Barbican Britten: The Sixteen, 22 Nov

1 

Barbican Britten: 

The Sixteen 

Friday 22 November 2013 7.30pm, Union Chapel 

Benjamin Britten 

Hymn to the Virgin 

A Shepherd’s Carol 

New Year Carol 

Hymn to St Cecilia 

Five Flower Songs – Nos 1 & 2 

Gloriana Dances 

interval 20 minutes 

Five Flower Songs – Nos 3 & 4 

The Ballad of Little Musgrave and Lady Barnard 

Five Flower Songs – No 5 

Sacred and Profane 


Harry Christophers conductor 

Frances Kelly harp 

Christopher Glynn piano 

The first four pieces are intended to be 

performed as a group. Please reserve your 

applause until after Hymn to St Cecilia. 

Programme produced by Harriet Smith; printed by Mandatum 

Ink; advertising by Cabbell (tel. 020 8971 8450) 

Confectionery and merchandise including organic 

ice cream, quality chocolate, nuts and nibbles are 

available from the sales points in our foyers. 

Please turn off watch alarms, phones, pagers etc during the 

performance. Taking photographs, capturing images or using 

recording devices during a performance is strictly prohibited. 

If anything limits your enjoyment please let us know 

during your visit. Additional feedback can be given 

online, as well as via feedback forms or the pods

Barbican 

Britten 

Celebrating Britten’s centenary through music, dance, films and talks 

6–24 Nov 

6, 7 & 9 Nov, Theatre 

Richard Alston Dance Company/ 

Britten Sinfonia 

Dance works, including two world premieres 

to music by Britten. 

Fri 8 Nov, Hall 

Our Hunting Fathers/ 

Ian Bostridge 

Britten’s brilliantly daring songcycle 

with Britten Sinfonia. 

8–10 Nov 

Illuminating Britten 

A three day celebration exploring Britten’s 

life and music through film screenings, talks, 

panel discussions and performances. 

Sun 10 Nov, Royal Albert Hall 

War Requiem 

Britten’s epic masterpiece performed 

by the BBC Symphony Orchestra. 

Sun 10 Nov, Milton Court Theatre 

Journeying Boys 

Iain Burnside and the Guildhall School 

explore the personalities of Benjamin 

Britten and poet Arthur Rimbaud. 

15 & 16 Nov, 

St Giles Cripplegate 

Curlew River Echo (free) 

An audio-visual installation inviting you 

to experience the opera in a mysterious 

and thought-provoking way. 

Fri 22 Nov, Union Chapel 


A concert featuring a selection of 

Britten’s most popular choral music. 

Sat 23 Nov, Hall 

Albert Herring 

Britten’s witty comic opera performed 

by the BBC Symphony Orchestra. 

Sun 24 Nov, Milton Court 

Serenade for Tenor, 

Horn and Strings 

Britten Sinfonia and Mark Padmore 

perform Britten’s evocative song cycle. 

barbican.org.uk 

14–16 Nov, 

St Giles Cripplegate 

Curlew River 

A new multimedia staging of Britten’s 

haunting church parable. 

2 

Where will the 

music take you?

Welcome to Barbican Britten 

At the climax of Benjamin Britten’s centenary 

year, this is a wide-ranging, thought-provoking 

examination of a composer who is central to the 

music of our time. Some composers’ reputations 

fade for a while after their death; Britten’s, on 

the contrary, has grown and grown. Alongside 

regular performances of his masterpieces and 

the international success of his operas, his work 

is now stimulating an increasing range of new 

responses from creative artists and performers. 

Over these two weeks we highlight bold new 

directions in Britten interpretation, and we are 

delighted to present Richard Alston Dance 

Company’s radical interpretations of Britten’s 

vocal works, Les illuminations, Phaedra and 

Sechs Hölderlin Fragmente, Netia Jones’s 

innovative staging of the church parable 

Curlew River with tenor Ian Bostridge; and 

concerts with Britten Sinfonia, The Sixteen 

and the BBC Symphony Orchestra (who 

take us to the Royal Albert Hall for the War 

Requiem, and back here for Albert Herring). 

At the heart of the season is the Illuminating 

Britten weekend – an unmissable three days 

Barbican Classical Music Podcasts 

For more information about Barbican Britten, and to listen 

to our other Barbican Britten podcasts, visit www.barbican. 

org.uk/britten. 

Available on iTunes, Soundcloud and the Barbican website 

curated by Britten expert John Bridcut and 

generously supported by the Britten–Pears 

Foundation. Discussions, presentations, films, 

readings and music, with a wide range of 

speakers debating some of the controversial 

issues in Britten’s life and legacy, will allow us to 

see Britten anew and deepen our understanding 

of his work. A new drama by Iain Burnside, 

Journeying Boys, completes the weekend. 

This season demonstrates so much of what 

we want the Barbican to be: providing worldclass 

arts and learning for all, working closely 

with our artistic partners and the Guildhall 

School of Music & Drama. We are using the 

full range of superb venues that now surround 

us in this outstanding cultural area – from 

the Guildhall School’s new Milton Court to 

the Barbican Hall, Theatre and cinemas, 

and the Church of St Giles Cripplegate – to 

produce a unique celebration of a genius. 

Enjoy the rich variety of Barbican Britten! 

