Hometown Tunes Vol. 1

ICE-BREAKING DAY

For Helen McFarlane Tobermory ON

From Lees' Fish Dock you can see Rusty and Bud,

Out on the decks of their old fishing tugs,

Staring out over the big frozen lake,

Dreaming of boatfulls of whitefish and splake,

They're dreaming of Ice-breaking day.

Out in the channel past Flower Pot Island,

The boys hear a sound and it sets them to smilin'

The coast guard's out clearing the spring shipping lanes,

It's time to get to it and at it again,

Soon it'll be ice-breaking day.

CHORUS:

You would be sorry to say Tobermory's

A dull place to be you have obviously not seen

The tip of the Bruce when it's time to break loose

You have not seen it Ice-Breaking Day.

Folks come around from as far out of town

As Lion's Head, Wiarton and Owen Sound

To Little Tug Harbour to watch that old Jac-

Ramming away at the ice till it cracks,

They come to see Ice-breaking day.

Like two bumper cars those old tugs reel and they rock,

As the crowd cheers them on from the terminal dock.

Rusty and Bud give it all that they've got,

There's drift nets to set, there are fish to be caught,

Right after Ice-breaking day.

CHORUS:

It's mostly the ferry and Dive Charters now,

But years ago this was a real fishing town,

The Boom Times are gone, it's not like it was then,

But we still get the chance to live those days again,

Whenever it's Ice-Breaking Day.

Repeat Chorus

SPOOK'S HOLLOW

For Betty Workman, Stirling ON

Around Stirling there's a tale that's handed down, it's

Told when the campfires burn low

About a place in Huntington Township,

Its a place that they tell you not to go.

Where the pretty Rawdon Creek follows

Through the woods from little White Lake.

There's a dip in the road they call Spook's Hollow,

And this is why they say it got that name.

On warm summer nights like these,

There's a strange chilly wind that fills the air,

And there's a woman's voice whispering in the breeze,

And sometimes in the moonlight you can see her there.

She is crying, crying in the shadows,

For her babies, its a sad and ghostly moan.

You can hear her calling towards the shallows,

Where the creek flows over the cold mossy stones.

No one knows what happened to her children,

Not a single clue was ever found,

Some say in the full moon's madness she had killed them,

Or else they jumped from the bridge one night and drowned.

But if you cross that bridge late in the evening,

Two small forms will leap on to your car,

Until you leave Spook's Hollow you can see them,

Dance a ghostly dance out under the Stirling stars.

There's an owl screeching from a treetop,

Where the road winds slowly up that ridge,

And where the moon shines on the water you can see a

Faint form's reflection from the bridge.

Don't slow down, or she will beckon to you,

With the midnight wind in her voice.

She will stare a haunting stare right through you,

And say "where are my angels, where are my little boys".

BASTARD AND SOUTH BURGESS

for Barbara Gibson, Lombardy, ON

We've been up and Down the Rideau,

Ottawa to Kingston Mills,

But anywhere that we go,

Our hearts will still

Be pining for the shores

of that Big Rideau Lake,

Bring us back once more, oh

Can't you take

Us to

(CHORUS):

Bastard and South Burgess,

The township I love best,

Prettier by far than its name suggests,

No matter what we're called,

Or what you think of it,

Bastard and South Burgess is strictly legit.

I miss my home in old Plum Hollow

And those trips we used to take,

To Delta, when we'd all go

to Beverley Lake,

Remember when Phillipsville and Forfar,

were Number One in cheese,

Those days are gone but for our

Memories.

Chorus:

In the old days the Steamboats,

would dock in Portland town,

Back when the Rideau

was a place of great renown,

The Antelope, Victoria

The Lee, the Rideau Belle,

We all had such stories, ah!

Too many for to tell.

Chorus:

AIRPLANE ELLIOT

for Betty and Jim Greenwood,

Carrying Place ON

Look up in the air, Molly. What is that thing?

It looks like and old Massey-Harris with wings.

