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There Was a Child There Was a Child Jonathan Dove Since my childhood, music – especially choral music – has given my life meaning, so commissioning a piece to celebrate my 1 I am the song / Birth [6.59] son Robert’s life seemed cathartic – if a little 2 Childhood [4.53] ambitious. Jonathan Dove was the obvious choice of 3 A Song About Myself [3.17] composer for me. I had been struck by his theatre music over the years and in the 1990s worked with 4 From all the Jails the Boys and Girls [2.34] him on his first concerto commission; his strong 5 Over the Fence [2.03] feeling for community connected with my need for this piece to be universal. Robert’s father, Richard 6 All shod with steel [3.28] Van Allan, had been rehearsing Jonathan’s first 7 Romance [4.22] main-stage opera, Flight, at Glyndebourne in the 8 New Worlds / High Flight [11.32] summer of 1999. Robert, aged 19, drowned while snorkeling in Thailand on 21 June that year. 9 There Was a Child [11.46] Total timings: [50.47] Jonathan never knew Robert but we spent much time talking about him, and There Was a Child has surpassed all my expectations. Jonathan has completely captured Robert’s spirit. He was © Clive Barda City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra a warm, kind, thoughtful, bright, gregarious and CBSO Chorus CBSO Youth Chorus fearless person who grasped every opportunity birth, through childhood to young manhood. Robert CBSO Children’s Chorus that presented itself. His great compassion, true would have been delighted that such a joyous love of mankind and adventurous spirit continue to piece of music should have been composed to Joan Rodgers soprano inspire all of us who knew and loved him. honour him and all the young people who, like him, Toby Spence tenor have been taken from this world too soon. Simon Halsey conductor There Was a Child, a modern oratorio, uses a sequence of poems to trace a young life from Rosemary Van Allan (Pickering) www.signumrecords.com - 3 - When Rosemary Pickering asked me to write Most of the texts are celebratory, but there is THERE WAS A CHILD Some word a piece to celebrate the life of her son, we both no avoiding the terrible moment when a young To tell. immediately felt it should involve singing. life is cut short in the middle of adventure. 1 I am the song Singing with other people is one of the most Shakespeare evokes the grief of a mother for her Langston Hughes (1902-1967) joyful activities I know, so this had to be a choral child, and Tichborne sings of death coming too I am the song that sings the bird. work. And music celebrating young life should soon. I did not want the piece to end here, and I am the leaf that grows the land. 2 Childhood include the sound of children’s voices. The idea it was important for Rosie to remember all the I am the tide that moves the moon. of mother and son suggested two soloists: joy her son’s short life brought her. Walt I am the stream that halts the sand. Joy, pleasure, beauty, kindness, glory, love, soprano and tenor. Accompanying these different Whitman’s poem There Was a Child went Forth I am the cloud that drives the storm. Sleep, day, life, light, voices would be all the colours of the symphony is a radiant vision of a child absorbing I am the earth that lights the sun. Peace, melody, my sight, orchestra. The Norfolk and Norwich Festival and everything around him and connecting with the I am the fire that strikes the stone. My ears and heart did fill, and freely move. the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra whole world. I am the clay that shapes the hand. All that I saw did me delight. joined in this commission, of 2009, to create a I am the word that speaks the man. The universe was then a world of treasure, large-scale piece of communal music-making. © Jonathan Dove To me an universal world of pleasure. Charles Causley (1917-2003) I started looking for words for all these voices Thomas Traherne (c.1637-1674) to sing. I found poems by Charles Causley and Birth Langston Hughes describing the wonder of Oh, many a time have I, a five years’ child, birth; by Wordsworth, Keats, Traherne and Emily Oh, fields of wonder A naked boy, in one delightful rill, Dickinson conjuring up different aspects of Out of which A little mill-race severed from his stream, childhood – naughtiness, carefree playfulness, Stars are born, Made one long bathing