In light of the newly-granted minority status of the Cornish, here is a song with deep meaning for many in Cornwall. The words are by the modern singer Roger Bryant who is considered to be one of Cornwall’s finest songwriters, and this song has become an anthem of the people. It’s performed here by the Cornish lads of The Stowes.
Well Cornish lads are fishermen
And Cornish lads are miners too
But when the fish and tin are gone
what are the Cornish boys to do?
From Newly town we used to sail
Through rain and mist and lashing gale
The mackerel shoals we hoped to find
And soon we’ve left Land’s End behind
Here’s another of the late 19th, early 20th century classics. Percy French wrote the words, supposedly set to a traditional tune, although I have not found any indication of what that original tune was. Here Cathy Jordan and friends sing Eileen Óg for a LiveTrad webcast.
*Óg = young
*Petravore is a town name made up by Percy French
Eileen Óg an’ that the darlin’s name is
Through the Barony her features they were famous
If we loved her then who was there to blame us
For wasn’t she the Pride of Petravore?
But her beauty made us all so shy
Not a man could look her in the eye
Boys, Oh boys, sure that’s the reason why
We’re in mournin’ for the Pride of Petravore
Eileen Óg me heart is growin’ grey
Ever since the day you wandered far away
Eileen Óg there’s good fish in the say
But there’s none of them like the Pride of Petravore
Luka Bloom is about to begin his first U.S. tour in quite some time. We’ll celebrate with this great video of Luka performing a “modern” folk classic by Chauncey Olcott, written in 1899.
My Wild Irish Rose
If you listen I’ll sing you a sweet little song
Of a flower that’s now droped and dead,
Yet dearer to me, yes than all of its mates,
Though each holds aloft its proud head.
Twas given to me by a girl that I know,
Since we’ve met, faith I’ve known no repose.
She is dearer by far than the world’s brightest star,
And I call her my wild Irish Rose.
My wild Irish Rose, the sweetest flower that grows.
You may search everywhere,
but none can compare with my wild Irish Rose.
My wild Irish Rose, the dearest flower that grows,
And some day for my sake,
she may let me take the bloom from my wild Irish Rose.