Look out below! It's that crazy old guy;

It's Airplane Elliot plowing the sky.

Over Trenton and Brighton and Carrying Place,

Or as far off as Belleville and Wellington Bay,

When the times they were tough, and he was down on his luck,

You'd know where he'd be, you'd just have to luck up,

(CHORUS):

Up in the air he goes,

Over Lake Ontario,

Airplane Elliot's flying so high.

All through the thirties,

As free as a bird he

Would leave that hard farming life so far behind.

We first saw him back in about Thirty-five;

Floating over our orchard in a gentle swan-dive.

That old contraption crashed into the ground;

He just shook himself off and then hitched into town.

He could fold that thing up just as neat as can be,

And throw it up on the roof of his old Model-T;

And with baling wire, duct tape, some grease and a prayer,

Soon he would have that thing back in the air.

CHORUS:

Years of working at making that little farm pay,

Finally caught up with Elliot one day.

Some rickety old home-made angels came down,

And took him away from that heart-breaking ground.

Chorus

EBENEZER ALLEN

for Judy Bartholomew, Delaware ON

I'd like to sing a little song about Delaware,

Prettiest little place that you'll find anywhere,

Ebenezer Allen was the first settler there,

He arrived in 1794 in Februar

-y. In the revolutionary war between the Yanks and Brits,

Ebenezer Allen, he was in the thick of it.

He fought for Butlers Rangers

filled with bravery and grit,

He was a loyalist , but also he was a rebel just a bit.

A rebel just a bit, a rebel just a bit,

He was a loyalist , but also he was a rebel just a bit.

Ebenezer Allen settled following the war,

On a pretty little farm in Upper State New York,

By the Genessee river he ran a trading store,

And he took a native wife, she was the first of many more.

Now for his service to the crown old Ebenezer thought it fair,

To receive a grant of land along the Thames in Delaware,

So he went to Governor Simcoe and he declared,

Give me 2000 acres for my family to share.

For my family to share, for my family to share,

Give me 2000 acres for my family to share.

Although he built a couple of mills, both grist and saw,

As a founding father Ebenezer was a little odd,

He was always getting into trouble with the law,

In fact, they threw him in the slammer for larceny and fraud.

And in the war of 1812 old Ebenezer he decided

To switch his loyalties again and join the Yankee side,

So the Deleware militia caught that traitor's sorry hide,

And it's figured pretty general that prison's where he died.

That prison's where he died, that prison's where he died,

It's figured pretty general that prison's where he died.

Well I guess he's not the kind of hero that you might have thought,

But he's the only founding father Delaware has got,

So I figure that for that we owe old Eb an awful lot,

So here's to Ebenezer- wherever he may rot.

wherever he may rot, wherever he may rot.

So here's to Ebenezer- wherever he may rot.

LIZZIE AND ANDREW

For Morley Grigg, Owen Sound, ON

Some summers

I'd lend a hand to old Lizzie and Andrew

At their farm by the river, just past those big bluffs.

They were my grandparents, they worked on land where the

Winters were long and the times they were tough.

Me and Grandpa would float in his flat-bottomed boat

'cross the old Mississaugi, and he'd let me row,

As we'd glide towards the shore he would tell me the story

of how Lizzie saved my dad's life long ago.

My fathers' rig , it was one of those big

trucks- he'd haul logs to Iron Bridge from way up north.

On his winter trips, Grandma always would sit

by the window and nervously rock back and forth.

To Grandpa she'd say, I hope he's OK

Out on those frozen lumber camp roads all alone,

And she thought that his truck would be blessed with good luck

If she prayed for him every night till he was home.

One night without warning a big winter storm

Hit my fathers' truck just east of Sault Ste. Marie.

He was loaded with spruce, and his brakes seemed no use

And the fast-falling snow made it too hard to see.

CHORUS:

And as he started to slide, right before my dad's eyes

There was Lizzie's big woodstove; he could smell her fresh bread.

And he swore he could see Andrew's Old Model T-

light his way through the slippery road up ahead.

