Songwords

Songs written with Ron Grainer info

Australian composer later well-known for TV themes such as Maigret, Steptoe, and Doctor Who, and for the musical Robert and Elizabeth

London’s made of us

London is more than bricks and stone, more than streets and squares alone. London is made of folks unknown: people who are her very own... Boys with market barrows blokes who drive a bus kids as bright as sparrows - London’s made of us. Crowds at coronations cops who never fuss queues at railway stations - London’s made of us. Tinkers, tailors, soldiers, sailors, all play a special role; postmen, porters, mothers, daughters, London’s heart and soul! Folk you think are humdrum can be marvellous: we are made for London, London’s made of us.

Don’t cry little doll

The day you find you've lost a lover is good for other great discoveries such as: hearts make quick recoveries though you think you'll die.... Don't cry little doll, little doll, little doll, don't cry for the guy that's gone! There are plenty of fish just as nice as you wish in the sea where he came from. Don't sigh little doll, little doll, little doll, don't sigh for the waning moon! When a heart is so young it's interior-sprung; you'll be gay* again so soon. Love isn't all, and though when you fall you think it's the lot - it's not. It's only a tease, so please: Don't cry little doll, little doll, little doll, don't cry, and your eyes will see: when you think it's the end and you haven't a friend there's me little doll, there's me!

Going home for Christmas

Going home for Christmas - never mind how far - going home for Christmas where the good things are: tangerines and mistletoe, Christmas bells, paper-chains and candle-glow, First Nowells. Going home for Christmas, to the ones I love; it’s a family Christmas that I’m dreaming of: stir the pudding once for me, tell the turkey I shall be home for Christmas!

Song to the moon

If we will wait and wish our mortal music is muted, and soon over the clear calm air we’ll hear the moon singing her song of silence tranquilly humming the rhythm of time giving us light giving us love merciful moon.

Songs written with Freddie Poser info

British composer of German origin best known for the Christmas hit song Where did my snowman go?

Once upon a time - that’s now

Once upon a time – that’s now - there was a fair princess – that’s you - and she lived high up in a magic tower - that’s 28 St. Mary’s Avenue. Once upon a time – that’s now - there was a lonely boy – that’s me . He saw the fair princess and all at once he knew he’d always love her hopelessly. But Fairy Love cast a spell from above and bewitched the princess, or so it seems: for now she can see not just ordinary me but the prince of all her dreams: once upon a time – that’s now - there was a fairy tale come true, and we’ll live happily ever after - in fairy tales they always do!

All I’m waiting for is you

Thought we’d dine in, got some wine in: all I’m waiting for is you. Candles burning, records turning: all I’m waiting for is you. Got the atmosphere and a sofa here that’ll fit us like a glove, got the mood right for subdued light: all I’m waiting for is you to love. Logs are blazing, kitten’s lazing: All I’m waiting for is you. As the fire glows my desire grows -all I’m waiting for is you. When the moment’s right I’ll turn out the light by the lamp switch just above; drawn the curtain, feeling certain: all I’m waiting for is you to love.

Song written with Steve Race info

Pianist and composer, best known as TV presenter of jazz programmes, host of My Music on BBC Radio.

My wife and I

She gets in a muddle - I’m her chap! She demands a cuddle - I’m her lap! She’s such a pet , the answer to my dreams - but where does she get such crazy schemes? She gets all the money - I get bills! She is bright and sunny - I take pills! Still we’re in love - and here’s the reason why: we like the life, my wife and I.

Song written with Evelyn Danzig info

American composer.

The girl without a heart

There’s none so lonely as the boy who falls in love with one who’s only the girl without a heart. She laughs as often as I bring my love to her, no gift will soften the girl without a heart. I’ve tried to part from her - it can’t be done. Can’t tear my heart from her - mine’s her only one. May it beat stronger till she grows aware of me and she’s no longer the girl without a heart.

Songs written with John Dankworth info

English jazz band leader, instrumentalist, jazz and film composer. Starting as Johnny D, ended as Sir John

High time

If music be the food of love then I’ll go a la carte, yes I’ll go a la oobladee, and jazz’ll fill my heart. Music choral isn’t for a loving appetite; music fugal is too frugal, Bach and yet no bite. But improvise a little jazz, and there’s the food I love! The mood I love to live in has to have a diet of: something singing blue something springing new something ringing true and swinging too! So it’s high time, high time for you to wake up! And it’s high time you sang a morning song! Why not try giving your sleepy soul a shake-up? Let in light, curtain! It’s quite certain that life isn’t long, and it’s my time your idle ways’ll take up! So you’re right, I’m eager to move along! Don’t be a fig, life is so big, and if you dig it it’s sublime, so it’s high time we had a high old time! So improvise a little jazz... (repeat section above from line 5 leading to High Time chorus) So it’s high time you got around to rising! And it’s high time you made a flying start! Why not try following my extemporising, and come on, play me a song, say me a thing from the heart! So don’t fight, I must make you enterprising for it’s high time you played a greater part! Play life just as if it was jazz,hip and haphazard, yes, that’s how! ‘Cause it’s high time we had a high time, right, I’m out for a high time, quite! I’m after a high time now!

The feeling’s mutual

If you feel real lovey-dovey,stars above-y lush as a thrush in Spring then there’s a thing I must tell you: the feeling’s mutual. If you feel all croony-Juny, sweet’n’swoony fine as a shiny day I want to say that if you do the feeling’s mutual. The sight of you sets me reeling like a touch of the moon! A night with you gets me feeling as high as a flyaway balloon! So if perhaps you’re romancy and you fancy me for a tea for two I’m telling you I’m that way too: the feeling’s mutual! Yes, if I suit, you’ll find a mutual feeling.

Too good to last

It was too good to last like a morning when the sun is a wonder but thunder’s on the way, if we knew: so it was, me and you, so it was, me and you. It was too good to last - why did we expect no change in the season when reason tells you change has to be? Yet we did, you and me, yes we did, you and me. We had laughter, we were sure not a tear would ever intrude: ever after, evermore, we’d go on in that one merry mood. But our eyes now are wise: when we find a dream is fading for ever, how cleverly we say, when it’s past: It was too good to last, it was too good to last.

Let’s slip away

Let’s slip away somewhere quiet let’s slip away and live on a diet of love and kisses all day slip away, slip away. Let’s slip away, let’s play truant let’s go today, just us, me and you and the hours we’ll let slip away, slip away, slip away. Can you picture those lazy mornings? Can you picture those crazy nights? We’ll be alone, and on our own we’ll touch the heights! Let’s slip away, we just need en- -nough time to play, a garden of Eden where love will not slip away, nevermore slip away.

The necessary love

I don’t care if you were born a Lord, Claud; you can keep the capital you save, Dave; ‘cos’ now I’ve got a man and he’s a lot of man, a man who has the necessary love. You can keep that money in the bank, Frank; cut me altogether out your will, Bill; ‘cos’ I’ve discovered now the perfect lover now, a man who has the necessary love. He never does clever company deals but he shows that he knows how some loving appeals, he has got, what most have not, a way to take ya, shake ya, make ya want to share what he feels: Know what you can do with all your dough, Joe? I don’t care what family you’re from, Tom; I’ve found at last a man who is a master man a man who has the necessary love. He’ll never get in Debrett or Who’s Who, but he’d pass any class in what loving can do. What he has is all that jazz, the way to get ya, pet ya, fetch ya till you’re willing to woo: Keep your dull old diamonds in their sacks, Max; stay on your decayed ancestral seat, Pete; ‘cos’ now I’ve kissed a man who’ll be my Mister Man, a man who has the necessary love

But does he love me?

He says it’s more than a man can stand to play it cool when I hold his hand - but does he love me, does he love me? He says that I’ve got so much appeal I just don’t know how I make him feel - but does he love me, really love me? What does he feel? Is it for real? Is he pretending? This magic spell, how can I tell what will its ending be? He sighs for more every time we touch, my arms and lips want to give so much - but does he love me like I love him? Please let it be, only let it be that he does love me!

What the dickens!

What links a bleak house with the Clennam’s truly freak house? What links hard times with detecting Scotland Yard crimes, cricket, Dombey, and curiosity? Tell us what! Tell us! What? The Dickens! What the dickens gave his brain the plot that thickens so pulses race and breathing quickens? Dickens! How the dickens did he puzzle it, make his eager readers guzzle it, Pickwick, Copperfield, Barnaby, Chuzzlewit? Dickens! When the dickens did this feller dream up Nickleby, Fagin, Weller, every one a classic seller? Dickens! Who the dickens was this psyche with Uriah, Sykes and Smikey, Scrooge and Magwitch, Merdle? Crikey! Dickens! What the dickens! What the dickens! Haven’t mentioned how Nell sickens, How Micawber counts his chickens - such a tasty pile of pickin’s midst a million clock-tick-tickin’s! What? The Dickens!

Weller never did

Weller never did speak wivout a simile, a figure o’ speech or wit or repartee: every sentence was the better fer an ‘ealthy dose of metapher: that, as ‘is ol’ man said, is Sam ! Weller never allowed the slightest chance to slip of findin’ a topic worf a joke or quip: so this feller, never skint fer words ‘e was a royal mint fer words: that, as the ‘ole world says, is Sam! Yet Sam can be the wery man fer a gentleman like Pickwick: ‘E’s so bright ‘e frows lots o’ light like a quick-witted candle wiv a quick wick! Weller ever remains ‘is master’s faithful man an’ keeps ‘im amused as only Weller can: wiv ‘is wery werbal fisticuffs an’ ‘sophical sophisticuffs - that, as ‘e did not say. Is Sam!

