Music for All Saints' Day

One of the lovely things about All Saints' Day is that its imagery and music are so deeply familiar; it's a little like Christmas, in that as the feast approaches you already know what you're going to encounter, and can look forward to it.  But unlike Christmas, with its never-ending wealth of poetry and hymns, All Saints' Day has a fairly small range of material - almost all of it wonderful, but all very familiar.  And so this introduction is by way of apology (but not really) for posting such famous hymns today; they're just so good, and I like them so much that I could sing them every day without getting tired.  And we only get to sing them in one season of the year, so I have to make the most of it!

And thus:



Who are these like stars appearing,
These, before God’s throne who stand?
Each a golden crown is wearing;
Who are all this glorious band?
Alleluia! Hark, they sing,
Praising loud their heavenly King.

Who are these of dazzling brightness,
These in God’s own truth arrayed,
Clad in robes of purest whiteness,
Robes whose lustre ne’er shall fade,
Ne’er be touched by time’s rude hand?
Whence come all this glorious band?

These are they who have contended
For their Saviour’s honour long,
Wrestling on till life was ended,
Following not the sinful throng;
These who well the fight sustained,
Triumph through the Lamb have gained.

These are they whose hearts were riven,
Sore with woe and anguish tried,
Who in prayer full oft have striven
With the God they glorified;
Now, their painful conflict o’er,
God has bid them weep no more.

These, like priests, have watched and waited,
Offering up to Christ their will;
Soul and body consecrated,
Day and night to serve Him still:
Now in God’s most holy place
Blest they stand before His face.


This is Frances Cox's translation of a German hymn, 'Wer sind die vor Gott­es Throne'; if this is indeed the German text, her version is quite a free one. Frances Cox was born in 1812 and lived all her life in Oxford; I just had some fun looking up her different addresses in the city, and found that she lived at one point in a house which is now part of St Hilda's College, and at another time in the Iffley Road; in 1861 she was living here, and is mentioned in that link as one of the 'three spinster daughters' of George Valentine Cox.  Surely Frances deserves to be named, for this hymn if nothing else...

And then there's this:





Give us the wings of faith to rise
within the veil, and see
the saints above, how great their joys,
how bright their glories be.

We asked them whence their victory came:
they, with one united breath,
ascribe their conquest to the Lamb,
their triumph to his death.

They marked the footsteps that he trod,
his zeal inspired their breast;
and, following their incarnate God,
they reached the promised rest.


This is Ernest Bullock's setting of words by Isaac Watts.  When sung as a hymn, I usually hear 'Give us the wings of faith to rise' to the beautiful tune 'Song 67'.  Bullock's version omits verses 2 and 5:

Once they were mourning here below,
and wet their couch with tears:
they wrestled hard, as we do now,
with sins, and doubts, and fears.

Our glorious Leader claims our praise
for his own pattern given;
while the long cloud of witnesses
show the same path to heaven.


It's a shame to lose verse 2; that idea is an important component of All Saints' Day, or at least it is to me, though I may be wrong in this.  I heard a sermon on Sunday which talked about how saints are too perfect for us to identify with - I've heard lots of sermons about that, and I always find it odd.  Maybe the medieval saints I love the most are unusual, but I've never thought them too perfect for me to identify with - from St Anselm playfully remembering his youthful arrogance to St Guthlac quaking with fear at the thought of his death, from the little vanities of St Edith and St Etheldreda to the many flaws of poor Edward the Confessor, I find their struggles deeply comforting.  These are people we remember, who strove and wrestled and wept through their lives, but survived it all somehow, and lived to be great and holy.

In which spirit, here's Vaughan Williams...



These words are taken from Ecclesiasticus 44:

Let us now praise famous men, and our fathers that begat us;
Such as did bear rule in their kingdoms, men renowned for their power;
Leaders of the people by their counsels, and by their knowledge;
Such as found out musical tunes, and recited verses in writing;
All these were honoured in their generations, and were the glory of their times.
And some there be, which have no memorial; who are perished, as though they had never been. Their bodies are buried in peace; but their name liveth evermore.


