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Reynoldston Tom
© Andrew McKay
Now Reynoldston Tom was a fine young man, he was brought up on the farm
Though he was as strong as any two, he never did any harm.
Then one fine day he marched away to find a job in town
And although he didn't get a lift, it didn't get him down.
But he was too tall to go down the mine, too heavy to sit on a barge
And by and large the people said, "He's too large to be at large!"
"Where can I find a job," said Tom, "for a lad so tall and fine?
If I don't want to sign on for relief, I'll have to seek a sign."
So sing a song of Reynoldston Tom, a lad both tall and strong
He might not know his left from his right, but he does know right from wrong.
The sign that he found said "Join the Police - you'll get the boots for free
If you're tall and strong and not too bright" Says Tom, "That sounds like me!"
So Reynoldston Tom he made his mark, a Policeman's job to do,
But the largest uniform they had was for someone just six foot two.
Now Reynoldston Tom was six foot six, it fitted him here and there
Though he couldn't do the jacket up, and his ankles were left bare.
But Reynoldston Tom said "Never mind, it'll be all right for a loan,
I'm sure you can find me som'at that fits by the time that I'm full grown!"
So sing a song of Reynoldston Tom, a lad both tall and strong
He might not know his left from his right, but he does know right from wrong.
The day of the final test came round, the Inspector sounded gruff
"I've one last question for you," he said, "and I think you'll find it tough.
If you were in Aberdyberthi Street, the name is Welsh, it's true;
And a horse dropped dead in the middle of the road, now Tom, what would you do?
You don't know Welsh, as I understand, and the name's not easy or short
How would you write 'Aberdyberthi Street' in your incident report?"
Reynoldston Tom he scratched his head, and he said "Well, I'll be blowed,
I'd carry the horse round the corner, and report it in Neath Road!"
So sing a song of Reynoldston Tom, a lad both tall and strong
He might not know his left from his right, but he does know right from wrong.
Silver And Sand (SS&S)
© Andrew McKay
The sea is calm and bright
But it's a different matter
In the winter and at night
When the gale howls up the channel
Gripping shipping in its hand
And maybe casting silver on the sand.
Silver on the sand
And maybe casting silver on the sand.
They say she was a Spanish ship
Driven northwards by the gales
But no-one saw her come to grief
On the wild coast of Wales
When folk came out next morning
They were not surprised to find
Wreckage that the storm had left behind
But where the ship had foundered
Whether one mile out or ten
I couldn't say for certain now,
And no-one could guess then
'Til rumours started of a man
Who'd left his native land
Some say he carried silver from the sand
Then darker rumours started
Of false lights on the head
And shipwrecked sailors murdered
As shore folk lay in bed
And fights between the wreckers
As the sea roared in to land
And an oath to leave no silver in the sand
When you stand here on a winter's night
When the sea is at low tide
And bitter gales have lashed the coast
And cast the sands aside
Some say you'll see a coach and pair
Come racing out to stand
Still searching for the silver in the sand
Silver in the sand,
Still searching for the silver in the sand
In 1807, an exceptionally low tide at Gower's Rhosilli sands exposed an unknown shipwreck, below the normal low water line. Locals gathered to dig for treasure and recovered about 12 pounds of silver dollars and half-dollars, minted in Peru and dated about 1630, stamped with the head of Phillip IV of Spain. The story grew that the ship ran aground, or was possibly lured ashore by wreckers, in the mid 17th century and that most of the cargo was somehow carried off by a notorious local smuggler (and perhaps wrecker), a Mr Mansel from nearby Llandewi. By morning, the wreck was covered by the tide and Mansel had fled with the silver, or had been murdered for it. His ghostly coach is said to appear on the sands after violent storms, looking for the last of the silver. One such storm, in 1833, exposed more coins, cannon balls and an astrolabe. The rising tide covered the site again, and nothing has been found since.
Swansea Devil (SS&S)
© Andrew McKay
We sang our victory song
And then we started the clean-up work,
And that was hard and long.
I walked down by St Mary's Church
A bombed-out, gutted wreck
When I suddenly felt a pair of eyes
Boring into my neck.
You may think that St Mary's Church
Is a monumental pile:
One night it will burn, and he that you spurned
Will be laughing all the while
I turned around and I cried "Who's there?"
But no-one answered my call
And then I saw Old Nick himself,
Sitting on the wall.
