Click songs for lyrics    

                     1.  One Lone Rowan Tree   
                     2.  Blackbirds and Thrushes
                     3.  Scarborough Settler's Lament
                     4.  Oh, That I Were   
                     5.  Night Hymn    
                     6.  The Pattern     
                     7.  Last Trip Home
                     8.  Mark the Time    
                     9.  She's Never Alone   
                   10.  McPherson's Rant
                   11. The Dreamer's           
                   12. Soft Lapping Water  

After seeing “lost souls graves” on my first trip to Ireland, the seed was planted for these words. A personal experience with hallowed ground, made it urgent for me to record the sacredness of these powerful places

The Rowan Tree, is a mountain ash, and in pre-Christian times was known as "the whispering tree. I use it as a metaphor for the ‘lost souls burial grounds’, which are marked only by a single tree or bush. They hold the stories of loved ones, without markers or records. Tinkers, ex-communications, babes without baptism, lie waiting to be remembered...

Thanks to the piping magic of Padraig Buckley, Killarney for giving vice to the ancestors.

One lone Rowan tree
Marking the tinker’s sleep
Within the valley low
No more will he wander the hills so free
But roots cannot hold his soul
Oh the gates were barred
To the hallowed yard
And they would not let him in

Oh dear Rowan tree
Un-kept and free
You and the wind will be his home

One lone Rowan tree
Piercing the lovers grave
Of a bitter death does tell
How her passion burned
Till the priest did learn
And condemned her soul to hell
Oh the gates were barred
To the hallowed yard
And they would not let her in

Oh dear Rowan tree
With your dancing leaves
You and the wind will be her home

One lone Rowan tree
Over my baby’s bed
To keep her safe from harm
With its branches spread
Shelt’ring her tiny head
It will hold her as my arms
For the gates were barred
To the hallowed yard
And they would not let her in

So dear Rowan tree
Let my baby see
You and the wind will be her home

There are no names in stone
But these sleep not alone
With our tears this ground is blessed

Oh dear Rowan tree
Keeper of memories
You and the wind will be their home
You and the wind will be my home…

In 1996 I had the privilege of hearing Niamh Parsons sing in Sligo. It was a magical night for me and I have ‘borrowed’ this song from her.

If all the youg ladies were blackbirds and thrushes
If all the young ladies were blackbirds and thrushes
Then all the young men would go beating the bushes
Rye fol de dol diddle dol diddle dol day

If all the young ladies were ducks on the water
If all the young ladies were ducks on the water
Then all the young men would go swimming in after
Rye fol de dol diddle dol diddle dol day

If all the young ladies were rushes a-growin’
If all the yound ladies were rushes a-growin’
Then all the young men would get scythes and go mowing
Rye fol de dol diddle dol diddle dol day

If the ladies were all trout and salmon so lively
If the ladies were all trout and salmon so lively
Then all the young men would go fishing on Friday
Ry fol de dol diddle dol diddle dol day

If all the young ladies were hares on the mountain
If all the young ladies were hares on the mountain
Then men with their hounds would be out without counting
Rye fol de dol diddle dol diddle dol day

It is the double edged-sword of traveler’s… possibility and longing for what you left behind. Ken’s family (MacDonald’s) emigrated from Scotland to Canada and we suspect the longing was as melancholy for them as the one who penned these beautiful images of ‘home’. After seeing Pentland’s craggy comb and Eskdale’s glen it is completely obvious why the settler is homesick.

Away wi' Canada's muddy creeks

And Canada's fields of pine

Your land of wheat is a goodly land,

But oh, it is not mine

The heathy hill, the grassy date.

The daisy spangled lea, the purling burn and craggy linn, auld

Scotland's glens give me.

Oh, I would like to hear again the lark on Tinny's hill

And see the wee bit gowany that blooms beside the rill.

Like banished Swill who view afar his Alps with longing e'e.

