The Mudcat Café TM
Thread #141748 Message #3263934
Posted By: GUEST,Mike Leigh
26-Nov-11 - 05:13 PM
Thread Name: Lyr Add: Ring the Summer Home (Ewan MacColl)
Subject: Lyr Add: RING THE SUMMER HOME (Ewan MacColl)
I recently acquired Ewan MacColl's album, Antiquities, and was blown away by his song "Ring the Summer Home"-- a telling of the Peasants' Revolt (aka Wat Tyler's Rebellion, or the Great Rising of 1381).
Wanting to understand the history better-- and unable to find the lyrics anywhere-- I transcribed them to the best of my abilities and did a little digging on Wikipedia to clear up some of the names. I hope this will save someone else some time--and encourage someone to correct my errors!
RING THE SUMMER HOME (Ewan MacColl)
Our king went forth to Normandy With grace and might and chivalry, The God for him wrought marvelously, Wherefore England may call and cry, "Deo Gratias."
The king went forth to Normandy, pride of might and chivalry Welsh and English lowbowmen, bondmen, serfs were in the band While at home men and women labored in the fields, That the masters might enjoy their yield. Live and die in the eye and bonds of Edward's laws, Caught up in the toils of Edward's wars.
In the 13th year of the war came the pestilence to our shore. Sergeant Death stalked through the land, Murder walked at his right hand. Kings and their conscript armies play their bloody games In the fertile fields of Aquitaine. Children die caught upon the point of hunger's lance, While their fathers die in the fields of France.
In the 40th year of the war, Richard flogged us with the law Beat us with a new poll tax Flayed the skin from off our backs Our lives are forfeit, caught between the granite millstones Of the church and state and king's throne They grind our bodies down, our very souls they plunder, While our children die of hunger.
The ax was sharp, the stalk was hard, In the fourteenth year of King Richard In the blade of the next poll tax, Honed till sharper than the ax. The sweating reaper sees the hated tax collector pass, Time he fits to put the scythe to the grass. "The time has come to put the wheat away, uproot them all," Says the farmer-priest of York, John Ball.
Thirteen hundred eighty-one: Now the sheep shearing time has come. With King Richard's third poll tax, Hear the cry, "Get off our backs!" Now soon the sheep will shear the wolf, The lambs will show their teeth. Soon the wrestlers will be on the heap, And we will dance the true man's Morris at the Whitson games To the welcome sound of broken chains
Thirteen hundred eighty-one: Now the May games have begun Brentwood, all(?) begin the jig Dance the poll tax whirligig The tax collectors they are forced to join the rebel dance High up in the air they twitch and prance Across the Thames the army of the Essex bondmen went Joining forces with the men of Kent
We have brought the harvest home Yes we have brought the summer home And we have cut and stacked the corn Yes we have brought the summer home And sent the tax collector running We have brought the summer home Sent the tax commissioners running We have brought the summer home And helped the robber, he is hiding We have brought the harvest home And the noble knights are hiding And the noble squires are hiding And the noble lords are hiding And the stiff-necked priors are hiding And the abbots they are hiding And the bishops they are hiding We have brought the summer home Yes, we have brought the summer home
We have made a good beginning Since that glorious day in Brentwood When we chased the tax collectors And the day we marched to Maidstone And we brought the summer home Since we freed John Ball from prison Since we burned Lancaster's palace Since we stormed Rochester castle Took the head off our archbishop And the head off Robert Hales And the head off Sir John Fordham We have brought the summer home Yes we have brought the summer home
When able ___ went into Dartford And when on to capture Graveson(?) And we brought the summer home And we sacked the marshall sea(?) Yes as we brought the summer home Yes we brought the summer home
How we reveled in the May Day With the chasing of the landlords And we celebrated Pentecost With John Ball and Wat Tyler And the feast of the sheep shearing With Jack Straw and William Briancaw(?) And the feast of the feast of corpus cristi With the bleeding of the glutton And the vigil of St. John the Baptist brought the summer home
All the south has caught on fire Norfolk, Hampshire, Hartfordshire Johann(?) Nameless, Thomas Stott(?) Here's the plowman home and Wat To Canterbury 50,000 men of Kent are sped England's chancellor will lose his head And then Wat Tyler and his men are London bound Pull the nobles and their prelates down
All the taxers got the priests "Ring the necks of noble geese!" Loose all prisoners, set them free From Newgate and the Marshall sea(?) Burn down the palace of the Duke of Lancaster Who's the servant now, sir, who's the master? Tear the tyrant Treasurer of England from his bed See how he can fare without his head!
Adam Atwell -- and John Bowlin Nicholas Boatland – Simon Burley And Jack Cave – master baker And John Kent – a shoe maker And George Donesby – of Lincoln William Gricall – of St. Albans Thomas Harding – __stone mason Also Hugh Harvey – of Chester And there's able ___ – of Brentwood And Richard Kendall – and John Kirby Geoffrey Litster – dyer of Stafford And Jack Millner – John de M___ There's John Potter – master fuller And Ray Fr___ – and Walter Civil Thomas Simpson – basketmaker And Jack Straw – and Alan Gretter There's Will Tonge – and Warwick Westbroom(?) John de W____ And there's Wat Tyler …
July, thirteen eighty-one: Brave Wat Tyler's come and gone Killed by creatures of the court Killing bondmen his royal sport John Ball was stretched upon the rack, then disemboweled and hung His broken body on a dunghill flung He said that when the great ones had been rooted up and cast away Only then will we learn to be free
Nineteen hundred eighty-nine Against the new poll tax combine Join the men of eighty-one Finish what John Ball began Now we can stretch our hands across time's ocean wide Marching on at Wat Tyler's side All honor to the ragged bands who at Smithfield lay Those who braved the ax and led the way.