Freddie’s Daughter   Margaret Bradford Freddie, my dad, he never grew old ‘Cause his spirit lives on in the stories he's told On the paper-pencilled faces you see all round the world Everybody loved Fred, but I was his little girl. 
 His darting eyes and pencil drew the fascinated crowds Who stared amazed as  images appeared As if by magic on the empty page the likeness grew A touch of chalk blush on the cheek , the face complete. 

 A free spirit off he’d go around the world to find out How to ease the suffering & pain of humankind. His heart was with the batter, the privileged he ignored. He fought corruption and injustice to the end. 
 Long summer nights we'd walk for hours dad reciting verse. His voice rang out along the empty road Freddie loved an audience, Vaudeville was in his blood Us kids would  laugh as he dressed up as mum.

WHEN THE CHILDREN COME HOME By Henry Lawson (1867-1922) In a lonely selection far out in the West An old woman works all the day without rest, And she croons, as she toils 'neath the sky's glassy dome, 'Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come home.' She mends all the fences, she grubs, and she ploughs, She drives the old horse and she milks all the cows, And she sings to herself as she thatches the stack, 'Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come back.' It is five weary years since her old husband died; And oft as he lay on his deathbed he sighed 'Sure one man can bring up ten children, he can, An' it's strange that ten sons cannot keep one old man.' Whenever the scowling old sundowners come, And cunningly ask if the master's at home, 'Be off,' she replies, 'with your blarney and cant, Or I'll call my son Andy; he's workin' beyond' 'Git out,' she replies, though she trembles with fear, For she lives all alone and no neighbours are near; But she says to herself, when she's like to despond, That the boys are at work in the paddock beyond. Ah, none of her children need follow the plough, And some have grown rich in the city ere now; Yet she says: 'They might come when the shearing is done, And I'll keep the ould place if it's only for one.' Lawson, Henry. In the Days When the World Was Wide and Other Verses. Sydney: Angus & Robertson, 1900.

658 Who’d be a Secretary? By Margaret Bradford Many’s the secretary who learns the hard way that the seemingly ’glamorous’ life of a secretary is not an easy one after all- her dreams and hopes soon shattered as the pressures hit hard and fast. I wrote this song after seeing my sister Wendy’s health and morale suffer through the situations I’ve described in this song….From the 60’s to the 90’s as a legal secretary who’d experienced many inappropriate physical and verbal abuses she’d often say to me “Who’d be a Secretary?”. She suffered all the problems I sing about here. How could I forget the day that I came to this place. Enthusiastic, unemployed a smile across my face. Months of training had prepared me for my new career A private secretary serve the boss, my goals were clear. Promise of promotion, up the ladder year by year But hell on earth could never be like this I’m sure….. Here’s another. Have you typed the other I gave you two minutes ago, It should have gone out yesterday. Answer the phone . You’re too slow. Have you sent that fax off to Kuwait, phoned my wife that I’ll be late Is my coffee hot? I need it now. This place is so disorganised. What’s that I hear? You want a rise? Why? Your computer does the work for you. And when the clients come next week, wear that see through dress that’s chic Don’t go yet. What’s a cuddle between friends Positions vacant general. Should have been the career of my dreams. Alas the terminology was not what it seemed. The ad said “Conscientious office junior, here’s your chance!” But did that mean submitting to the boss’s lewd advances? A modern friendly office? A cramped air-conditioned box . With no fresh air, no sunlight and demands on me non-stop. All those innovative projects promised on the way. Only meant frustrations, Complications and delays. A member of a small dynamic team meant nothing more. Than understaffed, and overworked and underpaid, there’s more. Here’s another have ……..

Universe's Daughter Fay White In the silent world of space, like a jewel of priceless worth. Glowing green and shining blue. Slowly turns the planet earth. In her swirling cloak of cloud. Miracle of land and water. Born of fire and of time ...to the universe, a daughter. Long the years & vast the time. Day to night to day returning. Slowly, slowly life arrives..... so begins the planet's birthing. Flowers, creatures, birds & trees...rich variety delights her. In the space beyond the stars, can there be another like her. People living on the earth have forgotten how to wonder. Lost in speed and blind despair, hopelessly pollute and plunder. But there comes a sound of hope. Can you hear the children's voices. We will keep the earth alive, by our love and by our choices.

