Beethoven Folksongs Arrangements Sung Texts
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Beethoven folksongs arrangements Sung texts CD1 25 Irish Songs WoO152 1. No.1 THE RETURN TO ULSTER 2. No.2 SWEET POWER OF SONG! 4. No. 4 THE MORNING AIR PLAYS ON MY Once again, but how chang’d since my Sweet power of Song! That canst impart, FACE wanderings began To lowland swain or mountaineers, The morning air plays on my face, I have heard the deep voice of the Lagan A gladness thrilling trough the heart, And through the grey mist peering, and Bann, A joy so tender and so dear: The soften’d silv’ry sun I trace, And the pines of Clanbrasil resound to the Sweet Power! That on a foreign strand Wood wild, and mountain cheering. roar Canst the rough soldier’s bosom move, Larks aloft are singing, That wearies the echoes of fair Tullamore. With feelings of his native land, Hares from covert springing, Alas! My poor bosom, and why shouldst As gentle as infant’s love. And o’er the fen the wild duck’s brood thou burn! Sweet Power! That makes youthful heads Their early way are winging. With the scenes of my youth can its With thistle, leek, or shamrock crown’d, Bright ev’ry dewy hawthorn shines, raptures return? Nod proudly as the carol sheds Sweet ev’ry herb is growing, Can I live the dear life of delusion again, Its spirit through the social round. To him whose willing heart inclines That flow’d when these echoes first mix’d Sweet Power! That cheer’s the daily toil The way that he is going. with my strain? Of cottage maid, or beldame poor, Fancy shews to me, now, It was then that around me, though poor The ploughman on the furrow’d soil, What will shortly be now, and unknown, Or herdboy on the lonely moor. I’m patting at her door, poor Tray, High spells of mysterious enchantment Or he, by bards the shepherd hight, Who fawns and welcomes me now. were thrown; Who mourns his maiden’s broken tye, How slowly moves the rising latch! The streams were of silver, of diamond the ’Till the sweet plaint, in woe’s despite, How quick my heart is beating. dew, Hath made a bliss of agony. That worldly dame is on the watch The land was an Eden, for fancy was new. Sweet power of Song! Thanks flow to thee To frown upon our meeting. I had heard of our bards, and my soul was From every kind and gentle breast! Fly! Why should I mind her, on fire Let Erin’s Cambria’s minstrels be See, who stands behind her, At the rush of their verse, and the sweep of With Burn’s tuneful spirit blest! Whose eye doth on her trav’ller look their lyre: Joanna Baillie The sweeter and the kinder. To me ‘twas not legend, nor tale to the ear, Joanna Baillie But a vision of noontide, distinguish’d and 3. No.3 ONCE MORE I HAIL THEE clear. Once more I hail thee, thou gloomy 5. No.5 ON THE MASSACRE OF GLENCOE Ultonia’s old heroes awoke at the call; December! Oh! Tell me, Harper, wherefore flow And renew’d the wild pomp of the chace Thy visage so dark, and thy tempest’s Thy wayward notes of wail and woe and the hall; dread roar; Far down the desert of Glencoe, And the standard of Fion flash’d fierce Sad was the parting thou mak’st me Where non may list their melody? from on high, remember, Say, harp’st thou to the mist that fly, Like a burst of the sun when the tempest is My parting with Nancy, ah! Ne’er to meet Or to the dun deer glancing by, nigh. more! Or to the eagle, that from hig It seem’d that the harp of green Erin once Fond lovers parting is sweet painful Screams chorus to thy minstrelsy? more pleasure, No, not to these, for they have rest, Could renew all the glories she boasted of When hope mildly beams on the soft The mist‐wreath has the mountain crest, yore. parting hour; The stag his lair, the erne her nest, Yet why at remembrance, fond heart, But the dire feeling, “O farewell for ever”, Abode of lone security. shouldst thou burn? Is anguish unmingled and agony pure. But those for whom I pour the lay, They were days of delusion, and can not Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, Not wild wood deep, nor mountain grey, return. Until the last leaf of the summer is flown, Not this deep dell that shrouds from day Sir Walter