I thought he gave a bit of a wave
As he grinned his cheeky grin,
He said, "What do you think of the times we've seen,
And the mess that we're now in?"
"I'm the pride of an architect
Who once lived in this town;
He wanted to build St Mary's up
But the vergers turned him down.
He set me up on the brewery shop
To keep an eye on the town
And I reckon I saw my contract out
The night the church burned down."
"Now you can build St Mary's up
You can tear my brewery down;
I'll still be here, or hereabouts,
Keeping an eye on the town.
For we're all in this together, my lad
So think on what you do,
For the Gates of Heaven and Fires of Hell
Are both inside of you."
I walked away from St Mary's Church
For a drink to clear my head;
I thought of the things that people do
And the words that Old Nick said.
And I reckon there's pride on every side,
So there's no point calling it sin
We rise and fall, and rise again
And that's the mess we're in.
You may think that St Mary's Church
Is a monumental pile:
One night it will burn, and he that you spurned
Will be laughing all the while
A Swansea legend. The story goes that a local architect submitted plans for the rebuilding of St Mary's church, but these were rejected and a famous London architect employed instead. Rebuffed, the local man set up a carved effigy of the devil on brewery offices overlooking the church, announcing 'One day your church will burn down, but my devil will still be here laughing'. In the blitz of 1941, incendiary bombs burnt St Mary's down, but missed the brewery offices and the devil. St Mary's was rebuilt and the offices later demolished to make way for a shopping centre, but the effigy of 'Old Nick' is still there, if you know where to look. He even has his own Facebook page.
Tomorrow Noon (CHAR)
© Andrew McKay
My hills are green beneath the sun and grey beneath the rain;
My hills will stand for ever, though I'll not stand here again.
My hills are brown with bracken fronds and purple with the ling:
Though I may walk a far-off land it's of my hills I'll sing.
So we'll raise the glass of fellowship and the words of friendship say,
But tomorrow noon is coming soon, and I am going away
Yes tomorrow noon is coming soon and I am going away.
My streams are white beneath the stars and black upon the stones;
They run below my fathers' walls and above my fathers' bones.
Beside my streams my parents worked, my children played their games;
Though my streams are left so far behind, I'll not forget their names.
Yes, I'll leave behind old memories, but also old restraints;
I'll leave the bones of sinners alongside those of saints.
I'll face a new tomorrow into which my dreams have flown
And I will walk a far-off land and call it's plains my own.
So we'll raise the glass of fellowship and the words of friendship say,
But tomorrow noon is coming soon, and I am going away
Yes tomorrow noon is coming soon and I am going away.
Too High Or Else Too Low (CHAR)
© Andrew McKay
There was a jolly tinker, a worker in fine metal,
Who swore that he would mend a crack in any pot or kettle, oh
The farmer's daughter hearing this, said to him "Ah no!
I'm sure your hammers they would beat
Too high or else too low, too low,
I'm sure your hammers they would beat
Too high or else too low."
"But you come into the kitchen and we'll sit upon the floor,
I'll show to you a little pot that needs some working over,
And if you do your work right well, to pay I won't be slow,
But still I'm sure your hammers would beat
Too high or else too low, too low,
Still I'm sure your hammers would beat
Too high or else too low."
But when the tinker was at work, the maid in anger cried,
Because he did not clench his nails upon the further side, oh.
He said "Your kettle's very cracked, it'd never stand the blow,
It isn't that my hammers beat
Too high or else too low, too low,
It isn't that my hammers beat
Too high or else too low."
"Your kettle's in a sorry state, it's very worn and old,
There have so many nails been drove, that mine can't get a hold, oh,
It never more will liquor take, and that's the truth you know,
It isn't that my hammers beat
Too high or else too low, too low,
It isn't that my hammers beat
Too high or else too low."
This maid she sighed and sobbed and cried, "Oh come, for pity's sake!
I know it has endured some knocks, but a few more it will take yet!
I know it would good liquor hold, if you'd strike the rising blow,
The trouble is, your hammers beat
Too high or else too low, too low,
The trouble is, your hammers beat
Too high or else too low."
She said that she'd improve his wage, if he'd improve his work,
He squared his shoulders in a rage, and hammered like a Turk, oh.
At last he got her kettle stopped, which pleased this maiden so,
No more did she complain he beat
Too high or else too low, too low,
No more did she complain he beat
Too high or else too low.
