Guest Artist: Season of Song, Featuring Roderick Williams, Baritone, and Brian Moll, Piano

GEORGE BUTTERWORTH (1885–1916): Six Songs from A Shropshire Lad
Text by Alfred Edward Housman (1859–1936)

Loveliest of Trees
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

When I was one-and-twenty
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.

Look not in my eyes
Look not in my eyes, for fear
They mirror true the sight I see,
And there you find your face too clear
And love it and be lost like me.
One the long nights through must lie
Spent in star-defeated sighs,
But why should you as well as I
Perish? Gaze not in my eyes.
A Grecian lad, as I hear tell,
One that many loved in vain,
Looked into a forest well
And never looked away again.
There, when the turf in springtime flowers,
With downward eye and gazes sad,
Stands amid the glancing showers
A jonquil, not a Grecian lad.

Think no more, lad
Think no more, lad; laugh, be jolly;
Why should men make haste to die?
Empty heads and tongues a-talking
Make the rough road easy walking,
And the feather pate of folly
Bears the falling sky.
Oh, ’tis jesting, dancing, drinking
Spins the heavy world around.
If young hearts were not so clever,
Oh, they would be young for ever;
Think no more; ’tis only thinking
Lays lads underground.

The lads in their hundreds
The lads in their hundreds to Ludlow come in for the fair,
There’s men from the barn and the forge and the mill and the fold,
The lads for the girls and the lads for the liquor are there,
And there with the rest are the lads that will never be old.
There’s chaps from the town and the field and the till and the cart,
And many to count are the stalwart, and many the brave,
And many the handsome of face and the handsome of heart,
And few that will carry their looks or their truth to the grave.
I wish one could know them, I wish there were tokens to tell
The fortunate fellows that now you can never discern;
And then one could talk with them friendly and wish them farewell
And watch them depart on the way that they will not return.
But now you may stare as you like and there’s nothing to scan;
And brushing your elbow unguessed at and not to be told
They carry back bright to the coiner the mintage of man,
The lads that will die in their glory and never be old.

Is my team ploughing?
“Is my team ploughing,
That I was used to drive
And hear the harness jingle
When I was man alive?”
Ay, the horses trample,
The harness jingles now;
No change though you lie under
The land you used to plough.
“Is football playing
Along the river-shore,
With lads to chase the leather,
Now I stand up no more?”
Ay, the ball is flying,
The lads play heart and soul;
The goal stands up, the keeper
Stands up to keep the goal.
“Is my girl happy,
That I thought hard to leave,
And has she tired of weeping
As she lies down at eve?”
Ay, she lies down lightly,
She lies not down to weep:
Your girl is well contented.
Be still, my lad, and sleep.
“Is my friend hearty,
Now I am thin and pine,
And has he found to sleep in
A better bed than mine?”
Yes, lad, I lie easy,
I lie as lads would choose;
I cheer a dead man’s sweetheart,
Never ask me whose.

JOHN IRELAND: Summer Schemes
Text by Thomas Hardy (1840–1928)

When friendly summer calls again,
Calls again
Her little fifers to these hills,
We'll go—we two—to that arched fane
Of leafage where they prime their bills
Before they start to flood the plain
With quavers, minims, shakes, and trills.
'—We'll go', I sing; but who shall say
What may not chance before that day!
And we shall see the waters spring,
Waters spring
From chinks the scrubby copses crown;
And we shall trace their oncreeping
To where the cascade tumbles down
And sends the bobbing growths a-swing,
And ferns not quite but almost drown.
'—We shall', I say; but who may sing
Of what another moon will bring!

IRELAND: Sea Fever
Text by John Masefield (1878–1967), obtained from the Poetry Foundation

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

IRELAND: The Salley Gardens
Text by William Butler Yeats (1865–1939)

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree
But I, being young and foolish, with her did not agree.
In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

IRELAND: In Boyhood
Text by Alfred Edward Housman (1859–1936)

When I would muse in boyhood
The wild green woods among,
And nurse resolves and fancies
Because the world was young,
It was not foes to conquer,
Nor sweethearts to be kind,
But it was friends to die for
That I would seek and find.
I sought them far and found them,
The sure, the straight, the brave,
The hearts I lost my own to,
The souls I could not save.
They braced their belts about them,
They crossed in ships the sea,
They sought and found
Six feet of ground,
And there they died for me.

