Table of Contents
To mark Labour Day, we trace a line from quiet graft to collective thunder: Stanley Kirkby’s “The Farmer’s Boy” (1912, Beka-Grand-Record) opens with rural work ethic and upward hope; Alan Turner’s “The Village Blacksmith” (Victor) hammers out craft pride and debtless independence; and Chaliapin’s “Dubinushka” (HMV DA 621, 1924) lifts a hauling chant into a rallying cry. In our unscripted meander we dip into the holiday’s origins, swap label lore (Beka’s Berlin–London pipeline, Victor quirks, HMV’s red-label sheen), and let three sides carry the week from sweat and skill to solidarity.
Lyrics
The Farmer’s Boy
The sun had set behind yon hills,
Across yon dreary moor,
Weary and lame, a boy there came
Up to a farmer’s door
‘Can you tell me if any there be
That will give me employ,
To plough and sow, and reap and mow,
And be a farmer’s boy?
‘My father is dead, and mother is left
With five children, great and small;
And what is worse for mother still,
I’m the oldest of them all.
Though little, I’ll work as hard as a Turk,
If you’ll give me employ,
To plough and sow, and reap and mow,
And be a farmer’s boy.
‘And if that you won’t me employ,
One favour I’ve to ask, –
Will you shelter me, till break of day,
From this cold winter’s blast?
At break of day, I’ll trudge away
Elsewhere to seek employ,
To plough and sow, and reap and mow,
And be a farmer’s boy.’
‘Come, try the lad,’ the mistress said,
‘Let him no further seek.’
‘O, do, dear father!’ the daughter cried,
While tears ran down her cheek
‘He’d work if he could, so ’tis hard to want food,
And wander for employ;
Don’t turn him away, but let him stay,
And be a farmer’s boy.’
And when the lad became a man,
The good old farmer died,
And left the lad the farm he had,
And his daughter for his bride.
The lad that was, the farm now has,
Oft smiles, and thinks with joy
Of the lucky day he came that way,
To be a farmer’s boy.
The Village Blacksmith
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands,
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long;
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter’s voice
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother’s voice
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.
Dubinushka
I have heard many songs all around the land
They have told me of blithe and of woe
But my memory holds just one song of them all
That’s the song of the body of workers.
Hey, Dubina, the green one!
Hey, you, help us do the labor hard, the labor hard!
We pull it, and pull it,
And move it!
Canny Englishmen did tons of gadgets invent
As to do all the labors routinely
Russian men strive with hands till they’re tired to death
Then they sing their hearts with “Dubina”!
Oh, new times, come to us! When the workers wake up,
When they straighten the backs from the labor.
When they crush all who suck their strength, their blood
Crush with their beloved Dubina!