Author Archives: Brooke Turpin

The Miller of Dee

My informant is from England. He moved to the United States with my grandmother and my mother when my mother was 2. He grew up near London and still has a thick British accent, despite having now lived in the United States since the 1960s. When I go to his house to ask about folklore that he may have learned in England, anything a part of his history, he says, “Any folklore I know I have learned through listening to folk songs. Mostly, old English folk songs.” Music means everything to my grandmother and my informant. He excitedly takes me to his cabinet of CDs where he has a plethora of English and American folk CDs. This doesn’t surprise me in the slightest, because ever since I was little, I cannot remember a time when music wasn’t playing in this house. He wants to play them for me. I ask him to show me some of his favorites.

Informant: “This is a fun one called “The Miller of Dee”...Dee being a river. So the Miller is grinding the wheat. [He sings] “Care for nobody no, not I, for nobody cares for me.” These songs tell you about what life was like then. These are all very well known English songs. If you lived in England, you would know them all, you know? We would sing them in school.”

[He sings the song along with the CD]

The Miller of Dee

There was a jolly miller once,

Lived on the River Dee.

He danced and sang from morn till night,

No lark more blithe than he.

And this the burden of his song

Forever used to be:

‘I care for nobody, no, not I,

If nobody cares from me’

 

I love my mill, she is to me

Both parent, child and wife.

I would not change my station

For another one in life.

Then push, push, push the bowl, my boys,

And pass it round to me;

The longer we sit here and drink,

The merrier we shall be.

 

Then like the miller bold and free

Let us rejoice and sing,

The days of youth were made for glee,

And time is on the wing.

This song shall pass from me to thee

Around this jovial ring:

Let heart and voice and all agree

To sing ‘Long live the King!’.

500 Miles

My informant is from England. He moved to the United States with my grandmother and my mother when my mother was 2. He grew up near London and still has a thick British accent, despite having now lived in the United States since the 1960s. When I go to his house to ask about folklore that he may have learned in England, anything a part of his history, he says, “Any folklore I know I have learned through listening to folk songs. Mostly, old English folk songs.” Music means everything to my grandmother and my informant. He excitedly takes me to his cabinet of CDs where he has a plethora of English and American folk CDs. This doesn’t surprise me in the slightest, because ever since I was little, I cannot remember a time when music wasn’t playing in this house. He wants to play them for me. I ask him to show me some of his favorites.

He takes out the CD of English Folk Songs and puts in an American CD of folk music…The Best of Peter, Paul and Mary.

Informant: “I love American folk tunes. Newer, of course. This is my favorite. We went to a party and the party was to sing folk songs, and someone handed out the words and I loved the songs but I didn’t know any of them because I didn’t grow up here. This was only about five years ago…but I went out and I bought a CD of folk songs! These are more twentieth century. Which for you, of course, is um… I’ll play you some of these. [Sings] A hundred miles, A hundred miles, A hundred miles… you can hear the whistle blow…. A Hundred Miles…. Wonderful folk songs and protest songs. I’ll play this one for you.”

 

500 Miles

If you miss the train I’m on, you will know that I am gone
You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles
A Hundred miles, a hundred miles, a hundred miles, a hundred miles

You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles

Lord I’m one, Lord I’m two, Lord I’m three, Lord I’m four
Lord I’m 500 miles away from home
Away from home, away from home, away from home, away from home
Lord I’m 500 miles away from home
Not a shirt on my back, not a penny to my name
Lord I can’t go a-home this a-way
This a-away, this a-way, this a-way, this a-way
Lord I can’t go a-home this a-way

If you miss the train I’m on, you will know that I am gone
You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles

The informant sings along to the CD and moved around the room during this song. My grandmother is doing the same, singing and flowing to the music. Even though these two did not move here until the 1960s, to me, they somehow are the epitome of the “hippie” generation in many ways. They had very little money but spent their time going on road trips around California and camping whenever my informant was not working. They would take their 4 small children with them, taking them everywhere from the Grand Canyon to Oregon. They lived simply, kindly and with a life full of music. For me, their story… their pictures, their way of life…holds a certain mythology all on it’s own.

What I think is so interesting about this is that folk music, especially, can be learned and celebrated by anyone. It’s timeless, or appreciated for being dated. My grandfather didn’t grow up hearing this song, but loved it the moment he heard it and has now shown it to me. This is a song from my heritage in many ways. From their side of the family, I am very much from the UK, but from my father’s side, I am very American. His relatives were some of the first English/French people to settle in Virginia.

Ye Banks And Braes O’ Bonnie Doon

My informant has a very interesting story. She is Scottish, but grew up primarily in England, near London. Informant’s parents were both very Scottish and so much of who she is surrounds this Scottish heritage. In this particular piece, she outlines much of her story as she is flipping through an old Scottish book of songs that she is showing me. When I asked her about folklore from her past, what comes to mind the most is folk music — as she is a singer. The book is old and falling apart. We are looking at it together. It was printed in 1884… She is gazing lovingly at the book, gingerly flipping the pages. My informant loves music. Everything in her life has to do with singing. She has been a singer her entire life and even now continues to sing in the church choir. Ever since I was little, we have always sung together; it has always been our special bond. She says that I got my singing skills from her. It makes sense then, that we now sit down and for the next 5 hours, go through this book.

