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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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