WEBSITE: http://www.goldenboughmusic.com
Golden Bough
first sparked my interest in Celtic music by playing at a Dungeons &
Dragons convention. (Yes, I'm not afraid to admit that.) Since that
time, almost thirty years ago, they have been a fixture not only on
the Celtic scene nationwide, but also in my own life. My brother Kyle
took Harp lessons from their harpist, Marjorie, and I've seen them play
all the way from Twain Harte to Santa Barbara.
Give a listen to
this lyrical poem, where the band gives voice to an ancient soul who
can sing and yet never speak to us.
"The Last Leviathan"
by Golden Bough and Andy Barnes
My soul
has been torn from me and I am bleeding
My heart, it has been rent and I am crying
For the beauty around me pales -- and I am screaming!
I am the last of the great whales and I am dying.
Last
night I heard the cry of my last companion
A blast from a harpoon gun, and then I was alone
I reflected on days gone by -- when we were thousands!
But I know that I soon must die, the last leviathan.
My soul
has been torn from me and I am bleeding
My heart, it has been rent and I am crying
For the beauty around me pales -- and I am screaming!
I am the last of the great whales and I am dying.
This
morning the sun did rise, in the crimson north sky
The ice was the color of blood, and the winds did sigh
I arose for to take a breath -- it was my last one!
From a gun came the roar of death, and I am undone.
My
soul has been torn from me and I am bleeding
My heart, it has been rent and I am crying
For the beauty around me pales -- and I am screaming!
I am the last of the great whales and I am dying.
And now
that we are all gone, there'll be no more hunting.
The big fellow is no more, and there's no use lamenting.
What race will be next in line -- all for the slaughter?
The elephant, or the seal, or your sons and daughters?
My soul
has been torn from me and I am bleeding
My heart, it has been rent and I am crying
For the beauty around me pales and I am screaming!
I am the last of the great whales and I am dying.
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...And here's yet another haunting story, but this one has a happier
ending:
"The Witch of the West
Mer-Lands" by Golden Bough and Archie Fisher
Pale
was the wounded knight // that bore the rowan shield,
Loud and clear were the ravens' cries, // who feasted on
the field,
Saying, "'Beck water, cold and clear, // will never
clean your wound,
"There's none but the Maid of the Winding Mere // can
make thee hale and sound."
"So course well my brindled hounds, // and fetch me
the mountain hare
"Whose coat is as grey as the Westwater // or as white
as a lily fair."
Who said, "Green moss and heather bands // will never
staunch the flood,
"There is none but the Witch of the West-Mer-Lands
// can save thy dear life's blood.
"So turn, turn your stallion's head // 'til his red
mane flies in the wind,
"And the rider of the moon goes by // and the bright
star falls behind."
And clear was the paley moon // when his shadow passed him
by,
Below the hill was the brightest star // when he heard the
houlet cry.
Saying, "Why do you ride this way, // and wherefore
came ye here?"
"I seek the Witch of the West-Mer-Lands // that dwells
by the Winding Mere."
"Then fly free your good grey hawk // to gather the
golden rod,
"And face your horse into the clouds // above yon gay
green wood."
And it's weary by Ullswater // and the misty brake fern way,
'Til through the cleft of the Kirkstand Pass // the winding
water lay.
He said, "Lie down, my brindled hound, // and rest my
good grey hawk,"
"And thee my steed, may graze thy fill, // for I must
dismount and walk.
"But come when you hear my horn // and answer swift
my call,
"For I fear 'ere the sun shall rise this morn // you
will serve me best of all."
And down by the water's brim // he's borne the rowan shield,
And the golden rod he has cast in // to see what the lake
might yield.
And wet rose she from the lake, and a-fast and a-fleet went
she,
One half the form of a maiden fair, // with a jet-black mare's
body.
And loud, long, and shrill he blew, // and his steed was
by his side,
High overhead, the grey hawk flew, // and swiftly he did
ride.
Saying, "Course well my brindled hound, // and fetch
me the jet-black mare;
"Stoop and strike, my good grey hawk, // and bring me
the maiden fair."
She said, "Pray, sheathe thy silvery sword, // lay down
thy rowan shield,
"For I see by the briny blood that flows // you've been
wounded in the field."
And she stood in a gown of the velvet blue, // bound round
with a silver chain,
She's kissed his pale lips once and twice // and three times
'round again.
And she's bound his wounds with the golden rod, // full fast
in her arms he lay.
And he has risen, hale and sound, // with the sun high in
the day.
She said, "Ride with your brindled hounds at heel,
// and your good grey hawk in hand.
"There's none can harm a knight who's lain // with the
Witch of the West-Mer-Lands."
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These songs are copyright by Golden Bough, Andy Barnes,
and Archie Fisher as noted. No ownership or permission is expressed or
implied. The accompanying audio clip is for your
"review purposes", in other words, I am explicitly hoping that
this sample inspires you to go out and buy the song. And thereby avoid
having Golden Bough sue me.
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