Difference between revisions of "Harke, harke wot yee wat (Robert Jones)"

From ChoralWiki
Jump to navigation Jump to search
m (Text replace - "{{Legend}}" to "{{#Legend:}}")
m (Text replace - "{{#Legend:}} *{{" to "{{#Legend:}} *{{")
Line 1: Line 1:
==Music files==
==Music files==
*{{CPDLno|18308}} [[Media:HarkeHarke.pdf|{{pdf}}]] [[Media:HarkeHarke.mid|{{mid}}]] [[Media:HarkeHarke.ly|{{ly}}]]
*{{CPDLno|18308}} [[Media:HarkeHarke.pdf|{{pdf}}]] [[Media:HarkeHarke.mid|{{mid}}]] [[Media:HarkeHarke.ly|{{ly}}]]
{{Editor|Andreas Stenberg|2008-11-18}}{{ScoreInfo|A4|5|245}}{{Copy|CPDL}}
{{Editor|Andreas Stenberg|2008-11-18}}{{ScoreInfo|A4|5|245}}{{Copy|CPDL}}

Revision as of 22:18, 5 March 2017

Music files

L E G E N D Disclaimer How to download
Icon_pdf.gif Pdf
Icon_snd.gif Midi
Icon_ly.gif LilyPond
File details.gif File details
Question.gif Help
  • CPDL #18308:       
Editor: Andreas Stenberg (submitted 2008-11-18).   Score information: A4, 5 pages, 245 kB   Copyright: CPDL
Edition notes: A quasi diplomatic edition with original baring from first part and lute part orig mensural signs etc. Lute tabulature included

General Information

Title: Harke, harke wot yee wat
Composer: Robert Jones

Number of voices: 3vv   Voicing: SAB
Genre: SecularLute song

Language: English
Instruments: three part singing with Lute

Obsolete template (code commented out), replaced with {{Pub}} for works and {{PubDatePlace}} for publications. </noinclude>

Description: Lute song from A Musicall Dreame or the fourt booke of Ayres

External websites:

Original text and translations

English.png English text

Harke, harke wot you what, nay faith and shall I tell
I am afraide to die a maid and so lead apes in hell.
Oh it makes me sigh and sob with inward griefe,
but if I can but get a man, heele yeeld me some reliefe.

O it is strange how nature works with me,
My body is spent and I lament my own great folly,
O it makes me sigh and powre forth flouds of teares,
Alas poore else none but thy selfe would live,
having such cares

O now I see that fortune frownes on me
By this good light I have beene ripe,
O it makes me sigh and sure it will me kill,
When I should sleepe I lie and weepe,
feeding on sorowes still.

I must confesse as maides have vertu store,
Live honest still against our wils,
more fooles weare therfore:
O it makes me sigh, yet hope doth still me good,
For if I can but get a man, with him
I spend my blood.