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Tears of Morning

by David A. Harley

/
1.
When M’Lord returned To his sheets of silk And his gentle lady Of musk and milk The minstrels sang In the gallery Their songs of slaughter And chivalry The rafters roared With laughter and boasting Beakers were raised and drained In toasting The heroes of Crécy And Agincourt Or the madness Of some holy war The hawk is at rest On the glove once more Savage of eye And bloody of claw Famine and fever Are all the yield Of the burnt-out barns And wasted fields The sun grins coldly Through the trees The children shiver The widows grieve And beg their bread At the monastery door Tell me then Who won the war?
2.
When I was a kid in a country town and I'd nothing better to do: I'd detour round by the railway bridge on my way home from school. Leaning over the bridge with my chin in my hands, too young to be wondering why, I'd wait what seemed hours for the signal to change: wait for a train to go by The lure of the footplate, the churn of the rods straining to places unknown; fog in November, smoke in the cold air the faraway steam-whistle moan;  bathing my eyes in the warmth of the lights as up the track she would fly. I'd get home late: they'd ask 'Where have you been?' I'd say 'watching the trains go by'... Saturday lunchtime some days in the spring with the sky an implacable blue, collecting the numbers of Castles and Kings: it's all we'd want to do. Perspective of steel cut through frostbitten green, just went on to a faraway end, and I always felt sad at the Cambrian's tail-light as she'd disappear round the bend.  Now trains mean timetables, luggage and waiting rooms, leaving the people I love; the pounding of diesels, the A to B run - perspective has subtly moved. Tonight I am free and the rails are still endless (if I had the fare to ride) but I stand on a footbridge in the heart of the city watching the tube trains go by.
3.
Breathe, my lute, beneath my fingers One regretful breath, One lament for life that lingers Round the doors of death. For the frost has killed the rose, And our summer dies in snows, And our morning once for all Gathers to the evenfall. Hush, my lute, return to sleeping, Sing no songs again. For the reaper stays his reaping On the darkened plain; And the day has drained its cup, And the twilight cometh up; Song and sorrow all that are Slumber at the even-star.
4.
`Here the hangman stops his cart: Now the best of friends must part. Fare you well, for ill fare I: Live, lads, and I will die. `Oh, at home had I but stayed ‘Prenticed to my father’s trade, Had I stuck to plane and adze, I had not been lost, my lads. `Then I might have built perhaps Gallows-trees for other chaps, Never dangled on my own, Had I left but ill alone. `Now, you see, they hang me high, And the people passing by Stop to shake their fists and curse; So ’tis come from ill to worse. `Here hang I, and right and left Two poor fellows hang for theft: All the same’s the luck we prove, Though the midmost hangs for love. `Comrades all, that stand and gaze, Walk henceforth in other ways; See my neck and save your own: Comrades all, leave ill alone. `Make some day a decent end, Shrewder fellows than your friend. Fare you well, for ill fare I: Live, lads, and I will die.’
5.
When I was 03:30
XVIII Oh, when I was in love with you, Then I was clean and brave, And miles around the wonder grew How well did I behave. And now the fancy passes by, And nothing will remain, And miles around they'll say that I Am quite myself again. XIII When I was one-and-twenty I heard a wise man say, "Give crowns and pounds and guineas But not your heart away; Give pearls away and rubies But keep your fancy free." But I was one-and-twenty, No use to talk to me. When I was one-and-twenty I heard him say again, "The heart out of the bosom Was never given in vain; 'Tis paid with sighs a plenty And sold for endless rue." And I am two-and-twenty, And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.
6.
XXI - BREDON HILL* In summertime on Bredon The bells they sound so clear; Round both the shires they ring them In steeples far and near, A happy noise to hear. Here of a Sunday morning My love and I would lie, And see the coloured counties, And hear the larks so high About us in the sky. The bells would ring to call her In valleys miles away: "Come all to church, good people; Good people, come and pray." But here my love would stay. And I would turn and answer Among the springing thyme, "Oh, peal upon our wedding, And we will hear the chime, And come to church in time." But when the snows at Christmas On Bredon top were strown, My love rose up so early And stole out unbeknown And went to church alone. They tolled the one bell only, Groom there was none to see, The mourners followed after, And so to church went she, And would not wait for me. The bells they sound on Bredon And still the steeples hum. "Come all to church, good people,"-- Oh, noisy bells, be dumb; I hear you, I will come. * Pronounced Breedon.
7.
Moonflow III 01:44
8.
We are but images of stone Do us no harm We can do none St. Crispin and St. Crispian are we On the arch of the Shoemaker’s arbour High above the river on Kingsland we stood On the gate to the hall of the shoemakers’ guild Where the bakers, the tailors, the butchers, the smiths And the saddlers too their guild arbours built. Each year in procession the guilds gave a show And marched through the town to the sound of the drum: Then it’s back to Kingsland to feast and carouse And enjoy the great day the guild members come. We are but images of stone Do us no harm We can do none St. Crispin and St. Crispian are we On the arch of the Shoemaker’s arbour On the 10th of June 1752 In a house called The Crown that stood on Pride Hill John Richards’ workmen received a week’s pay And there they stayed and drank their fill. When a redcoat patrol chanced to pass by The men  mocked and reviled them with Jacobite songs And who struck the first blow no-one was sure But a bloody riot soon raged through the town. The authorities trembled with passion and fear When news of this Jacobite outburst was known For the House of Hanover had won few hearts And the Stuarts still plotted to win back the throne. And so that same year, one raw day in December, The rebellious townsfolk of Salop looked on While below the old arch of the Shoemaker’s Arbour They made an example of Tom Anderson Who was once spared by death on the field of Culloden Then joined the dragoons but deserted, they say, Only to die on the banks of the Severn By firing squad on a cold Winter’s day. When the black velvet suit was stripped from his body The Chevalier’s colours were beneath it, it’s said, Received from the hands of Bonny Prince Charlie Whose cause like young Thomas is broken and dead. For it’s 200 years since Bonny Prince Charlie Died drunk and embittered, an old man in Rome While a century ago in the flowers of the Dingle The old arbour gateway found a new home. Now who’s to remember the Shoemakers’ Guild Or the Jacobite rebels who fought for a throne? And who’s left to grieve for Tom Anderson But these two hearts of stone? We are but images of stone Do us no harm We can do none St. Crispin and St. Crispian are we On the arch of the Shoemaker’s Arbour
