| WHEN THE NIGHT WIND HOWLS W.S. Gilbert Music by Arthur Sullivan - Ruddigore When the night wind howls in the chimney cowls, And the bat in the moonlight flies, And inky clouds, like funeral shrouds, Sail over the midnight skies. When the footpads quail at the night bird's wail, And black dogs bay at the moon, Then is the spectres' holiday-- Then is the ghosts' high noon! For then is the ghosts' high noon, High noon-----, then is the ghosts' high noon! As the sob of the breeze sweeps over the trees And the mists lie low on the fen, From grey tombstones are gathered the bones That once were women and men, And away they go, with a mop and a mow, To the revel that ends too soon, For cock crow limits our holiday, The dead of the night's high noon! The dead of the night's high noon! High noon-----, the dead of the night's high noon! And then each ghost with his lady toast To their church-yard beds take flight, With a kiss, perhaps, on her lantern chaps, And a grisly grim "goodnight!" Till the welcome knell of the midnight bell Rings forth its jolliest tune, And ushers in our next high holiday, The dead of the night's high noon! The dead of the night's high noon, High noon-----, the dead of the night's high noon! |
| A NOISELESS PATIENT SPIDER by Walt Whitman A noiseless patient spider, I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated, Mark'd how to explore the vacant vast surrounding, It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament out of itself, Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them. And you O my soul where you stand, Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space, Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them. Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold, Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul. |
| REQUIESCAT Oscar Wilde (1856-1900) Tread lightly, she is near Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow. All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust. Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew. Coffin-board, heavy stone, Lie on her breast; I vex my heart alone, She is at rest. Peace, peace, she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet, All my life's buried here, Heap earth upon it. |
| THE IVY GREEN Words by Charles Dickens, Music by Henry Russell From Good Old Songs, copyright 1887 A dainty plant is the ivy green, That creepeth o'er ruins old; Of right choice food are his meals I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The wall must be crumbled, the stones decay'd, To pleasure his dainty whim, And the mould'ring dust that years have made, Is a merry meal for him. CHORUS: Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. Creeping, creeping, creeping where no life is seen, Creeping, creeping, a rare old plant is the ivy green. Fast he stealeth though he wears no wings, And a stanch old heart has he; How closely he twineth, how closely he clings, To his friend the huge oak tree! And slyly he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, As he joyously hugs and crawleth round, The mould of dead men's graves. CHORUS: Whole ages have fled and their works decay'd, And nations have scatter'd been; But the stout old ivy shall never fade, From its hale and hearty green: The brave old plant in its lonely days, Shall fatten upon the past; For the stateliest building man can raise Is the ivy's food at last. CHORUS: |
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| Some of us have a fascination with the scary, with the morbid and their logos: ghosts, ghouls, worms, bats, mummies, vampires, spiders, skulls, and even cats, especially black ones But most of us like our creepy tales with a touch of fun. A few years back, we set out to search through public domain poetry with the idea of adapting it into songs for Hallowe'en. But even though Death and Taxes are certain, almost nothing has been seriously written musically or otherwise about Taxes and too much has been written (often rather badly) about Death. So, in our search for potential lyrics we found hundreds of sentimental, Victorian songs of parting and dying--almost none of them suitable for a modern entertaining evening. Earlier generations would disagree. The Victorians were noted for their fascination with the subject, perhaps because death was so much a part of their lives. As the mortality rate in children was high and desease and accidents in the new industries were common, they spent much of their time dressed in mourning (Queen Victoria never completely shed her dour dress after her husband died forty years earlier, allowing only a touch of lavender--the first colour permitted in dress as one emerges from full mourning.). Although most of what we found in our admittedly limited search was not for modertn taste, we found some excellent pieces, too. One has only to say "Poe" to start. But we couldn't imagine singing "The Raven," although we suspect it's been tried. Hallowe'en works because it has humor and fun to soften what is, for many of us, something truly