Early One Morning / The Trees They Grow So High – 1988

Released 1988 CD, LP Worldwide EMI 077776775425

1. Early One Morning 3:33
2. Come You Not From Newcastle? 1:26
3. Sweet Polly Oliver 2:53
4. Trees They Grow So High 4:33
5. Ash Grove 2:42
6. O Waly, Waly 4:38
7. How Sweet The Answer 2:12
8. Plough Boy 2:02
9. Voici Le Printemps 2:00
10. Last Rose Of Summer 4:32
11. Belle, Est Au Jardin D’amour 3:34
12. Fileuse 2:04
13. Dear Harp Of My Country! 2:33
14. Little Sir William 3:27
15. O Can Ye Sew Cushions? 2:36
16. Oft In The Stilly Night 2:48
17. Quand J’étais Chez Non Pére 2:09
18. There’s None To Soothe 2:09
19. Oliver Cromwell 0:51

Following info thank you:-
http://www.xs4all.nl/~josvg/cits/sarahbr.html

Sarah Brightman’s CD The trees they grow so high contains 19 folksongs arranged by Benjamin Britten. The following lines appear in the CD booklet of the in 1998 re-released version of that album.

The revival – it was almost the discovery – of British folksong in the early years of the twentieth Century, initiated by Cecil Sharp, had a huge impact on the generation of composers after Elgar. Holst and Vaughan Williams in particular were able to free themselves from the all-pervasive influence of Wagner, and chose instead the path that folksong suggested to them. Later composers followed their lead, and Benjamin Britten, born with an innate sense of direction, was able to absorb the folk idiom without effort, seemingly reproducing its directness and simplicity in his own music.

Britten’s six published volumes of folksong arrangements, containing 43 songs, appeared between 1943 and 1961 (a further set of eight for voice and harp were written in 1976, the year of his death). Volumes 1, 3 and 5 consist of songs from the British Isles, no. 2 is a set of French songs, no. 4 is of “Moore’s Irish Melodies”, while Volume 6 consists of English songs arranged for voice and guitar. It was in the early 1940s that Britten had made the first of these arrangements for his recitals with the tenor Peter Pears in the USA. A letter of October 1941 says that “they have been a ‘wow’ wherever performed so far” and they surely reflect the homesickness and nostalgia for England which were to bring the two men back from America in the spring of 1942.

Britten’s folksong arrangements, far from being simple “tunes with accompaniment”, are, rather, compositions in their own right. He never commented directly on what folksong meant to him, but, in another context, he stated his desire to “restore to the musical setting of the English language a brilliance, freedom, and vitality that have been curiously rare since the death of Purcell”: an aim remarkably appropriate to these arrangements.
© Colin Matthews, 1998.

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1. Early one morning
Early one morning, just as the sun was rising,
I heard a maid singing in the valley below;
“O don’t deceive me,
O do not leave me!
How could you use a poor maiden so?”

“O gay is the garland, fresh are the roses
I’ve culled from the garden to bind on thy brow.
O don’t deceive me,
O do not leave me!
How could you use a poor maiden so?”

“Remember the vows that you made to your Mary,
Remember the bow’r where you vow’d to be true;
O don’t deceive me,
O never leave me!
How could you use a poor maiden so?”

Thus sung the poor maiden, her sorrow bewailing,
Thus sung the poor maiden in the valley below;
“O don’t deceive me,
O do not leave me!
How could you use a poor maiden so?”

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2. Come you not from Newcastle?
Come you not from Newcastle?
Come you not there away?
O met you not my true love,
Riding on a bonny bay?
Why should not I love my love?
Why should not my love love me?
Why should not I speed after him,
Since love to all is free?

And all lines are repeated once more

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3. Sweet Polly Oliver
As sweet Polly Oliver lay musing in bed,
A sudden strange fancy came into her head.
“Nor father nor mother shall make me false prove,
I’ll ‘list as a soldier, and follow my love.”

So early next morning she softly arose,
And dressed herself up in her dead brother’s clothes.
She cut her hair close, and she stained her face brown,
And went for a soldier to fair London Town.

Then up spoke the sergeant one day at his drill,
“Now who’s good for nursing? A captain, he’s ill.”
“I’m ready,” said Polly. To nurse him she’s gone,
And finds it’s her true love all wasted and wan.

The first week the docter kept shaking his head,
“No nursing, young fellow, can save him,” he said.
But when Pooly Oliver had nursed him back to life
He cried, “You have cherished him as if you were his wife”.

O then Polly Oliver, whe burst into tears
And told the good doctor her hopes and her fears,
And very shortly after, for better or for worse,
The captain took joyfully his pretty soldier nurse.