of a summer’s day; youthful adventures. My choices were informed And moon and sun Basked in the sun, and plunged and basked again by stories Rosie and Richard had told me about And me as well, Alternate, all a summer’s day, or coursed their son Robert – particular stories about a Like stroke Over the sandy fields, leaping through groves unique individual, but which also conjured up Of lightning Of yellow groundsel; or when crag and hill, archetypal images of youthful liveliness, mischief In the night The woods, and distant Skiddaw’s lofty height, and outdoor escapades. Some mark Were bronzed with a deep radiance, stood alone To make Beneath the sky, as if I had been born - 4 - - 5 - On Indian plains, and from my mother’s hut To the North, Little Baby’s As in England – Had run abroad in wantonness, to sport And follow’d his nose Little fingers So he stood in his shoes A naked savage, in the thunder shower. To the North. O he made And he wonder’d ‘Twas his trade He wonder’d, From ‘The Prelude’ by William Wordsworth (1770-1850) There was a naughty boy Of Fish a pretty Kettle He stood in his shoes And a naughty boy was he, A Kettle – And he wonder’d. 3 A Song About Myself He kept little fishes A Kettle In washing tubs three Of Fish a pretty Kettle John Keats (1795-1821) There was a naughty Boy, In spite A Kettle! And a naughty boy was he, Of the might 4 From all the Jails the Boys and Girls He would not stop at home, Of the Maid There was a naughty Boy, He could not quiet be - or afraid And a naughty Boy was he, From all the Jails the Boys and Girls He took Of his Granny-good – He ran away to Scotland Ecstatically leap – In his Knapsack He often would The people for to see – Beloved only Afternoon A Book Full of vowels Hurly burly Then he found That Prison doesn’t keep And a shirt Get up early That the ground With some towels – And go Was as hard, They storm the Earth and stun the Air, A slight cap By hook or crook That a yard A Mob of solid Bliss – For night cap – To the brook Was as long, Alas – that Frowns should lie in wait A hair brush, And bring home That a song For such a Foe as this – Comb ditto, Miller’s thumb Was as merry, New Stockings Tittlebat That a cherry Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) For old ones Not over fat, Was as red – Would split O! Minnows small That lead This Knapsack As the stall Was as weighty, Tight at’s back Of a glove, That fourscore He rivetted close Not above Was as eighty, And followed his Nose The size That a door To the North, Of a nice Was as wooden - 6 - - 7 - 5 Over the Fence 7 Romance O shining Popocatapetl Of sun-split clouds – and done a hundred things It was thy magic hour: You have not dreamed of; Over the fence strawberries grow; When I was but thirteen or so Wheeled and soared and swung Over the fence I could climb I went into a golden land, The houses, people, traffic seemed High in the sun-lit silence. Hovering there If I tried, I know – Chimborazo, Cotopaxi Thin fading dreams by day, I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung Berries are nice! Took me by the hand. Chimborazo, Cotopaxi My eager craft through footless halls of air; They had stolen my soul away! Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue Emily Dickinson My father died, my brother too, I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with They passed like fleeting dreams, William J. Turner (1889-1946) easy grace, 6 All shod with steel I stood where Popocatapetl Where never lark nor even eagle flew; In the sunlight gleams. 8 New Worlds And while, with silent lifting mind I’ve trod – All shod with steel, The high untrespassed sanctity of space, We hiss’d along the polish’d ice, in games I dimly heard the master’s voice I saw new Worlds beneath the Water lie, Put out my hand, and touched the face of God. Confederate, imitative of the chace And boys far-off at play, New People; yea, another Sky And woodland pleasures, the resounding horn, Chimborazo, Cotopaxi And sun, which seen by Day John Giilespie Magee Jr. (1922-1941) The pack loud bellowing, and the hunted hare. Had stolen me away. Might things more clear display. So through the darkness and the cold we flew, Adventure strange! No such in Story we, My tale was heard, and yet it was not told; And not a voice was idle; with the din, I walked in a great golden dream New or old, true or feigned, see.

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