Subject: Lyr Add: Traveller, The (C. Fox Smith)
From:
Charley Noble
Date: 23 Mar 08 - 01:09 PM
Here's a rambler's song based on a C. Fox Smith poem that's been haunting me for a couple of years. It's the one's I can't forget that I think are worth working up as songs. Evidently Smith couldn't forget the incident this poem is based on either, while she was fishing from the Outer Wharfs in Victoria, British Columbia, back in the early 1900's. Here's how she described that meeting in another of her books:
"The Pacific coast is a great place for rolling stones of every sort and description. I remember meeting what I should say was the very perfection of the type. He was sitting on the edge of the Outer Wharf – it was in Victoria – on a sort of coaming that runs along the edge, very comfortable to sit on, though given to exuding tar in very hot weather. His coat – I don't think there was a shirt underneath – was fastened together with string, being innocent of buttons. His knee showed through his trousers. His boots were ruins. But he spoke with the unmistakable accents of cultivation.
I don't think he was a drunkard; he had none of the squalid signs of it. He may have been a gambler, but I doubt that either. I should rather take him for one of those born tramps, who have some strain of gipsy blood that keeps them constantly on the move, who abhors the clothes, the conventions, the cribbed and cabined life of cities, and choose for their comrades the sailor, the cowboy, the gaucho, for their habitation the tent, the herdsman's hut, the camp-fire, the foc's'les of ships. His eyes were clear and his skin tanned; he had none of that look of the déclassé for all his rags and tatters. I talked to him quite a long time about ships, of which he seemed to know a great deal. I only saw him once. He was the sort you only see once. But I have often wondered what his history was."
Here's my adaptation of the poem, followed by the original words (copy and paste into WORD/TIMES/12 to line up chords):
Poem by Cicely Fox Smith
From Sailor Town: Sea Songs and Ballads, edited by Cicely Fox Smith, published by George H. Doran Co., New York, US, © 1919, pp. 120-122.
Adaped by Charlie Ipcar 3/23/08
Key: Bb (5/F)
The Traveller
G---C-----------------------G-----------------------D--------------------G
I've loops o' string in the place o' buttons, I've mostly holes for a shirt;
----C-------------------------G-------------------D---------------------G
My boots are bust an' my hat's a goner, I'm gritty with dust an' dirt;
----------D----------------G-----------------------C-----------------G
An' I'm sittin' here on a bollard watchin', the China ships go forth,
---------C-----------------G----------------------D--------------------------G
An the little black tugs come a-glidin' with timber booms from the North.
D----------------------G---------------C---------------------G
Sittin' and seein' the broad Pacific break at my feet in foam –
C----------------------------G----------------D-----------------------G
Me that was born with a taste for travel, miles an' miles from home.
Now they sent me away when I was a nipper to the Board School in the slums,
An' some of them kids was good at spellin', some at figurin' sums;
An' whether I went or whether I didn't they learned me nothing at all,
For I'd be watchin' the flies a-walkin' all over the maps on the wall,
Strollin' over the lakes an' mountains, over the plains an' sea, –
As if they was born with a taste for travel – just the same as me!
If I'd been born a rich man's son with lots o' money to burn,
It wouldn't ha' gone for marble mansions an' statues at every turn,
It wouldn't ha' gone for wine an' women, or dogs an' horses an' play,
Nor yet in collectin' bricks an' bracks in a mindless kind of a way;
I'd ha' paid my fare where I've beat my way (but I couldn't ha' liked it more!),
Me that was born with a taste for travel – the same if you're rich or poor.
I'd have gone sailin' in yachts an' rolling in plush Pullman cars, –
The same as I've seen 'em while at anchor, night-time under the stars,
An' I've beat the ties an' rode the bumpers from sea to shinin' sea,
I've work'd like a Turk in the stokehold, an' dined off salt-horse an' tea;
I've melted just like grease at Perim an' froze like boards off the Horn –
All because of a taste for travel that was in me when I was born.
Well, I ain't got folks an' I ain't got money, I ain't got nothing at all,
But a queer old thirst that keeps me movin', movin' on till I fall,
An' many a time I've been short o' shelter an' many a time o' grub,
But I've got away from the rows o' houses, the streets, an' the corner pub –
So here by the side of a sea that's shining under a sky like flame,
Me that was born with a taste for travel, give thanks because o' the same.
Poem by Cicely Fox Smith
From Sailor Town: Sea Songs and Ballads, edited by Cicely Fox Smith, published by George H. Doran Co., New York, US, © 1919, pp. 120-122. First appeared in Songs in Sail published by Elkin Mathews, © 1914.
The Traveller
I've loops o' string in the place o' buttons, I've mostly holes for a shirt;
My boots are bust and my hat's a goner, I'm gritty with dust an' dirt;
An' I'm sitting here on a bollard watching the China ships go forth,
Seeing the black little tugs come sliding with timber booms from the North.
Sitting and seeing the broad Pacific break at my feet in foam.
Me that was born with a taste for travel in a back alley at home.
They put me to school when I was a nipper at the Board School down in the slums,
And some of the kids was good at spelling and some at figures and sums;
And whether I went or whether I didn't they learned me nothing at all,
Only I'd watch the flies go walking over the maps on the wall,
Strolling over the lakes an' mountains, over the plains an' sea, –
As if they was born with a taste for travel – something the same as me!
If I'd been born a rich man's youngster with lots o' money to burn,
It wouldn't ha' gone in marble mansions and statues at every turn,
It wouldn't ha' gone in wine and women, or dogs an' horses an' play,
Nor yet in collecting bricks and bracks in a harmless kind of a way;
I'd ha' paid my fare where I've beat my way (but I couldn't ha' liked it more!),
Me that was born with a taste for travel – the same if you're rich or poor.
I'd ha' gone bowling in yachts and rolling in plush padded Pullman cars, –
The same as I've seen 'em when I lay resting at night-time under the stars,
Me that have beat the ties and rode the bumpers from sea to sea,
Me that have sweated in stokeholds and dined off mouldy salt-horse and tea;
Me that have melted like grease at Perim and froze like boards off the Horn,
All along of a taste for travel that was in me when I was born.
I ain't got folks and I ain't got money, I ain't got nothing at all,
But a sort of a queer old thirst that keeps me moving on till I fall,
And many a time I've been short o' shelter and many a time o' grub,
But I've got away from the rows o' houses, the streets, an' the corner pub –
And here by the side of a sea that's shining under a sky like flame,
Me that was born with a taste for travel, give thanks because o' the same.
Cheerily,
Charley Noble
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