I gaze upon the morning star that shines on my country.

No more I'll win by Eskdale glen or Pentland's craggy comb.

The days can ne'er come back again of thirty years that's gone,

But fancy oft at midnight hour will steal across the sea.

And yestereve, in a pleasant dream, I saw the old country.

Each well-known scene that met my view brought childhood's joys

to mind.

The blackbird sang on Tushey linn the song he sang, 'lang syne.'

But like a dream, time flies away, again, the morning came.

And I awoke in Canada, three thousand miles frae hame.

What would a good Celtic song be without a jilted lover? This one came to me in Bundoran, Co. Donegal, watching the darkness fall on the windswept shoreline.

Thank you Padraig Buckley, Killarney, for making the broken heart more tragic with the power of the pipes.

Oh that I were
The folded plaid
Beneath your arm
When the rains have gone
But rather I
Like the matted straw
Tangled in hair
And broken words

Oh that I were
The damp, damp grass
Beneath your dreams
And your endless sleep
But rather I
Like the cricket small
Flicked from your bed
Without a song

Oh that I were
The misty breeze
Against your cheek
When you face the sea
But rather I
Like the tempest storm
Blown to the cliffs
Your love to mourn

The Pattern (McKee)
This song was given the honor of winning first place at the 2003 Milwaukee Irish Fest/Walton’s of Dublin International New Irish Songwriting Contest.
Aran Islands: Neolithic sites prove that humans have been there for thousands of years. There are monuments to all the men lost to the sea and never found. The lovely Aran fishing sweaters, now so popular and culturally identified as ‘Irish’ originated on these small specs of stone. The folk legends say that the sweaters had an individual pattern each woman created into her menfolk’s sweaters, for identification purposes should he be found. The theories differ on that folklore… but I couldn’t help but hear a woman’s story.
In J.M. Synge’s play “Riders to the Sea”, it is a stocking that identifies the body of Moyra’s son who has drowned in the ocean.

Oh the sea can take the lovers
And the fathers from our homes
And leave a hole within the hearts
Of those who watch them go
So we stitch for them a sweater
With love to keep them warm
And hidden there within the wool
The pattern for their return
Chorus:

And this man will not be nameless
When they claim him from the swell
There is so much more to this man’s life...
That the pattern does not tell
Oh this pattern gives his name to him
If he’s lost upon the foam
But does not tell much of his life
Or those he left at home
Of the loving nights with tallow lights
The laughter and the tears
It speaks his name, but does not sing
The songs of all our years
Chorus

I remember all the love I felt
While stitching slow and even
The tenderness he spoke to me
Upon his sea-bound leavin’
Now I stitch beside this peat fire
Dreaming of my lover gone
And cry and sing a prayer for
The pattern of my son
Last Chorus:
And this boy will not be nameless
When they claim him from the swell
There is so much more to this boy’s life...
That the pattern does not tell

Both Ken and I have grandparents who worked the land with horses. It was not so long ago, in the scheme of history and the swift changes since then boggle the mind. Grandpa Rex, Granddad Roy, Grandpa J.B., this song is for you.

Thanks to Patsy Seddon, for the permission to use Davey’s lovely song.

I have worked on farms and from the start
The mucklehorse’s won my heart
With great broad backs they proudly stand
The un-crowned kings of all the land
And yet for all their power and strength
They’re as gentle as a summers wind

Chorus:
So steady boys walk on
The work is nearly done
No more we’ll till or plow the fields
The horse’s day is gone
And this will be your last trip home
So steady boys walk on

Now you’ll hear men sing their songs of praise
Of Arab stallions in a race
Or hunters that fly with the hounds
To chase the fox and run him down
But none of them compare I vow
To the workin’ pair that pulls a plough

And all the years I’ve plied my trade
And all the fields we’ve ploughed and laid
I never thought I’d see the time
When the Clydesdale’s work would ever end
But progress runs it’s driven course
And the tractors they’ve replaced the horse

As we head back, the friends have lined
The road to be there one last time
For none of them would want to miss
A chance to see us pass like this
They’ll say they saw in years to come
The mucklehorse’s last trip home

As hurried humans, we forget to notice the tiny nuances that represent the passing of time. We notice big events, but hardly have time to appreciate the subtleties that give life. While living on the Flathead Indian Reservation in Montana, thru my treasured Salish elder, mentor, and teacher, I am learning to see the world thru spirit eyes and spirit ears, and to see the world as it truly is… magical, soulful, and pure.

