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The
Cornish Prodigal
By Trevor Lawrence, Cornish Bard
Recorded November 2004
In a dim lit pub in Paddington
John Treloar was supping his beer
and telling such handsome stories
of his travels far and near.
“Will ee sing us a song boy?” said Pender
“Lets have silence now one and all,”
And John Treloar stood up
and sang a song of dear Cornwall.
How they loudly applauded the finish
and everyone called out for more,
but John Treloar had to tell them that
he “just couldn’t sing any more”.
He Stood there all sad and silent
gazing down into his beer,
and in the corner of his eye there glistened
just the starting of a tear.
“Will you be going home this Christmas?”
the friendly barmaid said.
John Treloar fixed his glaze on her,
And sadly shook his head.
“Well {phihh} I haven’t been home to Cornwall now {phihh}
This twenty years or more {phihh}.
Me Mother {phihh} she’d hardly know me
If I walked up to her door.
I was born and bred down in Cornwall, see.
In a village in the west.
The last place God created,
But the first place that he blessed.
We were poor but we were happy then {phihh}
In our simple little way.
My God I wisht I was a child again,
And back home there today.
Me father was a miner see,
Till a rock fall came one day,
and buried father in tin ore,
and took his life away.
Me Mum {phihh} she was left a wider
with a family to be fed
so I set off for England
to earn money for their bread.
{phihh} And though I promised
my dear mother
that I’d be back home soon
again {phihh},
that cursed drink came on me,
and its drove me near insane,
so I haven’t seen my mother now
this {phihh} twenty years or more,
but I know she’s still there waiting
for me footsteps at the door”.
The someone started singing
“Lo! The Eastern Sages Rise”
and thoughts of ddear old Cornwall
brought more tears into his eyes.
Poor John just stood and listened
and pushed his glass away,
and made a solemn promise that
he’d be home for Christmas Day.
He scaped up every penny
that he could lay his hands apon,
and coming up to Christmas
the ‘Riviera’ he got on.
His heart was softly singing
and he felt content and blessed
as the train pulled out from Paddington
and brought him to the West.
And when he crossed that there Albert bridge {phihh}
Fellow travelers heard him say
“Glory God in Heaven,
I’ll be home for Christmas Day.”
The little stations all sped by
nearing the village of his birth.
When came the next to last stop
The station at St Erth.
He scarcely could contain himself,
every second he did count,
till he looked out of the window,
and spied St Michael’s Mount.
His smile grew ever wider
as he was nearing home,
and John Treloar vowed to himself
that no more would he roam.
In some dim lit digs in Paddington
from whence Treloar had fled
On a table in the hallway
lay a message still unread.
The message said,
“This morning your dear Mother passed away
She’ll be laid to rest in St Buryan
after church on Christmas Day.”
Note: the {phihh} is like a hissing intake of breath.
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