And RVW brings us to:



I'm sure you know the words, but nonetheless:


1. For all the saints, who from their labours rest,
Who thee by faith before the world confessed,
Thy name, O Jesus, be forever blest.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

2. Thou wast their rock, their fortress and their might;
Thou, Lord, their captain in the well-fought fight;
Thou, in the darkness drear, their one true light.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

3. O may thy soldiers, faithful, true and bold,
Fight as the saints who nobly fought of old,
And win with them the victor’s crown of gold.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

4. O blest communion, fellowship divine!
We feebly struggle, they in glory shine;
Yet all are one in thee, for all are thine.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

5. And when the strife is fierce, the warfare long,
Steals on the ear the distant triumph song,
And hearts are brave again and arms are strong.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

6. The golden evening brightens in the west;
Soon, soon to faithful warriors cometh rest;
Sweet is the calm of Paradise the blest.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

7. But lo, there breaks a yet more glorious day;
The saints triumphant rise in bright array;
The King of Glory passes on his way.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

11. From earth’s wide bounds, from ocean’s farthest coast,
Through gates of pearl streams in the countless host,
Singing to Father, Son and Holy Ghost:
Alleluia, Alleluia!


The words are by William Walsham How, a Wadham man, who also wrote the slightly sentimental but nonetheless lovely 'Summer suns are glowing'.  I have a soft spot for singing 'For all the saints' to Stanford's Engelberg, which you don't hear so often because the Vaughan Williams version is so dearly loved; but I do like Stanford's 'Alleluias'.

A tune for the blood to jig to, and joy past power of words

Tewkesbury Road
It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where,
Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither or why;
Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen cool rush of the air,
Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift of the sky.

And to halt at the chattering brook, in a tall green fern at the brink
Where the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the foxgloves purple and white;
Where the shifty-eyed delicate deer troop down to the brook to drink
When the stars are mellow and large at the coming on of the night.

O, to feel the beat of the rain, and the homely smell of the earth,
Is a tune for the blood to jig to, and joy past power of words;
And the blessed green comely meadows are all a-ripple with mirth
At the noise of the lambs at play and the dear wild cry of the birds.



I can attest to the truth of this joy-filled John Masefield poem from personal experience over the past few days (my own road led to Evesham, not Tewkesbury, but it's the same general area!). Masefield, who spent his teenage years as a sailor, was a poet of voyages in all forms - a lover of the sea, but also of travellers and wanderers and roads (this poem of his seems to hint at a motivation behind his interest).

Robert Louis Stevenson's 'The Vagabond' makes a fitting accompaniment to 'Tewkesbury Road':

'Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom'

More Ralph Vaughan Williams and Robert Louis Stevenson, this time in combination. This is from Vaughan Williams' series of settings of Stevenson's 'Songs of Travel'.




I will make you brooches and toys for your delight
Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night,
I will make a palace fit for you and me
Of green days in forests, and blue days at sea.

I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room,
Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom;
And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white
In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.

And this shall be for music when no one else is near,
The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!
That only I remember, that only you admire,
Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.

Within the woodlands, flowery gladed

After the dream-world of yesterday's Stevenson poem - a peaceful garden, all cultivated lawns and marble statuary, very definitely nature tamed by man - here's an idyll which is a little more rural:




Within the woodlands, flow'ry gladed,
By the oak trees' mossy moot;
The shining grass blades, timber-shaded,
Now do quiver under foot;
And birds do whistle overhead,
And water's bubbling in its bed;
And there for me the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.

When leaves, that lately were a-springing,
Now do fade within the copse,
And painted birds do hush their singing
Up upon the timber tops;
And brown leaved fruit's a-turning red,
In cloudless sunshine overhead,
With fruit for me the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.

Let other folk make money faster;
In the air of darkened towns;
I don't dread a peevish master.
Though no man may heed my frowns
I be free to go abroad,
Or take again my home-ward road,
To where for me the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.


