Born, like other comic book characters, out of an otherwise trivial but life-changing animal bite, the Rabid Librarian seeks out strange, useless facts, raves about real and perceived injustices, and seeks to meet her greatest challenge of all--her own life.
--and the full thing, including both 'Scarborough Fair'and 'Canticle'.
Lyrics:
... Are you going to Scarborough Fair?
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme
Remember me to one who lives there
She once was a true love of mine
… Tell her to make me a cambric shirt (On the side of a hill, in the deep forest green) Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme (Tracing of sparrow on snow-crested ground) Without no seams nor needle work (Blankets and bedclothes the child of the mountain) Then she'll be a true love of mine (Sleeps unaware of the clarion call)
… Tell her to find me an acre of land (On the side of a hill, a sprinkling of leaves) Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme (Washes the grave with silvery tears) Between the salt water and the sea strands (A soldier cleans and polishes a gun) Then she'll be a true love of mine
… Tell her to reap it with a sickle of leather (War bellows blazing in scarlet battalions) Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme (Generals order their soldiers to kill) And gather it all in a bunch of heather (And to fight for a cause they've long ago forgotten) Then she'll be a true love of mine
… Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme Remember me to one who lives there She once was a true love of mine
Jean Ritchie, who brought hundreds of traditional songs from her native Appalachia to a wide audience — singing of faith and unfaithfulness, murder and revenge, love unrequited and love lost — and in the process helped ignite the folk song revival of the mid-20th century, died on Monday at her home in Berea, Ky. She was 92.
"I see folk music as a river that never stopped flowing," she told The New York Times in 1980. "Sometimes a few people go to it and sometimes a lot of people do. But it's always there."
Here she is playing one of my favourite folk songs:
This is lovely:
Finally, one she wrote herself, about mountaintop removal, a controversial practice here in Kentucky:
I decided to take it as a good omen, for the Time of No Money is ending (I got paid tonight), to be followed by the Time of Tight Money. Today I borrowed some money from a co-worker so I could get home and then pick a friend up from work later. Since I was on mile 36 after the gas light came on, I think I was close to winding up stranded on the side of the road (and I don't have minutes on my cell phone for calling AAA). Thanks to Michelle, that wasn't the case, and when I went to the grocery store after midnight I got the money I needed to pay her back tomorrow. I also paid my friend back for the $5 he contributed the other day. It was a difficult time (I have almost nothing left in the cupboards in the way of food), but hopefully since I'm starting back to work at the gas station tomorrow it will get better. So, yay--tomorrow will be the time for a proper grocery run, more minutes for my phone, and more gas.
I have been seeing crows about a lot, too--usually in groups of two or three, which are also good omens. (Seeing only one crow, raven, or magpie [the article lists versions of the counting rhyme] is usually considered bad in folklore, which pays attention to the numbers, hence the song 'A Murder of One' by the band Counting Crows). Of course, in the movies and folklore they also get a bad rap for being evil, when they're really quite intelligent and engaging. We don't have magpies here in Kentucky, of course, and I don't think we have ravens, but we do have crows. I was listening to them the other day and now only do they 'caw', but there's a comforting gurgling sound they make, too. We did have ravens out in California and they were HUGE. You'd see them a mile away on dry lake beds in the Mojave. They looked like they'd go up to your knees. [They're about 22-27 inches high as opposed to road runners, which we also had, were smaller, maybe 20 inches high--certainly smaller than you'd expect from watching the cartoon. Of course, coyotes aren't really that big, either, and don't stand on their hind legs. :)]
stepped down on my foot accidentally. Yes, the one that is broken now. It's possible it fractured then; I never went to see about it because I didn't have any insurance at the time. We think that the bones were weak and then between my weight and standing at the cash register, they broke again.
So it's kind of funny that when I've been thinking of him (and not in the kindest of ways), Bill sent me the Irish version of a song I've only heard in English, but love: 'I am Stretched on Your Grave'. He's apparently doing well and his wife and he are moving to Massachusetts soon as part of an effort to eventually head to Maine or Nova Scotia. I wish them well. In the meantime, here are the words, primarily for my benefit, although I'll have to go back and review how the devil they're pronounced and what them mean. He posted them on a blog entry for his blog, Ríocht na nGael. (It's all gibberish if you don't read Irish, by the way, although I found an excellent translator online at Irish Dictionary Online). Irish has so many mutations it's hard to program online dictionaries that can recognise the various changes. But I'm glad I found it because the only thing I really recognised in his post were the words 'agus' ('and') and Eilís (my name). I am beyond rusty. I'll follow the Irish with an English version of the song.
Cé Sin ar mo Thuama?
Ise Cé sin ar mo thuama nó an buachaill den tír tú?
Eisean Dá mbeadh barr do dhá lámh agam ní scarfainn leat choíche.
Ise A áilleáin agus a ansacht, ní ham duitse luí liom– tá boladh fuar na cré orm dath na gréine is na gaoithe.
Eisean Tá an clog ar mo chroí istigh, atá líonta le gra duit, lionndubh taobh thíos duit, chomh ciardhubh le hairne.
Ise Má bhaineann aon ní duit is go gcloífeadh an bás tú, beadsa im shí gaoithe romhat thíos ar na bánta.
Eisean Nuair is dóigh le mo mhuintir go mbímse ar mo leaba, ar do thuama a bhím sínte ó oíche go maidin, ag cur síos mo chrutain is ag crua-ghol go daingean, trí mo chailín ciúin stuama do luadh liom ‘na leanbh.
Ise An cuimhin leat an oíche úd a bhíos-sa agus tusa ag bun na chrainn droighnigh is an oíche ag cur cuisne? Céad moladh le hÍosa nach ndearnamar na milleadh is go bhfuil mo choróin mhaighdeanais na crann soilse os mo choinne
Eisean Tá na sagairt is na bráithe gach lá liom i bhfearg de chionn a bheith i ngrá leat, a Mháire, is tú marbh. Dheanfainn foscadh ar an ngaoith duit is díon duit ón bhfearrthainn, agus cumha géar mo chroí-se tú a bheith thíos is an talamh.
Tabhair do mhallacht dod mháithrín is áirighse t’athair, is a maireann ded ghaolta go léireach ‘na seasamh, nár lig dom tú a phósadh is tú beo agam id bheatha is ná hiarrainn mar spré leat ach mo léintín a ghealadh.
'I am Stretched on Your Grave' (as I learnt it)
I am stretched on your grave And will lie there forever If your hands were in mine I'd be sure they'd not sever My apple tree, my brightness It's time we were together For I smell of the earth And am worn by the weather
When my family think That I'm safe in my bed From night until morning I am stretched at your head Calling out to the air With tears hot and wild As I grieve for the girl That I loved as a child
Do you remember the night we were lost In the shade of the blackthorn And the chill of the frost And thanks be to Jesus We did all that was right And your maidenhead still Is your pillar of light
Oh, the priests and the friars Approach me in dread Because I love still love you My life and you're dead I still would be your shelter Through rain and through storm And with you in your cold grave I cannot sleep warm
So I am stretched on your grave And will lie there forever If your hands were in mine I'd be sure they'd notsever My apple tree, my brightness It's time we were together For I smell of the earth And am worn by the weather
Here's a version different from what I've posted before, Paul Knight of "Four for Naught" performing at the Into the Bean coffee shop in Mesa, Arizona on 8/15/2007, playing a bodhrán (Irish drum).
There's 'Where have all the flowers gone?' (This is my favourite version of the Pete Seeger classic--the one done by the Kingston Trio), which was expanded: