The Folk Society meet on Thursday nights Clear their throats and put their coughs to flight To sing the dusty cobwebs from the room A repertoire both in and out of tune Don't assume a singalong, or worse This history in song and countless verse Pays homage to the man who, long ago Collected all the songs the singers know Collected all the songs the singers know Edward Alexander, man of action Armed only with his reel-to-reel contraption One hundred years ago in mac and boots Set out to faithfully preserve the region's roots And every night in some small village inn Fortified with fortitude and gin Mr Alexander, for a shilling Would thus record your song, if you were willing Would thus record your song, if you were willing So word got round, and soon there formed a queue And the line of willing singers grew and grew Brass for oohs and aahs? You can't go wrong When there's someone paying a shilling for a song When all his tapes are filled up, Edward leaves There's a history preserved, so he believes But all the so-called singers back inside They know they took a city scholar for a ride They know they took a city scholar for a ride For they shook the man for every coin he'd got With words and tunes all made up on the spot Invented tales not twenty minutes old So history, like ale, is bought and sold. The old contraption's packed away and boxed And a century is marked upon the clock So tradition holds that Edward's great collection Is honoured with a weekly resurrection Honoured with a weekly resurrection And now the old Society sing the songs Word for word, and kept where they belong As once again, they eulogise the past You can hear the ghosts of history laughing last You can hear the ghosts of history laughing last
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