1. |
The Kestrel
04:27
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The Kestrel
One day as I was walking, I watched a kestrel fly,
watched its certain balance there, between the earth and sky -
between the earth and sky.
As I stood still in wonder, I tried to understand
why some would want to plunder the heart out of this land -
the heart out of our land.
Sing it for the common lands, sing it for the earth,
sing it for the faithful ones who know what this is worth.
What price a life if it all comes down to money or to pain?
Standing there I knew the love of wind, of sun and rain -
wind and sun and rain.
I touched the bark of an elder tree along the valley's path;
followed down the driftway where a million footsteps passed -
the footprints of the past.
Sing it for the common lands, sing it for the earth,
sing it for the faithful ones who know what this is worth.
And it's one for Tyler, two for Ludd, three for Thomas Paine
and four for all the ranters who would do it all again -
do it all again.
Sing the red fox from the hounds, the red deer from the gun,
sing for us who dare to claim our place beneath the sun -
to lie beneath the sun.
Sing it for the common lands, sing it for the earth,
sing it for the faithful ones who know what this is worth.
One day as I was walking, I watched a kestrel fly,
watched its certain balance there, between the earth and sky -
between the earth and sky.
And I knew, for all I wondered, that I'd never understand
the minds of those who'd plunder the heart out of this land -
tear the heart out of our land.
Sing it for the common lands, sing it for the earth,
sing it for the faithful ones who know what this is worth.
(c) Words and music by Ray Templeton
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2. |
Love Song
04:10
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The Love Song
There’s one thing you can count on me to do –
to be standing at the window waiting on you.
What’s the good of a day if you’re not there?
Then I see you coming, and it’s like I’m walking on the air.
I could live in a tent, I could live in a ditch,
but if I had you they could still call me rich –
they could strike me dumb, they could strike me blind.
Life would still be worth living as long as you were mine.
Time makes its marks on all our bodies,
writes its stories, plays us all for fools.
For one breath let’s believe, against the odds, that we’ve
found the way to disobey its rules.
The bears and the bulls, roaring in the den,
paid no dues since god knows when,
and the gold watch ticks while the sparkling vintage flows.
But you’re right here and that’s all I ever need to know.
When I look ahead, all I see’s the past –
the first still first and the last still last.
When the sun should be rising, it seems like gathering night.
But a day with you is a day when it all seems right.
Time makes its marks on all our bodies,
writes its stories, plays us all for fools.
For one breath let’s believe, against the odds, that we’ve
found the way to disobey its rules.
Tune’s nothing special, the rhymes might be wrong –
but everybody’s got to write at least one love song,
and no matter what words I would try today,
it wouldn’t mount up to what I really need to say.
(c) Words and music by Ray Templeton
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3. |
The Old Gods
03:50
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The Old Gods
In the cold morning sun, on the north Biggar way,
there stood an old god, pointing at me.
He was blocking my road, his shoes ripped to strings,
in bright-coloured rags, and a dirty sheepskin.
He glared in my face and I knew that he took me for a fool;
I vowed I would give him no satisfaction at all.
He laid hands on my arm, in his arrogant way;
with anger and fear, those skelly eyes blazed.
He started to rave about demons and saints,
not one word of sense in his crazy complaints.
I looked straight back, as he swayed in the pale Autumn light.
In the struggling sun I could see he was stumbling, blind.
Then I heard an uproar from the back hill beyond,
where another old god stood abandoned and scorned.
He cried: “Riddle me this: what's a god to do now?
Every joker's a priest, every cleric's a clown”.
Two old chancers squabbling over their ruin -
I could feel it in my bones, their game would be over soon.
Then more gods appeared, gathered round for a fight,
shouting the blame at each other in spite.
I laughed as I passed, and walking away,
“Good night and good luck,” was all I had to say.
I left that unruly mob to their halos and wings;
I knew that I had no need for those ridiculous things.
(c) Words and music by Ray Templeton
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4. |
Library Song
03:26
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Library Song
As I came in by Market Street in strange and anxious times,
I saw a bright and shining light was burning in Wellwynd.
A door it stood wide open there, no judgment and no blame;
without fear or conditions – we all walked in the same.
It seemed, as I stepped in those halls, that I could see for miles,
watch the whole wide world from there, in its foolishness, in its guile.
I grasped at wisdom, lost in tales of laughter, tales of fame,
of dreamers, and of madmen, of poverty and shame.
As I climbed up still higher, I heard old music play.
The world came to my feet, then, from a thousand miles away:
songs of freedom, songs of toil, the open road, the cage;
I listened to the words they sang of love, and joy, and rage.
I walked a while and found that I could lie in leaves of grass,
flowers bloomed all round me, sown a long time past,
and I learned to love the mastery of colour and of line.
The paths I wore there soon would trace a journey through my time.
When lives are lost for nothing, when reason stands on sand,
when ignorance is glorified, I hold this in my hand –
the light I found to guide me, to drive shadows from my way,
that day I came by Market Street, down where Wellwynd lay.
