Birmingham Sunday – A Song by Joan Baez (1964)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WQ0y-vO9QLE&feature=player_embedded

Come round by my side and I’ll sing you a song.
I’ll sing it so softly, it’ll do no one wrong.
On Birmingham Sunday the blood ran like wine,
And the choirs kept singing of Freedom.

That cold autumn morning no eyes saw the sun,
And Addie Mae Collins, her number was one.
In an old Baptist church there was no need to run.
And the choirs kept singing of Freedom.

The clouds they were dark and the autumn winds blew,
And Denise McNair brought the number to two.
The falcon of death was a creature they knew,
And the choir kept singing of Freedom.

The church it was crowded, but no one could see
That Cynthia Wesley’s dark number was three.
Her prayers and her feelings would shame you and me.
And the choirs kept singing of Freedom.

Young Carol Robertson entered the door
And the number her killers had given was four.
She asked for a blessing but asked for no more,
And the choirs kept singing of Freedom.

On Birmingham Sunday a noise shook the ground.
And people all over the earth turned around.
For no one recalled a more cowardly sound.
And the choir kept singing of Freedom.

The men in the forest they once asked of me,
How many black berries grew in the Blue Sea.
And I asked them right back with a tear in my eye.
How many dark ships in the forest ?

The Sunday has come and the Sunday has gone.
And I can’t do much more than to sing you a song.
I’ll sing it so softly, it’ll do no one wrong.
And the choirs keep singing of Freedom.

Ballad of Birmingham

Ballad of Birmingham (1965)

Dudley Randall (1914-2000)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7kk7ghmoQ6s

(On the bombing of a church in Birmingham, Alabama, 1963)

The poem was set to music by Jerry Moore in 1967.

“Mother dear, may I go downtown
Instead of out to play,
And march the streets of Birmingham
In a Freedom March today?”

“But, mother, I won’t be alone.
Other children will go with me,
And march the streets of Birmingham
To make our country free.”

“No, baby, no, you may not go,
For the dogs are fierce and wild,
Aren’t good for a little child.”

She has combed and brushed her night-dark hair,
And bathed rose petal sweet,
And drawn white gloves on her small brown hands,
And white shoes on her feet.

The mother smiled to know that her child
Was in the sacred place,
But that smile was the last smile
To come upon her face.

“No, baby, no, you may not go,

For I fear those guns will fire.

And sing in the children’s choir.”

For when she heard the explosion,
Her eyes grew wet and wild.
She raced through the streets of Birmingham
Calling for her child.

She clawed through bits of glass and brick,
Then lifted out a shoe.
“O, here’s the shoe my baby wore,
But, baby, where are you?”