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camwynIt's only a scrap, but I'm not sure there'd be much left after. Maybe half a page more; this is more of an atmospheric ficlet than anything with a proper plot. I do have to finish Grandfather's Legacy, but I got this done up and wanted to put it out there. ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
batyatoon, olna_jenn, this is for you.
"I fell to the ground and I couldn't get up,
After drinkin' a quart of the Johnny-Jump-Up!"
The crowded saloon erupted in cheers and whistles; the singer bowed once, twice, then hastily turned away and gestured to the bartender. Under cover of placing an order, the singer leaned over and hissed, "I can't do it any more, Matty! My throat'll give out for sure!"
The fiddler, a transplanted Newfoundlander by the name of Matty Doyle, snorted. "You're doin' fine, Jim. Didn't crack once that time."
"I'm tellin' you, Matty, I can't keep it up." One hand rubbed at his throat. "I've been singin' since six and this crowd just keeps gettin' louder and louder-"
Doyle leaned over and pushed a pile of coins into the bartender's hand. "One more song," he said. "Just one."
"Matty-"
The fiddler pointed his bow at the pile of money at Jim's feet. Not even the hoarsest of men could argue with that; it was a respectable pile of all sorts of coins, with a gold nugget or two thrown in for good measure. "That's more than we've made in the last three weeks," said Doyle. "They love you here. We couldn't net a take like that in Dawson and you know it. One more song."
The singer hesitated, glancing over the hopeful faces of the crowd. Around here there were still gold veins being found, and the miners did love their music. . . "All right," he said at last, wincing a little. "One more."
Doyle grinned. "That's the spirit."
"Something I don't have t' sing the chorus on. I'll split something if I do."
The fiddler thought for a moment, then stood up. A roar of approval went up from the crowd as he called out, "Right – who here's ever had women trouble, eh?"
Jim took a hefty draught from his glass, hastily setting it aside.
"Well, now," continued Doyle, "I think you'll recognize this little number. Gentlemen, my partner and I give you- the Scolding Wife." He grinned at the even bigger roar of approval, looking over to Jim. "Ready?" he asked.
Jim nodded, taking a deep breath and gamely stepping forward with his bodhran in hand. "Oh, I came into a scolding wife a few short years ago,
And ever since, I lead a life of misery and woe-"
Doyle smiled in satisfaction and set his bow to the strings, sounding the drone that was all they'd hear of his fiddle until the chorus. He and Jim Molloy made a hell of a team. They'd been bouncing through all the small towns in this part of the Yukon a while now, finding folks who were utterly starved for entertainment everywhere they went. Oh, sure, Dawson City was bigger and the folk there had more money, but they had singers and dancers all year round. No one would notice a pair of two-bit bar musicians-
A nasty vibrato shot through Jim's voice. "-it's well I know my due-"
He was just about to the chorus. Doyle straightened in his seat and nodded to the crowd to pay attention as Jim drew another huge breath.
"And if the devil would take her, I'd thank him for his pains!
I swear to God I'll hang meself if I get married again!"
Aaah, Jim was doing just fine. Hardly needed the accompaniment at all.
"And if the Devil would take her, I'd thank him for his pains!
Oh, I swear to God I'll hang myself if I get married again!"
Doyle's fiddle rang out and over and under the words, for a brief shining moment carrying the tune; then the bodhran's beating took over again and he fell back to sounding the drone.
"When I get up at breakfast time she'll tap me on the head-"
Doyle kept playing, eyes shut in concentration. Well, that and lack of sleep. Even in the howling wilderness at the arse end of Canada, women loved men with a gift for music. It'd been a late night the night before.
"When I come home at suppertime, at patience I must stop-"
Huh. That didn't sound quite right. Jim's voice did seem a little off.
"For she drinks what's in the teapot, and I must drink the slops!"
He let the fiddle sing out again, and this time the audience sang along with it. The massed voices were enough to shake the rafters, almost, a thing that made Matty Doyle grin like the cat who'd ate the canary. It was a testament to his music that he didn't jump a whit when Jim put a hand on his shoulder. He just opened his eyes.
Jim was frantically mouthing something at him, shaking his head rapidly. Doyle's stomach sank. Nothing at all? he mouthed back, and Jim shook his head harder. Oh, cripes. Doyle hadn't any singing voice whatsoever, it was why he did the fiddling! And these crowds got ugly if you broke off a song for anything less than gunshots- Bloody hell, the chorus was over!
Jim turned to the audience, wide-eyed, and tried to sing again. What came out was nothing but a rusty-sounding squeak. Doyle's free shoulder hunched up horribly, his eyes squinching shut- then flying open again, as a deep, rolling baritone voice took up the next verse from across the room.