(c) Words and music by Ray Templeton
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5. |
In Stone
04:26
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In Stone
Palacecraig’s buried and Summerlee’s gone –
only crows cry the names of the lost.
Darkening, fading, ghosts in old stone
count inequality's cost.
On the hills of Gartlea the hazed evening comes by,
as the cries down the broom field arise.
In a flicker of light from the furnacemen’s fire,
an old man has tears in his eyes.
A clatter of looms and the years turn around,
make the warp and the weft of a past –
as night follows day, there's a pattern now
stirs something long buried at last.
We don't choose a place to be born, but go on
to choose who we stand alongside;
and who talks of destiny, glory unearned
speaks more of delusion than pride.
But if each journey shows that there's good with the bad,
there's another long lesson to learn:
though no place is 'everything I ever had',
something elusive still burns.
The light coming up on Clyde waters again,
bright colours stretched over the Firth,
familiar harmony answering when
I see the cloud touching the earth.
Palacecraig’s buried and Summerlee’s gone –
only crows cry the names of the lost.
But there's more spirits out than could hide in old stone,
and tonight no-one talks of the cost.
City streets, quiet fields find the evening alive
though the cries down the broom field won't rise.
The flicker of light's from a different fire,
when an old man has tears in his eyes.
(c) Words and music by Ray Templeton
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6. |
Lambeg Blues
03:36
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Lambeg Blues
You never thought a thing like this could happen to you.
Knife fight on the streets of Verona – could it really come true?
You thought you’d met an ordinary girl,
but they said: “She’s from a different world – she’s not like you.”
Like a door out to a garden, that seems to be locked –
they hand you an explanation, but it’s all just talk
to make you think it’s all very clear:
one side there and the other side here. Just all talk-talk.
She’s on the other side of the road, and you can’t get across.
The music’s going round and round, feels like you’re lost –
the sound of the flute and the drum,
rattling snare and the squeezebox hum – it’s like you’re lost.
Only this time you know that you’re not going to take it lying down.
What once seemed like truth now rings like empty sound.
Somebody’s got to break the curse –
make things better, don’t make them worse. Time to turn it around.
And now in each other’s eyes, it’s so easy to tell:
you’re going to let them walk away – they can walk all the way to hell.
You’ve got a better song to sing,
now you know that there’s no such thing as an ordinary girl.
(c) Words and music by Ray Templeton
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7. |
Shepherd John's Dream
03:26
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Shepherd John’s Dream
I dreamed ae night outlandish fires, as no fire we could know.
By Wiston & by Thankerton, alone.
I stood on Tinto Hill and watched the flame and cinder blow.
And are Carnwath & Lamington all gone?
A rushing din across the wind, unkent and hauntit light,
By Wiston & by Thankerton, alone.
herrying the sheepwalk, the animals in flight.
And are Carnwath & Lamington all gone?
And as I kept strange vigil, heart filled wi’ dreid and fear,
By Wiston & by Thankerton, alone.
the Douglas ran wi’ dryte and mire, that once was flowing clear.
And are Carnwath & Lamington all gone?
But still I watched, and saw a shining falcon cleave the sky,
By Wiston & by Thankerton, alone.
and a herd of beasts across the field, the like never descried.
And are Carnwath & Lamington all gone?
I gazed the while into the sky, towards that antrin glare,
By Wiston & by Thankerton, alone.
at many wonders more, the ashes hanging on the air:
And are Carnwath & Lamington all gone?
of men who seemed to live, but toiled and laboured in the fire,
By Wiston & by Thankerton, alone.
of kilns and ovens towering above the Lanark spire.
And are Carnwath & Lamington all gone?
of stone that flowed like water, iron boats sailed on the burn.
By Wiston & by Thankerton, alone.
I woke to find the vision gone, and snow covered the thorn.
And are Carnwath & Lamington all gone?
(c) Words and music by Ray Templeton
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8. |
The Crow
03:11
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The Crow
On a dry-stone dyke, it sat that day -
in the mist I'd watched as it rolled in,
a dark outline against the sky,
where the backyard ends and the hills begin.
I stepped up to the dyke and found
who filled the air with his sad din -
an old crow wept, his head hung down,
where the backyard ends and the hills begin.
“What ails you, Crow, that brings you tears?”
Come tell to me what your dirge means”.
“I cannot fly, so I sit here
where the backyard ends and the hills begin.”
“I fell in a fight I did not choose;
now they won't lift me, these old wings.
I sit here, in a world unmoved,
where the backyard ends and the hills begin.”
I offered food, I offered wine,
and I brought it there to serve to him,
but I saw at once that the bird was gone,
where the backyard ends and the hills begin.
(c) Words and music by Ray Templeton
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9. |
Harmonies And Books
03:16
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Harmonies And Books
aka Roll Over, John Donne (Tell Kit Marlowe The News)
Come with me, live with me, and you will be my love,
and I will be yours and we'll have nothing more to prove.
I won't try to bind you to me with silken threads and hooks -
I'll fill our days with colour, with harmonies and books.
I don't promise I will make for you a fragrant bed of roses -
the thorns would prick your skin: I'd rather let the bushes grow.
