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17 Jan 13 - 09:39 PM (#3467886) Subject: Letters from Wilfred / Alan Bell From: Alio My 14 year old grandson loves history, so he's really enjoying the topic of First World War poetry in English. He's written a fantastic poem, and I've shown him some I wrote in college. Because my favourite poet is Wilfred Owen, I thought he might be interested in Alan Bell's Letters from Wilfred, but I can't find the lyrics anywhere! Can anyone point me in the right direction please? Ali x |
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18 Jan 13 - 01:49 AM (#3467929) Subject: RE: lyr req: Letters from Wilfred (Alan Bell) From: GUEST www.fyldefolk.co.uk |
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18 Jan 13 - 02:28 AM (#3467933) Subject: RE: lyr req: Letters from Wilfred (Alan Bell) From: Joe Offer The above URL doesn't seem to be working. I wonder if our guest meant www.fylde-folk-festival.com -or- www.fyldefolk.pwp.blueyonder.co.uk I didn't see the requested lyrics at either Website, although Alan Bell is associated with the Fylde Folk Festival. The song is on a lovely CD titled Alan Bell - the Definitive Collection. I'll attempt a transcription tomorrow if somebody else doesn't post the song - it's a very long song to transcribe, and it's hard for us Californians to understand you Brits.... This page has some prose letters from Wilfred Owen. -Joe- |
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18 Jan 13 - 06:43 AM (#3467986) Subject: RE: lyr req: Letters from Wilfred (Alan Bell) From: Alio Thanks very much Joe - I'll look at the site again tomorrow. Ali x |
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18 Jan 13 - 02:03 PM (#3468151) Subject: Lyr Add: LETTERS FROM WILFRED (Alan Bell) From: Jim Dixon Here's my transcription from the recording I found on Spotify. I have looked up all the places and military units mentioned, except that I am unable to identify that house in Tavistock Square. Also the remainder of that line "for all our friends sure there" doesn't seem grammatical, so I suspect something is wrong with it as well. Corrections are welcome. LETTERS FROM WILFRED (Alan Bell) As sung by Alan Bell on "The Definitive Collection" (2005) I thank you, my dear mother; your letter came today. I'm pleased to hear you're in good health, for I've much to tell and say. I've enlisted in the army, in the Artist Regiment. I kissed the Bible, swore my oath; your W.E.O.'s content. Yes, I kissed the Bible, swore my oath; your W.E.O.'s content. I travelled off to London and lodged in Tavistock Square. The house is called Elilas(?) for all our friends sure there; Yet in their conversations, our England is their foe; Yet I'm as English as a Shropshire lad, as, mother, you do know. I'm as English as a Shropshire lad, as, mother, you do know. Dear mother, I am commissioned; now my training's done. I'm seconded to Manchesters new recruits and guns. I'm posted north to Fleetwood in charge of musketry, A new adventure for your W.E.O. by the glowing sands and sea, A new adventure for your W.E.O. with the fishing boats and sea. I enjoyed my time in Fleetwood; now I'm in Flanders Fields. Since landing on the Calais quays, I'm in muck from head to heels. My soldiers march and singing, and I know their favourite song Is a yearning for them again to be in the homes where they belong, Is a yearning for them again to be in the homes where they belong. It's New Year's Eve, dear mother; the Scotsmen celebrate. They play their pipes, go o'er the top, and are blown to Heaven's gates. I stand in clay, dear mother, and write by candle glow. In this barren land, the frozen dead lie blanketed in snow. In this barren land, the frozen dead lie blanketed in snow. I'll not deceive you, mother; I've been in hell this last four days. In an outpost beyond the front line, we stood guard, and how we prayed! I did not lose a single man, but a young boy lost his sight. Now I know just how a blind man feels when I led him from the fight. Yes, I know just how a blind man feels when I led him from the fight. I'm in Scotland now, dear mother, in a place called Craiglockhart, A refuge for tired warriors whose nerves are torn apart. I need sleep and time, dear mother, to heal my troubled mind, But in my dreams, I see every face of those I left behind. Yes, in my dreams I see every face of those I left behind. They awarded me a medal for gallantry, they say. I made sure all those who fought with me are rewarded in their way. There is one more battle coming, and with peace talks in the air, Your W.E.O. will soon be home when the cease-fire is declared. Your W.E.O. will soon be home when the cease-fire is declared. I write, dear Mrs. Owen, to try and ease your pain. Your Wilfred was a brave young man; we'll not see his like again. He was killed the fourth November in the last days of the war, But his soul lives on within his verse for us forevermore. Yes, Wilfred lives within his verse for us forevermore. Your Wilfred lives within his verse for you forevermore. [W.E.O. = Wilfred [Edward] Owen; Artist Regiment, Tavistock Square, Manchesters, Craiglockhart] From Joe Offer: Incorporating the corrections Alan Bell posted below. In some places, Jim's transcriptions are closer to the recording than are the lyrics from Alan Bell. LETTERS FROM WILFRED (Alan Bell) As sung by Alan Bell on "The Definitive Collection" (2005) I thank you, my dear mother; your letter came today. I'm pleased to hear you're in good health, for I've much to tell and say. I've enlisted in the