Janet, I agree that the history of song is a useful thing for a poet to be aquainted with. Does that mean then that you have a good knowledge of contemporary songs, such as the work of Korn, Marylin Manson, Eminem, Avril Lavigne, Nelly, Beonce etc? I must confess that I myself do not.

Here's an oldie.


As She Moved Through The Fair (traditional Irish song)

My young love said to me, "My mother won't mind
And my father won't slight you for your lack of kind"
And she stepped away from me and this she did say:
It will not be long, love, till our wedding day"

As she stepped away from me and she moved through the fair
And fondly I watched her move here and move there
And then she turned homeward with one star awake
Like the swan in the evening moves over the lake

The people were saying, no two e'er were wed
But one had a sorrow that never was said
And I smiled as she passed with her goods and her gear,
And that was the last that I saw of my dear.

Last night she came to me, my dead love came in
So softly she came that her feet made no din
As she laid her hand on me and this she did say
"It will not be long, love, 'til our wedding day"

Alexander,
That's a truly lovely song.
I know little about most current popular songs although when I was younger I did know many. But at the same time I knew the heritage of songs. That's what I think is being lost.

I was talking about major masterpieces by composers as great as the great historical poets.

Of course I love a lot of 20th century popular music. I put myself through college by playing it on the piano in restaurants but I am now very out of touch. Many popular songs join the great permanent stream of music.

But there are centuries of seriously magnificent songs which are being lost because the culture of recitals is dying for commercial reasons and therefore the recorded repertoire is narrowing because of a smaller public demand. That's why I was so insistent on General Talk about the great, late Victoria De Los Angeles who was a supreme singer of exquisite songs. There are songs which are the equal of any of the greatest poetry and they are fading from the public memory.
Janet

<u>Lord Randal</u>

1
'O WHERE ha you been, Lord Randal, my son?
And where ha you been, my handsome young man?'
'I ha been at the greenwood; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down.'

2
'An wha met ye there, Lord Randal, my son?
An wha met you there, my handsome young man?'
'O I met wi my true-love; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi huntin, an fain wad lie own.'

3
'And what did she give you, Lord Randal, my son?
And what did she give you, my handsome young man?'
'Eels fried in a pan; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi huntin, and fain wad lie down.'

4
'And wha gat your leavins, Lord Randal, my son?
And wha gat your leavins, my handsome young man?'
'My hawks and my hounds; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi hunting and fain wad lie down.'

5
'And what becam of them, Lord Randal, my son?
And what becam of them, my handsome young man?'
'They stretched their legs out an died; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi huntin, and fain wad lie down'

6
'O I fear you are poisoned, Lord Randal, my son!
I fear you are poisoned, my handsome young man.'
'O yes, I am poisoned; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.'

7
'What d'ye leave to your mother, Lord Randal, my son?
What d'ye leave to your mother, my handsome young man?'
'Four and twenty milk kye; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.'

8
'What d'ye leave to your sister, Lord Randal, my son?
What d'ye leave to your sister, my handsome young man?'
'My gold and my silver; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at the heart, an I fain wad lie down.'

9
'What d'ye leave to your brother, Lord Randal, my son?
What d'ye leave to your brother, my handsome young man?'
'My houses and my lands; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.'

10
'What d'ye leave to your true-love, Lord Randal my son?
What d'ye leave to your true-love, my handsome young man?'
'I leave her hell and fire; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.'


[This message has been edited by Robert E. Jordan (edited January 23, 2005).]

Janet, I agree that this is sad. I find it odd that when there is so much music about that fuses different styles from different cultures there is less that plunders that other country called the past.

I would be very sad if Gaelic songs were forgotten for instance. I had a friend from Ireland who sung to me at times (she sang the song I posted above once, and it was heartbreakingly wonderful). But actually I think that folk music is doing fairly well, judging by, the number of traditional singers I see in english pubs.

Here's a modern folk song, I think it is extremely beautiful as a song or a poem.

The Queen and The Soldier (Suzanne Vega)

The soldier came knocking upon the queen's door
He said, "I am not fighting for you any more"
The queen knew she'd seen his face someplace before
And slowly she let him inside.


He said, "I've watched your palace up here on the hill
And I've wondered who's the woman for whom we all kill
But I am leaving tomorrow and you can do what you will
Only first I am asking you why."


