Between the Lines - Issue Four

After requests from a couple of “Between the Lines” readers at the National Folk Festival this year, I have decided to include a couple of the more well known collected Australian ballads that we (Us Not Them) have performed in our sets.

Ben Hall
The 5th May 2003 marks 138 years since the death of the bushranger, Ben Hall, in 1865. This next song has long been a favourite of mine. Like so many other wonderful songs and dance tunes, it comes from the late John Meredith’s field recordings of Sally Sloane (1894 – 1982) of Lithgow, NSW. This transcription and text is also in John Meredith and Hugh Anderson’s “Folk Songs of Australia Volume 1” (O.O.P.). The transcription can show you the fine Mixolydian tune and text, but it won’t let you hear the beautiful timing, authority and “feel” in Sally’s performance. If you have even a passing interest in Australian folk music and don’t own these remarkable recordings, then I would recommend them very highly – simply contact the National Library and ask for the recordings of Sally Sloane in the John Meredith Collection. Often Sally could remember the songs more clearly if she was doing the washing up, and the sound of banging plates and running water are clearly heard behind her remarkable singing – it certainly adds atmosphere!

The Death of Ben Hall
Below is a portion of John Meredith’s interview with Sally Sloane that precedes the song “Ben Hall” on the field recordings – it is a wonderful yarn that sets the song up beautifully….

(J.M.) Tell me about Ben Hall.
(S.S.)…mother knew Ben Hall’s sister in law - and she brought us into the world - and I saw the place where Ben Hall was killed - he lay down this day in ambush - near Forbes, on the Lachlan Plain to have a rest - and Coobung Mick always used to look after his money for him and he lay there this day waiting for Coobung Mick to bring food to him - instead of bringing food he brought the cops - and when the policemen come they surrounded him - and riddled his body with bullets - and Mrs Coobung Mick knew that her husband used to look after the money for Ben Hall and when she heard all these here shots going into poor Ben Hall she put her fingers to her ears and said -
“O My God poor Ben - that’s Ben” - she said – “my husband has betrayed him!”
She was carrying a child at the time and when the child was born it had 32 white spots on it and that child was exhibited through the length and breadth of Australia for show purposes.
Poor Ben Hall he had a property of his own - near Forbes - and all the bad deeds that used to be done used to be pinned on to Poor Ben Hall - and he was yarding his cattle this day and they come on to him and took him into Forbes - for a trial for something that he didn’t do - and all his cattle was left in the yard - instead of the police pulling the sliprails down and letting them out they was all left to perish - and when he come out after doing a month in gaol they were just carcasses in the yard.
(J.M.) - Didn’t they burn his house down?
(S.S.) - Yes, they burnt his place down and his wife had betrayed him and went off with another man - and the blackfella – he took to the bush - and his gin.
(J.M.) – What did he do when he found his house was burnt down and his stock was destroyed?
Well he took to the bush then - he turned out to be a highway man when he found out what had happened - his wife had gone - his stock and everything was destroyed and he took on to bushranging…

Excerpt taken from filed recording of Sally Sloane. Tape No. TRC4/17, Meredith Collection.

Come, all you young Australians, and everyone besides,
I'll sing to you a ditty that will fill you with surprise,
Concerning of a 'ranger bold, whose name it was Ben Hall,
But cruelly murdered was this day, which proved his downfall.

An outcast from society, he was forced to take the road,
All through his false and treacherous wife, who sold off his abode
He was hunted like a native dog from bush to hill and dale,
Till he turned upon his enemies and they could not find his trail.

All out with his companions, men's blood he scorned to shed,
He oft-times stayed their lifted hands, with vengeance on their heads.
No petty, mean or pilfering act he ever stooped to do,
But robbed the rich and hearty man, and scorned to rob the poor.

One night as he in ambush lay all on the Lachlan Plain,
When, thinking everything secure, to ease himself had lain,
When to his consternation and to his great surprise,
And without one moment's warning, a bullet past him flies.

And it was soon succeeded by a volley sharp and loud,
With twelve revolving rifles all pointed at his head.
Where are you, Gilbert? Where is Dunn?' he loudly did call.
It was all in vain, they were not there to witness his downfall.

They riddled all his body as if they were afraid,
But in his dying moment he breathed curses on their heads.
That cowardly hearted Condel, the sergeant of the police,
He crept and fired with fiendish glee till death did him release.

Although he had a lion's heart, more braver than the brave,
Those cowards shot him like a dog-no word of challenge gave.
Though many friends had poor Ben Hall, his enemies were few,
Like the emblems of his native land, his days were numbered too.

It's through Australia's sunny clime Ben Hall will roam no more.
His name is spread both near and far to every distant shore.
For generations after this parents will to their children call,
And rehearse to them the daring deeds committed by Ben Hall.

Moreton Bay

Below is the collected version of one of Australia’s most famous songs, Moreton Bay. The tune and words vary from the well known “One Sunday morning…” version. Again, as far as I know this is the only instance of “Moreton Bay” being collected in the field – it is from the singing of Simon McDonald (1907 –1968) of Creswick, Victoria. Personally, I have a strong preference for this version. I find that it retains the determination and venom of the original poem from Frank “The Poet” McNamara. I have obtained the transcription from Hugh Anderson’s “Time out of Mind – The Story of Simon McDonald”. Thanks Hugh. “Time out of Mind – The Story of Simon McDonald” is available from Red Rooster Press.

I am a native of the land of Erin,
I was early banished from my native shore,
On the ship ‘Columbus’ went circular sailing,
And left behind me the one I adore.

Over bounding billows which were madly raging
Like a bold sea mariner my course did steer,
We were bound for Sydney, our destination,
And every day in irons wore.

Chorus
Oh Moreton Bay, you’ll find no equal
Norfolk Island, or Emu Plains,
At Castle Hill and cursed Toongabbie,
And all time places in New South Wales.

When I arrived ‘twas in Port Jackson
And I thought my days would happy be,
But I found out I was greatly mistaken;
I was taken prisoner to Moreton Bay.

For three long years I was beastly treated
And heavy irons on my legs I wore,
And my back from flogging was lacerated
And oft-times painted with crimson gore.

Like the Egyptians and the ancient Hebrews
We were oppressed under Logan’s yoke,
‘Til a native black there, he lay in ambush
And dealt that tyrant his mortal stroke.

Now fellow prisoners be exhilarated
That all such monsters like death might find,
And when from bondage we are liberated
Our former sufferings shall fade from mind.