American Folksongs & Ballads

Canada I-O

 

Canada I-O

by John Fitzsimmons | The American Folk Experience

Come all ye jolly lumbermen, and listen to my song
But do not get discouraged, the length it is not long;
Concerning of some lumbermen, who did agree to go
To spend one pleasant winter up in Canada-I-O.

It happened late one season in the fall of fifty-three
A preacher of the gospel one morning came to me;
Says he, “My jolly fellow, how would you like to go
To spend one pleasant winter up in Canada-I-O?”

To him I quickly made reply, and unto him did say,
“In going out to Canada depends upon the pay.
If you will pay good wages, my passage to and fro,
I think I’ll go along with you to Canada-I-O.”

“Yes, we will pay good wages, and will pay your wages out,
Provided you sign papers that you will stay the route;
But if you do get homesick and swear that home you’ll go
We never can your passage pay from Canada-I-O.”

“And if you get dissatisfied and do not wish to stay,
We do not wish to bind you, no, not one single day,
You just refund the money we had to pay, you know,
Then you can leave that bonny place called Canada-I-O.

It was by his gift of flattery he enlisted quite a train,
Some twenty-five or thirty, both well and able men;
We had a pleasant journey o’er the road we had to go,
Till we landed at Three Rivers, up in Canada-I-O.

But there our joys were ended, and our sorrows did begin,
Fields, Phillips and Norcross they then came marching in.
They sent us all directions, some where I do not know,
Among those jabbering Frenchmen up in Canada-I-O.

After we had suffered there some eight or ten long weeks,
We arrived at headquarters, up among the lakes;
We thought we’d find a paradise, at least they told us so,
God grant there may be no worse hell than Canada-I-O.

To describe what we have suffered is past the art of man;
But to give a fair description I will do the best I can:
Our food the dogs would snarl at, our beds were on the snow,
We suffered worse than murderers up in Canada-I-O.

Our hearts were made of iron and our souls were cased with steel,
The hardships of that winter could never make us yield;
Fields, Phillips and Norcross they found their match, I know
Among the boys that went from Maine to Canada-I-O.

But now our lumbering is over and we are returning home,
To greet our wives and sweethearts and never more to roam;
To greet our friends and neighbors; we’ll tell them not to go
To that forsaken G—- D— place called Canada-I-O.

If you have any more information to share about this song or helpful links, please post as a comment. Thanks for stopping by the site! ~John Fitz

0 Comments

Submit a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

I am indebted to the many friends who share my love of traditional songs and to the many scholars whose works are too many to include here. I am also incredibly grateful to the collector’s curators and collators of Wikipedia, Mudcat.org, MainlyNorfolk.info, and TheContemplator.com for their wise, thorough and informative contributions to the study of folk music. 

I share this scholarly research on my site with humility, thanks, and gratitude. Please cite sources accordingly with your own research. If you have any research or sites you would like to share on this site, please post in the comment box.  

Thanks!

Add links
"Canada-I-O"
Song
Writtenbefore 1700
Songwriter(s)Traditional

"Canada-I-O" (also known as "Canadee-I-O" or "The Wearing of the Blue") is a traditional English folk ballad (Roud 309).[1] It is believed to have been written before 1839.[2]

When her love goes to sea, a lady dresses as a sailor and joins (his or another's) ship's crew. When she is discovered, (the crew/her lover) determine to drown her. The captain saves her and they marry.

Based on similarity of title, some connect this song with "Canaday-I-O, Michigan-I-O, Colley's Run I-O". There is no connection in plot, however, and any common lyrics are probably the result of cross-fertilization.

The Scottish song "Caledonia/Pretty Caledonia" is quite different in detail — so much so that it is separate from the "Canada-I-O" texts in the Roud Folk Song Index ("Canaday-I-O" is #309;[3] "Caledonia" is #5543). The plot, however, is too close for scholars to distinguish.