Self Propelled Margaret Bradford Puffing up the hill just to keep me fit. Lungs full of pollution and exhaust fume shit. Got to breathe in deep or I won’t make it. Pushing up the hill on my bike. There’s a ‘petrol head’ behind me I can read his mind. He’s going to swing a left in front of me He’ll barely leave me time to jam my brakes on. He’ll cut it so fine as I’m flying down the hill on my bike. And there’s that cringing sort of feeling up and down my spine When I hear the roar of trucks approaching close behind. He’s taken up the whole road. He’s over the line. And you’re forced into the gravel again. Ah! But now I’m in the country and the air is sweet. Shady trees are patterning an empty street. Pedals pushing gently at a steady beat. I’m on my own and I’m self-propelled. I take the road at my own pace. And there’s a cool breeze on my face. But now I’ve hit the corrugations I begin to shake. My arms have turned to jelly. I can’t grab the brakes. I wish this ride I’d not begun. Is that my teeth bit through my tongue? At last a long smooth down-hill run. And when the world’s supply of petrol all runs dry Everyone will have to cycle by and by There’ll be cleaner air and healthy people. Hear them cry .. “Get on your bike and cycle away. ‘Cause the bicycle rules OK!”

Kilkelly (Peter Jones) Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 60, my dear and loving son John . Your good friend the schoolmaster Pat McNamara's so good as to write these words down. Your brothers have all gone to find work in England, the house is so empty and sad The crop of potatoes is sorely infected, a third to a half of them bad. And your sister Brigid and Patrick O'Donnell are going to be married in June. Your mother says not to work on the railroad and be sure to come on home soon. Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 70, dear and loving son John Hello to your Mrs and to your 4 children, may they grow healthy and strong. Michael has got in a wee bit of trouble, I guess that he never will learn. Because of the dampness there's no turf to speak of and now we have nothing to burn. And Brigid is happy, you named a child for her and now she's got six of her own. You say you found work, but you don't say what kind or when you will be coming home. Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 80, dear Michael and John, my sons I'm sorry to give you the very sad news that your dear old mother has gone. We buried her down at the church in Kilkelly your brothers and Brigid were there. You don't have to worry, she died very quickly remember her in your prayers. And it's so good to hear that Michael's returning, with money he's sure to buy land For the crop has been poor and the people are selling at any price that they can. Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 90, my dear and loving son John I guess that I must be close on to eighty, it's thirty years since you're gone. Because of all of the money you send me, I'm still living out on my own. Michael has built himself a fine house and Brigid's daughters have grown. Thank you for sending your family picture, they're lovely young women and men. You say that you might even come for a visit what joy to see you again. Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 92, my dear brother John I'm sorry that I didn't write sooner to tell you that father passed on. He was living with Brigid, she says he was cheerful and healthy right down to the end. Ah, you should have seen him play with the grandchildren of Pat McNamara, your friend. And we buried him alongside of mother, down at the Kilkelly churchyard. He was a strong and a feisty old man, considering his life was so hard. And it's funny the way he kept talking about you, he called for you in the end. Oh, why don't you think about coming to visit, we'd all love to see you again. 130 years after his great grandfather left the small village of Kilkelly in Co. Mayo, Peter Jones found a bundle of letters sent to him by his father in Ireland. The letters tell of family news, births, death, sales of land and bad harvests. They remind the son, that he is loved, missed and remembered by his family in Ireland. The final letter informs him that his father, whom he has not seen for 30 years, has died, the last link with home is broken. Peter Jones used these letters to make this song.

Alien Visit by Margaret Bradford We’re surely mistaken. This mustn’t be our destination They said planet earth where all creatures in harmony live. But why are they killing each other? Why does one build while the other destroys? What madness is this? This deadly war game that they play? Could we be dreaming? Is that earth ahead in the sun gleaming? The prize of the universe looming up large on the screen. But in panic we signalled home base. We can’t possibly land in this place. People can’t breathe and machines seem to be in control. We’re surely mistaken. This mustn’t be our destination. They said planet earth where all creatures in harmony live. But why are they killing each other? Why does one build while the other destroys? What madness is this? This deadly war game that they play? Were surely misguided. This planet’s in crisis divided. Each country thinks their God is destined to rule mother earth. But why does one man control more than his share? Why are there cold hungry kids without care? In this planet of plenty why are some dying alone? These are the problems our planet had thousands of year s ago. Greedy and selfish we too almost ravaged our home. Our star was just as corrupt. Should we leave them till they self destruct? We also believed that we could control nature’s flow. Yes! We too once believed that our star stood alone in the universe.

