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