DISCOGRAPHY and lyrics: FOLKLORE IN SONG2

FOLKLORE IN SONG2

“FOLKLORE IN SONG 2 . . . For Old Times and New” sets the signs of the times to music and song. It presents a potpourri of original, contemporary folk songs and ballads. The richly orchestrated harmonies and lyrics bring to mind the profound sentiments that touch our everyday lives.

*Can be heard on Linda's YouTube Channel: Linda Dempster Folklore in Song

Track Listings (Words & Music by Linda Dempster)

Vocals, words and music by Linda Dempster, Arrangements - Eric N. Robertson, Claude Desjardins - Percussion, Mike Francis - Guitar, Erica Goodman - Harp, James Pirie - Guitar, Eric Robertson - Piano & Keyboard, Peter Schenkman - Cello. Song Lyrics follow.

LYRICS

FOLKLORE IN SONG

My grandmother Alice Chevigny de la Chevrotière was born in Esturgeon (now called Lamoureux), a small town just outside of Edmonton, Alberta. She had a mixed European French and Cree heritage, was talented in tapestry making, sewing and beadwork, and she loved the song of “The Red River Valley”, an old country folk tune that migrated across the US border to Canada. At the age of 22, she left Alberta, got married and spent the rest of her life in eastern Canada. We (her grandchildren) are only now beginning to understand and appreciate the richness of this mixed heritage through research into our family background. This song is about losing touch with one's roots and, sadly, leaving behind a culture and traditions in order to conform to society as a whole. As recorded in Canadian history and evidenced to this day, the defeat of the Metis nation (mixed French and indigenous peoples), brought disorder, strife and a low societal status to their progeny. "Mystical wheel" in the song text refers to the "Medicine Wheel”, which is the basis for North American Aboriginal beliefs, customs and spirituality.

A moon maiden whispers a lullaby,

To the spaceless place where babies lie.

And a grandmother murmurs her stories soft and low,

Of covered wagons, prairie fires, Chinooks, Alberta snows.

What will life bring you dear, I dare not ask .

The tears of the Métis, wild seeds of the past.

Yesterday's fortunes, or perhaps tomorrow's gold.

A song of red river valleys, or heart that grows cold . . .

The artist, the weaver, a mystical wheel,

Half forsaken mem’ries - a heart that conceals.

Visions of freedom, and strong hands do toil,

But nothing means freedom; someone else owns the soil.

The land of our fathers, without a name.

A road to misfortune is their only fame.

What can I leave you dear the spirits have all flown . . .

Only folklore in song, ‘cause I seek a new home.

A MILLION TIMES A CIRCLE

Societies on earth have various systems for living - a set of truths, values and realities - not necessarily yours or mine. Sadly, we are all impoverished strangers in the midst of great wealth. Too bad there's not an easier recipe for finding a new world order . . . like simply reaching out and forming concentric circles around the globe to form a network of sharing and hope for the future.

The hands reach out, the fingers touch,

The children's smiles we love so much.

A million times a circle.

A million times…

The love of one spread around the earth,

Like drops of rain to quench the thirst,

A million times.

A million times a circle.

We live the times, it’s yours and mine.

The words make sense, when set to rhyme,

A million times the circle.

A million times . . .

Such riches conquer faceless fears,

Tribal wars and endless tears,

A million times.

A million times a circle.

WHERE DOES THE LOVE GO

Where, I wonder, does the field of energy and warmth we call “love” go when it escapes us? And if indeed, one new the answer to this question, would one really gain anything at all in knowing?

Rainbows, lovers and roses,

The old clichés and you.

I once heard in a song,

A love that goes wrong,

Leaves a heart that’s broken in two.

Where does the love go,

When it's all over at last?

Is there some haven,

Frozen in tears of the past?

Why do the heartaches,

Linger long after the tears?

Can love sweet memory rekindle a flame,

If I whisper your name.

Windsong, two hearts and memories,

Still at echo in my mind.

Though the rainbows and roses have faded and con, has love been captured in time?

ROCKABYE, ROCKABYE, YOU’RE NOT ALONE

As family members scatter across the map in search of a better education, a lifemate, or simply to find work, the separations that occur carry the hardship of loneliness. This song is as much for aging parents who find themselves separated from their children, as it is for their children in search of their heart’s desire.

