Legend has it that a swineherd from the nearby village of Stow donated his lifes savings towards the construction of Lincoln cathedral , likely during the time of St. Hugh of Lincoln in the late 12th century. (Based on a poem by Thomas Cooper 1805-1892)

I sing of a swineherd from fair Lincolnshire
His pigs fed on acorns from forest and briar
No wool must he shear from his snouted sheep
Nor sow any corn then labour to reap.

He hedges no meadows to fatten his swine
They need of no roof, they run freely outside
In Lindsey Forest unhindered they roam
Til swineherd of Stow on trumpet has blown

A swineherd lives well from limited toil
Hogshead and farrow not his only spoil

He shelters from heat neath cool forest ferns
To dream of the elves and coins he will earn

Oak leaves they turn verdant to umber
And acorn will fall to stir him from slumbers

The bishop looks down, on his lowly serf
On Candlemas morn in Lincolns fine church
Then offering his horn for our ladies’ hymn
Bright silver pennies filled up to the brim

A swineherd lives well from limited toil
Hogshead and farrow not his only

The spires of Cathedral gradually raised
The gift of the Swineherd remembered and praised
Carved holding trumpet proudly on view
And some say he’s higher than old Bishop Hugh

And friend should you pass by that minster today
Pause for a moment, look skyward I pray
And marvel how far a few pennies will go
Atop northern turret The Swineherd of Stow.

A swineherd lives well from limited toil
Hogshead and farrow not his only spoil
A swineherd lives well from limited toil
Hogshead and farrow not his only spoil

On the outskirts of Norwich over the Bishops Bridge is a pub called the Lollards Pit. The site where in 1531 clergyman Thomas Bilney was burned at the stake for questioning the teachings of Rome becoming one of the first martyrs of the English reformation

Pick up your drums good christian men
and walk with me this lonely mile
By Bishop's word I stand condemened
I'll not repent but face the fire

Jesu credo

Oh lord hear my prayer
Listen to my call for mercy
In faithfulness and righteousness
please come to my relief

Jesu Credo

Good people I am come hither to die

Jesu Credo

Original musical idea the marvellous Guska
Lyric vocals and orchestration: Duncan Butler

Between 1665-1666 the Derbyshire Village of Eyam quarantined itself after an outbreak of the bubonic plague, separating two young lovers who continued to meet at a distance.

There's a lonely call, cross the valley wide
To my dear betrothed and my would be bride
And a London cloth, for a wedding gown?
Brought this deadly curse here to strike us down

So we closed our paths for the greater good
Down from Middleton up to Eyam Woods
By the grace of God so the Reverend says
When the danger is passed then at last we will wed

Emmott I'll meet you every day
We'll be as one though set apart
When all this death has washed away
We can rejoin our broken heart

There's an eerie calm, from the Cooper's cot
only bitter coins, in the water trough

So we closed our paths for the greater good
Down from Middleton up to Eyam Woods
By the grace of God so the Reverend says
When the danger is passed then at last we will wed

Here at your door I close my eyes
Heaven help me
The flame of hope it turns to ice
Melts without a trace
Damn the ring of roses on your face

They closed their paths for the greater good
Down from Middleton up to Eyam Woods
They closed their paths for the greater good
Down from Middleton up to Eyam Woods

Written and performed by D Butler but
you can hear a more upbeat extended version of this
done by Stuart Smith here

Scotland's Robbie Burns is regarded as a Romantic poet but for me he celebrates the strength of the ordinary man, no more so than in this poem.

Is there for honest Poverty
That hings his head, an’ a’ that;
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that.
Our toils obscure an’ a’ that,
The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
The Man’s the gowd for a’ that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an’ a that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;
A Man’s a Man for a’ that:
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their tinsel show, an’ a’ that;
The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor,
Is king o’ men for a’ that.

Ye see yon birkie ca’d a lord,
Wha struts, an’ stares, an’ a’ that,
Tho’ hundreds worship at his word,
He’s but a coof for a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
His ribband, star, an’ a’ that,
The man o’ independent mind,
He looks an’ laughs at a’ that.

A Prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an’ a’ that!
But an honest man’s aboon his might –
Guid faith, he mauna fa’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Their dignities, an’ a’ that,
The pith o’ Sense an’ pride o’ Worth
Are higher rank than a’ that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a’ that,
That Sense and Worth, o’er a’ the earth
Shall bear the gree an’ a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
It’s comin yet for a’ that,
That Man to Man the warld o’er
Shall brithers be for a’ that.

HMS Euryalus was built in the shipbuilding yard at Bucklers Hard on the south cost of England in 1803, serving in the Napoleonic wars. During the American war of independence, she sailed up the Potomac river and helped the British capture and burn Washington.

Laid true her keel of English oak
By Adams and Balthazar
Protect these shores from Bonaparte
At the battle Trafalgar

Sailing the Potomac
On HMS Euryalus
The pride of Bucklers Hard

We’ve done for the French
And now seek our revenge
On the Yankees who put fire to York

Sailing the Potomac
On HMS Euryalus
To put an end to Washington’s Fort

For God the King and the old country
It’s the Life for a Royal Tar for me
And though that shilling’s quickly spent
There’s daily grog and I pay no rent

And when Admiral Nelson
Was on the butcher’s bill
For ten days Euryalus led the fleet

In Mediterranean
Kept Parleyvous at bay
Accepting Little Boneys defeat

Sailing the Potomac
On HMS Euryalus
The pride of Bucklers Hard

With thanks to the old colonial Mr Lynn Lister for playing bass on this one!

The flight of ten locks at Foxton were built in 1813 to assist the transport of coal from the midlands to Watford. (with thanks to Arthur B Evans (1848) Leicestershire, Words Phrases and Proverbs)

I’ve been to the top
of Foxton Locks
canking about with old Jack Cryer.

Hearing the tales
Of those who sailed
Along these watery 20 miles.

If the childer affeard
of thack and mortar
Looking to play, for the taters peeled.

Fix their dading-strings
To the towing mast
Or throw them all into Harborough Field

Hauling the coal
From Foxton to Watford
Legging the tunnels
At Bosworth and Crick.

We’ll all be unloading
At Lady Capel Wharf
Avoiding the coal tax
if we are quick!

I’ve been to the top
of Foxton Locks
Wind those paddles down.

Hearing the tales
Of those who sailed
Along these watery 20 miles.

Old billy barge horse
Lived sixty-two years
Earning his keep
On the Mersey Irwell cut.

Worked for his master
Without any whingel
But oh don’t you raffle him In his joister hut

I’ve been to the top
of Foxton Locks
Wind those paddles down.

Hearing the tales
Of those who sailed
Along these watery 20 miles.

I’ve been to the top
of Foxton Locks
canking about with old Jack Cryer.

Hearing the tales
Of those who sailed
Along these watery 20 miles.

Hauling the coal
From Foxton to Watford
Legging the tunnels
At Bosworth and Crick.

We’ll all be unloading
At Lady Capel Wharf
Avoiding the coal tax
if we are quick!

Until the Anatomy act of 1832 there was a profitable trade in bodies robbed from fresh graves. Thomas Vaughan exhumed several from a churchyard in Great Yarmouth to supply eminent London surgeon Astley Cooper, whose father was the Vicar at the church!

There’s a flickering light
In the churchyard tonight
Old Thomas Vaughan Is up to
no good Tonight.

He’ll have his fun
With no cemetery gun
And when the customer is
Reverend Coopers Son.

Body Snatchers
They try to catch us
But there are guineas to be made.
Our Surgeon masters
They need cadavers
And they don’t ask
From where they came

Out of clattering carts
In the streets around St Bart
Boxed and bagged wont hide Your
sinister arts

Body Snatchers
They try to catch us
But there are guineas to be made.
Our Surgeon masters
They need cadavers
And they don’t ask
From where they came

Dickensian London’s Morality and Pride
Demands the best Surgeons that money can provide
To combat the gout with their lightning knives
And to turn a blind eye to where those skills were acquired

Body Snatchers

Body Snatchers
They try to catch us
But there are guineas to be made.
Our Surgeon masters
They need cadavers
And they don’t ask
From where they came

There’s a fearful sight
When their crimes come to light
There will be no rest
For their loved ones tonight

As Body snatching Is a misdemeanour
Sir Astley Cooper’s above the law
Unlike his victims who are lost to history
His statue stands in St Pauls

Body Snatchers
They try to catch us
But there are guineas to be made.
Our Surgeon masters
They need cadavers
And they don’t ask
From where they came

There was a livestock market at Smithfield (London) from medieval times until the 1850's. The animals were driven from all across the country into the city through the narrow streets causing mess and mayhem

And they’re making their way down to Smithfield
Cattle and Swine driven from Lincolnshire
With tar and sand on their tired feet
The turkeys and geese from Norfolk are here

Now Mondays and Fridays old
‘Bartholomew’s fair
The finest of Gentleman
No longer there
And gone are fine horses
For Plow pulling mares

Now making their way down to Smithfield

And they’re making their way down to Smithfield
Fat woolly sheep from the foothills of Wales
Cattle and calf from the midlands
Destined to end on the butchers scale

Pull down the shutters
Call children inside
When the drovers are coming
There’s nowhere to hide
Tumult and thunder
Is this London’s Pride?

Now making their way down to Smithfield

The sheep coming they’re fifty strong
They jump and they cry as travel along
And Maggie Magee the baker’s spouse
Is fretting for leaving her washing out

Now pigs are coming you smell them first
Snorting and biting and dying of thirst
Drovers aren’t known to spare the whip for
Sunday night they’ll be on the spit

There’s a rumbling roar as the cattle appear
People scatter in terror and fear
Fences and shutters they won’t impede
The onward march of this stampede

When the market is done some peace returns
And poor Maggie’s washing picked out of the dirt
Shutters come down we can let in the light.

