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The Heart of England

Chapter 63: POOR OLD HORSE
By Edward Thomas
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British LiteratureTravel Writing

About This Book

A series of lyrical prose sketches follows the narrator's walks from suburban streets into lowland meadows, upland woods, moors and seacoast, recording seasonal changes, rural scenes, village life, farming details, and small human encounters. Each chapter captures sensory impressions of light, weather, birds and plants, and reflects on memory, solitude and the changing landscape. The work is arranged in parts that move geographically and seasonally, and it closes with several folk songs and short verses. Tone alternates between quiet observation and reflective meditation, favoring detailed description over plot.

SONGS

MOWING SONG

[midi] [lilypond]

With one man, with two men, we mow the hay to-gether; ...
With three men, with four men, we mow the hay togeth-er....
My four, my three, my two, my one, no more....
We mow the hay and rake the hay and car-ry it a-way to-geth-er.

THE HOLM BANK HUNTING SONG

[midi] [lilypond]

One morning last winter to Holm bank there came
A brave, no-ble sportsman, Squire Sands was his name,
Came a hunt-ing the fox, bold Reynard must die,
And he flung out his train and be-gan for to cry,
Tally ho! ... tally ho! ...
Hark, for-ward a-way, tal-ly ho....

POOR OLD HORSE

[midi] [lilypond]

My cloth-ing was once of the lin-sey wool-sey fine, ...
My tail it grew at length ... my coat did likewise shine.
But now I’m growing old my beauty does de-cay.
My master frowns up-on me; one day I heard him say,
Poor old horse, poor old horse.

MARY, COME INTO THE FIELD

[midi] [lilypond]

Mary, come into the field ...
To work a-long of I....
Digging up man-gel wor-zels,
For they be a-growing high....
Dig ’em up by the roots, dig ’em up by the roots,
Put in your spade, don’t be a-fraid,
Dig ’em up by the roots....

LA FILLE DU ROI

[midi] [lilypond]

Las! Il n’a nul mal qui n’a le mal d’a-mour!
Las! Il n’a nu! mal qui n’a le mal d’a-mour!
La fill-e du roi est au pied de la tour,
qui pleure et sou-pir-e et mène grand dou-lour.
Las! Il n’a nul mal qui n’a le mal d’a-mour.
Las! Il n’a nul mal qui n’a le mal d’a-mour.
Le bon roi lui dit: Ma fille, qu’avez-vous?
Voulez-vous un mari? Hé-las oui, mon sei-gnoux!
Las! Il n’a nul mal qui n’a le mal d’a-mour.
Las! Il n’a nul mal qui n’a le mal d’a-mour.