Sourced from Welsh Lyrics of the Nineteenth Century, Translated by Edmund O. Jones and Songs of the West, ed. Cecil Sharp, 8 new faux/folk melodies. This is a project kind of like Lullabies and Songs of Old and forever and forever and forever.
- Lily of the West
- Within a garden
- Go and dig a grave for me
- Ship came sailing
- Simple ploughboy
- Llewelyn’s grave
- A rambling sailor
- Come to the boat
Lyrics:
Lily of the West
‘Twas when I came to England, some pleasures for to find,
There I espied a damsel most pleasing to my mind;
Her rosy cheeks and shining eyes as arrows pierced my breast,
Her name was Lovely Flora, the Lily of the West.
Her golden hair in ringlets hung, her dress was spangled o’er;
She’d rings on every finger, brought from a foreign shore;
‘Twould ruin kings and princes, so richly was she dress’d,
She far excelleth Venus, this Lily of the West.
I courted her a fortnight, in hopes her love to gain,
But soon she turn’d against me, which caused all my pain.
She robb’d me of my freedom, she robb’d me of my rest,
I roam, forsook of Flora, the Lily of the West.
Alas! where’er I wander, however much I will
The thought of that fair maiden abideth with me still;
For ever I am downcast, for ever am oppress’d,
An outcast e’er from Flora, the Lily of the West.
Within a garden
Within a garden a maiden lingered,
When soft the shades of evening fell,
Expecting, fearing,
A footstep hearing,
Her love appearing,
To say farewell.
With sighs and sorrow their vows they plighted
One more embrace, one last adieu;
Tho’ seas divide, love,
In this confide, love,
Whate’er betide, love,
To thee I’m true.
Long years are over, and still the maiden
Seeks oft at eve the trysting tree;
Her promise keeping,
And, faithful, weeping,
Her lost love sleeping
Across the sea.
Go and dig a grave for me
Evan Jones trans. Edmund O. Jones
Go and dig a grave for me,
This is but a world of woe:
Vanish all the joys of life,
Like the clouds which come and go:
And the weary finds no rest
Save within the grave’s cold breast.
Go and dig a grave for me,
Weary pilgrim here am I,
Through life’s dark and stormy ways
Wandering with a mournful cry.
Nought to clasp to my poor breast
Save the staff whereon I rest.
Go and dig a grave for me,
’Neath some green and shady tree,
Where the kindly breeze will make
Mournful music over me.
For the weak, lone wanderer
Oh how pleasant ’twill be there.
Ship came sailing
A ship came sailing over the sea
As deeply laden as she could be;
My sorrows fill me to the brim,
I care not if I sink or swim.
I care not if I sink or swim.
Ten thousand ladies in the room,
But my true love’s the fairest bloom,
Of stars she is my brightest sun,
I said I would have her or none.
I said I would have her or none.
Down in a mead the other day,
As carelessly I went my way,
And plucked the flowers both red and blue,
I little thought what love could do.
I little thought what love could do.
I saw a Rose with ruddy blush,
And thrust my hand into the bush,
I pricked my fingers to the bone,
I would I’d left that rose alone!
I would I’d left that rose alone!
Simple ploughboy
O the Ploughboy was a ploughing
With his horses on the plain,
And was singing of a song as on went he.
“Since that I have fall’n in love,
If the parents disapprove,
‘Tis the first thing that will send me to the sea.”
When the parents came to know
That their daughter loved him so,
Then they sent a gang, and pressed him for the sea.
And they made of him a tar,
To be slain in cruel war;
Of the simple Ploughboy singing on the lea.
The the maiden sore did grieve,
And without a word of leave,
From her father’s house she fled most secretlie,
In a male attire dress’d,
With a star upon her breast,
All to seek her simple Ploughboy on the sea.
Then she went o’er hill and plain,
And she walked in wind and rain,
Till she came to the brink of the blue sea.
Saying, “I am forced to rove,
For the loss of my true love,
Who is but a simple Ploughboy from the lea.”
Now the first she did behold,
O it was a sailor bold,
“Have you seen my simple ploughboy?” then said she.
“They have press’d him to the fleet,
Sent him tossing on the deep,
Who is but a simple Ploughboy from the lea.”
Then she went to the Captain,
And to him she made complain,
“O a silly Ploughboy’s run away from me!”
Then the Captain smiled and said,
“Why Sir! surely you’re a maid!
So the Ploughboy I will render up to thee.”
Then she pullèd out a store,
Of five hundred crowns and more,
And she strewed them on the deck, did she,
Then she took him by the hand,
And she rowed him to the land,
Where she wed the simple Ploughboy back from sea.
Llewelyn’s Grave
John Ceirog Hughes, trans. Edmund O. Jones
The earth has sunk low on the grave of Llewelyn,
The rainpools lie o’er it unruffled and still;
The moon at her rising, the sun at his setting,
Blush red as they look o’er the slope of the hill.
O Cymru, my land, dost know of this ill?
And where is the patriot hiding his face?
The tears of the cloudwrack know well where he lieth,
The birds of the mountain can tell of the place.
By chance comes a Welshman and carelessly gazes,
Where fell the last hero who fought for his sake;
The breezes are moaning, the earth is complaining,
That the heart of old Cymru is feeble and weak.
’Tis aliens only their pilgrimage make
Where low lies our prince by the side of his glaive.
Thank God for the tears which are falling from heaven,
And the grass that grows green by the edge of the grave.
A rambling sailor
I toss my cap up into the air,
And away whil’st all are sleeping,
The host may swear, and the hostess stare,
And the pretty maids be weeping:
There is never a place that I do grace,
Which a second time shall see my face;
For I travel the world from place to place,
And still am a Rambling Sailor.
O when I come to London town,
Or enter any city,
I settle down at the Bell or Crown,
And court each lass that’s pretty.
And I say, “My dear, be of good cheer,
I’ll never depart, you need not fear!”
But I traveled the country far and near
And still am a Rambling Sailor.
And if that you would know my name,
I’ve any that you fancy,
‘Tis never the same, as I change my flame,
From Bet, to Joan, or Nancy.
I court maids all, marry none at all,
My heart is round, and rolls as a ball,
And I travel the land from Spring to Fall,
And still am a Rambling Sailor.
Come to the boat
Richard Davies trans. Edmund O. Jones
Come to the boat, love,
Come let us row,
So all the day, love,
Floating we’ll go.
Low sinks the sun, love,
Crimson the sky,
See the pale moon, love,
Rises on high.
Now through the sky, love,
Stars of the night,
O’er thy fair head, love,
Smiling shine bright.
But they are dim, love,
By the true light,
Which in thine eyes, love,
Burns day and night.
Deep in the wood, love,
Curtained with shade,
Birds to the sun, love,
Sing serenade.
Faint is their song, love,
Nought to mine ear,
When from thy lips, love,
Sweet words I hear.
Gaze on the tide, love,
Sleeping at rest,
Mirrored thy face, love,
See on its breast.
So in my heart, love,
Carved is thy mien,
Where thou shalt reign, love,
Throned as my queen.