Grey Sabbath (1988)
The mistake we make is to turn upon our past with angry wholesale negation. ...The way of wisdom is to treat it airily, lightly, wantonly, and in a spirit of poetry; and above all to use its symbols, which are its spiritual essence, giving them a new connotation, a fresh meaning. —John Cowper Powys
Katy Cruel
(Traditional, learned from the singing of Margaret Nelson.)
When first I came unto this place
they called me the rovin’ jewel;
now I’ve made ’em change their tune,
they call me Katy Cruel.
O that I were where I would be
then would I be where I am not
here I am where I must be,
where I would go I cannot,
O and a lee and a little I-O-day.
When first I came unto this place
they brought me bottles many;
now I’ve made ’em change their tune,
they bring me bottles empty.
Travelin’ down the road I go,
through the bog and briar;
straightway down the road I go,
straight to my heart’s desire.
I know where I’m goin’,
I know who’s goin’ with me,
I know who I love,
the devil knows who I’ll marry,
O and a lee and a little I-O-day.
Narcissus
Narcissus was my father
he got me on his mirror
and in that shallow water
I learned to swim and breathe,
and there I learned my labor
and babbled for his favor
and there I did endeavor
to echo all he said.
Suspended in the water
without a past or future
without a touch to alter
the likeness of my days
I wait on my enchanter
and all he says I answer
as faithful as a dancer
before the mirror’s gaze.
The sky is full of wonder
the mind is made of thunder
that drives the echo under
and strikes the pool with fire
and I am charged and severed
unstrung and strung together
uncovered to the weather
in the likeness of desire.
And naked I discover
the mirror is my mother
she magnifies her lover
but she speaks to me no lies
what I cannot foresuffer
what I can barely utter
the word within the water
is all I can reply.
And when I am delivered
to follow my own error
the father and the mirror
will gaze again as one
and I may go thereafter
alone by land or water
the sadness of a daughter
is the madness of a son.
© 1988 by Catherine Madsen BMI
The Bitter Withy
(Traditional, from the Watersons’ album Sound, Sound Your Instruments of Joy, 12TS346)
As it fell out upon a bright holiday
Small hail from the sky did fall,
Our Saviour asked his mother mild,
Can I go and play at the ball.
At the ball, the ball, my own dear son,
It’s time that you was gone,
But don’t let me hear of any mischief
This night when you come home.
And so it’s up the hill and it’s down the hill
Our sweet young Saviour ran,
And there he met with three rich lords’ sons,
Good morning to each one.
Good morn, good morn, good morn, says they,
Thrice good morn says he,
And which of you three rich lords’ sons
Is goin’ to play at the ball with me?
Why, we? We’re lords, we’re ladies’ sons,
Born in the bower and hall,
And you, you’re nothin’ but a poor maid’s child,
You was born in an ox’s stall.
It’s if I’m nothin’ but a poor maid’s child,
Born in an ox’s stall,
I’ll make you believe in your latter end,
That I’m an angel above you all.
And so he built him a bridge of the beams of the sun,
Over the river ran he,
Them rich young lords’ sons they followed him
And it’s drownded they were all three.
And then it’s up the hill and it’s down the hill
Three weeping mothers ran
Cryin’, Mary mild, fetch home your child,
For it’s ours he’s drowned each one.
And then Mary mild, she’s fetched home her child
And laid him across her knee,
And with a switch of the bitter withy
She’s given him slashes three.
O bitter withy, ah! bitter withy,
You’ve causèd me to smart,
And the willow shall be the very first tree
To perish at the heart.
The Aspen Carol
(Tune: King Pharim, from the Watersons’ album For Pence and Spicy Ale, AN-7020. The tree verses appear in various songs and legends, including the legend of the aspen’s mockery and punishment, which appears in T. F. Thiselton Dyer’s The Folk-Lore of Plants [New York: Appleton, 1889], p. 254.)
Joseph, Jesus and Mary
were traveling through a wood
when Jesus stopped beside the road
to try what powers he could.