You cannot see the grass push up
So gently in the spring
The cold and gray will soon give way
To the velvet hills of green
Squalls of swallows take your eyes
For the dancing in bare trees
Where swollen buds press visions
Of the leaves that long to be

Strong and supple grows the grain
In summers raptured sun
Your ears can hear the melody
That ripening has begun
The tune of pollen hums along
With the work song of the bee
The sound of honey captured there
In the poppies waving free

Brittled by the short cold days
In the dying of the fall
When morning dew it was its jewel
Brown grass cannot recall
It cannot sway or reach the way
It did beneath the thunder
The raw winds blow to lay it low
And fall grass will fade asunder

The hardening of the stream and breath
The stiffening of the bones
The silence of the farmer’s field
The empty finch’s home
All echo in a winter’s heart
The hollow frozen sound
And only in the flickering hearth
Warm dreams and hopes are found

The seasons beg the senses
To attend this hidden life
That blurs so gently between your days
And shimmers amid your nights
Mark the time that’s passing you
With stillness in your soul
With spirit eyes and spirit ears
The seasons will sing you home

I catch myself speaking to inanimate objects. Conversations with landscape, trees, hairdryers, ghosts of memories, everything in between… I realized one day that it is an assumed mark of insanity and/or senility. My journey has begun. My “baby” Darci, helps me to find joy in the aging and in singing together.

She sings to the spider
And the lone standing tree
The dust on the sunbeam
And the bloom on the weed
She wishes soft landings
To the things that she drops
And she kisses the faces
Of lovers she’s lost

Chorus:
Oh the ghosts that
Pass thru her eyes
Bring her smiles
And sorrowed sighs
And her memories make sure
She’s never alone
Oh she is not mad
She is closer home

The lines and the scars
Have all taken their place
In the valleys and shadows
Of a once younger face
Wild gray strands are flying
And her heart will give chase
For they’re all she has left
Of her youth unrestrained

Rain on her window
Riv-lets on glass
All carry her off
To a sunnier past
Where there’s dancing and singing
And talk of someday
Now her young girlhood dreams
Keep her mind far away

Some look away
And others they stare
But all of them fear her
And all of them swear
They’ll never become
Such a pitiful sight
But when you’re closer home
Your time here is light

A great story, a ‘happy hanging’ if you will. All any of us musicians have to leave the world is ‘a tune before we go’.

This true story was made spookier, by visiting the towns of Banff and McDuff. The clock tower is missing the face on the side that can be seen across the Brig o’Banff. To see the very clock whose hands were pushed up 15 minutes for the dastardly deed, you need to visit the McPherson Clan Center. They took it in retribution for hanging James…

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong
Farewell, farewell to thee
Macpherson’s rant will ne’er be long
On yonder gallows tree

Chorus:
So rantingly, so wantonly
So dauntingly went he
He played a tune and he danced around
Beneath the gallows tree

It was by a woman’s treacherous hand
That I was condemned to die
She threw a blanket over me
And the king’s men captured I

Untie these bands from off my hands
And give to me my bow
I’ve naught to leave my dear Scotland
But a tune before I go

There’s some come here to see me hanged
And some to buy my fiddle
But before that I do part with her
I’ll brake her thro’ the middle

He took the fiddle into both his hands
And he broke it o’er a stone
There’s not a hand shall play on thee
When I am dead and gone

O, little did my mother think
When she first cradled me
That I would turn a rovin’ boy
And die on the gallows tree

The reprive was comin’ o’er the brig o’ Banff
To let Macpherson free
But they put the clock a quarter fore
And hanged him to a tree

I have always felt as if my words and melodies are a gift from “someplace else’, and that music is the purest exchange between worlds. This was a real dream, which proves my theory. Who is dreaming whom?

