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A Child For a Hat
(Words and Music - Ben Scott, © 2003. Some lyrics adapted from journals by Lt. Ralph Clarke) Monday, fine clear weather,
February 1790 The harbour I sailed in my little
boat for lane cove bound I searched for Dirrawan and
Tirrawan, two natives whom I know And I rowed for the smoke column
ascending from the boughs I called to them for I was certain
they were not far away I alighted when I heard them my
servant’s teeth chattering with fear They offered me some muscle on the
campfire set to roast And I heard the cry of a young
child in the leafy bushes near These men who I called savage,
some say foe and others friend But the orders I’ve been given,
would they make me the savage then? Is it right, I must judge now,
could I proceed with all my heart For it’s a mighty rough old
bargain, a child for a hat, a child for a hat. His excellency, governor Phillip,
he told me if I could to take a native He saw that I had learned their
ways better than most But as I stood there talking to
those shy men and their children I found you can take an object, a
life, but you cannot take a man
In
a final attempt to follow
orders, tentatively my mind a jumble I offered my brand new hat for one
of the children They shook their heads in refusal,
and I dare say they were much offended And much to my relief I came away
empty handed I was born in fair Southhampton
10000 miles from here I was raised on proper notions of
honour and honesty But I have seen those notions in
the harsh light of this place And the classrooms of my youth,
they did
not deal with questions of race These men who I called savage,
some say foe and others friend But the orders I’ve been given, would they make me the savage then? Is it right, I must judge now,
could I proceed with all my heart For it’s a mighty rough old
bargain, a child for a hat, a child for a hat. Alicia
(Words and Music - Ben Scott, © 2004) I came on the Lady
Penryn dressed
in tapioca sacks Wallowing months of misery in
chains but I did not yield And when he came to me and
whispered words most kind and loving well I did not resist him for very
long, for an officer means food and means protection So in his arms I found myself just
as many do in this colony And in his arms I found some rest
from long hard days of toil He did not treat me unkind, he did
not prove dishonourable But every time we lay together,
only one name he would whisper Alicia …… Alicia …… Alicia Lights are trailing o’er the
water The Sirius she sails tomorrow Alicia, your English home, is it
bright and warm And is there fine food upon your
table Alicia …… Alicia So its dig the soil, sow the wheat
for I know my love he will not stay He’s only ever loved one woman,
and she is no criminal I must do what I can, hope to find
another man And the daughter he has given me
Alicia It’s his wife’s name he gave
to her Alicia Lights are trailing o’er the
water The Sirius she sails tomorrow And with her sails my officer, his
mind already clear of sin And Alicia in his mind again
Alicia …… Alicia Bennelong(Words and Music - Ben Scott, © 2003. Lyrics adapted from a letter by Bennelong) I am very well, hope you are well I live at the Governor’s and
every day have dinner there I have not my wife, one of my
people took her away He speared me in the back but I am
better now And I am home now, not me go to
England no more I am home now, I will not leave my
native shore I hope Mrs Phillips is very well You nurse me madam when I was ill You are very good madam, thank you
madam I hope you remember me madam and
not forget Chorus Madam I want stockings, thank you
madam And Sir you give my duty to Lord
Sydney Sir send me you please some
handkerchiefs for my pockets Please Sir won’t you send me
some shoes two pairs if you please Chorus Black and White Ball
(Words and Music - Ben Scott, © 2003. Some lyrics adapted from journals by Lt. Johnson) We headed on out to a cove on the
north side, all men at oars in the spray and the swell We met them on the sand, they
pointed showing a sure place to land Some carried strips of a bright
red cloth, they must have met with the Governor before They wore them tied on their
bodies, our amateur marks of diplomacy These
people, they mixed with our own
and then all hands danced together Chaotic circles and patterns
peculiar as laughing we tried not to fall to the ground Stepping on toes as around we go
da da da… Red coats and black skin, red
cheeks and wide grins da da da… Spears cast a side and no guns
here at all da da da… A sight so absurd is the black and
white ball da da da… Intimate acts thereafter followed,
exchange of language in the afternoon sun They could repeat words at will,
while we had considerable trouble Then they sat and suffered our men
to attend to combing and clipping their hair It was a difficult job, it was
hair that no comb had passed through And through the grey trees the
ocean whispered its secrets to the dry sandy ground And the lapping of waves and the
soft native syllables spoke to us something half lost but profound Chorus It’s easy to see what ridiculous
figures we must appear to these poor people They are perfectly naked, they
must think we're swaddled like babies And not wearing beards and with
features so fine, it soon became clear they were wanting to know Are we
man or woman, which was
answered most humorous and graphically When one of our men under orders
unbuttoned his britches the native men gave a great shout And the women we were wanting to
tempt to come closer but for such buffoons they would offer no favours Chorus Patyegorang(Words and Music - Ben Scott, © 2003. Some lyrics adapted from journals by Lt.William Dawes) Oh my name is William Dawes from
England’s shores I come And I dwell in the colony of N.S.W
where we live by the lash and the gun Thunder roar
in the burning sun And my love she is a native girl.