Sir Nicholas Kenyon 

Managing Director, Barbican Centre 

3 Introduction

Benjamin Britten at 100 

Benjamin Britten was born on 22 November 

– feast day of St Cecilia, patron saint of music 

– making it hard not to see his career as fated, 

somehow meant to be. It’s a sensation that 

only grows when you think of the precocious 

young Britten producing his first ‘compositions’ 

at just 5 years old in a house that didn’t 

even contain a gramophone, displaying an 

instinctive talent only partially explained by the 

enthusiasm of his amateur-musician mother. 

Tonight’s concert marks Britten’s 100th birthday 

with a programme of the composer’s works 

for choir. Although he is arguably best-known 

for his operas, it is in the choral writing that we 

find the real musical constant, the touchstone, 

of his career. Spanning 45 years, tonight’s 

programme is bookended by the Hymn to the 

Virgin (written when Britten was just 16) and 

Sacred and Profane (dating from the year 

before his death), tracing the development 

of a composer from his earliest explorations 

to musical maturity and sophistication. 

Confined to his boarding-school sanatorium by 

illness, the teenage Britten wrote the carol that 

would become one of his best-loved pieces – 

the exquisite Hymn to the Virgin. It carries great 

significance on slight musical shoulders – having 

gained the composer entry to the Royal College 

of Music – and would eventually be one of only 

two pieces performed at his own funeral. It was 

also the first of four such hymns that Britten would 

produce, each dedicated to a different saint. 

The Hymn to the Virgin is a perfect miniature, 

setting an anonymous medieval text with a 

delicacy occasionally overshadowed in Britten’s 

later works by complexity. The composer 

divides his eight voices into two SATB choirs. 

While one remains grounded in the earthly 

by its English text, and in the human by its 

emotional crescendos and climaxes, the other 

is set at a distance. Singing only in Latin, these 

other-worldly voices echo and transmute the 

utterances of the first choir into music that’s 

unchanging, eternal. In Britten’s hands a 

simple, strophic hymn is itself transfigured. 

If the skill of the Hymn to the Virgin lies in its 

restraint, then the Hymn to St Cecilia is entirely 

the opposite. Emerging from the same flurry 

of creativity as A Ceremony of Carols (and 

at least partially composed on the same sea 

voyage home from America in 1942), the 

work is the product of a new optimism, a reembracing 

of national identity and professional 

purpose that characterised Britten’s return 

from self-imposed exile. Publicly attacked for 

the pacifist convictions that drove him from 

England during the war, Britten now faced 

up to his critics, setting English texts again 

in that most English of genres, the choral 

anthem, for the first time since his departure. 

And which poet could he choose but 

W H Auden? Auden’s verse had already 

proved a match and spur to Britten’s musical 

skill, and would here drive him even further. An 

ode in praise of the patron saint of music, the 

poem is divided into three sections which form 

three short movements for unaccompanied 

SSATB choir. The first takes its cue from Purcell, 

constructing the flowing, modal lines of the 

sopranos and altos over a sort of ground bass 

in the lower voices. The refrain, a variation of 

which divides each movement, derives from 

the music of this opening. The central section, 

‘I cannot grow’, is a breathless scherzo, the 

scalic innocence and simplicity of its melody 

4

contradicted by complex fugal counterpoint. The 

final movement is extended and lyrical, pushing 

beyond the seeming restrictions of another 

opening ostinato and giving way to instinctive, 

joyous solos and a final choral flourish. 

Auden’s professional influence on Britten was as 

brief as it was intense, but provoked some of the 

composer’s most creative musical responses. A 

Shepherd’s Carol (1944) is another example – an 

extraordinary, inscrutable piece, and one of the 

only remaining clues to a major work that might 

have been. While based in America during 

the war, Auden started work on the text of his 

Christmas Oratorio, intending that Britten should 

set it. In the end though, only two extracts made 

it into music, including this Shepherd’s Carol. 

Advised by Auden that it should be treated 

either as ‘jazz or folk-song’, Britten chose the 

latter. A traditional structure of solo verses and 

refrain however becomes something rather 

unexpected. The music of each unaccompanied 

verse finds a different melodic way to arrive 

back at the chorus, reframing and casting doubt 

on its sugary certainty (the affectation of ‘O lift 

your little pinkie’ is echoed in Britten’s cloying, 

quasi-folk harmonies and smug Lombardic 

rhythms). Auden’s poetry is associative and 

bizarre, provoking contrasting responses from 

each of the four soloists that range from codopera 

(tenor) to a forthright, popular-style song 

from the alto. Withdrawing the piece after 

its first performance, perhaps Britten himself 

felt uneasy over his strange stylistic collage, 

that nevertheless offers a characteristically 

original take on the Christmas carol. 

Treble voices have a particular significance for 

a composer who always wished himself back at 

the age of 13. Innocence remains tantalisingly out 

of reach in the operas – corrupted in The Turn 

of the Screw, untouchable in Death in Venice, 

tragically betrayed in Billy Budd – but enjoys a 

much less complicated relationship with Britten’s 

choral writing. Friday Afternoons (from which 

A New Year Carol comes) is a cycle of unison 

songs for upper voices originally composed for 

Britten’s schoolmaster brother and his school 

choir. Although nothing could be simpler than the 

melodies, Britten manages to insert his distinctive 

musical voice into piano accompaniments that 

subvert as often as they support. Here, in a 

carol based on the pagan New Year custom for 

children to sprinkle passers-by with water from a 

well, Britten sets the lilting melodic explorations 

of his voices against anchoring chords in piano 

(or harp), giving the whole a folk-innocence and 

a true simplicity that couldn’t be further from 

the muted cynicism of the Shepherd’s Carol. 

