Elevation Road

Words and music by John DuRant Jr

Tender words without sound reach for memory.  

In this place where your voice was found stands a giving tree.

Acorns thrown at hearts of stone score the fragile shell.

As these patient seeds are sown, we restore the well.

     Chorus

     Amy, I can see your pain.

     Amy, how do I explain?

     Amy, let your tears fall down like rain.

Sky azure over Dusty fields, the distant sunset grows.

Practiced as a pantomime, this recitation owned.

Smile grinding to a halt, lips to match the heart.

This great weight is coming down, my world is torn apart.

     Chorus

Kindred glances, kindness grown, encircles quiet clay.

All I yearn is to see his face and then to hide away.

Rivers run, mountains talk, until the tears flow dry.

Excuses now they're wearing thin, it's time I said goodbye.

     Chorus

Words and music by Janie Meneely

Arrangement by John DuRant Jr

Oh, me name’s Napoleon Bonaparte, I’m the conquerer of nations

I’ve vanquished German legions and sent kings from their thrones

I’ve banished dukes and earls and glorious congregations,

But now I am transported to downtown Baltimore…

It happened on a Wednesday, it was at the Warf Rat Bar.

Jake and me and Tom McGee, each knocking down a jar.

And telling blonde jokes don’t ya know and generally keeping score

When in walks this here dandy from uptown Baltimore.

He says his name’s Napoleon and he plops down right beside.

Hand jammed in his pocket like there’s something there to hide.

He orders up a brandy and he downs it in one swill,

We’d never seen the likes of him this side of Federal Hill.

     Chorus

     He said his name’s Napoleon and we said what the heck.

     You’ll always find it takes all kinds to keep the world in check.

     If someone offers up a round, well who are we to fuss.

     He said his name’s Napoleon, that’s good enough for us.

Jake gives Tom the elbow, calls out howdy do

Napoleon gives us a grin and starts to parle vous.

We can’t decipher half a word, it’s really quite the show

‘til some guy up from Dundalk jumps in to have a go.

You’re a froggy ain’t ya, he says in terms uncouth

Well, we don’t like no froggies here, now boys ain’t that the truth.

And whether it’s the truth or no, we don’t have time to say,

Cause Dundalk up and clocks him and the fight is underway

     Chorus

Well, Dundalk swung to the right, just missing Tom McGee

And Frenchie kicks him in the shin and takes a poke at me

I’m not on to spectate when the going gets so close

But I swing wide and land upside the old bartender’s nose.

It was over in a minute, that Frenchman sure could fight,

Feisty little bugger, he was at it left and right.

The fist that he was hiding carried knuckles made of brass,

In no time mister Dundalk there was flat upon his ass.

     Chorus

Viva la France we heard him cry before we all set to,

With bodies strewn across the room, it looked like Waterloo.

But someone called the cops out, and they showed up sure enough.

They take one look at Frenchie and slap him in some cuffs.

Seems he’s just some looney gone AWOL from his bin,

But before he goes he takes a bow and gives us all a grin

“My name’s Napoleon Bonaparte, to St Helena bound”,

Then he emptied out his wallet and said, “drinks all around”.

     Chorus

Words and music by Jeffrey Pepper Rodgers

I’m rushing off into the morning

My eyes hanging down

Waiting for the coffee to slap me around

I hear a thumping on the sidewalk

And look up to see a dog face smile

But I’m off to work as he naps for a while

And then I’m planning a career or

I’m planning for play

Planning for a mortgage on some distant day

You know I’m planning for a kid and for dinner

Planning to plan no more

When I hear paws scratching at the door

     Chorus

     If I could shed my skin

     Alter the shape I’m in

     I’d fill out with fur and grow a long tail

     If I could be that way

    Whoa, I would be a happy man

     And a dog for a day

I’d scare a squirrel to a treetop

or mangle your shoes

Chase a stick into the water or I’d simply refuse

I’d bark my head off if I wanted

Whenever I heard the mailman call

Or I would sleep, contented, through it all

     Chorus

But I am stuck inside this body

With my two feet

But there are human consolations here

In the front seat

You know I never wear a collar, eat dog chow

And I’m allowed on the bed

But I wonder what my life could be instead

     Chorus

Words by Thomas Chalmers Harbaugh

I gaze afar from Braddock toward the glowing west

Where with a matchless brush the sun paints old South Mountain’s crest

‘Neath beetling crag and dark ravine, ‘neath bush and hoary tree

Thro’ daisied meads and poppied fields, Catoctin hunts the sea;

I look across a valley entrancing in my eyes

As lovely as the gardens fair of storied paradise—

Not lovelier than Canaan old which Moses saw afar,

When he led God’s chosen children under the Orient sun and star.

I see beneath my feet a restless highway leading down.

To where arise with sacred pride the spires of Middletown.

Deep in the valley like some gem set in a crown of old,

And round it in their beauty lie the harvest fields of gold;

The turnpike, winding in and out, now peeps, now disappears

Until beyond the town it finds the mountain rich in years—

Rich in years and old in story, burdened with its ghostly lore,

Crowned with legends wild, pathetic that will live forevermore.

I see the gap among the hills, blue-circled, far away,

Where Harper’s Ferry nestles ‘neath its towering walls of gray—

Where Shenandoah’s crystal tides Potomac’s ripples wed

And Maryland Heights in grandeur rise above the nuptial bed;

I turn away a moment to a landscape lovelier still

Where bloom the fields that circle ‘round historic Myersville,

And far beyond the village fair the mountains lift again,

The blue peaks rising high above the rich and fruitful plain.

There’s Jefferson, then far away the Peaks of Otter show

And in the east of storied fame the spires of Frederick glow;

Among the trees through fertile fields the white road wanders down

‘til lost among the happy homes of Barbara Fritchie’s town

Methinks I hear the tuneful bells that chime above the street,

To prayer the people calling in their accents low and sweet,

And yonder old Monocacy, once crimson, seaward flows,

Through haunt of Jack and timid hare, thro fields of rye and rose.

O What a matchless landscape from old Braddock can be seen,

The fields in summer’s harvest garb, the woods in living green

The creeks like threads of silver winding thro’ the valleys fair.

While scents of bloom and garnered hay perfume the ambient air;

Has not the hand of genii opened ‘neath the vaulted skies

For me the wondrous gates of gold that lead to paradise?

The heart grows still a moment as I gaze from Braddock’s throne.

And then the soul with rapture cries, “Tis Maryland, my own!”