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This Fleeting Liberty

by Alan Dickson

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1.
Over Mountains Over mountains I hear calling Over mountains to the sea Over mountains I hear calling Calling out to me Over mountains over valleys Over mountains to the sea Over mountains I hear calling Come to set me free On the wind I hear her stories Echoing from shore to shore From on high she whispers stories Then grows into a roar Over mountains over valleys Over mountains to the sea Over mountains I hear calling Come to set me free She is wise and she is old Older than the oldest rock Keeper of the flame of wisdom They call her the Cailleach Over mountains over valleys Over mountains to the sea Over mountains I hear calling She’s come to set us free Praise of Ben Dorain The honour o'er each hill Hath Ben Dorain ; Scene, to me, the sweetest still That day dawns upon : Its long moor's level way, And its nooks whence wild deer stray, To the lustre on the brae Oft I 've lauded them. I would rather have the deer Gasping meaningly, Than all Erin's songs to hear Sung melodiously ; For above the finest bass Hath the stag's sweet voice a grace, As he bellows on the face Of Ben Dorain.
2.
Our-bonny burnsides they hae drained and dug, The crooks o the burn they hae altered too; The green ferny knows where the hare lay snug, They hae cleared o’ ilk buss, and riven wi the pleugh. The bonny green braes by the foggy dell Where grew the broom and the black slae-thorn, They hae levelled down wi a purpose fell, And Nature laments as her beauties torn. The moor and the moss they hae aa ta’en in To add to the great man’s wealth and store, And the green bog-land, where sykes did rin, Will bear the hay for our kye no more. They hae torn up the sod o’ the lang-syne fauld, And scattered the dust o’ the hill-side cairn, Where lay the bones o’ the warriors auld, And Nature laments aa her beauties torn. They hae choked up the well that flowed sae free, And the bonny well-strand they hae drained away, Where young maiden Helen sang in her glee, Or hied wi her full stoups up the brae. Where flourished the rash-bus down yon howe, The barley rigs now wave there unshorn; And there mong the rashes we’ll nae mair rowe, Where Nature laments aa her beauties torn.
3.
On a Friday it fell in the month of April O'er the hill came the morn with the blythe sunny smile And the folks they were throngin' the roads everywhere Makin' haste to be in at Copshawholme Fair I've seen them coming in over mountain and glen, Both rosy faced lasses and strapping young men, With a joy in their hearts and unburdened of care, They'll be meeting old friends at Copshawholme Fair. There's lads for the lasses, there's toys for the bairns, There are fiddlers and tumblers and folks with no arms, There's a balancer here and a fiddler there, And a nut man and spice man at Copshawhome Fair. Oh but now about the hiring if you want to hear tell, You should ken it as far as I've seen it myself, What wages they addle it's ill to declare, The muckle they vary at Copshawholme Fair. The first I saw hired was a strapping young queen, And he asked what her age was and where she had been, What work she'd been doing - how long she'd been there, What wages she wanted at Copshawholme Fair. Just then the big lass stood a wee while in gloom, Then she turned and she scraped with her feet on the ground, Then she plucked up her heart and did stoutly declare, "I'll have five pound and ten at Copshawholme Fair". He says, "But my lass that's a very big wage", Then he turned him about like he'd been in a rage, Said "I'll give you five pound but I'll give you nae mair, But I think you will take it at Copshawholme Fair". He put his hand in his pocket, took a hold of bit wench In case it should enter her hand for to flinch But she grabbed at it muttering, "I should have had mair But I think I wll take it at Copshawholme Fair". Now the hiring is over and off they all gang, Into the ballroom for to join in the thrang, And I never shall lie with my mammy nae mair, For the fiddlers play briskly at Copshawholme Fair.
4.
The world's a' gane gyte I ween, Sin' days that I hae min', There's nae sae muckle happiness, As ma'd to be langsyne; When ilka bodie had a hame, Apart frae dule and gloom, Unlike the black unshallow'd leak, O' this dark dinsome toun. Nae cottage here, nae shaded grove, Or wimplin' burn is seen, Nae throstle sings its e'ening sang On hills o' ivy green; Nae ingle-side sae cheerie-like, As whar my mither spun, Or whar the list and corn deckt, My faither's plot o' grun. The hills where aft I herded kye, And whar my bairnhood grew, Ha'e wither'd neith oppression's han' And darken'd in my view; The cottar's skippin' lambs ha'e fled, The flowery mountain's side, And mould'ring low, mang thirls lie, The cot, the cottar's pride. But better days I hope to see, Wi' years no far awa', When freedom won, and peace begun, Shall reign among us a'; When mither-nature's nursing-breast To a' alike laid bare, Shall ha'e nae stepbairn-born-rave, Excluded from her care.
5.
Airn John 03:28