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4. The trees they grow so high
The trees they grow so high and the leaves they do grow green,
And many a cold winter’s night my love and I have seen.
Of a cold winter’s night, my love, you and I alone have been,
Whilst my bonny boy is young, he’s a-gowing.
Growing, growing,
Whilst my bonny boy is young, he’s a-gowing.

O father, dearest father, you’ve done to me great wrong,
You’ve tied me to a boy when you know he is too young.
O daughter, dearest daughter, if you wait a little while,
A lady you shall be while he’s growing.
Growing, growing,
A lady you shall be while he’s growing.

I’ll send your love to college all for a year or two
And then in the meantime he will do for you;
I’ll buy him white ribbons, tie them round his bonney waist
To let the ladies know that he’s married.
Married, married,
To let the ladies know that he’s married.

I went up to the college and I looked over the wall,
Saw four and twenty gentlemen playing at bat and ball.
I called to my true love, but they would not let hime come,
All because he was a young boy and growing.
Growing, growing,
All because he was a young boy and growing.

At the age of sixteen, he was a married man
And at the age of seventeen he was a father to a son,
And at the age of eighteen the grass grew over him,
Cruel death soon put an end to his growing.
Growing, growing,
Cruel death soon put an end to his growing.

And now my love is dead and in his grave doth lie,
The green grass grows o’er him so very, very high.
I’ll sit and I’ll mourn his fate until the day I die,
And I’ll watch o’er his child while he’s growing.
Growing, growing,
And I’ll watch o’er his child while he’s growing.

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5. The Ash Grove
Down yonder green valley where streamlets meander,
When twilight is fading, I pensively rove,
Or at the bright noontide in solitude wander
Amid the dark shades of the lonely Ash grove.

‘Twas there while the blackbird was joyfully singing,
I first met my dear one, the joy of my heart;
Around us for gladness the bluebells were ringing,
Ah! then little thought I how soon we should part.

Still grows the bright sunshine o’er valley and mountain,
Still warbles the blackbird his note from the tree;
Still trembles the moonbeam on streamlet and fountain,
But what are the beauties of nature to me.

With sorrow, deep sorrow, my bosom is laden,
All day I go mourning in search of my love.
Ye echoes, O tell me, where is the sweet maiden?
She sleeps ‘neath the green turf down by the Ash grove.

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6. O Waly, Waly
The water is wide, I cannot get o’er,
And neither have I wings to fly.
Give me a boat that will carry two,
And both shall row, my love and I.

O, down in the meadows the other day,
A-gath’ring flowers both fine and gay,
A-gath’ring flowers both red and blue,
I little thought what love can do.

I leaned my back against some oak
Thinking that he was a trusty tree;
But first he bended, and then he broke,
And so did my false love to me.

A ship there is, and she sails the sea,
She’s loaded deep as deep can be,
But not so deep as the love I’m in;
I know not if I sink or swim.

O, love is handsome and love is fine,
And love’s a jewel while it is new,
But when it is old, it groweth cold,
And fades away like morning dew.

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7. How sweet the answer
How sweet the answer Echo makes
To music at night;
When, rous’d by lute or horn, she wakes,
And faw away, o’er lawns and lakes,
Goes answering light.

Yet love hath echoes truer far,
And far more sweet,
Then e’er beneath the moonlight’s star,
Of horn, or lute, or soft guitar,
The songs repeat.

‘Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere,
And only then,
The sigh, that’s breath’d for one to hear,
Is by that one, that only dear,
Breath’d back again.
Again, again, again, …

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8. The Plough Boy
A flaxen-headed cowboy, as simple as may be,
And next a merry plough boy, I whistled o’er the lea;
But now a saucy footman, I strut in worsted lace,
And soon I’ll be a butler, and whey my jolly face.

When steward I’m promoted I’ll snip the tradesmen’s bill,
My master’s coffers empty, my pockets for to fill.
When lolling in my charlot so great a man I’ll be,
So great a man, so great a man, so great a man I’ll be,
You’ll forget the little plough boy who whistled o’er the lea.
You’ll forget the little plough boy who whistled o’er the lea.

I’ll buy votes at elections, and when I’ve made the pelf,
I’ll stand poll for the parliament, and then vote in myself.
Whetever’s good for me, sir, I never will oppose:
When all my ayes are sold off, why then I’ll sell my noes.

I’ll joke, harangue and paragraph, with speeches charm the ear,
And when I’m tired on my legs, then I’ll sit down a peer.
In court or city honour so great a man I’ll be,
So great a man, so great a man, so great a man I’ll be,
You’ll forget the little plough boy who whistled o’er the lea.
You’ll forget the little plough boy who whistled o’er the lea.

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9. Voici le Printemps
Voici le printemps qui passe;
“Bonjour, tisserand, bonjour!
Ami, cède-moi ta place,
J’en ai besoin pour un jour.
C’est moi qui fais la toilette
Des bois, des près et des fleurs.
Donne vite ta navette;
Tu sais qu’on m’attend ailleurs.”