The Choral Dances from Britten’s Elizabeth I 

opera Gloriana were adapted by the composer 

himself from a sequence in Act 2 in which the 

townsfolk of Norwich present a masque for 

the visiting queen. The six Dances (scored for 

choir, harp and a solo tenor who serves as 

master of ceremonies) are poised somewhere 

between satire and sincerity, pastiche and 

pomp. They capture both the performers’ 

rustic attempts at sophistication (the use purely 

of consonant intervals in the Second Dance, 

depicting ‘Concord’, feels comically literal) and 

their energetic charm (the lively syncopation 

of the Fifth Dance or the forthright bell-chime 

patterning of the First Dance). The set concludes, 

however, with a movement that transcends goodhumoured 

mockery to deliver a radiant prayer 

of praise. No-one imbues C major with more 

warmth than Britten, and as the canonic waves 

of entries ripple over one another in endless 

cycles, we find ourselves no longer in England 

but suddenly in the Albion of poets’ imagination. 

Composed as a silver wedding present for 

Leonard and Dorothy Elmhirst (friends and – 

crucially – benefactors of Britten’s), the Five 

Flower Songs are among the most conservative 

of all the composer’s choral cycles. That isn’t to 

say they lack interest or invention, simply that 

the iconoclasm of A Boy Was Born or Christ’s 

Nativity has no place here. While many of 

Britten’s earlier choral works look determinedly 

to a musical future, this set from 1950 feels like a 

gentle homage to an earlier age, to the pastoral 

cycles of Stanford and Parry. It’s an effect only 

heightened by the choice of poets – Herrick, 

Crabbe, Clare and an anonymous balladeer. 

We start briskly, with any undue sentimentality 

over Herrick’s fading daffodils dulled by Britten’s 

matter-of-fact treatment – voices dancing 

together in imitative counterpoint that feels 

anything but mournful. But both Herrick’s ‘The 

Succession of the Four Sweet Months’ and John 

Clare’s ‘The Evening Primrose’ indulge their 

5 Programme notes

texts rather more, with the latter poised right 

on the edge of Victoriana, even as ‘dewdrops 

pearl the evening’s breast’. This is as close as 

Britten ever gets to Elgar: not quite pastiche 

perhaps, but certainly an affectionate echo. 

Britten’s mastery, however, lies in his 

juxtapositions. The ‘slimy root’ of Crabbe’s 

‘Marsh Flowers’ quickly reasserts nature’s 

muddier, uglier aspect, while anyone lingering 

over the tranquil beauty of Clare’s primrose 

finds themselves pulled up briskly by the 

impetuous energy of the ‘Ballad of Green 

Broom’, its witty, quasi-instrumental effects 

(recalling the Hymn to St Cecilia) imitating 

the limited range of a novice guitar or lute 

player. It’s a sophisticated joke to end a cycle 

of rare sincerity and sweetness from Britten. 

Composed in 1943, The Ballad of Little Musgrave 

and Lady Barnard is a concise masterpiece. 

Britten takes an anonymous ballad and morphs 

it into a sophisticated exercise in musical 

narrative. Set for the unusual ensemble of men’s 

voices and piano, the work was composed 

for officers in a German concentration 

camp, where it was performed during their 

incarceration. It’s a heady tale of lust, murder 

and revenge, in which Lord Barnard kills his 

wife and her lover. Each stage of the story 

is minutely wrought, from the tolling church 

bells of the opening (heard in the piano) that 

transform into the hooves of Barnard’s horse, 

to the duel between the two men, and finally 

the mourning song of the grieving husband. 

Coherence and continuity – of theme, music or 

treatment – may have characterised Britten’s 

earlier cycles, but Sacred and Profane is more 

interested in contrast and oppositions. The 

conflict of the work’s title permeates this riotous, 

virtuosic work that celebrates the cultural 

collisions of medieval England. It’s as though 

the two choirs of the Hymn to the Virgin have 

come together as one, lurching artfully from 

the spiritual to the emphatically secular. 

It’s curious that so energetic a work (both in 

its vocal demands and the complexity of its 

invention) should have emerged so late in 

Britten’s career. By 1975 the composer was 

ill; heart surgery had prolonged his life but 

had also weakened him. Yet the same late 

surge that produced Death in Venice and the 

cantata Phaedra also yielded this choral cycle, 

composed for the five unaccompanied SSATB 

voices of Peter Pears’s Wilbye Consort. Writing 

for soloists rather than massed choral forces, 

Britten allows himself unusual freedom and 

range in constructing his vocal lines, and the 

effect is striking for its freewheeling athleticism. 

We open in pious mood; ‘St Godric’s Hymn’ 

has the stark, declamatory intensity of a Poulenc 

motet, but soon regains its Brittenish flavour as 

harmonies thicken and meander. Before the 

prayer has a chance to rise up to heaven the 

animal cries and wails of ‘I mon waxe wod’ 

break in – as vivid a musical evocation of 

madness as ever composed. The spiritual and 

secular collide directly in the vivid imagery of 

‘Lenten is come’, delighting in the wriggling, 

teeming signs of spring life, that are soon 

subdued by darkness in ‘The long night’. Sober 

meditation on Christ’s crucifixion (‘Yif ic of 

luve can’) is likewise interrupted by the pulsing 

babble of the ‘Carol’, just as Christ’s invitation 

to behold his death on the cross (‘Ye that pasen 

by’) has the rug pulled quickly from under it 

by the meticulous catalogue of human frailties 

of ‘A death’. Here, an old woman laboriously 

describes her bodily disintegration, facing 

death with a final insouciant bit of defiance: 

‘For the whole world I don’t care a jot!’ It’s a 

brave and heroic final stand from a composer 

whose own health was nearly exhausted, 

and who would be dead within a year. 

