1. |
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Said Bertie to his girl last night "Your people don't like me,
They'd raise their hats and kiss me if they knew my pedigree.
My Pa was a railway porter, he fought at Waterloo,
My Ma was a fisherman's daughter,
That is why I'm fishing for you
I've been a baker and an undertaker
And a cocktail shaker in Peru.
Tell Your Father, Tell your Mother
That I'm good enough for you.
I’ve been a waiter and I used to cater
To an alligator in the zoo.
Tell Your Father, Tell your Mother
that I'm good enough for you.
I've been an M. A. and a B. A.
They say I'm M. U. G,
I can trace my pedigree to
Nineteen thirty-three,
As the cook house slavey in the old Swiss Navy
I have served the gravy to the crew,
Tell Your Father, Tell your Mother
That I'm good enough for you.
Said Bertie “All my family have laboured very hard”,
“You’ll find their portraits all around the walls of Scotland Yard”
The job I’ve got now is tidy,
I work for Jones & Sons,
I only go in on Good Friday,
Putting crosses on hot cross buns.
I’ve been a doorman and I’ve been a Mormon,
And a very warm ‘un if you knew,
Tell Your Father, Tell your Mother,
That I'm good enough for you.
I’ve been a ringer and I’ve a Highland flinger,
And a tenor singer with the flu,
Tell Your Father, Tell your Mother,
That I'm good enough for you.
I’ve been a horse thief and a fish thief,
Why once I pinched a whale,
Half my life I’ve been on bail,
The other half in jail.
Oh I’ve fixed a girder, been a dead sheep herder,
And I’ve done a murder one or two,
Tell Your Father, Tell your Mother,
That I'm good enough for you.
I’ve been respected by the well-connected,
I’ve been disinfected by them too,
Tell Your Father, Tell your Mother,
That I'm good enough for you.
I’ve been a flier and an occupier,
Of the black Maria with a crew,
Tell Your Father, Tell your Mother,
That I'm good enough for you.
I’ve been to Oxford and Cambridge,
I’ve been to borstal too,
I’ve roamed the world all over,
From Wigan down to Crew.
Oh I’ve been a thatcher and a trouser patcher,
And an earwig catcher up at Kew,
Tell Your Father, Tell your Mother,
That I'm good enough for you.
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2. |
No Master
03:45
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Saith man to man, We've heard and known
That we no master need
To live upon this earth, our own,
In fair and manly deed.
The grief of slaves long passed away
For us hath forged the chain,
Till now each worker's patient day
Builds up the House of Pain.
And we, shall we too, crouch and quail,
Ashamed, afraid of strife,
And lest our lives untimely fail
Embrace the Death in Life?
Nay, cry aloud, and have no fear,
We few against the world;
Awake, arise! the hope we bear
Against the curse is hurled.
It grows and grows--are we the same,
The feeble band, the few?
Or what are these with eyes aflame,
And hands to deal and do?
This is the host that bears the word,
No Master High or Low
A lightning flame, a shearing sword,
A storm to overthrow.
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3. |
Paris
04:49
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Walk the lonely streets at midnight
In the gently falling rain
Throw some money to the clochard
Who is sleeping in the lane
And I remember how I loved you
All the pleasure and the pain
While the lovers all lie sleeping
In the early morning rain
See the lights across the river
In the water how they shine
And I remember all those faces
That have vanished into time
And I remember how I loved you
All the pleasure and the pain
While the lovers all lie sleeping
In the early morning rain
In the city all lie sleeping
Though the city never sleeps
And the autumn leaves they tumble
And they gather at my feet
And I remember how I loved you
All the pleasure and the pain
While the lovers all lie sleeping
In the early morning rain
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4. |
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If you want to see the bustle of our East-end London life
Tis a matter very easy, soon you’re in the busy strife.
“Here you are, sir, Mile End Road sir, Jump up here along with me”
O’er the bridge and through the city off you rattle speedily
Hear the busman’s merry banter with the cabmen on the way,
“Now then old-un, Come pull up there, Ain’t you had a fare all day?”
Up through Fenchurch Street he takes you, and before long you get down,
Amid the scenes you’ve come to visit in the wild, wild East of Town.
There you see the busy throng,
How they push each other along,
Some with a jovial laugh and song,
Some with woe quite undone.
Who shall ever stay that tide?
To the end it will abide,
Riches and poverty side by side.
That is life in the East-end of London.
See the coster with his barrow, loudly shouting “Buy, buy buy!”
“Fine and large, who’ll buy a marrow?” sells his lot feels bloomin’ dry.
Goes into a pub, close handy, but he knows the one to choose,
Stops until he’s chucked out singing rorty songs and full of booze.
