FOUR ANGLO-SAXON SONGS by William Hart-Smith (1923-1994)
1. Death of a Craftsman
Hard to decide what is rightfully ours
of his crafthoard
and what we shall let him keep.
Let him have what he needs
to set up in business again
in the land of shades.
Let him take the anvil,
one round hammer
and one hammer bladed for cutting,
a selection of chisels,
a mould for spearheads
and a handstone for trimming.
Will he skin his knuckles there
as he did so often here?
Put into the urn also
some unworked ore of tin and copper.
It may be hard to find
where he is going.
2. The Silver Chalice
Seventeen feet down in the gravel
near Trewhiddle in Cornwall,
while searching for tin in a streamwork
itinerant miners found a silver chalice
in a deposit of loose stones
in which the relic had been buried
filled with coins of gold and silver,
silver pennies,
some of Alfred and some of Ceowulf
of the Kingdom of Mercia,
with a slab of slate on top
to cover over the coin-hoard
against the heathen Danes.
A longship
oared herself into the cove.
We saw her from the hilltop
and ran to tell Brother Tristram
as she spilled men forth on the shingle.
Some things to find we left them
to appease them: folk too old to fly,
to flesh their swords in, bread,
a cask of ale, and meat still cooking,
the gilded cross above the altar,
too great for us to carry; and the altar-cloths,
the reredos for burning. But the cup
which had Christ’s blood in it, we buried.
3. AD 61
And we who were drawn up in two ranks,
two rows of fifty men each, each man
with broadsword unsheathed, shield
in left hand, shield overlapping shield,
waited for them to come
in motley disarray upon us.
And a third rank in front, kneeling,
their spears butted into the soil,
pointing at an angle
to pin, transfix, impale
the first to charge.
Were horrified at what we saw. Some of us
shivered and trembled. It was their chariots
come out in front of their host and playing about
the open ground as if it were a game
to see who could outdo the other
in daring and manoeuvring. Some ran out
along the shaft between the horses
while at full gallop, even stood upon the yoke,
hurling more insults than missiles at us.
A cool contempt they demonstrated,
showing their skill to shake us.
They displayed the same inconsequence
in driving their chariots down the slope of the hill:
all done with streaming hair, and scream, and yell.
It shook me, I can tell you!
There were women too in that host,
also with weapons, who danced and weaved
in and out among the fighting-men. And priests
who stood in front of all, in long white robes,
arms uplifted, praying to their gods for victory.
Fires they lit. Torches they lit
and brandished. It was terrible.
But we stood fast, and silent, staying firm
in outward appearance, if not inwardly.
And when at length they came screaming upon us
we took the shock, as Romans should, upon our shields –
even our Gaulish mercenaries, who had trembled most.
More of a show it was to frighten us.
Our discipline prevailed. More wood!
More wood, more wood, to burn their pitiful dead.
4. The Bell of St Conall
From the windswept crofts
out of the drifting peatsmoke,
from their huts of sodbrick,
grass-thatched,
from the caves in the hillside,
the people come, emerge,
on Sunday, on the Lord’s Day
in ones and twos and threes,
humbly, obediently, dutifully,
to the ringing of a cowbell,
converge on the church in the hollow
to the summons of a bell
in the bony hand of a monk
in his habit of homespun,
cowl pulled over his ears
against the aching wind
and the knives of sleet in the rainsquall,
to the insistence of a handbell
ringing in the congregation
from shieling and shelter,
out of the marshes in the dawnmist.
The Bell of St. Conall
was later enshrined
in a cairn by the wayside,
the bell protected
in bonds of riveted iron:
a relic very sacred, miracle-working,
upon which oaths were taken.
FOUR PICTURES
5. A CART WITH APPLES by Christopher Middleton (1926-2015)
In the blue shadow
alone with its rose
and full of fields
round ones and yellow ones
an apple stands
a blue apple stands
in the field of yellow
alone with its cart
and round of roses
full ones and shadow ones
and full of yellow
the shadow stands
alone with an apple
a rose one a round one
in a blue field
and in the apple shadows
blue ones and yellow ones
a cart stands
alone with its field
and full of rounds
but in the field of roses
and full of apples
yellow ones and round ones
a blue cart stands
alone with its shadow
6.TURNER’S PICTURE by Chris Swithinbank
In sleepy village no-one will walk
Wind-flattened barley crops lie in the field
With fire to warm the swirling storm
the furnace of sun shines through an arch
A stalwart coble holds firm with green lug
observed by the viaduct cool and clear.
Furore of Turner: Rain, Steam and Speed,
The smoke-stack of black is suddenly here!
Burning and vivid late summer sun
colours the rain, the clouds, the steam.
A fiery smoke, in sky it smoulders!
Fire-door flung open, your firebox a-flame!
Poppies bend with golden barley,
harvest will not come this tear.
Green weeds brace to face the storm….
Thrusting, rushing, clattering, shattering,
merciless force moves engine through storm.