And see what remains of our Smithfield

And they’re making their way down to Smithfield
Cattle and Swine driven from Lincolnshire
With tar and sand on their tired feet
The turkeys and geese from Norfolk are here

And they’re making their way down to Smithfield
Fat woolly sheep from the foothills of Wales
Cattle and calf from the midlands
Destined to end on the butcher’s scales

Based on a guitar tune from Stuart Hartland Smith

Despite the advances of the Victorian era rural workers lives were still governed by the seasons and a wealth of local folklore. With thanks to the Broadcaster (2025) 'the Marshwomans Year'

I found my way to the Ludham Mop
On Old St Michaelmas Day
And took a fastening penny to work
Old Hobarts lands from January

At the fair I spent it well
On periwinkles in brine
And catching the eye of my darling Bess
By winning at the coconut shy

Up with the daylight, slave to the season
Tending the crop till the shoots appear
We’ve not the birthright, ours not to reason
Working in the fields

Marsh life is a hard life but it all we’ve grown to know
Up with the daylight, slave to the season
Welcome to the Marshman’s Year

Up with the daylight, slave to the season
Tending the crop till the shoots appear
We’ve not the birthright, ours not to reason
Welcome to the Marshman’s Year

Bess she sowed her midnight Hemp
In April on St Mark’s Eve
Though she never told me who she saw
Scything in the fields

At Ludham’s Corpus Christi Fair
She said that she’d be mine
And we kissed underneath the St Johns Wort
As the thunder roared outside

This marsh life is a hard life but it all we’ve come to know
Up with the daylight, slave to the season
Welcome to the Marshman’s Year

On Swithin’s Day a pillow filled
With Yarrow to brings us luck
And at Horkey Tide I held her close
Saved all the largesse that I took

Here again at the Ludham Mop
My girl is by my side, but
I’ll save this fastening penny to make
The lovely Bess my bride.

Ireland saw one of the largest exodus of population following the potato famine in the mid 19th century. This song imagines a child refugee returning home in old age

When last I saw my homeland
I was but a babe in arms
but this Irelands in my soul
and in my heart

Then we dreamed America
of fortunes won and lost
I stand a taller man
but at what cost?

You can dress in the clothes of success and adventure
drive down the road in that black cadillac
convince yourself on this journey
your not looking back

But in the night you hear the pipes
playing songs from other lands
and the hills will draw you back
to your last stand

And in between I've loved and lost
played the fool and paid the cost
till all that pomp and grandeur falls away

You can flee from the bonds of hate and oppression
and find yourself fighting another man's war
And one day you'll wonder
Was it worth it at all?

But in the night you hear the pipes
playing songs from other lands
and the hills will draw you back
for your last stand.

In the night you hear the pipes
playing songs from other lands
and the hills will draw you back
to your last stand

Original idea and keyboards FREQ ISO
Arrangement and Lyric Duncan Butler

It started with the 'Big bang' deregulation of financial markets by Margaret Thatcher and ended in the Financial Crash of 2008. I wrote this song whilst sat on a train with a bunch of drunken investment bankers!

Out of the bowels to concrete cathedral
Modern day monks in the worship of greed
They trade in our futures without any scruples
In Dollars in Rubles insiders revered

Out of my window cross Anglian fields
Boudica's descendents are turning the soil
Tending their crops in biblical tableaux
While modern day monks trade their futures away

There is no production in asset restructuring
No human endeavour in leveraging wealth
No contribution to evolution but the friends of the lenders they say
There too big to fail

When they have tired with bonus acquired
They out bid the farmer as come lately squires
Green belt the country starving its industry
and drive out our children with Range Rover lies

There is no production in asset restructuring
No human endeavour in leveraging wealth
No contribution to evolution but the friends of the lenders they say
There too big to fail

This nine til five thesis is nailed to your church
Can't find salvation selling it short
Invest in your neighbours, create with your hands
Look back on a life where you met its demands

Don't take my hand lest their calloused with toil
Or stained with the product of creative though
Or back bent by labour to better us all
And give to our children a substantive world

There is no production in asset restructuring
No human endeavour in leveraging wealth
No contribution to evolution but the friends of the lenders they say

No production in asset restructuring
No human endeavour in leveraging wealth
No contribution to evolution but the friends of the lenders they say
There too big to fail.....

I have spent a lot of time clearing relatives houses recently and was inspired by Stuarts lovely guitar playing to reflect on the memories they hold.

Here is the chair where my father sat
Regaling us with his tales of the war
And there’s the table where he placed his cup
That overflowed with caring words
Empty houses want to be heard

And here’s the basin where she washed away
All the worries and the hurts of the day
Banished them to fresh made beds
Broken rooms with stars above
Are empty houses once filled with love

Folded dreams are wrapped in cellophane
Broken promises given away
I wear these memories like a glove
In this empty house that was filled with love
Empty rooms that are filled with love,

I don’t want to close this door
And leave my ghosts to play alone
But I must go and they must stay
And live their lives of yesterday
I turn my back so loathed to run
From empty houses filled with love

Original idea, guitar and backing vocal: Stuart Hartland Smith
Lyric and Vocal: Duncan Butler