1. |
Black River
05:03
|
|||
|
Black River Neil Werden © 2018
We set out down Black river, in our cedar strip.
Cool dip of our paddles, on a leisurely trip.
A short way on our journey, we hear a whitewater sound.
Rocky banks loomed above us, down the chute we were bound.
Sharp rocks, dead tree trunks, we maneuver through the flow.
I kept the bow straight ahead, as we cascade through the foam.
I look back at my partner with a sigh of relief.
We smiled and shook our heads, in that moment of disbelief.
Black River running, we paddled down.
We paddled down Black River, down, down, down.
Sinister waters, caught up in the swells.
Black River running, to the white water sound.
Black River running, to the white water sound.
My partner gasps and shouts, I turn my head and gaze.
The rapids pull us forward, we continue down the race.
I thrust my paddle hard, a lump forms in my throat.
We spill over a large rock, we drop into a hole.
The surge pulls me down, down down down.
The swirl from the torrent, it tosses me around.
I struggle to the surface, gasping for some air.
Worried for my partner, I was searching everywhere.
(Black River ----)
Over to my right my partners clinging to a limb
Our canoe is smashed to splinters so I proceed to swim.
We struggle to the shore, we get our feet on solid dirt.
We embrace and I exclaim, “ well we're lucky we weren't hurt”.
(Black River ----)
We climbed the hill up to the highway,
Hitched a ride back to my Jeep.
As we rolled into my driveway,
I say I have Friday of next week.
You new what I was thinking 'cause together we exclaimed,
Lets spend the day together and we'll do it all again.
|
||||
2. |
They Call Me A 49er
02:24
|
|||
|
They Call Me A 49er Neil Werden © 2011
I work the streams for nuggets every day.
The townsfolk claim I'll never get rich this way.
But I've got a hunch and I've got a heart of gold.
Worn out soles, and ragged old jeans with holes.
Give my pan a swish and a swirl.
Once again with a twist and a twirl.
Some day I'll make my fortune retire and settle down.
They call me a 49er.
A stubborn old fool a lone gold miner.
Pick and shovel lay by my side.
Sifting through the grit the gravel and sand
A little bit of glitter in the bottom of my pan.
Enough to keep me satisfied.
They call me a 49er
A stubborn old fool a lone gold miner.
They call me a 49er.
Ooo---ooo---ooo
|
||||
3. |
Forty-Eight Below
04:23
|
|||
|
Forty Eight Below Neil Werden © 2018
Frozen ice and snow on Rat River,
The silence of sunrise; the crack of the cold.
The deep of the winter will force you to shiver,
When it's forty-eight below, forty-eight below.
An ax and wool blanket rolled up in his pack.
He carried a knife and a Winchester rifle.
Crafty and cunning as a lone arctic cat.
It was forty-eight below, forty-eight below.
They say he tampered with the Indian trap lines,
Was it truth, was it rumor ,who really knows?
Found tripped and emptied then left in the pines,
Where it's forty-eight below, forty-eight below.
The law came searching for the burly young trapper,
Forcing the door on his meager log home.
A shot rang out a Mountie was injured,
It was forty-eight below, forty-eight below.
Forty-eight below zero. They tried to pursue this madman.
If the mounties can't catch him, nobody can.
A posse pressed on through the wild wilderness,
Surrounding the outlaw in a tamarack grove.
A Mountie took a fatal shot to the chest,
It was forty-eight below, forty-eight below.
Forty-eight below zero. They tried to pursue this madman.
If the mounties can't catch him, nobody can.
The hunt continued over Yukon's high peaks,
On down to the Eagle River below.
Hampered by drifts way past his knees,
It was forty-eight below, forty-eight below.
Scarlet serge jackets; gunfire echoed
The mad trapper fell deep into the snow.
Riddled with lead, Albert Johnson lay dead,
It's forty-eight below, forty-eight below.
|
||||
4. |
Chasing A Dream
05:00
|
|||
|
Chasing a Dream Neil Werden © 2019
Chasing breezes and southern rays,
Warmth of the coral sands.
Chasing a dream of exotic places,
Can't wait until this big bird lands.
Touching down on the pavement,
Airport customs bustle.