Song written with David Lindup info

Dankworth’s partner in orchestration

The thing about love

It’s the wanting to be with you night and day it’s the wanting to be with you come what may it’s the wanting to be with you all the way that’s the thing about love. It’s the wishing I could give you all you see it’s the wishing I could give you all of me it’s the wishing I could give you ecstasy that’s the thing about love. It’s no dream, it doesn’t seem like some old romantic song; I don’t need stars or swingin’ guitars to help my heart along. It’s the hoping that you’re feeling like I do it’s the hoping that you’re yearning this way too it’s the hoping that you’re hoping I love you that’s the thing about love that’s the thing I’ve got a thing about that’s the thing I’ve got to sing about that’s the state I want to bring about that’s the date I want a ring about that’s the thing about love.

Song written with Pat Smythe info

Pianist and composer.

If there is such a thing as love

If there is such a thing as love I wish I knew how it would be; I used to think I knew the answers but they were never right for me. If there is such a thing as love I wish I knew how it would come will all my senses be like dancers? And will my heart beat like a drum? And even if I should hear this sudden music will I know that it is something that will live? With every tenderness you give there is one thing I’m certain of: from you alone I’ll learn the answer if there is such a thing as love.

Songs written with John Gould info

Pianist and theatre composer.

The café

The café is the start of society, it’s the way to the heart of society, the café is the art of society. If you want to live in a way that’ll give something to civilisation get your education in the café. The café is the dream of the completer life, you can say it’s the cream of the sweeter life, the café is supreme dolce-vita life. If you want to know how a man ought to show something of sophistication, get your inspiration in the café. It all started off with the finding of the coffee bean, and after the finding, the accidental grinding that made the finest smell there’s ever been. It really took off with the making of the coffee pot, the brilliant translation of the sense-of-scent sensation to the greatest taste that we had ever got! The aroma and the flavour and the uplift were good for every part, mind, soul, and heart; so we built a place, in which, as a grace, we might a grateful cup lift, and which has since been the scene for celebrating Queen Caffeine! The café is the ark of humanity, you can say it’s the mark of urbanity. It’s the bright wit and sparkle of sanity. If you want to be at the top of the tree of human evolution, find your solution in the café.

First aid

Give me a person of feminine gender to whom I can render First Aid! A sprain in an ankle that’s shapely and slender? I'm eager to render First Aid; a girl feeling dizzy will soon have me busy arranging where she should be laid, and if she has slipped and is feeling tender then please let me render First Aid. If she has a hangover after a bender I know how to render First Aid; a bruise on a femur of female splendour? I’ll find where to render First Aid. And if she has fainted, though we’re not acquainted this isn’t a time to be staid! To great powers of therapy I’m no pretender but I love to render First Aid. If she to a flea has been forced to surrender I’ll hunt it and render First Aid; if she has been shocked by her boss’s agenda I’ll soothe her and render - that’s right! If she’s pulled a muscle I’ll see if her bustle is hiding the part that’s mislaid, and even of young broken hearts I’m a mender if I can just render First Aid. If she has been stung by a snapping suspender you’ve guessed the next line; I’ll swim for a lady who’s slipped in the river, by breast-stroke deliver – that’s it. With swooning of course it’s so often the corsets that must be unlaced I’m afraid! But please don’t interpret my motives as sinister, I’ll simply administer First Aid; a girl doesn’t need chaperones to defend her, I just want to render First Aid!

Many a time and oft

Many a time and oft we do the soft shoe shuffle, many a time untold we do the old soft shoe: I step right, and I step light, and I step quite as well as a slim Gene Kelly does it! Flick your toe, and verily merrily go, to find the way obey your dancing shoe forsooth sir! Many a time and oft we do the soft shoe shuffle, oftentimes we do! Many a time and oft we do the soft shoe shuffle, often we just unfold our favourite old routine: I step neat, and I repeat, and I step feat- -ly fair as a Fred Astaire could do it! Place the foot as pretty as it can be put and softly softly off we go anew i’ faith sir! Many a time and oft we do the soft shoe shuffle, oftentimes we do! Leaves of Autumn scuffling under the trees enhance our shuffling and perchance, flowers of Springtime ruffling under the breeze with sweet kerfuffle bid us to the dance, so: Many a time, no less, we do the- Yes! You’ve guessed it! Often we have to do the dear old you know what! Thus I trip, and thus I skip, and thus I zip as deft as a Nureyev would do it! Kick your hooves, and get in the greatest of grooves that just goes to and fro and fro and to, I trow sir! Many a time and oft we do the soft shoe shuffle, oftentimes (footing it soft) we (look at us waft) do! Many a time and oft we do!

Sleep well

Sleep little darlings, sleep well, sleep you know is a deep well, there you will find all your favourite things, rabbits and roses and rockets and rings, rising surprisingly, springing from springs in that deep well, sleep. Sleep, little sweethearts, sleep well, wish, and you’ll fish in that deep well, filling your eyes with the colours of dreams, filling your ears with the sweetest of themes, floating along on the gentlest of streams in that deep well, sleep. And when that well has cast its spell then miracles come true: you find treasures, wonders, secrets unders- -tood by only you! So sleep little angels, sleep well, sleep very deep and you’ll keep well, saving up all your most fabulous sights, buttercup meadows and butterfly flights, all to come back to on other good nights in that deep well, sleep; in that deep well, sleep well, sleep...

Tuck’s tuck

Friar Tuck sings: Although they call me Friar I’m always game to try a different way of cooking anything to munch: I’m a fryer and a broiler and a poacher and a boiler and a stewer and a roaster and a griller and a toaster, and that was only breakfast – roll on lunch! BUT! The more that Tuck tucks in, the more Tuck is stuck out! It is Tuck’s luck that Tuck is stuck with a problem there’s no doubt. The more that Tuck tucks in, Tuck’s tum runs more amok, so the more Tuck eats of meats and sweets the more there is of Tuck. And the more there is of Tuck, the more Tuck must tuck in. When he forks a buck or plucks a duck he’s struck with the thought of din! And the more Tuck chucks in that mouth of Tuck’s the more tuck makes Tuck stout, so here’s the crux: the more tuck Tuck tucks the more Tuck’s tum’s stuck out!

The frogs’ chorus

We Frogs are tailless amphibia and we’re of the Rana genus. We would be next to Gods but the Humans came between us. Because no tail is part of us we’re not part of the story, so to be its eponymous heroes is an unexpected glory. Though hopeless at both literature and logorithms we calculate to please you with our frogarhythms: It’s slowly emerging the centre of this entertainment tonight is us chorus of Frogs Brek ek ek ex coax coax brek ek ek ex At last they’ve discovered that making good music for us is as easy as falling off logs: Brek ek ek ex coax coax brek ek ek ex We’re not ugly beasts who might turn into princes we’re heroes ourselves, as this play convinces: Brek ek ek ex coax coax brek ek ek ex So hip hip coax for Aristophroganes!

Know thy place

To know thy self is the temple of Delphi’s great saying of sooth. “Gnothi se auton” – there can be no doubt on its wisdom and truth. Free men must follow those words of Apollo: for me they’re really ace! But slaves, my amigo, don’t need to know their ego - they just need to know their place! Just know thy place and keep it! Just know thy place and smile! And were thy place a flea-pit - simply submit with style! Being a slave, be humble! Learn to control thy face! Thou must behave, don’t grumble: The first of thy ingredients is blind resigned obedience - so go and know thy place!

Wit versus weight

Euripides fights a duet with Aeschylus

The maker of the sandwiches

(Cumulative chorus song) Whose hand is the hand which is the maker of the sandwiches? It’s me who’s the cutter who makes the bread and butter! I cut the bread and spread the spread and then I cut the spreaded bread. It’s me, the busy merchant whose job is much more urgent! I choose the cheese and haggle well and by the chosen cheese to sell. It’s me in my dairy who’s really necessary! I pat and churn, that’s how I earn, and then I churn and pat in turn. No, you’re all mistaken, it’s me with my bakin’! A sticky tin of dough I make, and then I stick it in to bake. The truth you’re all bilking, It’s me who does the milking! I squeeze and squirt, I squeeze with these and squirt the milk that makes the cheese. It’s me with my milling makes bread so good and filling! I mill the meal and grind the grain and then I mill and grind again. But who up to now heard of cows without a cowherd? I muse and mind the moody moos who choose to chew and moo and muse. I must say you’re charming! It’s me does the farming! I plough and sow and mow and thresh and till until I till afresh or till the time that’s planned which is the time to eat my sandwiches! It’s the hand which tills the land which is the maker of the sandwiches! ALL: No, mine is the hand which is the maker of the sandwiches! Oh well, all right, we see we live by labour that’s cooperative! So OURS is the hand which is the maker of the sandwiches!

The time of your life

Have the time of your life, Cinderella, The time of your life tonight, Made of moments of magic and seconds of sweetness and instants of instant delight! You will float on a stream of music, and swing on a beam of light: may this night be the most sublime of your life, have the time of your life tonight! Have the time of your life, Cinderella, the time of your life tonight! To each tick of the clock and each beat of your pulse feel the wings of your heart taking flight! There’ll be eyes that appeal so truly, and arms that will feel so right; may the bells of love ring the chime of your life for the time of your life tonight!

Songs written with Goff Richards info

Cornish composer nationally known for brass and choral compositions.