THE YEAR OF THE DRUM 
(Wendy Joseph)

My name is Jack Gresham, I grew up in Mannum,
That river boat town I loved well,
I married Meg Davis, we had us two children,
One day our family bliss turned to Hell.
For in nineteen fourteen, 'twas the year of the drum,
The guns and the Government called me to come,
Past melaleuca and tall shining gums,
I drifted away down the Murray.

My name is Meg Davis and I work down at Shearers,
Making wagons and stirrups and hames,
The war it is raging, the men are all fighting,
The women toil here making fuel for the flames.
For it's nineteen fifteen and the men have all gone,
They're fighting in Europe so we carry on,
We're keeping the candles lit bright here at home,
To light their way back up the Murray.

My name it is Mary and I am an orphan,
My father was killed in the war,
My mother Meg Davis, an upstanding lady,
She drowned in the Murray the year I turned four.
It was nineteen sixteen when the telegram came,
The death of her soldier its message proclaimed,
My Mum lost her footing due to tears and the rain,
She slipped on the banks of the Murray.

My name it is Billy and I am a soldier,
I just got my orders to-day,
My wife's name is Mary, she's as fair as a sunset,
I hate to be leaving her lonely this way.
But the year's forty two, 'tis the year of the drum,
The guns and the Government call me to come,
Past melaleuca and tall shining gums,
I'm drifting away down the Murray

But the year doesn't matter, there's always a drum,
The guns and the Governments call men to come,
But the town still grows strong in her tall shining sons,
While her daughters light lamps by the Murray.


This song from Wendy Joseph describes the tragic effects of the World Wars on several generations of the people of Mannum and the use of music to entice young men to war. Mannum is a small town on the lower Murray River and has the distinction of having lost more men per head of population in both World Wars than any other town in South Australia.

World at your Fingertips. By Margaret Bradford CHORUS.. The elements aren't so conducive today. Let's vegetate in our box. The world’s at your fingertips. You can relax on your lounge in your ‘jamies  and socks. No. You won't have to venture out in the cold rain.What!  Your dogs dirty?  Well don't despair. Just  pick up that phone and call ‘Manicured Mutts’  And in  no  time at all they'll be there.  Staff will wash,clip, groom and blow dry all breeds except large ones.  Poodles, Spaniels, English Sheep dogs  anywhere our van runs. We’ll clean your puppy, greyhound, boxer, mongrel bitch in no time. CHORUS You've watched the late, late show, you're joints have seized up Your back’s stiff. You're moody and sour. Well, don't distress.  Just call Pummel the Flesh.  Only sixty five dollars an hour. Why suffer pain or muscle strain for longer than you have to  Call Melblourne’s Mobile Massage Service,  also  does Shiatsu. Indulge yourself and let our masseurs squeeze and pinch and pat you.   CHORUS That workout has worked up an appetite.  Well at your service is Courier Cuisine If you fancy a faggot, we’ll fax it direct  to the heart of the restaurant scene. Cuisine Couriers cater for all culinary combinations. Mexican, Italian, Japanese with variations. Why not try a toasted turkey gonad, what a taste sensation! CHORUS Hibernate in your home with your phone,  it's your choice, you don't need to participate. Tune into the world with your modem and phone and computer and communicate Compuserve will access you with vital information,  Like how long a human can survive in total isolation Without rigor -mortis setting in or mental constipation. FINAL CHORUS  The elements ARE so conducive today,  but I’m scared if  I vacate my box The fresh air might get me or I'd have to change into clothes from my ‘jamies and socks.

The clouds outside my window Are grey and white today I'm six miles high in sunshine and I’m flying home to stay And suddenly my magazine is blurring through my tears For Jacqueline du Pre has died at forty two young years And oh to see her fingers dance Upon the trembling string And oh to feel the spirit rise and to hear the cello sing And to hear the cello sing. Music's always moved me for as long as I recall And watching people play has been the greatest joy of all I'd sit in my pyjamas watching concerts on tv The orchestra will fill my head playing just for me And oh to see her fingers…. And clearly I remember the first time I saw her there Young and strong and tossing back A mane of long blonde hair The power of her playing held me spellbound to the screen The cello took me places my young heart had never been The plane is coming down now as I wipe away my tears The woman sitting next to me says "Are you alright there dear?" And I smile a little sadly ‘cause I know I can't explain I lost a piece of childhood I can't get back again. But I still hear the music so strong and grand and pure and I still recall the pleasure that touched me to the core And I think when I get home tonight I'll while the time away With Elgar’s Opus ninety five and Jacqueline du Pre.

