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Tyburnia - A Radical History Of 600 Years Of Public Execution

by Dead Rat Orchestra

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I Walking near a Prison a Wall, where Jesuits did lye, I heard them to St. Bridget call, to help their Misery: Saying, with speed now intercede, poor Jesuits to free, Or Holbourn-Hill with Crowds they'd fill, while hey Boys up go we. Ah! what's become of all our Creede, and Mass the Antick Song? Our sweet Religious strings of Beeds are turn'd to Fetters strong: And Father Peter he is fled, a woful sight to see; When some are shorter by the Head, then hey Boys up go we. Some they are fled to Rome we find, while here we fret and foam, As being left in Tears behind, to end the Dance at home: To Tyburn we must take our way, to view that Crabbed Tree, And when we have no more to say, then hey boys up go we. What Sumptuous Chappels did we build, adorn'd with Curious Paint And was with Nuns and Fryers fill'd, a praying to each Saint: But this at last is come to nought, we're ty'd from Liberty, Till we may be to Justice brought, then hey boys up go we. Tho' Hereticks they have deviz'd to bring us to our doom, Yet we shall all be Cannoniz'd among the Saints of Rome, Which does much Joy and Comfort bring, that glorious sight to see, And when we have the Hempen string, then hey boys up go we.   The very Lads of London Town, they did a Rocket make, And pull'd our Idol Pictures down, then burn'd 'um at the Stake, Where Mary did her Hereticks, in Smith-field-Rounds we see; I' Faith we did not like their Tricks, then hey boys up go we. Our Masses they are out of date, some says we were too bold; We did run on at such a rate, which was too hot or cold; And therefore we are overthrown, as all may plainly see, Now when the Gallows claims its own, then hey boys up go we.
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Tyburn Tree 03:53
Since laws were made for every degree, To curb vice in others, as well as me, I wonder we hadn't better company
 Upon Tyburn Tree But since gold from law can take out the sting; And if rich men like us were to swing, 'Twould thin the land, such numbers to string Upon Tyburn Tree The barrister, brimful of justice and law
 That creeps into your bosom your bowels to gnaw, Let him mount, and report, if he finds out a flaw, Upon Tyburn Tree The man that for money would cut Britain's throat, That sees dirty scribblers to fib for a groat, Make room for his honour to vote his last vote Upon Tyburn Tree Should all swing in halters that say and unsay, That for sixpence would swear, and belie, and betray, Some dozens I think might be ty'd up one day Upon Tyburn Tree Far off from the few honest folks that despise The flummery of fashion, the whip cream of lies, May the riff-raff remove that subsist on disguise Upon Tyburn Tree
5.
IN London stands a famous pile, And near that pile an Alley, Where merry crowds for riches toil, And wisdom stoops to folly. Here, sad and joyful, high and low, Court Fortune for her graces; And as she smiles or frowns, they show Their gestures and grimaces. ’Tis said that alchemists of old Could turn a brazen kettle, Or leaden cistern into gold; That noble tempting metal. But (if it here may be allowed, To bring in great with small things) Our cunning South Sea like a god, Turns nothing into all things. O, Britain! bless thy present state! Thou only happy nation! So oddly rich, so madly great, Since Bubbles came in fashion. Our South Sea ships have golden shrouds, They bring us wealth, ’tis granted: But lodge their treasure in the clouds, To hide it till it’s wanted. A race of men, who, t’ other day, Lay crushed beneath disasters, Are now, by Stock, brought into play, And made our lords and masters. But should our South Sea Babel fall, What numbers would be frowning; The losers then must ease their gall By hanging, or by drowning. Five hundred millions, notes and bonds, Our Stocks are worth in value: But neither lie in goods, or lands, Or money, let me tell ye. Yet though our foreign trade is lost, Of mighty wealth we vapour; When all the riches that we boast Consist of scraps of paper.
