The foxglove bells, with lolling tongue, Will not reveal what peals were rung In Faery, in Faery, A thousand ages gone. All the golden clappers hang As if but now the changes rang; Only from the mottled throat Never any echoes float. Quite forgotten, in the wood, Pale, crowded steeples rise; All the time that they have stood None has heard their melodies. Deep, deep in wizardry All the foxglove belfries stand. Should they startle over the land, None would know what bells they be. Never any wind can ring them, Nor the great black bees that swing them Ev'ry crimson bell, down-slanted, Is so utterly enchanted. The foxglove bells, with lolling tongue, Will not reveal what peals were rung In Faery, in Faery, A thousand ages gone.
More Songs of the Countryside
Song Cycle by Michael (Dewar) Head (1900 - 1976)
1. Foxgloves  [sung text checked 1 time]
- by Mary Gladys Meredith Webb (1881 - 1927), "Foxgloves", appears in Poems and The Spring of Joy, first published 1928 [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
2. The garden seat  [sung text not yet checked]
Its former green is blue and thin, And its once firm legs sink in and in; Soon it will break down unaware, Soon it will break down unaware. At night when reddest flowers are black Those who once sat thereon come back; Quite a row of them sitting there, Quite a row of them sitting there. With them the seat does not break down, Nor winter freeze them, nor floods drown, For they are as light as upper air, They are as light as upper air!
- by Thomas Hardy (1840 - 1928), "The garden seat", appears in Late Lyrics and Earlier with Many Other Verses, first published 1922 [author's text checked 1 time against a primary source]
3. Weathers  [sung text not yet checked]
This is the weather the cuckoo likes, And so do I; When showers betumble the chestnut spikes, And nestlings fly; And the little brown nightingale bills his best, And they sit outside at "The Traveller's Rest", And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest, And citizens dream of the south and west, And so do I. This is the weather the shepherd shuns, And so do I; When beeches drip in browns and duns, And thresh and ply; And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe, And meadow rivulets overflow, And drops on gate bars hang in a row, And rooks in families homeward go, And so do I.
- by Thomas Hardy (1840 - 1928), "Weathers" [author's text checked 1 time against a primary source]
See other settings of this text.First published in Good Housekeeping, London, May 1922
Researcher for this text: Ted Perry
4. Why have you stolen my delight?  [sung text checked 1 time]
Why have you stolen my delight? [ ... ]
- by Francis Brett Young (1884 - 1954), copyright © [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]