1. |
Solitude
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2. |
The American Chief's Song of Defiance (demo)
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3. |
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THE sweet breath of summer blows fresh o’er each plain,
The woods have resumed their lost grandeur again;
The groves with the notes of the blackbird are ringing,
By fountain and streamlet the wild flowers are springing.
And the breath of the heather bell sweetens the breeze,
And the old stormy ocean lies slumbering in peace;
And the wild bees are humming around the wild flowers,
Afar above earth the lark proudly soars;
The bleat of the lamb on the moss-cover’d hill,
The sound of the shepherd’s pipe jocund and shrill,
All tell in a language most striking and plain,
T hat summer, fair summer, is reigning again,
The old face of nature her smiles has put on,
And the blustery appearance of winter has flown.
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4. |
Autumn
03:51
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A U T U MN . AGAIN old Autumn murmurs from the hill , His annual toils already are begun ; His angry blast howls down the fertile vale , Gust after gust with melancholy moan . Ah , what a change ! no flowers bedeck the grove , Nor fill the air with odoriferous sweets ; No warbler pours his melting lay of love , No honey - laden bee the traveller meets
. No sporting lambs skip down the mountain's side , Where heather bells in clusters lately waved ; Nor where the sun , when in his summer pride , When o'er the lake he floods of silver laved .
The spreading oak , by smiling summer dress't In waving garments of a glossy green , Is ' reft of all by Autumn's ruthless blast , Which rides triumphant o'er the arid plain .
The naked willow by the silent lake Sighs to the gale , dejected and forlorn ; As when the mother to her griefs awake , When from her breast her early hopes are torn : All seems to tell in language strong That nought is stable on this earthly sphere ; The grave , the gay , the aged , and the young , Stand on a ladder weak and insecure .
I've seen at evening with intense delight A lovely flower that scarce its form had shown , And ere the morning både farewell to night , Its looks were faded and its beauties flown : Thus flowers must fade , and man , too , must decline , As snows dissolve and swallowed are by earth , And death's proud fetters will his frame entwine , Nor count his lineage nor his honoured birth .
The Spring again will lightly trip the plain , And leave her mantle on the hawthorn boughs ; Her gentle voice will wake the woodland's train , Her beamy smiles again recall the rose
But when will Spring bring gladness to the tomb ? Where lord and beggar on a level lie ; That dreary house of solitude and gloom , Where Discord , Envy , and Ambition die .
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5. |
Farewell to Thee, Charming Deceiver
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6. |
Adieu to Tweedside
03:37
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ADIEU , adieu , to bonnie Tweed , Adieu , her banks so green ; Adieu , adieu , each sylvan grove , Where often I have been . Adieu , adieu , each hoary height ; Farewell , each whin - clad brae ; Adieu , her bonnie blooming howes , That ever smile so gay .
Oft have I roam'd upon her banks , When gentle zephyrs blew , While o'er her pure and crystal breast The twittering swallows few . With blooming Mary by my side , I had no cause to fear ; My heart was light , my griefs were few , When Mary thus was near .
But now , alas ! those joys have pass’d , And Mary now is gone To rest , among departed friends , Beneath the moss - clad stone ; And I am left to sigh and pine In this drear world of care , And cannot even view the spot Where rests my sleeping fair .
Oh , farewell , all ye earthly joys , Ye ne'er were deign'd for me , A chequer'd mind oppress'd with woes Can ill with mirth agree . But give me near some rippling rill My weary life to end , And give me Nature's book to read , And I'll be Nature's friend
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7. |
Nature
03:13
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GIVE me to wander , at the close of day , In some lone vale or unfrequented grove , Where I may muse the twilight hours away , Where music mingles with the notes of love ; And let me draw from NATURE's fountain pure , A cooling draught the wounded mind to cure .
Nature hath charms , and charms which may be won , Let reason dictate and thou'lt find it so ; The balmy air , the glorious evening sun , The cloud - top't mountains , and the plains below : Each calls to reason , come and learn of me , To live in peace and joyous harmony .
The blood - stained warrior may delight to hear The clang of armies and the battle's howl ; The frenzied drunkard has his midnight cheer , When to his lips he lifts the maddening bowl ; But these are charms which vanish with a breath , And days of sadness follow hours of mirth .
But Nature's charms can know of no decay , Each passing season some ripe offering brings ; The lark's shrill whistle and the linnet's lay , Each tree that blossoms and each flower that springs , Invite proud man his follies to forsake , And come to Nature and her gifts partake .
