Get all 8 Margaret Walters releases available on Bandcamp and save 15%.
Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of Steadfast, Yarri Of Wiradjuri, Power In A Song, Pack O' Pirates, Who Was Here, Pithead in the Fern, The Sea and the Soil, and For The Future And The Past.
1. |
Whaleroad
04:25
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* WHALEROAD *
As the weaver lays her webs
So the seasons turn,
In the heart an aching sets
The seaward ways to learn,
With the coming of the spring,
And the cruel ice breaking
Men have built them carven ships,
And the whale road taken.
The whale road is a restless road,
The lifting of the prow,
The heaving of the bellied sail
The salt spray on the brow,
The oar-thresh on the lifting swell
A white bird on the foam,
The surf-snarl on the gravel strand,
The heart that aches for home.
Proud Phoenicians, Romans, Greeks,
Took the great whales way,
Vikings from the icy North,
Dropped anchor in the bay
Drake, Magellan, Tasman, Cook,
And other names beside,
Hauled their anchors, trimmed their sails,
To catch the morning tide.
Reef the main t'gallant there,
The squall is coming hard,
Tiny men string out like crows,
Along the tops'l yard,
Reeling from the freezing blast,
The ship rides up the wave,
Many an aching, tired hand,
Has made Cape Horn his grave.
What's this madness in the blood,
That spurs them on to fight,
The twisting of the wave-flung wheel,
In the howling night?
Who can answer but themselves,
Perhaps not even they,
But, breast the capstan, man the brace,
Let's get her underway.
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2. |
Murray River Shipwright
02:55
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Hard as the Redgum slabs his adze has hewn,
The scare on his grained, weathered tace speak the same hard years
Sun and drought and pain,
Life on the river plain,
Measuring eyes as keen as an engines gears,
WIse to ways of saws,
Lord of his craft and a king among his peers.
Weights on the governor spin their demented measure
Broad belts fly to the spitting sizzle of steam
Heaving backs drive the great trunk in,
To where the saw blades spin,
Iron redgum meets steel with a splitting scream
Bert's eyes coldly glare
This run had better be square,
"Wake up mate, this is no time to stand and dream".
Out on the bank where the new sawn beams are drying.
The keel has grown on the slips tp a boat in frame,
Clink of mallet and jar of axe,
Gleam of the sun on the sweating backs,
For sweat is a tool in trade in the shipwright's game,
Here's Bert with his Gauging eye,
To check how the scantlings lie.
If the planks don't fit, well it won't be him to blame.
Ten feet below the deck al the wharf at Echuca,
Pride of old Bert and her body broad and full,
Polished window glass
Reflecting the gleaming brass,
Pistons glide where the great steel engines pull
One old man's eyes gleam,
As she builds up a head of steam.
And glldes down the Murray with a thousand bales of wool.
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3. |
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Here's to the smith with his set and hammer,
Fuller and hardie, swage and tongs,
Beating his will on the blazing steel,
To the forge's roar and the anvil's song.
CHORUS
Al trades, their gear and tackle,
Fittings and fettlings, tools and blades,
Subtle hands working ancient patterns,
Here's to the people of all trades.
Here's to the weaver's loom and shuttle,
Heddles and beater, warp and weft,
Tweed and gabardine, twill and tartan,
Shuttle shooting both right and left.
Here's to the mariner's sheets and halliards,
Fairleads, fiddle blocks, anchor and oar,
Here's to the shanty at the weather main brace,
When the tide has turned and the wind's offshore.
Here's to the cooks, their leeks and onions,
Rosemary, basil, garlic and chives,
Cleavers and skillets and pans and ladles,
Cauldrons, kettles and carving knives.
Here's to the cooper's croze and cresset,
Inshave, fagging iron, trusses and adze,
Driving the hoops on the smoking barrels,
To hold good ale for the lasses and lads.
Here's to the shipwright's planks and gunwales,
Stempost, sternpost, scantling and beams,
Trenails, inwales, iron and mallet,
Tar and oakum to caulk the seams.