She comes each day with na’er a sound She is named for the great grey
kangaroo, soft dark eyes, Patyegorang Thunder roar
in the burning sun And she speaks to me in her native
tongue, the voice of the rain, the sun and the land She has taught me of Putuwa which
means with a warm hand to squeeze the hand of a friend Thunder roar
in the burning sun Thunder roar
in the burning sun Thunder roar
in the burning sun Tienmilye bunin – I am come from
play Warran gian ora – I am in Sydney
Cove Metcoarsemedyaminga – You winked
at me Taperrabarr bayou – I shall not
become white Metiga naigaba – We shall sleep
separately Berewalgal – The name of the
white men Wanadyu inea – I don’t desire
your company Minyin gulara Eora – Why are the
black men angry Thunder roar and the burning sun Thunder roar and the burning sun Thunder roar and the burning sun
Pemulwy(Words and Music - Ben Scott, © 2004) On a white mans shooting party
they were woken by a sound and to native men they gave
chase blundering over the dark ground Then Pemulwy turned, stood tall
and lodged a spear into the side Of the hateful, murderous
gamekeeper, the man called McIntyre The settlers with fearful hearts
this riotous savage sought Who had plundered the farms of
Rose Hill and the gamekeepers life bought But Pemulwy soon found them, he
spoke with rage, showed no fear Said “If any white man dares
step forward he shall feel my new made spear”
A brave but foolish man stepped forward
and one single spear was thrown A pointed timber message stick to
the new world from the old Flew its course, lodging at their
feet, and quivered with power and warning The white men fired, Pemulwy fell,
seven buckshot in his body
He was shot full in the head yet
from captivity he ran And for ten more years resisted
the expansion of the white man The great warrior he took their lives
and he took their new-reaped grain Until John Caesar with his gun
took the life
Of Pemulwy
Sandstone and Saltwater
(Words and Music - Ben Scott, © 2004) I look out from South Head, tall
above the ocean Blue clear water in chaotic motion And at my back the harbour lies
quiet and still I stand on sandstone tiers upon
this bright flowering hill And far to the west through warm
air and salty scent A column of smoke betrays our tiny
settlement To the north above the harbour is
the smoke of native fires Two cultures
thrown together seem
the same to distant eyes Sandstone
and salt water Sandstone
and salt water My sturdy young daughter stands
for a moment at my side Her clothes are near rags, my
barefoot child She squints at the morning, peeling
nose, mouth yawning A simple breakfast of bread and
tea to fill her belly She roams so freely over rocks and
under limbs She is not afraid of snakebite on
her unprotected shins Her little hands are hard and worn
despite their tender age Her feet have na’er seen shoes,
made tough and hard each day by Sandstone
and salt water Sandstone
and salt water She knows little of the
precariousness of our existence Though she knows the struggle for
survival all too well And little does she
think about the
blood that has been spilt She knows of nothing else, though
truly British she is still As the men of
authority clear a path or dig a grave S The decisions that they make
won’t be complete when they are gone Their legacy will linger here on
and on, etched in Sandstone
and salt water Sandstone
and salt water
Scrabbling in the Dirt
(Words and Music - Ben Scott, © 2004) Their skin is the colour of pale
ochre clay and everyone burned bright red in a day Their feet are soft and delicate
through the bush they cannot run They cover themselves from head to
toe despite the burning summer sun Peculiar they are in every way we
know not who they are And the strange and foreign
rituals these people carry out We’ve discussed for many and
evening but na’er can figure out They gather together in silence
and listen to one man speak Then they mutter strange responses
as they kneel before his feet These Berewalgal men, they came
two summers past In great canoes they rode like the
great birds of the sea We thought them mighty men, we
soon found them rude and ignorant They take our fish in vast
quantities At other times of the day
certain men group together While
one man yells and splutters
they await without a word And as he shouts aloud to them
they move in one close column And
walk about the place so
grouped and yell at other men They brought peculiar animals on
their boats to bring on shore And fine and tasty game they’d
