Shall I forget on this side of the grave? I promise nothing: you must wait and see Patient and brave. (O my soul, watch with him and he with me.) Shall I forget in peace of Paradise? I promise nothing: follow, friend, and see, Faithful and wise. (O my soul, lead the way he walks with me.)
Ten Songs for Low Voice
by Charles Wood (1866 - 1926)
1. Shall I forget?  [sung text not yet checked]
Text Authorship:
- by Christina Georgina Rossetti (1830 - 1894), "Shall I forget?"
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]2. Denny's Daughter  [sung text not yet checked]
Denny's daughter stood a minute in the field I be to pass, All as quiet as her shadow lyin' by her on the grass; In her hand a switch o' hazel from the nut tree's crooked root, Well I mind the crown o' clover crumpled under one bare foot. For the look of her, The look of her, Comes back on me today, Wi' the eyes of her, The eyes of her That took me on the way. Though I seen poor Denny's daughter white an' stiff upon her bed, Yet I be to think there's sunlight fallin' somewhere on her head; She'll be singin' Ave Mary where the flowers never wilt, She, the girl my own hands covered wi' the narrow daisy-quilt. For the love of her, The love of her That would not be my wife; An' the loss of her, The loss of her Has left me lone for life.
Text Authorship:
- by Agnes Shakespeare Higginson (1864 - 1955), as Moira O'Neill
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Please note: this text, provided here for educational and research use, is in the public domain in Canada and the U.S., but it may still be copyright in other legal jurisdictions. The LiederNet Archive makes no guarantee that the above text is public domain in your country. Please consult your country's copyright statutes or a qualified IP attorney to verify whether a certain text is in the public domain in your country or if downloading or distributing a copy constitutes fair use. The LiederNet Archive assumes no legal responsibility or liability for the copyright compliance of third parties.
Researcher for this page: Ted Perry3. The Sailor Man  [sung text not yet checked]
Sure a terrible time I was out o' the way, Over the sea, over the sea, Till I come back to Ireland one sunny day, Betther for me, betther for me. The first time me foot got the feel o' the ground I was strollin' along in an Irish city, That hasn't its aquil the world around For the air that is sweet an' the girls that are pretty. Light on their feet now they pass'd me an' sped, Give ye me word, give ye me word, Every girl wid a turn o' the head Just like a bird, just like a bird; An' the lashes so thick round their beautiful eyes Shinin' to tell you it's fair time o' day wid them, Back in my heart wid a kind o' surprise I think how the Irish girls has the way wid them! Och man alive! But it's little ye know That never was there, never was there. Look where ye like for them, long may ye go - What do I care? What do I care? Plenty as blackberries where will ye find Rare pretty girls not by two nor by three o' them? Only just there where they grow, d'ye mind Still like the blackberries, more than ye see o' them. Long, long away an' no matther how far, 'Tis the girls that I miss, the girls that I miss: Women are round ye wherever ye are Not worth a kiss, not worth a kiss. Over in Ireland many's the one - Well do I know, that has nothin' to say wid them - Sweeter than anythin' undher the sun. Och, 'tis the Irish girls has the way wid them!
Text Authorship:
- by Agnes Shakespeare Higginson (1864 - 1955), as Moira O'Neill
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Please note: this text, provided here for educational and research use, is in the public domain in Canada and the U.S., but it may still be copyright in other legal jurisdictions. The LiederNet Archive makes no guarantee that the above text is public domain in your country. Please consult your country's copyright statutes or a qualified IP attorney to verify whether a certain text is in the public domain in your country or if downloading or distributing a copy constitutes fair use. The LiederNet Archive assumes no legal responsibility or liability for the copyright compliance of third parties.