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It proues a bad nature in men doth remaine. To make women lewd their purses they straine. For a woman that's honest they care not a whit, Theyle say she is honest because she lackes wit. Derry Down Down, Down Derry Down If we be honest and merrie, for giglots they take vs, If modest and sober, then proud they doe make vs: Let Women and Maides whatsoeuer they be, Come follow my counsell, be warned by me. Derry Down Down, Down Derry Down The humors of men, see how froward they bee; We know not to please them in any degree: For if we goe plaine we are sluts they doe say, They doubt of our honesty if we goe gay; Derry Down Down, Down Derry Down Of all the things which we euermore finde, Such thoughts doe arise as are like to the minde. Mens thoughts being wicked they wracke on vs thus, That scandall is taken, not giuen by vs. Derry Down Down, Down Derry Down Theyle call women whores, but their stakes they might saue, There can be no Whore, but there must be a Knaue. They say that our dressings, and that our attire Are causes to moue them to lustfull fire. Derry Down Down, Down Derry Down If their sight be so weake, and their frailtie be such, Then Why doe they gaze at our beauty so much? Plucke away those ill roots from whence sinne doth arise, Amend wicked thoughts, or plucke out their eyes. Derry Down Down, Down Derry Down
7.
I Good people, give ear, whilst a story I tell, Of twenty black tradesmen who were brought up in hell, On purpose poor people to rob of their due; There's none shall be nooz'd if you find but one true. The first was a coiner, that stampt in a mould; The second a voucher to put off his gold, Toure you well; hark you well, see Where they are rubb'd, Up to the nubbing cheat where they are nubb'd. II The third was a padder, that fell to decay, Who used for to plunder upon the highway; The fourth was a mill-ken to crack up a door, He'd venture to rob both the rich and the poor, The fifth was a glazier who when he creeps in, To pinch all the lurry he thinks it no sin. Toure you well, etc. Toure you well; hark you well, see Where they are rubb'd, Up to the nubbing cheat where they are nubb'd. III The sixth is a file-cly that not one cully spares, The seventh a budge to track softly upstairs; The eighth is a bulk, that can bulk any hick, If the master be nabbed, then the bulk he is sick, The ninth is an angler, to lift up a grate If he sees but the lurry his hooks he will bait.
 Toure you well, etc. IV The tenth is a shop-lift that carries a Bob, When he ranges the city, the shops for to rob. The eleventh’s a bubber, much used of late; Who goes to the ale house, and steals all their plate, The twelfth is a beau-trap, if a cull he does meet
 He nips all his cole, and turns him into the street.
 Toure you well, etc.   V The thirteenth a famble, false rings for to sell, When a mob, he has bit his cole he will tell; The fourteenth a gamester, if he sees the cull sweet He presently drops down a cog in the street; The fifteenth a prancer, whose courage is small, If they catch him horse-coursing, he's nooz'd once for all.
 Toure you well, etc. VI The sixteenth a sheep-napper, whose trade is so deep, If he's caught in the corn, he's marked for a sheep The seventeenth a dunaker, that stoutly makes vows, To go in the country and steal all the cows; The eighteenth a kid-napper, who spirits young men, Tho' he tips them a pike, they oft nap him again.
 Toure you well, etc. VII The nineteenth's a prigger of cacklers who harms, The poor country higlers, and plunders the farms; He steals all their poultry, and thinks it no sin, When into the hen-roost, in the night, he gets in; The twentieth's a thief-catcher, so we him call, Who if he be nabb'd will be made pay for all.
 Toure you well, etc. VIII There's many more craftsmen whom here I could name, Who use such-like trades, abandon'd of shame; To the number of more than three-score on the whole, Who endanger their body, and hazard their soul; And yet; though good workmen, are seldom made free, Till they ride in a cart, and be noozed on a tree.
 Toure you well, hark you well, see where they are rubb'd, Up to the nubbing cheat, where they are nubb'd.
8.
UPON CROMWELL Here lies that beast made up of blood, That murdered Charles the First so good, And for his deeds, as they were evil, Let him not want fire, good devil UPON BRADSHAWE My Epitah is ‘Burn in Hell’ Which with my deeds doth fit full well, I was a Rogue, and so I dy’d, And none like me was ere beside UPON IRETON I of the Divell did take degree, Thinking of him to have a fee, But now I am got into the pot, With my Sire Cromwell too too hot UPON PRIDE I of a brewer too high did swell, But then at last too low I fell, Better it was for to sell grains, Than to endure such woeful pains, As I do in this woeful place I wish that I had had more grace UPON SCOT Here lies a bloody rebel bold, That kil’d his King for gain of Gold, Tis’ known he lov’d whores full well, For which he now repents in Hell UPON HARRISON Here lies that mighty man of might, That taught his men to preach and fight, They were in the wrong and not the right And so they bade the world goodnight UPON PETERS I was the only preaching man From which all mischiefs sprang, And did such horrid things create, Which would make all the world retreat, Nay let the world lay down and dye When they hear of thy villany, So I go to my cursed crew, Saying farewell world and so adieu, Take me divell, do me no wrong, For I from thee have staid too long The night is gone, the Day is almost spread, Our woefull Ghosts from Tyburn now are fled Each to his doeful station now is bent, For fear they by grand Plato should be sent
