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Lyrics to Schultz CD 2
Thou good earth
Aage Rasmussen
Thou green field, my good earth,
I greet you good morning!
You young grass that stands and grows
and waving in the light breeze,
my good cow, my strong horse,
I greet you good morning.
See the oats along the forest’s brow,
where it is heavy with lushness,
And see the good sight
of the turnip tops that shoot forth,
while the root swells in its hide
and becomes winter food
Now the wife calls behind my back
With sieve and milking bucket.
She makes the infant full and comfortable
and then comes to meet me
and sets the day’s work in motion
with the sun on her forehead.
Thou good earth, my golden field
In the heat of the summer day.
My fists became as rough as bark,
But you are dense and heavy with grain,
And the cow lowers her horns
Deep in her clover nest.
Now all rests in the noonday hour
As if sunk in happiness
What does it matter, I was tired when she,
Who helped me with so much diligence,
Can sit down for a little while
With me in the shadow of the fence.
Then we go to the great work
And gather the gifts of the earth.
How delight makes the weary man strong:
Though the sun is long gone in the west,
My children go and gather the sheaves
in dense, heavy trotters.
A small spring song
Simon Schultz
It drips from roofs, it drips from trees,
Now the ice is melting in meadow and pond,
it ripples and gurgles in stream and brook,
and the winds whisper in bush and hedge.
It drips from roofs, it drips from trees,
and the sun will shine yes, spring is near
there is green and budding in field and forest,
Now the farmer is busy with harrow and plough.
It drips from the roofs, it drips from the trees,
hear the sparrows chirping from branches and rafters,
Whistling and singing in jubilant chorus,
Until the sun sets behind the forests and the fjords.
4 english songs
Danish version re-written by Hans Hartvig Seedorf-Pedersen
D’ye ken John Peel (did you know John Peel)
Original: John Woodcock Graves
D’ye ken John Peel with his coat so gay,
D’ye ken John Peel at the break o’ the day,
D’ye ken John Peel when he’s far away
With his hounds and his horn in the morning?
For the sound of his horn brought me from my bed,
And the cry of the hounds, which he oft-times led,
Peel’s “view halloo” would awaken the dead,
Or the fox from his lair in the morning.
Yes, I ken John Peel, and Ruby too,
Ranter and Ringwood, Bellman and True;
From a find to a check, from a check to a view,
From a view to a death in the morning.
For the sound of his horn brought me from my bed,
And the cry of the hounds, which he oft-times led,
Peel’s “view halloo” would awaken the dead,
Or the fox from his lair in the morning.
Then here’s to John Peel from my heart and soul,
Let’s drink to his health, let’s finish the bowl;
We’ll follow John Peel thru fair and foul.
If we want a good hunt in the morning.
For the sound of his horn brought me from my bed,
And the cry of the hounds, which he oft-times led,
Peel’s view halloo” would awaken the dead,
Or the fox from his lair in the morning.
D’ye ken John Peel with his coat so gay?
He lived at Troutbeck once on a day;
Now he has gone far far away,
We shall ne’er hear his voice in the morning.
For the sound of his horn brought me from my bed,
And the cry of the hounds, which he oft-times led,
Peel’s “view halloo” would awaken the dead,
Or the fox from his lair in the morning.
The girls’ toast
Translation of Hans Hartwig Seedorf’s re-written poem
Here’s to the lovely fifteen-year-old girl,
Here’s to the aging widow.
Here’s to the lovely one who easily lets loose
And to the one who diligently warms benches.
No one goes free, brothers, drink up!
This is the girls’ toast, and we like that toast!
Toast – the one that no one in beauty can match
And the one who has had too little, Sir.
Here’s to the one with two eyes so blue
And the one who blinks with only one, Sir.
No one goes free…
Here’s to the girl whose bosom is like snow
and the one who is rich only in wrinkles.
Here’s to the mouth that must always laugh
And to the one who only complains and whines.
No one goes free…
Young or old and fat or thin,
Do we really care?
Women are they all and surely it would be a pity
one of them a mere Vivat* to refuse.