Researcher for this page: Ted Perry4. Birds  [sung text not yet checked]
Sure an' maybe ye've heard the storm-thrush Whistlin' bould in March, Before there's a primrose peepin' out, Or a wee red cone on the larch; Whistlin' the sun to come out o' the cloud, An' the wind to come over the sea, But for all he can whistle so clear and so loud, He's never the bird for me. Sure an maybe ye've seen the song-thrush After and April rain Slip from in under the drippin' leaves, Wishful to sing again; An low wi' love when he's near the nest, An' loud from the top o' the tree, But for all he can flutter the heard in your breast, He's never the bird for me. Sure an' maybe ye've heard the red-breast Singin' his lone on a thorn, Mindin' himself of the dear days lost, Brave wid his heard forlorn. The time is in dark November, An' no spring hopes has he: "Remember", he sings, "remember!" Ay, thon's the wee bird for me.
Text Authorship:
- by Agnes Shakespeare Higginson (1864 - 1955), as Moira O'Neill, appears in Songs of the Glens of Antrim, first published 1916
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Please note: this text, provided here for educational and research use, is in the public domain in Canada and the U.S., but it may still be copyright in other legal jurisdictions. The LiederNet Archive makes no guarantee that the above text is public domain in your country. Please consult your country's copyright statutes or a qualified IP attorney to verify whether a certain text is in the public domain in your country or if downloading or distributing a copy constitutes fair use. The LiederNet Archive assumes no legal responsibility or liability for the copyright compliance of third parties.
Researcher for this page: Jami Kimble5. At Sea  [sung text not yet checked]
'Tis the long blue Head o' Garron From the sea, Och, we're sailin' past the Garron On the sea. Now Glen Ariff lies behind, Where the waters fall an' wind By the willows o' Glen Ariff to the sea. Ould Luirgedan rises green By the sea, Ay, he stands between the Glens An' the sea. Now we're past the darklin' caves, Where the breakin' summer waves Wander in wi' their trouble from the sea. But Cushendun lies nearer To the sea, An' thon's a shore is dearer Still to me, For the land that I am leavin' Sure the heart I have is grievin', But the ship has set her sails for the sea. Och, what's this is deeper Than the sea? An' what's this is stronger Nor the sea? When the call is "all or none", An' the answer "all for one" Then we be to sail away across the sea.
Text Authorship:
- by Agnes Shakespeare Higginson (1864 - 1955), as Moira O'Neill
See other settings of this text.
Please note: this text, provided here for educational and research use, is in the public domain in Canada and the U.S., but it may still be copyright in other legal jurisdictions. The LiederNet Archive makes no guarantee that the above text is public domain in your country. Please consult your country's copyright statutes or a qualified IP attorney to verify whether a certain text is in the public domain in your country or if downloading or distributing a copy constitutes fair use. The LiederNet Archive assumes no legal responsibility or liability for the copyright compliance of third parties.
Researcher for this page: Ted Perry6. Darest thou now, O Soul  [sung text not yet checked]
Darest thou now O Soul, Walk out with me toward the Unknown Region, Where neither ground is for the feet nor any path to follow? No map there, nor guide, Nor voice sounding, nor touch of human hand, Nor face with blooming flesh, nor lips, nor eyes, are in that land. I know it not O Soul; Nor dost thou -- all is a blank before us; All waits, undream'd of, in that region, [that inaccessible land]1. Till when the [ties loosen]2, All but the ties eternal, Time and Space, Nor darkness, gravitation, sense, nor any bounds, [bound]3 us. Then we burst forth -- we float, In Time and Space, O Soul, prepared for them; Equal, equipt at last, -- (O joy! O fruit of all!) them to fulfil, O Soul.
Text Authorship:
- by Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892), "Darest thou now O Soul"
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Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- FRE French (Français) (Guy Laffaille) , copyright © 2014, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- GER German (Deutsch) (Bertram Kottmann) , copyright © 2018, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Note: the indented lines have been broken off from the preceding lines so that parallel translations will be easier to see. This poem has five stanzas of three lines each.