Scott Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom, Could screen from treach’rous cruelty. Since hope is departed and comfort is The hand that mingled in the meal, gone. At midnight drew the felon steel, Robert Burns (1759‐1796) And gave the host’s kind breast to feel, Meed for his hospitality. The friendly heart which warm’d that hand, At midnight arm’d it with a brand That bade destruction’s flames expand Their red and fearful blazonry. Long have my harp’s best notes been gone, 1 94925 Beethoven Few are its strings, and faint their tone, Go, scud it o’er Killarney’s lake, Then for that reason and for a season, They can but sound in desert lone And shake the willows bare; We will be merry before we go. Their grey‐hair’d master’s misery. The water‐elf his sport doth take, A wayworn ranger to joy a stranger, Were each grey hair a minstrel string, Thou’lt find a comrade there. Through every danger my course I’ve run; Each chord should imprecations fling, Will o’ the Wisp skips in the dell, Now hope all ending, and death ’Till startled Scotland loud should ring, The owl hoots on the tree, befriending, “Revenge for blood and treachery!” They hold their nightly vigil well, His last aid sending, my cares are done, And so the while will we. No more a rover, or hapless lover, 6. No.6 WHAT SHALL I DO TO SHEW HOW Then strike we up the rousing glee, My griefs are over, and my glass runs low. MUCH I LOVE HER? And pass the beaker round, Then for that reason and for a season, What shall I do to shew how much I love While ev’ry head right merrily We will be merry before we go. her? Is moving to the sound. John Philpot Curran Thoughts that oppress me, O how can I Joanna Baillie tell? 11. No.11 THOU EMBLEM OF FAITH Will my soft passion be able to move her? 9. No. 9. THE SOLDIER’S DREAM Thou emblem of faith, thou sweet pledge Language is wanting, when loving so well. Our bugles sung truce, for the nightcloud of a passion, Can sighs and tears, in the silence, betoken had low’r’d, That heav’n has ordain’d for an happier Half the distress this fond bosom must And the centinel stars set their watch in than me; know? the sky, On the hand of the fair go resume thy lov’d Or will she melt when a true heart is And thousands had sunk on the ground, station broken, overpow’r’d, And bask in the beam that is lavish’d on Weeping, too late, o’er her lost lover’s The weary to sleep, and the wounded to thee. woe. die. Amd when some past scene thy Is there a grace comes not playful before When reposing that night om my pallet of remembrance recalling, her? straw, Her bosom shall rise to the tear that is Is there a virtue, and not in her train? By the wolfscaring faggot that guarded the falling, Is there a swain but delights to adore her? slain, With the transport of love may no anguish Pains she a heart, but it boasts of her At the dead of the night a sweet vision I combine, chain? saw, But the bliss be all hers, and the suff ’ring Could I believe she’d prevent my undoing, And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it all mine. Life’s gayest fancies the hope should again. But ah! Had the ringlet thou lov’st to renew; Methought from the battlefield’s dreadful surround, Or could I think she’d be pleas’d with my array, Had it e’er kiss’d the rose on the cheek of ruin, Far, far I had roam’d on a desolate track; my dear, Death should persuade her my ’Twas autumn, and sunshine arose on the What ransom to buy thee could ever be sorrows are true! way found? To the home of my fathers, that welcom’d Or what force from my heart thy 7. NO.7 HIS BOAT COMES ON THE SUNNY me back. possession could tear? TIDE I flew to the pleasant fields travers’d so oft A mourner, a suff ’rer, a wand’rer, a His boat comes on the sunny tide, In life’s morning march, when my bosom stranger, And brightly gleams the flashing oar; was young; In sickness, in sadness, in pain, or in The boatmen carol by his side, I heard my own mountain goats bleating danger, And blithely near the welcome shore, aloft, Next that heart would I wear thee till its How softly Shannon’s currents flow! And knew the sweet strain the cornreapers last pang was o’er, His shadow in the stream I see; sung.