O, my luve is like the melodie,
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I,
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun!
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve,
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile!
(Bantock, Beach, Bohm, Castelnuovo-Tedesco, Franz, Hatton, Henschel, Kienzl, Marschner, Rheinberger, F. G. Scott, Somervell)
Wha is that at my bower door?
[translated as ‘Unterm Fenster’, Op. 34/3, by Wilhelm Gerard] (1840)
I
‘Wha is that at my bower door?’
‘O, wha is it but Findlay!’
‘Then gae your gate1, ye’ se nae2 be here.’
‘Indeed maun I!’3 quo’ Findlay.
‘What mak ye, sae like a thief?’
‘O, come and see!’ quo’ Findlay.
‘Before the morn ye’ll work mischief?’
‘Indeed will I!’ quo’ Findlay.
II
‘Gif4 I rise and let you in’ –
‘Let me in!’ quo’ Findlay –
‘Ye’ll keep me wauken wi’ your din?’
‘Indeed will I!’ quo’ Findlay.
‘In my bower if ye should stay’ –
‘Let me stay!’ quo’ Findlay –
‘I fear ye’ll bide till break o’ day?’
‘Indeed will I!’ quo’ Findlay.
III
‘Here this night if ye remain’ –
‘I’ll remain!’ quo’ Findlay –
‘I dread ye’ll learn the gate again?’
‘Indeed will I!’ quo’ Findlay.
‘What may pass within this bower’
(‘Let it pass!’ quo’ Findlay.)
‘Ye maun conceal till your last hour’ –
‘Indeed will I!’ quo’ Findlay.
(Loewe, F. G. Scott)
John Anderson my jo
[translated as ‘John Anderson’, Op. 145/4, by Wilhelm Gerhard] (1849)1
John Anderson my jo2, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonie brow was brent3;
But now your brow is beld4, John,
Your locks are like the snaw,
But blessings on your frosty pow5,
John Anderson my jo!
John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither,
And monie a cantie6 day, John,
We’ve had wi’ ane anither;
Now we maun totter down, John,
And hand in hand we’ll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo!
(Graener, Lehmann, Marschner, Shostakovich, Strauss, Weber)
MAURICE RAVEL
The banks o’ Doon
[Chanson écossaise] (1910)
Ye banks and braes1 o’ bonie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae weary fu’ o’ care!
Thou’ll break my heart, thou warbling bird,
That wantons thro’ the flowering thorn!
Thou minds me o’ departed joys,
Departed never to return.
Aft hae I rov’d by bonie Doon
To see the rose and woodbine twine,
And ilka2 bird sang o’ its luve,
And fondly sae did I o’ mine.
Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose,
Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree!
And my fause luver staw my rose –
But ah! he left the thorn wi’ me.
(MacDowell, Quilter)
FRANCIS GEORGE SCOTT: from Scottish Lyrics IV (1936)
Amang the trees (1920)
Amang the trees, where humming bees
At buds and flowers were hinging, O,
Auld Caledon drew out her drone,1
And to her pipe was singing, O.
’Twas Pibroch, Sang, Strathspeys and Reels –
She dirl’d2 them aff fu clearly, O,
When there cam a yell o foreign squeels,
That dang her tapsalteerie, O!3
Their capon craws an queer ‘ha, ha’s,’
They made our lugs grow eerie, O.4
The hungry bike did scrape and fyke,5
Till we were wae6 and weary, O.
But a royal ghaist, wha ance was cas’d
A prisoner, aughteen year awa,7
He fir’d a Fiddler in the North,
That dang them tapsalteerie, O!
DMITRI SHOSTAKOVICH: from Six Romances for Bass on Verses by Raleigh, Burns and Shakespeare, Op. 62 (1942, revised 1971)
O, wert thou in the cauld blast1
[translated by Samuil Marshak]
O, wert thou in the cauld blast
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt2,
I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee.
Or did Misfortune’s bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield3 should be my bosom,
To share it a’, to share it a’.
Or were I in the wildest waste,
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desert were a Paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there.
Or were I monarch o the globe,
Wi thee to reign, wi thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my crown
Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.
(Franz, Jensen, Marschner, Mendelssohn, F. G. Scott)
BENJAMIN BRITTEN: A Birthday Hansel, Op. 92 (1975/1978)1
Epistle to John Maxwell, Esq., of Terraughtie On his seventy-first birthday
[Birthday song]2
Health to the Maxwells’ vet’ran Chief!
Health ay unsour’d by care or grief!
Inspir’d, I turn’d Fate’s sibyl leaf
This natal morn;
I see thy life is stuff o prief3,
Scarce quite half-worn.
