Dear Friends,
The Lass of Aughrim
Traditional Irish, arranged and performed by Ishmael Wallace
She:
Oh the rain falls on my heavy locks
And the dew wets my skin;
My babe lies cold in my arms;
Lord Gregory, let me in.
He:
If you'll be the lass of Aughrim
As I suppose you mean to be,
Tell me that first token
That passed between you and me.
She:
Oh don't you remember
That night on yon green hill
When we both met together,
I am sorry now to tell?
Oh Gregory, don't you remember
That night on the hill,
When we swapped rings off each other's hands,
Sorely against my will?
Mine was of the beaten gold,
Yours was but black tin.
Yes, mine was of the beaten gold,
Yours was but black tin.
Oh the rain falls on my heavy locks
And the dew wets my skin;
My babe lies cold in my arms;
Lord Gregory, let me in.
On our doorstep, in the rain, is the one we love — the one we did not dare include in our life. She gave us a ring of beaten gold, and in exchange, we gave her tin. What are we going to do?
We tried to keep her far away, in the realm of Beauty. But she is also Truth. She is not only for our evenings, those evenings at the opera or at the concert hall like water in the desert; she is for our days as well.
That water which we had thought to sip from was not meant to remain on the green hill, but to carve a channel through the valley on the way to the sea.
The one we love is the Wisdom of the South:
“All good things came to me together with Her… Who is wise, and understands this [Wisdom], of which Alphidius says, that men and children pass her by daily in the streets and public places, and she is trodden into the mire by beasts of burden and by cattle? And Senior says: Naught is more base in appearance than she, and naught is more precious in nature than she, and God also has not appointed her to be bought for a price.”
(Aurora Consurgens [The Rising Sun], attributed to St. Thomas Aquinas)
When she steps over our threshold, the game is up — we must remodel the entire house:
“What on earth is [God] up to?… He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of - throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were being made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself.”
(Mere Christianity, C. S. Lewis)
Thank you so much.
With every good wish,
Ishmael
I offer lessons online in keyboard harmony; for a taste of the insights to which it may lead, please see my website:
The Queen of Sheba by Odilon Redon (1840 — 1916)
Your singing is beautiful... but the recording cuts off. Maybe at some point you could replace it with the whole thing... unless the problem is here with me for some reason
Have you read Joyce's story "The Dead"? The Lass of Aughrim is an important motif.