Traditional Routes

  1. We Are the Storm
  2. Four Oaks Lane
  3. Barnyards of Delgatty
  4. Matty Groves
  5. Cursed, Hunted, Haunted
  6. Hills of Connemara
  7. Brennan On the Moor
  8. I Sailed the Ocean
  9. One More Day
  10. Lighthouse Keeper's Lament
  11. Ghost Ship
  12. The Razing of Jeborough
  13. My Brother Said
  14. Highland Harry
  15. For the Hills

We Are The Storm
(by Westan James)

No more planning, no more schemes
No more fleeting, foolish dreams
No halls to pace, no time to bide
Gather up your gear we ride

Rage against the wind, my lads
Strain against the hour
Swallow leagues and banish fear
We Ride!

Faster now a blazing trail,
Faster now we must not fail
Thundering loud we muster pride
We are the storm for now we ride


Heavy weather in our eye
Hear the raven’s sounding cry
Flank the left and charge the right
Burst the clouds for now we fight!


Ride hard and trust your steed!
Ride fast we must make speed!


Four Oaks Lane
(by Westan James)

“…elm do grieve, oak, he do hate
Willow do walk, if you travels late…

Come sit closer to the fire
The night is cold and the wind blows higher
Warm you bones while I tell my tale
it‘ll make you cold, it’ll make you pale
it’s been fifty years gone by
since Silas Smith, he lived on high
did men wrong and women worse
he never prayed, he only cursed

Oh hear me don’t go walkin’
Don’t go walkin’ down Four Oaks Lane
Deep through swampland
Where the willows
Will make certain you don’t return again

Silas Smith he lived for greed
Money filled his every need
He was boastful, he was proud
One night he spoke a bit too loud
At the tavern, full to fight
Stepped outside and yelled to the night
For his crimes he felt no shame
He’d go walkin’ down Four Oaks Lane


Here’s a gift from me to you,
Now you know what you should not do.
Just ask Silas, he’s there himself,
That’s his skull set high upon the shelf

-chorus twice-


Barnyards of Delgatty

I came into Turrah market
Turrah market for to fe’
I fell in with a wealthy farmer
The barnyards o’ Delgatty

Linta nanny to turrah nanny, Linta nanny turrah nay
Linta lowren lowren lowren
The barnyards o’ Delgatty

They promised me me ain best horse
That ere I set my eyes upon
When I got to the barnyards
There was nothin’ there but skin and bones

The old black horse sat on his side
The old grey mare set on her whine
All that I could whip and crack
They would not rise, till milkin’ time


When I go to the church on Sunday,
Many’s the bonny lass I see
Sittin’ by her mother’s side
But winkin’ o’er the pews at me


I can drink and no be drunk
I can fight and no be slain
I can lay with another man’s lass
And still be welcome to me ain (my own)


But now me candle is burnt out,
Me snotter’s fairly on the wain
Fare ye well ye barnyards
You’ll never see me here again



Matty Groves

A holiday, a holiday in the first part of the year,
Lord Donald’s wife had gone to church some gospel for to hear
And when the meeting it was done, she cast her eyes about
And there she spied little Matty Groves walking in the crowd.

“Come home with me, little Matty Groves, come home with me tonight,
Come home with me little Matty groves, and sleep with me till light”
“Oh can’t go home, I won’t go home, and sleep with you tonight,
By the rings on your fingers I can tell, you are Lord Donald’s wife.”
“It’s true I am Lord Donald’s wife, Lord Donald’s not at home,
He’s out in the far cornfields, bringing the yearlings home.”

Now a servant who was standing by and hearing what was said
He swore Lord Donald he would know before the sun had set
And in his hurry to carry the news he beat his breast and ran
And when he came to the broad millstream he kicked off his shoes and swam
Now little Matty Groves lay down to catch a little sleep
and when he awoke he found Lord Donald standing at his feet
saying, “How do you like my feather bed? How do you like my sheets?
how do you like my lady who lies in your arms asleep?”
“Oh well I like you feather bed, and well I like your sheets
But better I like your lady fair who lies in my arms asleep.”