Thanks to Padraig Buckley (Killarney), for bringing the worlds together with his piping.

The brush upon her cheek
Made her rise up from her sleep
Then her feet took a path never known
Where there down below
Sat the piper on a stone
And his tune
Was the same as her dream

Lost within the tones
She stood silent by the stone
Then cloudlike, behind him she neared
With her skirts lifted high
A milk white leg along each side
Upon his shoulder she laid
A thirsty ear

The arms she enwreathed
How they made the bellows breathe
Thru chanter and drone upon his knee
The dreaming brought her here
But her longing made it clear
That the music
He played set her free

When joyfully he played
Spirits often lingered near
Now he felt a heartbeat not his own
The scent of rose rinsed hair
How it swirled in the air
So he played
From the depths of his soul

All his senses were peaked
And the tune that she weaved
Made the pipes give way to the trance
Without looking he could see
The lover that would-be
And the two became one, in the dance

Then a brush upon his cheek
Made him rise up from his sleep
Like the flutter of a bird on the wing
The dreaming brought him here
But his longing made it clear
That the music
She gave set him free

Living for 13 years next to a glacier-fed mountain lake, I have come to appreciate its power and subtleties. There are times when it is as raging as the ocean. But more often, I go to its edge to hear the blessings of gentle time. Thanks to my lovely daughter Haily for the gift of the tune.

Soft lapping water
Comes to you gently
Then leaves the way it came
Unlike the wind
That rushes in
To close the hole you made

Soft lapping water
Is breathing in and out
A hushed repeating phrase
Unlike the wind
That rushes in
To take your breath away

Soft lapping water
Invites you languid gaze
To smooth both heart and stone
Unlike the wind
That rushes in
To shiver soul and bone

I’ll seek the shoreline
Of my passing days
As softly as a wave
And let the wind
Rush to the end
To gather up my days

Over the years, we have tried to make our recordings reflect the live nature of our concerts. Making sure that if audiences like what they heard, we owed it to them to send them home with a similar audio experience.

That meant a mixture of traditional/original songs and tunes, on all our various instruments. “Tune fans” pestered us to produce an all instrumental recording, which we released in 2002.

Then we found we were getting requests for ballads from the “song fans”! So here it is. “Simple stanzas of romantic and sentimental nature”, un-interrupted by jigs or reels.
Words and stories to pull at the heartstrings.

Ken Willson & Kim McKee, 2004

Acknowledgements:
There are people in our lives who have remained consant supporters and cheerleaders for us in this world of music! Parents, children and family members have been patient and kind with our “fringe” lifestyle, we love you and we could not do this without you! There are “family by choice” people, and you know who you are… words are weak attempts at letting all of you know how much you mean to us, and how grateful we are to have you in our circle! Thank you.

Special honor to my Salish Father and teacher, Bud Baranaby and the medicine men and women on the Blackfeet Reservation, Heart Butte, Montana.
Thank you, all my relations, for your gifts…

Guest Musicians:
Daughter Darci: vocals
Janet Haarvig: cello
Mary Angela-Collins: fiddle
Paul Pendery: vocals
Jimmy Schulz: bouzouki
Padraig Buckley, Crohane, Co. Kerry: Uilleann pipes

Recorded: Our Back, Polson, MT
Engineering, mixing, mastering: Ken Willson
Art & Graphics: The incredible Lahri Bond, Heartswork Graphics

All songs written by Kim McKee except where noted.
All arrangements by Willson & McKee