Airn John if that’s yer name a warnin’ take frae me Ye better find some other scheme and let the green a be Just look at it yerself John there’s no an awful work For you to sel’ the Glasga Green to pay the west-end park If your sae fond a coal John gang up tae Port Dundas For you’ll get plenty there John wi’ which to cut a dash Tak’ up a cuddy cart John and nappit in the dark Tae save the bonnie Glasga Green and pay the west-end park But honest men like you John are uncollate to steal Frae rich folk like themsel’ John they think it is na weel Ye’d rather sink the puir John that hasnae secord sark You’d pu’ the buttons aff oor coats tae pay the west-end park If you maun sink a pit John sink it in Georgie Square Or up alang the Crescents amang the rich folk there For they’d be highly pleased I’m sure tae see such noble work Gone on amang themselves John to pay the west-end park If you come tae the Green John ye maun expect a fight For a’ the folk at oor gate-end they’ll stand oot for the right We’ll come wi’ sticks and stanes John and fight while we must stark You’ll never get the Glasga Green tae pay your west-end park
6.
Depression 02:59
Nae wunner the times maks us a’ discontenet For faith the puir fairmers they’ve cause to complain The meal is cheap sellin their fairms high rentit And sma is their profit when sellin their grain. Some one thing some other likewise the bad weather The craps torn doon wi’ the torrents o’ rain The cattle that’s parket will no tak the market We’ll jist tak them in for a twalmonth again. It’s aft hae I heard my auld granny tellin’ That fairmin in her day – that wid a bin nine – There wis plenty o’ siller and the meal aye weel sellin It made her richt wae when she thocht on langsyne. But the cursed gentry they walk oot on sentry They coont ilka plack and babie that they won Walks out at their leisure, lies up at their pleasure Like Solomon’s lilies they card not nor spin. But we’ll fill up a nappie* and tak a wee drappie And aye be contented wherever we go Nae longer this nation will thole the oppression The laird and the factor will get an overthrow. *drinking bowl
7.
COME, all ye jolly deer-stalkers, who hold the Highland hills, And count your honours by the heads each stout-legged hero kills, Who gather gold by digging coals, or else by brewing beer, And scour with me the Highland glens in the season of the year. Chorus For we bought the hills with English gold, And what we bought we’ll keep; The hills ‘tis clear were meant for deer, And not for men or sheep. These scurvy Scots at Bannockburn, they made a sturdy fight, When our good Edward turned his back to Bruce and Wallace wight; In savage times the savage steel the land could stoutly hold, But times are changed, and John Bull now buys Scotland with his gold. For we bought, &c. They talk of right and liberty; the bird to fly is free; But when my rifle brings him down, the bird belongs to me; For might makes right, and he must quit his own who cannot hold; All rights must yield to mights, and all the mights must yield to gold! For we bought, &c. Then come and scour the hills with me, ye jolly hunters all! Draw fences round the Bens, and have the keepers at your call; And, if a rambling lawless loon, ye find approaching near, Just turn him back upon his track, for he’ll disturb the deer! For we bought, &c. And if you find old feckless dames, that make their fingers free To pluck blaeberries on the hill, or berries aught to be, Tell them the hills are for the deer, that hold their antlers high, Not for such yellow-wrinkled hags - were better far to die! For we bought, &c. Then come and scour the Bens with me, ye jolly stalkers all, With lawyers to defend your right, and gillies at your call! These crofter carles may cross the sea, but we are masters here, And say to all, both great and small — Let none disturb the deer! For we bought the Bens with English gold, And what we bought we’ll keep; The Bens ‘tis clear were meant for deer, And not for men or sheep!
8.
O St Bride of the yellow hair Paul said, and St Peter said, And all the saints alive or dead Vowed she had the sweetest head, Bonnie, sweet St Bride of the yellow, yellow hair. White may my milking be, white as thee; Thy face is white, thy neck is white, Thy hands are white, thy feet are white, For thy sweet soul is shining bright Bonnie, sweet St Bride of the yellow, yellow hair. Yellow may my butter be, soft, and round; Thy breasts are sweet, soft and round So may my butter be O so sweet Safe thy way is safe St Bride Bonnie, sweet St Bride of the yellow, yellow hair. May my kye come home at even, None be fallin' none be leavin', Dusky even, breath-sweet even, Keepest tryst with God in heaven Bonnie, sweet St Bride of the yellow, yellow hair. And souls be shriven here as there 'Tis breath-sweet even far and wide Sings thy maid in thy shade O dear to me St Bridget, Bride Bonnie, sweet St Bride of the yellow, yellow hair.
9.
Where Leven sings lullaby There comes a dark maid The twilight gleam is in her eye Her hair tied in a braid And like a love-sick lenashee She has my heart in thrall Nor life I owe nor liberty For love is lord of all I often walk around her shore By Lomond and Tullochewan Her welcome, like her love for me Is from her heart within And, when I stir my foot to go 'Tis leaving love and light To feel the wind of longing blow From out the dark of night

about

'This Fleeting Liberty' is organised around the theme of renewal (earth). It is the fourth album in the 'Strains of Eden' roots music project. It aims to retell Scotland's story by weaving a rich tapestry of song through the elements of fire, air, water, and earth from which springs our humanity and democracy.

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released May 9, 2017

© ℗ Rowth Records 2017
© Rowth Publishing 2017

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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.
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