9.
10.
Alas ! poor Unfortunate T O N Y, where now must thou hide thy old head ? That has not so much as one Crony dares own the great things thou hast said: Is this the thanks of the Nation, For thy Association, And Liberty, That Reformation, ---------- which I prescrib’d to set you all free. Ungrateful unsensible Cullies, to leave your Decriped Patroon, Toth’ merciless rage of the Bullies, and Tories in every Lampoon: Is then your City protection, And all the vow’d Affection, For your New Church, In such Destraction, That you will leave your Peer in the Lurch. How oft have I treated the Rabble, and made the poor Doctor to Peach ? Confusion to all which were able, and did not assist in the Breach: Are all your Butchers and Weavers, And Mobbily Believers, But whilst I treat Damn’d deceivers, What Fool by you can hope to be great ? Then farewel thou Treacherous City, for ever I’le bid thee adieu, Thou never wer’t Honest and Witty, nor never to any side true : I see the end that you drive at, Which lest your hopes arrive at, I have slunk away, To Hang in private, And rob the World of a Holliday.
11.
Now the Fatall day is come, On which I must receive my doom, Upon that wretched fatall tree, A game for all people to be. A game for all people to be. A game for all people to be. While I did live in Splender grate, My Attendances on me to wait, I made my money for to fly, But now on tyburn i must dye. But now on tyburn i must dye. Many a one i train'd up i say, For to run on in Wicked ways. And when they had displesed me, I'd send them to the Featall tree. I'd send them to the Featall tree. I'd send them to the Featall tree. I have cropt maney in there prime, Before that th'ave lived half there time, But indeed i have my deseartes, To tyburn to rid in a Cart. To tyburn to rid in a Cart.
12.
Smugglerius 01:16
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I The budge it is a delicate trade, And a delicate trade of fame; For when that we have bit the bloe, We carry away the game: But if the cully naps us, And the lurries from us take, O then he rubs us to the whitt Though we are not worth a make II And when that we come unto the whitt, For garnish they do cry; Mary, faugh, you son of a whore; We promise our lusty comrogues They shall have it by and bye Then, every man with his mort in his hand, With a kiss we part, and westward stand, To the nubbing cheat in a cart. III And when we come to the nubbing cheat For running on the budge, There stands Jack Ketch, that son of a bitch That owes us all a grudge. And when that he hath noosed us, And our friends tip him no cole, O then he throws us in the cart And tumbles us into the hole. IV But if we have a friend stand by, Six and eight pence for to pay, Then they may have our bodies back, And carry us quiet away: For at St Giles’s or St Martin’s, A burying place is still; And there’s an end of a darkman’s budge, And the whoreson hath his will.
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Bing out, bien Morts, and toure, and toure, bing out, bien Morts, and toure; For all your Duds are bingd awaste, the bien coue hath the loure. I I met a Dell, I viewde her well, she was benship to my watch; So she and I, did stall and cloy, while I stole whateuer we could catch. II This Doxie dell, can cut bien whids, and wap well for a win; And prig and cloy so benshiply, all the dewsea-vile within. IV To Stawling Kenne the Mort bings then, to fetch loure for her cheates; Duds and Ruff-pecke, ruinboild by Harmanbecke, and won by Mawnder’s feates. VII Till Cramprings quier, tip Coue his hire, and quier-kens doe them catch; A canniken, mill quier cuffen, so quier to ben coue’s watch. III The boyle was vp, wee had good lucke, in frost, for and in snow; When they did seeke, then we did creepe, and plant in ruffe-mans low. V You Mawnders all, stow what you stall, to Rome coues watch so quire; And wapping Dell that niggles well, and takes loure for her hire. VIII Bein darkmans then, bouse, mort, and ken the bien coue’s bingd awast; On chates to trine, by Rome-coues dine for his long lib at last.