"Well once I asked me scolding wife if I could go to bed-"
Puzzled faces were turning away from the two men, seeking out the source of the singing. Jim grabbed for his drink immediately, glad of any excuse to try and soothe his throat.
"She scarce gave me an hour on the pillow to lay me head-"
Doyle canted his whole body sideways, trying to see over the rapidly widening group of turned heads. The crowd was actually starting to part now, backing away from the entrance to let the singer through.
"When like a roarin' lion she came bustin' down the door-"
Doyle very nearly dropped his bow. Jim turned then, suddenly choking on his drink at the sight of the blue-eyed Mountie who'd taken up the song for him.
The Mountie smiled, the widest and clearest smile you could ever hope to see, and nodded to the fiddler as he finished the verse. "She caught me by the middle and threw me naked on the floor!"
Not a single one of the men in the room had enough wits about him to take up the chorus. The bow slipped from the strings with an unnoticed screech as Doyle said,. "Of all the people in the Territory who've ever heard my songs, Sergeant Preston, you're the absolute last I'd think of to know that one – and that's including the women."
batyatoon, olna_jenn, this is for you."I fell to the ground and I couldn't get up,
After drinkin' a quart of the Johnny-Jump-Up!"
The crowded saloon erupted in cheers and whistles; the singer bowed once, twice, then hastily turned away and gestured to the bartender. Under cover of placing an order, the singer leaned over and hissed, "I can't do it any more, Matty! My throat'll give out for sure!"
The fiddler, a transplanted Newfoundlander by the name of Matty Doyle, snorted. "You're doin' fine, Jim. Didn't crack once that time."
"I'm tellin' you, Matty, I can't keep it up." One hand rubbed at his throat. "I've been singin' since six and this crowd just keeps gettin' louder and louder-"
Doyle leaned over and pushed a pile of coins into the bartender's hand. "One more song," he said. "Just one."
"Matty-"
The fiddler pointed his bow at the pile of money at Jim's feet. Not even the hoarsest of men could argue with that; it was a respectable pile of all sorts of coins, with a gold nugget or two thrown in for good measure. "That's more than we've made in the last three weeks," said Doyle. "They love you here. We couldn't net a take like that in Dawson and you know it. One more song."
The singer hesitated, glancing over the hopeful faces of the crowd. Around here there were still gold veins being found, and the miners did love their music. . . "All right," he said at last, wincing a little. "One more."
Doyle grinned. "That's the spirit."
"Something I don't have t' sing the chorus on. I'll split something if I do."
The fiddler thought for a moment, then stood up. A roar of approval went up from the crowd as he called out, "Right – who here's ever had women trouble, eh?"
Jim took a hefty draught from his glass, hastily setting it aside.
"Well, now," continued Doyle, "I think you'll recognize this little number. Gentlemen, my partner and I give you- the Scolding Wife." He grinned at the even bigger roar of approval, looking over to Jim. "Ready?" he asked.
Jim nodded, taking a deep breath and gamely stepping forward with his bodhran in hand. "Oh, I came into a scolding wife a few short years ago,
And ever since, I lead a life of misery and woe-"
Doyle smiled in satisfaction and set his bow to the strings, sounding the drone that was all they'd hear of his fiddle until the chorus. He and Jim Molloy made a hell of a team. They'd been bouncing through all the small towns in this part of the Yukon a while now, finding folks who were utterly starved for entertainment everywhere they went. Oh, sure, Dawson City was bigger and the folk there had more money, but they had singers and dancers all year round. No one would notice a pair of two-bit bar musicians-
A nasty vibrato shot through Jim's voice. "-it's well I know my due-"
He was just about to the chorus. Doyle straightened in his seat and nodded to the crowd to pay attention as Jim drew another huge breath.
"And if the devil would take her, I'd thank him for his pains!
I swear to God I'll hang meself if I get married again!"
Aaah, Jim was doing just fine. Hardly needed the accompaniment at all.
"And if the Devil would take her, I'd thank him for his pains!
Oh, I swear to God I'll hang myself if I get married again!"
Doyle's fiddle rang out and over and under the words, for a brief shining moment carrying the tune; then the bodhran's beating took over again and he fell back to sounding the drone.
"When I get up at breakfast time she'll tap me on the head-"
Doyle kept playing, eyes shut in concentration. Well, that and lack of sleep. Even in the howling wilderness at the arse end of Canada, women loved men with a gift for music. It'd been a late night the night before.
"When I come home at suppertime, at patience I must stop-"
Huh. That didn't sound quite right. Jim's voice did seem a little off.
