Forests & Fantasies


Joanna Harries – mezzo-soprano

Thomas Ang – piano


HUGO WOLF                                Elfenlied (Mörike Lieder)

CLAUDE DEBUSSY                        La Chevelure (Chansons de Bilitis)

FRANZ SCHUBERT                        An Emma

BENJAMIN BRITTEN                     Johnny (Cabaret Songs)



CLARA SCHUMANN                      Lorelei

FRANZ SCHUBERT                        Heidenröslein

FRANZ SCHUBERT                        Der Jüngling auf dem Hügel

MANUEL ROSENTHAL                  La Souris d‘Angleterre (Chansons de Monsieur Bleu)

GERALD FINZI                                Ode on the rejection of St Cecilia



HUGO WOLF                                 Nimmersatte Liebe (Mörike Lieder)

WILHELM STENHAMMAR           Til en Ros



WILHELM STENHAMMAR           Jungfru Blond och Jungfru Brunnett


CHERYL FRANCES-HOAD              Rubbish at Adultery (One Life Stand)




Elfenlied (from Mörike Lieder)

Text: Eduard Mörike


Bei Nacht im Dorf der Wächter rief: „Elfe!“

Ein ganz kleines Elfchen im Walde schlief –

Wohl um die Elfe –

Und meint, es rief ihm aus dem Tal

Bei seinem Namen die Nachtigall,

Oder Silpelit hätt ihm gerufen.

Reibt sich der Elf die Augen aus,

Begibt sich vor sein Schneckenhaus,

Und ist als wie ein trunken Mann,

Sein Schläflein war nicht voll getan,

Und humpelt also tippe tapp

Durchs Haselholz ins Tal hinab,

Schlupft an der Mauer hin so dicht,

Da sitzt der Glühwurm, Licht an Licht.

„Was sind das helle Fensterlein?

Da drin wird eine Hochzeit sein:

Die Kleinen sitzen beim Mahle,

Und treibens in dem Saale;

Da guck ich wohl ein wenig ’nein!“

– Pfui, stösst den Kopf an harten Stein!

Elfe, gelt, du hast genug?

Gukuk! Gukuk! Gukuk!


Elf Song

At night in the village, the watchman cried: “Eleven!”

A very tiny elf was asleep in the woods –

Just around eleven o’clock –

And thinks, out of the valley

A nightingale was calling his name.

Or perhaps Silpelit had called for him.

The elf rubs at his eyes,

Sets off from his Snail House,

And is like a drunken man;

He hadn’t fully finished sleeping,

And hobbles, tippetty tap,

Through the hazel wood down into the valley,

Presses himself close to the wall,

Where a glow-worm is sitting, alight.

“What are these bright little windows?

There must be a wedding inside:

The little ones are sitting to feast,

And there’s dancing in the ballroom;

I’ll just peek a little inside!”

– Ugh, he bumps his head on the hard stone!

Elf, say, have you had enough?

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!




La chevelure (from Trois Chansons de Bilitis)

Text: Pierre Louÿs


Il m’a dit: «Cette nuit, j’ai rêvé. J’avais ta chevelure

autour de mon cou. J’avais tes cheveux comme un

collier noir autour de ma nuque et sur ma poitrine.


«Je les caressais, et c’étaient les miens; et nous

étions liés pour toujours ainsi, par la même

chevelure la bouche sur la bouche, ainsi que deux lauriers

n’ont souvent qu’une racine.


«Et peu à peu, il m’a semblé, tant nos membres

étaient confondus, que je devenais toi-même ou

que tu entrais en moi comme mon songe.»


Quand il eut achevé, il mit doucement ses mains sur

mes épaules, et il me regarda d’un regard si tendre,

que je baissai les yeux avec un frisson.


The hair

He said to me: ‘Last night I dreamed. I had your

hair around my neck. I had your hair like a black

necklace around my nape and over my chest.


‘I caressed it and it was mine; and we

were united for ever, by the same hair,

mouth on mouth, just as two laurels

often share one root.


‘And little by little it seemed to me, so intertwined

were our limbs, that I was becoming you, or that you

were entering inside of me like a dream.’