The journey of the astrologers

CHOIR Jesus was born at Bethlehem during the reign of King Herod. After his birth Astrologers from the East arrived in Jerusalem asking: ASTROLOGERS Where is the child who was born to be King of the Jews? We observed the rising of his star and we have come to pay him homage. CHOIR King Herod was greatly perturbed when he heard this. He called a meeting of the chief priests and lawyers of the Jews and asked them: HEROD Where is it that the Messiah is born? PRIESTS AND LAWYERS At Bethlehem in the Land of Judah! Remember the prophecy which said: “At Bethlehem in the Land of Judah! You are far from the least in the eyes of the rulers for out of you shall come a leader to be the shepherd of my people Israel” CHOIR “For out of you shall come a leader to be the shepherd of my people Israel” Herod then called the Astrologers to him: HEROD Go on to Bethlehem and find the child. When you have found him report him to me so I myself can pay him homage, ASTROLOGERS We’ll find the child who was born to be King of the Jews. We observed the rising of his star and we have come to pay him homage. CHOIR And the star they had seen in its rising went ahead of the Astrologers until it stopped above the place where the child lay. And at the sight of the star they were overjoyed: ASTROLOGERS We observed the rising of his star and we have come to pay him homage. CHOIR Entering the house they saw the child with Mary his mother. They bowed to the ground, then they opened their treasures and offered him their gifts: Gold! Frankincense! Myrrh! All for the child who is born to be King. ASTROLOGERS We observed the rising of his star and we have come to pay him homage. CHOIR Being warned in a dream not to go to Herod the Astrologers went home another way. When Herod saw how they had tricked him he fell into a passion and ordered: HEROD Kill all the babies of two years or less in Bethlehem! CHOIR But an angel of the Lord appeared in a dream to the child’s father Joseph, and said to him: ANGEL Rise up, take this child and his mother and escape with them to Egypt! CHOIR And so the child was saved, for we observed the rising of his star and we came to pay him homage. We observed the rising of his star and we came to pay him homage.

Rise again!

To rise again, to rise again: that’s the promise of Eastertime. To rise again, to rise again: setting stars will once more climb, the seedling shoots from fallen fruits, Spring will spring its surprise again! We fast a time, we feast a time and every year at Eastertime says: Rise again! Rise again! Rise again! The sun will light the skies again: that’s the message that Easter brings. The lamb that tumbles tries again, fledgling sparrows test their wings. From winter thorn, the rose reborn makes us raise our eyes again. The flow of life which ceased a time starts every year at Eastertime to rise again, rise again, rise again!

The story of the glory

St.Luke tell us, at Jesus’ birth an angel came upon the earth to tell them of the boy; and from this angel first was heard the happy and the holy word that still is sung with joy: Glory, glory glory! Glory to god above! On earth be peace! Good will increase! For he’s the God of Love. Glory! An unknown poet took the phrase and wrote a hymn of morning praise that Eastern Christians sang; but by AD Three-sixty-three we learned it from Saint Hilary, so Western chapels rang: Glory, glory, glory! Glory to God above, the Holy One with Holy Son who is the God of Love. Glory! At first this hymn of joy and hope was just for Christmas, till one Pope allowed it wider voice; so precious was the joyous chant that only Bishops did he grant the right to thus rejoice: Glory, glory, glory! Glory to God above! Receive our praise through all our days for You’re the God of Love! Glory! But as the centuries went past the Glory spread, until at last the Angel’s hymn was free: now everyone of every class who celebrates a Christmas Mass can sing its ecstasy: Glory, glory, glory! Glory to God above! On earth be peace, Good Will increase! Be praised the God of Love! Glory! Glory! Glory!

Thames, our river

Sweet Thames, I thank you. Now I end my song. Your song runs on, everlasting long, sweet Thames, never end your song! Thames, our river, Thames, our stream, you deliver to each of us a dream: to one, a city of books and spires, to one, a castle of queens and choirs, to one, a mooring by willow-stems, and to all the power of London on the Thames. Thames, our river, Thames, our stream, you deliver to each of us a theme: to one the country, the land you feed, to one the ocean, to whom you lead, to one the history of diadems and to all the power - Cathedral, Abbey, Tower, Big Ben upon the hour, the fanfare and the flower, the pageant and the power of London on the Thames.

A B C D Evolution

About our origins we used to believe that dear old Adam and dear old Eve were the solution: but now we believe, not in Adam and Eve but in Adam and Evolution: A B C D Evolution! F G H I used to be a shell! J K L M Ntal forces O P Q R changing every cell! S T U’re evolving by the minute, V W Xistentially we change! Y and Z: each end is a beginning: evolution – will you make us strange? Will the play of D N A make us grow a modem? Will antennae sprout out when I simply want to grow them? Will our backs deliver fax to screens on someone’s for’ead? Will sci-fi come true so I look like something horrid? A B C D Evolution! F G H I used to be a shell! J K L M Ntal forces O P Q R changing every cell! S T U’re evolving by the minute. V W Xistentially designed! Y? Then Z, each end is a beginning! Evolution – will you make us kind? A kind mankind?

Opposition and cooperation

The power of speech

Of all the powers that we’ve acquired to make us human, each to each, the greatest miracle - tra-la-la lyrical! - must be the power of speech. Of all inventions we’ve devised to bring sweet reason into reach the truly marvellous - hip-hip-hoo-rahvellous! must be the power of speech. Of all the gifts that we possess to help us think and learn and teach the really fabulous - gift-of-the-gabulous! - must be the power of speech. Of all the talents we can use to praise, amuse, bewitch, beseech the one most glorious - halleluphorious! - must be the power of speech. To look at beast and tree and fruit and name them puma, pine and peach, and then to grow from humble root the noblest principles we preach: why, this is beautiful - hullabalootiful! - and it’s incredible - out of your headable! - this is fantastical - it’s laughing- gastical! - each mouth an oracle - phantasmagorical! - the magic power of speech!

Pow-pow-pow-pow-power!

Our great –great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandads lit a great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great big fuse! Like our other big bang, the whole world rang with the great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great big news! ‘Cos’ our great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great granddads, just ten generations back from ours unexpectedly struck colossal luck: they got pow- pow- pow-pow- powers! They could place reliance on appliances of science to get pow-pow-pow-pow-power! And the tree of knowledge, fertilised by new technologies burst right into flower! We were nature’s master, getting stronger, getting faster, getting richer by the hour! We were modern giants with appliances of science to get pow-pow-pow-pow-power! Chemical and physical, mechanical, electrical: progress simply boomed. Milit’ry, magnetical, explosive, anaesthetical: every –ology zoomed. Every new technique needed new words from the Greek: telegram and photograph, hydraulics, cybernetics, aeronautics, automatics and you haven’t heard the half! They could place reliance on appliances of science to get my-my-mighty might! Raising normal energy up to the power of tenergy was literal dynamite! Many many many were the pennies and the bene- -fits that knowledge now could shower; we were modern giants with appliances of science to get pow-pow-pow-pow-power! Which continued to expand, but was started by the hand of our great- great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandads!

Winter wet, summer sweat

He was a hand upon the land, the same as was his father. Oh winter wet, oh summer sweat, as he would graft and gather! But he’d have stuck with country luck, if asked what he would rather. It came to pass that moorland grass provided jobs for fewer, so he was oust from work and house, that always seemed so sure. He told his wife this weren’t no life, what’s coming we’ll endure. There’s jobs in town, I’ll knuckle down, and we shall earn a livin’. That winter wet and summer sweat were anythin’ but givin’. The chimney-stacks and back-to-backs may yet be more forgivin’. The mill was black, an endless clack of metal with no easin’. The price of bread was lowered head and blindness to the season. Oh winter wet, oh summer sweat! You’d give him back his reason!

The river of time

The river of time doesn’t have to run red: Supposing we make it run clear instead? A few things we’ve done, in our little time, suggest we might grow up and learn how to cope, to make our lives sweet with reason and rhyme fulfilling our promise (the promise we’ve broken, the unredeemed token) fulfilling the promise of glory and hope: Cool, clean, crystal and serene: make the river of time run clear! Smooth, sure, lucid, calm and pure: make the river of time run clear! Spreading broader peace and order, and the great idea: that we still, yes we can and must and will make the river of time run clear!

Of arms and peaceful men

I sing of arms and of the men who wish all arms were gone but cannot stand indifferent when aggression marches on. I sing of war and those who mourn that ever war should be but cannot rest when peace is torn by greed and tyranny. I sing of those who seek no gain, nor glory in attack, yet feel the duty to make plain that force must be forced back. I sing of arms and those who pray that trade in arms shall cease, and only take them up today to bring tomorrow’s peace. When such folk fight we must not claim that war is always wrong; against oppression it’s no shame for good men to be strong. So sing of arms and people who gave up their hope of Spring, and saw no finer thing to do than make us free to sing.

Proper job

Is there a land where cream is cream and where a man has time to dream? Is there a place where peace is peace and where the race for change can cease? Is there a coast where cliffs are cliffs, folk never talk in buts and ifs? Can I escape this crazy stress? Here’s how the Cornish answer: YES! Proper job! First you cross the Tamar - Proper job! Sea-breeze in your face! Devon may be touchy - Cornwall is a Duchy! Proper job! Kernow is the place! Proper job! When the Lord made Cornwall - Proper job! Granite built with grace! Charm in every corner, Launceston to Lamorna: Proper job! Kernow is the place! Shades of miners, tough hand-liners, and a man born there in Camborne made an engine fine and fitty! And if you must then down in Truro town - there’s a city! Proper job! Take a stroll up Fore Street - Proper job! Pasty in your hand! Saffron sweet and spicy, have a bit o’ nicey! Proper job! Kernow is the land!

West of the Tamar

Wherever I roam, I’ve got this one aim to get home to West of theTamar. Wherever I fly, it’s always the same, I just sigh for West of the Tamar The moment you’re crossing that river you feel there’s a change in the air; the beauty of Devon may be close to heaven - - beyond it you know you are there. Wherever I turn I keep this old flame and I burn for West of the Tamar. I have to return to the place whence I came so I yearn for West of the Tamar. The world has its seventy wonders, but one is where I feel I’m blest, for I make the claimer, that crossing the Tamar is best from the East to the West! Wherever I roam I’ve got this one aim to get home to West of the Tamar. Wherever I fly it’s always the same, I just sigh for West of the Tamar.

