The Leaving of Liverpool
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The Leaving of Liverpool, also known as Fare Thee Well, My Own True Love, is a folksong and lament, very well known in Britain, Ireland, and America, which was also used as a sea shanty. The song's narrator laments his long sailing trip to California and the thought of leaving his loved ones (especially his "own true love"), pledging to return to her one day. The song is thus an allegory for the Leaving of Liverpool itself. The Pogues give a very good folk rendering here:
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I wish I were Back in Liverpool (Kelly-Rosselson) is another nostalgic tear-jerker for the ex-pat Scouser. A signature tune of The Spinners, it can be heard here in a great recording by The Dubliners. It has become one of Liverpool's unofficial anthems.
Lastly in this genre I retain a fondness for an anthem that reached great levels of annoyance, being played for decades on the Mersey Ferries every time they approached the Pier Head. My office was right by the river at Princes Dock, and everyone was sick of hearing it wafting across the river several times a day! Nevertheless Ferry 'Cross the Mersey is an iconic song made famous by Gerry Marsden, who wrote it as the theme song for the musical film of the same name, featuring Gerry and his band, The Pacemakers. Below is a 1965 BBC recording of Gerry and the Pacemakers performing it on Top of the Pops. |
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On Leaving England
What will I miss?
Nothing: good riddance to the past; welcome the future.
Years of pent-up fury with a declining country which thinks itself still a beacon.
I surprise myself with my new youthful enthusiasm for change
Which I generally disdain as a modern fad.
What do I miss?
Everything I knew deep down would be a wrench.
The make-believe England of Garden openings, weathered brick, slate and hedgerows;
The National Trust, Cornwall, the Dales, Welsh mountains dour in their splendid greyness,
Railway viaducts, antique fairs, little lambs then – Oh! another perfect Dorset village.
Miss Marple look-alikes taking afternoon tea with scones and jam and clotted cream,
Yellow butter and the unique textures and smells of English cheeses.
Cucumber sandwiches – who would have thought it?
Canals with pubs, city pubs, thatched cottages with their blanket roofs,
So many ales yet untested: make mine a mild and one for yourself!
Scrumpy in autumn, Pimms on a picnic, Gordons and Tonic as an interval drink.
Gardeners’ World, Bells on Sunday, Lilliburlero and God Save the Queen!
Politeness of strangers met at dinner parties: “My dear, aren’t you the ones that killed Christ?”
Country churches filled with oaken time.
Country piles filled with luxury
And miles and miles of kitchen range.
Bluebells, Snowdrops, Daffodils, Crocuses, long-awaited camellias ruined by rain,
Aroma of damp English soil after the rain.
Proper roast beef as hasn’t been tasted in decades–
Cold cuts the next day with Colmans’ prepared mustard,
Steamed puddings with Custard (Birds’ of course),
And all to the soundtrack of Radio 4.
And Liverpool, place of my progeneration?
What of that edgy city I once dreamt of leaving?
What of that town where fate returned me?
What of that Jungian Pool where my father lies buried?
Liverpool waterfront patrolled by ferries,
Liver Birds soaring over the thrones of two bishoprics,
Liver-red sandstone and magnificent history,
And over the Mersey to Parkgate for ice cream.
Reminiscing with Stuart while loyal customers wait patiently,
The shop surreal with its poster of Red Sea Fish in English and Russian:
The freshest fish in old Liverpool Town;
That is the truth of Hannah’s of Rose Lane,
Though Stuart is too modest to say it, his customers know it.
Our home, now a husk, silently awaiting a new family,
Lau’s chippy, so friendly, “why you no eat pork?”
Coffee in Bean with Laith and Neil, whiling long lunches away from the office.
Then inappropriate loudness with Donna,
defying the enforced silence that fear makes de rigeur.
My pergola, Old Brunanburgh, where I grew up.
Old Yidden at prayer of a Saturday morning:
Gut Shabbos, Gut Shabbos, a shame that you go!
Can I go back? I never go back.
A choice is a choice for better or worse.
This one’s for better, our family goes up
To our home, ending exile for millennia recalled.
A bridge for our children, to make home in Zion.
Not a new chapter but a new book;
But the old one is missed...
Nothing: good riddance to the past; welcome the future.
Years of pent-up fury with a declining country which thinks itself still a beacon.
I surprise myself with my new youthful enthusiasm for change
Which I generally disdain as a modern fad.
What do I miss?
Everything I knew deep down would be a wrench.
The make-believe England of Garden openings, weathered brick, slate and hedgerows;
The National Trust, Cornwall, the Dales, Welsh mountains dour in their splendid greyness,
Railway viaducts, antique fairs, little lambs then – Oh! another perfect Dorset village.
Miss Marple look-alikes taking afternoon tea with scones and jam and clotted cream,
Yellow butter and the unique textures and smells of English cheeses.
Cucumber sandwiches – who would have thought it?
Canals with pubs, city pubs, thatched cottages with their blanket roofs,
So many ales yet untested: make mine a mild and one for yourself!
Scrumpy in autumn, Pimms on a picnic, Gordons and Tonic as an interval drink.
Gardeners’ World, Bells on Sunday, Lilliburlero and God Save the Queen!
Politeness of strangers met at dinner parties: “My dear, aren’t you the ones that killed Christ?”
Country churches filled with oaken time.
Country piles filled with luxury
And miles and miles of kitchen range.
Bluebells, Snowdrops, Daffodils, Crocuses, long-awaited camellias ruined by rain,
Aroma of damp English soil after the rain.
Proper roast beef as hasn’t been tasted in decades–
Cold cuts the next day with Colmans’ prepared mustard,
Steamed puddings with Custard (Birds’ of course),
And all to the soundtrack of Radio 4.
And Liverpool, place of my progeneration?
What of that edgy city I once dreamt of leaving?
What of that town where fate returned me?
What of that Jungian Pool where my father lies buried?
Liverpool waterfront patrolled by ferries,
Liver Birds soaring over the thrones of two bishoprics,
Liver-red sandstone and magnificent history,
And over the Mersey to Parkgate for ice cream.
Reminiscing with Stuart while loyal customers wait patiently,
The shop surreal with its poster of Red Sea Fish in English and Russian:
The freshest fish in old Liverpool Town;
That is the truth of Hannah’s of Rose Lane,
Though Stuart is too modest to say it, his customers know it.
Our home, now a husk, silently awaiting a new family,
Lau’s chippy, so friendly, “why you no eat pork?”
Coffee in Bean with Laith and Neil, whiling long lunches away from the office.
Then inappropriate loudness with Donna,
defying the enforced silence that fear makes de rigeur.
My pergola, Old Brunanburgh, where I grew up.
Old Yidden at prayer of a Saturday morning:
Gut Shabbos, Gut Shabbos, a shame that you go!
Can I go back? I never go back.
A choice is a choice for better or worse.
This one’s for better, our family goes up
To our home, ending exile for millennia recalled.
A bridge for our children, to make home in Zion.
Not a new chapter but a new book;
But the old one is missed...
Copyright 2015 Michael Levitt. All rights reserved.
If you wish to license any of my content, please contact me.
If you wish to license any of my content, please contact me.