Programme note © Alexandra Coghlan 

6

Texts 

Hymn to the Virgin 

Alexandra Kidgell soprano 

Kim Porter alto 

Mark Dobell tenor 

Eamonn Dougan bass 

Of one that is so fair and bright, 

Velut maris stella, 

Brighter than the day is light, 

Parens et puella: 

I cry to thee, thou see to me, 

Lady, pray thy Son for me, 

Tam pia, 

That I may come to thee, 

Maria! 

All this world was forlorn 

Eva peccatrice, 

Till our Lord was yborn. 

De te genetrice. 

With ‘ave’ it went away 

Darkest night, and comes the day 

Salutis; 

The well springeth out of thee. 

Virtutis. 

Lady flow’r of ev’rything 

Rosa sine spina 

thou bare Jesu, Heaven’s King 

Gratia divina: 

Of all thou bear’st the prize, 

Lady, Queen of paradise, 

Electa: 

Maid mild, mother 

Es effecta. 

Anon. 

A Shepherd’s Carol 

Alexandra Kidgell soprano 



Eamonn Dougan bass 

O lift your little pinkie, and touch the winter sky. 

Love’s all over the mountains where the beautiful 

go to die. 

If Time were the wicked sheriff in a horse opera, 

I’d pay for riding lessons and take his gun away. 

O lift, etc. 

If I were a Valentino, and Fortune were abroad, 

I’d hypnotise that iceberg till she kissed me of her 

own accord. O lift, etc. 

If I’d stacked up the velvet and my crooked rib 

were dead, 

I’d be breeding white canaries and eating 

crackers in bed. O lift, etc. 

But my cuffs are soiled and fraying. The kitchen 

clock is slow, 

and over the Blue Waters the grass grew long 

ago. O lift, etc. 

W H Auden (1907–73) 

A New Year Carol 

Here we bring new water from the well so clear 

For to worship God with, this happy New Year. 

Sing levy dew, sing levy dew, the water and the 

wine; 

The seven bright gold wires and the bugles that 

do shine. 

Sing reign of Fair Maid, with gold upon her toe, 

Open you the West Door, and turn the Old Year 

go. 

Sing levy dew, sing levy dew, etc. 

Sing reign of Fair Maid, with gold upon her chin, 

Open you the East Door, and let the New Year in. 

Sing levy dew, sing levy dew, etc. 

Anon. 

7 Texts

Hymn to St Cecilia 

Julie Cooper, Kirsty Hopkins soprano 



Ben Davies bass 

I 

In a garden shady this holy lady 

With reverent cadence and subtle psalm, 

Like a black swan as death came on 

Poured forth her song in perfect calm: 

And by ocean’s margin this innocent virgin 

Constructed an organ to enlarge her prayer, 

And notes tremendous from her great engine 

Thundered out on the Roman air. 

Blonde Aphrodite rose up excited, 

Moved to delight by the melody, 

White as an orchid she rode quite naked 

In an oyster shell on top of the sea; 

At sounds so entrancing the angels dancing 

Came out of their trance into time again, 

And around the wicked in Hell’s abysses 

The huge flame flickered and eased their pain. 

Blessed Cecilia, appear in visions 

To all musicians, appear and inspire: 

Translated Daughter, come down and startle 

Composing mortals with immortal fire. 

II 

I cannot grow; 

I have no shadow 

To run away from, 

I only play. 

I cannot err; 

There is no creature 

Whom I belong to, 

Whom I could wrong. 

I am defeat 

When it knows it 

Can now do nothing 

By suffering. 

All you lived through, 

Dancing because you 

No longer need it 

For any deed. 

I shall never be 

Different. Love me. 





III 

O ear whose creatures cannot wish to fall, 

O calm of spaces unafraid of weight, 

Where Sorrow is herself, forgetting all 

The gaucheness of her adolescent state, 

Where hope within the altogether strange 

From every outworn image is released, 

And Dread born whole and normal like a beast 

Into a world of truths that never change: 

Restore our fallen day; O re-arrange. 

O dear white children casual as birds, 

Playing among the ruined languages, 

So small beside their large confusing words, 

So gay against the greater silences 

Of dreadful things you did: O hang the head, 

Impetuous child with the tremendous brain, 

O weep, child, weep, O weep away the stain, 

Lost innocence who wished your lover dead, 

Weep for the lives your wishes never led. 

O cry created as the bow of sin 

Is drawn across our trembling violin. 

O weep, child, weep, O weep away the stain. 

O law drummed out by hearts against the still 

Long winter of our intellectual will. 

That what has been may never be again. 

O flute that throbs with the thanksgiving breath 

Of convalescents on the shores of death. 

O bless the freedom that you never chose. 

O trumpets that unguarded children blow 

About the fortress of their inner foe. 

O wear your tribulation like a rose. 





W H Auden 

8

Five Flower Songs 

1 To Daffodils 

Fair daffodils, we weep to see 

You haste away so soon: 

As yet the early-rising sun 

Has not attain’d his noon. 