He faced the trees of the forest
and on them he did call:
Bow down, you trees, unto the child
who is the lord of all.
And the cherry tree led all the rest,
it being the gravest one:
I give my load of cherries
to the Virgin and her son.
And the willow bent its branches
till they touched the winding track:
I give these withies for the scourge
to stripe your royal back.
And the apple said, To raise you
I’ll bow my body low;
a fairer fruit I’ll bear aloft
than ever Adam stole.
And the thorn it bowed so tenderly,
its branches white with may:
In Glaston I will bloom for thee
on every Christmas day.
But the aspen stood unmovèd,
and all its leaves were still:
I bow to none but wind and snow
sent from the one who will.
Then Jesus cried in anger,
Your lord and master speaks,
and the aspen shall be the firstest tree
to quake in every leaf.
Then a small wind blew among the leaves
and they quivered as they stood,
but still the aspen stood upright
alone of all the wood.
And it quaked with secret laughter,
and said, God’s will be done,
and all my kind shall mock at you
as long as time shall run.
Then Jesus and his parents
went on their royal road,
but everywhere they traveled
the quaking legions stood.
Words © 1988 by Catherine Madsen BMI
Mercy, Pity, Peace and Love
(Tune: Northport, from the Sacred Harp tradition. Words: William Blake.)
To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
All pray in their distress;
And to these virtues of delight
Return their thankfulness.
For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
Is God, our father dear,
And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
Is Man, his child and care.
For Mercy has a human heart,
Pity a human face,
And Love, the human form divine,
And Peace, the human dress.
Then every man, of every clime,
That prays in his distress,
Prays to the human form divine,
Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.
The Wife of Usher’s Well
(Traditional, assembled from various sources.)
There lived a wife at Usher’s Well
and she had sons all three,
she sent them away across the sea
to learn their gramarye.
They had not been across the sea
for twelve months and a day
when word was sent to this wealthy wife
her sons were in the clay.
I wish the wind may never cease
nor troubles in the flood
till my three sons come home again
in earthly flesh and blood.
It fell about the Martinmas time
when nights are long and dark
this wealthy wife’s three sons came home,
their hats were made of bark.
Blow up the fire, my maidens all,
bring water from the well,
for all my house will feed tonight
since my three sons are well.
But up and crew the red, red cock
and up and crew the grey,
the eldest to the youngest said,
It’s time we were away.
The grass is over our heads, mother,
the clay is beneath our feet,
and every tear you shed for us,
it wets our winding sheet.
The Mortal Coil Shuffle
(For Mike McSeóin, who coined the phrase.)
Welcome back, love, to my life again,
it’s the very best life I know,
now that you’re better it’s true once more to say so.
How you sickened nobody knows
though some have a theory or two,
but what does it matter, ’cause now that you have
we got some hard living to do.
’Cause it’s just a little dance they call the mortal coil shuffle,
it goes a bit faster the more that you fear,
but just take that little turn that you do so nicely,
we’ll do it for a few more years.
Here’s a health to the doctors who studied your case,
a health to the nurses too,
who don’t even love you, but worked so hard
to save you for me who do.
They never once saw you for what you are,
didn’t know the worth of your soul,
but they knew the one thing they needed to know,
they had the only control.
’Cause it’s just a little dance…
Well it’s two steps forward and one step back,
try to find a place to call home,
spin spin around and before you stop spinning
hope you still have a partner waiting.
I know I can’t ask for no guarantees,
I got no claim to pursue;
you can’t sue God for the damages—
he’s the judge and the defendant too—
but I thank the world for your life, my love,
how you go on breathing free,
how your blood is red and your skin is warm
and you lie so close to me.
Oh help me bear it, the way life goes,
fragile as a leaf in the fall,
one thing funny ’bout the way the wind blows
and I might never have you any more at all
I wish the world was a kinder place
but it’s the very best world I know,
while you’re in it there’s no other place
that I would rather go,
and I know I can’t ask for no guarantees,
God’s a shifty old dancer too,
but before you dance with him come and dance with me
and do me like you used to do.