Here's to the wheel of your homespun spinner,
Bobbin whirling on the Mother of all,
Here's to her carders, her combs, her treadle,
As she plies and spins the greasy wool.
Here's to the hands of men and women,
Here's to the fine wrought goods they've made,
Here's to the tools, the words, the secrets,
The brand of humanity on every trade.
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4. |
Miner's Washing
03:45
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* MINER'S WASHING *
Chorus:
Scrubbin' the miner's clothes,
Scrubbin' the miner's clothes,
All piled up in a ghastly stack,
As heavy as lead and smelly and black,
And o the pain in me achin' back,
Scrubbin' the miner's clothes.
I came from Durham in '99,
Married a laddie from the Coal Creek mine,
The finest lad that a girl could ever know,
Till he brought me his washing from the pit below.
Now your Korumburra miner is a grimy sort of bloke,
So I drop in his duds for an all-night soak,
take me some soap and I grate it like a cheese,
And I drop it in the bucket with his grubby dungarees.
get me up before the peep of light,
Me copper for to fill and the fire for to light,
serve Tom his crib while the copper's on the boil,
Then gird up me muscles for the day's long toil.
It's drag 'em from the çopper to the rinsing tub,
Pound em with the dolly and scrub, scrub, scrub,
Pour away the mucky water, do it all again,
Heave 'em through the wringer and pray it doesn't rain.
Beyond Kardella, the sky's looking fine
Basket up the washing to the old clothesline,
I bet when it's hung and I've heaved up the prop,
The rain'll come a pourin' and the wind will drop.
Now all you maids who to marriage do incline,
Never wed a laddie from the Coal Creek mine,
A squatter might be surly, a merchant might be mean,
A banker might be boring but he's easier to clean.
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5. |
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I AM THE BUNYIP, THE BUNYIP'S ME
I LIVE IN THE MUD 'COS THE MUD IS FREE,
I'M REAL AND FAT AND STICKY WITHOUT A DOUBT,
AND IF YOU DON'T BELIEVE ME.... Watch out!
I'm the thing all covered in slime,
From back in the old dreamtime,
I've got four heads and at least two tails,
eat Murray Cod and snakes and snails,
And if you ever come to New South Wales,
You're sure to hear about me... 'cos
I AM THE BUNYIP...
There's kangaroos and such,
About which you hear too much,
There's blue tongued lizards and loud galahs,
With awful manners, you can thank your stars,
That Bunyip's ettiquette is not like thars,
I'm sure that you'll like me,. . . 'cos
TAM THE BUNYIP...
My features can't be seen,
For the slime all thick and green,
That covers me from hoof to head,
Except for my fingernails, painted red,
And the hat that l wear when I go to bed,
So that's about it from me ... 'cos
I AM THE BUNYIP...
At twelve o'clock at night,
When the sun goes out of sight,
I yawn and stretch from my daily snooze,
Drag my body from the slimy ooze,
And prepare a scare for the folk who choose,
To refuse to think about me.. . 'cos
I AM THE BUNYIP...
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6. |
Tor I Dun
02:20
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* TOR I DUN *
The Kurnai folk of Gippsland had a dread tale to report,
of the Bunyip living somewhere in the bay called Westernport,
They shunned the creeks he haunted, if they saw him they would run,
They spoke of him in whispers and they called him Tor I Dun.
Today their tales are heard with scorn, their warning is forgot,
Beware you merry mariners all in your weekend yacht,
He opens up his gullet under anything afloat,
He swallows all the humans and he spits out bits of boat.
Tor I Dun, Tor I Dun,
When the moon is at the full,
And little soldier crabs do run,
The mudflats down at Westernport,
I recommend you shun,
It's a mighty massive gullet has,
The Bunyip Tor I Dun.
