The Stones at Carnac…


I have been playing with this entry for a couple of days…
Our good friends Rik and Christel are coming for a visit starting Wednesday, and we are all very excited at Caer Llwydd. Rik and I go back 40 years, having been in High School together in Mt. Shasta. He and Christel live in Cathar country in the South of France in a 1000 year old house. They are state side visiting friends family, and newly arrived babies.
Rik and I share a passion for folk music, especially the British Folk Tradition. Whereas, I tended towards Pentangle he tended towards Fairport Convention. Anyway, I am going to run some selections from both over the next few days, including side projects, solo careers etc.
Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm
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On The Menu:

Emma Goldman Quotes

‘Bert Jansch – Black Waterside’

Folk Tale From Britanny: The Changeling

Moonshine – Bert Jansch

Bert Jansch Lyrics

Travelling Song – Pentangle

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Emma Goldman Quotes


If voting changed anything, they’d make it illegal.
Anarchism is the great liberator of man from the phantoms that have held him captive; it is the arbiter and pacifier of the two forces for individual and social harmony
Every daring attempt to make a great change in existing conditions, every lofty vision of new possibilities for the human race, has been labeled Utopian.
No great idea in its beginning can ever be within the law. How can it be within the law? The law is stationary. The law is fixed. The law is a chariot wheel which binds us all regardless of conditions or place or time.
No one has yet realized the wealth of sympathy, the kindness and generosity hidden in the soul of a child. The effort of every true education should be to unlock that treasure.

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‘Bert Jansch – Black Waterside’

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Folk Tale From Britanny: The Changeling

MARIANNIK and her husband lived in a thatched cottage. It was hidden in a lonely heath like a bird’s nest in a tree. In the summer the thatch was covered with flowers and matched the heath itself. in winter it looked like a rough, furry coat thrown over the cottage’s shoulders to keep it warm.
Within, the cottage danced in firelight. Here was an ancient linen press on which were carved curious figures. In the corner stood the box bed, its sliding doors cut in fanciful lace patterns. The chest, the table, and the benches were polished till they shone in the light from the burning logs. Near the fireplace was the cradle, also of carved wood, and in the cradle was Mariannik’s and her husband’s treasure, the darling of the cottage, Loik, their little son.
One day Loik was sleeping peacefully, the fire was crackling merrily, and the cat seated on the warm hearthstone was purring and washing her face. Mariannik got up and looked out of the window.
“The sun is shining now,” she said, “but I know it is going to rain, because pussy is washing behind her ears; that is a sure sign. I’ll go and fetch a bucket of water before the rain muddies the spring.”
She kissed Loik and set out for the fountain where she filled her bucket. As she was coming back she saw a tiny, crested bird singing on a hawthorn bush, and this is what he sang:
“Mariannik, be quick, be quick,

For in the cradle is no Loik.”
“You silly bird!” exclaimed Mariannik, “Loik cannot walk,” but all the same with a flutter at her heart she hurried across the heath to the cottage.
She opened the door and felt at once that something terrible had happened. The fire had gone out. The cat’s back was bristling. She hastened to the cradle where, instead of seeing Loik’s round and rosy face, Oh, lack-a-day! she beheld a hideous dwarf with a dark and spotted face. He had a huge and gaping mouth; his hands and feet were evil, threatening, jagged claws.
“Merciful heavens!” cried Mariannik. “Who, are you? What have you done with my blessed child?”
The dwarf answered never a word, but grinned a wicked grin.
When Mariannik’s husband came in from the fields he found her weeping, the baby gone, the dwarf howling, the cat spitting, and the cottage cold.
They took counsel together and decided that Mariannik must go back to the hawthorn bush where the bird had sung to her.
So back she went and when she got there, sure enough, there sat the crested bird perched on a swinging twig.
“Little bird, little bird,” cried Mariannik, “my Loik is lost, and a wicked dwarf is in his cradle. Pray tell me what to do.”
“Mariannik, Mariannik,” chirped the little bird, “your Loik is not lost, he has been stolen by the Queen of the Dwarfs. Before he can be rescued you must make the changeling speak. Now mark well what I say. Go home and in an eggshell prepare a meal for ten strong ploughmen. Then will the dwarf demand of you what you are doing. Quickly, Mariannik, seize him and beat him with all your strength. Beat him till he screams for help. His mother, the Queen of the Dwarfs, will come and give you back your Loik.”
So Mariannik hurried to the cottage, and without a word she took an eggshell and in it began to prepare a meal for ten strong ploughmen.
“What are you doing, mother, what are you doing? shrieked the ugly dwarf, sitting upright in the cradle.
“What am I doing, hideous creature, what am I doing? I am preparing a meal for ten ploughmen in an eggshell.”
“A meal for ten ploughmen in an eggshell, mother? I saw the egg before I saw the white hen. I saw the acorn before I saw the oak tree. I saw the tree in the enchanted woods, but I never saw a sight such as this.”
“You have seen too many things, thou hideous one. Thou son of evil, I have you now!” And Mariannik beat him with all the power of her arm.
“Help! help!” screeched the creature, calling for his mother, the Queen of all the Dwarfs.
“Mariannik, Mariannik! Forbear from beating of my son,” cried a shrill, excited voice. “Behold I give you Loik!”
Breathless, Mariannik stopped. The yells had ceased. She looked at the cradle in amazement. The ugly dwarf had disappeared and Loik, her beloved child Loik, was there again. As Mariannik bent over him to kiss him he stretched out his arms to her and said:
“Mother, mother, dear little mother, what a long sleep I have had.”