Voici le printemps qui passe;
“Bonjour, mon peintre, bonjour!
Ta main s’obstine et se lasse,
À faire un semblant du jour.
Donne vite ta palette
Ta palette et ton pinceau.
Tu vas voir le ciel en fate
Rajeunir dans mon tableau.”

Voici le printemps qui passe;
“Bonjour, fillettes, bonjour!
Donnez vos fuseaux, de grâce,
Que je travaille à mon tour.
J’ai promis sous less charmilles
Ma laine aux nids d’alentour.
Je vous dirai, jeunes filles,
Oú se niche aussi l’amour.”

Here is the Spring passing by

Here is the Spring passing by;
“Good day, weaver, good day!
My friend, lend me your chair,
I need it for a day.
I am he who cleanses
The woods, the meadows and the flowers.
Quickly, lend me your shuttle;
I am awaited elsewhere, you know.”

Here is the Spring passing by;
“Good day, painter, good day!
Your labouring hand grows weary
As it makes a likeness of the day.
Quickly, lend me your palette,
your palette and your brush.
You will see the festive sky
Revitalised in my picture.

Here is the Spring passing by;
“Good day, maidens, good day!
Lend me your spindles, I implore you,
That I in my turn may work.
Under the arbours I promised
My wool to the nests round about.
I will tell you, o maidens,
the place where love also nestles.”

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10. The last rose of summer
‘Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions are faded and gone;
No flow’r of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them;
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o’er the bed
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie senseless and dead.

So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from love’s shining circle
The gems drop away!
When true hearts lie wither’d,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?

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11. La belle est au jardin d’amour
La belle est au jardin d’amour,
La belle est au jardin d’amour.
Il y a un mois ou sinq semaines.
Laridondon, laridondaine.

Son père la cherche partout,
Son père la cherche partout.
Son amoureux qui est en peine.
Laridondon, laridondaine.

“Berger, berger, n’as tu point vu,
Berger, berger, n’as tu point vu,
Passer ici celle que j’aime?”
Laridondon, laridondaine.

“Elle est là-bas dans ce vallon,
Elle est là-bas dans ce vallon,
À un oiseau conte ses peines.”
Laridondon, laridondaine.

La bel oiseau s’est envolé,
La bel oiseau s’est envolé,
Et le changrin bien loin emmène.
Laridondon, laridondaine.

Beauty is in the garden of love

Beauty is in the garden of love,
Beauty is in the garden of love.
There she has lain for a month or five weeks.
Laridondon, laridondaine.

Her father seeks her everywhere,
Her father seeks her everywhere.
Her lover is broken-hearted.
Laridondon, laridondaine.

“Shepherd, o shepherd, have you not seen,
Shepherd, o shepherd, have you not seen,
My beloved pass by here?
Laridondon, laridondaine.

“She is down in yonder valley,
She is down in yonder valley,
recounting her woes to a bird.”
Laridondon, laridondaine.

The beautiful bird has flown,
The beautiful bird has flown,
And sorrow carries him far away.
Laridondon, laridondaine.

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12. Fileuse
Lorsque j’étais jeunette, je gardais les moutons,
Tirouli, Tiroula, Tirouli, Tiroulou.
Tirouli, Tiroula, Tirouli, rouli, roule.
N’étais jamais seulette à songer par les monts.
Tirouli …
Mais d’autres bergerettes avex moi devisalent.
Tirouli …
Parfois de sa musette un berger nous charmait.
Tirouli …
Il nous faisait des rondes, joli’ rondes d’amour.
Tirouli …
Mais me voilà vieille, reste seule toujours.
Tirouli …!

Spinner

When I was a young girl I tended the sheep,
Tirouli, Tiroula, Tirouli, Tiroulou.
Tirouli, Tiroula, Tirouli, rouli, roule.
I never dreamt in solitude upon the mountainside.
Tirouli …
But other young shepherdesses would talk with me.
Tirouli …
Sometimes a shepherd would play the musette for our delight.
Tirouli …
He would play pretty love dances for us.
Tirouli …
Yet now I am old, and still on my own.
Tirouli …!

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13. Dear Harp of my Country!
Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee,
The cold chain of silence had hung o’er thee long;
When proudly, my own Island Harp! I unbound thee,
And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song!

The warm lay of love and the light tone of gladness
Have waken’d thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill;
But so oft has thou echo’d the deep sigh of sadness,
That e’en in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.

Dear Harp of my Country! farewell to thy numbers.
This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine;
Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers,
Till touch’d by some hand less unworthy than mine.

If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,
Have throbb’d at our lay, ’tis thy glory alone;
I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over,
And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own!

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14. Little Sir William
Easter day was a holiday
Of all days of the year,
And all the little schoolfellows went out to play
But Sir William was not there.

