Please you, excuse me, good five-o'clock people, I've lost my last hatful of words, And my heart's in the wood up above the church steeple, I'd rather have tea with the birds. Gay Kate's stolen kisses, poor Barnaby's scars, John's losses and Mary's gains, Oh! what do they matter, my dears, to the stars Or the glow-worms in the lanes! I'd rather lie under the tall elm-trees, With old rooks talking loud overhead, To watch a red squirrel run over my knees, Very still on my brackeny bed. And wonder what feathers the wrens will be taking For lining their nests next Spring; Or why the tossed shadow of boughs in a great wind shaking Is such a lovely thing.
Three Songs
by Michael Tippett (1905 - 1998)
1. Afternoon Tea  [sung text not yet checked]
Language: English
Authorship:
- by Charlotte Mew (1869 - 1928), "Afternoon Tea"
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]2. Sea Love  [sung text not yet checked]
Language: English
Tide be runnin' the great world over: 'Twas only last June month I mind that we Was thinkin' the toss and the call in the breast of the lover So ever-lastin' as the sea. Here's the same little fishes that sputter and swim, Wi' the moon's old glim on the grey, wet sand; An' him no more to me nor me to him Than the wind goin' over my hand.
Authorship:
- by Charlotte Mew (1869 - 1928), "Sea love"
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Researcher for this page: Ted Perry3. Arracombe Wood  [sung text not yet checked]
Language: English
Some said, because he wud'n spaik Any words to women but Yes and No, Nor put out his hand for Parson to shake He mun be bird-witted. But I do go By the lie of the barley that he did sow, And I wish no better thing than to hold a rake Like Dave, in his time, or to see him mow. Put up in churchyard a month ago, " A bitter old soul " , they said, but it wadn't so. His heart were in Arracombe Wood where he'd used to go To sit and talk wi' his shadder till sun went low, Though what it was all about us'll never know. And there baint no mem'ry in the place Of th' old man's footmark, nor his face; Arracombe Wood do think more of a crow — 'Will be violets there in the Spring: in Summer time the spider's lace; And come the Fall, the whizzle and race Of the dry, dead leaves when the wind gies chase; And on the Eve of Christmas, fallin' snow.
Authorship:
- by Charlotte Mew (1869 - 1928), "Arracombe Wood"
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]Total word count: 367