Then come , ye revellers , come to Nature's shrine , All ye who sport in taverns and at balls : ' Tis Wisdom's summons , ' tis a voice divine , In cheerful accents , who ever on you calls ; Each opening bud contains for thee a balm , To soothe thy sorrows , and thy soul to calm .
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8. |
To a Snowdrop
02:01
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WITH joy I hail thee , lovely gem , From out thy icy bed ; Thy silken drop , and slender stem , Tell the wintry winds hae fled . Sweet harbinger of brighter days , And skies more calm and clear , The sun will shine with warmer rays , Sweet flower , since thou art here . But ah ! what changes we have seen , Since last thy welcome form Burst forth to deck the cheerless green , And the drooping heart to charm We've seen the summer's gaudy plumes Adorn each bank and brae ; We've tasted of their rich perfumes , And we've seen them pass away . We've seen old autumn thin and pale , With the sear and yellow leaf ; We've seen him stalking down the vale , With his sickle and his sheaf . And we've felt the grasp of winter's hand , As he roared o'er the snow - top'd hill ; And we've seen him bind in his iron band , The lake and the rippling rill . Then lift thy head , sweet floweret fair , Thy modest praise I'll sing ; And I'll tend thee with a lover's care , Thou Fairy Queen of Spring .
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9. |
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What aileth thee , my darling boy , Why starts the big tear in thine eye ? It wounds this bleeding breast of mine , To hear thy father's orphan cry . What can it be that o'er thee hangs , And wraps thy youthful soul in gloom ?
Oh ! would that I could share thy pangs , And snatch the canker from thy gloom . Wipe off that tear , my early hope , It ill becomes thy father's son To sigh in this thy early morn , Thy griefs and cares are soon begun Thou yet hast days enough in store , And many sleepless nights are thine ; Thy breast may yet its anguish pour , When sigh and sob have ceased in mine .
Thou’rt but a plant in early spring , Thy bud has scarce begun to form ; Thou ne'er hast seen life's summer sun , Nor felt life’s nipping wintry storm . Yet soon , too soon , the bud will burst , The flower and fruit will then appear , And thou wilt feel , as feel thou must , The yellow leaf has much to fear .
Yet thou art young and free to roam , The field of fame for thee is wide ; But if thou travel'st free of cares , ' Tis more than e'er thy mother could . Then come , my early hope , be still , And wipe away that briny tear ; Thou yet hast time to weep thy full , When none will for your weeping care .
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10. |
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I SING of the land where in youth I have rambled, I sing of her heroes who long, long have gone; And I sing of her steep crags where of t I have scrambled, When dull pining cares to me were unknown,
How oft I have roamed o’er her blue misty mountains, And cull’d her wild cowslips and heather bells fair; And lightly I’ve stroll’d by her clear winding fountains, Inhaling with rapture the sweet summer air.
How oft I have gazed on the sky lark ascending, To pour forth her praise at the dawn of the day ; While dewy and lovely the pine boughs were bending, Attired in the greenest of nature’s array.
How oft in the evening I’ve seen with emotion The mountain kids sporting when Phoebus retires To glad other regions concealed by the ocean; But away, what can rival the land of my sires?
Green spot of my heart, the brightest the fairest, Thrice sacred the memory for ever of you; Sweet haunts of my childhood, to me ever dearest, Though now with a tear I must bid you adieu.
Thus, like to the miser who clings to his riches, I cling to the land of the thistle and pine; Her snow-cbver’d hills my soul so bewitches, Oh! would but the past with its pleasures were mine.
But, alas! those loved scenes I must leave now to others, For fate has decreed that I shall not remain ; So adieu to the land of my youth and my fathers, To seek for a home o’er the wild foaming main.
But, still I will think on a mother’s caresses, When far o’er the blue sea I waft with the gale; I And still I will cherish a father’s advices, Who pledged me his blessing adown the green vale.
But away, ye dull thoughts, for I cannot endure you, Go, war with another and leave me alone ; For the fathomless ocean I’m' destined to brave now, So blow fair ye breezes and let me be gone.
Then adieu to the land of my youth, Farewell to her crags, steep and hoary ; Farewell to the scenes of my birth, And adieu to the land of my glory.