“Get up! Get up! Lord Donald cried get up as quick as you can,
For I’ll never have it said in far England I killed a naked man.”
“Oh I can’t get up, I won’t get up. I can’t get up for my life!
For you have two long beaten swords and I but a pocket knife.”
“Well, it’s true I have two beaten swords and they cost me deep in the purse,
But you shall have the better of them and I shall have the worse,
And you shall strike the very first blow and strike it like a man,
And I will strike the very next blow and kill you if I can!”
So Matty struck the very first blow, and he hurt Lord Donald sore.
Lord Donald struck the very next blow, and Matty struck no more.

And then lord Donald took his wife and he sat her on his knee
“Now who do you like the better of us, dead Matty Groves or me?”
And then up spoke his own dear wife never heard to speak so free,
“I’d rather have a kiss from dead Matty’s lips than you and your finery!”

And then Lord Donald he jumped up and began to stomp and bawl.
He stabbed his wife through the heart and pinned her to the wall.
“A grave! A grave!” Lord Donald cried, “To put these lovers in,
But bury my Lady at the top, for she was of noble kin.


Cursed, Hunted Haunted
(by Westan James)

I’m cursed, I’m hunted, I’m haunted, will there come a day when I’m free?
I’m cursed, I’m hunted, I’m haunted, dear God, have pity on me.

As a lad I once ran off when they tried to switch me
They called on a gypsy to spurl and bewitch me
Now my luck is drained by this horrible curse
If a thing can go wrong rest assured she’ll go worse

One day I was called out to pay by the taxman
Broke, they sentenced me to the axeman
Breathless and tired now I’m forced to wander
No place for a rest or too stop for to ponder


I left a fair maiden to fight in the war
Her face I did picture as I hit the shore
But she died instead and her image now haunts me
I can clear my mind how her face still does taunt me

Dear God, have pity on me


Hills of Connemara

Gather up the pots and the old tin pans,
The mash and the corn and the barley and bran
Run like the devil from the excise man,
Keep the smoke from raising Barney

Swing to the left now, swing to the right,
The excise man will dance all night.
Drinkin’ up the tay till the broad daylight,
In the hills of Connemara

Keep your eyes well peeled today,
The tall, tall men are on the way
Searchin’ for that mountain tay,
In the hills of Connemara


A gallon for the butcher and one for Sean,
And one for dear old father Tom,
To help the poor old dear along,
In the hills of Connemara


Stand your ground now, it’s too late
The tall, tall men are at the gate –
“Glory be to heaven but they’re drinkin’ it, mate!”
In the hills of Connemara.



Brennan on the Moor
(Traditional) (Wylde Nept version)

It’s of a brave young highwayman this story I will tell,
His name was Willy Brennan and in Ireland he did dwell
Twas on the Kilworth mountains he commenced his wylde career
And many a wealthy nobleman before him shook with fear
From young

Brennan on the moor, Brennan on the moor
Bold, brave and undaunted was young Brennan on the moor, hya!

One day upon the highway as Willy came down,
He met the mayor of Cashel a mile outside of town
The mayor he knew his features and he said, “Young man,” said he
“Your name is Willy Brennan you must come long with me.”


Now Willy’s wife went to the town provisions for to buy
And when she saw her Willy, she commenced to weep and cry
“Hand to me a ten-penny, as soon as Willy spoke,
She handed him the blunderbuss from underneath her cloak
To young


“Now with this loaded blunderbuss the truth I will unfold!”
He made the mayor to tremble and he robbed him of his gold
Two hundred pounds was offered for his apprehension there
So he with horse and saddle to the mountains did repair
Did young


Away up in the mountains old Willy he did hide
The cavalry and infantry to take him they did try
Willy laughed with scorn till one day it was said
By a false-hearted woman he was cruelly betrayed
Poor young


They caught Willy at the crossroads, Twas there he was hung and tried
It made the mayor quite happy, But it made the people cry
Still there’s some folks say when the night brings down a chill
Upon the King’s Highway you’ll see him ridin’ still!
See young

Brennan on the moor, Brennan on the moor
Bold, brave and undaunted was young Brennan on the moor, hya!