Saith Macbeth

Saith Macbeth: Never trust a singer or musician, never trust a jester or a wit! Brand’em, scourge ‘em, anything to urge ‘em to learn a decent trade and do their bit! Saith Macbeth: Keep away from minstrels and from poets! Don’t believe that high poetic brow! Follow my sense, make ‘em pay a licence, or hitch ‘em up like oxen to the plough! Drummers are just bummers, trumpeters are strumpeters, such instruments are nasty noisy things. Never treat ‘em gentle, or they’ll be instrumental in doing something treacherous to kings! Saith Macbeth Have no faith in vagabonds and choirs, don’t be fooled by windbag-piping bards! Music’s foreign! You cannot tune a sporran! So clout ‘em with the claymores of the guards! Saith Macbeth: Have no truck with choruses or cornets, fiddlers should be strung with fiddlers’ gut! Those with whistles, make ‘em chew on thistles: Ay! That’ll keep their haggis-funnels shut! Rhymers are two-timers, viol-men are vile men, wrong notes are the least of all their wrongs! Totally disloyal to everything that’s royal - - except when they want royalties on songs! Saith Macbeth: Never trust a chanter or a player! Corrupt and up to no good with the young! Entertainers – they are sent to pain us: With their strings make sure they’re highly strung! See they get no air to fill their lung! Give the cat their caterwauling tongue! See their Highland fling is truly flung! Teach ‘em a new meaning to well-hung! Throw ‘em on the midden in the dung! Saith Macbeth.

It takes all humankind

First I thought that all good men had to come from this one glen; then I saw, on braes around, many good men could be found. Soon I knew that all the land called Kilmarnock held a band of good men from the whole of Ayr. All of Scotland had its share: By the heart of Rabbie Burns! This is what a fellow learns: it takes all humankind to make a Scot! By yon bonnie banks and braes, that’s the wisdom we should praise: it takes all humankind to make a Scot! So don’t ignore one part lest you ignore the heart, to be complete a person needs the lot: By the shade of Robert Bruce, it’s a truth of wondrous use: It takes all humankind to make a Scot or a Brit, or a Jute, or a Let, or a Lat, or a Goth, does it not? It takes all humankind to make the lot!

Tell us a story

Show opener: Tell us a story, tell us a tale of wizards or lizards or Moby the whale; of heroes who challenge, of villains who fail; of rockets to planets and trips under sail: oh, tell us a story, tell us a tale! Tell us a story, tell it again! Of outlaws and pirates, of Roman and Dane; a story where glory will make up for pain, where passions and potions are drowned in champagne; where young hearts are questing for love or the grail: oh, tell us a story, tell us a tale! Show closer: Thanks for the story, thanks for the tale - the secret of cipher, the underground trail! Thanks for the story that took us so deep - so deep...that I’m ready...to go home...to sleep...

A book has got the world in it

A book has got the world in it one page and you are hurled in it you’re off your feet and whirled in it picked up, spun round and twirled in it then when you sleep you’re curled in it in your dreams enfurled in it knitted, plained and purled in it even oyster-pearled in it drum-and-piper-skirled in it carefree boy-and-girled in it! A book has got the world in it!

Rhythm rhyme and reason

Where there’s rhythm there’ll be rhyme and where there’s rhyme there’s reason. This is so wherever you go, in every time and season. Where there’s rhythm there’ll be rhyme and sound makes sense the sweeter. It’s the case in every place, it’s all down to the metre. Think what we owe to that trio: rhythm, rhyme, and reason! For music’s sense is so intense it turns the birds and bees on. Where there’s meaning there’ll be words and words like beating time, and then the beat is really complete when rhythm chimes with rhyme: oh yes! And rhythm rhymes with chime! Oh yes! Rhythm, reason, rhyme! Where there’s rhythm there’ll be rhyme and life is in its prime. Universe is Tuniverse when rhythm chimes with rhyme. Let’s skip, let’s trip, let’s hear those triplets rhythm, rhyme and reason! For music’s art decodes the heart, that everyone agrees on! Where there’s rhythm there’ll be rhyme, and where there’s rhyme there’s reason. This is so wherever you go, in every time and season: Oh yes! And reason chimes with rhyme! Oh yes!: Reason, rhythm, rhyme!

Life’s a labyrinth

Don’t worry about her, she’ll find her way. Don’t worry about, she’ll be OK: Remember she’s young, and when you’re young the whole of life’s a maze. All roads divide, you choose one side, and lose the other ways. So losing the way is everyday, whenever paths are crossed, and as for us, we don’t much fuss, we’re used to feeling lost. Life’s a labyrinth, life’s a maze. Which way costs? Which way pays? Can left be right? Can right be wrong? Dark ways get light, and short cuts long! Life’s a labyrinth: puzzling quiz! But finding ways is what life IS! Life’s a labyrinth, life’s a maze, so many turns, so many ways: It’s amazing!

Sussed sustainability

So long, so long, we’ve done it all wrong, we’ve done it all wrong! Doing things that make us gain again and again and again: that’s sussed, sussed sustainability. Making sure that we retain plenty of seed for next year’s grain: that’s sussed, sussed sustainability. Making certain we maintain trees that can recycle rain: that’s sussed, sussed sustainability. Never letting poison drain into nature’s clean domain: that’s sussed, sussed, sustainability. Get sustainability sussed! You just find a process you can trust and get sustainability sussed!

Singers of the world, unite!

Singers of the world, unite! What is there to lose, but the blues? Singers of the world, unite! There’s a lot to win, so begin! Singers, give the world delight! Claim the big reward – sweet accord! Singers of the world, unite! Let us hear and see Harmony! Songs of love. songs of friendship, songs of hope teach us all how to live and how to cope with hard times. [Optional] When we sigh, when we struggle, when we strive, music’s power helps our hearts to survive. Singers of the world, unite! One united song, and we’re strong! Singers of the world, unite! Gathered in a choir, to inspire! Singers of the world sing out! All around the earth, sing its worth! Sing the melody of light, peace and right and unite, unite, unite!

A special place

A child must have a special place, a place to feel at peace, where time can flow with simple grace, where storm and struggle cease. t shows a gentle smiling face, and glows with certain light; a child is sure this special place will hold it safe at night. There’s space to set the spirit free, above the everyday things and there’s a distant harmony to calm you as it sings. A child can’t find this special place on stars or secret charts: its heart will find its special place in other loving hearts.

Dreckly

Put that shelf up? ‘Es, dreckly. Clean meself up? ‘Es, dreckly. When ‘tis broccoli season, ours is not reason, THAT’s a thing you got to tackle creckly! Other things will be done dreckly. Dreckly, dreckly, lots o’ things can be done dreckly, what’s important’s done already, for the rest just take it steady, circumspeckly! Do it dreckly. Barn-door bangin? ‘Es, dreckly. Gate not ‘angin’? ‘Es, dreckly. When you must get ‘ay in, then there’s no delayin’, THAT’s a thing you got to treat respeckly! Other chores will be done dreckly. Dreckly, dreckly, lots o’ chores can be done dreckly. Things like milkin’ won’t do waitin’, rest are best procrowstinatin’, what the heckly! Do it dreckly VAT-form? Drat it! ‘Es, dreckly. Shall I scat it? ‘Es, dreckly. Now, when you are courtin’, and she’s sort o’ sportin’, THAT’s a moment you must catch perfeckly! Other jobs can be done dreckly. Dreckly, dreckly, lots o’ jobs can be done dreckly. Never let a little worry change yer ways and make ‘ee ‘urry unexpeckly! Do it dreckly! Dreckly dreckly dreckly [ getting softer] dreckly dreckly, [shouted] DRECKLY!

China

In the poetry of potteries no song is finer than the ting-a-ling dynasties of china from China: Tang, Sung, Ming, Ching, every potter’s got to sing when he hears those dynasties ring in his ears. Ching Ming Sung Tang, envy starts a potter’s pang when they ping the dynasties’ dinner-things sing: [a section on each dynasty leads to Wedgwood] Josiah Wedgwood, good Josiah! He knew clay and he knew fire; had the know-how, had the will, had the organising skill, rose to fame. Josiah Wedgwood, good Josiah! Did a lot for Staffordshire; good for workers, good for trade, to the name of British Made honour came. Josiah Wedgwood, good Josiah! Grew into the grand old sire of a dynasty to fling challenge at a Ming or Ching!

The Nelson touch

[Choruses only, each being originally introduced by a section on the Battle of Trafalgar] The Nelson Touch, the Nelson Touch ,the touch of a man inspired. The Nelson Touch, the Nelson Touch, an Admiral really admired! The Nelson Touch, the Nelson Touch, the touch of a gentleman, he’s someone great, yet like a mate, you’ll serve him while you can! The Nelson Touch, the Nelson Touch, the touch of genius. The Nelson Touch, the Nelson Touch - a name that touches us!

The ballad of St. Piran

Hear now the story of Piran the Saint: Singin’ and playin’ a picture we’ll paint of how the young Kiran escaped Irish tyranny, sailed all alone on a boat made of stone to Kernow, sweet Kernow, and here he became St Piran, St Piran, and here got the name St Piran. Just where he landed, from that day on forth we’ve always given the name Piranporth. His day of arriving, the wondrous surviving, that March Day we march in Kernow, fair Kernow, to mark the day of St Piran, St.Piran, to show that we love St Piran. Building a chapel of branches and rocks, first he converted the foxes and brocks, the people soon came around,, spreading his name around, spreading the word in Kernow, dear Kernow, the word of the good St Piran, St Piran, for we understood St Piran. St Piran then taught’em that rock contained ore, tin was a fortune worth labourin’ for. The dark has the bright in it, night has the light in it, white cross is found on the deepest black ground in Kernow, rich Kernow, the banner of great St Piran, St Piran, so let’s celebrate St Piran! Right?