Down in the long narrow hall he was led
Into her rooms with her tapestries red
And she never once took the crown from her head
She asked him there to sit down.


He said, "I see you now, and you are so very young
But I've seen more battles lost than I have battles won
And I've got this intuition, says it's all for your fun
And now will you tell me why?"


The young queen, she fixed him with an arrogant eye
She said, "You won't understand, and you may as well not try"
But her face was a child's, and he thought she would cry
But she closed herself up like a fan.


And she said, "I've swallowed a secret burning thread
It cuts me inside, and often I've bled"
He laid his hand then on top of her head
And he bowed her down to the ground.


"Tell me how hungry are you? How weak you must feel
As you are living here alone, and you are never revealed
But I won't march again on your battlefield"
And he took her to the window to see.


And the sun, it was gold, though the sky, it was gray
And she wanted more than she ever could say
But she knew how it frightened her, and she turned away
And would not look at his face again.


And he said, "I want to live as an honest man
To get all I deserve and to give all I can
And to love a young woman who I don't understand
Your highness, your ways are very strange."


But the crown, it had fallen, and she thought she would break
And she stood there, ashamed of the way her heart ached
She took him to the doorstep and she asked him to wait
She would only be a moment inside.


Out in the distance her order was heard
And the soldier was killed, still waiting for her word
And while the queen went on strangeling in the solitude she preferred
The battle continued on

Hi Janet

Of course the songs of Benjamin Britten are "poetic" -- for the very reason that they are poems set to music, which is the case with his song cycle based on Thomas Hardy's "Winter Words" or his settings of Michelangelo's sonnets. Perhaps I am stating the obvious here, but these are not instances of these pieces being written as songs, but as poems first that were secondly reinterpreted as songs by a composer at some later time. I assume the same applies to the pieces by Brahms and the other composers that you mentioned.

All the best

Chris

<u>Dives and Lazarus</u>

I

AS it fell out upon a day,
Rich Dives he made a feast,
And he invited all his friends
And gentry of the best.

II

Then Lazarus laid him down and down,
And down at Dives’ door;
‘Some meat, some drink, brother Dives,
Bestow upon the poor!’—

III

‘Thou art none of my brother, Lazarus,
That lies begging at my door;
No meat nor drink will I give thee,
Nor bestow upon the poor.’

IV

Then Lazarus laid him down and down,
And down at Dives’ wall,
‘Some meat, some drink, brother Dives,
Or with hunger starve I shall!’—

V

‘Thou art none of my brother, Lazarus,
That lies begging at my wall;
No meat nor drink will I give thee,
But with hunger starve you shall.’

VI

Then Lazarus laid him down and down,
And down at Dives’ gate:
‘Some meat, some drink, brother Dives,
For Jesus Christ his sake!’—

VII

‘Thou art none of my brother, Lazarus,
That lies begging at my gate;
No meat nor drink will I give thee,
For Jesus Christ his sake.’

VIII

Then Dives sent out his merry men,
To whip poor Lazarus away;
They had no power to strike a stroke,
But flung their whips away.

IX

Then Dives sent out his hungry dogs,
To bite him as he lay;
They had no power to bite at all,
But lickéd his sores away.

X

As it fell out upon a day,
Poor Lazarus sicken’d and died;
Then came two angels out of heaven
His soul therein to guide.

XI

‘Rise up, rise up, brother Lazarus,
And go along with me;
For you’ve a place prepared in heaven,
To sit on an angel’s knee.’

XII

As it fell out upon a day,
Rich Dives sicken’d and died;
Then came two serpents out of hell,
His soul therein to guide.

XIII

‘Rise up, rise up, brother Dives,
And go with us to see
A dismal place, prepared in hell,
To sit on a serpent’s knee.’

XIV

Then Dives look’d up with his eyes,
And saw poor Lazarus blest:
‘Give me one drop of water, brother Lazarus,
To quench my flaming thirst.

XV

‘Oh had I as many years to abide
As there are blades of grass,
Then there would be an end, but now
Hell’s pains will ne’er be past!

XVI

‘Oh was I now but alive again,
The space of one half hour!
Oh that I had my peace secure!
Then the devil should have no power.’

