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“The Babes in the Woods”
This page was last modified on September 21, 2002.
Please Note: This is a variant of an ancient song that has been handed down by word of mouth from person-to person for well over 100 years, and perhaps even longer. It was obviously first written in a very colonial minded historical period and some of the phrases and sentiments are politically incorrect by modern standards. I merely recorded them as I found them without any alterations for the sake of accuracy and as an example of local folklore, which is disappearing at an alarming rate as older storytellers die off. No disparagement to any group, racial or otherwise, is intended or should be taken.
This is a folk song that Tony Flynn
of Colliers sometimes sang to our family when I was a boy. I also heard it
from the late Paddy Burke of Colliers (who was best known for doing
his versions of “The Smoke Room on the Kyle”, “The Cremation of Sam Magee”
and “Grandmother’s Old Armchair”). This piece has always been referred
to in the Colliers area as “The Babes in the Woods”, but there is some
suggestion that an alternative title may have been, “The Babes in
Australia”. In any event I have never seen this particular version
referred to or in print in any sources outside of Newfoundland. I obtained
this copy of the words from Ron Whelan (Sr.) of Colliers in August of
2002. I’m extremely grateful to Ron, his wife Mary, and their
daughter, Bernadette, for their help on this project. For those of you interested in another
variant of “The Babes in the Woods” with slightly different words,
please see a publication called “Ryan’s Favourites” which is a song
book published by M.P. Ryan of Colliers in 1957. As an aside, the
forward to that particular book was by the late Captain Matt Whelan of
Colliers who was an accomplished man in his own right in many different
fields. Dennis Flynn Flynn’s Point, Colliers, NewfoundlandAugust 23, 2002
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“The Babes in the Woods”
O’ uncle come tell us that wonderful tale You promised you would yesterday Most gladly I will, so my darling keep still That you miss not a word that I say.
Away far away o’er the wild rolling hills In the land where the black savage dwell Where the prowling fox roam, o’er the emigrant’s home And the kangaroo prowl round o’er the plain.
An Englishman lived with his children and wife In this land spread so far and wide Neath a mountain so steep, in a valley so deep All alone by the broad riverside.
The names of these children were Frank, Jane and John Just the names of some darlings of mine They were loved more than gold Frank was scarce five years old, John was seven and Janey was nine.
To help out their parents those children oft went All alone in the forest deep gloom And when the sunset drew nigh it’s homeward they’d fly With their brushwood for firing and broom.
They never had gathered such bundles before T'was homeward they hurried in glee And the wild forest rang with the song that they sang And the nestling birds flew from their tree.
They had not gone far when wee Frankie cried Let us rest here awhile Don’t you think Janey dear, home is far, far from here I’m sure we’ve walked more than a mile.
A short while they rested and went on again John carried wee Frank on his back Every step they took over valley and brook Led them further away from their track.
The mother looked out from the door at the sun Sinking low in the red western sky Why are they not here, cried the mother, I fear They are lost in the woods and shall die.
Then quickly the father, he mounted his steed And away in the forest rode he Long and loud did he shout as he galloped about Over the hills to each thicket and tree.
He searched all around till the dark shades of night No trace of the children he found And turning his steed, he rode back with full speed To report to the neighbours all around.
The neighbours quite willing to lend him their aid All night for the children they sought And day after day till a week passed away Their searching all ended in nought.
Now weeps the sad mother alone in her woe Saying my darlings I’ll never see again Till a native black chief met the father in grief Many miles over mountain and plain.
The chief made him welcome and heard his sad tale As the father with many tears told And the chief did reply my best skill I will try I want neither silver nor gold.
Yes white man and brother, I share in your grief For I shed the same tears long ago When my tribe was at war in the blue hills so far And my son in the fight was laid low.
The eagle I’m called by my wild dreary sight The wild birds so restless have been I can tell as I pass, by one look at the grass Where the foot of a white man has been.
I will take with me two youths of my tribe They will follow, come now let us go I promise to look on them, living or dead In the sunset or sun shady glow.
To the father he said you ride on ahead They rode till the brow of a height When behold far away, there beneath them lay On the ground something fluttering and white.
Beneath a palm tree, those three children lay Johnnie’s arms around Frank were entwined While Frank had embraced his beloved sister’s waist And his head on her bosom reclined.
The father awoke them as a fond father would With milk and with bread they were fed Johnny tried hard to speak but alas was too weak One word, Papa, was all that he said.
Frankie said Papa why didn’t you come To John, sister Janey, and me Poor Janey lay cold, while the father’s tears rolled Down his cheeks as he gazed on them three.
Now children who in the wild forest do roam In which you may be led astray But with God for a guide our best skill we must try And no fear of us losing our way.
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