Hesk: Fashion seems to be at the root of this. There is always a current song that is done to death in singarounds at Folk Festivals. The song of the moment will then largely disappear, except when some poor soul starts to sing it to general disapproval! "Streets of London" is one of these from way, way back.

I know that feeling! I wrote this in 1975 -tunes should be self-evident!

MacNamara's Lament.

Oh my name is MacNamara, and I played the clubs at night,
Till people heard which songs I'd choose, then I'd end up in a fight.
I've been kicked out of each and every folk club in the land,
And now when I try to sing, they tell me "MacNamara's banned".
(La da da da di da di da da.)

Well my mother always taught me that the old songs were the best,
That an audience that could sing along would leave the club impressed.
It never seems quite to work out that way, though I always make the point
That I learned my songs at my mother's knee –or some other low-down joint.
(La da da da di da di da da.)

I've sung the Wild Rover for many a year,
While plastered on whisky, or sodden with beer.
But my audiences think it's a terrible song,
That it's clichéd and hackneyed and boring and long,
And it's no, nay, never: no nay never no more
Will I play the "Wild Rover" their side of the door.

Now as I was a-singing about Kilgarry Mountain
I looked into the audience, their money they were counting.
I'd polished off the second verse, and started on the third one,
I waited for a shout for "more" –but alas, I never heard one:
"Not much time to be drinking left
-We've heard this song before,
We've heard this song before,
And there's whisky at the bar."

These were the only songs I'd learned, and they only numbered two,
I thought that maybe it was time to come up with something new.
I learned a contemporary American song I thought no-one had heard,
But then the audience prompted me when I forgot the words.

-It's a ballad every audience is humming, round and round, round and round.
And that everyone who knows three chords is strumming into the ground, into the ground.
When a floor singer stands, a guitar in his hands
And plays it, you'll generally find
All the other singers there run their fingers through their hair
-You know that was the first song on their minds.

So will every singer who hears this song please make a solemn vow
That if you usually sing these three, you'll stop it as of now.
Your repertoires all will still be large, you won't miss them a lot,
But pity poor MacNamara: they're the only ones I've got.