<u>Believe Me, If All Those Endearing Young Charms</u>

Thomas Moore
1779-1852
from his Irish Melodies (1808-1834)

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms
Which I gaze on so fondly today
Were to change by tomorrow and fleet in my arms
Like fairy gifts fading away.
Thou wouldst still be adored as this moment thou art
Let thy loveliness fade as it will
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear
That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known
To which time will but make thee more dear.
No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets
But as truly loves on to the close
As the sunflower turns to her God when he sets
The same look which she turned when he rose.

Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands

<dd>by Bob Dylan

With your mercury mouth in the missionary times,
And your eyes like smoke and your prayers like rhymes,
And your silver cross, and your voice like chimes,
Oh, who among them do they think could bury you?
With your pockets well protected at last,
And your streetcar visions which you place on the grass,
And your flesh like silk, and your face like glass,
Who among them do they think could carry you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

With your sheets like metal and your belt like lace,
And your deck of cards missing the jack and the ace,
And your basement clothes and your hollow face,
Who among them can think he could outguess you?
With your silhouette when the sunlight dims
Into your eyes where the moonlight swims,
And your match-book songs and your gypsy hymns,
Who among them would try to impress you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

The kings of Tyrus with their convict list
Are waiting in line for their geranium kiss,
And you wouldn't know it would happen like this,
But who among them really wants just to kiss you?
With your childhood flames on your midnight rug,
And your Spanish manners and your mother's drugs,
And your cowboy mouth and your curfew plugs,
Who among them do you think could resist you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

Oh, the farmers and the businessmen, they all did decide
To show you the dead angels that they used to hide.
But why did they pick you to sympathize with their side?
Oh, how could they ever mistake you?
They wished you'd accepted the blame for the farm,
But with the sea at your feet and the phony false alarm,
And with the child of a hoodlum wrapped up in your arms,
How could they ever, ever persuade you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

With your sheet-metal memory of Cannery Row,
And your magazine-husband who one day just had to go,
And your gentleness now, which you just can't help but show,
Who among them do you think would employ you?
Now you stand with your thief, you're on his parole
With your holy medallion which your fingertips fold,
And your saintlike face and your ghostlike soul,
Oh, who among them do you think could destroy you
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

.

==================================================

The most covetted teacher in my high school as far as I knew it was Harold Bonticoe (forgive me if after all these years I've misremembered the spelling). Mr. B had the gifted tenth grade English block, & among his popular devices was to use pop lyrics to demonstrate the basics of poetry. Somewhere along the line I know he got depressed. The last time I spoke with him, he told me that after years of using this Dylan song, he couldn't explain what Dylan meant by "my warehouse eyes my Arabian drums." Was he afraid that he had accepted the value of this lyric as poetry because of some hype in Rolling Stone? Was he trying to see "eyes" as a verb, missing the comma? Was it just too much to accept that drums could be "Arabian" without much else in the lyric to back up the connection to the Middle East? (It just now hits me that these could be oil drums from Saudi Arabia... but that would make Dylan, gasp, a prophet.) Still, putting aside a teacher's self-doubt, these lines would not have been out of place in a poem by Hart Crane or Lorca. I don't find it at all far fetched to see this as poetry. I believe it was probably written as verse & then thrown over a few fairly easy chord changes after the fact. It's the first song I ever learned on the guitar. It's one of my favorite poems.

Mike, thanks for posting the Dylan. There are few poets in history who thrill me quite the way Dylan does.

I don't have the book with me, but Christopher Ricks analyzes this song in a very interesting way. If I recall correctly, and I may not, there are many parallels with a poem by Swinburne, enough to conclude that Dylan must have had the Swinburne poem in mind.... though his song is also entirely original.

I wonder if these lyrics lose something if you never heard Dylan sing it. Some of the words that Dylan hits hard provide rhymes and echos that one might not hear without knowing the performance.

**
PS-- Songs and poems are different, of course, but I think there's a song by Irving Berlin that speaks for both poets and songwriters in the following verses:

Let me sing a funny song
With crazy words that roll along
And if my song can start you laughing
I'm happy

Let me sing a sad refrain
Of broken hearts who love in vain
And if my song can start you crying
I'm happy


[This message has been edited by Roger Slater (edited January 18, 2005).]

Roger--

there's an unquestionable Swinburne air to Dylan's lyric, & Swinburne was fond of meantioning low lands, or at least he did so in a few key poems, but I don't know of any direct parallel. I love S's "Ave Atque Vale" to Baudelaire -- but I'm sure you knew I would. Ha.

(Admittedly, it helps when Louis Armstrong is singing.)

--CS

Clay, good to see you back!

KEB

[This message has been edited by Katy Evans-Bush (edited January 20, 2005).]

I have always liked this oldie, which swings along. It could almost make it as a poem, I think.

Love me or Leave Me


Love me or leave me and let me be lonely
You won’t believe me but I love you only
I’d rather be lonely than happy with somebody else.
You might find the night time the right time for kissing
Night time is my time for just reminiscing
Regretting instead of forgetting with somebody else.

There’ll be no one unless that someone is you
I intended to be independently blue
I want you love, don’t wanna borrow
Have it today to give back tomorrow
Your love is my love
There’s no love for nobody else.

Say, love me or leave me and let me be lonely
You won’t believe me but I love you only
I’d rather be lonely than happy with somebody else.
You might find the night time the right time for kissing
Night time is my time for just reminiscing
Regretting instead of forgetting with somebody else.

There’ll be no one unless that someone is you
I intended to be independently blue
Say I want your love, don’t wanna borrow
Have it today to give back tomorrow
Your love is my love
My love is your love
There’s no love for nobody else.


- Walter Donaldson, Gus Kahn (1928)


BANNED POST

Noel Coward really knew what he was saying in "Private Lives" when he made a character say:

"extraordinary how potent cheap music is".

It's because when it succeeds it speaks.
Janet

<u>The Harp That Once Through Tara’s Halls</u>

Thomas Moore
1779-1852

The harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory's thrill is o'er,
And hearts that once beat high for praise
Now feel that praise no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright,
The harp of Tara swells;
The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives
Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.

Bobby,
You have me sniffing into a cambric handkerchief with John McCormack and James Joyce ;)
Janet