And some actual music:) I think it’s been a clear month since I made any song settings. This is a quick recording of a Robert Burns lyric that might be called “The Silver Tassie”, with a new tune by me. My pronunciation is not… stable… I’m afraid, but shh.
Go fetch to me a pint o’ wine, An’ fill it in a silver tassie; That I may drink, before I go, A service to my bonnie lassie. The boat rocks at the pier o’ Leith, Fu’ loud the wind blaws frae the ferry, The ship rides by the Berwick-law, And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.
The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are rankèd ready; The shouts o’ war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and bloody; But it’s no the roar o’ sea or shore Wad mak me langer wish to tarry; Nor shout o’ war that’s heard afar, Its leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.
Been sketching a few “faux folk” songs lately – just writing new but kinda in-genre tunes for lyrics from this 1890 collection, without reference to the tunes given. Here are three that are recorded all through.
Settings of two poems from the Metaphysical Poets book, both by John Donne. Quick recordings, you know the drill.
The first one I was basically trying to write The Skye Boat Song or The Parting Glass, just a really pretty folk-type tune, you know?
Song: Sweetest love, I do not goe
Sweete love, I do not goe,
For wearinesse of thee,
Nor in hope the world can show
A fitter Love for mee;
But since that I
Must dye at last, ‘tis best,
To use my selfe in jest
Thus by fain’d deaths to dye;
Yesternight the Sunne went hence,
And yet is here to day,
He hath no desire nor sense,
Nor halfe so short a way:
Then feare not mee,
But beleeve that I shall make
Speedier journeyes, since I take
More wings and spurres then hee.
O how feeble is mans power
That if good fortune fall,
Cannot adde another houre,
Nor a lost houre recall!
But come bad chance,
And wee joyne to'it our strength,
And wee teach it art and length,
It selfe o'r us to'advance.
When thou sigh'st, thou sigh'st not winde,
But sigh'st my soule away,
When thou weep'st, unkindly kinde,
My lifes blood doth decay.
It cannot bee
That thou lov'st mee, as thou say'st,
If in thine my life thou waste,
Thou art the best of mee.
Let not thy divining heart
Forethinke me any ill,
Destiny may take thy part,
And may thy feares fulfill;
But thinke that wee
Are but turn’d aside to sleepe;
They who one another keepe
Alive, ne'r parted bee.
There’s a line in Howl’s Moving Castle which I feel like is Wynne Jones directly getting at Donne for his TERRIBLE SCANSION in another ‘Song’ —
“Then I’ll start with the second verse,” Miss Angorian said, “since you have the first verse there in your hand.” She read very well, not only melodiously, but in a way which made the second verse fit the rhythm of the first, which in Sophie’s opinion it did not do at all.
— similar problems here; what is going on the end of the second verse with the syllables and stresses? I know normally it’s my fault for starting with an odd verse and then realising nothing else quite fits that, but this time it really is that one second verse is odd. Anyway, hence some slight alterations.
And now a fabulously bitter break-up / heart break lyric!
The Message
Send home my long stray’d eyes to mee,
Which Oh too long have dwelt on thee;
Yet since there they have learn’d such ill,
Such forc’d fashions,
And false passions,
That they be
Made by thee
Fit for no good sight, keep them still.Send home my harmlesse heart againe,
Which no unworthy thought could staine;
But if it be taught by thine
To make jestings
Of protestings,
And crosse both
Word and oath,
Keepe it, for then ‘tis none of mine.Yet send me back my heart and eyes,
That I may know, and see thy lyes,
And may laugh and joy, when thou
Art in anguish
And dost languish
For some one
That will none,
Or prove as false as thou art now.