When he had finished, he put his hands gently on

my shoulders, and looked at me so tenderly

that I lowered my eyes with a shiver.




An Emma (D113)

Text: Friedrich von Schiller


Weit in nebelgrauer Ferne

Liegt mir das vergang’ne Glück,

Nur an Einem schönen Sterne

Weilt mit Liebe noch der Blick.

Aber, wie des Sternes Pracht,

Ist es nur ein Schein der Nacht.


Deckte dir der lange Schlummer,

Dir der Tod die Augen zu,

Dich besässe doch mein Kummer,

Meinem Herzen lebtest du.

Aber ach! du lebst im Licht,

Meiner Liebe lebst du nicht.


Kann der Liebe süss Verlangen,

Emma, kann’s vergänglich sein?

Was dahin ist und vergangen,

Emma, kann’s die Liebe sein?

Ihrer Flamme Himmelsglut

Stirbt sie, wie ein irdisch Gut?


To Emma

Far away in the misty grey distance

Lies my past happiness.

On one star alone

Lingers my loving gaze.

But, like the splendour of the star

It is only an illusion of the night.


If the long sleep of death

Should close your eyes,

I should still possess you in my sadness,

In my heart you would live on.

But, ah! You live in the light,

It is my love that you do not live for.


Can love’s sweet yearning,

Emma, can it be perishable?

What is past and gone,

Emma, can it be love?

Its heavenly flames die,

Like a mundane, earthly thing?






Johnny (from Cabaret Songs)

Text: W H Auden


O the valley in the summer where I and my John

Beside the deep river would walk on and on,

While the flowers at our feet and the birds up above

Whispered so soft in reciprocal love,

And I leaned on his shoulder; ‘O Johnny, let’s play’:

But he frowned like thunder and he went away.




O the evening near Christmas as I well recall

When we went to the Charity Matinee Ball,

The floor was so smooth and the band was so loud

And Johnny so handsome I felt so proud;

‘Squeeze me tighter, dear Johnny, let’s dance till it’s day’:

But he frowned like thunder and went away.




Shall I ever forget at the Grand Opera

When music poured out of each wonderful star?

Diamonds and pearls they hung like ivy down

Over each gold or silver gown;

‘O Johnny I’m in heaven,’ I whispered to say:

But he frowned like thunder and went away.




O but he was as fair as a garden in flower,

As slender and tall as the great Eiffel Tower,

When the waltz throbbed out down the long promenade

O his eyes and his smile went straight to my heart;

‘O marry me, Johnny, I’ll love and obey’:

But he frowned like thunder and went away.




O last night I dreamed of you, Johnny, my lover,

You’d the sun on one arm and the moon on the other,

The sea it was blue and the grass it was green,

Every star rattled a round tambourine;

Ten thousand miles deep in a pit there I lay:

But you went away.





Text: Heinrich Heine


Ich weiß nicht, was soll es bedeuten,

Daß ich so traurig bin;

Ein Märchen aus alten Zeiten,

Das kommt mir nicht aus dem Sinn.


Die Luft ist kühl und es dunkelt,

Und ruhig fließt der Rhein;

Der Gipfel des Berges funkelt

Im Abendsonnenschein.


Die schönste Jungfrau sitzet

Dort oben wunderbar,

Ihr goldnes Geschmeide blitzet,

Sie kämmt ihr goldenes Haar.


Sie kämmt es mit goldenem Kamme

Und singt ein Lied dabei,

Das hat eine wundersame,

Gewalt’ge Melodei.


Den Schiffer im kleinen Schiffe

Ergreift es mit wildem Weh;

Er schaut nicht die Felsenriffe,

Er schaut nur hinauf in die Höh’.


Ich glaube, die Wellen verschlingen

Am Ende Schiffer und Kahn;

Und das hat mit ihrem Singen

Die Lorelei getan.



I don’t know what it means

That I am so sad;

There’s a fairy tale from old times,

I can’t get out of my head.


The air is cool and it grows dark,

And the Rhine flows peacefully;

The tops of mountains glitter

In the evening sunlight.