’Cause it’s just a little dance…
© 1988 by Catherine Madsen BMI
Tikkun
(Tune: Wondrous Love, from the Sacred Harp tradition)
What wondrous love is this, O my soul, O my soul,
what wondrous love is this, O my soul?
What wondrous love is this
prepared both pain and bliss,
the height and the abyss for my soul, for my soul,
the height and the abyss for my soul?
When I was young and free thou didst call, thou didst call,
when I was young and free thou didst call.
When I was young and free
thou in thy clemency
didst lay all history on my soul, on my soul,
didst lay all history on my soul.
Beneath this weight of shame I will bend, I will bend,
beneath this weight of shame I will bend.
Beneath this weight of shame
I’ll come to share the blame
and ever in thy name seek to mend, seek to mend,
and ever in thy name seek to mend.
Words © 1988 by Catherine Madsen BMI
Adam Lay Ybounden
(English, 15th century)
Adam lay ybounden
Bounden in a bond,
Foure thousand wynter
Thoughte he not to longe.
And al was for an appil,
An appil that he took
As clerkes fynden
Wreten in here book.
Ne hadde the appil take ben,
The appil take ben,
Ne hadde nevere oure lady
A ben hevene quen.
Blessed be the time
That appil take was!
Therfore we moun syngen
Deo gracias!
Shirt of Lace
(Traditional Appalachian, from Dorothy Carter’s album Troubadour, DC-1003)
O water where there is no well
Viny flower and rosemay tree
Water where there is no well,
What name will my true love tell?
Viny flower and rosemay tree
O valley where no sun do fall
Grows no crop, no spring, no fall.
If you wash my shirt of lace
Be sure the buttons are in place.
Then my acre by the sea
Shall be halvèd up, my love, with thee.
Viny flower and rosemay tree
A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal
(Tune: “Sweet Rivers of Redeeming Love,” from Jean Ritchie’s album Sweet Rivers, JA 037. Words: William Wordsworth.)
A slumber did my spirit seal;
I had no human fears:
She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.
No motion has she now, no force;
She neither hears nor sees;
Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees.
Lassie Lie Near Me
Lang hae we partit been,
Lassie my dearie;
Noo we are met again,
Lassie lie near me.
Near me, near me,
Lassie lie near me;
Lang hast thou lien thy lane,
Lassie lie near me.
A’ that I hae endur’d,
Lassie my dearie,
Here in thy arms is cur’d,
Lassie lie near me.
Goodfriday
It was 1946 and the winter wearing on
and the people’s hearts were wakening and sore,
grateful for the friends that had returned again
and sad at the suffering of war.
Goodfriday came and all the village went to church together
the soldiers and their brides stood round the door,
and the spinsters and the widows, the elders and the fathers
who had prayed together all the years of war.
It was a grey day and blowing as they listened to the Word
and sang the Passion songs of shame and misery,
and the vicar read the gospel of the sufferings of the Lord
when he hung three hours upon the windy tree.
And he read the long litany for the tending of the world,
and all the people answered him again,
and he prayed for peace on earth and the conversion of the Jews,
and there was silence, and no one said Amen.
Then the eldest of the women, she got up from her knees,
and alone up the aisle she made her way,
she turned at the altar rail and stood beneath the cross,
said Isn’t it time we put this all away.
This tree has cast a long shadow for nineteen hundred years
upon the chosen people everywhere
whom we have seen converted into ashes on the wind
and still you stand preaching Jesus to the air.
The tree is dry and withered, it bears most bitter fruit,
the blossoms were all borrowed that it wore;
on Adam’s skull and Abraham’s and all his seed it stands
and I will not stand beside it any more.
And she walked down the aisle again and out into the wind,
and one by one the people did the same,
and beneath the open sky they wandered all the day
wondering how they could have put themselves to shame
and they never went inside a church again
and if Jesus is not God, who knows his name?
© 1988 by Catherine Madsen BMI
