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Far From The Tree

by TEYR

/
  • Compact Disc (CD) + Digital Album

    A beautiful gatefold imprint with original artwork and a 16 page booklet filled with photography, scribbles and lyrics.

    Includes unlimited streaming of Far From The Tree via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
    ships out within 5 days

      £10 GBP or more 

     

  • Streaming + Download

    Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
    Purchasable with gift card

      £8 GBP  or more

     

1.
2.
You western ocean labourers I’ll have you all beware That when you sail them packet ships No dungaree jumpers wear But have a big monkey jacket All ready to your hand For there blows some cold Northwesters On the Banks of the Newfoundland As I lay in me bunk one night A-dreaming all alone I dreamt I was in Liverpool On the way to Marylebone With my true love beside of me And a jug of ale in hand When I woke quite broken-hearted On the Banks of the Newfoundland, the land, the land We’ll scrape them and scrub them With holystone and sand For there blows some cold Northwesters On the Banks of the Newfoundland We had Jack Lynch from Ballinahinch Mike Murphy and some more And I’ll tell you boys they suffered like hell On the way to Baltimore For they'd pawned their gear in Liverpool And sailed as they did stand For they'd pawned their gear in Liverpool Not thinking of Newfoundland Well we had one female passenger Bridget Reilly was her name Unto her I had promised marriage And on me she had claim For she tore up all her petticoats To make mittens for my hands Saying I can’t see my true love freeze On the Banks of the Newfoundland, the land, the land We’ll scrape them and scrub them With holystone and sand For there blows some cold Northwesters On the Banks of the Newfoundland We’ll scrape them and scrub them with holystone and sand [Repeat] Well the mate he did stand on the foc’sle head And loudly did he roar Now rattle her in me lucky lads We’re bound for America’s shore Come wipe that blood off a dead man’s face And haul or you’ll be damned For there blows some cold Northwesters On the Banks of the Newfoundland Well our luck has changed once more me lads And the land is white with snow And soon we’ll see the pay table and spend the night below And down the docks come down in flocks The pretty girls will demand It’s snugger with me than on the sea On the Banks of the Newfoundland, the land, the land We’ll scrape them and scrub them with holystone and sand For It’s snugger with me than on the sea [Repeat] On the Banks of the Newfoundland
3.
The Badge 05:19
4.
The Host is riding from Knocknarea, over the grave of Clooth-na-bare, Caoilte tossing his burning hair, and Niamh calling away, come away: Empty your heard of its mortal dream, winds awaken leaves whirl around, Our cheeks are pale our hair unbound, our breasts are heaving our eyes are agleam. Are arms are waving our lips are apart, and if any gaze on our rushing band; We come between him and deed of his hand, we come between him and the hope of his heart. The host is riding ‘twixt night and day, and where is there hope or deed as fair, Caoilte tossing his burning hair and Naimh calling away, come away.
5.
Gm 06:23
6.
Abide abide, true love, she said, beg and stay all night For you can have pleasure all in my room near coal and candle light, light Coal and Candle Light I won’t abide you false lady, beg and stay all night For I’ve got a far better love to enjoy when I go home than you, you When I go home than you And as he stooped over her saddle bow, to kiss her lips so sweet With a pen knife all in her hand, she wounded him full deep, deep Wounded him full deep Why woundest me you false lady, why wound’st me full sore There’s not a doctor in all Scotland can heal my mortal wound, wound Heal my mortal wound She woke her maids the next morning, at the break of day Saying there’s a dead man in my bed chamber, I wish he was away, away I wish he was away And some took him by the lily white hand, some took him by the feet And they threw him in a very deep well full fifty fathoms deep, deep Fifty fathoms deep Lie there lie there you false young man, lie there lie there alone Let that woman that you love best think you’re long a’coming home, home Long a’coming home Then up spoke a pretty little bird, sitting in a tree “An ill death may you die lady, he had no love but thee thee Had no love but thee” Come down from there you pretty little bird, and sit upon my knee For I have a golden cage at home I’m sure to give to thee thee I’m sure to give to thee I won’t come down you false lady and sit upon your knee For you have slain your own true love I’m sure you would slay me me I’m sure you would slay me Oh if I had my bow to bend, my arrow and my string I’d shoot you through the very heart upon the leaves so green green Upon the leaves so green Well if you had your bow to bend, your arrow and your string I’d take my winds and away I’d fly, you’d never see me again, again You’ll never see me again, again, you’ll never see me again, again You’ll never see me again
7.
8.
Apple grows on apple tree Mighty oak from bird dropped seed Chestnut, conker, king of nine Swinging pendulum piece of twine Nothing grows where nothings been Nothing grows where nothings been Willow slipped, to multiply woven basket, turf supply Mountain, ash, rowan berry Gone you, the flowering cherry And nothing grows where nothings been Nothing grows where nothings been Seed, sapling, branch, the tree life-cycle, legacy Seed, sapling, branch, the tree life-cycle, legacy Nothing grows where nothings been Nothing grows where nothings been
9.
Huntley Town 05:23
As I came in by Huntley Town one morning for to feed I met with Bogey of Lenny and with him I did agree To bide his two best horses the harrow and the plough And do anything about the farm that I very well should know Now Bogey had a daughter dear, her name was Isabelle She was the fairest in the vale, I’m sure I loved her well And when she went a-walking she took me as her guide Down by the banks of the Lenny to watch the small fishes glide So I put my arms all around her waist and her feet from her did slide It’s there she took her will of me down by Lenny waterside She swore she’d never tell of me and the wild birds wouldn’t tell My lily of the valley, my red rose down in the dell Now when nine months had gone and past this lassie lost her bloom The red rose fell down from her cheeks and her eyes began to swoon Twas just before the harvest time when Bogey sent for me He said his eyes as black as night, it is you I wish to see If what my daughter says is true we no longer shall agree And its down the road you’ll right now and not a penny of your fee Says I’m a man you’re fairly right and I hung my head in shame But I’ll marry her tomorrow morn and I’ll give to her my name So I took my young son in my arms and much joy to him I’ll bring And maybe he’ll mean as much to me as the young girl that I adore
10.
Dean's Banjo 05:15