IRELAND: Great Things
Text by Thomas Hardy (1840–1928)

Sweet cyder is a great thing,
A great thing to me,
Spinning down to Weymouth Town
By Ridgway thirstily,
And maid and mistress summoning
Who tend the hostelry:
O cyder is a great thing,
A great thing to me!
The dance it is a great thing,
A great thing to me,
With candle lit and partners fit
For night-long revelry;
And going home when day-dawning
Peeps pale upon the lea:
O dancing is a great thing,
A great thing to me!
Love is, yea, a great thing,
A great thing to me,
When, having drawn across the lawn
In darkness silently,
A figure flits like one a-wing
Out from the nearest tree:
O love is, yes, a great thing,
Aye, greatest thing to me!
Will these be always great things,
Greatest things to me? …
Let it befall that One will call,
'Soul, I have need of thee':
What then? Joy-jaunts, impassioned flings,
Love, and its ecstasy,
Will always have been great things,
Greatest things to me!

REBECCA CLARKE: The Seal Man
Text by John Masefield (1878–1967), from A Mainsail Haul (1905)

And he came by her cabin to the west of the road, calling.
There was a strong love came up in her at that,
and she put down her sewing on the table, and "Mother," she says,
"There's no lock, and no key, and no bolt, and no door.
There's no iron, nor no stone, nor anything at all
will keep me this night from the man I love."
And she went out into the moonlight to him,
there by the bush where the flow'rs is pretty, beyond the river.
And he says to her: "You are all of the beauty of the world,
will you come where I go, over the waves of the sea?"
And she says to him: "My treasure and my strength," she says,
"I would follow you on the frozen hills, my feet bleeding."
Then they went down into the sea together,
and the moon made a track [upon] the sea, and they walked down it;
it was like a flame before them. There was no fear at all on her;
only a great love like the love of the Old Ones,
that was stronger than the touch of the fool.
She had a little white throat, and little cheeks like flowers,
and she went down into the sea with her man,
who wasn't a man at all.
She was drowned, of course.
It's like he never thought that she wouldn't bear the sea like himself.
She was drowned, drowned.

CLARKE: Down by the Salley Gardens
(see text by William Butler Yeats above)

JOAN TRIMBLE: My Grief on the Sea
Text by Douglas Hyde (1860–1949), translated from the Irish

My grief on the sea, 
How the waves of it roll! 
For they heave between me 
And the love of my soul! 

Abandon'd, forsaken, 
To grief and to care, 
Will the sea ever waken 
Relief from despair? 

My grief and my trouble! 
Would he and I were, 
In the province of Leinster, 
Or County of Clare! 

Were I and my darling— 
O heart-bitter wound!— 
On board of the ship 
For America bound. 

On a green bed of rushes 
All last night I lay, 
And I flung it abroad 
With the heat of the day. 

And my Love came behind me, 
He came from the South; 
His breast to my bosom, 
His mouth to my mouth.

INA BOYLE: The Joy of Earth
Text by George Russell (1867–1935)

Oh, the sudden wings arising from the ploughed fields brown
Showered aloft in spray of song the wild-bird twitter floats
O’er the unseen fount awhile, and then comes dropping down
Nigh the cool brown earth to hush enraptured notes.
Far within a dome of trembling opal throbs the fire,
Mistily its rain of diamond lances shed below
Touches eyes and brows and faces lit with wild desire
For the burning silence whither we would go.
Heart, be young; once more it is the ancient joy of earth
Breathes in thee and flings the wild wings sunward to the dome
To the light where all the children of the fire had birth
Though our hearts and footsteps wander far from home.

IVOR GURNEY: The Salley Gardens
(see text by William Butler Yeats above)

GURNEY: Severn Meadows

Only the wanderer
Knows England’s graces,
Or can anew see clear
Familiar faces.
And who loves joy as he
That dwells in shadows?
Do not forget me quite,
O Severn meadows.

GURNEY: Captain Stratton’s Fancy
Text by John Masefield (1878–1967)

Oh, some are fond of red wine and some are fond of white,
And some are all for dancing by the pale moonlight:
But rum alone’s the tipple, and the heart’s delight
Of the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.

Oh, some are for the lily and some are for the rose,
But I am for the sugar cane that in Jamaica grows;
For it’s that that makes the bonny drink to warm my copper nose,
Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.

Oh, some are sad and wretched folk that go in silken suits,
And there’s a mort of wicked rogues that live in good reputes;
So I’m for drinking honestly and dying in my boots,
Like an old bold mate of Henry Morgan.