The farmer's maid was pleased with what he had contrived to do,
But after forty weeks were up, her kettle fell in two, oh.
So now she has a pair of little saucepans on the go,
I hope she will no more complain,
Too high or else too low, too low,
I hope she will no more complain,
Too high or else too low.
Based loosely on an anonymous broadsheet published in "The Common Muse", but substantially re-written and set to a suitably scurrilous tune. It tells the old story of the travelling tinker who goes about stopping up the holes in ladies' kettles - and if you believe that, you'll believe anything!
Walk Her Away (CHAR)
© Andrew McKay
So heave her up and walk her away,
Stamp her, me bullies, round,
We are warping her out of the old North Dock
And she's sailing away from town.
She's sailing away with a bully, bully crew,
The finest that sailed the sea,
And we're warping her out of the old North Dock,
We're the crew of the dockside quay.
Here's old blind Jenks, he's the leader of our crew,
His lights went out long ago,
But he can tell by the sounds in the timber and the rope
How well the work do go.
Here's old Molly Grey from the stone-crushing crew,
With her pipe and her old green shawl,
She is grasping at the timber with her copper-stained hands
As we heave from pawl to pawl.
Here's Banjo Dan with the strings upon his back,
He sailed the sea long ago,
He can sing you a song of the girl he left behind
In the port of Callao.
Here's young Alice Lee, she lives behind the quay,
Where her father runs the bar,
She's winking at a sailor boy up upon the deck
As she heaves at the old wooden spar.
For she's sailing away to the far southern seas,
Where the waves roll high and cold,
She will turn our coal into the finest copper ore,
Then we'll turn all her copper into gold.
So, heave her up and walk her away,
Stamp her, me bullies, round,
We are warping her out of the old North Dock
And she's sailing away from town.
Before the advent of tugboats, ships were warped in and out of dock with quay-mounted capstans (photo, top). Anyone around at the time was likely to be drafted in to help, so this was one time when men and women would work, and sing shanties, together. Everyone who works in the docks ultimately depends for their prosperity on the success of the ship's voyage.
Young Billy Young (PBLG)
© Andrew McKay
Young Billy Young he was handsome, he was bold,
He was always on the lookout when the dice of fate were rolled,
If a chance came along, he didn't need to be told;
"It's do it now or never", said young Billy Young.
"Oh do it now or never", said young Billy Young.
Young Billy Young took a ship from the quay,
To cross the mighty ocean to far Amerikee,
With his hopes for the future he set out to sail the sea,
"Oh, do it now or never", said young Billy Young
"Oh do it now or never", said young Billy Young
Young Billy's ship had just left Ireland on the lee,
When a French Man o' War came up and hailed them haughtily
"If you don't back your sails up we'll sink you in the sea!"
"Oh do it now or never", said young Billy Young
"Oh do it now or never", said young Billy Young
Young Billy Young he was taken back to Brest
Where they put him in a prison ship along with all the rest,
"I'm getting out of here, it's making me depressed,
"Oh, do it now or never", said young Billy Young
"Oh do it now or never", said young Billy Young
A ship into Brest from the Admiralty came,
With words of kings and diplomats a-playing of the game,
"She's sailing homewards and I'd like to do the same,
"Oh, do it now or never", said young Billy Young
"Oh do it now or never", said young Billy Young
So he slid into the water and he swam upon the tide,
The sailors hauled him up upon the frigate's further side,
The Captain said, "I'll take you home to Swansea by and by."
"Oh do it now or never," said young Billy Young.
"Oh do it now or never", said young Billy Young
Young Billy Young he was handsome, he was bold,
He was always on the lookout when the dice of fate were rolled,
If a chance came along, he didn't need to be told;
"It's do it now or never", said young Billy Young.
"Oh do it now or never", said young Billy Young.
Billy Young's adventure took place in 1796, during the French Wars. Navies at that time had to be self-financing, and civilian ships were often seized, their crews pressed, and their passengers ransomed or sold into slavery. After his escape, Billy seems to have given up thoughts of emigrating to America and settled in South Wales. Under his full name of William Weston Young, he followed several careers, as land surveyor, marine salvage consultant, inventor (he developed a heat-resistant silica brick used to line furnace chimneys) and, perhaps most successfully, a painter of fine ceramics at the celebrated Nant Garw and Cambrian Potteries.
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