9.
XXVI The half-moon westers low, my love, And the wind brings up the rain; And wide apart lie we, my love, And seas between the twain. I know not if it rains, my love, In the land where you do lie; And oh, so sound you sleep, my love, You know no more than I. XXVII The sigh that heaves the grasses Whence thou wilt never rise Is of the air that passes And knows not if it sighs. The diamond tears adorning Thy low mound on the lea, Those are the tears of morning, That weeps, but not for thee.
10.
Sea Fret 06:18
Black cat in my path today Black news chilled me to the marrow Black cloud standing in my way Two birds of prey and one for sorrow A little chaos flown from my life Too late to hope for one last summer A sea fret hides the harbour A cold wind blows off the sea You lie somewhere I'll never find you And no-one's lying next to me And surely these are not the places That we were meant to be Long ago you blew into my life Like a friendly hurricane Near misses, French kisses Then you'd be gone again Till later you'd drop by And break my heart again Sometimes I was sure I loved you Sometimes I even think that you loved me But there was always something else Somewhere else you had to be Always something in the way Someone else you had to see Though I always knew we'd drive each other crazy My fevered heart still hoped someday I'd find you waiting round the bend For someone I hoped some day to be Waiting there for someone I never could quite be Mist rolls up the mountain A cold wind blows off the sea There's no ledge for us to meet on And no-one's lying next to me And surely these are not the places That we were meant to be
11.
In Aston Clun I stand, a tree, A Poplar dressed, like a ship at sea. Lonely link with an age long past : Of Arbor Trees, I am the last. Since seventeen-eighty-six, My Day Is writ, the twenty 9th of May. When new flags fly and we rejoice, New life has stilled harsh Winter's voice. To greet a Squire's lovely bride Did tenants dress my boughs with pride ? But Old Wives say, my flags are worn To mark the day an heir was born. Wise men, mellow o'er evening ale, Old feuds and wicked deeds retail. Thanksgiving dressed my arms, they say For Peace, when blood feuds died away. Did here ! my father mark the rite Of Shepherd's, gone with world's first light ? Was England merrie neath his shade Till crop-Haired Cromwell joy forbade ? In sixteen-sixty with the Spring Came Merry Charles the exiled king. Did he proclaim May twenty-nine "Arbor Day" for revelry and wine ? And Shepherds, plagued with pox and chills Turn to the old ways of the hills, To "Mystic Poplar", to renew Fertility in field and ewe ? Stand I, for Ancient ways, for Birth, For Love, for Peace, for Joy and Mirth? Riddle my riddle as you will I stand for good and not for ill. And if my dress your fancy please Help my flags to ride the breeze That you with me, will in the Sun, Welcome all, to the Vale of Clun.
12.
Severn Shore 02:19
A Shropshire Lad VIII  ‘FAREWELL to barn and stack and tree, Farewell to Severn shore. Terence, look your last at me, For I come home no more. ‘The sun burns on the half-mown hill, By now the blood is dried; And Maurice amongst the hay lies still And my knife is in his side. ‘My mother thinks us long away; ’Tis time the field were mown. She had two sons at rising day, To-night she ’ll be alone. ‘And here ’s a bloody hand to shake, And oh, man, here ’s good-bye; We ’ll sweat no more on scythe and rake, My bloody hands and I. ‘I wish you strength to bring you pride, And a love to keep you clean, And I wish you luck, come Lammastide, At racing on the green. ‘Long for me the rick will wait, And long will wait the fold, And long will stand the empty plate, And dinner will be cold.’
13.
Carpentry 02:27
14.
The Abbey watches my train crawling Southwards Thoughts of Cadfael kneeling in his cell All along the Marches line, myth and history Prose and rhyme But these are tales I won't be here to tell The hill is crouching like a cat at play Its beacon flashing red across the plain Once we were all friends around the Wrekin But some will never pass this way again Lawley and Caradoc fill my window Facing down the Long Mynd, lost in rain But I'm weighed down with the creaks and groans Of all the years I've known And I don't think I'll walk these hills again Stokesay dreams its humble glories Stories that will never come again Across the Shropshire hills The rain is blowing still But the Marcher Lords won't ride this way again The royal ghosts of Catherine and Arthur May walk the paths of Whitcliffe now and then Housman's ashes grace The Cathedral of the Marches He will not walk Ludlow's streets again The hill is crouching like a cat at play Its beacon flashing red across the plain Once we were all friends around the Wrekin But some will never pass this way again And I may never pass this way again

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Songs, settings and instrumentals by David A. Harley, most of them with a Shropshire connection, however tenuous...
Wheal Alice Music WAM21-1

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released February 1, 2021

All vocals, instruments, production, and artwork are entirely the fault of David Harley. … The voice and hearing are not what they were, the fingers are less agile, health issues and finances enforce home-studio recording, but hopefully, the songs are still worth hearing.

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David A. Harley England, UK

David Harley is a former professional musician, administrator, IT security editor, author and researcher, and former much else that is even less impressive. He now lives in Cornwall. More info at whealalice.com

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