The most beautiful of maidens sits

Up there, wonderful,

Her golden jewellery sparkles,

She combs her golden hair.


She comes it with a gold comb

And sings a song,

It has a wonderous,

Powerful melody.


The sailor in his boat

It grips with wild pain;

He doesn’t see the rocky reef,

He looks only upwards into the heavens.


I think the waves devour

The sailor and his boat in the end;

And it was with her singing

That the Loreley did this.






Heidenröslein (D257)

Text: Johann Wolfgang von Goethe


Sah ein Knab’ ein Röslein stehen,

Röslein auf der Heiden,

War so jung und morgenschön,

Lief er schnell, es nah zu sehn,

Sah’s mit vielen Freuden.

Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot,

Röslein auf der Heiden.


Knabe sprach: Ich breche dich,

Röslein auf der Heiden!

Röslein sprach: Ich steche dich,

Dass du ewig denkst an mich,

Und ich will’s nicht leiden.

Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot,

Röslein auf der Heiden.


Und der wilde Knabe brach

’S Röslein auf der Heiden;

Röslein wehrte sich und stach,

Half ihm doch kein Weh und Ach,

Musst es eben leiden.

Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot,

Röslein auf der Heiden.


Little Rose

A boy saw a little rose there,

A rose in the heather;

It was so young, and beautiful as the morn,

He ran quickly to look more closely,

And saw it with great joy.

Little rose, rose, red rose,

Rose in the heather.


The boy spoke: I’ll snap you,

Little rose in the heather!

The rose said: I’ll prick you,

So that you will always remember me,

And I won’t suffer it.

Little rose, rose, red rose,

Rose in the heather.


And the wild boy snapped

The little rose in the heather,

The little rose defended herself and pricked,

But no painful outcry could help her,

She must suffer.

Little rose, rose, red rose,

Rose in the heather.




Der Jüngling auf dem Hügel (D702)

Text: Heinrich Hüttenbrenner


Ein Jüngling auf dem Hügel

Mit seinem Kummer sass;

Wohl ward der Augen Spiegel

Ihm trüb’ und tränennass.


Sah frohe Lämmer spielen

Am grünen Felsenhang,

Sah frohe Bächlein quillen

Das bunte Tal entlang;


Die Schmetterlinge sogen

Am roten Blütenmund,

Wie Morgenträume flogen

Die Wolken in dem Rund;


Und Alles war so munter

Und Alles schwamm in Glück,

Nur in sein Herz hinunter

Sah nicht der Freude Blick.


Ach! dumpfes Grabgeläute

Im Dorfe nun erklang,

Schon tönte aus der Weite

Ein klagender Gesang;


Sah nun die Lichter scheinen,

Den schwarzen Leichenzug,

Fing bitter an zu weinen,

Weil man sein Röschen trug.


Jetzt liess den Sarg man nieder,

Der Totengräber kam,

Und gab der Erde wieder,

Was Gott aus selber nahm.


Da schwieg des Jünglings Klage,

Und betend ward sein Blick,

Sah schon am schönern Tage

Des Wiedersehens Glück.


Und wie die Sterne kamen,

Der Mond heraufgeschifft,

Da las er in den Sternen

Der Hoffnung hohe Schrift.


The Young Man on the Hill

A young man sat on the hill

With his sorrow;

His eyes were a mirror

Of his sadness, wet with tears.


He saw the lambs playing

On the green hillside,

He saw the little brook

Welling up along the bright valley.


The butterflies sucked

At the red flowers mouths,

Like morning dreams

The clouds floated about.


And everything was so cheerful,

And everything swam in happiness,

Only in his heart

He couldn’t see the sights of joy.


Ah! The dull thud of the death-knell

Just rang out in the village,

And already from afar

Echoes a lamenting song.


He saw the lights shining,

The black funeral procession,

And began to bitterly weep,

Because  they carried his little Rose.


Now the lowered the coffin down,

The gravedigger came

And gave the earth once more,

What God had taken from it.


Then the youth silenced his lamenting

And prayer-like was his gaze,

He already saw the beautiful day

Of the joyful reunion.


And as the stars came out,

And the moon rose up,

He read in the stars

A message of hope written high above.