"For she drinks what's in the teapot, and I must drink the slops!"
He let the fiddle sing out again, and this time the audience sang along with it. The massed voices were enough to shake the rafters, almost, a thing that made Matty Doyle grin like the cat who'd ate the canary. It was a testament to his music that he didn't jump a whit when Jim put a hand on his shoulder. He just opened his eyes.
Jim was frantically mouthing something at him, shaking his head rapidly. Doyle's stomach sank. Nothing at all? he mouthed back, and Jim shook his head harder. Oh, cripes. Doyle hadn't any singing voice whatsoever, it was why he did the fiddling! And these crowds got ugly if you broke off a song for anything less than gunshots- Bloody hell, the chorus was over!
Jim turned to the audience, wide-eyed, and tried to sing again. What came out was nothing but a rusty-sounding squeak. Doyle's free shoulder hunched up horribly, his eyes squinching shut- then flying open again, as a deep, rolling baritone voice took up the next verse from across the room.
"Well once I asked me scolding wife if I could go to bed-"
Puzzled faces were turning away from the two men, seeking out the source of the singing. Jim grabbed for his drink immediately, glad of any excuse to try and soothe his throat.
"She scarce gave me an hour on the pillow to lay me head-"
Doyle canted his whole body sideways, trying to see over the rapidly widening group of turned heads. The crowd was actually starting to part now, backing away from the entrance to let the singer through.
"When like a roarin' lion she came bustin' down the door-"
Doyle very nearly dropped his bow. Jim turned then, suddenly choking on his drink at the sight of the blue-eyed Mountie who'd taken up the song for him.
The Mountie smiled, the widest and clearest smile you could ever hope to see, and nodded to the fiddler as he finished the verse. "She caught me by the middle and threw me naked on the floor!"
Not a single one of the men in the room had enough wits about him to take up the chorus. The bow slipped from the strings with an unnoticed screech as Doyle said,. "Of all the people in the Territory who've ever heard my songs, Sergeant Preston, you're the absolute last I'd think of to know that one – and that's including the women."
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no subject
Date: 2003-12-02 12:56 am (UTC)Brannigan's Special Ale (http://www.heatherlands.com/lyrics/lyricdetails.php?RECORD_KEY%28songs%29=id&id(songs)=6&PHPSESSID=585de6c50ef72f3a40d92d2517239770)
-- Lorrie
no subject
Date: 2003-12-02 06:27 am (UTC)I'll tell you a story, it happened to me
One day as I went down to Cork by the sea
The day it was hot and the sun it was warm,
A quiet pint wouldn't do me no harm
I went in and I called for a bottle of stout
Says the barman, I'm sorry, all the beer is sold out
Try whiskey or paddy, ten years in the wood
Says I, I'll try cider, I've heard it was good.
Chorus:
Oh never, Oh never, Oh never again
If I live to be a hundred or a hundred and ten
I fell to the ground and I couldn't get up
After drinking a quart of the Johnny Jump Up
Ahhh...
After downing the third I went out to the yard
Where I bumped into Brody, the big civic guard
Come here to me boy, don't you know I'm the law?
Well, I up with me fist and I shattered his jaw
He fell to the ground with his knees doubled up
But it wasn't I hit him, 'twas Johnny Jump Up
The next thing I remember down in Cork by the sea
Was a cripple on crutches and says he to me
I'm afraid of me life I'll be hit by a car
Won't you help me across to the big city bar?
After drinking a quart of that cider so sweet
He threw down his crutches and danced on his feet
Chorus...
I went down the lee road, a friend for to see
They call it the madhouse in Cork by the Sea
Well when I got there, sure the truth I will tell,
They had this poor bugger locked up in a cell
Said the guard, testing him, say these words if you can
Around the rugged rock the ragged rascal ran
Tell him I'm not crazy, tell him I'm not mad
It was only a sip of the bottle I had
Chorus...
A man died in Union by the name of McNabb
They washed him and laid him outside on the slab
Well after the parlors measurements did take
His wife brought him home to a bloody fine wake
Twas about 12 o'clock and the beer was high
The corpse sits up and says with a sigh
I can't get to heaven, they won't let me up
'Til I bring them a quart of the Johnny Jump Up
Chorus...
There's another verse that the Woods Tea Company didn't perform, entreating the listener not to drink the cider called Johnny Jump Up if they want to stay sane, so yeah. Same general idea as the Brannigan's song.
more "Johnny Jump Up"
Date: 2003-12-02 12:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-03 10:23 pm (UTC)*smooch*
no subject
Date: 2003-12-04 06:55 am (UTC)