Stay, stay, 

Until the hasting day 

Has run 

But to evensong; 

And, having prayed together, we 

Will go with you along. 

We have short time to stay, as you, 

We have as short a Spring; 

As quick a growth to meet decay, 

As you, or any thing 

We die, 

As your hours do, and dry 

Away 

Like to the Summer’s rain; 

Or as the pearls of morning’s dew 

Ne’er to be found again. 

Robert Herrick (1591–1674) 

2 The Succession of the Four Sweet Months 

First, April, she with mellow showers 

Opens the way for early flowers. 

Then after her comes smiling May 

In a more rich and sweet array. 

Next enters June and brings us more 

Gems than those two that went before. 

Then lastly July comes and she 

More wealth brings in than all those three. 

Robert Herrick 

Gloriana Dances 


The Masque Begins 

The masque begins. 

Melt earth to sea, sea flow to air; 

And air fly into fire! 

The elements, at Gloriana’s chair, 

Mingle in tuneful choir. 

And now we summon from this leafy bower 

The demi-god that must appear! 

‘Tis Time! ‘tis Time! ‘tis Time! 

First Dance: Time 

Yes, he is Time, 

Lusty and blithe! 

Time is at his apogee! 

Although you thought to see 

A bearded ancient with a scythe. 

No reaper he 

That cries ‘Take heed!’ 

Time’s at his apogee! 

Young and strong, in his prime: 

Behold the sower of the seed! 

Time could not sow unless he had 

a spouse to bless his work, and gave it life; 

Concord, his loving wife! 

Second Dance: Concord 

Concord, Concord is here 

Our days to bless 

And this our land to endue 

With plenty, peace and happiness. 

Concord, Concord and Time, 

Each needeth each; 

The ripest fruit hangs where 

Not one, but only two can reach. 

Now Time with Concord dances 

This island doth rejoice: 

And woods and waves and waters 

Make echo to our voice. 

Third Dance: Time and Concord 

From springs of bounty 

Through this county 

Streams abundant 

Of thanks shall flow! 

Where life was scanty 

Fruits of plenty 

Swell resplendent 

From earth below! 

No Greek nor Roman 

Queenly woman 

Knew such favour 

From Heav’n above 

As she whose presence 

Is our pleasance 

Gloriana 

Hath all our love! 

And now, country maidens, 

Bring in tribute of flowers, 

To the flower of princes all. 

9 Texts

Fourth Dance: Country Girls 

Sweet flag and cuckoo flower, 

Cowslip and columbine, 

Kingcups and sops in wine, 

Flower deluce and calaminth, 

Harebell and hyacinth, 

Myrtle and bay with rosemary between, 

Norfolk’s own garlands for her Queen. 

Behold a troop of rustic swains, 

Bringing from the waves and pastures 

the fruits of their toil. 

At the wall’s base the fiery nettle springs 

With fruit globose and fierce with poison’d stings; 

In every chink delights the fern to grow, 

With glossy leaf and tawny bloom below; 

The few dull flowers that o’er the place 

are spread 

Partake the nature of their fenny bed. 

These, with our sea-weeds rolling up and down, 

Form the contracted Flora of our town. 

10 

Fifth Dance: Rustics and Fishermen 

From fen and meadow 

In rushy baskets 

They bring ensamples 

Of all they grow. 

In earthen dishes 

Their deep-sea fishes; 

Yearly fleeces, 

Woven blankets; 

New cream and junkets, 

And rustic trinkets 

On wicker flaskets, 

Their country largess, 

The best they know. 

Led by Time and Concord, 

let all unite in homage to Gloriana, 

our hope of peace, our flower of grace. 

Sixth Dance: Final Dance of Homage 

These tokens of our love receiving, 

O take them, Princess great and dear, 

From Norwich city you are leaving, 

That you afar may feel us near. 

William Plomer (1903–73) 

interval: 20 minutes 


3 Marsh Flowers 

Here the strong mallow strikes her slimy root, 

Here the dull nightshade hangs her deadly fruit: 

On hills of dust the henbane’s faded green, 

And pencil’d flower of sickly scent is seen. 

Here on its wiry stem, in rigid bloom, 

Grows the lavender that lacks perfume. 

George Crabbe (1754–1832) 

4 The evening primrose 

When once the sun sinks in the west, 

And dewdrops pearl the evening’s breast; 

Almost as pale as moonbeams are, 

Or its companionable star, 

The evening primrose opes anew 

Its delicate blossoms to the dew 

And, hermit-like, shunning the light, 

Wastes its fair bloom upon the night; 

Who, blindfold to its fond caresses, 

Knows not the beauty he possesses. 

Thus it blooms on while night is by; 

When day looks out with open eye, 

’Bashed at the gaze it cannot shun, 

It faints and withers and is gone. 

John Clare (1793–1864) 

The Ballad of Little Musgrave and 

Lady Barnard 

As it fell on one holyday, 

As many be in the year, 

When young men and maids together did go 

Their matins and mass to hear, 

Little Musgrave came to the church door – 

The priest was at private mass – 

But he had more mind of the fair women 

Than he had of Our Lady’s grace. 

The one of them was clad in green 

Another was clad in pall, 

And then came in my Lord Barnard’s wife, 

The fairest amongst them all, 

Quoth she, ‘I’ve loved thee, Little Musgrave, 

Full long and many a day.’ 

‘So have I lov’d you, my fair ladye, 

Yet never a word durst I say.’ 