Then on Sundays he and others take their donahs for a drive,
And to seat behind one gee-gee they can manage twenty five!
Off to Epping, good old Epping, late at night come home again,
No one knows which is his donah, each one shouts a different strain…
“When the Bloom is on the Rye”,
“Hi-tiddley-hi-ti-tiddley-hi-ti-ti”,
“Drink up boys and never say die!”
Never is the fun done.
“Gipsy Maid” must harmonize,
with “Two lovely fine black eyes”,
“Happy go lucky the coster boys!”,
That is life in the East-end of London.
Mark the Jew there, old clothes selling, swears the coat’s a perfect love.
“Fits you where it touches, does it? So help me fits you like a glove”.
See the loafing drunken ruffian, children clinging to his knee,
“Come home father, we’re so hungry, do come home to mother please”.
See the chickaleary joker, does the dipping, knows his game,
See the outcast on the pavement, once so pure now lost to shame.
See the heartless wealthy sweater, fat and sleek and knows his book,
The upon his toil-worn victim let us cast a pitying look…
Stitch, Stitch, Stitch, in poverty,
Every night and day is she,
For her starving children three,
Harder work by none done.
Stitch, Stitch, Stitch, while bread they crave,
Doomed to die the sweaters slave,
Her only rest is the paupers grave,
Such is life in the East-end of London.
Walk up Brick Lane to Shoreditch High Street,
Squint your eyes and try to see,
The barista in the coffee outlet, can I get a chai latte?
Commutes for hours from distant suburbs
Or drowning in the flood of wealth,
A tide of glass and steel and concrete
That blazes light but eats itself.
See the cleaner from the hotel, dreams of home across the sea.
See the broker in his Merc can sell you authenticity.
See the coster’s pub still standing, but lunch is a week of the living wage,
And the endless stream of data mongers, “reach out” and “scrum” and quietly rage.
Still you see the busy throng,
Still do the work but no place to belong,
Still the market, the bus, the lost ones,
Still the sweater strutting.
Who shall ever stay that tide?
To the end it will abide,
Riches and poverty side by side.
That is life in the East-end of London.
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5. |
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Never say the final journey is at hand
Never say we can’t live equal in this land,
The longed-for hour shall come, oh never fear!
Our tread drums forth the tidings - we are here!
From land of palm-tree to the far-off land of snow,
We shall be coming with our torment and our woe.
And everywhere our blood has sunk into the earth,
Shall our bravery, our vigour blossom forth!
We’ll have the morning sun to set our day aglow,
And all our yesterdays shall vanish with the foe,
And if the time is long before the sun appears,
Then let this song go like a signal through the years.
This song was written with our blood and not with lead;
It’s not a song that birds sing overhead,
It was a people, among toppling barricades,
That sang this song of ours with pistols and grenades.
So never say that there is only death for you.
Leaden skies may be concealing days of blue -
Because the hour we have hungered for is near;
Beneath our tread the earth shall tremble: We are here!
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6. |
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One cold and frosty morning, when the snow was falling thick,
A tragedy I witnessed and it cut me to the quick.
A stony-hearted neighbour drove her cat into the yard.
I wiped a teardrop from my eye and said, "Don't be so hard!"
Don't do that to the poor puss cat. No, no, no, no, no.
Don't do that to the poor puss cat. Please don't treat him so.
He was out last night, it's true,
But he likes a cuddle just the same as you,
So don't do that to the poor puss cat. No, no, no, no, no.
Don't do that to the poor puss cat. No, no, no, no, no.
Don't do that to the poor puss cat. Please don't treat him so.
Of that ginger cat he's fond.
Showing even Thomas cats prefer a blonde.
So don't do that to the poor puss cat. Ah, no, no, no, no, no.
Don't do that to the poor puss cat. No, no, no, no, no.
Don't do that to the poor puss cat. Please don't treat him so.
I said to Mrs. Brownwood-hale
Who was mopping up the scullery with the tomcat's tail
Don't do that to the poor puss cat. No, no, no, no, no.
Don't do that to the poor puss cat. No, no, no, no, no.
Don't do that to the poor puss cat. Please don't treat him so.
Though his whiskers may be wet
You must never kick a pussy in his crystal set
Don't do that to the poor puss cat. No, no, no, no, no.
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Russ Chandler London, UK
Russ Chandler is a forceful singer and banjo player who sings songs he feels have something to say to the world we live
in.
He plays traditional, political and modern songs.
He is a fine banjo player and as well as giving concerts can teach and give presentations on the history and culture of the instrument.
His first album Last Night In Babylon was described by fRoots magazine as “Masterly”
... more
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