This is Ralph Vaughan Williams' setting of a text by the dialect poet William Barnes. The original is actually titled 'My Orcha'd in Linden Lea':


'Ithin the woodlands, flow'ry gleaded,
By the woak tree's mossy moot,
The sheenen grass bleades, timber-sheaded,
Now do quiver under voot;
An' birds do whissle auver head,
An' water's bubblen in its bed,
An' ther vor me the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.

When leaves that leately wer a-springen
Now do feade 'ithin the copse,
An' painted birds do hush ther zingen
Up upon the timber's tops;
An' brown-leav'd fruit's a-turnen red,
In cloudless zunsheen, auver head,
Wi' fruit vor me the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.

Let other vo'k meake money vaster
In the air o' dark-room'd towns,
I don't dread a peevish measter;
Though noo man do heed my frowns,
I be free to goo abrode,
Or teake agean my hwomeward road
To where vor me the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.



I posted another poem by William Barnes last year, 'The Castle Ruins', which is also charming (and worth the effort it takes to decipher the dialect!). But the star of 'Linden Lea' is Vaughan Williams' setting, of course; I love how the piano accompaniment just takes off in the last verse!

The vocalist in the video above is Ian Bostridge, who does it wonderfully - but this version is a vintage delight:




I was thinking about 'Linden Lea' partly because of what's been in the news and on everyone's lips in Britain today: the Olympics, and particularly last night's opening ceremony. It seems to have been a roaring success, but for me it is a reminder of how alien so much of modern culture has become to me. The whole thing - the noise, the crowds, the vast expense of money, the glorification of all that's urban and modern and new; and what comes with it, the media chatter, the exaltation of corporate culture, the endless flood of opinion and comment, the Twitter-shallow level of discussion and thought - I'm afraid I don't understand how anyone can like it. The story of Britain that ceremony told isn't a story I recognise; it's not a story I believe to be true, based on my own knowledge of history and literature. It's a myth for a country that no longer learns its own history, and based on the favourable commentary of my acquaintances on facebook, it's a myth which is very popular. That's fine; I understand the need for myths and shared narratives, and there's no requirement for them to be accurate. But it's so very far from my own imaginative world - and so I begin to wonder, how did I get so separated from my contemporaries and the world we have to live in?

I don't have a sense of superiority about it; this alienation from all the modern world values is not going to work out well for me, since this way lies discontentment, failure in the eyes of the world, and loneliness. I don't care about failure, and I can work on learning contentment; it's the loneliness that's worst, the sense of being isolated from the people around you, and with a few blessed exceptions I've been used to that all my life. How do these people think? How can I form relationships with them, or talk to them about anything, when they don't care about what matters to me, and I don't understand what matters to them? My outlook on this is not ideological, but purely selfish - let other folks make money faster, and do whatever they like, as long as there are one or two people willing to share my mental world with me! I don't ask for much in the way of imaginative sympathy: one person to employ me and one to love me, and I wouldn't need anything else (and the employer is optional). Honestly, my mental world is a very nice place: it basically looks like this blog, all poetry and pretty pictures, with a bit of amateur etymology thrown in. Why don't more people want to live there rather than in the noisy flashy Olympic world? I don't get it.

Anyway, I've been daydreaming about escape: away from the town and the tourists to a world that makes more sense, that has a place for me. And so it's comforting to think that for all one's tendency to assume it's a modern problem, William Barnes felt exactly the same way a hundred years ago; that's what 'Linden Lea' is all about. For this reason, I'll probably be posting some more literary idylls in the next few days. In the meantime, if anyone would like to join me in a cottage in the woods, with no television and no internet, for the duration of the Olympics, that would be great...

'Against all ills the fortified strong place'

Vaughan Williams' setting elevates this Dante Gabriel Rossetti poem, 'Heart's Haven' (of which the best thing is the title) to something very tender and beautiful:





Sometimes she is a child within mine arms,
Cowering beneath dark wings that love must chase,—
With still tears showering and averted face,
Inexplicably fill'd with faint alarms:
And oft from mine own spirit's hurtling harms
I crave the refuge of her deep embrace,—
Against all ills the fortified strong place
And sweet reserve of sovereign counter-charms.

