Trad.

Trad.

Strange, the oldest folk tunes have no authors known,
They’ve just been sung like that forever.
I wonder if a single soul created them,
Or many voices altogether.
Maybe over centuries, they’ve slowly grown,
Adding new words to old songs,
From bawdy balladry, through cherished hymn,
To terrace singalongs.

From London Bridge to Scarborough Fair,
Ride a cock horse to the old grey mare,
Lady Greensleeves, mistress mine,
And over the hills for auld lang syne.
We’ll never know, we’re never told –
They are too old and we’re too young –
Yet still their songs are sung.

Strange, the newest pop tunes come with artist names –
We know just who created each.
Yet maybe in a thousand years, a few persist
Whose origins are out of reach.
Carols may be sung to them, or children’s’ games,
Or earworms and lullabyes –
With half the words forgotten, and their meaning missed,
But hanging on in diff’rent guise.

From Ground Control to Billie Jean,
Go Johnny, go, come on Eileen.
All the lonely yesterday –
Sing for tomorrow, we fade to grey.
They’ll never know, the trail is cold –
We are too old and still of tongue –
Yet still our songs are sung.