La Souris d’Angleterre (from Chansons de Monseiur Bleu)

Text: Michel Veber


C’était une souris qui venait d’Angleterre,

Yes, Madame, yes, my dear,

Ell’ s’était embarquée au port de Manchester

Sans même savoir où s’en allait le navire.

No, Madam’, no, my dear.

Elle avait la dent long’ comme une vieille Anglaise,

S’enroulait dans un plaid à la mode écossaise

Et portait une coiffe en dentelle irlandaise.


Dans le port de Calais, elle mit pied à terre,

Yes, Madame, yes, my dear,

Elle s’en fut bien vite à l’hôtel d’Angleterre,

Et grimpe l’escalier tout droit sans rien leur dire,

No, Madam’, no, my dear,

Le grenier de l’hôtel lui fut un vrai palace,

La souris britannique avait là tout sur place,

Du whisky, du bacon, du gin, de la mélasse.


Chaque soir notre miss faisait la ribouldingue,

Yes, Madame, yes, my dear,

C’était toute la nuit des gigues des bastringues,

Les bourgeois de Calais ne pouvaient plus dormir,

No, Madam’, no, my dear,

En vain l’on remplaçait l’appât des souricières,

Le Suiss’ par le Holland’, le Bri’ par le Gruyère,

Rien n’y fit, lorsqu’un soir on y mit du Chester.


C’était une souris qui venait d’Angleterre,

Yes, Madame, yes, my dear.


The English Mouse

There once was a mouse who came from England,

Yes, Madam, yes, my dear,

She had embarked at the Port of Manchester

Without even knowing where the ship was going.

No, Madam, no, my dear.

She had high standards like an old English lady,

Was wrapped in plaid in the Scottish style

And wore an Irish lace headdress.


At the Port of Calais, she disembarked,

Yes, Madam, yes, my dear,

She went quickly over to the Hotel d’Angleterre,

And scurried straight upstairs without a word,

No, Madam, no, my dear,

The attic of the hotel was truly a palace,

The British mouse had everything laid out just so,

Whisky, bacon, gin, and molasses.


Every night our little miss threw a party,

Yes, Madam, yes, my dear,

All night there were jigs and revels,

The citizens of Calais couldn’t sleep,

No, Madam, no, my dear,

In vain, they sought to appease the mouse’s palate,

From Swiss to Dutch, from Brie to Gruyère,

Nothing worked, until one night they tried Cheddar.


There once was a mouse who came from England,

Yes, Madam, yes, my dear.






Ode on the rejection of St Cecilia (Op.13a, No.6)

Text: Edmund Blunden


Rise, underground sleepers, rise from the grave
Under a broken hearted sky
And hear the swan singing nightmare grieve
For this deserted anniversary
Where horned a hope sobs in the wilderness
By the thunderbolt of the day.


Echoing footstep in the ruins of midnight

Knock like a clock in a catacomb

Through the toothless house and the derelict skull

Where once Cecilia shook her veils,

Echo and mourn.

Footstepping word, attend her

Here, where, in echoes, she prevails.


Sleep, worm eaten weepers.

Silence is her altar.
To the drum of the head, muffled
In a black time, the sigh is a hecatomb.

Tender Cecilia silence. Now, silence is tender

As never a word was. Here, dumb-struck she mourns

in long abandoned grandeur.


O stop the calling killer in the skull

Like beasts we turn towards!

For was the catterwaulling siren beautiful

Chanting warlong until her bed was full

Of the uxorious dead?

Let the great moaners of the Seven Seas

Let only the seas mourn,

With the shipwracked harp of creation on their knees

Till Cecilia turns to a stone.






Nimmersatte Liebe (Mörike Lieder)

Text: Eduard Mörike


So ist die Lieb! So ist die Lieb!

Mit Küssen nicht zu stillen:

Wer ist der Tor und will ein Sieb

Mit eitel Wasser füllen?

Und schöpfst du an die tausend Jahr,

Und küssest ewig, ewig gar,

Du tust ihr nie zu Willen.


Die Lieb, die Lieb hat alle Stund

Neu wunderlich Gelüsten;

Wir bissen uns die Lippen wund,

Da wir uns heute küssten.