Birds glide on summer winds, honey bees drone.

Rock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, rock-a-bye home.

Snow rests on rooftops, the winds blow forlorn.

Rock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, you're not alone.

Blow wish to a star, and fairy wings alight,

To brush the tears from your pillow that touch the hallowed night.

All the clouds dance to earth sounds that drift in the air,

While the moon tows a string, to unravel your cares.

Ice hangs from Christmas trees, but the children are grown.

Rock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, rock-a-bye home.

Sweet nectar from fruit trees, and seedlings are sown.

Rock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, you're not alone

A journey northward, how far dear, southbound is kind.

Perhaps west will be forever, or east for all time.

But a pathway that's homebound, forever bound to you,

When the cradle is full again, wishes come true.

HIS’TREE

I began to write the lyrics for “His’Tree” sometime ago. It remained incomplete for at least a year and a half until I visited my long-time friends, Pete and Paulette, in beautiful Victoria, BC. They kindly took me for a drive up the coast where I was able to appreciate the majesty of Cathedral Grove, as well as witness the devastation of entire mountainsscapes – remnants of the logging industry. Putting the finishing touches on the lyrics for “His’Tree” suddenly became very easy. Scarborough Arts Council ran a poetry contest with an environmental theme the same year as my trip to B.C., and “His’Tree” subsequently won a prize in that contest.

The trees are our history of love, hate and war.

They stand in their glory, or with bark scored an bare.

If fortune is tied to a desolate waste,

Then who's left to tell us what we should've saved?

Then who's left to tell us what we should've saved.

Where is the haven for poor helpless souls?

Cement blocks the sunlight, the trees are no more.

What hope for the lovers, a dream from the past?

A childless creation, the trees have all passed.

A tree in the meadow with sweethearts below.

A branch torn by lightning, the elements’ scorn.

A gnarled barren relic of ten years or more.

‘Tis nature's own passion that tells us the score.

Their roots have been severed from life and the earth.

A shameful reminder, herein lies our dirge.

Take courage young hopefuls, let all souls a mass,

And there'll be no destruction, a new holocaust!

There'll be no destruction, a new holocaust

THE CARETAKERS

The caretakers in this song refers to the “sandwich generation”. Often criticized for wanting it all. Well, they got it all - particularly women - who have traditionally been the chief caretakers of youth, the elderly and the lowest paying jobs.

The clock in the hallway beats slow, slowly on,

While the days on the calendar spin past, spin around.

And the caretakers wait, for the harvest of youth,

While old photographs crumble, to old fashioned tunes.

When does life start, and when does it end?

Who knows the secrets, and what's ‘round the bend?

A script lies unspent, and echoes no sound,

And the caretakers wait, to finish their song.

The strong ones, they rise, to the top of the falls,

Then time blows away, like leaves in a storm.

Ilusions grow dim as the old hallway clock,

Slowly unwinds, and soon will not tock.

The clock in the hallway beats slow, slowly on,

While the days on the calendar spin past, spin around.

And the old folks they smile, at the harvest of youth,

While o'clock in the hallway goes tick, tick, tick, stop!

The strong ones, they rise, to the top of the falls,

Then time blows away, like leaves in the storm.

The caretakers wait, till the end of the day,

As the photographs crumble, they all fade away.

LOOK TO THE SUNRISE

The most brilliant idea often tends to be the one that is so fraught with obstacles it remains in the dark, and can easily be overlooked to become nothing more than what we so commonly refer to as a “pipe dream”. If one has the ability to dream dreams, then one also has the ability to turn dreams into reality. It's all a matter of daring to shine some light on places where we've never been before, and risk going beyond where we feel comfortably safe.

Look to the sunrise each morn,

As a new life about to be born,

Unravel your dreams, one by one,

See them come true.

There are so many roads to carry you on.

Flickering dreams, to stumble upon.

Fast changing seasons colour your way,

From golden to grey.

There are no magic lanterns from days of yore.

Your mind paints a picture – hard to ignore.

Your heart finds the tune, the words of desire,

It sets you afire!

If you look to the sunrise each morn,

And you see a picture – blue and forlorn,

Let your heart sing the tune,

The words of desire,

Like kindling to fire.