His measurements are monstrous and a dreadful tale they make,
His head is like an Emu, his body like a snake,
His carcass thick as several trees, his teeth just like a shark,
A frightful apparition to see gliding through the dark,
And up along by Anderson, or so the locals say,
You can see his rib marks graven on the mudflats of the bay,
When herds of champion Herefords mysteriously are gone,
The rumour says they've vanished down the throat of Tor I Dun.
Tor I Dun, Tor I Dun,
They say some bloke from Orbost,
Tried to take him with a gun,
They only found his footprints,
At the rising of the sun,
And still he's lurking out there,
Is the Bunyip Tor I Dun.
And when the night clouds hide the moon and tide is at the flood,
The ghastly bunyip Tor I Dun comes creeping from the mud.
He glares between the mangroves with his wicked, beady eyes,
Looking for a juicy meal, to take it by surprise.
And if you're walking on the beach, you'll hear a subtle sound,
Perhaps you'll wonder at it, and maybe you'll turn round,
His eyes you'll see, his breath you'll feel, all fishy, cold and wet,
And suddenly... YOU'RE ET!
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7. |
Wind in a Million Leaves
03:44
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* WIND IN A MILLION LEAVES *
From the wild Bass Strait where the seething wind,
Twists cliff top shrubs to the shapes of pain,
To the Mountain Ash of the inland slopes,
And the great Red Gums of the river plain,
The land is enriched by the trees that grow,
From the Western Plains to Kaiandra's snow,
Deep roots and strong against wind and cold,
They are more our wealth than the buried gold.
Chorus:
Must we make a desert with our own cruel hands,
And die of the waste with a heart that grieves,
Or gaze on the stars through the branching limbs,
To the song of the wind in a million leaves.
We have cleared the slopes for the homestead farm,
Layed bare the hills with relentless will,
Turned soil to dust with our grazing stock,
Sent the jewels of Earth to the timber mill,
For a million years, come wind or drought,
New growth has come to the fire-scarred slopes,
But we have come with the power of steel,
And our poisoned breath is the death of hopes.
For they feed on the Sun and their lives are long,
Its heat is their strength, they reflect its glow,
They break the shock of its searing glare,
To a dappled shade for the beasts below,
And who are we that the trees should die,
For a passing glory of doubtful worth?
The Earth's not ours to be plundered bare,
Humankind is but one child of Earth.
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8. |
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* NEWSBOYS *
Evening comes with leaden clouds,
The steeple's lost in rain,
Carlights gleam along the tar,
Water thunders into any stormdrain it can find.
And the newsboys on the corner cry.
Like sheep upon the plain,
They punctuate the tramp of feet,
Beneath the cutting rain,
Lonely eyes avoid my gaze,
They won't admit the pain,
We've got no time to be today,
We've got to catch the train.
Brooding grey felt hatted men,
With tales they never speak,
They talk investments, real estate,
Cos when you're in on power games,
It never really pays to be unique.
And when morning comes,
It will be night again,
We won't see thé sun and we won't feel the rain,
We look for trees and forests,
But we only see the crane,
That crawls above the basement,
Where lurks the evening train.
Evening comes with leaden clouds,
The steeple's lost in rain,
Carlights gleam along the tar,
Water thunders into ány stormdrain it can find.
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9. |
Lachlan Valley Way
03:45
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* LACHLAN VALLEY WAY *
Come leave your glass and concrete walls,
And take the open road,
Through Forbes along the Lachlan side,
Where brave Ben Hall once rode,
To hills that heard the drivers curse,
On the groaning bullock trains,
And see the winter morning sun,
Blaze on the western plains.
An endless sea of twisted trees,
Up to the edge of sight,
Where ranges behind ranges mount,
As blue as the early night,
And names of streams and famous towns,
Recalled in songs pass by,
Where drovers rode to Gunnedah,
Or crossed the Martheguy.
Then mount the broad New England hills,
Where nights are bitter cold,
And grand folk hoard their memories,
Of the joys of days of old,
And in a mighty shearing shed,
Where still great tallies are rung.
See young folk dance as their grandparents danced,
When Thunderbolt was young.
