The Folk Society meet on Thursday nights
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Clear their throats and put their coughs to flight
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To sing the dusty cobwebs from the room
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A repertoire both in and out of tune
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Don't assume a singalong, or worse
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This history in song and countless verse
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Pays homage to the man who, long ago
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Collected all the songs the singers know
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Collected all the songs the singers know
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Edward Alexander, man of action
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Armed only with his reel-to-reel contraption
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One hundred years ago in mac and boots
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Set out to faithfully preserve the region's roots
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And every night in some small village inn
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Fortified with fortitude and gin
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Mr Alexander, for a shilling
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Would thus record your song, if you were willing
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Would thus record your song, if you were willing
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So word got round, and soon there formed a queue
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And the line of willing singers grew and grew
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Brass for oohs and aahs? You can't go wrong
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When there's someone paying a shilling for a song
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When all his tapes are filled up, Edward leaves
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There's a history preserved, so he believes
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But all the so-called singers back inside
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They know they took a city scholar for a ride
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They know they took a city scholar for a ride
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For they shook the man for every coin he'd got
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With words and tunes all made up on the spot
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Invented tales not twenty minutes old
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So history, like ale, is bought and sold.
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The old contraption's packed away and boxed
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And a century is marked upon the clock
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So tradition holds that Edward's great collection
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Is honoured with a weekly resurrection
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Honoured with a weekly resurrection
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And now the old Society sing the songs
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Word for word, and kept where they belong
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As once again, they eulogise the past
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You can hear the ghosts of history laughing last
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You can hear the ghosts of history laughing last
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The Song Collector
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| Chumbawamba |