unconfrontable, or at least, disturbingly unknown. Spooky is good. Dead isn't. "Ruddigore" is great fun because the ghosts come down from their portraits and do a droll song and dance number. "Sweeny Todd" may be considered gruesome by some, but many of us find it great theatre and very funny and poignant at the same time. "Dracula" started as a play. And then came the movies and TV hosts like Elvira. who had sexy fun with the mobid as did the original, Vampira, back in the 1950s. Urbane British Actors seem to have a ball gnashing their teeth (or fangs) in horror roles. On occasion we all need to be able to have fun with what we fear, or the result is distructive. Perhaps the Victorians' way of dealing with hurt and loss was to overact a bit. For some heavy drama is as cathartic as laughter. Unfortunately, as entertainers, even the best of what we found didn't really fit into a musical theatre act like ours (except the quoted Gilbert & Sullivan which we have included for years!). We can't very well do a two-person "Sweeny Todd," although we'd love to, and vintage or modern Hallowe'en music suitable to our style is limited. (We did write some for "Werewolf! the Musical," and "Two on the Nile," [see elsewhere in these pages] but they were book musicals and only a few songs stand alone.) We've found our audiences seem to want the wild and wooly, the mystic and magical, and an upbeat approach to ghoolies and ghosties with only a jot of sentiment added for seasoning. And, although uncountable pages have been written about the great unknown, we gave up rather early in our search of the past for suitable material. We offer here a short selection of period poems and songs for your persual. Most we will probably never perform, but they are worthy in our eyes. Two are already songs ("When the Night Wind Howls" being in our repertoire for years and our Dickens program is adding "Ivy Green" in the near future). The others may well have already been set to music. If you know of such songs, we'd appreciate your letting us know. We don't want to limit our adult Hallowe'en program to "The Worms Crawl In." Of course there are many wonderful "scary" modern songs from Tom Lehrer to "The Nightmare Before Christmas." We are looking back as well to see what might be out there. The artwork at the bottom is from 15th Century French theatre. Now that's Gothic! |
| Poetry and Lyrics of a Century Gone |
| * * * (But) names are nothing. What matter who it be, So that his elements have grown so fine The fume of muscatel Can give his sharpened palate ecstacy No living man can drink from the whole wine. I have mummy truths to tell Whereat the living mock, Though not for sober ear, For maybe all that hear Should laugh and weep an hour upon the clock. Such thought--such thought have I that hold it tight Till meditation master all its parts, Nothing can stay my glance Until that glance run in the world's despite To where the damned have howled away their hearts, And where the blessed dance; Such thought, that in it bound I need no other thing, Would in mind's wandering As mummies in the mummy-cloth are wound. |
| ALL SOUL'S NIGHT (excerpt) by William Butler Yeats 1865-1939 Epilogue to 'A Vision' Midnight has come, and the great Christ Church Bell And many a lesser bell sound through the room; And it is All Souls' Night, And two long glasses brimmed with muscatel Bubble upon the table. A ghost may come; For it is a ghost's right, His element is so fine Being sharpened by his death, To drink from the wine-breath While our gross palates drink from the whole wine. I need some mind that, if the cannon sound From every quarter of the world, can stay Wound in mind's pondering As mummies in the mummy-cloth are wound; Because I have a marvellous thing to say, A certain marvellous thing None but the living mock, Though not for sober ear; It may be all that hear Should laugh and weep an hour upon the clock. |
| THE TOM-CAT Don Marquis, 1878-1937 At midnight in the alley A Tom-cat comes to wail, And he chants the hate of a million years As he swings his snaky tail. Malevolent, bony, brindled Tiger and devil and bard, His eyes are coals from the middle of Hell And his heart is black and hard. He twists and crouches and capers And bares his curved sharp claws, And he sings to the stars of the jungle nights Ere cities were, or laws. Beast from world primeval, He and his leaping clan, When the blotched red moon leers over the roofs, Give voice to their scorn of man. He will lie on a rug to-morrow And lick his silky fur, And veil the brute in his yellow eyes And play he's tame, and purr. But at midnight in the alley He will crouch again and wail, And beat the time for his demon's song With the swing of his demon's tail. |
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| Drawing of Yeats by John Singer Sargent, 1908 |
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| Haunted Poems |
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| Hamlet's Father's Ghost |
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