But where the bullocks strained their yokes,
Now speeds the tar sealed road,
And Kenworth trucks and Atkinsons,
Bear twice an ox team's load,
And in an age of growing wealth,
From every truck borne ton,
The heart of one man who does not understand,
Still weeps for what is gone.
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10. |
Blue Mountains Highway
02:41
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* BLUE MOUNTAINS HIGHWAY *
The freeway ends one kilometre on,
And you're into Penrith and the mountains rise,
Like a warning hand, like a final wall,
Like a thunder squall before your eyes,
But your shell of speed is in driving gear,
The asphalt ribbon is fast and broad,
There's a forest of twisted trees each side,
That the road cuts through like a sword.
And the names of the towns are the names of men,
Who battled in their boots through the fenceless range,
Blaxland, Wentworth and Lawson stand,
As relentless minds where the lands were strange,
But waterworn buttresses of rock remain,
Grown with the scrub and stained with moss,
A tribute still to the convict gangs,
Whose faces and names are lost.
I see through the growth the beaten men,
Unshaven faces and listless eyes,
Hear clinking mattocks, the scrape of spades,
And the harsh discord of the sergeant's cries,
The discord glares in the scarlet coats,
That jar with the hues of fern and bark,
It sounds in the whistle of the flogger's cat,
And the sob as it finds its mark.
When you speed your car up the Penrith side,
And you pass Katoomba and Wentworth Falls,
You've taken the mountains in your stride,
That the settlers saw as eternal walls,
When you've joined yourself to the river of cars,
That winds the range in a roaring flood,
You might recall in a moments thought,
Here's a road that was built on blood.
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11. |
Horses of the World
03:41
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HORSES OF THE WORLD. A trilogy
And I want to say a word of thanks,
To the horses of the world,
Whose solid backs and heaving lungs,
Have placed us where we stand,
Their eyes speak for their spirits,
That through the endless years,
Have shaped us all as we shaped the fruitful land,
Such gentle souls that shaped the fruitful land.
And I saw a fertile valley,
Where a black and heavy soil,
Promised golden grain,
And fruit upon the bough,
And sweating, giant Clydesdales,
Thrust their shoulders at the toil,
And the loam rolled back,
Like the sea, behind the plough.
And a thousand lowing cattle,
Spread out on the western plain,
And the thunder spoke from out the roaring cloud,
But the stockmen rode to calm the herd,
Through squalls of lashing hail,
On their rough-haired Walers, agile, strong and proud.
So l'll keep an apple by me,
When I lean upon a fence,
Where a palomino or some chestnut mare might graze,
A present from a passer-by,
To one fine child of Earth
Whose hoofprints pioneered our present ways.
ONE and repeat.
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12. |
The Race
02:36
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* GOLDEN SLIPPER TWO YEAR OLD STAKES *
In behind the gate,
She stood and held her concentration tight,
A boxer gloved and ready for the fight,
Behind the iron gate.
Grass beheath her feet,
Waiting for the blood to turn to fire,
Her jockey's concentration tight as wire,
Within his leather seat.
The gate is down and sixteen horses,
Thrust into the light, The colours of the jockeys glow like suns,
A thousand beats a minute from,
A cloud of whirling legs,
Each one a hammer driving down five tons,
Driving down five tons.
See the lady dance,
Slow-motion shows her agile, gliding grace,
The leaping, stretching splendour of her race,
See the lady dance.
Fragile yet so strong,
Balance and precision, these are all,
The timing of the hoofbeats, where they fall,
You dare not get them wrong.
Like a rifle firing,
There comes a vicious crack,
The lady screams and stumbles to the earth,
The riders thunder past her,
As she shrieks her dire distress,
Entangled in her saddle, bit and girth,
Saddle, bit and girth.
Judgement has been read,
Cannon bone and sesamoids are broke,
A verdict that no mortal can revoke,
The needle and she's dead.
The ambulance has gone,
They'll set the jockey's fracture, ease his pain,
Some day he might be fit to ride again,
Still the race goes on.