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11. |
To the Ocean
03:37
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OLD ocean , your sound has a charm for my ear , It reminds me of days that are gone , When o'er your rugg'd boundaries , a stranger to fear , I have travelled , and travelled alone . I have laughed when your billows , like mountains , were leaping , And heaving their foam o'er the wild troubled shore , While o'er your white bosom the petrels were sweeping , Forgetting your wrath , and unheeding your roar .
As the roe of the mountain delights to be free , And bounds o'er the plains with the speed of the wind , Disdaining the mark of the sportsman to be , But depends on his swiftness , and leaves him behind , So I , like the roe , had no cares to enthral me When last I your watery bosom surveyed ; No gloomy forebodings e'er dared to recall me From the grandeur your foam - crested billows dis played .
But how like the flower that is nursd by the sunshine , That shoots forth its blossoms and blooms for a while , Till around it the hoar - frosts of Autumn encircle , And leave but the stem to adorn the vale . So the Autumn of age is o'er me impending , The leaf now is yellow and begun to decay ; The fruit now is ripe , and the twig now is bending , And the first breeze of winter may waft all away ..
Yet though Time's silent hand all my senses have shaken , Though in care’s gloomy garments my soul is arrayed , When I gaze o'er the blue sea my fancies awaken I To bright recollections , long , long since decayed . Then roll on in splendour , thou white foamy ocean , In majesty , greatness , and grandeur roll on ; Though dim be my eye , my heart swells with emotion , When I think on the gay happy days that are gone .
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12. |
The Emigrant's Reflections (demo)
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13. |
The Exile's Return (demo)
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14. |
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The dying monarch raised his head And shook his hand , and wildly said , Ah , what is this , what's this I feel ? Ye Satraps bow the knee and tell What hand is this that does me bind , What weight is this that does me grind ; Some mightier arm than man's is here , I see and feel a keener spear . Ah , there again , I feel the dart Pierce with a venom to my heart ; It seems to grapple with my breath , Sure this must be the hand of Death . What's all my deeds of daring fame , Compared with this unequal game . I've thrown aside the bolts of war , I've rushed against the naked spear , I've conquered kings , empires o'erthrown , I've gathered laurels and renown ; But what do all these deeds avail , When verging on the brink of Hell ? Though nobles stoop and princes bow , What's their obedience to me now ?
Though thousands at my high command , Would each display a gleaming brand , And rush with madness on the foe , And hurl him to the shades below , Yet , all their bravery , all their might , Their in the bloody fight Would feel convulsed , would turn aside , Before death's sharp unsheathed blade . Though richest fruit my table decks , Though smiling plenty on me becks , Though luxury's unbridled steed Revels and riots round my bed , Though gayest garbs and textures fine Around my fever'd head entwine , Though all my vassals strive to please , Nought can this tortured spirit ease . Tell me , ye menials , tell we where I might a peaceful moment share ; Is it in the cottar's shed ? Is it on the peasant's bed ? If so , I'd willingly retire To some lone hut , and there expire . But thoughts like these are wild and vain , I hear Death rattling with his chain ; I must depart , I hear the call , I must forsake each gilded hall .
But , oh ! tis terrible to die , I fain would , but I cannot fly ; I fain would wrench from Death that brand He waves triumphant in his hand ; But , ah ! ' tis useless , now I feel His pointed weapon , fare - thee - well .
The monarch ceased , the courtier train Shook , muttered , gazed , and shook again ; They saw life's dying embers fade , They felt the sting of horror's blade . Before them lay a lifeless form , Which once had life with passions warm ; The hand was stiff , which oft had reined The war horse , and the prisoner chained . A lifeless lump of senseless clay The stern despotic MONARCH lay .