Informant: “Also, I didn’t know the Beatles, yet. But most Saturday nights…we lived in the country, so if you wanted to go in to Birmingham, we had to take buses. We lived in a field, really…In college. Saturday night we hired a bus, I was the social secretary, and we would go in and they would drop us off at the men’s college in town. There was a hop every Saturday night. That was where I met Papa, at the hop. On the way home, there were these two girls, Norene and I don’t know the other one but they were hippies before there were hippies, and they had guitars and we would sing all of these folk songs. We had to be home by 10:30, I persuaded them to let us stay out until 11:00 when I was secretary. Anyway, we would sing this song. I really should be writing things down. I had so many adventures. This one is a very pretty song. [She hums the tune and we read through the lyrics together] This is so Scottish. My parents spoke so Scottish, I thought it was all slang, but I actually realized that there is a Scottish to English dictionary, these were real Scottish words! I always thought they weren’t real words.”

 

Informant sings the song, as I look on in the book. I try to sight read the music but am getting tripped up by the very Scottish lyrics.

 

Ye Banks And Braes O’ Bonnie Doon

Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon,

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair;

How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae weary, fu’ o’ care!

 

Ye’ll break my heart, ye warbling birds,

That wanton through the flow’ry thorn;

Ye mind me o’ departed joys,

Departed never to return.

 

Oft ha’e I roved by bonnie Doon,

To see the rose and woodbine twine;

And ilka bird sang o’ its love,

And foldly sae did I o’ mine.

 

Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose,

Fu’ sweet upon it’s thorny tree;

But my fause lover stole my rose,

And ah! He left the thorn wi’ me.

Bonnie Prince Charlie

My informant has a very interesting story. She is Scottish, but grew up primarily in England, near London. Informant’s parents were both very Scottish and so much of who she is surrounds this Scottish heritage. In this particular piece, she outlines much of her story as she is flipping through an old Scottish book of songs that she is showing me. When I asked her about folklore from her past, what comes to mind the most is folk music — as she is a singer. The book is old and falling apart. We are looking at it together. It was printed in 1884… She is gazing lovingly at the book, gingerly flipping the pages. My informant loves music. Everything in her life has to do with singing. She has been a singer her entire life and even now continues to sing in the church choir. Ever since I was little, we have always sung together; it has always been our special bond. She says that I got my singing skills from her. It makes sense then, that we now sit down and for the next 5 hours, go through this book. Before we start looking at the book she says:

Informant: “You might have to turn the music down, Roger. There is always, Bonnie Prince Charlie. For some reason, he captured everyone’s imagination…even though he was a bit of a coward, he ran to France…but in Scotland, they still make songs about him! He fought the English. He was a pretender to the throne of Scotland. He said it should be his, the throne, I mean. Speed Bonnie Boat is a song about him, for example, that I absolutely love.”

 

[She sings]

“Speed Bonnie boat like a bird on the wing.

Onward the sailors cry;

Carry the lad that’s born to be king

Over the sea to skye.

 

[Grandfather joins in]

Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar,

Thunder clouds rend the air;

Baffled our foes stand by the shore,

Follow they will not dare.

 

Informant: “We sang that in school. I remember.”

Me: “You both did?”

Informant: “I’m not sure if Papa did, but we both know it. It’s a song you just know.”

 

There is a lot of folklore, many songs, surrounding Bonnie Prince Charlie. In her book alone, my informant pointed out many other ones after she sang this song to me. It says a lot about the way in which people practiced Patriotism in Scotland. Through writing songs and music — that was the form of patriotic propaganda back then. Many of these songs are battle, supporter cries.

Bubble and Squeak

My informant is from England. He moved to the United States with my grandmother and my mother when my mother was 2. He grew up near London and still has a thick British accent, despite having now lived in the United States since the 1960s. He still does many British things, such as drinking tea at least twice a day. It can only by PG Tips, he will not drink any other kind of tea. After sitting with him and my grandmother for hours, listening to folk music, he says:

Informant: “Do you know what Bubble & Squeak is?”

Me: “Never heard of it.”

Informant: “It’s when you cook your leftover vegetables and potatoes. You fry them. It’s called Bubble & Squeak. It’s so you don’t waste anything.”

[I laugh]

This doesn’t surprise me at all. My informant never lets anything go to waste. When we would go hiking as a family, he would make these disgusting “gorp” mixes, which was a bagged mix basically of trail mix, but he would add the strangest things — anything that was in the fridge. When we were kids, all we wanted were peanut butter sandwiches and we had to eat the concoctions that my informant came up with. It’s now a running joke in the family. It’s very war-time British to not let a thing go to waste and a good lesson to pass on.