So look to the sun rise each morn,

As a new life about to be born,

Unravel your dreams, one by one,

See them come true.

A NICKEL CAN MEAN A MORNING’S LIFETIME

Working in downtown Toronto has brought both sophisticated delights in celebrating the growth of the city . . . and melancholia. The disappearance of familiar landmarks such as department stores, favourite restaurants, and the growing plight of the homeless are also “signs of the times”. Most notably, the local bag ladies are often discouraged from restaurants and coffee shops regardless of whether or not they’ve had to wait the better part of the day in order to collect enough money to buy their first coffee of the day. Waiting to find just one more nickel to make up the change to buy a hot coffee, as well as a local shop that welcomes their patronage, must indeed feel like a lifetime.

Slowly she walks the streets at daybreak.

She calls, “Can someone say while the skies are gray?”

Sadly, she stoops to pick a nickel,

Perhaps it’s fate, a token thrown her way.

The rain falls softly all around her.

She carries sodden bags of hope from days gone by.

The warmth of a coffee shop that opens,

Denies her soul and only brings a sigh.

The sunrise, it clears the mist around her.

A fleeting glance can tell the story of her years.

Earthbound and homeless mark her footsteps,

And shiny nickels just reflect her fears.

The rustling leaves collect as if to give her warning,

And summer passes with a mournful bird on wing.

A haven waits a poor and weary soul a-yearning,

If winter takes away the last sweet thought of spring.

A nickel can mean a morning’s lifetime,

Of hunger, searching, . . . and looks as hard as steel.

A token from some other friendly stranger,

A phantom glance, a distant heart that feels.

The storm clouds will always leave us rain pools,

We can ignore see a life that gathers tears.

A hunger that can't go unforgotten,

A haunting memory of broken souvenirs.

THE KEEPER OF WISHES, THE SPENDER OF DREAMS

Several times, I have performed in the music program at Toronto's Riverdale Hospital (now called Bridgepoint) alongside the (former) Don Jail. I have always been touched by the spirit of the hospital staff. They seem to have an inexhaustible supply of emotional nourishment for their chronic care patients - many of whom are confined to wheelchairs and some have even lost the gift of speech. Of all things to be cherished, oddly, it is the plight of the needy which fuels tenacity and creativity in others to help rise above it all and manage to deliver the remedies which give purpose and meaning to life and community.

Now, so many years later, . . . I reflect on my poetry and think of my mother who, in 2011, spent several weeks at Bridgepoint, where she languished in the palliative care ward. I held the same high regard for the nurses and doctors at Bridgepoint then, as I did so long ago, as they tirelessly worked with a quiet patience and kindness to ease my mother’s journey from this world into the next.

The keeper of wishes, the spender of dreams,

The day watch, the night watch, and darkness . . . it seems.

The gentle piano man let's fancy grow wings,

Then all at once they remember those long forgotten things.

I'll go to the window now, where is the snow?

How long have I been here, when did it go?

Have I been here too long, doesn't anyone know?

I can't find my feet, and there's a jailer next door.

The keeper of wishes, the spender of dreams,

The day watch, the night watch, and rhapsody streams.

The gentle piano man let's fancy grow wings,

Then all at once they remember those long forgotten things.

If heaven’s a place where the angels all sing,

Then bring me a choir, if only to win,

A piece of a smile, or a lopsided grin,

Or my own voice again, before my spirit grows dim.

The keeper of wishes, the spender of dreams,

The day watch, the night watch, a strong arm to lean.

The gentle piano man let's fancy grow wings,

Then all at once they remember those long forgotten things.

The gentle piano man let's fancy grow wings,

And then they find their own names . . . when the room, starts to spin.

WINDCHIMES AND RAINDROPS

If love comes from the heart, then of course there must be an infinite supply - enough to last a whole lifetime.

Life is like a flower that keeps unfolding.

Each petal holds the secrets of my heart.

If you leave me, you take away my fortune.

Now is not the time to part,

‘Cause each petal will become a teardrop,

The kind that truly blinds,

And it’ll leave its mark forever,

Upon the sands of time.

So don't look back they'll be no more sorrow.