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Moonshine – Bert Jansch

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Bert Jansch Lyrics

Some of these Bert wrote, and some he added on to. A coulple of these, well they are absolutely ancient.
Reynardine
One evening as I rambled

Among the leaves so green

I overheard a young woman

Converse with Reynardine
Her hair was black, her eyes were blue

Her lips as red as wine

And he smiled to gaze upon her

Did that sly old Reynardine
She said, “Kind sir, be civil

My company forsake

For in my own opinion

I fear you are some rake”
“Oh no,” he said, “no rake am I

Brought up in Venus’ train

But I’m seeking for concealment

All along the lonesome plane”
“Your beauty so enticed me

I could not pass it by

So it’s with my gun I’ll guard you

All on the mountains high”
“And if by chance you should look for me

Perhaps you’ll not me find

For I’ll be in my castle

Inquire for Reynardine”
Sun and dark, she followed him

His teeth did brightly shine

And he led her up a-the mountains

Did that sly old Reynardine
Sylvie
As Sylvie was walking down by the riverside

As Sylvie was walking down by the riverside

And looking so sadly

looking so sadly

looking so sadly

All upon the swift tide
She thought on her lover that left her in pride

She thought on her lover that left her in pride

On the banks of the meadow

On the banks of the meadow

On the banks of the meadow

She sat down and cried
And as she sat weeping a young man came by

And as she sat weeping a young man came by

What ails you my jewel

What ails you my jewel

What ails you my jewel

And makes you to cry
Well I once had a sweetheart and now I have none

I once had a sweetheart and now I have none

He’s gone and leave me

Gone and leave me

Gone and leave me

In sorrow to mourn
Last night in sweet slumber I dreamed that I did see

Last night in sweet slumber I dreamed that I did see

Mine own dearest true love

Mine own dearest true love

Mine own dearest true love

Come smiling to me
But when I awokened I found it not so

But when I awokened I found it not so

Mine eyes were like fountains

Mine eyes were like fountains

Mine eyes were like fountains

Where the waters do flow
I’ll set sail of silver and steer towards the sun

I’ll set sail of silver and steer towards the sun

And my false love will weep

My false love will weep

My false love will weep

For me after I’m gone.

—-
Rosemary Lane
When I was in service in Rosemary Lane

I won the goodwill of my master and did I

Till a sailor came there one night to lay

And that was the beginning of my misery
He called for a candle to light him to bed

And likewise a silk handkerchief to tie up his head

To tie up his head as sailors will do

And he said my Pretty Polly will you come too
Now this maid being young and foolish she thought it no harm

For to lie into bed to keep herself warm

And what was done there I will never disclose

But I wish that short night had been seven long years
Next morning this sailor so early arose

And into my apron three guineas did throw

Saying take this I will give and more I will do

If you’ll be my Polly wherever I go
Now if it’s a boy he will fight for the king

And if it’s a girl she will wear a gold ring

She will wear a gold ring and a dress all aflame

And remember my service in Rosemary Lane
When I was in service in Rosemary Lane

I won the goodwill of my master and did I

Till a sailor came there one night to lay

And that was the beginning of my misery


Tree Song
I wish I had a photograph

To let you see the way you smile

Upon my foolish heart
The words I do not know enough

I hope that you will find my song

A pleasing to your ear
You step beneath the midnight moon

To gather dewdrops for the sun

A Waiting until morn
Oh if I was a branched tree

I’d be the oak tree fast and strong

To win your gentle heart
And If I was one grain of corn

I’d wait till you did come along

To throw me to the wind
And if I was one silken thread

Embroidered all in cherry red

Upon your breast I’d lie
And if I was the alder tree

I’d burn it fiercely over thee

Our love would surely last
And if I was the hawthorn bush

And you did shelter under me

I would not do you harm
And if I was one glass of wine

One sip from you would give me time

To take you by the hand
And all across the hills we’d go

In search of what no-one does know

Except for you and I

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Travelling Song – Pentangle

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