1 W. Schuman: "the inaccessible land,/ The unknown region."2 Bacon: "tie is loosened"
3 Bacon: "bounding"
Researcher for this page: Ted Perry
7. The Rover  [sung text not yet checked]
A weary lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, And press the rue for wine. A lightsome eye, a soldier’s mien A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green — No more of me you knew My Love! No more of me you knew. ‘This morn is merry June, I trow, The rose is budding fain; But she shall bloom in winter snow Ere we two meet again.’ He turn’d his charger as he spake Upon the river shore, He gave the bridle-reins a shake, Said ‘Adieu for evermore My Love! And adieu for evermore.’
Text Authorship:
- by Walter Scott, Sir (1771 - 1832), "The Rover"
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Confirmed with English Poetry II: From Collins to Fitzgerald, The Harvard Classics, 1909-1914, no. 432.
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
8. The Dead at Clonmacnois  [sung text not yet checked]
Stands Saint Kieran's city fair; And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations Slumber there. There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblest Of the clan of Conn, Each below his stone with name in branching Ogham And the sacred knot thereon. There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara, There the sons of Cairbrè sleep — Battle-banners of the Gael that in Kieran's plain of crosses Now their final hosting keep. And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia, And right many a lord of Breagh; Deep the sod above Clan Creidè and Clan Conaill, Kind in hall and fierce in fray. Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-Fighter In the red earth lies at rest; Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers, Many a swan-white breast.
Text Authorship:
- by Thomas William Rolleston (1857 - 1920), "The Dead at Clonmacnois"
Based on:
- a text in Irish (Gaelic) by Aongus Ó Giolláin [text unavailable]
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Confirmed with The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900, ed. by Arthur Quiller-Couch, 1919.
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
9. Cyclops' Song  [sung text not yet checked]
Brave iron, brave hammer, from your sound The art of music has her ground; On the anvil thou keep'st time, Thy knick-a-knock is a smith's best chime. Yet thwick-a-thwack, thwick, thwack-a-thwack, thwack, Make our brawny sinews crack: Then pit-a-pat, pat, pit-a-pat, pat, Till thickest bars be beaten flat. We shoe the horses of the sun, Harness the dragons of the moon; Forge Cupid's quiver, bow, and arrows, And our dame's coach that's drawn with sparrows. Till thwick-a-thwack, etc. Jove's roaring cannons and his rammers We beat out with our Lemnian hammers; Mars his gauntlet, helm and spear, And Gorgon shield are all made here. Till thwick-a-thwack, etc. The grate which, shut, the day outbars, Those golden studs which nail the stars, The globe's case and the axle-tree, Who can hammer these but we? Till thwick-a-thwack, etc. A warming-pan to heat earth's bed, Lying i' th' frozen zone half-dead; Hob-nails to serve the man i' th' moon, And sparrowbills to clout Pan's shoon, Whose work but ours? Till thwick-a-thwack, etc. Venus' kettles, pots and pans We make, or else she brawls and bans; Tongs, shovels, andirons have their places, Else she scratches all our faces.
Text Authorship:
- by Thomas Dekker (c1572 - 1632), "Cyclops' Song"
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]10. Goldthred's Song  [sung text not yet checked]
Of all the birds on bush or tree, Commend me to the owl; Since he may best ensample be To those the cup that trowl. For when the sun hath left the west He chooses the tree that he loves best, And he whoops out his song, and he laughs at his jest. Though hours be late and weather foul, We'll drink to the health of the bonny owl. The lark is but a bumpkin fowl, He sleeps in his nest till morn; But my blessing upon the jolly owl, That all night blows his horn Then up wi' your cup till you stagger in speech, And match me this catch till you swagger and screech And drink till you wink, my merry men each. Though hours be late and weather foul, We'll drink to the health of the bonny owl.
Text Authorship:
- by Walter Scott, Sir (1771 - 1832), "Goldthred's Song", appears in Kenilworth. A Romance
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]