There's music in the wind,

To lead us to some better times,

To where we've never been.

There's magic in the wind chimes,

And the summer rains.

So cherish every raindrop,

It'll wash away the pain.

Life's autumn makes the petals fall,

But the mem’ries stay behind.

Our love it's worth the trying,

Yet leavin’s on your mind.

I know we both have stumbled,

Along life winding paths,

And the storm clouds that have gathered,

Look as tho’ they'll surely last.

When we thought the magic moments,

Had fallen all apart,

I remembered rainy afternoons, and secrets in my heart.

So if you still think there's magic,

In the summer rains,

Stay close less the raindrops turn to tears,

Against the window pain.

REACH FOR AN APPLE, TOUCH THE SKY

Exploding populations that cry out to be fed, depletion of fish stocks, acid rain, pollution and disease have all merged to form a backdrop that will challenge generations to come. The emergence of global symposiums and networks to address these environmental stresses have begun to lay the foundation for a positive and powerful legacy of world-wide co-operation and kinship.

Reach for an apple, touch the sky,

Can't you see, the clouds are crying.

Spread all the loaves, drink all the wine,

Even tho’ the strong are sighing.

To the heartland, to the heartland,

Ancient waters, mystic rhythms,

Sing a hymn, to guide us back, bring us home.

When there’s no fish left in the bay,

And the raindrops scorch the helpless,

Soil and sea cradle barren harvest,

Faithful kin will bow and say,

To the heartland, to the heartland,

Ancient waters, mystic rhythms,

Sing a hymn, to guide us back, bring us home.

When unnamed colors stain the night sky,

Purple haze hangs in the morning.

Sacred offerings of old tradition,

Will unfold to keep the day.

To the heartland…

COME AND BUY MY FLOWERS

It seems to me that flower vendors have always added to the local colour of downtown Toronto. I've seen them painstakingly wait at the corner of Bay and Bloor Streets – rain, wind or shine – to catch the interest of passersby with their selection of fresh cut flowers. The chimes of St. Basil's can be heard in the background calling people to midday mass, which also signals what might be the most profitable time of day for the vendors.

Come and buy my flowers.

A dollar for my pocket.

The clock strikes twelve, the bells sing out,

But lunch time is forgotten.

The city’s gold is in its name,

Only when the sun is shining.

When frozen breath hangs in the air,

The hurried crowds – maligning.

There's a special place for you,

For those who find a reason.

Tomorrow's a callous promise,

To everything there's a season.

Hasten don't ignore me.

Can't you see I'm freezing.

Strike a bargain if you will,

And a child will not go starving.

With the night descending,

Come frenzied looks – rejecting.

Shadows bathe the flower stalls,

And homebound souls go walking.

Roses and carnations,

Come and buy my flowers . . .

Come and buy my flowers,

A dollar for my pocket.

It's almost time to call a day,

My flowers are slowly dy- - - ing.

DISCOGRAPHY: FOLKLORE IN SONG

FOLKLORE IN SONG

LINER NOTES

Toronto born lyric soprano displays the richness of her heritage and Canadian roots in her recording debut. Her repertoire reflects her universality and natural ability to transcend differences in language to reveal the very essence of a song.

“FOLKLORE IN SONG” is a 13-song recording (English and French) of some of the most lyrical melodies of our Canadian past. It has been artfully arranged for voice and piano, while at the same time retaining the freedom and expressivity of the folk-song tradition.

Track Listings (Traditional)

1. Sweet William

2. Backwoodsman

3. La Lettre de Riel

4. She’s Like the Swallow

5. J’entends le Moulin

6. The Huron Carol

7. Time to be Made a Wife

8. The Fisher Who Died in His Bed

9. Là-bas Sur ces Montagnes

10. I’ll Give my Love an Apple

11. Ah! Si Mon Moine Voulait Danser!

12. Pirate’s Serenade

13. Ô Canada, Mon Pays, Mes Amours!

Can be heard on Linda's YouTube Channel: Linda Dempster Folklore in Song

DISCOGRAPHY and lyrics: FOLKLORE IN SONG2

FOLKLORE IN SONG2

LYRICS

DISCOGRAPHY: FOLKLORE IN SONG

FOLKLORE IN SONG

LINER NOTES

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