The driver is trusting the way ahead.
A whistle notes pierces. An unholy form.
Rattling, battling, onward, onward,
plummeting through the haze and rain.
Furore of Turner, Rain, Steam and Speed.
The smoke-stack of black is suddenly here.
Stone-silent sombre, the stately bridge,
unwarmed in late summer heat.
In sun and breeze, in swirling storm,
in rain and steam and speed.
With fiery smoke the steam billows skyward,
the driving wind gives barley no sway.
In field and meadow all is bending,
from funnel the smoke flies clean away.
Thrusting and rushing, clattering, shattering,
merciless force grinds engine through storm.
Steam is hissing, in torrent, splattering,
scattering wind and rain with scorn.
7. SHOREHAM WALK by Christopher Middleton
We walked
up through the wood
nettles & oak
a dark green
fall of light
leading us
past soft
erect wheat
then the white
potato flowers
& flints, a few
rusty can tops
it is the shining
June day, warm
as seldom
in our country
on our skin
a south wind
silver barley ears
are swaying
swaying us
& a lark
less visible than
the flower, blue
big, no bigger
than your pupil
under crusty
oaks again, ferns
they smell of salt
curved sea waves
& a place
we found
called the kingdom
of children
you said, because
nobody frowns
as you climbed up
vanishing up
a giant beech, red
as old blood
tall as the sky,
so many strong
branches it
was easy
8. DAFFODILS by William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought.
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
THE GREAT WAR: FOUR SONGS
9. VITAE LAMPADA by Henry Newbolt (1869-1938)
There’s a breathless hush on the Close tonight –
Ten to make and the match to win –
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it’s not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
Or the selfish hope of a season’s fame,
But his captain’s hand on his shoulder smote
“Play up! Play up! And play the game!”
The sand of the desert is sodden red -
Red with the wreck of a square that broke;
The Gatling’s jammed and the Colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed its banks,
And England’s far, and Honour a name,
But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks:
“Play up! Play up! And play the game!”
This is the word that year by year,
While in her place the school is set,
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with joyful mind
Bear through life like a torch in flame,
And falling fling to the host behind –
“Play up! Play up! And play the game!”
10. ENGLAND NEEDS ME by Chris Swithinbank
Now winter time, the ground’s a-frost,
We sit here but not so cheer.
Can’t buy a beer, my wages lost,
A penny a pint: too much I fear!
I took some timber to light my fire,
My family shivers, a huddled drove.
I sadly got the farmer’s ire:
“You work here, you don’t own the grove!”
Come on you lads, let’s play a round,
A game of darts, pals, deal the cards.The dominoes rattle with homely sound,
The glass half full will warm our hearts.
No work for us at Christmas time,
To warm those fields we need the sun.
The army can teach us how to shine,
Join up! Join up! And beat the Hun!
Ferguson, the farmer is here,
A hush descends, good day fine sir!
He wants to buy us all a drink,
The tweeded gent is now popular!
“I want to buy you all a drink
And give you lads a boost, it should.”
He looks at me and what d’you think?
“Not you, not you, you took my wood!”
The nineteen fourteen army book:
The development of a soldierly spirit
That I have, if I’m not mistook!
All working boys together in it!
Training of the body, training in the use of
rifle, bayonet and spade!
Duty, The King, our home keep free!
Quick march! Enlist!
England needs me.
11.The rain by AE Housman (1859-1936)
The rain, it streams on stone and hillock,
The boot clings to the clay.
Since all is done that’s due and right
Let’s home; and now my lad, goodnight,
For I must turn away.
Goodnight my lad, for nought’s eternal;
No league of ours, for sure.
Tomorrow I shall miss you less,
And ache of heart and heaviness
Are things that time should cure.
Over the hill the highway marches
And what’s beyond is wide:
Oh, soon enough will pine to nought
Remembrance and the faithful thought
That sits the grave beside.
The skies, they are not always raining
Nor grey the twelvemonth through;
And I shall meet good days and mirth,
And range the lovely lands of earth
With friends no worse than you.
But oh, my man, the house is fallen
That none can build again;
My man, how full of joy and woe
Your mother bore you years ago
Tonight, to lie in the rain.
12. Fragment by Rupert Brooke (1887-1915)
I strayed about the deck, an hour, tonight
Under a cloudy moonless sky; and peeped
In at the windows, watched my friends at table,
Or playing cards, or standing in the doorway,
Or coming out into the darkness. Still
No one could see me.
I would have thought of them
Heedless, within a week of battle – in pity,
Pride in their strength and in the weight and firmness
And linked beauty of bodies, and pity that
This gay machine of splendour would soon be broken,
Thought little of, pashed, scattered…
Only, always,
I could but see them – against the lamplight – pass
Like coloured shadows, thinner than filmy glass,
Slight bubbles, fainter than the wave’s faint light
That broke to phosphorus out in the night,
Perishing things and strange ghosts – soon to die
To other ghosts – this one, or that, or I.