make of that we’re fairly sure But they will not touch these
animals instead they let them roam And escape into the bush where on
our fires they find a home And certain men and women they
treat worse than their dogs Their food has all but gone and
now they search for roots and grubs And its men doing
women’s work, women doing men’s work
In all the wrong places they are scrabbling in the dirt
Where’s Rose Hill, Where?(Words and Music - Ben Scott, © 2004. Lyrics adapted from journals by Lt.Watkin Tench) In April 1791 a party numerous and
strong Went
the
Hawkesbury’s path to find And
it was no sunny turnpike ramble,
the going rough and rations spare And the sandflies took their
share And our natives carried each his pack, sure of foot on a rugged track Boladeree and Colbee, they Laughed and ribbed us to excess at our clumsy steps, scorned out distress As we toiled our uncouth way
By the riverbank we shot some ducks, which Boladeree wouldn't swim for Just to satisfy the white men His reproach I fear was justly founded, for of those we'd shot before Some half picked bones were all they'd seen
And they pointed to the ground and said Weeree Weeree which means 'bad' Crying where's Rose Hill, where? They uttered a sound denoting distance, its impossible to describe And their bodies spoke despair
In April 1791 a party numerous and
strong Set out, the
Hawkesbury’s path to find Whisper the Rebel Songs(Words and Music - Ben Scott, © 2004) We
convicts spit on the day as we wake from our sleep For
greeting us with bright promise we know it cannot keep For
we labour each day, with hardly a rest Clearing trees about the
camp as His Majesty’s guest And we know not how time
here passes And what force drives us on
each day from the last Well until we hear the
tramp of the watch across the yard We’ll whisper the old
rebel songs through the prison bars Hoping’s a substitute for longing and singing’s a
substitute for crying So
until we hear the tramp of the watch across yard We’ll
whisper the old rebel songs through the prison bars And I smell the sun-baked
ground, hear a loud thrumming sound Like very land at our feet
hums a warning I slip away softly and pick
through the scrub Seeking my one source of
hope each morning And my languid eyes watch
more closely As I add a small knife
pilfered from some drunk guard And I return from the bush
and slip back with the rest While whistling 'Cill
Liadain' low on my breath Hoping’s a substitute for longing and singing’s a
substitute for crying So
until we hear the tramp of the watch across yard We’ll
whisper the old rebel songs through the prison bars And
we’ll play by the rules
and we'll not turn a hair Cause us Irish are lower
than anyone here And we’ll keep ourselves
quiet and we’ll plan by the night And we'll rise like the
Phoenix when the time is right And it matters not how long
we must wait here For freedom is the greatest
thing for which a man can fight And when we’re away from
this lands cursed shore We will sing each song
strongly and whisper no more Cause hoping’s a substitute for longing and singing’s a
substitute for crying So
until we hear the tramp of the watch across yard We’ll whisper the old rebel songs through the prison bars Without you I cannot live(Words and Music - Ben Scott, © 2004. Some lyrics adapted from journals by Lt.Ralph Clarke) Sunday 27th January
1788 I kist your dear pictour as usual And the tents they look pretty
scattered all among the trees, I hope to be on shore tomorrow Got up early, sent all the
convicts onshore, hope in God to have naught to do with them no more I would not stay, if it was the
best place under heaven, for without you I cannot live What a terrible night it was last
of thunder and of rain and I went in but my shirt to slacking of the poles I dreamed of you my sweet woman,
and that I were in bed with you and I dreamed that I was very angry with you And that I wished to run my oldest
friend through, for breach of friendship over you In the course of my life I’ve
not slept worse my dear wife, for without you I cannot live I was very much a frightened by
the lightening as it broke and I return my God thanks that you were not here For I would have gone mad for fear
the lightening might have hurted our dear boy or you Alicia my dear I would not stay more than three
years for all the world, I wish that I could get home now my girl No I would not stay if it was the
best place under heaven, for without you I cannot live.
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