And Love, our light at night and shade at noon,
Lulls us to rest with songs, and turns away
All shafts of shelterless tumultuous day.
Like the moon's growth, his face gleams through his tune;
And as soft waters warble to the moon,
Our answering spirits chime one roundelay.



(warble? roundelay? Pah. Whatever, Rossetti.)

When do I see thee most, beloved one?

I've been listening to a lot of Vaughan Williams recently - it's very summery music for me, mostly because I love Silent Noon so very much. Beside 'Silent Noon', RVW set a number of other poems by DGR, or, as I like to think of him, the lesser Rossetti - more famous than his sister and possibly more talented but gosh, so much more of an idiot...

But Vaughan Williams can make anything good and so here's one of his settings, 'Love-sight':




When do I see thee most, beloved one?
When in the light the spirits of mine eyes
Before thy face, their altar, solemnize
The worship of that Love through thee made known?
Or when in the dusk hours, (we two alone,)
Close-kissed and eloquent of still replies
Thy twilight-hidden glimmering visage lies,
And my soul only sees thy soul its own?
O love, my love! if I no more should see
Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of thee,
Nor image of thine eyes in any spring,—
How then should sound upon Life’s darkening slope
The ground-whirl of the perished leaves of Hope,
The wind of Death’s imperishable wing?

Two Songs for St Joseph

St Joseph, from the church of All Saints, Freshwater, Isle of Wight

Last year on St Joseph's day I posted one of the many 'doubting Joseph' folk carols, and here are two more related-but-distinct examples from that popular genre. The number of surviving versions of the theme (in which we have to include the Coventry Mystery plays) attests to the fact that it was of widespread interest at least from the fifteenth century onwards. The Cherry Tree Carol is probably the most famous song in this sub-genre, and there are approximately ten million versions of it on youtube, choral and folky and everything in between. In terms of measuring the popularity of a song, the number of youtube iterations is the modern equivalent of the number of surviving broadsides or manuscripts! This is one I especially like:



(If you like that, have a look at Kerfuffle's 2009 album 'Lighten the Dark: A Midwinter Album', which has equally lovely versions of other traditional carols).

This is a good resource on the history of the Cherry Tree Carol, which also quotes the relevant dialogue from the Coventry Mysteries. I don't really have anything to add, except that some versions of the Cherry Tree Carol end with dialogue between Mary and the infant Christ which it's interesting to compare to more extended medieval treatments of the same scene, like this or this. I said in the first of those posts that "The idea of a baby who is childish enough to insist on being sung to, but who can yet predict his own life and death, seems to get right to the heart of the mystery of the Incarnation", and while that's in one way an absurdly bold statement (for which I apologise!) it is also true of the 'doubting Joseph' songs, which have the same homely-yet-profound approach to the mystery of the Virgin Birth. This is a concept which people today have a hard time grasping, and I'd venture this has probably always been the case; part of the appeal of songs like the Cherry Tree Carol is that through focusing on the very human figure of Joseph, they approach this difficult idea in domesticated, familiarised terms.

Speaking of domesticating the Holy Family, the carol I really want to post for St Joseph's day is less well-known than the Cherry Tree Carol, at least judging from the fact that I could only find one version on youtube:



This is a carol essentially constructed by Vaughan Williams, in that both tune and words are traditional, but he put them together and omitted ten of the original sixteen verses. The tune was collected at Weobley at Herefordshire, a pretty village which I visited a few years ago:


The words sung to this tune by Mrs Esther Smith at Weobley were, in Vaughan Williams' opinion, "full of the rather unpleasant imagery which is characteristic of much of the eighteenth-century evangelistic verse" (they were 'There is a fountain'), and so as not to waste the tune he replaced them with the much nicer 'Joseph and Mary' verses, a selection from this text (I think verse 10 is my favourite!):


1. Joseph being an aged man truly,
He married a Virgin fair and free,
A purer Virgin could no man see
Than he chose for his wife and dearest dear.

2. The Virgin was pure there was no nay,
The Angel Gabriel to her did say,
"Thou shalt conceive a Child this day,
The which shall be our dearest dear."

