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The Willow Baby and other Tales is an interlinked song-cycle of folk stories written by Max. It began with one story-song and it spawned another, and another still, and on like this until at last there was a whole world of magical realism depicted within this collection of musical verse. Max sometimes performs them with his fiddle at festivals and folk nights, and last December staged the entire show with friend and collaborator Olivia Preye at Kings Place in London, a performance for which the below teaser-trailer was created.

Max Baillie Willow Baby

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Part I of the Countryside Tales is illustrated beautifully by option navigator

as told by the Willow Baby

‘My stories for you will tell of a land
that is far in miles, yet close in kind
This fiddle will accompany, with the help of my hands,
whilst my mouth begs humbly that your ears be inclined
For though I wasn’t blessed with a throat for these tales
I think I can conjure them in your mind’s eye
With rhyme and play while you sip on your ales
you shall from your own world now take wing and fly
As I tell you of who and what lives in my land
of why I’m called baby…although I’m a man!
But firstly, let me play you a tune
It won’t be for long, the first story is soon!’

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The Willow Baby
I am the Willow Tree Baby, born on a willow tree top!
When I was one week old I slipped n’ fell into the river went ‘plop’!
Some say it were the shock
some say it were the cold
But I didn’t grow an inch from when I was one week old
And that’s why I’m known as the Willow Tree Baby
Though a baby I am not!

My moleskin coat guards against the wind & rain
My belt is made of skins from all the lizards I have slain
Got a ring through my nose and a feather in my ear
And though I’m small there ain’t much in these lands that I fear.
I can talk to the dragonflies, sing with the swans
I know the countryside rivers and the waters of its ponds.
By my traveling ‘cross fields and fen and moors and marsh and dales
I’ve met many who’ve become my friends and heard a good few tales.
I’ve even lived a few in my time beneath the skies
For although my name is baby I’ve seen many moons rise!

Each morn’ I go toward the river, fishing rod in hand
And set myself right by the waters’ edge upon its ochre sand.
With baccy and a pipe I wait to catch breakfast that day
And pass the time with tunes upon the fiddle that I play.
I grill my catch right then and there upon the river’s banks
And ‘fore I eat it’s to the spirits of the land I utter thanks,
Then I take the winding track to my willow tree home
‘cause I’m always headed back no matter how far out I’ve roamed
and I clamber to its top put a reed between my teeth
and from my lookout watch for who should pass along the path beneath!

At night I climb into the cavern, ‘neath my willow’s crest
Amongst the branches where I’ve hoisted up an old sailor’s chest.
I found it way out on the moors with treasures still inside so strange
and wond’rous that I’m sure they came from the world’s other side.
The sillk thereof bedecks the chest and is my humble bed, the rest I
Gave away or swapped for what I couldn’t make instead
So there I sleep until I rise, at the break of dawn
And climb up to the willow top, the place where I was born!

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Content I am to look upon each new rising sun.
I live a simple life and with my soul I am at one.
I love the land and think of her as a dear old friend with whom
My bond runs deep and when in need a hand to me will lend.
I like to talk…more to listen, and sometimes dance a jig,
I can hold my drink with any man, although I’m not so big
And as for ladies I have had my share, in another life
So in this one I am happy without all that kind of strife.
I smile upon the breaking day, whether rain or shine
For the mind is its own place, and I’m lucky I feel fine!

I am the Willow Tree Baby, born on a willow tree top!
When I was one week old I slipped n’ fell into the river went ‘plop’!
Some say it were the shock
some say it were the cold
But I didn’t grow an inch from when I was one week old
And that’s why I’m known as the Willow Tree Baby
Though a baby I am not!

‘If you go downriver
You’ll find an oarman there
He never tires at his work
In weather grim or fair
For he has an endless job to do
His passengers are never few
For everyone must pass him by…
one day even me and you!’

The Old Man of the River

In the deepest countryside runs a river north to south.
Nobody knows from where it flows nor where to find its mouth.
Since time began it’s been a crossing point for parting souls
Its secrets stay as such with those who it beholds.
On its surface glides a boat, its oarman old but strong,
his memories of life before the river all but gone.

The old man of the river is nigh three hundred years old.
He rows his boat in all weathers, though mostly it is cold.
He picks up lonely travelers, on their way east to west,
for cross his path they do when heading for their final rest.

There is but one companion, in the oarman’s world:
a stoat that lives in his breast pocket, asleep and tightly curled.
He wakes up when each new moon rises
but can’t speak he has no tongue.
Instead he climbs on the old man’s shoulder
and the dark night through he hums
‘mmmmmmm…, mmmmmmmm…’

The old man had another name ‘fore he first stepped in his boat.
His face was young his hair was black, in his pocket was no stoat.
But ‘mongst the names of passing souls he rowed from shore to shore
his won sank down into the depths, forgotten evermore.
It wasn’t long then ‘fore his hands grew calloused, hard and dry
and he prepared himself for many lifetimes under open sky.

When as a boy, he was washed overboard in stormy seas
he came to on a country path beside some willow trees.
He arrived soon at a river’s edge, intent to head on west,
so called out to a boatman there who answered his request.
Halfway across the old man gave the boy his ancient oars
And whispered ‘I have had my turn as boatman: now it’s yours!

The old man of the river is nigh three hundred years old.
He rows his boat in all weathers, though mostly it is cold.
So when you finally meet him (’cause eventually we all do)
Be careful if he tries to hand those oars over to you!