Sun seekers clutching there documents,
Palm tree branches rustle.
Chasing a dream, chasing a dream, chasing a dream with you.
Clinging to the edge of a moonbeam, bright stars shining through.
Oceans pristine, ultramarine, I can't believe the view.
Catching the warmth of a sunbeam, chasing a dream with you.
Chasing a dream, chasing a dream, chasing a dream my friend.
Savor the taste of fine cuisine, hoping good time never end.
Chasing a dream, chasing a dream, chasing a dream with you.
Clinging to the edge of a moonbeam, bright stars shining through.
Taking a hike through the mountain,
Down to the center square.
Splashing water from the fountain,
A cool relief from the humid air.
Release my mind from the daily grind
That makes my brain grow numb
Sippin' mohitos to help unwind
Chase it all down with a rum. ( Chasing a dream --- )
|
||||
5. |
I Crumble
03:20
|
|||
|
I Crumble Neil Werden © 2017
Me and you tripping through, the plowed fields,
the cornstalks, and stubble.
I slip, I fall, down to the pungent
smell of the earth.
Reaching for the strong hand of a brave man
a bold man who's humble.
You go to lift me up, I pull you
down to the dirt, we flirt,
You touch my cheek, you kiss me and I crumble.
I crumble when you call my name.
I crumble when you shout and wave
I quiver, I quake, I shiver shake and tremble.
You run to me, you pick me up embrace me,
I surrender. Oh ya !
I crumble, I crumble, I crumble.
Me and you slipping through, the barnyard gate,
where the Holstein cows graze free.
Through the pasture, to the clover,
back by the maple shade tree.
You lay me down to the cricket sound
of the grassy jungle.
You lure me with your gentle voice,
you praise me, amaze me,
You touch my cheek, you kiss me and I crumble.
And when I'm down and out,
My head is filled with doubt,
I see you in the distance,
And then I hear you shout.
|
||||
6. |
||||
|
All Of My Tears Neil Werden © 2003
(Frankie's Lament )
I've been shoved away.
I've been pushed aside.
There's nowhere to run,
And nowhere to hide.
And I can't face this loneliness.
I can't fight my fears,
When the whole world turns against me,
I want to drowned in all of my tears.
I want to drowned in all of my tears.
I just don't fit in.
I just don't belong.
My face is stitched and ugly.
They think that I'm all wrong.
Maybe if you closed your eyes,
You could be my friend.
The world would be much better off,
If sight did not offend.
It would be much better ,
If the whole damned world was blind.
If the whole damned world was blind.
|
||||
7. |
Five Years Clean
02:56
|
|||
|
Five Years Clean Neil Werden, Red George © 2018
No more empty bottles lying on the floor,
No more empty promises no more, no more.
Livin' life one day at a time, I've turned a new leaf over,
Now that I've been five years sober.
Praying every morning , makes my spirit grow stronger.
No more firewater no longer, no longer.
(No more empty promises no longer, no longer )
Livin' life one day at a time, down in pastures green,
Now that I've been five years clean.
Many souls have traveled down this broken road with me
Many bound in chains some set free, set free
Livin' life one day at a time, standin' by still water,
Tired of that senseless drunken slaughter.
No longer require the hair of the dog, I gave up last call,
Feeling free and confident stand proud, Stand tall.
Livin' life one day at a time, I will fear no evil
This has been my secret to survival.
|
||||
8. |
Joe Little
05:41
|
|||
|
Joe Little Neil Werden © 2018
In the nineteenth century in the heart of the county
roved a smiling Irish man.
With a sheepskin saddle, on his pony named Toby
The mission was to fill God's plan.
He spent his days in a small log school,
He taught the three R’s along with the golden rule.
He was a traveling preacher man, Joe Little,
Riding across the land, Joe Little,
Giving poor folks a hand, Joe Little,
Singin' a favorite hymn, he'd give his hat a twirl,
This is just a glimpse of Joe Little’s world.
He was traveling preacher man, Joe Little,
Traveling preacher man.
Traveling preacher man.
Come evening he preached God's word in
settlers homes and barns.
The saddle bag preacher had a great big heart,
And a whole lot of Irish charm.
He was always welcome at anyone’s home.