—INTERMISSION—

RALPH VAUGHAN WILLIAMS: The Vagabond
Text by Robert Louis Stevenson (1850–1894)

Give to me the life I love,
Let the lave go by me,
Give the jolly heaven above,
And the byway nigh me.
Bed in the bush with stars to see,
Bread I dip in the river—
There’s the life for a man like me,
There’s the life for ever.

Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o’er me;
Give the face of earth around,
And the road before me.
Wealth I seek not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me;
All I seek, the heaven above,

And the road below me.
Or let autumn fall on me
Where afield I linger,
Silencing the bird on tree,
Biting the blue finger.
White as meal the frosty field—
Warm the fireside haven—
Not to autumn will I yield,
Not to winter even!

VAUGHAN WILLIAMS: Silent Noon
Text by Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828–1882)

Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass,—
The finger-points look through like rosy blooms:
Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms
‘Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass.
All round our nest, far as the eye can pass,
Are golden kingcup fields with silver edge,
Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn hedge.
‘Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass.
Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragonfly
Hangs like a blue thread loosen’d from the sky:
So this wing’d hour is dropped to us from above.
Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower,
This close-companioned inarticulate hour
When twofold silence was the song of Love.

VAUGHAN WILLIAMS: When Icicles Hang by the wall
Text by William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

When icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp’d, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit, tu-who—a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all around the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit, tu-who—a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

MADELEINE DRING: Take, O take those lips away
Text by William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

Take, O take those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn,
And those eyes: the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn;
But my kisses bring again, bring again,
Seals of love, but seal’d in vain, seal’d in vain!

ELIZABETH MACONCHY: The wind and the rain
Text by William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

When that I was and a little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;
A foolish thing was but a toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came to man’s estate,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;
’Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gates,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came, alas! to wive,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;
By swaggering could I never thrive,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came unto my beds,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;
With toss-pots still had drunken heads,
For the rain it raineth every day.
A great while ago the world begun,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;
But that’s all one, our play is done,
And we’ll strive to please you every day.

BENJAMIN BRITTEN: The Salley Gardens
(see text by William Butler Yeats above)

BRITTEN: The Foggy, Foggy Dew
(author unknown)

When I was a bachelor I lived all alone and worked at the weaver’s trade
And the only, only thing that I ever did wrong, was to woo a fair young maid.
I wooed her in the winter time, and in the summer too …
And the only, only thing I did that was wrong was to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew.
One night she came to my bedside when I lay fast asleep,
She laid her head upon my bed and she began to weep.
She sighed, she cried, she damn’d near died, she said: ‘What shall I do?’
So I hauled her into bed and I covered up her head, 
just to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew.
Oh, I am a bachelor and I live with my son, and we work at the weaver’s trade.
And ev’ry single time that I look into his eyes, he reminds me of the fair young maid.
He reminds me of the winter time, and of the summer too,
And of the many, many times that I held her in my arms, 
just to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew.

BRITTEN: The Plough Boy
(author unknown)

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 chariot so great a man I’ll be,
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.
Whatever’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,
You'll forget the little plough boy who whistled o’er the lea.

CAROLINE SHAW: How do I find you?

How do I find you?
When do I blind you?
Do I remind you,
Bind or confine you,
Shine and confide
In your counter side,
Co-sign your anxiety and
Comfort you silently.

While tenderly pretending
That nothing is ending,
We fend off the sendoff,
Suspending the mending.

Tending a garden is always a labor.
The weeds and the wild of human behavior
Fill up the earth with a bittersweet synonym
For what we contain in a world that is brimming
With light that is dimming but fighting to hum
Its hymn to tomorrow and what is to come.

Tending a garden is mending a love
For the weeds and the wilds climbing above
The earth and its history.
Will tomorrow forget that it once was a mystery?

How do I
How

How you remind me
To realign the elastic
Shine from a light that confides
In a garden that hums 
With all that may come.

SALLY BEAMISH: Nightingale
Text by Hafez (1310–1390), translated by Jila Peacock

Roaming the dawn garden
I heard the call of a nightingale

Forlorn like me he loved the rose
And in that cry surged all his warbling grief

I drifted in that garden’s timeless moment 
Balancing the plight of rose and bird

For endless roses flower each day 
Yet no man plucks a single bloom 
Without the risk of thorn

O Hafez, seek no gain from the orbit of this wheel 
It has a thousand failings and no concern for you

CHERYL FRANCES-HOAD: The Pros and the Cons
Text by Sophie Hannah (b. 1971)

He’ll be pleased if I phone to ask him how he is.
It will make me look considerate and he likes considerate people.