‘But I have a bower at Bucklesfordberry, 

Full daintily it is dight, 

If thou’lt wend thither, thou Little Musgrave, 

Thou’s lig in my arms all night.’

With that beheard a little tiny page, 

By his lady’s coach as he ran. 

Says, ‘Although I am my lady’s foot-page, 

Yet I am Lord Barnard’s man!’ 

Then he’s cast off his hose and cast off his shoon, 

Set down his feet and ran, 

And where the bridges were broken down 

He bent his bow and swam. 

‘Awake! awake! thou Lord Barnard, 

As thou art a man of life! 

Little Musgrave is at Bucklesfordberry 

Along with thine own wedded wife.’ 

He called up his merry men all: 

‘Come saddle me my steed; 

This night must I to Bucklesfordberry, 

F’r I never had greater need.’ 

But some they whistled, and some they sang, 

And some they thus could say, 

Whenever Lord Barnard’s horn it blew: 

‘Away, Musgrave away!’ 

‘Methinks I hear the threstlecock, 

Methinks I hear the jay; 

Methinks I hear Lord Barnard’s horn, 

Away Musgrave! Away!’ 

‘Lie still, lie still, thou little Musgrave, 

And huggle me from the cold; 

‘Tis nothing but a shepherd’s boy 

A-driving his sheep to the fold.’ 

By this, Lord Barnard came to his door 

And lighted a stone upon; 

And he’s pull’d out three silver keys, 

And open’d the doors each one. 

He lifted up the coverlet, 

He lifted up the sheet: 

‘Arise, arise, thou Little Musgrave, 

And put thy clothes on; 

It shall ne’er be said in my country 

I’ve killed a naked man. 

I have two swords in one scabbard, 

They are both sharp and clear; 

Take you the best, and I the worst, 

We’ll end the matter here.’ 

The first stroke Little Musgrave struck 

He hurt Lord Barnard sore; 

The next stroke that Lord Barnard struck, 

Little Musgrave ne’er struck more. 

‘Woe worth you, my merry men all, 

You were ne’er born for my good! 

Why did you not offer to stay my hand 

When you saw me wax so wood? 

For I’ve slain also the fairest ladye 

That ever did woman’s deed. 

‘A grave,’ Lord Barnard cried, 

‘To put these lovers in! 

But lay my lady on the upper hand, 

For she comes of the nobler kin.’ 

Anon. 


5 Ballad of Green Broom 

There was an old man liv’d out in the wood, 

And his trade was a-cutting of Broom, 

green Broom; 

He had but one son without thought without good 

Who lay in his bed till ’twas noon, bright noon. 

The old man awoke one morning and spoke 

He swore he would fire the room, that room 

If his John would not rise and open his eyes, 

And away to the wood to cut Broom, 

green Broom. 

So Johnny arose and slipp’d on his clothes 

And away to the wood to cut Broom, 

green Broom; 

He sharpen’d his knives, and for once he 

contrives 

To cut a great bundle of Broom, green Broom. 

When Johnny pass’d under a lady’s fine house 

Pass’d under a lady’s fine room, fine room, 

She call’d to her maid: ‘Go fetch me,’ she said, 

‘Go fetch me the boy that sells Broom, 

green Broom.’ 

When Johnny came into the lady’s fine house, 

And stood in the lady’s fine room, fine room, 

‘Young Johnny’, she said, ‘Will you give up your 

Trade 

And marry a lady in bloom, full bloom?’ 

Johnny gave his consent, and to church they 

both went, 

And he wedded the lady in bloom, full bloom; 

At market and fair, all folks do declare, 

There’s none like the Boy that sold Broom, 

green Broom. 

Anon. 

11 Texts

Sacred and Profane 

1 St Godric’s Hymn 

Sainte Marye Virgine, 

Moder Jesu Christes Nazarene, 

Onfo, schild, help thin Godric, 

Onfang, bring heyilich with thee in Godes Riche. 

Sainte Marye, Christes bur, 

Maidenes clenhad, moderes flur, 

Dilie min sinne, rix in min mod, 

Bring me to winne with the self God. 

2 I mon waxe wod 

Foweles in the frith, 

The fisses in the flod, 

And I mon waxe wod: 

Mulch sorw I walke with 

For beste of bon and blod. 

3 Lenten is come 

Lenten is come with love to toune, 

With blosmen and with briddes roune, 

That all this blisse bringeth. 

Dayeseyes in this dales, 

Notes swete of nightegales, 

Uch fowl song singeth. 

The threstelcok him threteth oo. 

Away is huere winter wo 

When woderofe springeth. 

This fowles singeth ferly fele, 

And wliteth on huere wynne wele, 

That all the wode ringeth. 

The rose raileth hire rode, 

The leves on the lighte wode 

Waxen all with wille. 

The mone mandeth hire ble, 

The lilye is lossom to se, 

The fennel and the fille. 

Wowes this wilde drakes, 

Miles murgeth huere makes, 

Ase strem that striketh stille. 

Mody meneth, so doth mo; 

Ichot ich am on of tho 

For love that likes ille. 

The mone mandeth hire light, 

So doth the semly sonne bright, 

When briddes singeth breme. 

Deawes donketh the dounes, 

Deores with huere derne rounes 

Domes for to deme. 

Wormes woweth under cloude, 

St Mary, the Virgin, 

Mother of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, 

Receive, defend and help thy Godric, and having 

received him, 

Bring him on high with thee in God’s Kingdom. 