3. The Angel no sooner this message said
But all in his heart she was afraid;
"How may this be, and I a pure maid?
Say then to me, my dearest dear."

4. "The Holy Ghost, Mary, shall come unto thee,
The power of it shall overshadow thee,
And thou shalt bear a Son truly,
The which shall be our dearest dear."

5. Joseph being a perfect mild man,
Perceiving that Mary with child was gone,
Said, "Tell to me, Mary, and do not frown,
Who hath done this, my dearest dear?"

6. Then answered Mary meek and mild:
"I know no Father unto my Child
But the Holy Ghost, and I undefiled,
That hath done this, my dearest dear."

7. But Joseph thinking her most unjust,
Yielding her body to unlawful lust,
Out of his house he thought for to thrust
His own true love, his dearest dear.

8. But whilst in heart he thought the same,
The Angel Gabriel to him came,
As he lay sleeping on a frame,
Still dreaming on his dearest dear.

9. Who said, "Fear not to take to thee
Thy true and faithful wife Mary;
Most true and faithful is she to thee,
Then turn not away thy dearest dear."

10. When Joseph arose from his sleep so sound,
His love to Mary did more abound,
He would not for ten thousand pound
Forsake his love and dearest dear.

11. They lived both in joy and bliss,
But now a strict commandment is,
In Jewry land no man should miss
To go along with his dearest dear,

12. Unto the place where he was born,
Unto the Emperor to be sworn,
To pay a tribute that is duly known,
Both for himself and his dearest dear.

13. And when they were to Bethlehem come,
The inns were filled both all and some,
For Joseph entreated them every one,
But could get no bed for his dearest dear.

14. Then were they constrained presently
Within a stable all night to lie,
Where they did oxen and asses tie
With his true love and his dearest dear.

15. The Virgin pure thought it no scorn
To lie in such a place forlorn,
But against the next morning our Saviour was born,
Even Jesus Christ, our dearest dear.

16. The King of all power in Bethlehem born,
Who wore for our sakes a crown of thorn;
Then God preserve us both even and morn,
For Jesus' sake, our dearest dear.

The wedding of Mary and Joseph, from (The Beheading of) St John the Baptist, Doddington

'Bold Fisherman' and the Heroes of Medieval Romance

[I started writing this post about a folk song, but it somehow turned into a post about Havelok the Dane instead. So I left it for a few days and started writing a post about a different folk song, only for that also to turn into a post about Havelok the Dane before I'd even realised it. This is ridiculous, and probably makes the points I was trying to make in each post look less convincing that they otherwise would be, because you're just going to think I'm obsessed with Havelok the Dane and attempting to link everything to it whether appropriate or not. I assure you that's not the case! I could post this one and then leave the other for a few weeks, to make myself look like obsessive, but instead I'm just going to post them both and if it undermines my point, I apologise. The songs are still great ;)]

A Folk Song A Day reminded me that I've long been meaning to post about one of my favourite traditional songs, 'Bold Fisherman'. You can listen to an excellent rendering at that link, but I think I still prefer Tim Van Eyken's gorgeous version:



'Bold Fisherman' is a widely-distributed song, collected from all over England and beyond; this page has different versions of the lyrics and here you can see all the places it was collected/recorded, which is lots of fun if you like that kind of thing (which I do). For instance, Vaughan Williams collected it in East Horndon, Essex, while at Northmoor, just outside Oxford, a woman named Sarah Calcott sang it to Alfred Williams, who wrote:

Northmoor is a lonely little village on the banks of the Thames between Standlake and Oxford. The road is broken by the river which must be crossed by ferry to Bablock Hythe and Appleton. The old woman, who lives alone, sang me several songs including Lord Bateman, while her pet jackdaw sat upon the arm of her chair in the fire light. At the same time, though extremely poor, she insisted upon my taking tea with her, and proudly filled my pockets with choicest apples to eat on the way home.

Awesome. Isn't it wonderful, the stuff you can find on the internet?