Songs written with Peter Pontzen info

Composer and pianist with Royal Shakespeare Company

We got gods!

We got gods! Ye gods! We got ‘em! We got gods from top to bottom! We Greeks immerse our universe in plethoras of gods. We got gods for every season, gods galore beyond all reason! We Greeks deluge ourselves in huge enormities of gods! Our poets and creators are like volcanic craters that spew out gods like some fermented fountain. Like lesser folk with butter, the surplus is so utter we stack them at Olympus, our god-mountain. We got gods like some got vermin, our Greek world’s like wood with worm in; it’s riddled with the folk of myth, and such celestial bods! We got gods like London’s pigeons, gods enough for twelve religions - it’s overdone, it’s overrun with gods and gods and gods. Shocking lot, they have no morals, endless sex and endless quarrels, with incest rife they lead a life more fun than ours, the sods! Still one thing is to their credit ( don’t tell them it’s us that said it!): they make us laugh, so we don’t half enjoy our lots of gods!

Wealth

Wealth, a fountain ! Gold, a mountain! Soon we shall stop countin’: we’ve all got wealth! Sing a song of rich men, pockets full of coins, four and twenty obols, jingle round our loins. Wealth, cascading! Pounds, parading! More than Geldof-aiding! We’ve all got wealth! Ring-a-ring-o’ riches, pockets full of bread, feast while you are living, fast when you are dead. Wealth, Eutopia! Corn – ucopia! Money for old rope ‘ere ! We’ve all got wealth! Some may call us upstarts, now we’ve found our niche: don’t mind being nouveau, ‘s long as we are riche! Wealth, impressive! Cheques, excessive! Can’t get any less if we’ve all got wealth! Rich may not be happy, money can’t buy health? Keep your joy and fitness, they cannot buy wealth! Wealth, euphoria! Spend- there’s more ‘ere! In Expenses Gloria! We’ve all got Wealth! Rich men get the pleasure, poor men get the blame: now that we’re the rich ones, hope it stays the same! Wealth, what splendour! Hey, big spender, let’s go on a bender, we’ve all got: I got, you got, they got - it’s a happy –ender : we’ve all got wealth!

Venice

When is a city less a city than a moist and marshy menace? Guess! Yes, it’s Venice. Venice, where stepping off the pavement absolutely always wets ya! Where? Yeah – Venezia! Venezia, where the rheumatism gets ya and the rising damp upsets ya if you haven’t died of a’sma or malarial miasma. When is the street beneath your feet about as solid as a fen is? Sure, you’re in Venice. What is a house built on foundations that will rot before completion? Quite right! Venetian! Laguna! Please don’t make the day come sooner when we’re eaten by the tuna or we go to our demises where the cruel Bridge of Sighs is. But what’s that liquid that is lapping where last week there was an attic? Say! A-driatic! Who plays a water-polo game that started off a game of tennis? Si! We......in Venice! Yes. It’s Venice!

Pasquale

Whatever’s gone wrong is explained in this song: It’s Pasquale! A list of his faults is contained in this waltz: It’s Pasquale! He muddles things up, he’s a pest, he’s a pup, he’s a lump, he’s a chump, he’s a Charlie! He’s a burk, he’s berserk, but although he’s a jerk and so thick! Yet I’ll stick by Pasquale! Whatever’s got worse is made clear in this verse: It’s Pasquale! The reason for it you can hear in this hit: It’s Pasquale! The one thing he makes is a mass of mistakes, he’s a git, he’s a twit – but totale! He’s a pain with no brain, a dead loss, yet again he’s a schmuck, but I’m stuck, with Pasquale! He’s the one you can blame, you can blind, you can blast, he’s the least, he’s the last – but he’s not in the cast! Not Pasquale!

Man and Master

Master, man; Man and Master; a very odd relationship since the world began: for a servant has to master his master, and a master has to serve his man - if he wants to keep him. Now the boss may be a bastard, but there is still this bond, and once the bastard’s mastered you can even get quite fond of doing for him. The more he is a master, the less he is a man, and a lesser man is faster to conform to his man’s plan for how to do things. So you’ve got to be observant of who it is you serve; the main thing for a servant is to have a lot of nerve and expert timing. When master’s most resplendent, ‘cos’ man has served him right, then master’s most dependent, and the man will be in quite a strong position. Then the master is a puppet the man manipulates. His hand goes down and up, it is usually what dictates the master’s actions. The man who has been trained well in turn will train his Sir, he’s always wained and dained well, for his master will defer to his man’s judgement. The master has delusions, the servant’s mind is clear: he master-minds confusions that cost his master dear - and guess who profits! A master likes appearance, a servant goes for facts and subtle interference makes sure the master acts in his man’s interest!.

Gone

It all goes by, so fast, so fast the laughing and the weeping. It’s there, and then it’s past, it’s past the sowing and the reaping. It’s all too good to last the losing and the keeping; you hardly heed, you hurry on and suddenly it’s gone, it’s gone, it’s gone.

Songs written with Tony Cliff info

Composer, lyricist, and pianist

Chuffed

The chough is back in Cornwall -chaw, chaw- the good old Cornish chough. When ‘e left us, ‘e bereft us, sure ‘nough. But the chough is back in Cornwall -chaw , chaw- the ‘ansome Cornish chough. Now back with us, ‘e do give us joy: we’m chuffed! So unique, red of beak, red leg e-leg-ant; and ‘is song, we d’b’long to ‘ear that cawing chant: chaw, chaw! ‘is posh name means red raven -chaw, chaw- but we’m content with chough! Back to nest ‘ere, so we’m blest ‘ere,chuffed! Chaw, chaw, choughed!

Dear of ‘em

Her name is Jean, he’s known as Jim: dear of ‘em. He scowls at her, she nags at him: dear of ‘em. She’s pretty thin, he’s rather stout. He cannot hear, she will not shout, but arm in arm they still go out: Dear of ‘em, dear of ‘em. They’re good as gold, and getting old, dear of ‘em. Jean shines the brass, Jim sees no need: dear of ‘em. He likes the Sport, she likes to read: dear of ‘em. He sleeps till she turns out the light, then he gets up four times a night, but come the dawn they’re cuddlin’ tight: Dear of ‘em, dear of ‘em. They’re going white, but they’re all right, dear of ‘em. Jean finds the specs that Jim’s mislaid: dear of ‘em. He washes up the tea she’s made: dear of ‘em. He’s getting slow, she’s in good trim, she’s still all there, his memory’s dim, and Jean’ll weep to bury Jim: Dear of ‘em, dear of ‘em. Both good as gold, their story’s told, dear of ‘em.

The little husband (Le petit mari)

There was a man who made his daughter take a husband who was shorter. He wasn’t any size at all, in fact you’d call him rather small. Standing on tip-toe he was able to rub noses with her navel, but even that began to pall, for he was really rather small. Mother had said the marriage night meant she would get much more excitement but it was not that way at all, for he was really rather small. She had a hope that with persuasion he would rise to the occasion, if he would rise then she would fall, though he was really rather small. He wasn’t like her other lovers, he got lost beneath the covers, she couldn’t find him there at all, for he was really rather small. If he was lost there’d be a scandal, so she sought him with a candle; under the sheets she tried to crawl, to find the man who was so small. It was by candle, not desire, that she set the bed on fire so that the bed became his pall, for he was really rather small. She got him out of this misforch’n, but to hold him was so scorchin’ she had to wrap him in a shawl, now he was hot as well as small. So then she thought she would deposit him inside the water-closet, thinking his temp’rature would fall, her little man who was so small. But then she pulled from force of habit, and it drowned him like a rabbit. There was a fizz and that was all of her poor man who was so small. Pity the girl who weds a midget who can do no more than fidget, who cannot answer to her call because he’s really rather small. Moral is, marriage to a pigmy leads to tragedy or big’my. That was a story that is tall about a husband who was small.

Meet me by moonlight

Meet me by moonlight alone where only the moon sees us meet, for she is a kind chaperone who conspires to make romance complete. You must promise to keep to your tryst with me and my friend there above, for here are my lips to be kissed, and there’s her light shining above. So meet me by moonlight alone, meet me by moonlight alone.

I want something more than a gentleman

The men who see in me a wife don’t make me desire to be a wife. Those upright and genteel young men aren’t my idea of real young men; So stiff that if they stoop to propose one fears the dears will fall on their nose! I’m not so partial to this martial type of regimental man - I want something more than a gentleman! The men I know are sweet enough, but none of them seem complete enough. So correct and prim their dealings are, you never know what their feelings are. And when these men express their desire, they act with tact instead of with fire! I’m more disposed to be proposed to by a sentimental man - I want something more than a gentleman! I’d like a man with eager brains, but most of them have such meagre brains. I’d like a man with bold ideas, but many men have such old ideas. They seem to deem it part of God’s plan that maid was made unequal to man! But I don’t crave to be a slave to such a detrimental man - I want something more than a gentleman! I don’t mind how well-bred men are, if they’re not as dull as dead men are. I want a man who leads a life so rich and full that he needs a wife: not just to dust and crochet all day and bear an heir each year till I’m grey! Find me a bright and more enlightened truly compos-mental man - I want something more than a gentleman!

