The Journey Cover

 

 The Journey, a nativity story with music by Ian Kellam, published by Galliard in the 1960s. The journey in question is the journey of the three kings, who represent temporal power, priestly power and the power of death. They are overwhelmed by the baby Jesus. The parts for the three kings are best played by senior pupils or staff members, but the other parts can be played by younger people.

 

 

 

 

The Scrapyard Cover

 

The Scrapyard
C antata with music by Timothy Moore, published in 1970 by the Oxford University Press.

Click here to see the words and music

 

 

 

Introduction

Why is a scrapyard considered romantic?
Do you think that the scrap in a scrapyard agrees?
We’ve made a survey of scrapyard opinion
Asking the throw-outs such questions as these?
What will you do when the children don’t need you?
What will you do when your springs start to creak?
What will you do when you’re finished and empty?
What will you do when they can’t mend the leak?

The Barrels

Yo ho ho, twenty barrels from Bordeaux – eaux –eaux.
Yo ho ho, twenty barrels from Bordeaux – eaux –eaux.
From Bordeau port they shipped us,
The crane came down and gripped us
And we had to go down below.
With a yo ho ho, twenty barrels from Bordeaux – eaux –eaux.
As patriarchs should, there we stood
Row on stately row.

I remember the buyer who thought us too young
For a serious, dignified wine.
I remember when Bert here burst his bung
And the whole hold smelt divine.
I remember the sailor who sat on the kegs
And told us about his dreams.
I remember the rat that got drunk on the dregs
That leaked through Alfie’s seams.

With a yo ho ho, twenty barrels from Bordeaux – eaux –eaux.
Yo ho ho, twenty barrels from Bordeaux – eaux –eaux.
The men securely tied us
But the wine slopped inside us
And the heaving sea broke us free.
With a yo ho ho, twenty barrels from Bordeaux – eaux –eaux.
We merrily rolled in the hold
In a drunken spree.

Our ship survived the sea’s assaults
And that was the end of the fun.
In a day we were locked in silent vaults.
In a week the bottling was done.
The drops of wine that the left inside
Wouldn’t make a kitten drunk,
So without a thought for our injured pride
They threw us out as junk.

With an oh, oh, oh,
Now we’re empty of Bordeaux –eaux –eaux.
Oh, oh, oh,
Now we’re empty of Bordeaux –eaux –eaux.
Our fine bouquet still lingers
But someone with green fingers
Will buy us up as tubs for his shrubs.
With an oh, oh, oh,
Twenty barrels of geraniums.
A pitiful sight, painted white,
Full of roots and grubs.
With an oh my, my,
Twenty barrels of geraniums.
Twenty barrels of geraniums.
Twenty barrels of geraniums.

The Geyser

A monumental geyser,
As white as tiger.s teeth.
I hung upon the wall to guard
The pallid bath beneath.
At my window my pilot light
Like a guiding candle shone,
Till, shivering in his dressing-gown
My master turned me on.
The gas lit up with a boom.
My flame-filled belly roared.
Out of my steaming, gleaming tap
The scalding water poured.

(The following verse is an exact inversion)

But now deposed and banished,
Expatriate I lie
Against a pile of broken steel
Beneath a cruel sky.
All around me the brambles twine
And concealing nettles sprout.
My tap is now a streaky brown.
My pilot light is out.
No flames will fill me again.
My worn enamel chips.
Among my twisted, rusty pipes
The icy water drips.

The Pram

Morning after morning,
Underneath a frilly awning
I dumbly used to trundle
And impassive, slimy bundle.
Oh, how I hated it with all my heart,
But some day soon I’ll be a soap-box cart.

Chuck away my carriage,
Strip me to my wheels.
Fit me to a soap-box,
Let me know how freedom feels.
Keep my axles oiled.
Paint me brilliant red.
Keep me with your dad’s things
In the garden shed.

Take me to a hill-top,
Get aboard and go.
They tell me speed’s exhilarating
And I want to know.
Don’t slow down on corners,
Don’t give way to cars.
Drive me like a space-ship
Halfway to the stars.

When I’m old and creaking
Give me one more try.
Race me like you used to,
Let me feel the wind rush by.
Turn a sudden corner
Too fast to take the bend.
Smash me into a brick wall.
That’s the way to end.

Babies sucking dummies
With shopping on their tummies,
Slobbering and spitting
In their dribbly yellow knitting.
Oh, how I hated it with all my heart.
But someday soon I’ll be a soap-box cart.

The Pile on the Bed

My tarnished brass has peeled.
Tall grass turns my springs to a field.
I long to be useful but I don’t know how.
Who’s going to sleep on me now?

We are! We are! We are! We are!

A hundred yards of telephone wire in a tangle.
Two broken bumpers, and a mangle.
Some broken bits of lath
And right on top a hip bath.

The Austin Tourer (a fugue, with three themes)

A 1938 Austin Tourer, I ws a clattering, muttering, bucketing, stuttering road hog.
Torn seats, broken windows, hood rotted away, no battery, bonnet off, no lamps, no wheels.
Moss grows on my axles, ragwort round my cylinder block, and in my glove compartment there’s a robin’s nest.

Conclusion

Can a conclusion be drawn from our survey?
Frankly we feel that we cannot yet tell.
Those are the views of the things in the scrapyard.
Now will you answer the questions as well?
What will you do when the children don’t need you?
What will you do when your springs start to creak?
What will you do when you’re finished and empty?
What will you do when they can’t mend the leak?