Lucy Broadwood collected it from a woman named Mrs Joiner at Chiswell Green, Hertfordshire, on 7th September 1914, and wrote a little about it in the Journal of the Folk-Song Society 19 (1915), pp.122-148. There she says:

I have always had a strong impression that the modern broadside may be a vulgar and secularized transmutation of a mediaeval allegorical original. To students of Gnostic and Early Christian mystical literature, the River, the Sea, the royal Fisher, the three Vestures of Light (or Robes of Glory), the Recognition and Adoration by the illuminated humble Soul, the free Pardon, the mystical Union of the Bride to the Bridegroom in the House of the Father (or Father-House), are familiar elements, and we can find them all, certainly, amongst the variants of this ballad.

This is the opinion which attracts some derision in the articles linked above, and it does obviously go too far; it's also very typical of this era of folk-song studies (just look at all those capital letters!). But it's not actually that silly a theory in essence, though of course unprovable; the allegory Lucy Broadwood was looking for would be most profitably sought not in 'Gnostic and Early Christian Literature' but in medieval romance.

The idea of Christ-as-suitor is everywhere in medieval religious literature; I can't think of a better way to illustrate this than to link to this passage from Ancrene Wisse, in which Christ is imagined as the knightly suitor of a proud and disdainful lady. Another example which always springs to mind when I'm listening to 'Bold Fisherman' is the fifteenth-century lyric 'In a valley of this restless mind', which also features a handsome nobleman seeking and wooing his wayward spouse, and forgiving her inability to love him - but it is, of course, Christ wooing the soul. What we see in these texts as in so many others are generic features of romance being adapted for Christian literature in imaginative, creative ways, intended to inspire the soul with a love of God.

And this goes both ways: just as Christ is often presented as a hero of romance, so heroes of romance are often presented as Christ figures. By this I mean that they are paragons of men: handsome, humble, generous, chaste, brave, explicitly Christian (attending mass, praying, bearing crosses, etc.), with near-supernatural strength but also near-supernatural heroic virtue. Men in folk songs are not usually like this... The bold fisherman, who has come specifically to seek his lover, who is covered in (highly symbolic, kingly) chains of gold, and who is superbly forgiving of the woman's transgression, is much more like a hero of medieval romance than anything else. I'd be prepared to bet that this is what set off Lucy Broadwood's intuition (or "strong impression") that this song has a little more to it than the obvious boy-meets-girl story. I can see how it's easy to be scornful of her language, but some parallels from medieval romances might help to set the song in context.

For instance, the verse where the fisherman takes off his shirt and she realises he's a nobleman. Heroes in romance often have physical tokens which promote recognition of their true identity even when in disguise - unusual beauty, resemblance to some particular person (a father, for instance), their own particular heraldry, distinctive clothes or weapons, etc. In this particular case I can't help being reminded of Havelok, from the Middle English romance Havelok the Dane, which takes this extremely literally. Havelok, the son of the king of Denmark, is deprived of his inheritance and his royal identity as a child by a wicked usurper, but his true nature literally shines out of him: when he sleeps, a light streams from his mouth. He also has a birthmark (the romance calls it a kinemerk, which means 'royal token') in the shape of a red gold cross on his right shoulder - the kind of birthmark only a king could have. The combination of the shining light and the golden cross reveals his true identity on three crucial occasions in the romance - first as a child, when he is about to be killed by the fisherman who has been ordered to murder him; again when he is staying with a Danish nobleman, and when he's asleep the whole house sees the light streaming from his mouth and the cross on his naked shoulder; but most famously on his wedding night, when his new wife Goldboru, who believes Havelok to be only a kitchen boy, realises from these tokens that she has in fact married a prince (I posted an extract from that scene a little while ago).