about

TEYR
Cornish num / f “three” (tɛɪr / tay-er)

James Gavin
Dominic Henderson
Tommie Black-Roff

Ours is the image of a flying seed, a sycamore wing, a sculpted samara. It contains the tale of our origin, the means for our journey and the intent of our future. Cornish artist Billy Wynter made our samara by the same fashion lanterns are built in west Cornwall for solstice celebrations and feast days, from whithies and papiermâché.

We make folk music. The name suggests the music of a people, but in today’s interconnected world, the myth of separate races and cultural boundaries has begun to fall away. The Folk, if they ever existed, live on now in our stories, our songs and our imaginations.

So what are we doing? We are the sycamore seed. We have many threads. Some lead from Kernow, Éire, Euskadi and London. Some lead from our families, parents, and grandparents. Some lead from notions of tradition, ways of forming notes, words, melodies and music. But the seasons shifted and we drift loose of old attachments. We fly, like many of our generation, free from our past, drifting or driving. Our tree gave us these wings, the means to fly. Yet how far we travel and where we land is up to the wind and up to us. This album is our first landing.

First there was a jam session, almost every Sunday on Holloway Road since 2012. That session evolved into TEYR. Of course that’s not what we called ourselves at first, but casting round for a name we grasped for something open and simple. The Cornish Language, with its connection to us through Tommie held the answer. Teyr is the feminine form of the number 3. But three of what? Take your pick: teyr leuvyow (three hands), teyr notennow (three notes), teyr karetys (three carrots) or maybe just teyr neujen (three threads).

© & ℗ TEYR - Sleight Of Hand Records 2016
all rights reserved

www.teyr.co.uk

credits

released September 23, 2016

Produced and mixed by Gerry Diver
Recorded in South London
Mastered by Nick Watson at Fluid Mastering

Sculpture: Billy Wynter
Photography: Hannah and Tremendous Percy
Design: Dan Biddulph

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about

TEYR London, UK

Folk trio TEYR evolved out of London’s thriving session scene, combining bothy ballads, focsle shanties, folk tunes and Irish poetry. Their unique blend of voices and instruments draws links between the many sounds of the Celtic and British isles.

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