Notes:
"My inspiration for Singing in the Northland began in 1998 when my
daughter Claire was about twelve years old. Her voice teacher, Dr.
Nadia Izbitskaya, lamented the lack of expressive contemporary vocal
music for young singers and presented me with the challenge of writing
for my own daughter. As a transplanted Texan, living in Canada, I decided
to concentrate on Canadian poetry and the first song I wrote was “Quiet,” with
poetry by Marjorie Pickthall. The others in the collection followed
over the years as my daughter grew up and continued singing. This collection
is dedicated to Claire for her patience, humour, insights and moreover,
her beautiful and expressive voice."
- Martha Hill Duncan, 2008
Texts:
Grey Rocks and Greyer Seas
Grey rocks, and greyer seas,
And surf along the shore—
And in my heart a name
My lips shall speak no more.
The high and lonely hills
Endure the darkening year—
And in my heart endure
A memory and a tear.
Across the tide a sail
That tosses, and is gone—
And in my heart the kiss
That longing dreams upon.
Grey rocks, and greyer sea,
And surf along the shore—
And in my heart the face
That I shall see no more.
- Charles G.D. Roberts (1860-1943)
Lady Icicle
Little Lady Icicle is dreaming in the north-land
And gleaming in the north-land, her pillow all a-glow;
For the frost has come and found her
With an ermine robe around her
Where little Lady Icicle lies dreaming in the snow.
Little Lady Icicle is waking in the north-land,
And shaking in the north-land her pillow to and fro;
And the hurricane a-skirling
Sends the feathers all a-whirling
Where little Lady Icicle is waking in the snow.
Little Lady Icicle is laughing in the north-land,
And quaffing in the north-land her wines that over-
flow;
All the lakes and rivers crusting
That her finger-tips are dusting,
Where little Lady Icicle is laughing in the snow.
Little Lady Icicle is singing in the north-land,
And bringing from the north-land a music wild and
low;
And the fairies watch and listen
Where her silver slippers glisten,
As little Lady Icicle goes singing through the snow.
Little Lady Icicle is coming from the north-land,
Benumbing all the north-land where’er her feet
may go;
With a fringe of frost before her
And a crystal garment o’er her,
Little Lady Icicle is coming with the snow.
- E. Pauline Johnson (1862-1913)
Rainfall
From out the west, where darkling storm-clouds float,
The ‘waking wind pipes soft its rising note.
From out the west, o’erhung with fringes grey,
The wind preludes with sighs its roundelay,
Then blowing, singing, piping, laughing loud,
It scurries on before the grey storm-cloud;
Across the hollow and along the hill
It whips and whirls among the maples, till
With bough upbent, and green of leaves blown wide,
The silver shines upon their underside.
A gusty freshening of humid air,
With showers laden, and with fragrance rare;
And now a little sprinkle, with a dash
Of great cool drops that fall with sudden splash;
Then over field and hollow, grass and grain,
The loud, crisp whiteness of the nearing rain.
- E. Pauline Johnson (1862-1913)
Severance
The tide falls, and the night falls,
And the wind blows in from the sea,
And the bell on the bar it calls and calls,
And the wild hawk cries from his tree.
The late crane calls to his fellows gone
In long flight over the sea,
And my heart with the crane flies on and on,
Seeking its rest and thee.
O Love, the tide returns to the strand,
And the crane flies back oversea,
But he bring not my heart from his far-off land,
For he brings not thee to me.
- Charles G.D. Roberts (1860-1943)
Where Leaps the Ste. Marie
What dream you in the night-time
When you whisper to the moon?
What say you in the morning?
What do you sing at noon?
When I hear your voice uplifting,
Like a breeze through branches sifting,
And your ripples softly drifting
To the August airs a-tune.
Lend me your happy laughter,
Ste. Marie, as you leap;
Your peace that follows after
Where through the isles you creep.
Give to me your splendid dashing,
Give your sparkles and your splashing,
Your uphurling waves down crashing,
Then, your aftermath of sleep.
- E. Pauline Johnson (1862-1913)
Be Quiet, Wind
Be quiet, wind, a little while,
And let me hear my heart.
You chiming rivulet still your chant
And stealthily depart.
You whisperings in the aspen leaves,
You far-heard whip-poor-will,
You slow drop spilling from the rose—
You, even you, be still.
I must have infinite silence now,
Lest I should miss one word
Of all my heart would say to me—
Now, when its deeps are stirred.
Hardly I dare my breath to draw
Lest breathing break the spell,—
While we commune, my heart and I,
In dreams too deep to tell.
- Charles G.D. Roberts (1860-1943)
Roadside Flowers
We are the roadside flowers,
Straying from garden grounds,--
Lovers of idle hours,
Breakers of ordered bounds.
If only the earth will feed us,
If only the wind be kind,
We blossom for those who need us,
The stragglers left behind.
And lo, the Lord of the Garden,
He makes his sun to rise,
And his rain to fall with pardon
On our dusty paradise.
On us he has laid the duty,--
The task of the wandering breed,--
To better the world with beauty,
Wherever the way may lead.
Who shall inquire of the season,
Or question the wind where it blows?
We blossom and ask no reason.
The Lord of the Garden knows.
- Bliss Carman (1862-1929) |