He’ll be reassured to see that I haven’t lost interest,
Which might make him happy and then I’ll have done him a favour.

If I phone him right now I’ll get to speak to him sooner
Than I will if I sit around waiting for him to phone me.

He might not want to phone me from work in case someone hears
And begins (or continues) to suspect that there’s something
Between us.

If I want to and don’t, aren’t I being a bit immature?
We’re both adults. Does it matter, with adults, who makes the first move?

But there’s always the chance he’ll back off if I come on too strong.
The less keen I appear, the more keen he’s likely to be,

And I phoned him twice on Thursday and once on Friday.
He must therefore be fully aware that it’s his turn, not mine.

If I make it too easy for him, he’ll assume I’m too easy,
While if I make no effort, that leaves him with more of a challenge.

I should demonstrate that I have a sense of proportion.
His work must come first for a while and I shouldn’t mind waiting.

For all I know he could have gone off me already
And if I don’t phone I can always say, later, that I went off him first.

RODERICK WILLIAMS: I asked my lady what she did 
Text by Roger McGough (b. 1937)

I asked my lady what she did;
she gave me a silver flute and smiled;
a musician, I guessed,
yes, that would explain her temp’rament
so wild, so wild.

I asked my lady what she did;
she gave me a comb inlaid with pearl;
a hairdresser I guess, yes,
that would explain each so oft,
each soft and billowing curl.

I asked my lady what she did;
she gave me a skein of wool and left;
a weaver I guessed,
yes, that would explain her fingers 
long and deft. 

I asked my lady what she did;
she gave me a slipper trimmed with lace;
a dancer I guessed, 
yes, that would explain her suppleness
and grace.

I asked my lady what she did;
she gave me a picture not yet dry;
a painter I guessed,
yes, that would explain her steadiness 
of eye.

I asked my lady what she did;
she gave me a fountain pen of gold;
a poet I guessed,
yes, that would explain the strange stories
that she told

I asked my lady what she did;
she told me, and oh the grief!
I should have guessed,
she’s under arrest;
my lady was a thief!

Roderick Williams, voice, is one of the most sought-after baritones of his generation with a wide repertoire spanning baroque to contemporary. He enjoys relationships with all the major UK and European opera houses and also performs regularly with leading conductors and orchestras throughout the UK, Europe, North America, and Australia. Festival appearances include the BBC Proms, Edinburgh, Cheltenham, Aldeburgh, and Melbourne. As a recitalist, he is in demand around the world and appears regularly at venues including the WigmoreHall, Concertgebouw, and Musikverein and at song festivals including Leeds Lieder, Oxford International Song, and Ludlow English Song.

Williams was awarded an OBE in June 2017 and was artist in residence with the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra from 2020 to 2022, artist in residence at the 2023 Aldeburgh Festival, and singer in residence at Music in the Round. He was also one of the featured soloists at the coronation of King Charles III in 2023. 

As a composer, he has had works premiered at Wigmore Hall, the Barbican, the Purcell Room, and on national radio. In 2016, he won Best Choral Composition at the British Composer Awards, and from 2022–2023, he holds the position of composer in association of the BBC Singers.

Brian Moll, piano, joined the Conservatory in 1997 and is an assistant professor of music. He is a vocal coach and instructor of French song repertory, and for many years was a coach for opera classes and productions. In addition, he served as chair of the Collaborative Piano Department and led both the Piano and Voice departments for more than 20 years, where he continues to teach. He has been on the faculty at the New England Conservatory of Music, most recently in the fall of 2023 as a visiting instructor in art song and a coach for the Opera Department. He has presented master classes in Germany, Austria, Switzerland, France, Bulgaria, France, Mexico, and throughout the United States; has been on the faculties of the Lied Austria Program near Graz, Austria; and has been director of the lied program at the Dramatic Voices Program in Berlin since 2019.

As a keyboardist, Moll has worked with Emmanuel Music, Boston Baroque, and the Handel and Haydn Society chorus and orchestra. He also served as assistant conductor and pianist for stage productions by Boston Lyric Opera, Opera North, and Boston Midsummer Opera. He has appeared at the Strings in the Mountains Festival (Colorado) and at the New Hampshire Music Festival. A sought-after recitalist, Moll has appeared with singers Barbara Kilduff, Sheri Greenawald, Jesse Blumberg, Wolfgang Brendel, Sir Thomas Allen, Kevin Deas, Yeghishe Manucharyan, Chelsea Basler, Kelly Kaduce, Mara Bonde, Andrew Garland, and Sandra Piques Eddy.

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