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BLANKE  HANS
words & tune: Rod Sinclair

G                          C               G      C
Som en kæde til pynt på Europas hals
G                 D    G
Øernes perlekrans
G                  C            G                  C
De byder på læ og de værner mod vest
G                    D         G
Smykker for Blanke Hans

Som et vovende sommerbrunt badebarn
På tåspidser over hver kam
Søger bagud med tillidsfuld hånd
Den voksnes støttende arm

C                             G
Sådan er vaden for øerne
C                               D
Afvæbner bølgernes kraft
G             C         G           C
I loer og priler, vener og årer
G                    D             G
Løber en sølvfarvet saft

Og den rigdom der bobler i vadens sand
Lokker i regn og i sol
Talløse flokke af farende fugle
På vej fra ækvator til pol

Som en kæde til pynt på Europas hals
Øernes perlekrans
De byder på læ og de værner mod vest
Smykker for Blanke Hans

COUNTLESS
w
ords: Rod Sinclair, tune: Martin Schack, Rod Sinclair

1. Where is this landscape you promised?
This Wadden Sea that's so unique?
All I can see is some mudflats
And feel the cold wind on my cheek

2. The arch of the sky like a dome of clear glass
Dwarfs us and stretches our eyes
Four kinds of cloud in four compass points
Try that horizon for size                                                                      

                      3. The tide is rising against us
                      Watering life in the sand
                      Washing out runes and rhymes as it runs
                      Shelling out mussels and clams

4. Can you count the birds in the picture?
Can you count the fish in the sea?
Long skeins of geese, starlings like smoke,
Garfish and blenny and eel

5. The Amazon jungle is screaming with life
But Wadden Sea sand oozes more
These wetlands serve a feast for the fish
And millions of wings by the shore  

                      6. A birthplace and generous larder
                      Feeding the North Sea with soul
                      And fuelling vast flocks of wandering birds
                      Half-way from equator to pole

7. Boats, birds and fish all seek shelter 
From North Sea to Zuider Zee
Where sailors and seals watch Wadden Sea waves
And the grey turns slowly to green                              

DYKERS                                                   
words: Rod Sinclair, music: Martin Schack & Jacob Pedersen

A man must be mad, or need money bad
Christian Larsen was a man of twenty-one
”I can move two ton a day!” the dykers heard him say
The foreman ganger took young Larsen on

Cut the sod the foreland paved slowed the onslaught of the waves
Dug a trench down on the leeward side
Took a pinch of Jutland's heath, threw it in the ocean's teeth
A dog will use its tail to keep it dry

CHORUS:      
The dykers were tough, the dykers were rough
They worked like trojans for their pay
Filled the wagons, piled the soil, 'till the token of their toil
The dyke rose higher every day

With August on the wane a storm of wind and rain
Soaks the dykers working on the wall
To their shanty they retreat, water swirling at their feet
But young Larsen higher up the dyke does crawl

On the leeside dug a grave Larsen tried his life to save
And struggled through that stormy day and night
He had shovelled up the clay, now he shivered where he lay
And the dyke would show if it could save a life

CHORUS

Larsen soon was missed and searchers did enlist
The newest dyker must be found, they swore
In the morning's cold grey light when they sailed along the dyke
Pulled poor half-dead Larsen safe aboard

In the new uneasy dawn they rowed young Larsen in
He'd soon be washed and warm now he was found
Larsen's workmates - what of them? The nineteen other men?
Larsen learned that every one had drowned.

 CHORUS

Death of a Swan
Words:Anon c. 1600   Melody: Martin Schack

Ebm                          Bbm              Ebm
The silver swan who living had no note
Ebm                                     Bbm            Ebm   
When death approached unlocked her silent throat
Abm            Ebm                                Abm
Leaned her breast against the reedy shore
Abm                              Ebm                     Ab
Thus sang her first and last and sang no more
Ebm                         Bbm                              Ebm
Farewell all joys: O death come close mine eyes
Ebm                               Bbm                                   Eb
More geese than swans now live, more fools than wise

sung chorus (hummed)

Abm   ./.    Ebm   ./.    Abm  ./.

Abm   ./.    Ebm   ./.    Ab

Gryden
words: Rod Sinclair; Tune: Martin Schack

Picture

SEAFARERS
Words & music: Rod Sinclair

Hans Jessen of Ribe, a merchant renowned
Sailed in these waters of old
From Bremen to London his fine sailing cog
Was laden with riches untold.

His crew knew their rigging and currents and stars
Trusty at sea and ashore
One day in fifteen and seventy three
Nine pirates clambered aboard

”We'll feed you to the fishes!” the pirate chief cried
”As soon as we've tasted your wine.
You'll all drown like dogs and for London we'll sail
And we'll live there like barons so fine!”

The pirates bound Jessen and his sailors three
Then tumbled below to the wine.
Jessen broke free with his mariners bold
Made prisoners of pirates all nine.

When Hans Jessen's cog came to harbour once more
The pirates' heads soon people saw
Atop bloody poles for all Ribe to mind
That the rich are protected by law

Had they sailed from great harbours or on the wide seas
Had they fought in the far Spanish Main
As heroes and seafarers, pirates and rogues
Then the whole world would know of their names.

SEASCAPE
words: Rod Sinclair, tune: Martin Schack

Salt air over restless water and hastening clouds
Pale sunshine and dark rainstorm driven by wind
The sea outlines the sand
Time the moon and the tides
Salt water turns into land

This seascape was sung from darkness by seagulls' cries
Built from nothing by wandering singers who gave it all names
They sang the birds in the sky
They sang the fish in the sea
They sang the beasts in the grass

Flat country breeds hard people who fight to survive
Raising homes on grassy hillocks to keep them from harm
Always lived by the sea
Always lived with the sea
The sea's life kept them alive

Their music is gone forever, a song on the wind
Hard traces they left behind them the signs and the tone
It was old even then
Sounded far and near
As we have known all along

THE SILVER HARVEST
Words: Rod Sinclair, Jacob Pedersen
Tune: Rod Sinclair, Jacob Pedersen
 

           G                           C                       G                                       D
The "Silver Harvest" dips and rises on the early morning swell
        G                      C                       G                                  D          G
The idling engine gently holds her bow north-west and she rides it well
        D                       G                      A7                            D
The bulging trawl is over deck, the catch is spilling, the winches scream
        G                    C                         G                      D            G
The silver harvest comes cascading to the hold in a silver stream.

Chorus  
       C         Em                              D            Em
Sail away, Silver Harvest, sail away to the sea
       C         Em                              D            Em
Sail away, Silver Harvest, sail away to the sea

The skipper pointed to the boat and proudly told his eldest son,
'The "Silver Harvest" will be yours when my fishing days are done.'
Thinking back on twenty years, youth to manhood, no regrets
The son, now skipper, hand on wheel - fishing is his living yet.

Waves are rolling, salty mountains, towering over wooden rail
Men intent on hook and pulley turn their backs on the mounting gale
The wind is howling over deck, seagulls screaming, engines roar
The "Silver Harvest" rounds the headland, gun'l full and peace on board

Sailing homeward, looking seaward, hands rest by the pitching rail
Talk about the days when fishing was a living that could not fail
Bigger boats long since moved in, catches dwindle, boats go broke
The silver harvest, caught in quotas: fishermen still need their luck.

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