[This day thou metes threescore eleven,
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven
(The second-sight, ye ken, is given
To ilka4 Poet)
On thee a tack5 o seven times seven
Will yet bestow it.
If envious buckies6 view wi sorrow
Thy lengthen’d days on thy blest morrow,
May Desolation’s lang-teeth’d harrow,
Nine miles an hour,
Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah,
In brunstane stoure7!
But for thy friends, and they are monie,
Baith honest men and lassies bonie,
May couthie Fortune, kind and cannie8
In social glee,
Wi mornings blythe, and e’enings funny,
Bless them and thee!]
Farewell, auld birkie9! Lord be near ye,
And then the Deil, he daurna steer ye!10
Your friends ay love, your foes ay fear ye!
For me, shame fa’ me,
If neist my heart I dinna wear ye,11
While Burns they ca’ me!
A rose-bud, by my early walk
[My early walk]1
A rose-bud, by my early walk
Adown a corn-inclosèd bawk2,
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,
All on a dewy morning.
Ere twice the shades o dawn are fled,
In a’ its crimson glory spread,
And drooping rich the dewy head,
It scents the early morning.
Within the bush her covert nest
/>
A little linnet fondly prest,
The dew sat chilly on her breast,
Sae early in the morning.
[She soon shall see her tender brood,
The pride, the pleasure o the wood,
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew’d,
Awauk3 the early morning.]
So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair,
On trembling string or vocal air,
Shall sweetly pay the tender care
That tents4 thy early morning!
So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay,
Shall beauteous blaze upon the day,
And bless the parent’s evening ray
That watch’d thy early morning!
(Haydn)
Wee Willie Gray1
Wee Willie Gray an his leather wallet,
Peel a willow-wand to be him boots and jacket!
The rose upon the brier will be him trouse an doublet –
The rose upon the brier will be him trouse an doublet!
Wee Willie Gray an his leather wallet,
Twice a lily-flower will be him sark and gravat2!
Feathers of a flie wad feather up his bonnet –
Feathers of a flie wad feather up his bonnet!
(F. G. Scott)
My Hoggie1
What will I do gin my hoggie die2?
My joy, my pride, my hoggie!
My only beast, I had nae mae,
And vow but I was vogie3!
The lee-lang night we watched the fauld,4
Me and my faithfu doggie;
We heard nocht but the roaring linn,5
Amang the braes sae scroggie.6
But the houlet7 cry’d frae the castle wa’,
The blitter8 frae the boggie,
The tod9 reply’d upon the hill:
I trembled for my hoggie.
When day did daw, and cocks did craw,
The morning it was foggie,
An unco tyke10 lap o’er the dyke,
And maist11 has kill’d my hoggie!
Sweet Afton
[Afton Water]1
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes2!
Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise!
My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream –
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream!
Thou stock dove whose echo resounds thro’ the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear –
I charge you, disturb not my slumbering Fair!
[How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
Far mark’d with the courses of clear, winding rills!
There daily I wander, as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary’s sweet cot3 in my eye.
How pleasant thy banks and green vallies below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;
There oft, as mild Ev’ning weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk4 shades my Mary and me.]
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides!
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave5,
As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave!
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes!
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays!
My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream –
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream!6
The winter it is past
[The winter]1
The winter it is past, and the simmer comes at last,
And the small birds sing on ev’ry tree:
The hearts of these are glad, but mine is very sad,
For my true love is parted from me.
The rose upon the brier, by the waters running clear
May have charms for the linnet or the bee:
Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at rest,
But my lover is parted from me.
(Somervell)
Leezie Lindsay1
Will ye go to the Highlands, Leezie Lindsay,
Will ye go to the Highlands wi me;
Will ye go to the Highlands, Leezie Lindsay,
My pride and my darling to be.
ANON
Auld lang syne1
CHORUS
For auld lang syne, my dear.
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup o kindness yet,
For auld lang syne!
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne2?
And surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp3
And surely I’ll be mine;
And we’ll tak a cup o kindness yet
For auld lang syne!
We twa hae run about the braes4,
And pou’d the gowans fine,5
But we’ve wander’d monie a weary fit,
Sin’ auld lang syne.
We twa hae paidl’d i’ the burn,
From morning sun till dine6;
But seas between us braid7 hae roar’d
Sin’ auld lang syne.
