A setting of the poem by Rudyard Kipling. The words and a few notes are available from this page. I believe Peter Bellamy used to sing a version set to ‘The White Cockade’, which I guess would readily lend itself to a more chorus-y version. In the 70s, I remember hearing a version to a different tune sung in Berkshire that used the second verse as a chorus.
Mastered version
Backup
David Harley
Lyrics by Alison Pittaway, with a traditional tune drastically arranged by me. And featuring the first recorded appearance of the Pelican Court Light Orchestra. The words have been published here before, but this demo is better recorded than the one with the previous version.
Backup:
He was a raggle taggle man
In raggle taggle clothes
Reaching, reaching for the stars
As he wandered down the road
Once the world was at his feet
But then it fell apart
His friends becoming strangers
Who left him in the dark
His world was all in pieces
That he couldn’t shape at last
While the wind was blowing
Through the weeds and grass
People tried to reassure him
But still he lost all hope
And looking at his life
He knew he couldn’t cope
So home alone he went alone
And all alone he died
But everyone who knew him
Now remembers him with pride
He was so beautiful inside.
Oh raggle taggle, raggle taggle, raggle taggle man
Oh raggle taggle, raggle taggle, raggle taggle man…
Alison and I (among others) ran a folk club in London (at Jacksons Lane Community Centre, Highgate) for a while, and later on lived in the same part of Tottenham for several years. It’s only recently – when we haven’t met face-to-face in decades and now live in different counties – that we’ve started to collaborate on songs, though.
The tune is a variation on a tune that Jean Ritchie used to sing as ‘False Sir John’. I don’t know why, it just seemed to fit the words.
Lyric copyright Alison Pittaway, 2013.
David Harley
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Backup:
Recent recording for Ian Semple’s show on Coast FM:
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Backup:
So much of her life she’s spent on wards like this
With panic locked behind her eyes and dressings on her wrists.
But last time I saw Diane, she was beating a long, long drop:
I like to think it’s not only the scum that makes it to the top.
They feed her love in millivolts, and faith in plastic spoons
Sometimes it all washes out, and she has to rush out of the room
Sometimes she hits out; mostly, she turns on herself
And in rage and desperation she seeks out the razor’s edge
But last time I saw Diane, she was beating a long, long drop:
I like to think it’s not only the scum that makes it to the top.
There’s an old man in her mirror with his own tale to tell
He has words like “communicate” and “socialize” to sell
He’s promised her that she’s learning how to crawl out of her shell
She says “He’ll get my head together, on the next cool day in hell…”
Salvation comes expensive, by the litre or the gramme
But she holds on to her anger, if that’s all that comes to hand
It’s a sword that has two edges, but she’s learning to survive
And when she’s closest to dying, anger tells her that she’s alive
But last time I saw Diane, she was beating a long, long drop:
I like to think it’s not only the scum that makes it to the top.
Now she’s going out again, to meet her life head on
Hanging with the world, as it might be by her thumbs
Most of what I’d like to say sounds trite, sounds absurd
But we’ve been lovers and we’ve been friends, and we’ve never needed those words
Next time I see Diane, she’ll still be beating the drop
I wish I could be half the person she is, if only I had half the guts
Words and music by David Harley, copyright 1982
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David Harley Words & Music 
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