Das Mädchen hielt in guter Ruh,

Wie’s Lämmlein unterm Messer;

Ihr Auge bat: „Nur immer zu!

Je weher, desto besser!“


So ist die Lieb! und war auch so,

Wie lang es Liebe gibt,

Und anders war Herr Salomo,

Der Weise, nicht verliebt.


Never-satisfied Love

So is love! So is love!

It cannot be quietened with kisses:

Who is such a fool that they’d want

To fill a sieve with just water?

And if you were to try for thousands of years,

And to kiss for ever and ever,

You’d still never satisfy it.


Love, love has in every hour

New, wonderful desires;

We bit our lips raw,

When we kissed today.

The girl kept perfectly still,

Like a lamb beneath the knife;

Her eyes bade me: “Keep going!

The more painful, the better!”


So is love! And it has always been so,

As long as there has been love,

And even old Mr Solomon the wise

Loved no differently!






Till en ros (Op.8, No. 4)

Text: Johan Ludvig Runegerg


O, du min källa sval,

O, du min ros så röd,

Ros, som så snart slog ut!

Hvem skall jag ge dig åt?

Månne åt moder min?

Har ju ej moder mer.

Månne åt syster då?

Fjerran hos maken hon.

Månne åt broder då?

Drog ju i härnad han.

Månn’ åt min älskling då?

O, han är långt från mig,

Bakom tre skogars löf,

Bakom tre strömmars våg.



To a rose

O you my cool spring

O you my rose so red,

Rose, that has too soon unfurled!

Who shall I give you to?

Perhaps to my mother?

I don’t have a mother anymore.

Perhaps to my sister?

She’s far away with her husband.

Perhaps to my brother?

He’s gone to war.

Perhaps to my lover?

O he is far from me,

Beyond the leaves of three forests,

Beyond the waves of three rivers.




Skjærene (Op.52, No.6)

Text: Andreas Grimelund Jynge


En skjære paa Gjære

i Hvidt og i Sort,

Som svanset og danset,

Og husj! Fløi hun

bort til Kirsebærtræet.



I Svingen hun Vingen

Mod Grenene strøg

Og smeldret og gneldret

Saa Blomsterne føg

Af Kirsebærtraeet.


“Forresten her næsten

Jo staseligt er”

Hun skratter: “Kom Fatter!

Saa bygger vi her

I Kirsebærtræet!”



Han skraggret og flaggret

Og Stjerten stod stiv,

Tog Svingen slog Vingen

omkring hendes Liv

i Kirsebærtræet.


Hun ventet, han hentet

Blot sølete Mos.

Hun smeldte, han skjældte,

De kaglet og slos

I Kirsebaertraeet.



Hun hakket, han takket,

Han vingerne strøg,

Hun deiset, han seiset,

Saa Fjærene føg

I Kirsebaertraeet.



The Magpies

A swaggering magpie,

white and black,

flicked her tail and danced,

and whoosh! She flew

away into the cherry tree.



She turned her wing

and stroked it against the branches

and flapped and squawked

so that the flowers flew

from the cherry tree.



“Well, here it’s

almost a palace”

she laughed: “Come on Dad!

We’ll build here

in the cherry tree!”



He fluttered and preened

and his tail stood stiff,

and turned and wrapped his wing

around her waist

in the cherry tree.



She waited, and he picked up

wet, muddy moss.

She smacked, he scolded,

they cackled and fought

in the cherry tree.



She pecked, he thanked,

he stroked his wings,

she sighed, he cried,

and feathers flew

in the cherry tree.




Mot Kveld (Op.42, No.7)

Text: Andreas Grimelund Jynge


Alle de duggvaate blomster har sennt

Solen det sisste Godnat.

Sanktehansormen sin lykte har tennt,

Sitter og lyser i krat,

Sommerfugl tat sine duggsokker paa,

Lagt sig til hvile i klokken, den blaa,

Drømmer saa deilig om solen,

Drømmer om duft af fiolen.


Towards Evening

All the dew-soaked flowers have sent

The sun their last Goodnight.