No-one goes free…
*Vivat – Live!/Toast
The hundred pipers
Origins: Traditional scottish
Wi’ a hundred pipers, an’ a’, an’ a’,
Wi’ a hundred pipers, an’ a’, an’ a’,
We’ll up an’ gie them a blaw, a blaw
Wi’ a hundred pipers, an’ a’, an’ a’.
O it’s owre the border awa’, awa’
It’s owre the border awa’, awa’
We’ll on an’ we’ll march to Carlisle ha’
Wi’ its yetts, its castle an’ a’, an a’.
Chorus:
Wi’ a hundred pipers, an’ a’, an’ a’,
Wi’ a hundred pipers, an’ a’, an’ a’,
We’ll up an’ gie them a blaw, a blaw
Wi’ a hundred pipers, an’ a’, an’ a’.
O! our sodger lads looked braw, looked braw,
Wi’ their tartan kilts an’ a’, an’ a’,
Wi’ their bonnets an’ feathers an’ glitt’rin’ gear,
An’ pibrochs sounding loud and clear.
Will they a’ return to their ain dear glen?
Will they a’ return oor Heilan’ men?
Second sichted Sandy looked fu’ wae.
An’ mithers grat when they march’d away.
Wi’ a hundred pipers, an’ a’, an’ a’,
Wi’ a hundred pipers, an’ a’, an’ a’,
We’ll up an’ gie them a blaw, a blaw
Wi’ a hundred pipers, an’ a’, an’ a’.
O! wha’ is foremos o’ a’, o’ a’,
Oh wha’ is foremost o’ a’, o’ a’,
Bonnie Charlie the King o’ us a’, hurrah!
Wi’ his hundred pipers an’ a’, an ‘ a’.
His bonnet and feathers he’s waving high,
His prancing steed maist seems to fly,
The nor’ win’ plays wi’ his curly hair,
While the pipers play wi’an unco flare.
Wi’ a hundred pipers, an’ a’, an’ a’,
Wi’ a hundred pipers, an’ a’, an’ a’,
We’ll up an’ gie them a blaw, a blaw
Wi’ a hundred pipers, an’ a’, an’ a’.
The Esk was swollen sae red an’ sae deep,
But shouther to shouther the brave lads keep;
Twa thousand swam owre to fell English ground
An’ danced themselves dry to the pibroch’s sound.
Dumfoun’er’d the English saw, they saw,
Dumfoun’er’d they heard the blaw, the blaw,
Dumfoun’er’d they a’ ran awa’, awa’,
Frae the hundred pipers an’ a’, an’ a’.
Wi’ a hundred pipers, an’ a’, an’ a’,
Wi’ a hundred pipers, an’ a’, an’ a’,
We’ll up an’ gie them a blaw, a blaw
Wi’ a hundred pipers, an’ a’, an’ a’.
English translation of the danish lyrics
With a hundred pipes didlidid
With a hundred pipes didlidid
we’ll give them a whistle they’ll remember often,
we’ll give them a whistle they’ll remember often!
For towards the border you go in step and step,
Yes, towards the border you’re going in lockstep,
where Carlisle flashes so far, far, far, far
with its castle, its spires, with its didlidit.
With a hundred pipes didlidit
With a hundred pipes didlidit
they shall have a whistle they will remember often,
our hundred pipes’ didlidit!
Every boy, every girl is bitten by the wind,
Every kilt has its swing and its Highland cut.
Their whistles sound as sweet and gentle
As the bright larks’ tit-lit-lit-lit-tit!
Singing and playing, they go forth, yes, forth,
Though every girl wishes them home, home, home,
Shall we hear them play a reunion song
In the green valleys again sometime?
With a hundred pipers didlidit…
See in the front King Charles rides as freely
And as merrily as if he were riding his bridal steed.
He’ll protect the land that’s yours and mine,
To the didlidit of a hundred pipes!
Across the road dances his white horse,
And his hair is blowing in the north wind.