Chris,
Nowhere is this discussion does anyone separate words from music. The word "song" is erroneously used by popular writers and most posters here to mean words that please them. A song succeeds by the marriage of words and music, whether or not the words were conceived separately. Most musicologists who trace the history of any particular folksong find many threads and many "histories".

I wanted to speak of the phenomenon of deliberately created songs by individuals of outstanding ability and scholarship. That isn't thought elitist whan we speak of poetry. Why are songs different?

The genius of Britten was to unite words and music so that they became one. That is true of all great composers of songs, wherther folk singers or classical composers.

We take poetry very seriously and when we discuss poetry we try to find the finest examples we know. Here we are still doing that but ignore the nature of song. We are more demanding when we write of poetry.

I decided to make a case for the highest achievements of song.

I hear professional pop commentators using the word "music" when they are speaking of the lyrics.
Janet

Janet, I am sure you didn't mean "Song", by Donne, but some might think you did. A few of Donne's poems were set to music during his day - without his knowledge or approval - and "Go and catch a falling star" was certainly one of them. An anonymous musical arrangement of "Song" from the period still exists. See Helen Gardner, John Donne: The Elegies and the Songs and Sonnets, Appendix B.



------------------
Mark Allinson

http://markallinson.netpublish.net/

Mark,
I absolutely love that poem. It was one of the first poems I ever loved.
It depends how well set whether or not it is entitled to be in a discussion about a song.

Hugo Wolf set a German translation of a poem by Michelangelo and it is, in mmy opinion, one of the most profound songs ever written.

I was replying to Chris's statements about Britten which I thought had the cat by the tail. Schubert's great settings of Goethe fulfil Goethe who was already great. The greatness of the song is that the music equalled or even surpassed the original.

There are many meanings to song and the words of popular songs (which well may last in human memory beyond their generation like the lutanist's songs I mentioned) are engraved in our minds through their marriage to music. But there are levels of greatness in song as there are in poetry. Sometimes a great song elevates a less good poem.

I am trying to protect the magic thing that a song is.
Janet

The German translation of a poem by Michelangelo which Hugo Wold set to music. The best recording is a historical recording by the great Ukrainian bass, Alexander Kipnis. The piano part is as important as the vocal part. It is available on historical archive recordings.

Alles endet, was entstehet.
Alles, alles rings vergehet,
Denn die Zeit flieht, und die Sonne
Sieht, daß alles rings vergehet,
Denken, Reden, Schmerz, und Wonne;
Und die wir zu Enkeln hatten
Schwanden wie bei Tag die Schatten,
Wie ein Dunst im Windeshauch.
Menschen waren wir ja auch,
Froh und traurig, so wie ihr,
Und nun sind wir leblos hier,
Sind nur Erde, wie ihr sehet.
Alles ended, was entstehet.
Alles, alles rings vergehet.


_____
Here is my translation and Michelangelo's original..

This is a translation of one of many poems written by the great Italian sculptor and painter, Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564).

Chiunche nasce a morte arriva

All who are born arrive at death
with the passing of time: and the sun
leaves no thing alive.
Gone pleasure and pain
skills, words
and our ancient lineages–
these are as shadows to sun – smoke to wind.
We were as you were, men
happy and sad, like you,
and now, as you see,
we are in the earth, deprived of life.
we are in the earth, All beings arrive at death.
Here, where once our eyes were,
with radiance in each socket;
these now are empty, horrid and black,
born away by time itself.

__________________


Michelangelo’s original poem rhymes but because the poem is so stark and strong I decided not to sacrifice meaning to rhyme. The meter and rhyme are both important and so here is the original text, written some time before 1524 when Michelangelo was influenced by Savonarola.
__________________

Chiunche nasce a morte arriva
nel fuggir del tempo; e ‘l sole
niuna cosa lascia viva.
Manca il dolce e quel che dole
e gl’ingegni e le parole;
e le nostre antiche prole
al sole ombre, al vento un fummo.
Come voi uomini fummo,
lieti e tristi, come siete;
e or siàn, come vedete,
terra al sol, di vita priva.
terra al sol,Ogni cosa a morte arriva.
Già fur gli occhi nostri interi
con la luce in ogni speco;
or son voti, orrendi e neri,
e ciò porta il tempo seco.