Subject: LYR ADD: Several Vaughan Williams Songs^^^
From:
John in Brisbane
Date: 18 Jun 99 - 01:11 AM
The following songs don't appear to be in the DT - but I have been wrong before. Regards
John
Alister McAlpine's Lament
Text by Robert Allan. Source: R. A. Smith's The Scottish Minstrel (published between 1820 and 1824)
Set by Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872-1958), 1912.
The lowlands o' Scotland will ne'er be my hame,
Tho' fresh and fair is the gowany lea,
The lowlands o' Scotland will ne'er be my hame,
It will ne'er be like my ain countrie.
In the lowlands o' Scotland nae hills are seen
Rising wi' snaw-white taps sae hie,
And the heather is burnt, and the rose it is fa'en,
That bloomed sae sweet in my ain countrie.
The lowlands o' Scotland will ne'er be my hame,
And there's no a hame on earth for me,
The clans are a' broken and I am alane,
Thinking upon my ain countrie.
An Acre of Land
English folksong, first sung to the composer by Frank Bailey in 1904.
Set by Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872-1958), 1934.
My father left me an acre of land,
Ivy, sing Ivery,
My father left me an acre of land,
And a bunch of green holly and Ivery.
I ploughed it with a ram's horn;
Ivy, sing Ivery,
I sowed it with a thimble,
And a bunch of green holly and Ivery.
I harrowed it with a bramble bush;
Ivy, sing Ivery,
I reaped it with a penknife,
And a bunch of green holly and Ivery.
I sent it home in a walnut shell;
Ivy, sing Ivery,
I threshed it with my needle and thread,
And a bunch of green holly and Ivery.
I winnowed it with my handkerchief;
Ivy, sing Ivery,
I sent it to mill with a team of great rats;
And a bunch of green holly and Ivery.
The carter brought a curly whip;
Ivy, sing Ivery,
The whip did pop and the wagon did stop;
And a bunch of green holly and Ivery.
In summertime on Bredon
Text by Alfred Edward Housman (1859-1936), from A Shropshire Lad.
Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872-1958), "Bredon Hill", from On Wenlock Edge, no. 5.
In summertime on Bredon
The bells they sound so clear;
Round both the shires they ring them
In steeples far and near,
A happy noise to hear.
Here of a Sunday morning
My love and I would lie,
And see the coloured counties,
And hear the larks so high
About us in the sky.
The bells would ring to call her
In valleys miles away;
"Come all to church, good people;
Good people come and pray."
But here my love would stay.
And I would turn and answer
Among the springing thyme,
"Oh, peal upon our wedding,
And we will hear the chime,
And come to church in time."
But when the snows at Christmas
On Bredon top were strown,
My love rose up so early
And stole out unbeknown
And went to church alone.
They tolled the one bell only,
Groom there was none to see,
The mourners followed after,
And so to church went she,
And would not wait for me.
The bells they sound on Bredon,
And still the steeples hum,
"Come all to church, good people." -
O noisy bells, be dumb;
I hear you, I will come.
Bushes and briars
(Some differences to the current version in the DT)
Through bushes and through briars I lately took my way;
All for to hear the small birds sing and the lambs to skip and play.
I overheard my own true love, her voice it was so clear;
"Long time I have been waiting for the coming of my dear.
Sometimes I am uneasy and troubled in my mind,
Sometimes I think I'll go to my love and tell to him my mind.
And if I should go to my love, my love he will say nay,
If I show to him my boldness, he'll ne'er love me again."
Come away, come away, death
Text by William Shakespeare (1564-1616), from Twelfth Night, Act II, scene 4
Set by Vaughan Williams in 1909
Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O prepare it!
My part of death, no one so true
Did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strown;
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, when my bones shall be thrown:
A thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O where
Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there!
Full fathom five
Text by William Shakespeare (1564-1616), from The Tempest, Act I, scene ii.
Full fathom five thy father lies,
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Ding-dong.
Hark! now I hear them, - ding-dong bell.
Oh see how thick the goldcup flowers
Text by Alfred Edward Housman (1859-1936), from A Shropshire Lad.
Oh see how thick the goldcup flowers
Are lying in field and lane,
With dandelions to tell the hours
That never are told again.
Oh may I squire you round the meads
And pick you posies gay?
- 'Twill do no harm to take my arm.
"You may, young man, you may."
Ah, spring was sent for lass and lad,
'Tis now the blood runs gold,
And man and maid had best be glad
Before the world is old.
What flowers to-day may flower to-morrow,
But never as good as new.
- Suppose I wound my arm right round -
"'Tis true, young man, 'tis true."
Some lads there are, 'tis shame to say,
That only court to thieve,
And once they bear the bloom away
'Tis little enough they leave.
Then keep your heart for men like me
And safe from trustless chaps.
My love is true and all for you.
"Perhaps, young man, perhaps."
Oh, look in my eyes, then, can you doubt?
- Why, 'tis a mile from town.
How green the grass is all about!
We might as well sit down.
- Ah, life, what is it but a flower?
Why must true lovers sigh?
Be kind, have pity, my own, my pretty, -
"Good-bye, young man, good-bye."
Heart's music
Text by Thomas Campion (1567-1620)
Set by Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872-1958), 1954.
Tune thy music to thy heart;
Sing thy joy with thanks, and so thy sorrow.
Though devotion needs not art,
Sometime of the poor the rich may borrow.
Strive not yet for curious ways;
Concord pleaseth more the less 'tis strained.
Zeal affects not outward praise,
Only strives to show a love unfeigned.
Love can wondrous things effect,
Sweetest sacrifice all wrath appeasing.
Love the Highest doth respect,
Love alone to Him is ever pleasing.
Just as the tide was flowing
One morning in the month of May,
Down by some rolling river,
A jolly sailor, I did stray,
When I beheld my lover,
She carelessly along did stray,
A-picking of the daisies gay;
And sweetly sang her roundelay,
Just as the tide was flowing.
O! her dress it was so white as milk,
And jewels did adorn her.
Her shoes were made of the crimson silk,
Just like some lady of honour.
Her cheeks were red, her eyes were brown,
Her hair in ringlets hanging down;
She'd a lovely brow, without a frown,
Just as the tide was flowing.
I made a bow and said, Fair maid,
How came you here so early?
My heart, by you it is betray'd
For I do love you dearly.
I am a sailor come from sea,
If you will accept of my company
To walk and view the fishes play,
Just as the tide was flowing.
No more we said, but on our way
We'd gang'd along together;
The small birds sang, and the lambs did play,
And pleasant was the weather.
When we were weary we did sit down
Beneath a tree with branches round;
For my true love at last I'd found,
Just as the tide was flowing.
|
sj
