Thursday, March 30, 2006

Raggle Taggle Gypsy

This is my daughters favorite song, her Dad is from Ireland and we listen to this song every day. After seeing the other lyrics posted I thought this would be a good way to break the ice on my first visit here to the Gypsy camp. this song is on the chieftans cd called the wide world over.

RAGGLE TAGGLE GYPSY
There were three bold gypsies came to our hall door
Down the stairs came this lady-o
One sang high and another sang low
The other sang the Bonny bonny Biscay-o
They sang so sweet and they sang so shrill That fast here tears began to flow
She laid down her silken gownHer golden rings and all her show
Then she pulled off her silk finished gown
And she pulled off here satin bow
She left them all at our door
She is gone with the raggle-taggle gypsy-o
It was late at night when my lord came homeEnquiring for this lady-o
The servants said on every hand
She is gone with the raggle-taggle gypsy-o
O saddle for me my milk white steedAnd go fetch me my pony-o
That I may go and seek my bride Who is gone with the raggle-taggle gypsy-o
O he rode hight and he rode low He rode through wood and copsees-o
Until he came to a wide open field And there he spied his lady-o
O what made you leave your house and land What made you leave your money-o
What made you leave your new-wedded lordTo be off with the raggle-taggle gypsy-o
O what care I for my house and land
What care I for money-o
What care I for my new-wedded lord
I'm off with the raggle-taggle gypsy-o
O what care I for my goose feathered bed
With the sheet turned down so bravely-o
Tonight I will sleep in an open field Along with the raggle-taggle gypsy-o40 Irish Pub Songs

Shannon

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

About scrumpy...


What came first, the noun or the verb? In the west of England, where apple groves abound and scrumpy is the `real’ cider (forget that pathetic brew they sell in the shops) the locals will tell you that `scrumping’ means stealing apples – this rough brew was the result of orchard raids.

The making of scrumpy is nothing to take lightly – it is a calling, and it even has its own language. For example, the mill that grinds the fruit is called a scratter – today scrumpy makers use electric scratters of course, but once it would have been operated by hand, or a simple stone grinding tool, similar to the action of a mortar and pestle.

The ground fruit makes a `pomace’ or pulp, which is formed into cakes and put into a cider press, separated by layers of horsehair or straw (today they use fine mesh). The cakes are pressed and the juice collected and poured into casks. Nothing is wasted – the animals get the dried pressed cake as winter feed when all the juice has been collected.

The juice is left to ferment its natural juices into scrumpy for several weeks. This is real cider – it is made of one hundred per cent apples, gathered, crushed, squeezed and fermented where the apples grow.

Apples are of course the perfect fruit – a portable meal that is both refreshing and filling. Apples can be stored a long time, and gypsies love them, because they remain edible even when they start to dry and wrinkle. As the old country folk say, ``an apple a day keeps the doctor away and a glass of scrumpy will cheer him up if you do have to call him out on a cold and rainy night”.
The apple is a tempting fruit, begging to be eaten as it hangs low on the bough – perhaps this is why it came to be associated with the forbidden fruit of the Garden of Eden. In the Garden of the Hesperides, apples grew on the Tree of Life. Paris won Helen of Troy (and started a war) when he presented a golden apple to Aphrodite. Snow White is the victim of a poisoned apple given to her by her stepmother.

Steeped in legend, the apple is the fruit of romance, temptation, love and sin. No wonder apples can make a drink as potent as scrumpy.

Traditionally, red delicious and even crabapples are used to make cider, although other varieties can be used. Pears can be crushed and squeezed in the same way, making a drink called perry. No wonder the tribe is happy to be back.

(image from Free Stock Photos)

Back to the Gypsy Camp...

Today I took a walk in that glade where the gypsies used to camp - it is empty now, for the tribe has moved to Riversleigh and is setting up camp in an apple grove nearby. I walked over the ashes of old campfires, and remembered the times before - the dancing, the singing, the feasting and joyful celebrations.
The sound of tambourines, pipes and drums has moved to Riversleigh now - the soft southern sunshine gives away to crisp country breezes and winding lanes. As the caravans creak toward the apple grove, even the horses perk up because they will soon be freed from their traces to roll in the lush grass and pick up the windfall apples.
One wagon moves slower than the others - it is stocked with the old cider known as scrumpy, picked up as the tribe moved through Kent, ready for the celebrations to come. I warn you, travellers, scrumpy is powerful stuff. It will make the tone deaf and lead footed sing and dance.
The gypsies will sleep tonight, under the bright stars shining down on the apple grove. Then Lavengro and his people will rise early in the morning, fetch water from the well and ready the camp to welcome any visitors that happen by. They have stories to tell, and wonders to show you from their travels, so be sure to pop in and see what's new.