St Mary, Christ’s bower, 

Virgin among maidens, flower of motherhood, 

Blot out my sin, reign in my heart, 

And bring me to bliss with that selfsame God. 

Birds in the wood, 

The fish in the river, 

And I must go mad: 

Much sorrow I live with 

For the best of creatures alive. 

Spring has come with love among us, 

With flowers and with the song of birds, 

That brings all this happiness. 

Daisies in these valleys, 

The sweet notes of nightingales, 

Each bird sings a song. 

The thrush wrangles all the time. 

Gone is their winter woe 

When the woodruff springs. 

These birds sing, wonderfully merry, 

And warble in their abounding joy, 

So that all the wood rings. 

The rose puts on her rosy face, 

The leaves in the bright wood 

All grow with pleasure. 

The moon sends out her radiance, 

The lily is lovely to see, 

The fennel and the wild thyme. 

These wild drakes make love, 

Animals cheer their mates, 

Like a stream that flows softly. 

The passionate man complains, as do more; 

I know that I am one of those 

That is unhappy for love. 

The moon sends out her light, 

So does the fair, bright sun, 

When birds sing gloriously. 

Dews wet the downs, 

Animals with their secret cries 

For telling their tales. 

Worms make love under ground, 

12

Wimmen waxeth wounder proude, 

So well it wol hem seme. 

Yef me shall wonte wille of on, 

This wunne wele I wole forgon, 

And wiht in wode be fleme. 

4 The long night 

Mirie it is, while sumer ilast, 

With fugheles song. 

Oc nu necheth windes blast, 

And weder strong. 

Ey! ey! what this night is long! 

And ich, with well michel wrong, 

Soregh and murne and fast. 

5 Yif ic of luve can 

Whanne ic se on Rode 

Jesu, my lemman, 

And besiden him stonden 

Marye and Johan, 

And his rig iswongen, 

And his side istungen, 

For the luve of man; 

Well ou ic to wepen, 

And sinnes for to leten, 

Yif ic of luve can, 

Yif ic of luve can, 

Yif ic of luve can. 

6 Carol 

Maiden in the mor lay, 

In the mor lay; 

Sevenight fulle, 

Sevenight fulle, 

Maiden in the mor lay; 

In the mor lay, 

Sevenightes fulle and a day. 

Welle was hire mete. 

What was hire mete? 

The primerole and the – 

The primerole and the – 

Welle was hire mete. 

What was hire mete? 

The primerole and the violet. 

Welle was hire dring. 

What was hire dring? 

The chelde water of the – 

The chelde water of the – 

Welle was hire dring. 

What was hire dring? 

The chelde water of the welle-spring. 

Women grow exceedingly proud, 

So well it will suit them. 

If I don’t have what I want of one, 

All this happiness I will abandon, 

And quickly in the woods be a fugitive. 

Pleasant it is, while summer lasts, 

With the birds’ song. 

But now the blast of the wind draws nigh, 

And severe weather. 

Alas! how long this night is! 

And I, with very great wrong, 

Sorrow and mourn and fast. 

When I see on the Cross 

Jesu, my lover, 

And beside him stand 

Mary and John, 

And his back scourged, 

And his side pierced, 

For the love of man, 

Well ought I to weep 

And sins to abandon, 

If I know of love, 

If I know of love, 

If I know of love. 

A maiden lay on the moor, 

Lay on the moor; 

A full week, 

A full week, 

A maiden lay on the moor; 

Lay on the moor, 

A full week and a day. 

Good was her food. 

What was her food? 

The primrose and the – 

The primrose and the – 

Good was her food. 

What was her food? 

The primrose and the violet. 

Good was her drink. 

What was her drink? 

The cold water of the – 

The cold water of the – 

Good was her drink. 

What was her drink? 

The cold water of the well-spring. 

13 Texts

Welle was hire bowr. 

What was hire bowr? 

The rede rose and the – 

The rede rose and the – 

Welle was hire bowr. 

What was hire bowr? 

The rede rose and the lilye flour. 

7 Ye that pasen by 

Ye that pasen by the weiye, 

Abidet a little stounde. 

Beholdet, all my felawes, 

Yef any me lik is founde. 

To the Tre with nailes thre 

Wol fast I hange bounde; 

With a spere all thoru my side 

To mine herte is mad a wounde. 

8 A death 

Wanne mine eyhnen misten, 

And mine heren sissen, 

And my nose coldet, 

And my tunge foldet, 

And my rude slaket, 

And mine lippes blaken, 

And my muth grennet, 

And my spotel rennet, 

And mine her riset, 

And mine herte griset, 

And mine honden bivien, 

And mine fet stivien— 

AI to late! al to late! 

Wanne the bere is ate gate. 

Thanne I schel flutte 

From bedde to flore, 

From flore to here, 

From here to bere, 

From bere to putte, 

And te putt fordut. 

Thanne lyd mine hus uppe mine nose. 

Of al this world ne give I it a pese! 

Good was her bower. 

What was her bower? 

The red rose and the – 

The red rose and the – 

Good was her bower. 

What was her bower? 

The red rose and the lily flower. 

You that pass by the way, 

Stay a little while. 

Behold, all my fellows, 

If any like me is found. 

To the Tree with three nails 

Most fast I hang bound; 

With a spear all through my side 

To my heart is made a wound. 