Broadsides

  • Bodleian, Harding B 11(1982), "Kennady I-o," J. Catnach (London), 1813-1838; also Firth c.12(329), Harding B 11(2039), "Lady's Trip to Kennedy"; Harding B 25(1045), "The Lady's Trip to Kennady"; Firth c.12(330), "Canada Heigho";[4] Firth c.13(240), Firth c.12(331), Harding B 11(2920), 2806 c.16(72), "Canada I, O"

Recordings

Alternative titles

[citation needed]

  • "Canada Heigho!!"
  • "Kennady I-o"
  • "Lady's Trip to Kennady"

Notes

References

  • Sam Henry, Sam Henry's Songs of the People (1990), H162, pp. 333–334, "Canada[,] Hi! Ho!" (1 text, 1 tune)
  • John Ord, Bothy Songs and Ballads (1930; Reprint edition with introduction by Alexander Fenton printed 1995), pp. 117–118, "Caledonia" (1 text)
  • MacEdward Leach, Folk Ballads & Songs of the Lower Labrador Coast (1965), 90, "Canadee-I-O" (1 text, 1 tune)
  • Maud Karpeles, Folk Songs from Newfoundland (1970), 48, "Wearing of the Blue" (1 text, 1 tune)
  • Helen Creighton, Folksongs from Southern New Brunswick (1971), 109, "She Bargained with a Captain" (1 fragment, 1 tune)
  • Dick Greenhaus & Susan Friedman (editors), "The Digital Tradition", CANADIO3* CALEDONIA*
  • Roud Folk Song Index #309 and 5543
  • Library and Archives Canada - Amicus #31009060



    Source: Mainly Norfolk

    Canadee-I-O

    Roud 309 ; Ballad Index HHH162 ; Bodleian Roud 309 ; Wiltshire Roud 309 ; trad. arr. Nic Jones]

    The ballad Canadee-I-O was printed in Leach, Folk Ballads & Songs of the Lower Labrador Coast.

    Harry Upton of Balcombe, Sussex, sang Canadee-I-O to Peter Kennedy on September 5, 1963. This recording was included in 2012 on the Topic anthology of songs by Southern English singers, You Never Heard So Sweet (The Voice of the People Volume 21), and the song was included in 1970 in Ken Stubb’s book of English folk songs from the Home Counties, The Life of a Man. Another recording made by Mike Yates in 1974 was included in 1975 on the Topic collection of traditional songs from Sussex, Sussex Harvest, and in 2001 on the Musical Traditions anthology of songs from the Mike Yates Collection, Up in the North and Down in the South. Mike Yates commented in the latter’s booklet:

    Canadee-I-O is something of a hybrid folksong, combining, as it does, two separate motifs; namely the girl who follows her truelove abroad, and the myth of the shipboard Jonah. As in many broadsides, however, there is a happy ending.

    According to Frank Kidson, Canadee-I-O is a song which first appeared during the 18th century. In form, it is related to the Scots song Caledonia—versions of which were collected by Gavin Greig—although exactly which song came first is one of those ‘chicken and egg’ questions that so frequently beset folkmusic studies.

    Harry Upton recalled singing this song in a Balcombe pub in 1940, and remained puzzled as to how a visiting Canadian soldier could join in a song which he believed to be known only to himself and his father. It could be argued that the Canadian might have more reasonably asked the question, since Harry is the sole English singer named among Roud’s 28 instances of the song.

    Canadee-I-O is arguably Nic Jones’ best known song, recorded in 1980 for his Topic album Penguin Eggs. Bob Dylan recorded it also for his 1992 album,Good as I Been to You, John Wesley Harding for his Nic Jones tribute album, Trad Arr Jones, and Éilís Kennedy recorded Canadee-I-O in 2001 for on her debut CD Time to Sail.

    Hannah Sanders sang Canadee-I-O in 2013 on her EP Warning Bells. She commented in her liner notes:

    A beautiful traditional ballad, about a cross dressing sailor gal. This is how all good stories should begin! I doff my cap to Nic Jones’s version here.

    Andy Turner sang Canadee-I-O as the September 6, 2014 entry of his project A Folk Song a Week.

