Friday, February 14, 2014

(Simeon Ushakov, Tretyakov)

I syng of a mayden
þat is makeles,
kyng of alle kynges
to here sone che ches.

He came also stylle
þer his moder was
as dew in aprylle,
þat fallyt on þe gras.

He cam also stylle
to his moderes bowr
as dew in aprille,
þat fallyt on þe flour.

He cam also stylle
þer his moder lay
as dew in Aprille,
þat fallyt on þe spray.

Moder & mayden
was neuer non but che –
wel may swych a lady
Godes moder be.


As a child, I discovered my own tune for these lyrics--Benjamin Britten's score was too fast for me. Composed is too strong a word. It was a song to sing in the dark, accompanied by comforting shadows. And so I did just that. 

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