And just at that moment, back in her home,

Grandma awoke and she said him a prayer,

His truck came to a stop, right at the top

of a cliff with two wheels hanging out in the air.

And when dad made it home- so the old story goes,

He figured his truckin' days couldn't go on;

Then Grampa would wink, and say " How do you think

Your dad met your mom, and then you came along?"

Me and Grandpa would float in his flat-bottomed boat

'cross the old Mississaugi, and he'd let me row,

As we'd glide towards the shore he would tell me the story

of how Lizzie saved my dad's life long ago.

ELOISE AND ABELARD

©James Gordon 1992

for Peter Fiander, Milford ON

Eloise and Abelard

Would gaze out from their fenced in yard

Dreaming of the wondrous world beyond,

What they saw through those white pickets

To a goose was just the ticket

They had set their sights on Milford Pond

"Picture paddling on that water

Raising little gosling daughters"

Said the gander to his waddling bride,

Never mind that we've been raised

To end up under orange glaze,

Served with mashed potatoes on the side.

Instead of roasted up with yams

We'll be geese out on the lam,

At dusk, my Eloise, we'll fly the coop.

Wing in wing, they went together,

Flew the fence with flurried feathers,

To the pond instead of to the soup .

Soon those happy geese were swans,

Gliding over Milford Pond,

People-bumps of joy had Eloise.

From Hick's General store you'd see them,

Basking in their new-found freedom,

Abelard was generally pleased.

Milford's small, and soon the word

About those nice web-footed birds

circulated all around the town.

Some thought they were quaint to look at

Some thought they'd be better cooked and

some could picture pillows made of down.

And though the gooses former captors

thought to make their final chapter

one about a scrumptious Christmas feast,

Their plan had struck a major flaw

It seemed that Milford had a law

'NO SHOOTING ON THE POND,' including geese.

Our feathered friends looked like the winners

Over those who favored dinner,

All they'd get to taste now was defeat,

Abelard and Eloise

Would get to live a life of ease,

No longer were they just potential meat.

I wish the story finished there,

A happy ending for our pair,

But El and Ab had quite a different fate.

I'm sorry that I have to say

That evil forces found a way

To legally put goose upon their plate.

A trail of corn from pond to farm

Was all it took to lure and charm

Our heroes to their final dinner date;

"Look! Food!" Exclaimed the silly gooses,

Waddling towards their goosey nooses,

" CORN!" -the parting words of goose to mate.

DANIEL MACMILLAN

music by James Gordon

lyrics by Alexander McLaughlin,

for Debbie Kilmer, Erin ON

Chorus:

Now may his memory never fade

For no man lost by what he gained

And may the earth that is on him laid

Lie gently on Daniel Macmillan.

With little but his axe all this

was carved from howling wilderness,

There are few who will be missed

Like Daniel Macmillan,

The church, the school house and the mill,

The store, the forge, the vat, the kiln,

We owe to the unconquered will

of Daniel Macmillan

Chorus:

And what was there he could not face,

He bridged the stream, he cut the race,

And Erin was a finer place

for Daniel Macmillan

Prosperity to us he brought,

And for his bait, the fishes fought,

The deer seemed willing to be caught

by Daniel MAcmillan

Chorus:

And he was always at our call,

He was Doctor, Lawyer, Judge and all,

No man in Erin stood as tall

As Daniel Macmillan

Beneath those ancient willow trees,

The father of our village sleeps,

Of Nature's true nobility

was Daniel Macmillan

Chorus:

HARRY IN THE HOLE

©James Gordon 1992

for the good people of Mount Forest ON

They call him Harry In The Hole,

You'd see him walk out in the cold

With a sack upon his back in the wintertime.

He looks scary , he looks old,

And for Harry In The Hole

That really was his only crime.

You can't talk to Harry In The Hole,

He just stares and shrugs his shoul-

ders and shuffles silently along his way.

Sometimes with terror in his eyes

You'd see him scan the northern skies

For an enemy that's stalked him all his days.