    The Outside Track sang Canadee-I-O in 2015 on their CD Light Up the Dark. They commented in their liner notes:

    No album from a band with this many x-chromosomes in it would be complete without a story about a feisty girl on a mission. Nor only does she avoid walking the plank, but she arrives at her destination triumphant, ascending from stowaway to Captain’s Wife! One of the rarer cases where the song doesn’t end in death and destruction!

    Matt Quinn learned Canadee-I-O from the singing of Harry Upton and recorded it for his 2017 CD The Brighton Line. He commented:

    A girl escapes being thrown overboard by the ship’s crew when the captain falls in love with her. Well that’s one way to thwart death… Harry sang this to Mike Yates in the mid 1970s and he remains one of the [few] English traditional singers from whom it has been collected.

    Lyrics

    Nic Jones sings Canadee-I-O

    It’s of a fair and handsome girl, she’s all in her tender years:
    She fell in love with a sailor boy, it’s true that she loved him well,
    For to go off to sea with him like she did not know how,
    She longed to see that seaport town called Canadee-I-O.

    So she bargained with a young sailor boy, it’s all for a piece of gold.
    Straightway then he led her all down into the hold,
    Saying, “I’ll dress you up in sailor’s clothes, your jacket shall be blue,”
    You’ll see that seaport town called Canadee-I-O.

    Now when the other sailors heard the news, well they fell into a rage
    And with all the whole ship’s company they were willing to engage,
    Saying, “We’ll tie her hands and feet me boys, overboard we’ll throw her.
    She’ll never see that seaport town called Canadee-I-O.”

    Now when the captain he’s heard the news, well he too fell in a rage
    And with all of his whole ship’s company he was willing to engage,
    Saying, “She’ll stay all in sailor’s clothes, her collar shall be blue.
    She’ll see that seaport town called Canadee-I-O.”

    Now when they came down to Canada, scarcely ’bout half a year
    She’s married this bold captain who called her his dear.
    She’s dressed in silks and satins now, and she cuts a gallant show,
    She’s the finest of the ladies down Canadee-I-O.

    Come you fair and tender girls wheresoever you may be,
    I’ll have you to follow your own true love, when he goes out on the sea.
    For if the sailors prove false to you, well the captain he might prove true,
    You see the honour that I have gained by the wearing of the blue.

    Digital Tradition version

    It’s of a gallant lady, just in the prime of youth.
    She dearly loved a sailor; in fact, she loved to wed,
    And how to get to sea with him the way she did not know,
    All for to see this pretty place called Canadee-I-O.

    She bargained with a sailor all for a purse of gold,
    And straightway he had taken her right down into the hold,
    “I’ll dress you up in sailor suit; your colours shall be blue
    And you soon will see that pretty place, called Canadee-I-O,”

    When our mate had heard this, he fell into a rage,
    Likewise our ship’s company was willing to engage:
    “I’ll tie your hands and feet, my love, and overboard you’ll go,
    And you’ll never see the pretty place called Canadee-I-O.”

    And when the captain heard this: “This thing shall never be,
    For if you drown that fair maid, hanged sure you’ll be;
    I’ll take her to my cabin, her colours shall be blue,
    And she soon will see that pretty place called Canadee-I-O.”

    They had not arrived in Canada more than the space of half a year,
    Before the Captain married her, and called her his very dear.
    She can dress in silk or satin; she caught a gallant show;
    She was one of the fairest ladies in Canadee-I-O.

    Come all ye, young ladies, whoever you may be,
    To be sure and follow your true love, if ever he goes to sea,
    And if your mate, he do prove false, you’re captain he’ll prove true,
    And you’ll see the honour I have gained by wearing of the blue

    Acknowledgements

    Thanks to Garry Gillard for transcribing Nic Jones’ lyrics.

    Performances, Workshops, Resources & Recordings

    The American Folk Experience is dedicated to collecting and curating the most enduring songs from our musical heritage.  Every performance and workshop is a celebration and exploration of the timeless songs and stories that have shaped and formed the musical history of America. John Fitzsimmons has been singing and performing these gems of the past for the past forty years, and he brings a folksy warmth, humor and massive repertoire of songs to any occasion. 