The crinoline song

What a pity the crinoline’s gone, for it’s quite to the modern girl’s mind! What a pity the crinoline’s gone, leaving only the bustle behind! Let’s imagine the fashion’s returned, with its sly little tricks to be learned: and I in my crinoline doing a spin’ll in- -spire all the men to be bold, yet do as they’re told, and be quite refined! What a pity the crinoline’s gone, leaving only the bustle behind! Take me back to the crinoline time, when a girl felt enthroned like a queen, and the distance she kept was sublime when her subjects appeared on the scene: for you can’t be embraced by surprise, and a man is a fool if he tries, for I in my crinoline, straight as a pin’ll in- -sist every man be my slave, to patience resigned! What a pity the crinoline’s gone, leaving only the bustle behind! Yet the masculine lot is relieved, by excitements like glimpses of toes! While a girl’s main ambition’s achieved, if, enchanted by those, he’ll propose! And the sight of an ankle in lace may be granted with delicate grace, so I in my crinoline, so feminine’ll in- -vite all the men to admire, yet keep their desire to arm’s length confined: what a pity the crinoline’s gone, leaving only the bustle behind!

The english rose

[Two men, R and C, discuss how to approach young English ladies] R The English Rose, so beautiful she grows, is Nature’s dearest flower; her blushing bloom and her pure perfume make England a perfect bower. But if you should think that a bud so pink could be plucked by the first who chose, you would find to your dismay, your scorn must pay! There’s a sting to the English Rose! Though she’s there to adorn, have a care for her thorn: there’s a sting to the English Rose! C The English Maid, I am very much afraid, is just like the English Rose: her words can prick to the marrow and the quick if the wrong man attempt to propose. R But just as the rose falls to him who knows how at random her thorns are arrayed- so in your circumstance you must learn that Romance is the thing for the English Maid! Make her dream, and be sure it will seem even more than a ring to the English Maid! C The English Rose, so your proposition goes, can be plucked if you understand that a velvet glove will inspire her love, as well as protect your hand! Since the rose has a heart, you must play your part, don’t appeal to her in terms of prose! But sub rosa, and sub lune, say a poem, play a tune, even sing to the English Rose! Just for one shining hour be the sun to a flower! Bring the Spring to the English Rose!

You who know secrets

Cherubino: You who know secrets, share one of them with me: I have this malady – what can it be? Laughing, moping, longing, hoping, and such an ache! Falling, flying, dancing, dying: do tell me what to take!

The Catcher of the birds

(Der Vogelfänger) I’m a man of very few and simple words, for I’m the catcher of the birds. A naiver character does not exist than I, the royal aviarist. Yes, a man of cunning little traps am I, but when a pretty bird is still too fly I go vu vu vu vu vu, I blow vu vu vu vu vu: [on the panpipes] any feathered friend who hears the pipes of Pan very soon surrenders to the feathered man! Vu vu vu vu vu : like so! vu vu vu vu vu: I blow! and the bird surrenders to the feathered man. As I said, I’m not a man of many words, for I’m the catcher of the birds. Volubility’s a thing you can resist when you’re an ornithologist. But by nature I’m a very cheerful type, my only wish is, when I play my pipe that soon: vu vu vu vu vu, my tune: vu vu vu vu vu may be answered – which so far has not occurred - by another special sort of singing bird! Vu vu vu vu vu: that soon: vu vu vu vu vu: my tune may be answered by a different sort of bird. It’s the saddest story that you ever heard: the birdcatcher who can’t catch his bird! In my trade I know that certain birds are rare, but the one for me must live somewhere! When I find my little hen or duck or dove, I’ll take her with me on such flights of love! I’ll sigh: vu vu vu vu vu! Oh my! Vu vu vu vu vu! Like two birds of paradise we shall be blest, with our feathers feathering our soft love-nest! Vu vu vu vu vu! Like this! Vu vu vu vu vu! We’ll kiss! With our feathers feathering our soft love-nest: We’ll be two contented lovey-dovey birds - and I’ll be a man of even fewer words!

A man and a woman

[Bei Männern, welche Liebe fühlen] Duet for Pamina and Papageno P’o A man and a woman have one thing in common: they need one another to make life seem whole. P’a A man and a woman are each half-way human: together they become one human soul. P’o A woman, P’a a man, P+P an elegant plan: P’a your missing half is looking for you! P+P How you will weep and laugh to be one and not two. P’a The masculine gender is not so hard it can’t be tender to one of the opposite and equal gender known as weak and female; P’o The feminine gender, though very pure, may surrender to one selected and privileged male. P’a A woman, P’o a man, P+P a simple but a perfect plan: P’o your counterpart is waiting to be P+P joined with your singing heart in two- part harmony. P’a Or, to make it clear P’o this is the idea: P+P man and wife and wife and man, that’s the fine design and plan! Wife and man and man and wife , that’s the scheme and theme of life! That’s the scope and hope of life! That’s the art and heart of life!

Magic Flute

[The flute theme] Tamino: Magic flute, magic music, be a messenger for me: float a note, so she can hear me! Out of thin air, magic flute, summon up a mellow melody that will sing and swing and bring Pamina near me! Lead me like a lark, to end my dark pursuit of love; let friendly fortune grant you’re my enchanted flute of love! Life is tragic when it’s mute, be an absolutely magic flute to transmute the scene and bring Pamina near me!

The jingle

[Das klinget so herrlich] Papageno’s music-box tames Monostatos P With the jingle, grow gentle! With the jingle, grow mild! Let it soften men, till they’re once again as sweet as a child! M Hear the jingle! I’m nicer! What a tingle, what joy! Every note leads me once again to be a nice little boy! With the jingle I’m smiling, just as mummy once smiled! And I sing along the beguiling song she sang to her child. Hear the tinkle! I’m gentler! In a twinkle, less bad! With the jingle tune I shall be quite soon a dear little lad!

The building of life

[Doch geb’ ich Dir die Freiheit nicht] Sarastro to Pamina My child, see life as like a building: the surface: plaster, paint and gilding. But when you know the way the masons interlock every well-cut block, down to living rock, you learn that it rests upon foundations that are its reasons, its roots, and its heart. Do not judge your house by decorations! Look deep into the architect’s art!

Through fire and water

[Wir wandelten durch Feuergluten] Tamino and Pamina undergo trial by fire and water. We’ve come together through the furnace, survived the seething of the blood. We know one bloom they cannot burn is true love’s imperishable bud, and now the way we must return is with the flute through overwhelming flood. A royal son, a royal daughter, have come together through the test. The fiercest fire and wildest water could not defeat us in our quest, for love’s the mighty magic mortar that builds a house forever blest.

Tree on the mountainside

Tree on the mountainside, rising to the crystal sky, reach for the jewel, the Christmas star! Tree on the mountainside, just guide that magic light to shine upon us from afar. Child in the house below, look up at the mountain tree, see where it points to the star so bright. Tree on the mountainside, show little child the way to raise our eyes and see the light. Child of the valley folk, grow up like the strongest tree, aim for the great star of hope above. Follow the tree-sign, follow the star-shine that’s leading us to peace and love.

Song of joy

Joy, oh joy, sweet joy of living, born of hope and harmony, hear us now rejoice in singing your immortal melody. Let your music reunite us, where opinion may divide: we’ll be brothers, sisters, partners – let the rule of joy preside! Jubilation from each human who is sure of human friends Celebration from each lover who has learned how love transcends! All who’ve shared their understanding, all who have been understood, join together, form the circle of the human brotherhood! Nature offers all her children nectar from the joyous cup, let not one soul be excluded, let our hearts be opened up! Joy in kisses, joy in feasting, joy in friendship, joy in life! Humbler creatures know mere pleasure, we have joy opposing strife. Joy, oh joy, sweet joy of living, born of hope and harmony, hear us now rejoice in singing your immortal melody.

Perfect rose

Perfect rose, sweet rose, brief rose: time flows and soon, so soon, too soon, perfect rose, goes that enchantment of perfume, your bloom; your clue that beauty may be true simply goes, brief rose. Who knows? Your flower may last one hour before a frost and we have lost that brief perfection of rose. Dear rose, sweet rose, breathe slow! Don’t go, perfect rose.

Only Sweet Music

[Himmel und Erde] A round for two voices Voice 1: Heaven and earth so soon are gone! [Here voice 2 starts to follow voice 1] Only sweet music only sweet music only sweet music goes on and on. Heaven and earth... [Voice 2 follows until an agreed ending]

The Cornish Saints

Now you’ll never get to heaven on a heavy cloud for a heavy cloud ain’t so endowed, but a heavy cloud can be your ship! That’s how St Cadoc made the trip as he headed for the Cornish shore: on a heavy cloud to the Cornish coast, and he was followed by a host of saints from Cymru full of hwyl and flumm’ry! [Here follows a list of saintly Welsh immigrants into Cornwall, set by Goff Richards] So when the Saints, those Celtic Saints, yes when the Saints came sailing in they all had second homes here in Kernow when the Saints came sailing in. [The next section is about Breton Saints in a wine-barrel] Now you’ll never get to heaven on a gurt millstone, for a gurt millstone to fly ain’t known, but a gurt millstone will surely float ‘cos’ one became St Piran’s boat as he headed for the Cornish shore: on a gurt millstone to the Cornish coast, and he was followed by a host of saints from Eire - and there’s nothin’ quarer! [Here follows a list of Irish ecumenic migrants into Cornwall, set by Goff Richards] So when the Saints, those Celtic Saints, yes, when the Saints came sailing in, we made them welcome here in Kernow when the Saints came sailing in.