Last Man Hanged by Margaret Bradford I wrote this after hearing a documentary in 1993 exposing corruption and injustice in our legal system, which allowed Ronald Ryan to be hanged in 1956. Insufficient evidence was found to prove Ryan had actually shot the prison warder at the time in Melbourne; yet under Henry Bolte, premier of Victoria at the time, strings were pulled and the hanging went ahead. Outside the gaol they protested their screams for justice deafening. Inside in silence Ryan sat prepared to face his reckoning. His death he knew was threatening. ‘cause the hanging rope was beckoning. The victim of a system that said hanging was OK To let the struggling worker know that crime doesn’t pay. Corruption still holds sway. The system works that way. From Irish catholic working class Ron took on a dad’s role. When his father died of miner’s sickness Ron was in control. And the pressure took its toll. But there was courage in his soul. Election eve and Henry Bolte saw a chance for glory. Suppressed the truth and censored pleas for mercy from the jury. The media loved the story of a penalty so gory. While cries of no more hanging rang out from an angry nation. Shocked reporters got their macabre guilt-edged invitations. To see history in the making. A ghastly aberration. But have we learnt from out mistakes? Does hanging deter crime? When we meet violence with more violence and to justice remain blind. Laws for the rich are fine, but the poor lose out each time

Song of the Shirt Thomas Hood & Margaret Bradford With fingers weary & worn & eyelids heavy & red. A woman sat in unwomanly rags plying her needle & thread. Stitch, Stitch, stitch in poverty hunger & dirt. And still with a voice of dolorous pitch she sang the song of the shirt. Work, work, work till the brain begins to spin. Work, work, work till the eyes are heavy & dim. Seam & gusset & band , band & gusset & seam. Till over the buttons I fall asleep & sew them on in a dream. Oh men with sisters dear. Oh men with mothers & wives. It’s not the linen you’re wearing out but human creatures lives. Stitch, stitch, stitch in poverty hunger & dirt. Sewing at once with a double thread a shroud as well as a shirt. But why do I talk of death that phantom of grisly bone. I hardly fear his terrible shape it seems so like my own. It seems so like my own because of the fast I keep. Oh God that bread should be so dear & flesh & blood so cheap. Work, work, work from weary chime to chime. Work, work, work as prisoners work for crime. Band & gusset & seam. Seam & gusset & band. Till the heart is weak & the brain benumbed as well as the weary hand. Oh but to breathe the breath of the cowslip & primrose sweet. With the sky above my head & the earth beneath my feet. For only one short hour to feel as I used to feel. Before I knew the woes of want & the walk that costs a meal. So with fingers weary & worn & eyelids heavy & red. A woman sat in unwomanly rags plying her needle & thread. Stitch, Stitch, stitch in poverty hunger & dirt. And still with a voice of dolorous pitch , would that her song could reach the rich she sang the song of the shirt. Factory owners congratulated themselves that they were giving women independence yet not attracting them out of their traditional sphere by paying them less than men. In 1843 a London seamstress lived a pitiful existence. Hood was inspired to write this poem when he heard of a police report of a woman who was paid 7 pence for a pair of trousers she sewed. Unable to feed herself & her two children on this she pawned material entrusted to her. As a result she was hauled through court as she was unable to redeem the money & accused of not being honest & industrious.

The Last Of The Great Whales Andy Barnes My soul has been torn from me and I am bleeding
 My heart it has been rent and I am crying 
All the beauty around me fades and I am screaming 
I am the last of the great whales and I am dying Last night I heard the cry Of my last companion
 The roar of the harpoon gun And I was alone 
I thought of the days gone by When we were thousands 
But I know that I soon must die The last leviathan This morning the sun did rise Crimson in the north sky
 The ice was the colour of blood And the winds they did sigh
 I rose for to take a breath It was my last one 
From a gun came the roar of death And now I am done Oh now that we are all gone There’s no more hunting
 The big fellow is no more It’s no use lamenting 
What race will be next in line? All for the slaughter
 The elephant or the seal Or your sons and daughters My soul has been torn from me And I am bleeding
 My heart it has been rent And I am crying
 All the beauty around me fades And I am screaming
 I am the last of the great whales And I am dying

Until we Meet again ...(Irish toast-Blessing Trad/anon May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind be always on your back.  May the sun shine bold upon your head;  And the rain fall soft upon your skin. Until we meet again. Until we meet again. May God hold you in the hollow of his hand. Until we meet again. Until we meet again. May God hold you in the hollow of his hand. May the stones stand firm to shelter you. May the fire burn long within your hearth. May your friends bring comfort to your home. And good music ring within your hall. Until we meet....