    Festivals & Celebrations
    Coffeehouses School
    Assemblies

    Library Presentations
    Songwriting Workshops
    Artist in Residence House
    Concerts
    Pub Singing
    Irish & Celtic
    Performances

    Poetry Readings
    Campfires

    Music Lessons
    Senior Centers
    Voiceovers & Recording

    “Beneath the friendly charisma is the heart of a purist gently leading us from the songs of our lives to the timeless traditional songs he knows so well…”

     

    Globe Magazine

    Join Fitz at The Colonial Inn

    “The Nobel Laureate of New England Pub Music…”

    Scott Alaric

    Adventures in the Modern Folk Underground

    On the Green, in Concord, MA Every Thursday Night for over thirty years…

    “A Song Singing, Word Slinging, Story Swapping, Ballad Mongering, Folksinger, Teacher, & Poet…”

    Theo Rogue

    Songcatcher Rag

    Fitz’s Recordings

    & Writings

    Songs, poems, essays, reflections and ramblings of a folksinger, traveler, teacher, poet and thinker…

    Download for free from the iTunes Bookstore

    “A Master of Folk…”

    The Boston Globe

    Fitz’s now classic recording of original songs and poetry…

    Download from the iTunes Music Store

    “A Masterful weaver of song whose deep, resonant voice rivals the best of his genre…”

    Spirit of Change Magazine

    “2003: Best Children’s Music Recording of the Year…”

    Boston Parent's Paper

    Fitz & The Salty Dawgs Amazing music, good times and good friends…

    Listen here

    TheCraftedWord.org

    Writing help

    when you need it…

    “When the eyes rest on the soul…that’s Fitzy…”

    Lenny Megliola

    WEEI Radio

    Welcome

    I, on my side, require of every writer, first or last, a simple and sincere account of his own life, and not merely what he has heard of other men's lives; some such account as he would send to his kindred from a distant land... ~Henry David Thoreau, Walden I’ve...

    Molting

    I am always molting; leaving my hollowed skin in awkward places, scaring people and making them jump. They touch me and think I’m real; then laugh and say things like “What a riot.” I’m tired of this changing of skins. I’d rather stumble on myself and be fooled; and...

    Writing Iambic Dimeter Poetry

    I am sitting here realizing how hard it is to ask you--a bunch of fifteen-year-old boys--to write iambic dimeter poetry, a form of poetry that is more or less ignored nowadays. I (literally) played around for a couple of hours penning these poems, which are at least...

    Chores

    The day sometimes slip away from me, a huge pine half-bucked in the backyard, the kids old tree fort cut into slabs, a ton of coal waiting to be moved in a train of buckets to the bin. Sipping cold water on the back deck, sharpening the dulled teeth of a worn...

    Mum…

    Very jealous today of all the folks I see spending time with their respective moms--and sad for those who can't and for those whose wives were taken from their families too early in life... This is my remmebrance of my "mum" who died several years ago.       I ran...

    Supermoon

    Last night the August supermoon reminded me of the fickleness of time and how substance becomes shadow and memories begin to etch themselves immutably into the hardness of what is already lost.

    Out of the Forge: April 6, 2017

    Some nights I feel like I am singing in a mall. Tonight--in a fun way--it felt a bit like I walked into the Natick mall at Christmas time and pulled out my guitar in front of the Apple store and started to play, but like every night down at the inn it evolved into a...

    Dealing with Ether

    Trying to only see what is in front of me my eyes are continually drawn away from this page and the work left to be done— my labored words etched and scratched away like fleeting mosaics in dry sand. I need a windowless cell to work the alchemy that shapes the...

    Weekend Custody

    Jesse calls up this morning—
    “You can come downstairs now;
    You see the grapefruit bowl?
    Well, I fixed it all;
    I fixed everything for you.”

    Everything’s for you…

    “Let me help you make the coffee,
    Momma says you drink it too.
    I can’t reach the stove,
    But I can pour it, though—
    What’s it like living alone?”

    A Perfect Mirror

    Do not mistake the finger pointing at the moon for the moon itself~BuddhaLast night you were so lucky. You didn't have to worry about your grumpy, tired teacher going through hours of journals ands doling out poor grades for what I am sure qualifies for good efforts...