Child's Play

[Kinderspiele] My child, when we were children, we had such fun back then, we’d crawl right into the henhouse, and cluck like every old hen, then crow just like the cockerel, and when someone came near, “Cockdoodledo!” – they really thought it was him they could hear. Once a big box in the barnyard, we took and dusted it down, painted and furnished it nicely, and called it our house up in town. The elderly cat from our neighbours sometimes came to call: we welcomed her in with curtseys, and gossip about the next ball. We’d ask how she was keeping, and say we admired her hat; since then we’ve said the same things to many another old cat. We’d often sit like grown-ups, and find wise things to say, such as how far far better everything was in our day. How truth and faith and loving had vanished from the earth, how costly now was coffee, how little pence were worth. Long gone are such amusements, for everything goes past; and truth and faith and loving, and innocence, don’t last.

And round and round

Original intro: Some mother’s son will soon fly a rocket round the moon, and round, and round... Revised intro after moon-landings: A man has flown in space round the moon’s once hidden face, and round, and round... The moon, since heavens’s birth once a month goes round the earth and round and round; the earth has always spun once a year around the sun and round and round; the sun, though very far, circles round a father star and round and round; that star in turn has whirled always round another world and round and round; that mother’s world will be centred round her family and round and round; heaven, mother, father, son, earth, and moon, and all, are one, and round and round, and round and round and round and round...

All that I want to Do

Wind is blowing, and I cannot be with you and that’s all that I want to do. Rain is falling, and you cannot be with me and you’re all that I want to see. Wind and rain may yet remind: other things are more unkind - yet time is passing, and I cannot be with you and that’s all that I want to do. Sun is shining, and I cannot be with you and that’s all that I want to do. Birds are singing, but your voice is never near and you’re all that I want to hear. Spring and summer come in vain, might as well have wind and rain, for life is passing and I cannot be with you and that’s all that I want to do.

In our sorrowing we sing

Youth goes like Spring goes, and beauty with the wind goes, for all bright things soon fade once they’ve shone, briefly shone. Love like a flower goes, and life like an hour goes, like falling stars we’re going, going, gone: So in our sorrowing we sing the songs that seem to bring a hint of beauty, a touch of youth; and in our loneliness we play the songs that seem to say that life is lasting, that love is truth. Hope goes like dreams go, and friends like leaves in streams go, for all bright things soon fade once they’ve shone, briefly shone. Joy just like sand runs, while time right through your hand runs, like falling stars we’re going, going, gone: So in our sorrowing we sing the songs that seem to bring a word of friendship, a glimpse of faith; and in our loneliness we play the songs that seem to say that love’s enduring, that there’s no death.

Raise the Portcullis

He stood outside her castle gates – a lofty castle, hers! - for he had tried to get inside for years and years and years. The time was the Middle Ages, though she herself was young, and he was a knight – such a knight, he was! - and this is what he sung: CHORUS: Raise the portcullis, down with your drawbridge! Open up your doors! But the fair princess said No No No! This castle can’t be yours! Out from her rounded balcony she often used to lean. He got distraught with the very thought of that majestic scene. But the moat remained between them, so she remained remote! On the outskirts of her castle rise he sung, and here I quote: [CHORUS] Well, steam rose from his visor, his mail was all red-hot. He swore that wall would have to fall, whether she said No or not. So he got himself a battering ram long enough to span the moat, but before he charged he sung once more, and here again I quote: [CHORUS] And so he rammed her ramparts, and soon breached her defence: now through the breeches she beseeches, “No more violence!” I see I’m not impregnable, my buttresses you’ve bust, so come up to my balcony – one moment while I just: [CHORUS] Raise my portcullis, down with my drawbridge open up my doors! Then the fair princess said Yes Yes Yes! This castle now is yours!

She was very fond of fish

A lovely maid was once the toast of every fisherman on the Cornish coast’ because they knew her only wish was to find the fisherman with the finest fish. Oh yes, she was so piscivorous, all the fishers joined the chorus: [Chorus] Born under Pisces, bred by the high seas, she was very fond of fish! When young she tried Pete’s prawns one night – a cocktail is very good for the appetite; and then she tasted Jack’s fine sprat – you know that mackerel’s often caught like that: and so quite soon without much urgin’, that young virgin fell for sturgeon: [Chorus] To Rodney, that most expert rod, she said, you’ve converted me to belief in cod; Elijah brought her electric eel – she said, it’s shockin’ the way you make me feel: yes, you may kip with me dear skipper, I could even flip for kipper: [Chorus] When Fred found flatfish in a shoal, she said, Oh Fred, I adore you heart and sole; young Arthur made her amorous, when he came singing “There is a plaice for us”: though flattery may get men nowhere, flatter fish got them you know where! [Chorus] A Breton crabber with a pot just pinched her gently and she consumed the lot; A Frenchman brought her one sardine – she sent him back for the rest of ze teen: she said, I like you froggy garcons, this girl’s meat is you mens’ poissons! [Chorus] With Hal she was not pally but he won her round with a bit of halibut; she said it sounded like a dream, when asked by Julian if she’d like his bream: and so they’d stay in tune, no sooner did she than he fetched a tuna - [Chorus] This tale, just like a mermaid, had an end that’s fishy and therefore rather sad; one boy who wanted loving plus brought her the gift of a living octopus: but from his arms its eight arms seized her, while ten thousand suckers squeezed her - [Chorus] Now she does everything it bids, cooking, cleaning and bringing up its squids; for they have sixty- four young pets, that makes eight litters of little octuplets: so now she’s fully fish-conditioned, even she has fish sufficient: Born under Pisces, bred by the high seas, she was very fond of fish!

How will you remember me

Refrain: How will you remember me? How will you remember me, my love, my dear? How will you remember me? How will you remember me, next month, next year? Will it be with tenderness, will it be with bitterness beyond recall? Or will you not remember me, will you not remember me at all? Love, as everybody knows, sometimes comes but always goes. Disappearing like the snows of years gone by. Love new grows old, love warm grows cold: I just can’t help wondering how ours will die? [Refrain] Will the time you spend with me seem, on looking back, to be something you are glad to see is dead and gone? Or will it seem like some lost dream that you’d give your waking life to carry on? [Refrain]

He shows me

He shows me a treasury of silver words, newly coined for my tongue; he shows me a minstrelsy of silences, still unsung; he shows me the poetry and truth of things, how they seem, how they are; the way to see the mystery of great and small, sea and sand, sky and star. He shows me a library of secret stones we may read in our time; he shows me a gallery of distant hills we may climb; he shows me a tapestry of woven dreams, every strand spun for me; the way to see the unity of everything, who shows me? Only he. [His response] She shows me the melody and youth of things, as they sing in delight; she shows me a galaxy of shooting stars in the night; she shows me simplicity in labyrinths, though she can’t set me free; the way to be in harmony within my walls, who shows me? Only she!

Killing Time

Hear the news and the weather, though they’re always the same; read the cereal packet, for the novelty game; then have a go at the crossword, till you’re stuck on a clue; and while you think you’re killing time, it’s time that’s killing you. Watch some more television, like the evening before; test your wit and your knowledge, disagree with the score; go to to bed with a novel, to find out what real lovers do: and while you think you’re killing time, it’s time that’s killing you. Don’t see people but shadows, don’t have wishes but dreams; don’t know things but their pictures, not what is but what seems; rather have a stained-glass-window than one you can really see through; and while you think you’re killing time, it’s time that’s killing you, it’s time that’s killing you!

Sober October

It’s a sober October, now the crazy summer days are all over: oh, it’s a sober October. There’s an autumn post-mortem on the summer dreams that seemed so important: oh, it’s a sober October. We’re headin’ into a cold old winter, just like a morning after; and when I say morning, I mean real mourning, for late lamented laughter! It’s a shake-up to wake up and to find that the short night-flight is over: oh it’s a sober October, October, a so so sober October.

Maybe this baby

Nothing about a baby is certain, nothing about a baby is fixed: nobody knows how the chemistry goes, how the many-coloured chromosomes are mixed: Refrain: Maybe this baby will have a fair and rosy future! Maybe this baby will have golden ways! She may become the whole world’s blue-eyed darling! Maybe this baby will have rainbow days! When it comes to growing friendships, she may have green fingers; and for saying honeyed words she may have a silver tongue; when it come to being kind, a snow-white smile that lingers: all these shining colours may be there in one so young! [Refrain]

Wake up sleeping beauty

[Duet, Melody and countermelody]

It's great to be Greek

It’s great to be Greek, with a classic physique, yes, a classic physique, like a statue; it’s great to be Greek, with a perfect technique, yes, a perfect technique to infatu – ate you! It’s great to be Greek, and it’s Greek to be great, mighty in myth and mystique: your pedigree is divine, you’re by Jove out of line, oh, but it’s great to be Greek! It’s great to be Greek, and to know you’re unique, not to be just unique, but to know it! It’s great to be Greek, and to know when you speak, with each word that you speak, you’re a poet, so it is great to be Greek, and it’s Greek to be great, up to your antics antique! If you’re descended from Gods, then it’s very good odds that you will be Greek, you’ll be one of the clique, that Olympian clique, that is feared by the weak, and admired by the meek, so it’s got to be great to be, wonderful fate to be, beautiful state to be Greek!

We are Homer

[for 5 females, each one letter of HOMER] We are Homer, no, it’s no misnomer, did you think that Homer was just one man? Well, we hate to disappoint, but with all proper modissy the authorship is joint of the Iliad and Odyssey. As regards the poets’ gender, who’s to say they were a male? Spinning yarns is for the tender! Any girl can tell a good tale! So we are Homer, not a home-sweet-homer, but a minstrel and a roamer, and it’s our plan to give you all the facts, till nothing’s left to really add, in two dramatic acts, of our Homeric Iliad.

