Art, Music & Architecture
Slip out through the window,
Shift your unsettled mind,
Lift up your aching limbs,
Leave what holds you down behind.
Fragrant woods are beckoning,
Singing their soulful sound,
Dance beneath the gables,
As planet moons spin around.
SRB 033026
William and Polly*
Sweet William went to Polly,
To give her to understand,
That he had to go and leave her,
To go to a foreign land.
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O stay at home, Sweet William,
O stay at home, said she,
O stay at home, Sweet William,
And do not go to sea.
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My king doth give command, my love,
And I am bound to go;
And if it were to save my life,
I dare not answer No.
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My yellow hair I wll cut off,
Men’s clothing I’ll put on;
Like a true and faithful servant,
It’s you I’ll wait upon.
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The men do lie a-bleeding there,
The bullets swiftly fly,
And the silver trumpets a-sounding,
To drown the dismal cry.
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O tell me not of danger,
For God will be my guide;
And I value not no danger,
When William’s by my side.
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O Polly, dearest Polly,
These words have gained my heart,
And we will have a wedding,
Before we ever part.
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This couple they got married,
And William’s gone to sea,
And Polly she’s a waiting,
All in their own country.
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*“William and Polly” text from book titled “80 Appalachian Folk Songs” collected by Cecil Sharp & Maud Karpeles, 1968. Chord progression transposed and loosely based on guitar accompaniment notation.
A soldier come from Georgia way,
Of ridin’ he was weary.
He tingled on the side-door ring
To hearken up his lady.
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She’s took him by the bridle line,
She’s led him to the stable.
“Here’s oats, here’s corn, here’s hay for your horse,
Let him eat what he is able.”
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She’s took him by the lily-white hand,
She’s led him to the table.
“Here’s cakes and wine for you, my dear,
Come eat what you are able.”
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She’s went to smooth his downy bed,
And she smoothed it like a lady,
And off she took her red, red dress,
Said, “Dearie, are you ready?”
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Off come his bugle soldier’s coat,
Off come his boots of leather,
And quickly into bed he jumped,
And there they lay together.
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He held her high, he held her low,
For hours one, two. and three,
When the bugle blew, she did fear so much
Did sound forth cruelly.
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“When shall we meet and marry, dear,
If you cannot tarry?”
“When cockle-shells turn silver bells,
‘Tis then that we shall marry.”
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This traditional song of which I only play guitar was most memorably played and sung by Bert Jansch on his record album entitled “Rosemary Lane”. Bert Jansch (since gone from this world) was probably more influencial than many other musicians on my psyche (human mind, soul, and spirit). My improvised version is imperfect and perhaps flawed in its brevity, but nevertheless is expressive of the vulnerability that is revealed in matters of the heart. S.R.B.