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15. |
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And thus the sire began “ What kind of knowledge doest thou seek ? Come tell me , oh , my son . Doest thou wish to see the heroes great Who have long from the world been gone ? Would'st thou wish to hear each chief relate The deeds which he has done ? Or would'st thou thy knowledge rather acquire From the aged sons of the harp and lyre ? "
I said “ ' twere a noble sight to see The mighty men of old , Who bled that their countries might be free From the tyrants ' fatal hold , Yet I'd deem it a nobler sight by far To behold the sons of the harp and lyre . ”
Yet I'd deem it a nobler sight by far To behold the sons of the harp and lyre . ” a drew near , He waved his golden wand on high And a band of the sons of song drew nigh ; The first that pass'ed had a Grecian lyre , And he breathed on its strings his soul of fire , He spoke of the great Achilles ' fame , And I heard him lisp Ulysses ' name , And he vanished from my sight . Then Ossian , son of Scottish song , With a firm step next pass'd along , And he sung of Fingal's might . Another son of song And he held in his hand a Roman lyre , And he sung of Roman fame He spoke of Æneas ' flight from Troy , And he sung of the heaven - protected Boy , But he vanished , and Orpheus came And pass'd , for the crowd came thicker on , With sounds and songs to me unknown With harps and lyres of ancient mould Too great and many to be told , Or e'en for pen to name . As on they press'd I clearly heard The voice of the famed Baotian Bard , Great Pindar , son of fame . Thespis , prince of the Tragic Muse , Ovid and Horace of deathless lays , And Sappho , the queen of song , In pleasing concord press'd along ; And yet the crowd grew thicker still As mist which gathers on the hill , As clouds which roll athwart the sky , The mighty host pass'd slowly by , With varied sounds , harsh , soft , and clear , Which charmed my keen enquiring ear . At last I thought they all were gone , When , lo ! another host came on With harps and lyres of British make , And I gloried for Britannia's sake , To think that such a mighty host Should sally from the rugged coast . The mighty Milton first me pass't , Immortal Shakspeare followed fast ; Before me lofty Chaucer stood Like some gigantic sculptured God ; Fletcher , Beaumont , and mighty Ben , Came hand in hand with Hawthornden . Next , in russet garb , appeared Immortal Burns - old Scotia's Bard A cloak was o'er his shoulders flung , A trumpet from his waist was slung ; From ' neath his robes a harp he took , He touched its chords , my spirit shook , He sung of Scotia's plains and fells , Her heathy knowes and classic vales , Her misty mountains blue . The roaming spirits of the sky Seemed charmed with minstrelsy , And still he louder blew . Some mighty helpmate from above Seemed to the minstrel given His big soul melted into love While he sung to “ Mary in Heaven ; " But he pass'ed away , and immortal Pope , And Campbell , the mighty prince of hope , Came closely up behind . Great Byron , with his British lyre , And Cowley , with Pindaric fire , And Harry , the minstrel blind . The lofty Dryden , prince of song , , With a golden lyre next pass'd along , And thoughtful Young drew near , And'when he spoke of the awful day When man again would resume his clay , It seemed his soul to cheer . Next Goldsmith , Addison , and Gay , The witty Swift , the gloomy Grey , Kirke White the sage and young All hurried on with rapid haste , As if by some opponent prest , With instruments unstrung . And straight methought before me stood The mighty Shelley in a cloud , And his strain seemed deep and wild ; He charmed my heart , for I felt the power Of this mighty monarch of the lyre , And I deemed him nature's child . Next Scotia's border minstrel eame , And Chatterton of youthful fame ; Cowper the noble bard pass'd by , While Pollock on time's wings did fly , Next Ramsay with his lovers gay , And Thomson with his flowery May ame slowly me before ; While Nicoll , the son of song , drew near , Who saw his Maker everywhere , On mountain , tree , and flower . Next came a bard of brighter days , By his looks I could discern Oh , heavens ! ' twas the prince of the Ury lays , And he sung “ The Mitherless Bairn . " My bosom heaved at his touching strain , I tried to weep , but tried in vain . Enough I cried , I can bear no more , For tones like these make the bosom sore ,
And quick as the lightning in its flight All disappeared from my sight . My guide with his silvery hairs was gone , And I stood , or thought I stood , alone .
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16. |
The Bard's Lament
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fiffdimension Featherston, New Zealand
Outsider music from Aotearoa NZ and beyond, by Dave Edwards and collaborators (from 1856 to 2024).
Spans acoustic & electric noise, rock, folk, spoken word, postpunk, free jazz, gamelan, lo fi, electronica, & ethnomusicology.
fiffdimension recommends:
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First new release of 2023, psych-rock trio from Masterton, NZ, with Antony Milton and David Heath
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Nat da Hatt collaborated on https://fiffdimension.bandcamp.com/album/neon-train-landscapes and brought a funky psychedelic guitar groove to our sound - here's his solo masterpiece.
go to albumIf you like Poems & Lyrics (in the English dialect) (1856), you may also like:
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The glacial tones of Half Waif run crystal clear over contemporary classical and experimental pop tracks.
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Moody and weird experimental pop from Melbourne follows the intuitive logic of the surrealist game from which the group takes their name.
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