about

Dead Rat Orchestra present a soundtrack to the film Tyburnia: A Radical History Of 600 Years Of Public Execution by James Holcombe.

The album is the product of a year of research into the history of the Tyburn and features rediscovered broadside ballads, written by and for those condemned to dance the Tyburn Jig, intercut with psychogeographical field recordings, musique concrète and lost songs in the Thieves’ Cant (a cryptolect dating back to the 16th century, used by cozeners, gull-gropers, coney-catchers and the like, in their efforts to avoid the nubbing cheat).

Tyburnia the album is a rough-hewn record, carved out in collaboration with director James Holcombe and award-winning folk artist Lisa Knapp. It is unquestionably the band’s most political statement to date; an indictment of oppression, greed and the criminalisation of dissent, as relevant now as when the words were first penned, more than 300 years ago.

The CD is mounted in a 32-page, A5 perfect-bound booklet, containing lyrics and stills from the film.

It’s a work of extraordinary intensity, with a compelling sense of atmosphere, and its skilled assemblage is reflected by the accompanying 32-page A5 booklet in which the disc is housed, containing full lyrics and a selection of stills and images from the film itself.

"Musical settings are primal and immediate, sparse yet ingenious, sometimes involving just a fiddle and some simple percussion – but these minimal resources are used to telling effect to invoke the oppressive subject-matter.... The archaic yet timeless feel of the texts is powerfully brought home to the listener, who is invited, by dint both of the starkness of the delivery and the interpolation of almost painfully apposite extracts from the likes of street criers and orators, screaming crowds, even a mournful silver-band hymnal, to reflect on their relevance not only to the historical timeframe in which they were first conceived but also to present-day ideologies (plus ça change, in effect…). In doing so, providing a powerful political statement and implied indictment on our own times. Tyburnia is at times distinctly uncomfortable listening, make no mistake – but it proves worth rising to the challenge." - Fatea

"Dead Rat Orchestra's Tyburnia mixes historical and contemporary forms such as 16th and 17th century execution ballads, electroacoustic techniques and field recordings from different execution sites. A selection of the songs contain lyrics written in Thieves Cant (also known as Rogues Cant or Peddlers French), a secret language used by ne'er-do-wells and underworld cohorts." - Wire Magazine

credits

released May 29, 2015

Researched by James Holcombe and Nathaniel Mann
Recorded by Nathaniel Mann and Daniel Merrill
Mixed by Nathaniel Mann
Field recordings by James Holcombe
A Defence of Women sung and recorded by Lisa Knapp
Mastered by Eric James

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