And let it ne'er be said, for shame, that we the youths of London lay thrumming of our caps at home!
Parents and Lizzie have gone to Corwnall to stay in the Mevagissey cottage until Tuesday and I am at home feeding the cats. It's rather nice. I feel like I will get things done, not necessarily big things but little things I've been putting off. I will do all the washing and practice the cello.
Meanwhile, it is May on Tuesday - as Oxonions will probably have noticed - and also approaching the end of poetry month, here is some celebratory music.
Shine Out
The Morning Star
Finale
From Benjamin Britten's Spring Symphony. As performed by CEFC, the Forest Philharmonic, FCMG and some soloists at the Barbican in January.
They're the three major plot points of the symphony - the depths of winter, may morning, and a summer fair - and incidentally also my favourite parts. The Morning Star, like those bits of Belshazzar, is bizarrely and gloriously pagan-sounding despite the context. The Finale is just downright bawdy.
If you take any let me know so I know the links are working. Or not as the case may be. Coming soon: Copland's In the Beginning, because that's glorious too and I'm in a sharing mood.
Introduction/Shine Out
Shine out, fair sun, with all your heat,
Show all your thousand-coloured light!
Black winter freezes to his seat;
The grey wolf howls he does so bite;
Crookt age on three knees creeps the street;
The boneless fish close quaking lies
And eats for cold his aching feet;
The stars in icicles arise:
Shine out, and make this winter night
Our beauty's spring, our Prince of Light!
- Anon. 16th Century
The Morning Star
Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.
Hail, bounteous May that doth inspire
Mirth and youth, and warm desire,
Woods and groves are of they dressing,
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
- John Milton
Finale
London, to thee I do present the merry month of May;
Let each true subject be content to hear me what I say:
With gilded staff and crossed scarf, the Maylord here I stand.
Rejoice, O English hearts, rejoice! rejoice, o lovers dear!
Rejoice, O City, town and country! rejoice, eke every shire!
For now the fragrant flowers do spring and sprout in seemly sort,
The little birds to sit and sing, the lambs do make fine sport;
And now the birchen-tree doth bud that makes the schoolboy cry;
The morris rings, while hobby horse doeth foot it feateously;
The lords and ladies now abroad, for their disport and play,
Do kiss sometimes upon the grass, and sometimes in the hay;
Now butter with a leaf of sage is good to purge the blood;
Fly Venus and phlebotomy, for they are neither good;
Now little fish on tender stone begin to cast their bellies;
And sluggish snails that erst were mewed do creep out of their shellies;
The rumbling rivers now do warm, for little boys to paddle;
The sturdy steed now goes to grass, and up they hang his saddle;
The heavy hart, the bellowing buck, the rascal, and the pricket,
Are now among the yoeman's peas, and leave the fearful thicket;
And be like them, O you, I say, of this same noble town,
And lift aloft your velvet heads, and slipping off your gown,
With bells on legs, with napkins clean unto your shoulders tied,
With scarfs and garters as you please, and 'Hey for our town!' cried,
March out, and show your willing minds, by twenty and by twenty,
To Hogsdon or to Newington, where ale and cakes are plenty;
And let it ne'er be said for shame, that we the youths of London
Lay thrumming of our caps at home, and left our custom undone.
Up then, I say, both young and old, both man and maid a-maying,
With drums, and guns that bounce aloud, and merry tabor playing!
Which to prolong, God save our King, and send his country peace,
And root out treason from the land! and so my friends, I cease.
- Beaumont and Fletcher
Sumer is icumen in,
Lhude sing cuccu
Groweth sed and bloweth med
And springth the wude nu.
Sing cuccu.
Awe bleteth after lomb,
Lhouth after calve cu.
Bulluc sterteth, bucke verteth,
Murie sing cuccu.
Cuccu, cuccu,
Wel singes thu, cuccu,
Ne swik thu naver nu.
- Anon, probably
(Incidentally do we even know approximately what period Sumer Is Icumen In is supposed to be? I can't remember now, if I ever knew.)
Meanwhile, it is May on Tuesday - as Oxonions will probably have noticed - and also approaching the end of poetry month, here is some celebratory music.
Shine Out
The Morning Star
Finale
From Benjamin Britten's Spring Symphony. As performed by CEFC, the Forest Philharmonic, FCMG and some soloists at the Barbican in January.
They're the three major plot points of the symphony - the depths of winter, may morning, and a summer fair - and incidentally also my favourite parts. The Morning Star, like those bits of Belshazzar, is bizarrely and gloriously pagan-sounding despite the context. The Finale is just downright bawdy.
If you take any let me know so I know the links are working. Or not as the case may be. Coming soon: Copland's In the Beginning, because that's glorious too and I'm in a sharing mood.
Introduction/Shine Out
Shine out, fair sun, with all your heat,
Show all your thousand-coloured light!
Black winter freezes to his seat;
The grey wolf howls he does so bite;
Crookt age on three knees creeps the street;
The boneless fish close quaking lies
And eats for cold his aching feet;
The stars in icicles arise:
Shine out, and make this winter night
Our beauty's spring, our Prince of Light!
- Anon. 16th Century
The Morning Star
Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.
Hail, bounteous May that doth inspire
Mirth and youth, and warm desire,
Woods and groves are of they dressing,
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
- John Milton
Finale
London, to thee I do present the merry month of May;
Let each true subject be content to hear me what I say:
With gilded staff and crossed scarf, the Maylord here I stand.
Rejoice, O English hearts, rejoice! rejoice, o lovers dear!
Rejoice, O City, town and country! rejoice, eke every shire!
For now the fragrant flowers do spring and sprout in seemly sort,
The little birds to sit and sing, the lambs do make fine sport;
And now the birchen-tree doth bud that makes the schoolboy cry;
The morris rings, while hobby horse doeth foot it feateously;
The lords and ladies now abroad, for their disport and play,
Do kiss sometimes upon the grass, and sometimes in the hay;
Now butter with a leaf of sage is good to purge the blood;
Fly Venus and phlebotomy, for they are neither good;
Now little fish on tender stone begin to cast their bellies;
And sluggish snails that erst were mewed do creep out of their shellies;
The rumbling rivers now do warm, for little boys to paddle;
The sturdy steed now goes to grass, and up they hang his saddle;
The heavy hart, the bellowing buck, the rascal, and the pricket,
Are now among the yoeman's peas, and leave the fearful thicket;
And be like them, O you, I say, of this same noble town,
And lift aloft your velvet heads, and slipping off your gown,
With bells on legs, with napkins clean unto your shoulders tied,
With scarfs and garters as you please, and 'Hey for our town!' cried,
March out, and show your willing minds, by twenty and by twenty,
To Hogsdon or to Newington, where ale and cakes are plenty;
And let it ne'er be said for shame, that we the youths of London
Lay thrumming of our caps at home, and left our custom undone.
Up then, I say, both young and old, both man and maid a-maying,
With drums, and guns that bounce aloud, and merry tabor playing!
Which to prolong, God save our King, and send his country peace,
And root out treason from the land! and so my friends, I cease.
- Beaumont and Fletcher
Sumer is icumen in,
Lhude sing cuccu
Groweth sed and bloweth med
And springth the wude nu.
Sing cuccu.
Awe bleteth after lomb,
Lhouth after calve cu.
Bulluc sterteth, bucke verteth,
Murie sing cuccu.
Cuccu, cuccu,
Wel singes thu, cuccu,
Ne swik thu naver nu.
- Anon, probably
(Incidentally do we even know approximately what period Sumer Is Icumen In is supposed to be? I can't remember now, if I ever knew.)