    What Are We Afraid Of?

    Good intentions are easily hobbled by inaction. There has always been a murky and muddied No Mans Land in every war where the evil and the righteous trade the moral high ground. This is not the case in Ukraine. Putin’s actions are evil--pure, unmitigated, unprovoked...

    Grandma’s Words

    In the beginning was the word... ~Genesis       We do not live in Grandma’s world of words, and neither did grandma live in her grandma’s world of words and on and on and so on in a downwards devolution through untold millennia. From primal grunts, whistles and...

    The Shapes of Stories

    While I have always been a storyteller of sorts, I am not much of a writer of stories--but I have always been intrigued by the relative simplicity at the core design level of most books and movies. A lot of it is tied to my love for Joseph Campbell's work on the...

    Goathouse

    Goat house In reaching for the scythe I’m reminded of the whetstone and the few quick strokes by which it was tested-- the hardness of hot August; the burning of ticks off dog backs. It’s winter now in this garage made barn, and the animals seem only curious that I’d...

    The Inn

    Every Thursday, for some thirty years, I have been spending this same time each week wrapping up the loose ends of the day before heading down to the inn to play to whomever and whatever shows up. Tonight looks like a fun night: Maroghini will be with me for his last...

    Ready. Set. Go.

    Who forgets to rinse his hair? Me, I guess, for that was the start of my day. I smelled something like coconut oil on my way to school, and then I realized, dang, my hair is still pretty wet. Wet with hair conditioner. And then I get sot school all coconutty smelling...

    On Writing with Rubrics

    The only way out is through... Damn! Another long post... For better and worse--and through thick and thin--I keep piling on rubric after rubric to help guide the content, flow, and direction of my students' writing pieces.  The greater irony is that I never set out...

    The Street I Never Go Down

    As is often the case, I sit here with good intent to write my end-of-term comments--a dry litany of repeated phrases dulled by. obligation--and find myself instead writing poetry, the stuff I would rather share with my students who already know that I care dearly...

    Garden Woman

    I woke today and had my tea
    and at the window spent the morning:
    the same scene I’ve seen so many times
    is each day freshly born;
    from the ground I turn each spring and fall
    come the flowers sweetly blooming;
    you disappear among the weeds—
    you are the garden woman.

    The Mystery in the Cradle

    This picture is from Christmas eleven years ago when Tommy was only two weeks old, and now all of them—and Gio and Pipo--are playing charades or some such game in the dining room, shouting and laughing at each other's miscues and fortifying another enduring memory...

    The Late and Lazy Teacher

    I guess this is a good thing. I showed up five minutes late for class, and my classroom was empty. I walked the hallways of the school and could not find any of them. I sheepishly asked the assistant headmaster if he "happened to see a class of wandering boys?"No, he...

    A Late Night Metacognition

    Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after ~Henry David Thoreau           When you need something done, find a busy person to help you get it done. My mother loved repeating that to me all the way to her dying day,...

    Why Trump Is Not Flipping Me Out

    I wonder why Trump is not flipping me out? I wonder if there is some bigoted, ignorant and right-wing element that lurks inside this folk-singing, poem writing, neo-socialist shell of mine. Maybe it is not that hard for me to make the empathetic reach to feel at least...

    A Hard Sell

         As a teacher, I am tired of the word blog, probably because the word “blogging” is incredibly limiting and myopic, especially for someone whose teaching is centered around an online curriculum with blogs front and center on my academic table. I sat through a...

    Another Day…

    I've been somewhat lax about posting in here of late, but I have been giving myself a bit of a break from writing. In fact, I spent the last month or so just living--and that has been just fine with me. I set a simple goal for myself this summer to get in shape. PJ...

    Calvary

    It seems like it ain’t been a long time,
    But I’m damn pleased your coming by again.
    It’s been a while since we sat down and rambled
    About this and that and why and who and then
    You said that you had to get a move on,
    Move on and leave a space behind.
    So I spent a while hitting all those old roads:
    Old friends and kicking down the wine.