And his feathers are waving red and white,
To the didlidit of a hundred pipes…
With a hundred pipes didlidit…
Yes, the swelling Esk became as red as blood,
But shoulder to shoulder the Scots stood!
Two thousand swam to England,
But they danced themselves dry with flute-playing!
With each Englishman they kept pace, yes pace
Though his long legs took such quick steps.
That day at Esk we were even, even, even, even,
By the didlidit of a hundred pipes…
With a hundred pipes didlidit…
Come lasses and lads
Traditional English (original lyrics)
Come lasses and lads take leave of your dads and away to the maypole hie
For every fair has a sweetheart there and a fiddler standing by
Then Willie will dance with Jane and Johnny has got his Joan
And every maid shall trip it and trip it and trip it up and down
“Begin,” says Matt. “Aye, aye,” says Nat, “We’ll lead up Packington’s Pound.”
“No, no,” says Nolly, and so says Dolly: “We’ll first have Sellinger’s Round.”
Then every man began to foot it round about
And every maid did step it and step it and step it in and out.
“You’re off!” says Dick. “Not I,” says Nick, “Twas the fiddler played it wrong!”
“Tis true,” says Hugh and so says Sue, and so says everyone.
The fiddler then began to play the tune again.
And every maid did jig it and jig it and jig it to the men.
Well there they did stay for the whole of the day and they tired the fiddler quite.
With dancing and play without any pay from morning until night.
They told the fiddler then that they’d pay him for his play,
And each a tuppence, a tuppence they gave him and then they went away.
“Goodnight,” says Harry. “Goodnight,” says Mary, “Goodnight,” says Dolly to John.
“Goodnight,” says Sue to her sweetheart Hugh, “Goodnight,” says everyone.
Some walked and some did run, some loitered on the way,
And they bound themselves with kisses twelve to meet next holiday.
Four Icelandic songs
Mathias Johannesen
The fjeld* is stretching up
The mountain stretches up into an eternal blue sky
when mists lie on its sides
and bitterly cold winds caress rocks and flowers,
but the fog lifts
and then the sky comes to the fjeld.
Clear and pure, clear and pure.
This is how we also search for you
by meaningless detours,
without realizing, without knowing
that your love winds around our lives.
*Fjeld = rocky, barren plateau of Scandinavian upland / mountain
When the sun shines
When the sun shines, there is a gentle breeze from the high plains
And joy becomes a blue haze over the land.
Our soul is rich with joy though autumn has come.
Thrushes* still in the branches of the trees.
The lake a mirror between calm mountains,
The white rim of the mossy lava-waves on the moors.
But in the shadow where the sun does not have time to stroke with its warm fingers, autumn builds its castle of hoarfrost crystals.
You are the sun
We wail in the earth
*Thrus, a songbird
The land awakens
The land awakens, the branches open green eyes
The sun into the evening, reflects itself in the sleepy fjord, the female eider dozes in the warm sand and the male, like a crusted stone, in the good-natured water’s edge.
The land awakens, the sea lapping against the beach, summery, murmuring in the marsh.
A long night has passed.
The day has begun to lengthen and the land is in spring!
I have had a country
I have had a country for a friend, mountains and springs that jump from stone to stone.
When the midwinter frost-snow takes up residence in my heart, the night becomes a black fingerprint on a white and silent glacier.
Yet I know that the land is soft soil and green grass, and I have you too as a friend, and I have you too as a friend.
8 songs for mixed choir
Music
Unknown author
There stands the old fiddler,
And he knows his trade.
He generously shares his tunes
From the first floor to the attic.
Tralalala…
He smiles gently at the children in the yard,
Who dance a little to the “jazz”.
There’s nothing false about him
other than the tones in the box!
Tralalala…
And though the summer sun is
In the sky, high and decorative
He wishes it would rain
With silver and copper coins!
Tralalala…
The telegraph poles sing
Emil Bønnelycke
We whirr, we buzz, we sing our song.
We ring, we rock in chorus on our pole.
What do we know if the road is easy or long?
We poles have a voice in murmuring words.