Out there in the paddock,
They're pouring the champagne,
For the ladies in their sunhats and their pride,
For the favourite came in winner,
At odds of five to one,
But who will mourn the lady that just died,
The lady that just died.
In the members' bar,
The syndicate is drinking what it lost,
Discussing what a two-year-old might c0st,
Curse the members' bar.
Curse the punters all,
For two-year-olds have vigour, heart and grace,
But growing bones too fragile yet to race,
Who mourns them when they fall?
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13. |
Farrier's Trade
03:19
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* FARRIER'S TRADE *
Chorus:
Here's to the farrier's trade,
May their anvils ever ring true,
May the Pritchel and Buffer still find employ,
And proud, strong horses to shoe, brave boys,
Proud, strong horses to shoe.
The anvil rang like an old church bel,
And the forge it roared like a gale,
And down the wind came a pungent smell,
That told an immortal tale.
A tale well known to the black and the bay,
To coachmen, carter and carrier,
For the smell was the hoof and the burning shoe,
And the trade was the craft of the farrier.
A blue flame leapt from the crackling coals,
At its heart was a flare of gold,
And out of that heart came a red hot steel,
In the farrier's tongs firm hold,
Onto the anvil's face it swept,
And a hammer bit into its edge,
It curved to the farrier's swift hard blows,
And it squared to the striker's sledge.
And many a draught horse, hack or cob,
Stood fast at the hitching rails,
While the farrier bent to the fetlock's hair,
With a mouthful of squarehead nails,
And offered up the shoe to the waiting hoof,
With a sizzle, a smoke and a smell,
Pritchel and quench, hammer, clip and clench,
And file down the clenches well.
Though the motor roars out across the world
Its message of haste and greed,
Though the horse has gone from the highway side,
With its danger and noise and speed.
Yet down at the fence waits an ancient friend,
That progress will never unseat,
And while there's a horse there's a need for shoes,
And farriers to tend its feet.
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14. |
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* HORSES OF THE WORLD * - Reprise
So if you should see me leaning,
On a nameless paddock fence,
And I'm scratching some old stock horse at the ears,
You might come and share the moment,
And the apples that I bring,
For humankind's companion down the years.
And I dreamed I stood upon a hill,
Above a grassy plain,
Where the windswept sedges heaved like the restless sea,
And I saw the horses flash like jewels,
Before the setting sun,
Wild eyes and flowing manes in ancient glory.
So I want to say a word of thanks,
To the horses of the world,
Whose solid backs and heaving lungs,
Have placed us where we stand,
Their eyes speak for their spirits,
That through the endless years,
Have shaped us all, as we shaped the fruitful land,
Such gentle souls who shaped the fruitful land,
All the horses that shaped the fruitful land.
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Margaret Walters Sydney, Australia
Rock solid, Margaret's voice is right where it needs to be, whether delivering a clarion call for social justice, a tender lullaby, a lively or poignant folk tale, an uplifting hymn to Mother Earth, a rousing work song of the yardarm or an up-yours from a feisty lass. Margaret usually sings unaccompanied, favouring the folk tradition and some select contemporary writers. ... more
Margaret Walters recommends:
Crossing the Line
by Forty Degrees South
Our most recent collection of sea-themed songs from the Southern Oceans.
go to album
Life Of Brine
by The Roaring Forties
Before the Tiktok shanty craze, there was the Roaring Forties
go to albumIf you like The Sea and the Soil, you may also like:
JESSICA's second album was recorded live solely with vocals and piano.
go to album
Mild Terror / Ice Cave Single
by Jack Sharp
A freaky folk holiday single from the lead guitarist of British psych rockers Wolf People celebrates winter chill.
go to album
LEFT/FOLK VI: The World As It Is
by LEFT/FOLK
Proceeds from this excellent new darkambient/neofolk comp from LEFT/FOLK goes to benefit American Near East Refugee Aid.
go to album
she/her/they/them
by Evan Greer
The singer-songwriter and activist considers the very purposes of protest songs.
go to album