army, in the Artist Regiment. I kissed the Bible, swore my oath; your W.E.O.'s content. Yes, I kissed the Bible, swore my oath; your W.E.O.'s content. I travelled up to London and lodge in Tavistock Square, The house is called Les Lilas for all are French who are there. Yet, in their conversations, our England is their foe; Yet I'm as English as a Shropshire lad, And tonight I'll tell them so. I'm as English as a Shropshire lad, as dear mother you do know. Dear mother, I am commissioned; now my training's done. I'm seconded to Manchesters new recruits and guns. I'm posted north to Fleetwood in charge of musketry, A new adventure for your W.E.O. by the blowing sands and sea, A new adventure for your W.E.O. with the fishing boats and sea. I enjoyed my time in Fleetwood; now I'm in Flanders Fields. Since landing on the Calais quays, I'm in mud from head to heels. My soldiers march and singing, and I know their favourite song Is a yearning for them again to be in the homes where they belong, Is a yearning for them again to be in the homes where they belong. It's New Year's Eve, dear mother; the Scotsmen celebrate. They play their pipes, go o'er the top, and are blown to Heaven's gates. I stand in clay, dear mother, and write by candle glow. In this barren land, the frozen dead lie blanketed in snow. In this barren land, the frozen dead lie blanketed in snow. I'll not deceive you, mother; I've been in hell this last four days. In an outpost beyond the front line, we stood guard, and how we prayed! I did not lose a single man, but a young boy lost his sight. Now I know just how a blind man feels when I led him from the fight. Yes, I know just how a blind man feels when I led him from the fight. I'm in Scotland now, dear mother, in a place called Craiglockhart, A refuge for tired warriors whose nerves are torn apart. I need sleep and time, dear mother, to heal my troubled mind, But in my dreams, I see every face of those I left behind. Yes, in my dreams I see every face of those I left behind. They awarded me a medal for gallantry, they say. I made sure all those who fought with me are rewarded in their way. There is one more battle coming, and with peace talks in the air, Your W.E.O. will soon be home when the cease-fire is declared. Your W.E.O. will soon be home when the cease-fire is declared. I write, dear Mrs. Owen, to try and ease your pain. Your Wilfred was a brave young man; we'll not see his like again. He was killed the fourth November in the last days of the war, But his soul lives on within his verse for us forevermore. Yes, Wilfred lives within his verse for us forevermore. Your Wilfred lives within his verse for you forevermore. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YCcqdjkTPVQ |
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18 Jan 13 - 02:40 PM (#3468175) Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Letters from Wilfred (Alan Bell) From: Jack Campin I'm in Scotland now, dear mother, in a place called Craiglockhart, A refuge for tired warriors whose nerves are torn apart. Next week I'm going to get the train back to old London, Then I ship to France because the war is still going on. Rhymes just as well. Craig-LOCK-urt, folks. Possible rhymes: pocket, rocket, locket, docket, socket, though they all leave out the rhotic "r". Even "...whose nerves are buggered" would be better. |
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18 Jan 13 - 03:05 PM (#3468185) Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Letters from Wilfred (Alan Bell) From: gnomad Re "Elilas" (v2 above) a potted biography of WO indicates he lodged at Les Lilas, 54 Tavistock Sq WC from enlisting in the Artists Rifles on 21 Oct 1915 until sent to Hare Hall Camp, Essex as Cadet Owen on 15 Nov 1915. |
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18 Jan 13 - 05:40 PM (#3468272) Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Letters from Wilfred (Alan Bell) From: Alio Thank you very much Jim - I've printed it off and I'll take it to show my grandson tomorrow. Wonderful, emotional words. Ali x |
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18 Jan 13 - 06:38 PM (#3468290) Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Letters from Wilfred (Alan Bell) From: Joe Offer Kudos to you, Jim! I didn't have the energy to do it. -Joe- |
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19 Jan 13 - 06:22 AM (#3468413) Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Letters from Wilfred (Alan Bell) From: s&r The house is called Elilas(?) for all our friends sure there; The house is called "Les Lilas" for all the French are there The house where Wilfred was living was leased by French People who gave him somewhat of a bad time. I've just spoken to Alan who's going to cast his eye over the rest. Not all Alan's songs are published in print form, nor on the websites of Fylde and Folkus. Stu |
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19 Jan 13 - 09:43 AM (#3468521) Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Letters from Wilfred (Alan Bell) From: GUEST,Alan Bell Corrections. Verse 2 should read I travelled up to london and lodge in Tavistock Square, The house is called Les Lilas for all are French who are there. Yet, in their conversations, our England is their foe, But I,m as English as a Shropshire lad, And tonight I,ll tell them so. I,m as English as a Shropshore lad,as dear Mother you do know. Verse 3 blowing sands not glowing sands. verse 4. Mud not muck from head to heels. Thank you for asking and thanks to all who sing the song. |