And there’s a hand my trusty fiere8,
And gie’s a hand o thine,
And we’ll tak a right guid-willie waught9,
For auld lang syne.10
(Bantock, Schumann, Somervell)
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
(1770–1850)
The tag that has always been hung round Wordsworth’s neck is one that reads ‘Nature Poet’. Generations of schoolchildren have been brought up on his poem ‘The Daffodils’, and indeed I suppose it’s his best-known poem. I think people tend to imagine that most of Wordsworth is to do with flowers and hills and lakes, a sort of Lake District of the mind, full of the beauties of inanimate nature, with actual human beings rather thin on the ground – just a scattering of gnarled old peasants and idiot boys. The fact that Wordsworth is thought of in this way is partly attributable to Wordsworth himself: after all, he did call himself a ‘Worshipper of Nature’. But the real force, and I think the powerful strangeness, of his poetry at its best comes through because we are made aware of the human side of this: of human nature as well as inanimate nature, and of man as an instrument through which nature transmits its messages.
ANTHONY THWAITE: The English Poets (1974)
How thankful we ought to feel that Wordsworth was only a poet and not a musician. Fancy a symphony by Wordsworth! Fancy having to sit it out! And fancy what it would have been if he had written fugues!
SAMUEL BUTLER: Note-Books (1912)
Wordsworth gives the following account of his early years in his (here edited) dictated biography:
I was born at Cockermouth, in Cumberland, on April 7th, 1770, the second son of John Wordsworth, attorney-at-law, as lawyers of this class were then called […] My mother was Anne, only daughter of William Cookson, mercer, of Penrith, and of Dorothy, born Crackanthorp, of the ancient family of that name […] The time of my infancy and early boyhood was passed partly at Cockermouth, and partly with my mother’s parents at Penrith, where my mother, in the year 1778, died of a decline, brought on by a cold […] My father never recovered his usual cheerfulness of mind after this loss, and died when I was in my fourteenth year, a schoolboy, just returned from Hawkshead, whither I had been sent with my elder brother Richard, in my ninth year. […] I remember my mother only in some few situations, one of which was her pinning a nosegay to my breast, when I was going to say the catechism in the church, as was customary before Easter. An intimate friend of hers told me that she once said to her, that the only one of her five children about whose future life she was anxious was William; and he, she said, would be remarkable, either for good or for evil. The cause of this was, that I was of a stiff, moody, and violent temper […]. Of my earliest days at school I
have little to say, but that they were very happy ones, chiefly because I was left at liberty then, and in the vacations, to read whatever books I liked. For example, I read all Fielding’s works, Don Quixote, Gil Blas, and any part of Swift that I liked – Gulliver’s Travels, and the Tale of the Tub being both much to my taste. It may be, perhaps, as well to mention, that the first verses which I wrote were a task imposed by my master; the subject, ‘The Summer Vacation’; and of my own accord I added others upon Return to School. There was nothing remarkable in either poem; but I was called upon, among other scholars, to write verses upon the completion of the second centenary from the foundation of the school in 1585 by Archbishop Sandys. These verses were much admired – far more than they deserved, for they were but a tame imitation of Pope’s versification, and a little in his style.
Before his final term at St John’s College, Cambridge, Wordsworth set out on a walking tour of Europe which brought him into contact with the French Revolution, whose revolutionary optimism he shared. From November 1791 to December 1792 he lived in France, fell in love with Annette Vallon and fathered their daughter, Caroline. He returned to England without them, and spent the next five years devoured by guilt. (‘Vaudracour and Julia’ (published in 1820) tells the story of their affair and featured in Book IX of The Prelude, until it was removed.) A sense of existential crisis was caused by political events: he still believed in France’s revolutionary experiment, but when France declared war against Britain in 1793, he was close to suffering a nervous breakdown. His sister Dorothy helped him recover from this crisis, and on the death of his Penrith friend Raisley Calvert he inherited a legacy of £900. But the real trigger for his recovery, and development as a poet, was Coleridge, whom he met in early 1795. By 1797 they were seeing each other almost daily, and their combined volume, Lyrical Ballads, with a Few Other Poems, was published anonymously in 1798. Poems such as ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’ and ‘Tintern Abbey’ ushered in a new era of English poetry – poetry that dealt with the inner self. As a broad generalization it can be said that poetry, before Wordsworth, almost always had a subject; after him, poetry’s most prevalent subject was the poet’s own self. As Hazlitt put it: ‘He sees all things in himself’; his mind was ‘conversant only with itself and nature’. In the Preface to the second edition of Lyrical Ballads, Wordsworth penned what can be regarded as his art poétique: poets should endeavour to express the relation between man and nature, and the language of poetry should never become elaborate or stylized.
The Penguin Book of English Song Page 26