But you'll need a coat and boots to keep you from the cold,
and if I could, I'd fasten them with buckles made of gold.
And if you're still listening when my foolish song is done,
come live with me, stay with me, and you will be my love.
If you want a cap of flowers, buds to decorate your gown
I'll tie them with a lover's knot, and bring them to you now,
and I'd weave for you a girdle in colours rich and bright,
with coral clasps and amber studs, to wear with them tonight.
Let's pledge with constant words and let us change your ring with mine,
to seize the passing day, to grasp the waning time,
for there's no land beyond the skies, waiting to be found -
the way we'll surely find one is to make it here and now.
And if you're still listening when my foolish song is done,
come live with me, stay with me, and you will be my love.
Come with me, live with me, and you will be my love,
and I will be yours and we'll have nothing more to prove.
All the valleys, all the hills, all the oceans, all the seas,
if I can share them with you, that'll be enough for me.
(c) Words and music by Ray Templeton
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10. |
Rational Blues
03:01
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Rational Blues
When I walk beneath a ladder, I don’t keep my fingers crossed,
I don’t observe the rituals, when I spill the salt.
Don’t think the sky’ll fall when I see prophets in cartoons,
sacrifice to statues or venerate the moon…
I’m not dealing with the devil,
but I don’t need you preaching at me.
Disrespect is healthy, shakes the power games.
Shout “heathen!” or “iconoclast!”, to me it’s all the same –
I don’t go dynamiting Buddhas or desecrating saints,
and saying prayers backwards just seemed insane…
I’m not dealing with the devil,
but I don’t need you preaching at me.
I’d be all for commandments if they’d shown us how to live –
eliminated murder, or taught us to forgive.
Instead, I count the rules that pull a veil over our eyes
with the idea that control is really freedom in disguise…
I’m not dealing with the devil,
but I don’t need you preaching at me.
I’m careful how I speak although I like to tell it straight,
but new languages of power, and lexicons of hate,
the invention of offence, and the fabricated rage
fast-forward in reverse towards a new dark age…
I’m not dealing with the devil,
but I don’t need you preaching at me.
Don’t say: “Look at all the evidence, the facts speak for themselves.”
Logic founders on belief, there’s no-one to impress.
I won’t play them at their own game and validate the fight,
It only makes them think they must be doing something right…
I’m not dealing with the devil,
but I don’t need you preaching at me.
(c) Words and music by Ray Templeton
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11. |
Stranger
04:27
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Stranger
I walk through my words again,
I’m breathing in and out to make my heart still.
I struggle with my tongue again,
not knowing how this spell might make my soul feel.
Experience is useless, I’m wrestling with the remnants of a free will.
I’m stepping into different days,
conjured out of photographs in monochrome –
the smoke and noise convenient ways
of setting a scenario for this journey home.
I’m unfolding a backcloth, whose pattern I took from some old half-tone.
Diaries and letters, scraps of lace in flickering orange light,
a scatter on the concrete, uncovered to the cold and careless night...
On cue, the crowds make way,
showing me my first sight of your pale face:
half-recognised, familiar,
the way I’d always seen it in this cold place.
Humiliation’s hard, but one day you will know that there is no disgrace.
My hand is for assistance,
not a signal of an offer that is binding.
Gathering what’s scattered’s
not a question of desire, or even finding
a voice that’s not a memory yet, the start of some factitious happy ending.
Diaries and letters, scraps of lace in flickering orange light,
a scatter on the concrete, uncovered to the cold and careless night...
Late, distracted, faltering,
you’re looking at me as our wavering hands shake
for one enduring second,
then I fold into the crowd the CGI makes.
And so the moment’s past – and now I’m gone, my hands, my fingers still electric.
(c) Words and music by Ray Templeton
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12. |
The New Cinema
03:07
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The New Cinema
Can’t sleep, the candle’s alight -
he takes his pen and he starts to write.
His eyes are burning, the night is aglow –
they’re all drifting in a sea of snow.
Overcoat and hat, yes, it’s cold enough for that –
there’ll be no sleep tonight.
Looks like Russian, but we know the name,
when they start to play that tune again.
It’s all frozen up but the ink starts to flow,
the way it should’ve done a long time ago.
The muse comes to call, no hesitation at all –
there’ll be no sleep tonight.
She’s the highlight of every scene –
he can really frame a shot, David Lean.
Just listen as the strings trill and swell –
her theme is back as clear as a bell.
The ending will be sad, a heart attack is bad –
but there’ll be no sleep tonight.
Now you know I always liked Julie Christie –
but I had to be a little bit more realistic,
and mine was as tempting in the old school tie
as Antipova in her nurse’s livery.
And if she was here, I’d like to make it clear –
there’d be no sleep tonight.
No need for candles, it’s broad daylight.
Taps on the keys the way I like to write.
My eyes are burning, the screen’s aglow –
for once it looks like the words might flow.
No need to be frightened when the writing bug is biting –
but there’ll be no sleep tonight.
(c) Words and music by Ray Templeton
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Ray Templeton Harrogate, UK
Scottish musician and writer, living in North Yorkshire.
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