Around here stories are still told

Of how old Harry In The Hole

Was a fighter pilot back in the war.

They say his plane went down in flames;

Harry never was the same

After he returned in 1944.

They say that Harry had survived

Deep behind the German line

By hiding in a hole beneath the wreckage of his plane.

Now he lives out at the edge of town

in a hole he dug into the ground

Waiting for a foe he knows will some day come again.

He did not fit into their mold

Folks thought Harry In The Hole

Was a stain upon the good name of this town.

And when his capture finally came,

It was not soldiers but his neigh-

bours who took him from the safety he had found.

For it seems that Harry's enemies

Were real- they were you and me,

And though he had eluded us for years,

Now he's in the hospital,

A hell that's more acceptable,

He's a prisoner of all of our fears.

Repeat first verse

UNCLE JOE'S LAST RIDE

For Mary Janes, Warwick ON

Well they say that a crowd of six thousand strong

Came out to meet the Watford Train

The procession to Warwick was two miles long,

To bring Uncle Joe home again.

And who was this man

Who seemed to command

Such love and respect in these parts,?

Just a simple preacher

Who somehow had reached

Out to touch Lambton County's Heart,

It was way back in 1833,

When Uncle Joe Little came to town

Warwick was nothing but swamps and trees

And some lost souls looking to be found

The legends are told

Of his heart of gold

And the kindness that Uncle Joe showed

And how you'd see him roam

On his Indian pony

Along those old corduroy roads

Well his saddle was his pulpit and his church was the trail

Of those Lambton pioneers

His sermons were only homespun tales

That brought them some hope and good cheer.

That brought them some hope and some cheer.

And they still talk about

How no one ever did without

When Uncle Joe came around

He'd give them something to eat

Or the boots from his feet

Or some lodging that he had found.

As Warwick prospered , well Uncle Joe started

To travel far and wide

Giving all that he had , giving all of his heart

Till the day of his last ride,

Till the day of his last ride.

Repeat First Verse

INGERSOLL

For Douglas Carr, Ingersoll ON

There's a pretty little town

Down in Oxford County

That's famous for its cheese.

They call it Ingersoll,

I think that it will linger al-

ways in my sweet memories.

CHORUS:

You can have your Torontos and your Montreals

But for me there's nowhere better,

Than my Ingersoll, it's the best of them all,

It's the home of the mammoth chedder.

Thomas Ingersoll founded

Our lovely town

And he gave to us his name,

He was the father of Laura

Secord of War of

1812 fame.

Chorus:

Another famous man in town

Was the same John Brown

who lies mouldering in his grave,

For Ingersoll was one

Of the stops on the un-

derground railway that helped escaping slaves

And we must pay homage

To that great big fromage

that brought us such renown.

It was the cheese

Of the century

It was Twenty-one feet around.

And you might recall

Another Ingersoll-

ian was the evangalist,

Aimee Semple

Macpherson, her temple

was in Los Angeles.

PORT BURWELL

For the Town of Port Burwell

Remember when the herring would team in our waters,

And the Earl Bess could lift 30 tons in a day;

And those big timber-booms used to float down the Otter

To the harbour where many a fine schooner lay,

Port Burwell was something they say,

And it'll be something again.

The old Ashtabula would steam in,

With coal cars and tourists from Cleveland.

And though she is nothing but scrap metal now,

In those days she used to make Port Burwell proud.

When our work was all done in the summertime we'd go,

Down to the beach every Saturday.

To the Lakeside Hotel or Shipps Brothers' Casino

We would dance to the big bands and drink orangeade,

Port Burwell was something they say,

And it'll be something again.

In the morning you'd hear all the screen doors creak,

When the milk truck would rattle down Shakespeare Street.

And the drone of a sea-kindly tug in the lake,

Heading towards Pelee some perch for to take.

Now the timber, the coal and the tourists are gone,

And the trains and the ferrys don't come anymore,

But we know that Port Burwell will always live on,

The best place along the North Shore!

Port Burwell was something they say,

And it'll be something again.

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