He made many friends, that called him “Uncle Joe”
For years he suffered with a little rheumatism,
he claimed it was finally cured.
He felt so spry, he could jump so high,
Higher than the brand new church.
One huge leap, higher than the bucket of coal
Your brand new church can't jump that high, he joked.
He'd spend his last shilling to feed, and
clothe a cold, hungry child,
With words of comfort and a song on his lips,
He was off with a great big smile.
Now time had come for Uncle Joe to leave
He volunteered for the Fox Bay mission out east
One cold January day, Joe Little slipped away
To meet St. Peter at the Pearly Gates.
Then the settlers marked his grave, on the Anticosti Coast,
And sent all his remains, back to Lambton County.
With a two mile long procession,
He was finally laid to rest in,
Old Warwick Cemetery.
|
||||
9. |
Lost Soldier
03:29
|
|||
|
Lost Soldier Neil Werden © 2011
Somewhere on the battlefield west of Courcelette,
Mortars pounding German trenches and barb wire.
I smell gunpowder in the air, I sense the fear of death.
Sweat is streaming down our brows as we approach zero hour.
For a moment guns stood silent.
The bugles make their call.
Over the top like army ants,
We scale the earthen wall.
Heavy guns and howitzers again begin to fire.
Heads down we push forward, shunning German lead.
Through a maze of broken haunted trees, the muck, and the mire.
Comrades falling right and left, I feel a pain deep in my chest.
Ooooo - Ooooo - Ooooo – Ooooo.
Mom and Dad and my best girl.
I say goodbye to you.
Goodbye to this wretched war,
All my comrades too.
My Mother gets a silver cross, Dad gets my severance pay.
My girl gets another guy, I don't even get a grave.
But on a monument of stone, My name is carved so carefully.
And in that former combat zone, I'm nothin' but a memory
There's a faded photograph, buried at the bottom of a box.
It's tossed into a rubbish fire. Forever I am lost!
|
||||
10. |
Yippie Yuy Yay
04:21
|
|||
|
Yippee Yuy Yay Neil Werden © 2018
I counted all the lines on the highway,
And every dent in every stop sign.
Today things are finally going my way,
This rigs gonna make it home on time.
You meet me with arms wide open,
Your sweet lips welcome me home.
I remember kind words that were spoken,
When you took the time to call me on the phone.
Yippee yuy yay !
Yipee yuy cuy yuy yipee yipee yay.
Yipee yuy cuy yuy yo.
Yipee yuy cuy Oh my, things, are going my way,
Now that I'm finally home. ( x2 )
So I proceed to brush my pearly whites,
Freshen up, shower shampoo and shave.
You crack me open a can of bud light,
Fifteen minutes pizzas on it's way.
You pour yourself a glass of Merlot,
Snuggle up by my side.
I reach over turn on the radio,
Your hand begins to slide.
(Yippee yuy yay !)
You take me by the hand,
to lead me up the stairs. (doorbell)
I quickly pay the pizza man.
Click the lock , toss the box, stub my toe, but I don't care.
(yippee yuy yay !)
Yipee yuy cuy yuy yo.
|
||||
Neil Werden Watford, Ontario
Neil Werden is a singer-songwriter from Ontario Canada
If you like Neil Werden, you may also like:
Dakota Blue Moon
by Jackson Harden
Gorgeous acoustic Americana from North Carolina, stripped-back and sublime.
go to album
Crafting powerful songs about commitment and love, the Nashville singer-songwriter channels and subverts ’70s country and folk tropes.
go to album
"Dustups" continues Body Surfer’s exploration of intimacy and personal history, rich acoustic folk deep in meaning.
go to album
Breathtakingly beautiful Americana bolstered by an assured sense of melody and razor-sharp lyrics.
go to album
Not A Party At All
by Lambs & Wolves
Charming German indie pop with the keen melodic sensibilities and melancholic undercurrent of some of the style's best practitioners.
go to album
Guardians Of Our Time
by Edd Donovan and The Wandering Moles
Edd Donovan's day job as a social worker brings a sense of empathy to his elegantly constructed political folk music.
go to album
The Studio Recordings Part One
by Fly My Pretties
The New Zealand's collaborative group's first studio album is chock-full of delightful folk and country music.
go to album