When my eyes get misty, 

And my ears are full of hissing, 

And my nose gets cold, 

And my tongue folds, 

And my face goes slack, 

And my lips blacken, 

And my mouth grins, 

And my spittle runs, 

And my hair rises, 

And my heart trembles, 

And my hands shake, 

And my feet stiffen— 

All too late! all too late! 

When the bier is at the gate. 

Then I shall pass 

From bed to floor, 

From floor to shroud, 

From shroud to bier, 

From bier to grave, 

And the grave will be closed up. 

Then rests my house upon my nose. 

For the whole world I don’t care one jot! 

14

Marco Borggreve 

About the 

performers 

Harry Christophers 

Harry Christophers cbe conductor 

Harry Christophers is known internationally as 

founder and conductor of The Sixteen, as well as 

being a regular guest conductor for many major 

symphony orchestras and opera companies 

worldwide. He has directed The Sixteen choir 

and orchestra throughout Europe, America and 

the Asia-Pacific region, gaining a distinguished 

reputation for his work in Renaissance, Baroque 

and 21st-century music. 

He has made a significant contribution to the 

recording catalogue, for which he has won 

numerous accolades, including Gramophone 

Awards, a Classical BRIT Award and a MIDEM 

Classical Award. In 2009 he and The Sixteen 

received Gramophone‘s Artist of the Year Award. 

Harry Christophers has been Artistic Director of 

Boston’s Handel and Haydn Society since 2008 

and will continue in this role until at least 2015. 

He is Principal Guest Conductor of the Granada 

Symphony Orchestra and regularly appears with 

the Academy of St Martin in the Fields. 

As well as performing on the concert stage, he 

continues to lend his artistic direction to opera. 

In 2006 he conducted Mozart’s Mitridate for 

the Granada Festival and, in the wake of his 

successes at Buxton Opera, he returned last year 

to conduct Handel’s Jephtha. Previous opera 

productions include Mozart’s The Magic Flute 

and Purcell’s King Arthur for Lisbon Opera, 

Monteverdi’s The Coronation of Poppea, 

Handel’s Ariodante and Gluck’s Orfeo for 

English National Opera and the UK premiere of 

Messager’s Fortunio for Grange Park Opera. 

Harry Christophers received a CBE in the Queen’s 

2012 Birthday Honours List. He is an Honorary 

Fellow of both Magdalen College, Oxford, and 

the Royal Welsh College of Music & Drama, and 

has an Honorary Doctorate in Music from the 

University of Leicester. 


Now in its 34th year, The Sixteen is recognised 

as one of the world’s leading ensembles. 

Comprising both choir and period-instrument 

orchestra, The Sixteen’s total commitment to 

the music it performs is its greatest distinction. A 

special reputation for performing early English 

polyphony, masterpieces of the Renaissance and 

bringing fresh insights into Baroque and early 

Classical music as well as a diversity of 20th- and 

21st-century music, is drawn from the passions of 

founder and conductor Harry Christophers. 

At home in the UK The Sixteen are ‘The Voices 

of Classic FM’ and Associate Artists at The 

Bridgewater Hall. The group promotes The Choral 

Pilgrimage, an annual tour of the UK’s finest 

cathedrals. 

The Sixteen tours throughout Europe, Asia, 

Australia and the Americas and has given 

regular performances at major concert halls 

and festivals worldwide, including the Barbican 

Centre, The Bridgewater Hall, Cité de la musique 

(Paris), Concertgebouw (Amsterdam) and Sydney 

Opera House. Festival appearances include the 

BBC Proms, Hong Kong, Wellington, Granada, 

Lucerne, Edinburgh, Istanbul, Prague, Bremen, La 

Chaise Dieu and Salzburg. 

15 About the performers

Over 100 recordings reflect The Sixteen’s quality 

in a range of work spanning the music of 500 

years, winning many accolades including 

Gramophone Awards and a Classical BRIT. 

Since 2001 The Sixteen has been building its own 

record label, CORO, which released its 117th title 

in autumn 2013. Recent releases include Handel’s 

Saul and further volumes in both the Palestrina 

and Monteverdi series. 


Soprano 

Julie Cooper 

Sally Dunkley 

Katy Hill 

Kirsty Hopkins 

Alexandra 

Kidgell 

Charlotte Mobbs 

Alto 

Ian Aitkenhead 

David Clegg 

Daniel Collins 

Martha 

McLorinan 

Edward 

McMullan 

Kim Porter 

Tenor 

Jeremy Budd 

Mark Dobell 

Steven Harrold 

Tom Raskin 

In 2011 the group launched Genesis Sixteen, 

a new training programme for young singers. 

Aimed at 18- to 23-year-olds, this is the UK’s first 

fully funded choral programme for young singers 

designed specifically to bridge the gap from 

student to professional practitioner. 

For more information on The Sixteen, 

Harry Christophers and CORO, please visit 

www.thesixteen.com. 

Bass 

James Birchall 

Ben Davies 

Eamonn Dougan 

Robert Evans 

Tim Jones 

Stuart Young 

Harp 

Frances Kelly 

Piano 

Christopher 

Glynn 

CHOIR OF KING’S 

COLLEGE CAMBRIDGE 

Britten Sinfonia are joined by the 

Choir of King’s College Cambridge 

in this festive performance of Britten’s 

A Ceremony of Carols and St Nicolas 

16 

Barbican, Saturday 7 December, 7.30pm 

Box Office: 020 7638 8891 

barbican.org.uk 

Tickets from £10 

Choir of Kings College – Ben Ealovega ©

Barbican Britten: The Sixteen, 22 Nov

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