Mamma went to the School wife house
And knocked at the ring,
Saying, “Little Sir William, if you are there,
Pray let your mother in.”

The School wife open’d the door and said:
“He is not here today.
He is with the little schoolfellows out on the green
Playing some pretty play.”

Mamma went to the Boyne water
That is so wide and deep,
Saying, “Little Sir William, if you are there,
Oh pity your mother’s weep.”

“How can I pity your weep, mother,
And I so long in pain?
For the little pen knife sticks close to my heart
And the School wife hath me slain.

“Go home, go home, my mother dear,
And prepare my winding sheet,
For tomorrow morning before eight o’clock,
You with my body shall meet.

“And lay my Prayer Book at my head,
And my grammar at my feet,
That all the little schoolfellows as they pass by
May read them for my sake.”

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15. O can ye sew cushions?
O can ye sew cushions and can ye sew sheets,
And can ye sing ballulow when the bairn greets?
And hie and baw, birdie, and hie and baw, lamb,
And hee and baw, birdie, my bonnie wee lamb.

Hie-o, wie-o what will I do wi’ ye?
Black’s the life that I lead wi’ ye,
Many o’you, little for to gi’ ye,
Hie-o, wie-o, what will I do wi’ ye?

I’ve placed my cradle on yon hilly top,
And aye as the wind blew my cradle did rock.
O hush-a-by, babie, O baw lily loo,
And hee adn baw, birdie, my bonnie wee doo,

Hie-o, wie-o what will I do wi’ ye?
Black’s the life that I lead wi’ ye,
Many o’you, little for to gi’ ye,
Hie-o, wie-o, what will I do wi’ ye?

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16. Oft in the stilly night
Oft in the stilly night
Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,
Fond Mem’ry brings the light
Of other days around me:
The smiles, the tears of boyhood’s years,
The words of love then spoken;
The eyes that shone,
Now dimm’d and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus in the stilly night
Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,
Sad Mem’ry brings the light
Of other days around me.

When I remember all
The friends, so link’d together,
I’ve seen around me fall
Like leaves in wintry weather,
I feel like one
Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose grlands dead,
And all but he departed!
Thus in the stilly night
Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,
Sad Mem’ry brings the light
Of other days around me.

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17. Quand j’étais chez mon père
Quand j’étais chez mon père,
apprenti pastoureau,
il m’a mis dans la lande,
pour garder les troupiaux.
Troupiaux, troupiaux,
je n’en avais guère.
Troupiaux, troupiaux,
je n’en avais biaux.

Mais je n’en avais guère,
je n’avais qu’trois agneaux;
et le loup de la plaine
m’a mangé la plus biau.
Troupiaux, troupiaux, …

Il était si vorace
n’a laissé que la piau,
n’a laissé que la queue,
pour mettre à mon chapiau.
Troupiaux, troupiaux, …

Mais des os de la bête
me fis un chalumiau
pour jouer à la fête,
à la fêt’ du hamiau.
Troupiaux, troupiaux, …

Pour fair’ danser l’village,
dessous le grandormiau,
et les jeun’s et les vieilles,
les pieds dan les sabiots.
Troupiaux, troupiaux, …

When I lived with my father

When I lived with my father
as an apprentice shepherd,
he sent me to the moor
to look after the sheep.
Sheep, sheep,
I had but a few.
Sheep, sheep,
I had none that were bonny.

No, I had but a few,
I had but three lambs;
and the wolf from the plain
ate the finest of those.
Sheep, sheep, …

He was so ravenous
he left only the pelt,
he left only the tail
to put on my hat.
Sheep, sheep, …

But the bones of the animal
made me pipe
to play at the fair,
at the village fair.
Sheep, sheep, …

So the village could dance
beneath the great elm,
young women and old
with clogs on their feet.
Sheep, sheep, …

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18. There’s none to soothe
There’s none to soothe my soul to rest,
There’s none my load of grief to share
Or wake to joy this lonely breast,
Or light the gloom of dark despair.

The voice of joy no more can cheer,
The look of love no more can warm
Since mute for aye’s that voice so dear,
And closed that eye alone could charm.

19. Oliver Cromwell
Oliver Cromwell lay buried and dead,
Hee-haw, buried and dead,
There grew an old apple-tree over his head,
Hee-haw, over his head.

The apples were ripe and ready to fall,
Hee-haw, ready to fall,
There came an old woman to gather them all,
Hee-haw, gather them all.

Oliver rose and gave her a drop,
Hee-haw, gave her a drop,
Which made the old woman go hippety hop,
Hee-haw, hippety hop.

The saddle and bridle, they lie on the shelf,
Hee-haw, lie on the shelf,
If you want any more your can sing it yourself,
Hee-haw, sing it yourself.

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