ah! yes the heather on thy broo
On thy broo, on thy broo
Ah! yes the heather on thy broo
Can bloom nae mair for me
Mang brawlin heaths and the yella whins
The yella whins, the yella whins
Mang brawlin heaths and the yella whins
Doon the boggy lands I go
I wad ne'er come back again,
Come back again, come back again,
I wad ne'er come back again
Fae the fit o' Bennachie.
The lairds the lairds have ta’en you noo
Have ta’en you noo, have ta’en you noo
The lairds the lairds have ta’en you noo
Ye’re nae oor Bennachie
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7. |
Democratic Chants
03:46
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The tyrants of caste and their old selfish laws
Went down to the beat of the drum,
Heads rolled on the scaffold 'mid frantic applause,
The day of the People had come!
The idols of Wealth and the symbols of Wrong,
The prisons unhallowed and grim,
Were wrecked in an ocean of blood to the song
That pealed as Humanity's hymn.
Chorus
The People held sway to the sound of their voice
Proclaiming equality*
Their heart filled with song, propelling the way
With chants of democracy
And armies went forth to its war-breathing strain
To battle with Liberty's foes.
'Mid Death's gory wreckage on many green plain
Its echoes triumphantly rose.
Purged from the things that had fettered its soul
And hung on its heart as a ban,
A nation rejoiced in the Liberty's goal
The poet had brought unto man.
Chorus
The voice of the poor, the landless, the weak
All speak now with one accord
Not tethered, not taut, nor frightened nor fraught
Burnishing poetry’s sword
The language now spoke was the language of hope
Unbroken, unbridled and strong
Dispelling all doubt, replenishing faith
Heralding Liberty’s dawn
*Political equality
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8. |
The Land Song
02:35
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Sing a song for Freedom, now, and sing it far and wide!
Sing it with new spirit in towns and countryside While the voice of Nature calls o'er the rising tide
"The Land was made for the People!"
Hear the sound is ringing from the East and from the West:
Why should we have to work while the Land-Lords they all rest?
Make them pay their taxes for the Land that we know best
The Land was meant for the People!
Chorus
The Land! The Land! The land belongs to us!
The Land! The Land! C’mon let’s make a fuss!
Why should we be beggars, with the Ballot in our hand?
"The Land belongs to the people!"
We’ll waken up the landlords, wake them from their beds
And read the riot act to them till they agree and nod their heads
They can call us what they want, yellow, green or reds
The Land was meant for the People!
Chorus
So clear the way for justice! The Land will be set free!
We will not falter in the fight, though hard it may be,
We’ll never cease our efforts till we’ve got liberty
And the Land is free for the People!
Chorus
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9. |
Hobo Johnnie
03:27
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The trees they grow ever higher
Can't you hear the wee birds sing?
And the stories round the campfire
The last frontier is everything
Chorus
Ramble on, Hobo Johnnie
Leave the city far behind
Take the byways and the backwoods
Rest your head where the river wynds
In the morning on the hot stove
Porridge boils to start the day
Pack your bags then head northwards
Where your bound who can say
Chorus
Now and then you take some odd job
Turn your hand to get by
A little sheering and a wrangling
You sing of home, sweet lullabies
Chorus
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Alan Dickson Glasgow, UK
Scottish singer songwriter Alan Dickson was born in Leith but now based in Glasgow. Alan writes about life in Scotland and
beyond, mainly of a personal and political nature.
Descended from a Leith docker, he remarks: "as life mimics art I'm just like my grandfather, only he used a rivet gun and I use a guitar."
Among his influences are Robert Burns, Woody Guthrie, Bob Dylan and Dick Gaughan.
... more
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