I Sailed the Ocean
(music by Wayne Twombley, lyrics by Westan James)

When I was young and the world was blue
My heart beat strong, my love was true
I sailed the ocean each afternoon
On a chair in the back of the room

When I was little the world was too
Father was tall, a park was a zoo
Cats could sing and my dog was smart
I couldnt wait for the next day to start

Magic dust danced in the rays of the sun
Just watching clouds for hours was fun
Days lasted months, months lasted years
And the darkness was my only fear

A box was a mansion and it could take flight
The moon up above came home every night
I loved the snow and I never got cold
And I couldnt wait to grow old

When I was young and the world was blue
My heart beat strong, my love was true
I sailed the ocean each afternoon
On a chair in the back of the room


One More Day

Oh have you heard the news me Johnny? One more day!
We’re homeward bound tomorrow Johnny! One more day!

One more day, me Johnny, one more day!
Come rock and roll me over, one more day!

Oh don’t you hear the old man growlin’? One more day!
Oh don’t you hear the mate a-howlin’? One more day!


Oh can’t you hear the boatswain bawlin’? One more day!
Oh can’t you hear the gals a-callin’? One more day!


Put out your long-tailed blue, me Johnny! One more day!
Make port and take your due, me Johnny! One more day.


Oh heave in sight the anchor Johnny! One more day!
We’re close aboard the port, me Johnny! One more day!


We’ll pump ‘er out today, me Johnny! One more day!
We’ll leave ‘er where she’s layin’, Johnny! One more day!


We’re homeward bound tomorrow, Johnny! One more day!
We’ll leave her without sorrow, Johnny! One more day!


Oh, no more gales or heavy weather! One more day!
Only one more day together! One more day!



Lighthouse Keeper's Lament
(by Westan James)

Lightning crashed and thunder roared, two-hundred pleas were plain;
They’d get no closer to the shore for mercy in His name.
The crew and captain kept the course, “Hold steady as you go!”
When first they felt that slamming force, “Where is the guiding glow?”

The hull cracked wide, and all inside were swallowed and swept under
Certain now their heartfelt cries were covered by the thunder.
The sounds of screams and shattered dreams and shouts of fear and pain,
Rose up along with splintered beams and fought against the rain.

The ship’s remains, through all that strife, swept up upon the beach.
A few survivors clawed for life hoping safety was in reach.
Salt-filled eye and crusted hand, taught with life’s desire…
A stream of lights poured down the strand, and hope grew slightly higher.

But it was not just what it seemed, that help come from the town.
Thought eyes did glow, and smiles beamed, they had hoped all would drown.
Yes, all the town had risen up and the beacon they betrayed.
They doused the light, that sorry night, for money to be made.


Ghost Ship
(by Westan James)

One more year boys and a day
We’ll set sail for far away
Till then we toil and work and sweat
Till we pay off our cursed debt

We’ve been through the seven seas
We keep sailing with no breeze
Set no anchor touch no land
With death’s head grins and skeletal hands

At the edge we heard a cry
Sailed on past and still we fly
We work the sails without wind
Through seven hells for we have sinned

We’ve forgotten all the laws
Lost in time the curses cause
A ship of inmates a ship of death
Our sails are filled by the devil’s breath


The sun and wind and moon and stars
The salt sea mist are never ours
Still we chase them shiver and shake
Pray you don’t cross our burning wake


The Razing of Jedborough
The castle, not the town
(by Westan James)

The candle burned the wick was high,
It flicked and fluttered with a sigh.
He licked his fingers, snuffed it out.
He faced the room, took up the shout!

We’ll burn Jedborough down, burn it down!
We’ll burn Jedborough down!
We’ll burn Jedborough down, burn it down!
We’ll burn Jedborough down!

They left the room, took up the fight,
A moving glow tired of their plight.
Torches high with lamps and oil,
No more would soldiers tread their soil


There was the castle on the hill.
They set to burning with a will.
First in this then that lord’s hands,
So many wars had spent their lands,


The leader turned, through back his hood.
Someone cried out, “We need more wood!”
Wagons, trees, the flames grew higher!
“Whatever will burn throw it on the fire!”



My Brother Said
(by Westan James)

Well the thunder flashed and the lightning fell
And we stared into the jaws of hell
He looked left and I looked right
I asked out loud, could we last all night?

“Hell yes.”

