Margaret Barry
“Factory Girl” – Who did it best?
TRADITIONAL LYRICS
As I went out walking one fine summer’s morning
The birds in the bushes did whistle and sing
The lads and the lassies in couples was courting
Going back to the factory their work to begin
I spied one among them, she was fairer than any
Her cheeks like the red rose that blooms in the spring
Her hair like the lily that grows in yon valley
And besides she’s a hardworking factory girl
I stepped up to her, more closely to view her
When on at me she cast her bright look of disdain
“Young man, have manners, and do not insult me
For although I’m a poor girl, I think it no shame”
It’s not for to scorn you, fair maid I adore you
Come grant me one favour, love, where do you dwell?
“Young man excuse me for now I must leave you
For yon there’s the sound of my factory bell”
Though I have fine houses adorned with ivory
I’ve gold in my pocket, and silver as well
And if you come with me, a lady, I’ll make you
And no more will you heed yon factory bell
“Oh, love and temptation, are our ruination
Go find you a lady, and may you do well
For I am a poor girl, with ne’er a relation
And content, I’m a hardworking factory girl”
- Read more about the song Factory Girl at the website Mainly Norfolk
Margaret Barry: Wild Irish woman of the British folk scene
Discovered on a street corner by Alan Lomax, the ‘queen of the Gypsies’ was an untamed talent who outdrank Brendan Behan, insulted Bob Dylan, and filled the Royal Albert Hall. The author of a new show tells her story
By Colin Irwin
Bob Dylan called her his favourite folk singer. Christy Moore says she still inspires him. Norma Waterson likens her to Edith Piaf and Bessie Smith. Sir David Attenborough put her on live TV. And even Van Morrison stops being grumpy to talk animatedly of “a great soul singer” when her name is mentioned.
A hundred years since her birth in Cork, the legend of Irish street singer Margaret Barry continues to grow. From her early days busking during some of Ireland’s most troubled years, she went on to become a revered attraction in London pubs where the Irish labourers who’d migrated after the war to help rebuild Britain’s capital congregated after work for a few jars of stout and a flavour of home. At a time when Irish traditional music might have been heading for extinction – a victim of state and church disapproval – exiled musicians kept the flame burning, resulting in a vibrant Irish scene in the English capital, coalescing around pubs such as the Favourite on the Holloway Road and the Bedford Arms in Camden. The uncompromising voice and raucous banjo of Margaret Barry were at its formidable heart.
Teaming up with the great Sligo fiddle player Michael Gorman, she became a star on the burgeoning British folk club scene of the time, recording her first album, Street Songs and Fiddle Tunes, for Topic in 1957. Several others followed, notably Songs of an Irish Tinker Lady (1959) and Her Mantle So Green (1965), as she went on to headline concerts at the Royal Albert Hall and New York’s Carnegie Hall, singing the same songs just as she’d sung them on the streets: traditional ballads, travellers’ tunes, populist Irish songs such as The Blarney Stone, or anything else she had thought would earn her enough to buy lodgings for the night.
She gained considerable fame within folk music circles but remained gloriously untouched by it. She smoke, she drank, she cussed, she span yarns, she marched on stage carrying pints of Guinness, she didn’t care who she offended and she spent money as fast as she earned it. She acquired not one ounce of polish or gentility along the way and sang the only way she knew how – as if her life depended on it (which, when she started out, it almost did).
Competing for attention with traffic noise and the chatter of shoppers, her voice had acquired a bloodcurdling intensity exacerbated by her furious banjo accompaniment. There was coarseness and conviction, but beauty and elegance, too, in the way she delivered great ballads such as The Galway Shawl and Factory Girl; while her thick black hair, rugged features and stern expression gave her a ferocious charisma that was enhanced by the endless fund of anecdotes that enveloped her.
Margaret Barry: Wild Irish woman of the British folk scene
Discovered on a street corner by Alan Lomax, the ‘queen of the Gypsies’ was an untamed talent who outdrank Brendan Behan, insulted Bob Dylan, and filled the Royal Albert Hall. The author of a new show tells her story
By Colin Irwin
Bob Dylan called her his favourite folk singer. Christy Moore says she still inspires him. Norma Waterson likens her to Edith Piaf and Bessie Smith. Sir David Attenborough put her on live TV. And even Van Morrison stops being grumpy to talk animatedly of “a great soul singer” when her name is mentioned.
A hundred years since her birth in Cork, the legend of Irish street singer Margaret Barry continues to grow. From her early days busking during some of Ireland’s most troubled years, she went on to become a revered attraction in London pubs where the Irish labourers who’d migrated after the war to help rebuild Britain’s capital congregated after work for a few jars of stout and a flavour of home. At a time when Irish traditional music might have been heading for extinction – a victim of state and church disapproval – exiled musicians kept the flame burning, resulting in a vibrant Irish scene in the English capital, coalescing around pubs such as the Favourite on the Holloway Road and the Bedford Arms in Camden. The uncompromising voice and raucous banjo of Margaret Barry were at its formidable heart.
Teaming up with the great Sligo fiddle player Michael Gorman, she became a star on the burgeoning British folk club scene of the time, recording her first album, Street Songs and Fiddle Tunes, for Topic in 1957. Several others followed, notably Songs of an Irish Tinker Lady (1959) and Her Mantle So Green (1965), as she went on to headline concerts at the Royal Albert Hall and New York’s Carnegie Hall, singing the same songs just as she’d sung them on the streets: traditional ballads, travellers’ tunes, populist Irish songs such as The Blarney Stone, or anything else she had thought would earn her enough to buy lodgings for the night.
She gained considerable fame within folk music circles but remained gloriously untouched by it. She smoke, she drank, she cussed, she span yarns, she marched on stage carrying pints of Guinness, she didn’t care who she offended and she spent money as fast as she earned it. She acquired not one ounce of polish or gentility along the way and sang the only way she knew how – as if her life depended on it (which, when she started out, it almost did).
Competing for attention with traffic noise and the chatter of shoppers, her voice had acquired a bloodcurdling intensity exacerbated by her furious banjo accompaniment. There was coarseness and conviction, but beauty and elegance, too, in the way she delivered great ballads such as The Galway Shawl and Factory Girl; while her thick black hair, rugged features and stern expression gave her a ferocious charisma that was enhanced by the endless fund of anecdotes that enveloped her.