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 singalong, or worse

This history in song and countless verse

Pays homage to the man who, long ago

Collected all the songs the singers know

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

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

They know they took a city scholar for a ride

They 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

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

You can hear the ghosts of history laughing last