{"id":9606,"date":"2013-02-08T08:33:00","date_gmt":"2013-02-08T13:33:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.ludwig-van.com\/?p=9606"},"modified":"2013-02-08T08:33:00","modified_gmt":"2013-02-08T13:33:00","slug":"musical-break-is-a-mans-lust-for-a-milkmaid-bezide-the-winters-willow-folksong-or-artsong","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.ludwig-van.com\/toronto\/2013\/02\/08\/musical-break-is-a-mans-lust-for-a-milkmaid-bezide-the-winters-willow-folksong-or-artsong\/","title":{"rendered":"Musical break: Is a man’s lust for a milkmaid bezide the winter’s willow folksong or artsong?"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"winter\"<\/a><\/p>\n

The view from my window is white, with faint charcoal outlines of trees this morning. It made me think of Ralph Vaughan Williams’s setting of William Barnes’ “The Winter’s Willow,” a mid-19th century poem that is, when all is said and milked, about a young man with a plan.<\/p>\n

The poem dates from the mid-19th century, written in an approximation of how people spoke in Dorset, part of a celebration of all things rural and handmade at the height of the Industrial Revolution.<\/p>\n

Vaughan Williams set three of the verses in a fine imitation of a quiet folk ballad — timeless and sweet.<\/p>\n

We typically put folk and art music in different categories. Does this mean that this particular piece by Vaughan Williams is not art music, or does it say more about how we insist on a slot for everything?<\/p>\n

As the snow falls, let’s see the world through these smitten eyes, sung by Roderick Williams. Let’s then compare this to a “real” folksong, “The Oak and the Ash,” from the north of England, sung by the great British Early Music revivalist, Alfred Deller (1916-1979).<\/p>\n

“The Winter’s Willow”<\/p>\n

There Liddy zat bezide her cow,
\nUpon her lowly seat, O;
\nA hood did overhang her brow,
\nHer pa\u00efl wer at her veet, O;
\nAn’ she wer kind, an’ she wer fe\u00e4ir,
\nAn’ she wer young, an’ free o’ ce\u00e4re;
\nVew winters had a-blow’d her he\u00e4ir,
\nBezide the Winter’s Willow.<\/p>\n

Above the coach-wheels roll\u00e8n rims
\nShe never rose to ride, O,
\nThough she do zet her comely lim’s
\nAbove the mare’s white zide, O;
\nBut don’t become too proud to stoop
\nAn’ scrub her milk\u00e8n pail’s white hoop,
\nOr zit a-milk\u00e8n where do droop,
\nThe wet-stemm’d Winter’s Willow.<\/p>\n

An’ if there’s readship in her smile,
\nShe don’t begrudge to spe\u00e4re, O,
\nTo zomebody a little while,
\nThe empty woaken chair, O;
\nAn’ if I’ve luck upon my zide,
\nWhy, I do think she’ll be my bride
\nAvore the leaves ha’ twice a-died
\nUpon the Winter’s Willow.<\/p>\n