The glow-worm has lit his lantern,

Sitting and shining in the bush,

The butterfly has put on his dew socks,

And laid himself down to rest in the bluebell,

Dreaming so deliciously of the sun,

Dreaming of the scent of violets.




Jungfru blond och Jungfru brunett (Op.26, No. 4)

Text: Bo Bergman


Jungfru Blond och jungfru Brunett

dansa med fingret på kjolen.

Så höstklar är luften och lätt, lätt, lätt,

lätt som de svingande

jungfrurnas klingande

glädje i solen.


Se på.

Nu höja de sig,

nu böja de sig,

och ögonen lysa och flätorna slå

och kinden har heta fläckar –

men långst öfver ängens gulnade vall

står rymden kall,

och nakna stå träd och häckar.


O jungfrur, hvi dansen I än

och sjungen och skratten?

Det faller en stjärna igen,

och snart kommer natten.

Den kommer som tjufven

när ingen ser, och ingen ber.

Som en roffågelssvärm slår den ner

och förmörkar vägar och vatten.


Jungfru Blond och jungfru Brunett

stanna förskrämda i dansen.

Hur hemskt blef allting med ett

i den sista döende glansen.

Det hvisslar i vinden och smyger på tå

och skrattar i ris och dungar.

De stackars jungfrurna små

skälfva som fogelungar.


Och hvita i kinden,

med flätor som slå, slå, slå

rusa de hemåt båda.

Här ute är villor och våda,

men hemma är världen en spiselvrå

och mor den enda i världen.

Hon sitter så tyst

och tvinnar och snor

och stirrar frysande

in i de lysande

glöden på härden.


De gömma sitt hjärta hos mor

och kyssa den gamlas händer.

Och timmarna rinna och kvälln blir stor,

det rasslar i brasans bränder.

Men ute som troll på tå

det mumlande mörkret skrider:

Ni käraste jungfrur små,

jag tar er väl hvad det lider…



The Blond and Brunette Maidens

The blond maiden and the brunette

dance with fingers at their skirts.

So autumn-ready the air is and light, light, light,

light as the swinging

maids’ resounding

joy in the sun.




Now they rise,

now they bow,

and their eyes shine and their braids flap

and their cheeks are stained with heat –

but far above the yellowed grass of the meadow,

the sky is cold,

and trees and hedgerows stand bare.



Oh maidens, do you still dance

and sing and laugh?

Another shooting star falls again

and soon the night will come.

It comes like a thief,

that no-one sees, at no-one’s behest.

It strikes like a swarm of birds of prey,

and darkens roads and water.



The blonde and brunette maidens

stop dancing, frightened.

How awful everything has become all at once

in the last dying glow of light.

The wind whistles, and sneaks on tiptoe

and laughs in the bushes and groves.

The poor little maidens

tremble like baby birds.



And with white cheeks,

and braids that fly, fly, fly

they both rush home.

Out here are dangers and perils,

but at home the world is a fireplace

and mother is the only one in the world.

She sits so quietly

and twists and spins her thread

and stares freezing

into the glowing

embers of the hearth.



They hide their hearts in mother

and kiss her old hands.

And the hours run on and the evening grows late,

And the flames rattle in the fire.

But outside, like a troll

the murmuring darkness tiptoes:

You dearest little maidens,

I will take you one day…




Rubbish at Adultery (from One Life Stand)

Text: Sophie Hannah


Must I give up another night
To hear you whinge and whine
About how terribly grim you feel
And what a dreadful swine
You are? You say you’ll never leave
Your wife and children. Fine;


When have I ever asked you to?
I’d settle for a kiss.
Couldn’t you, for an hour or so,
Just leave them out of this?
A rare ten minutes off from guilty
Diatribes—what bliss.


Yes, I’m aware you’re sensitive:
A tortured, wounded soul.
I’m after passion, thrills, and fun.
You say fun takes its toll,
So what are we doing here? I fear
We’ve lost our common goal.


You’re rubbish at adultery.
I think you ought to quit.
Trouble is, at fidelity
You’re also slightly shit.
Choose one and do it properly
You stupid, stupid git.