Cool, calm, and waiting to be collected

Helen: I’m cool, calm, and waiting to be collected, I’m cool, calm, and willing to be collected, for I am a girl with a wide-open eye for the pleasantly unexpected. I’m cool, but I’m ready to be connected, I’m calm, but I’m willing to be affected, and if it is wrong then I stand, or if you prefer, lie to be corrected. I like a change of scene, a rearranged routine, the spark in a dark stranger’s eye; I reckon life’s too short to stick to what you ought, and that my friend is why: I’m warm, but I don’t let it be suspected, I’m thrilled, but I don’t let it be detected, so I’m cool, and calm, and ready, and willing, and able to be - collected!

Delphical oracle

Would you believe that the Delphical oracle, oracle famous since times prehistorical, now is apparently turning hysterical, uttering nonsense that’s practic’ly spherical? No more the sensible logical oracle, half allegorical, half metaphorical, no more a miracle. subtle and lyrical, no longer clerical, even homerical! Now she’s satirical, not panegyrical, now schizophrenical, manic-delirical, now she’s a phantasmagorical oracle! So I came back in my augurer’s coracle, with naught but this song of the Delphical oracle.

Gem of a strategem

[Ulysses is pleased with the idea of the Wooden Horse] Isn’t that a gem of a stratagem? What a strong and effectual stroke! What a tactical, highly practical joke! What an artifice, what a smart efficient device for defeating the foe! How luxurious, this injurious blow! Isn’t that a gem of a stratagem, what a winner, our war-horse of Troy! What a masterful, so disasterful ploy!

The beaches of my mind

Morning’s here, and clean and clear are the beaches of my mind. Tides of sleep have washed so deep all the reaches of my mind. Far and wide the reviving tide has been to calm and soothe. Far and wide the receding tide has left the sand so smooth. Sun climbs higher and spreads cool fire on the beaches of my mind. Something gleams like gold in dreams on the reaches of my mind. What shines there on a shore so bare no shadow is in view? I gaze, I go, but I know, I know: it’s the shining thought of you! Morning’s here, and clean and clear are the reaches of my mind. You alone – the precious stone on the beaches of my mind.

Sad words, happy tune

If you want to be a hero

Beauty is as Beauty does, so never judge a Beast until you have unlocked his heart, and seen what is released: And if you want to be a hero, to play the title of the story, to have a little hour of glory, to have it matter who you are, then work for love and not for glory, but see yourself as counting zero! The humble Beast is now the hero, the simple girl is now the star!

The Sphinx

Thebans: The Sphinx, she slinks, and suddenly pounces on us in our idyll. The Sphinx, she thinks, and picks on a victim to ask him a riddle. Oedipus: What sort of a riddle? Thebans: The sort you can’t diddle! The sort you can’t fiddle! The sort that makes strong men quite helplessly piddle. The Sphinx, she blinks, and then if he still cannot answer her riddle, the Sphinx, she drinks the blood of her victim from out of his middle. The Sphinx, she stinks! Her riddle: What goes on four legs in the morning, then goes on two legs in the day, then goes on three legs in the evening? You know I know you don’t know what to say! [But later:] The Sphinx, she shrinks, if anyone answers her silly old riddle. The Sphinx, she slinks away when her riddle can no longer diddle! The Sphinx, she sinks! The Sphinx extinx!

If I'm old enough to be your mother

[Duet for Jocasta and Fatfoot] J. If I’m old enough to be your mother, be my mother-lovin’ baby from now! F. If I’m young enough to be your baby, be my red-hot mama, and how! J. These hands could have rocked your dear little cot! F. Then rock me again with all that you’ve got! J. If I’m old enough to be your mother F. I’m big enough to be your man! F. If I’m young enough to be your sonny, I’ll rise and shine for momma’s joy! J. If you’re big enough to be my hero you can be a very very bad boy! This breast could have fed your chubby pink cheek! F. It isn’t too late, with a grown-up technique! If you’re old enough to be my mother J. You're big enough to be my man! J. If I’m old enough to be your mater, I’ll be a hot tomater tonight! F. If you’re ripe enough to be my cherry, then I’m bold enough to take a bite! J. This womb could have been your birthday venue! F. Then happy returns, for me and for you ! If you’re old enough to be my mother J. You’re big enough to be my man!

Let's have a lie down, Jocasta

F. Let’s have a lie-down, Jocasta! The day has been hard and I’m tired from the quest. J. You won’t have to tie down Jocasta! I’m so into rest it’s my best interest. F. Let’s have some shut-eye, Jocasta! The news has been sour, I need sweetness from you J. I’ll give you a glut, I, Jocasta, will share in your shut-eye and close my eyes too. F. I killed the Sphinx, so forty winks seems no more than fair. J. You’d do it again now, remember how you still had strength to spare? F. That’s long ago.... Let’s put our feet up, Jocasta! J. Let’s take the weight off your poor swollen feet! You won’t have to beat-up Jocasta! I’ll slip out of this and slip under the sheet. F. We’ve had four kids, so heavy lids should make us feel no shame! J. Since we have made four, why not one more – you’ve always been so game! F. I’m not so young as I was..... Let’s have a lie-down, Jocasta! Let’s have a break from the throng and the heat! Let’s just siesta, Jocasta! J. Just see what happens, my baby, my sweet! [ Flatfoot and Jocasta sing together: ] F. Just see what happens, Jocasta, my sweet! J. Just see what happens, my Fatfoot, my sweet!

Put two and two together

Jocasta: I think I see the way that things are tending, I think I see the story’s drift: The omens don’t suggest a happy ending, but a curse that’s too perverse to lift! Put two and two together, and the likely psychic weather will be thunder: so many things in tandem, this can’t be just a random cloud we’re under. Put two and two together, and they’re vultures of a feather, so it’s all-up! Too many of my troubles are so haunted by the doubles that they callup! Two babes, two pairs of ankles, two servants and two herders, two mothers and two oracles, two fathers and two murders: when two and two make five it is a mad thing, and two and two is too much of a bad thing! The Gods are very cruel, so tormenting us with dual circumstances. Put two and two together, and the shorter get my tether and my chances. Put two and two together, and the more I see the nether darkness beckon: Two and two is just too much to reckon.

To break a taboo

Not everybody breaks the pate of pater, though that’s a thing to which a boy aspires. Not everybody gets to mate with mater, though secretly it’s what a boy desires! To break a taboo is something splendid, great men have tended to break a taboo. To break a taboo is more heroic than staying stoic, so break a taboo! Should something that’s impressed you as terrific all this time, because of the word incestuous suddenly be a crime? Let it get more tempestuous, delicious and sublime: Break a taboo! To break a taboo is jolly healthy, so don’t be stealthy, try yelling Yahboo! You know what to do, so don’t be blinded, be open-minded, and break a taboo! I’ve tried a little blasphemy; no thunderbolt has come! Stick this up Zeus’s arse for me, and this up the Delphic bum! Let someone write a farce for me, in which I love my Mum, and break a taboo! To break a taboo makes you a new man, it’s truly human, so have a go too! To break a taboo shows independence, tell our descendants we broke a taboo! Not everyone removes the hiss from history, but we’re the ones to break the mouldy mould! Not everyone dispels the mist from mystery, but we make bold to not do as we’re told: To break a taboo is far from treason, it stands to reason, the logical view! So break a taboo! When custom’s chronic, it’s like a tonic to break a taboo! To break a taboo, become elastic, iconoclastic, and welcome the new! Make hullabaloo! If you are tied down, just let the side down, and break a taboo! For every taboo is only nurture, so just say Gertcher, no further ado! So sing a Yahoo! To blow the dust off, let corsets bust off, and break a taboo! Break a taboo! La la la la la, la la la la la, and break a taboo!

Something's rotten in the land of fairytale

[Melody and countermelody]

Blind Watchers of the skies

[Tycho the astronomer discusses astronomers] Blind watchers of the skies! We look, we see, and think we understand: that’s like a flea sitting on my head who tastes the skin and therefore thinks he knows the brain within. Blind watchers of the skies - -(not me! Not me!)- say everything is known: that’s like a flea living in the fur of some black cat, and seeing only dark, thinks that is that! They’re deaf as well – they think there’s air between us and the stars! If that were so, than we would hear the kettle-drums and pipes of Mars! Blind watchers of the skies! - - (Me too! Yes, me!] your quest is truly vain: You’re like a flea, jumping now and then from place to place, and since you jump so high you’re certain as you fly you’ve conquered space!

Gorse and Heather

Gorse and heather grow together on the Cornish moor gorse and heather glow together, shining shore to shore. Summer weather makes the heather like an inland sea. When it’s duller, gorse’s colour is sun’s deputy. Gorse and heather sing together moorland’s ancient air: Cling together, gorse and heather, long as Cornwall’s there! Mauve and yellow, rich and mellow, like a cello air, sing together, gorse and heather, sing forever there.

Rosebud

Rosebud, Rosebud, sail to London Town! Ask them to stop Penzance tearing our cottages down! Rosebud, Rosebud, sail away, my flower! Get them to tell Penzance: People must come before Power! Tell Westminster the Council begins ter kick our Newlyn down! And here’s a thing ter tell the King: Newlyn’s the jewel in ‘is crown! Rosebud, Rosebud, blossom on the Thames! Show them that rosebuds have weathered and thorny old stems: Rosebud, Rosebud, sail to London town! Tell them to stop Penzance tearing our cottages our rosy cottages, tearing our cottages down!

Mortal Modal

[ 2-part round] I don’t want to die today, but I may. I don’t want to die tonight, but I might. I don’t want to die at all, but I shall. I don’t want to turn to dust, but I must.

Indexes