Tony,

Hi.

The Transports was not written by the Young Tradition but by the incomparable, much missed, late lamented Peter Bellamy as a solo project long after the YT's demise.

I believe that the work is available on CD.

I enclose "I Once Lived in Service.”

Cheers

I ONCE LIVED IN SERVICE

I once lived in service to a lady so fine.
I served her by night and by day-oh.
I carried the dishes when the lady would dine,
And after I cleared them away.
Oh, dear me, how can it be?
The life of a servant is all slavery.

I made up her bed and I turned down her sheet.
I ironed the dresses she wore-oh.
I peeled her potatoes. I roasted her meats,
And 'twas I, with me broom, swept her floor.
Oh, dear me, how can it be?
The life of a servant is all misery.

I scrubbed her front doorstep, I polished her plate.
I put coals in the pan for her bed-oh.
I rose before sunlight to blacklead her grate,
And at midnight I laid down my head.
Oh, dear me, how can it be?
The life of a servant is all drudgery.

I carried her water. I answered her door.
I polished the shoes for her feet-oh.
And when she went to church, then her prayer book I bore,
Behind as she marched down the street.
Oh, dear me, how can it be?
The life of a servant's a penance to me.

Now, I met a young man in the village one day
As I run to the shop for her bread-oh.
He asked me my name, but I had to away,
Lest my mistress should break my poor head.
Oh, dear me, how can it be?
The life of a servant has no liberty.

So that night as I lay in my attic so bare
I resolved that I would run away-oh,
And all for to honour the waggoner's fare,
Some silver spoons took for my pay.
Oh, dear me, how can it be?
The life of a servant is melancholy.

Now I lie in prison but I will not weep.
Who knows what tomorrow may hold-oh?
There's some fine lads in here for my company to keep.
There's strong arms to keep me from cold.
Oh, dear me, how can it be?
The life of a convict is all chivalry.

Now I've known confinement the most of my years.
Small freedom did I ever ken-oh.
Some prisons, sure, they have no cold iron bars,
But some prisons, sure, they have no men.
Oh dear me, how can it be?
The life of a convict's a pleasure to me.
Oh, dear me, how can it be?
The life of a servant was never so free.

HTML line breaks added. --JoeClone, 6-Apr-02.