    The Teacher’s Couch

    It’s not just a couch; it’s a sofa, too ~Fitz           I remember my first year teaching at Fenn—and it was really my first stint as a true worker with responsibilities outside of what I already had in my wheelhouse—and on this day, some twenty something years ago, I...

    The March Snow

    An early March snow brought down all these branches Cracking and crashing throughout a long night, Piling them impatiently in the yard Like jacksticks in a child’s messy room. The stepladder I used to rake the ridge Stands like an awkward sculpture draped in white...

    This new spring begs attention

    And shivers its literal timbers. Cold, wet and pleading, Scarred by winter winds And pasty snows, My small field and patch of woods Is now a monument To aging neglect. Shorn limbs and branches Hang high and tangled in the Sugar maples (Widow makers we called them Back...

    You Are All a Bunch of Punks

    Poetry without form is like tennis without a net. ~Robert Frost       Free verse poetry is not, as many assume, poetry without rules. It is a measured and thoughtful crafting of an idea into lines, spaces, and breaks intentionally and willfully crafted to heighten and...

    Nurture Passion

    How about we all take the bull by the horns and make this blog thing work! Your job this week is to do something with your blog that is powered by the passion that is in you. Passion is the one thing you have some control over. There are plenty of smarter, more...

    Kampuchea

    I stutter for normality across the river from black men fishing for kibbers and horned pout. Barefoot children rounded bellies curled navels stalk the turtle sunning on a log. lonely in the field grass lonely on the curbstones I stutter for normality. Not a mother...

    Zenmo Yang Ni

    I lost the time I hardly knew you,
    half-assed calling:
    “How you doing?
    Laughing at my hanging hay field;
    I never knew the time
    that tomorrow’d bring,
    until it brung to me.

    Yuan lai jui shuo: “Zenmoyang ni?”
    Xianzai chang shu: “Dou hai keyi”;
    Xiexie nimen, dou hen shang ni.
    Xiwang wo men dou hen leyi
    Dou hen leyi

    Winter in Caribou

    I know your name. It’s written there.
    I wonder if you care.
    A six-pack of Narragansett beer,
    Some Camels and the brownie over there.
    Every day I stop by like I
    Got some place I’ve got to go;
    I’m buying things I don’t really need:
    I don’t read the Boston Globe.

    But I, I think that I
    Caught the corner of your eye.
    But why, why can’t I try
    To say the things I’ve got inside
    To you ….

    Concord

    The people, the music filledness of rush hour traffic skirting puddles work crews packing in laughswearingmudyellowed slickers lighting candle bombs. My sadness the euphoric detachment. I love this town. It breathes me.

    Weeds

      Somewhere locked in this choke of weeds spread like a mangy carpet is the hardened vine of Pipo’s Concord Grape he planted in an eager spring three years ago. Gasping for air and sun and water perhaps it has found some way to hide from my flailing hoe and the...

    Superman

    There’s a little blonde boy in a superman cape
    Racing around the back yard;
    Sayin’, “Daddy don’t you know I can fly to the moon;
    I’m gonna bring you back some stars.
    And after that I’m gonna save the world”
    Cause I’m superman today.”
    I scoop that boy right into my arms,
    And this is what I say:

    You don’t need a cape to be a hero
    You’ve got all the special powers that you need
    Your smile’s enough to save the world from evil
    And you’ll always be superman to me

    To a teacher

    This shift from fall to winterIs the cruelest month:Long days and nightsIn a blather of responsibility’s I hoist from a murky holeAnd sort and siftOn a messy desk. I pity my students who trembleMy red pen of vengeance;Who wait with fetid thoughtsFreighted by what they...

    Essex Bay

    This house makes funny noises
    When the wind begins to blow.
    I should have held on and never let you go.
    The wind blew loose the drainpipe.
    You can hear the melting snow.
    I’ll fix it in the morning when I go.
    I’ll fix it in the morning when I go.

    Me & God

            I am not done with God, nor God with me. I remain obsessed with the notion of the unmoved mover who set the pattern of creation into its initial motion. I stubbornly try to trace my existence back to some infinite beginning—so much so that I loathe the...

    Contact John Fitzsimmons...and thanks!