Recognition scenes are a very common trope of both romance and folk song, but I do wonder just a little bit if the revelation moment in 'Bold Fisherman', where the woman learns the fisherman's true identity by seeing rings of gold concealed by his clothing, is a rationalisation of a kinemerk sort of scene. It's a little different from the use of a ring as a recognition token, which is extremely common in ballads and folk songs - including one which is definitely a version of a medieval romance, Hind Horn, a much-shortened version of King Horn, a romance in which the hero does a great deal of 'rowing upon the tide' to meet his lady love. Fishes feature prominently in King Horn, where the heroine has a frightening dream in which a giant fish bursts from a net (symbolising that someone will try to destroy her); when she is captured and held prisoner, the royal hero (another dispossessed prince) disguises himself as a fisherman to gain entrance to the castle, in order to show her the gold ring that reveals his true identity. Horn, with his extraordinary personal beauty and virtue and his twelve loyal disciples... sorry, I mean, 'companions', is another Christ figure, and there's no way that in this romance the fisherman disguise is not meant to recall that.

(I hope you noticed that Havelok was supposed to be killed by a fisherman; that man adopts Havelok instead and brings him up, living a fisherman's life at Grimsby. Havelok contains more words for different kinds of fish than any not-about-angling book you could care to mention).

So fishermen and rings and secret marks of identity all say 'medieval Christian romance' to me, and this is the context in which I think 'Bold Fisherman' is best interpreted. Of course this does not admit of definite proof, and I wouldn't encourage anyone to accept Lucy Broadwood's ideas about allegories of mystic union and Gnosticism - that's looking in the wrong direction. But the relationship between the ballad and medieval romance is undeniable, and that means that some of the generic features of medieval romance - such as Christ-as-wooer, and wooer-as-Christ - have made their way into ballads. Make fun of allegorical theories and call it just a 'very classic love story' all you like, but stories have histories, and those histories help us understand them. I don't know why folk singers are so fond of claiming otherwise.

Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber

Last year around Christmas I was interested in (and posted here) a number of medieval lullaby carols. It's a genre I find particularly moving, I think because it's so personal and intimate; not having my own baby to sing lullabies to, I'll have to be content with the carols! So I'm going to post a few later examples this Christmas season, starting with this, which is known as 'Watts' Cradle Song'. It was written by Isaac Watts but seems to have entered folk tradition, set to this tune; in that form it was collected by Vaughan Williams in Northumberland.

Seven verses of Watts' fourteen are included in The Oxford Book of Carols, but with the assistance of Google Books, I've included four more (nos. 5-7 and 11 here) because I like them.


1. Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber;
Holy angels guard thy bed!
Heavenly blessings without number
Gently falling on thy head.

2. Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment,
House and home, thy friends provide,
All without thy care and payment,
All thy wants are well supplied.

3. How much better thou'rt attended
Than the Son of God could be
When from heaven he descended
And became a child like thee.

4. Soft and easy is thy cradle;
Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay,
When his birthplace was a stable
And his softest bed was hay.

5. Blessed Babe! What glorious features,
Spotless fair, divinely bright!
Must he dwell with brutal creatures?
How could angels bear the sight?

6. Was there nothing but a manger
Cursed sinners could afford
To receive the heavenly stranger?
Did they thus affront their Lord?

7. Soft, my child, I did not chide thee,
Though my song might sound too hard;
'Tis thy mother sits beside thee
And her arms shall be thy guard.

8. See the lovely Babe a-dressing;
Lovely Infant, how he smiled!
When he wept, the mother's blessing
Soothed and hushed the holy Child.

9. Lo, he slumbers in his manger,
Where the horned oxen fed;
Peace, my darling! here's no danger;
Here's no ox a-near thy bed.

10. Mayst thou live to know and fear him,
Trust and love him all thy days:
Then go dwell for ever near him,
See his face and sing his praise.

11. I could give thee thousand kisses,
Hoping what I most desire;
Not a mother's fondest wishes
Can to greater joys aspire.

A Summer Poem: 'This close-companioned inarticulate hour'

Silent Noon

Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass, --
The finger-points look through like rosy blooms:
Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms
'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass.
All round our nest, far as the eye can pass,
Are golden kingcup-fields with silver edge
Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge.
'Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass.

Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-fly
Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky: --
So this wing'd hour is dropt to us from above.
Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower,
This close-companioned inarticulate hour
When twofold silence was the song of love.


Dante Gabriel Rossetti (set to music by Vaughan Williams)