When the night beats the harp, our stormy string,
Then it is souls that call in chorus.
We threaten, we threaten, we speak to those
who sleep in the street, we say: Go home.
But cannot, cannot say to whom.
You wander, you wander where does your path go?
O, do you know, do you know? Yes or no.
Help you, help you, help you we cannot.
We watch, we watch the moor and all.
Who sleeps on the road in the hall of stars?
One who became alone, and one who went mad.
We poles have a voice in a mumbling chorus
in the darkness, in the darkness of all who traveled
we do not know, do not know, do not know where.
Birds song
Svend S. Schultz
Spring, you fair spring,
most celebrated part of the year,
everything in flowers stands,
maiden in round dance goes,
the cold does not reach us,
Every bird’s hits trill
Spring month’s green
Makes our country house beautiful,
shepherds cut whistles,
The lambs and the goats bleat,
The bird swings happily,
Singing behind the bright green leaf.
The field breathes sweetly,
The meadow sways softly,
young couples embrace,
Mother in the sun is warmed,
And from far and near
the birds are singing,
Always for our ears,
we can hear the birds voices.
April
Peter Alsted
It shone in the spring blue morning mist
A mild and tantalizing sun
It melted the white ice of the frosty night
And awakened the first violet
And your eyes were deep and gentle
And blue as the violet at springtime.
Then a grey cold gust rose in the west,
And dulled the smiles of April,
And warned of hailstorms, cold, wind, It changes so abruptly in April.
And your eyes became iron grey and empty
As if they were silent about something to come.
And the wind shifted to the south-southeast,
Now the mild spring rain dewed the violets
in the grass from the last harvest,
Now the leafless hedges are budding.
And your eyes are blue like the violet,
Smiling in dew under the spring sun.
The weathercock
Susanne Palsbo
Mr Weathercock sits up there on the spire,
where all the little winds play so merrily,
He is so proud of his fine gilding,
and flashes in the sun, and turns and turns.
But he is nothing special at all,
whatever else may be said of him,
for the art of turning beautifully to the wind,
he has in common with many on earth.
Stream life
Viggo Stuckenberg
See the reeds nod to the wind and sway with their tops coquettish,
and the waves dance in water lily armour a stiff minuet.
Then a dragonfly comes in from the countryside,
Steel-blue and golden and splendid in his flight,
carelessly it sweeps close over the water,
Up and down, straight ahead and in meander.
And the water lily blinks, dew-beaded, beckons to the dragonfly softly:
thou variegated flyer! If the eye does not lie, you kiss sweetly.
And the dragonfly flaps his wings in the sun,
Steel-blue and golden and tender in his gaze,
The water lily swings in the golden dress,
Delighted and enraptured by the kiss it received.
The lovely scent of Denmark
Ulf Hoffmann
Denmark has a lovely scent
in the midsummer air,
notice how the light,
the scent almost whispers: hesitate.
Hear how thrushes, starlings approach the near, the happiness of being,
though the foliage of midsummer soon, for soon is dust. Dust and dust and dust!
Denmark has a lovely scent
in the midsummer night,
Dream that you are eighteen and have dewy hair.
Eldertrees along all the roads, and a tender shawm*: Do you want to own
everything, before everything perrish –
for how many years?
Years and years and years.
Denmark has a lovely scent
in the midsummer rain,
find at dawn the region in a steam of wine!
Hidden nightingales awakened from heavenly slumber, make you speak quietly:
Will you be mine?
I’m always yours. Your and yours and yours.
*shawm – skalmeje/krumhorn. Reed instrument
Rondeau
Kai Friis Møller
The weather has thrown off its cloak – grey with wind,
with coldness and of wetness,
and has wrapped itself in such a clear cloth
Of the sun-embroidered blue sky.
And all creatures and small birds
They must each in their own dialect chirp:
The weather has thrown off its grey cloak.
Every spring, every river, every stream
has adorned itself for the joys of summer
With many a rippling silver chain;
All things are decked in their spring splendour
And all creatures and birds are tweeting:
The weather has thrown off its grey cloak.