‘Whilst sat upon my willow top
A stranger passed me by
He had a guitar on his back
and a lost look in his eye.
His story tells of who he passed upon his lonesome trip
‘cross fields and fen, forest and glen,
and why he would not quit.
I’ll tell you how I heard it sung
from his own eyes and ears and lung’

Traveling in the Countryside
Traveling in the countryside, guitar on my back
searching for a love I lost, way off the beaten track.
I’ve long lost count of all the days since I slept in a bed
But I will not give up my search so onward I shall tread.

Along the way I came across the old man of the river,
who ‘fore I could but say a word, pointed to the hills
He said through his beard ‘Go and sing to the wind,
the skylark will answer with advice to fix your ills!’
So I made my way and sang to call the skylark up above
‘Do you know whither is my long lost love?
I’m on my way to find my girl and need a little hand
’cause my feet are getting weary as they tread across this land.’
And sure enough it were not long ‘fore whistling I heard
‘(whistling)’…it was the little bird
She sang ‘Make haste, it’s been so long, go find the willow baby!
He may just help you on your way, no promises, just maybe!’

Aft’ moor and marsh and fen and creek I found the willow baby
sitting on a tree-top chewing on a reed
He knows the whereabouts of my long-lost lady
and what I’d like to know is which path to her shall lead.
I called up to the willow top ‘Ahoy to you up there!
Have you seen a girl around, most magical and fair?’
The willow baby looked at me and spat over his shoulder,
As he said ‘Carry on.’ I thought I noticed it get colder.

I arrived beside a lake so calm its waters crystal clear
I felt a shiver down my spine as though someone were near.
Indeed there was a woman there sat quietly alone
Her body was so still as though she’d long been made of stone
But lo behold she looked at me hear face weathered by time
‘Have you come all this way’ she said, ‘to tell me that you’re mine?’
My mouth opened I could not speak, she led me by my wrist,
way down into the waters deep beneath the rising mist.’

Traveling in the countryside, guitar on my back
searching for a love I lost, way off the beaten track.
I’ve long lost count of all the days since I slept in a bed
But I will not give up my search so onward I shall tread.

‘You’ll be relieved my medley’s come now to a happy part…
I’ll tell of a creature wond’rous and small, the beautiful Skylark!’

The Skylark
The skylark wakes at dawn and takes off into the sky
to greet the sleeping sun, who will slowly rise up high
and welcome the new day, that’s emerging from the night
For the skylark loves the daytime
For she is a bird of light.

She watches from high up above the rolling countryside
catching glimpses of a great many different lives:
On the moors she saw a mad old pirate, looking for lost treasure
above a forest clearing woodland nymphs, dancing for their pleasure
and in the fields a traveller, lone and come from distant lands
sat upon a rock with a guitar in his hands

These are some of the things that the skylark has seen.

She listens as she dips and swerves, the wind under her wings
hearing but many strange and beautiful things:
The humming of the trees as they mark each passing year
the silence on a calm morning, when the sky is clear
and once but only once, the distant clash of silver horns
a sound she later learned was a duel twixt unicorns!

These are some of the things that the skylark has heard.

The wind is always with her but a friend she calls him not
for his breath can be as icy as his temper can be hot
But sometimes he carries voices up from travelers below
who are lost or searching, calling to her: ‘Whither shall I go?’
So she sings what she can, that may help them on their way
because the skylark sees a lot
for she is a bird of day.

The skylark wakes at dawn and takes off into the sky
to greet the sleeping sun, who will slowly rise up high
and welcome the new day, that’s emerging from the night
For the skylark loves the daytime
For she is a bird of light.

‘and lastly, at least for now, I’ll leave you with a tale
Of a seaman who had lost his mind, never again to sail.’

The Wilful Pirate

‘I am a pirate out on the moors
I’m looking for my gold!
Been many a year since I walked the sea’s shores
or seen a ship’s deck, or into its hold.
Friends I once had
long left me for mad
now my only companion’s my flask,
who’s kept me warm
through many a storm
and troublesome questions don’t ask!’

The wind still blows him now, ‘cross moor and marsh and creek
Though his bottle’s the only vessel that will take him t’what he seeks.
For his ship he left behind upon the open waterways
whose salt and constant rocking are but part of older days.
He looks up at the stars to guide him to his final place
Where he’s sure he’ll find his treasure
and thus end this endless chase.

‘I’m going to keep on looking, ’cause looking’s what I do
As long as I look long enough, I’ll see a sky that’s blue.
My treasure will be waiting, my treasure wait for me!
I’m doing all this looking so that you and I can meet!
My beard may be a little longer, legs may walk a little stronger,
Still to see my treasure’s what will keep me on my feet.’

He sometimes sees another like him, though their paths never cross
For he steers an ample berth, never questioning the loss.
The cold by now has slowed his thoughts which froze with single aim,
while those with whom he’d shared some time he’d forgot with disdain.
Especially one familiar, wandering this land,
he has no wish to speak to let alone extend a hand.

‘I’ll sip on what’s inside my flask though the drink is cold and sour
By how much is swilling in its depths, I can tell the hour:
when it’s full is when I hurry for my treasure’s far away
when it’s full I hear the skylark’s song, at the break of day
And when it’s empty I am full…although I have not supped.
I will find my treasure chest, crawl in and let it’s lid fall shut.’

There is a pirate out on the moors,
out looking for his gold.
T’was many a year since he’d walked the sea’s shores
or seen a ship’s deck or into it’s hold.
Friends he’d had
long left him for mad
only one companion remained.
He will not stop till he reaches his gold
till he has his treasure reclaimed.

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