Celtic tunes arranged for acoustic guitar, hammered dulcimer, accordion, mandolin,bass guitar; also featuring Northumbrian bellows pipes, tinwhistle, and flute.

--------------------------------- Song List --------------------------------------------

Recording Engineer: Trew Lockhart
With special thanks to our private pastry chef, Dot Neely, Tina Smith and Nancy Conn. 
Cover artwork:Tammy Parra

2006 Burly Twine    2006 Burly Twine    All rights reserved.   Licenses obtained via HFA, Inc.

----------------------------------- Lyrics ------------------------------------------------

My Singing Bird

I have seen the lark soar high at morn
To sing up in the blue;
I have heard the blackbird pipe its call,
The thrush and the linnet, too.
But none of them can sing so sweet,

My singing bird, as you;
My singing bird as you.

If I could lure my singing bird
From her cozy little nest;
If I could catch my singing bird,
I would warm her on my breast.
But none of them can sing so sweet,

My singing bird, as you;
My singing bird as you.

Mairi’s Wedding

Step we gaily, on we go!
Heel for heel, and toe for toe;
Arm in arm, and on we go!
That’s the toast for Mairi.

Over hill-ways up and down,
Myrtle green and bracken brown,
Past the shieling, through the town,
That’s the toast for Mairi.

Plenty herring, plenty meal,
Plenty peat tae fill her creel;
Plenty bonny bairns, as weel!
That’s the toast for Mairi.

Over hill-ways up and down,
Myrtle green and bracken brown,
Past the shieling, through the town,
That’s the toast for Mairi.

[Traditional]

A Gordon for Me

I’m Georgie McKay of the H.L.I.,
I’m fond o’ the lassies and a drappie forbye.
One day when out walking, I chanced to see,
A bonnie wee lass wi’ a glint in her ee!

Says I tae the lassie, will ye walk for a while?
I’ll buy ye a bonnet and we’ll do it in style.
My kilt is McKenzie o’ the H.L.I.
She looked at me shyly and said, wi’ a sigh:

A Gordon for me, a Gordon for me,
If you’re no’ a Gordon, you’re nae use to me.
The Black Watch are braw, the Seaforths and a’,
But the cocky wee Gordons are the pride o’them a’.

I courted that lass on the banks of the Dee,
I made up my mind she was fashioned for me.
Soon I was a-thinkin’ how nice it would be
If she would consent to get married to me.

The day we were wed, the grass was sae green;
The sun was as bright as the light in her ‘een.
Now we’ve twa bonny lassies who sit on her knee
While she sings the song that she once sang to me:

A Gordon for me, a Gordon for me,
If you’re no’ a Gordon, you’re nae use to me.
The Black Watch are braw, the Seaforths and a’,
But the cocky wee Gordons are the pride o’them a’.

[Trad. tune, with lyrics by Robert Wilson,
Published by Universal-MCA Music,
Publishing Div. Of Universal Music Corp.]

As I Roved Out

As I roved out on the bright May mornin’,
To view the meadows and flowers gay,
Who should I spy but my own true lover,
As she sat under a willow tree.

I took off me hat, and did salute her,
I did salute her most courageously.
Then she turned around and the tears fell from her,
Saying, ‘False young man, you’ve deluded me.’

‘A diamond ring, sure, I only gave ye,
A diamond ring to wear on your right hand.
But the vows you made, Love, you went and broke them,
And married the lassie that had the land.’

If I married the lassie that had the land, my Love,
‘Tis that I’ll rue ‘til the day I die.
Where misfortune falls, sure no one can shun it;
I was blindfolded, I’ll ne’er deny.

Now at night, when I go to me bed of slumber,
The thoughts of my true love run in my mind;
And when I turn around to embrace my darling,
Instead of gold, sure ‘tis brass I find.

Now I wish the Queen would call home her Army,
From the West Indies, America, and Spain.
And every wedded man to his wedded woman,
In hopes that you and I would meet again.

Oh, as I roved out on the bright May mornin’,
To view the flowers and meadows gay,
Who should I spy but my own true lover,
As she sat under a willow tree.

Whiskey on a Sunday 

Drinkin’ buttermilk all the week; whiskey on a Sunday.

He sits on the corner of Beggars’ Bush, astride of an old packing case,
His three wooden dolls that can dance and sing, and he croons with a smile on his face,Come day, go day, wish in my heart it was Sunday…m-m-m-m

Drinkin’ buttermilk all the week; whiskey on a Sunday.

His tired old hands tug away at the strings, and the puppets they dance up and down,
A far better show than you ever would see in the fanciest theatre in town.Come day, go day, wish in my heart it was Sunday…m-m-m-m

Drinkin’ buttermilk all the week; whiskey on a Sunday.

And sad to relate that old Seth Davy died in nine-teen-hundred-and-four.
The three wooden dolls in the dustbin were laid; his song will be heard nevermore.Come day, go day, wish in my heart it was Sunday…m-m-m-m

Drinkin’ buttermilk all the week; whiskey on a Sunday.

But some stormy night, when you’re passing that way, and the wind’s blowing up from the sea,
You’ll still hear the song of old Seth Davy, as he croons to his dancing dolls three.Come day, go day, wish in my heart it was Sunday…m-m-m-m

Drinkin’ buttermilk all the week; whiskey on a Sunday.

[Lyrics by Glyn Hughes, published by Cromwell Music Inc. OBO Essex Music Inc.]