Hell yes we can take that hill
Hell yes we can ride all night
Walk tall take one deep breath
Back to back we’ll fight to the death

The light grew dim and I lost my way
I didn’t know whether to go or stay
He was gone and I felt the fear
Swear I heard him whisper in my ear

“I’m here”


We were broke with no gold to spare
Wondering how we could get our share
We all such a pitiful sight
I asked what was wrong and what was right

“Feels right”


Our ship sank and we swam to shore
There must have been a dozen or more
Abandoned women, they begged us stay
I shook my head no, but I heard the band say;

“Hell yes!”



Highland Harry
(by Robert Burns)

My Harry was a gallant gay, full stately rode he o’er the plain,
Now they’ve sent him far away, we’ll never see him back again!

Oh, for him back again, oh, for him back again
I would give all Knockhaspie’s land, for Highland Harry back again!
Oh, for him back again, oh, for him back again
I would give all Knockhaspie’s land, for Highland Harry back again!

When all the lads go their beds, I wander sadly up the glen,
I sit me down and grete (grieve) me fill and, aye, I wish him back again!


Now were some villains hanged high that weren’t good men that had to die,
It’s then I’d see the joyful sight of Highland Harry back again!



For the Hills
(by Westan James)

My father’s father’s father’s made their living from the land
The wind left trails upon their face and soil soaked their hands
Asleep before the stars awoke
Up as the sun was risin’
Hard work and toil until they looked like hills on the horizon

Miles and miles and miles from home
Too far away - too long alone
Miles and miles and miles I roam
In places that I’ve never known

Certain ‘tis my father’s dad always had a sweat-soaked brow
For certain he put all he had into working with the plow
The road rose up to pass him by
To towns he ne’er set eyes on
He fought the wind and stayed behind the hills on the horizon

Miles and miles and miles from home
Too far away – too long alone
Miles and miles and miles I roam
To someplace that I’ve never known

And my ol’ man ‘tis certain yet he toiled for years and years
Convinced that only work and sweat could keep away his tears
But I set course by the evening star that’s the star to keep your eyes on
Can you see how far away they are those hills on the horizon

Miles and miles and miles I roam
Too far away – too long alone
No matter how far off I run there’s just more hills on the horizon


The rights for all original lyrics and mistranslations are held by Wylde Nept.
©2006, Wylde Nept; All rights reserved



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Patchwork Merchant Mercenaries had its humble beginnings as an idea of a few artisans and craftsmen who enjoy performing with live steel fighting. As well as a patchwork quilt tent canvas. Most had prior military experience hence the name.


Patchwork Merchant Mercenaries.


Vendertainers that brought many things to a show and are know for helping out where ever they can.

As well as being a place where the older hand made items could be found made by them and enjoyed by all.

We expanded over the years to become well known at what we do. Now we represent over 100 artisans and craftsman that are well known in their venues and some just starting out. Some of their works have been premiered in TV, stage and movies on a regular basis.

Specializing in Medieval, Goth , Stage Film, BDFSM and Practitioner.

Patchwork Merchant Mercenaries a Dept of, Ask For IT was started by artists and former military veterans, and sword fighters, representing over 100 artisans, one who made his living traveling from fair to festival vending medieval wares. The majority of his customers are re-enactors, SCAdians and the like, looking to build their kit with period clothing, feast gear, adornments, etc.

Likewise, it is typical for these history-lovers to peruse the tent (aka mobile store front) and, upon finding something that pleases the eye, ask "Is this period?"

A deceitful query!! This is not a yes or no question. One must have a damn good understanding of European history (at least) from the fall of Rome to the mid-1600's to properly answer. Taking into account, also, the culture in which the querent is dressed is vitally important. You see, though it may be well within medieval period, it would be strange to see a Viking wearing a Caftan...or is it?

After a festival's time of answering weighty questions such as these, I'd sleep like a log! Only a mad man could possibly remember the place and time for each piece of kitchen ware, weaponry, cloth, and chain within a span of 1,000 years!! Surely there must be an easier way, a place where he could post all this knowledge...

Traveling Within The World is meant to be such a place. A place for all of these artists to keep in touch and directly interact with their fellow geeks and re-enactment hobbyists, their clientele.

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