Incest And Morris Dancing

by Jon Horne's Mild Peril

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1.
02:28
2.
02:10
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01:51
4.

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Original songs in the English vernacular. Brown beer drips from a grey beard. Recorded 24th June 2014 at the Tea Garden, Ruswarp, North Yorkshire.

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released June 24, 2014

© Jon Horne
Performed by JH (male vocal with guitar acc.)

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Jon Horne's Mild Peril Whitby, UK

Keepin' it largely fictional in the pubs and Pavilions of Whitby since 2004. Vocal, guitar, noisy songs with stories and tunes.

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Track Name: Bones
Wednesday night in the Hare and Hounds
Upstairs, fifty chairs, entry two pounds
Janet on the door says there’s room for more
So get your arse inside and sit it down

Floor singers welcome if you sign the sheet
Get up onstage or else sing from your seat
Don’t be scared, Janet says, we’re all here
To sing and play, so get up on your feet

Here’s a farmboy marching off to fight Napoleon
And a servant girl, big with the master’s wain
A rebel named McCann headed for Van Diemen’s Land
For three verses and a chorus, you can make them live again

Let their bones speak tonight
Let them whisper and let them cry
Sing their blues like you’ve walked in their shoes
Let their bones speak tonight

Ballads, Irish sentimentals, any style
Rock’n’roll, music hall, make us cry or smile
Sing one of your own if it makes you feel at home
We’ve not had a new Bob Dylan for a while

Janet used to sing the blues while Johnny played the slide
But now she just listens, ever since old Johnny died
We’re all getting on, all that’s left is the song
Sing it loud if you can’t sing it right

Here’s a cotton weaver and a cotton picker
A fishergirl and a coal miner’s wife
A lonely dockside whore and a dustbowl troubadour
A ploughboy, a cowboy, you can bring them back to life

Let their bones speak tonight
Let them whisper and let them cry
Sing their blues like you’ve walked in their shoes
Let their bones speak tonight
Track Name: Napoli
The last breath of a hurricane
Howls across the ocean
The men are busy praying
Because they can’t hear the engines

They’re saying, we don’t have a hope
Of rounding Portland Bill
It’s not worth a sailor’s life
It’s just money in the till

There’s whispers on every front porch
As midnight comes around
Fathers and their eldest sons
Try to leave without a sound

But the whole town is on the move
By the dark of this new moon
They scale the cliffs, no time to lose
Another storm is coming soon

They dream like Devon men of old
Of treasure without title
They comb the beach in search of gold
Or German motorcycles

The finest of Italian wines
It’s a pleasure to relate
This year I’ll give my Valentine
A diamond from the Cape

Her Majesty’s Receiver
With the sheriff by her side
Can’t believe it when they see
What’s washed up on the tide

With torches flashing in your eyes
Be off with you, they yell
But when they knock off work tonight
they’ll be down here themselves

You can call us scavengers
And you can call it greed
Let’s raise a toast to the deadly storm
That sank the good ship Napoli
Track Name: The Fiddler
Ladies, make your entrance
Gents, please take a bow
We thank you for your patience
The fiddler's ready now
The dance shall commence
Not a moment too soon
Say a grace unto the saviour
And raise a glass to the moon

Prick your ears up for the fiddler
He's the finest in the land
Form two lines down the middle and
Take your ladies by the hand
Chaisse, swing and pas-de-bas
Perform the demi-chaîne
Kiss the dancer on your left
And fill your glass again

Dance to the fiddle
Form a square or form a ring
Rince-fadas, quadrilles
Then I'll step out front to sing
A sad one for the ladies
While you men have one more drink
And when you've had your fill
I'll be waiting in the wings

They always have a word for me
It doesn’t take them long
to offer me a favour
If I'll sing them one more song
Give a penny to the fiddler
I tell them, one two three
Wait till your husband's on the floor
I'll sing to you for free

ladies, make your entrance
Gents, please take a bow
We thank you for your patience
The fiddler's ready now
Track Name: Three Metres Below
There’s a wall over there to keep out the sea
The soil and the seed from washing away
Three metres down in a sugar beet field
I can’t speak the language, no one knows my name

They lock all the doors when the night shift comes in
To keep us from running, but where would we go?
We're already drinking, and thinking of home
But we all smell of fear, three metres below

You learn to be quiet when you're ten to a room
You rise with the moon; the morning's so cold
Your clothes are all stolen, ragged and old
You’ve been bought and sold, three metres below

It's breakfast in Boston at the Three Lions cafe
Cold English eyes are staring our way
We still have our pride, we don't look away
Don't look away, don't look away

Then onto the flatbed and back to the fields
Shoulder the wheel all night and all day
You don't see your pay, it goes straight to the masters
But none of this matters, three metres below

I keep seeing faces that I knew from before
When I ran from the law on all sides of the border
Now I'm taking orders and counting the change
Here comes the rain, three metres below

Then it's breakfast in Boston at the Three Lions cafe
Cold English eyes are staring our way
We still have our pride, we don't look away
Don't look away, don't look away