A little flock from Iceland - Peter Bird

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"Based on 4 new narrative poems about dramatic encounters from ~900 AD to ~1250 AD. The first two are fiction, and the second two are based on historical events. Romantic in style; Modern in harmony. 17:10."

◈ Genre / Form → Folk Song

♯ Tonart C minor

⁄ Taktart 4/2

♬ Besetzung → SATB

◆ Difficulty

Fortgeschritten

↕ Tonumfang D – f'''

¶ Sprache → Englisch

Takte 387

Textur Homophon

Stimmen 6

Instrumente SATB, Flute, Violin

Seiten 53

CPDL Nr. 11206

Bearbeiter Peter Bird

Veröffentlicht 2006-03-10

Lizenz Personal

♫Tonumfänge

Soprano

d' – a''

Alto

g – d''

Tenor

c – g'

Bass

D – E-4

Flute

c#' – f'''

Violin

g – c'''

Schlagwörter

Pages_using_DynamicPageList3_parser_function Posted_in_March_2006 More_than_90_days_old More_than_30_days_old CPDL_112xy

¶Liedtext

I. Lón Swans in Iceland: white on black. Westward come wending, appearing in pairs; Strong wing beats thunder in crystalline air; Willfull to breed on the bourn of despair. Iceland, Ireland: out, and back. Men in longships, helmets bright, Brought with them dozens of Ireland’s daughters. Red-haired and white-robed, just as they caught her, One of them walks all alone by the water, Chanting her heart-song to the night. “Eala naofa: Tromhad annall! Mine are the people that open the granary, Hallow the home-linn and safeguard the eyrie. Hear when I cry to you; come to me swiftly! An cuidich sibh mi do comhall? “Seek a swan without a wife: Kelwyn mac Boynton, of husbands the best. When he will once lay his head on my breast, It’s I will go swim with him, even to death, Swan to be, beyond this life.” Swans in Iceland watch their star; Auger the season by scent of the beach-wrack. When the wind’s northerly, ice in the grass cracks, Wheeling they climb away, coasting the sea track. Keening voices travel far. II. Grímsvötn Mountain of ice, beacon of white Standing alone in the Arctic darkness, Home to the swans flying, hope to the seafaring, Niflheim gleams in the morning light. Up on the glacier the ground is grumbling; Krinkling cracks spring open quickly. Blocks of blue ice topple thickly, Grinding shards from bitter heights. Swarthy mists in every cranney; Murky reeks of steam are rising From a gaping hollow waxing ‘Round a seething tarn uncanny. Now a groaning geyser opens; Red flame leaps to heat the oven; Loki strains; a chain is broken; Earth’s blood-rush is awoken. Ashes flying; wind arising; Thunder; spears of lightning crying: Hell and Muspell are surprising To the gothi skiing nearer. “Othinn! Wise and just Allfather: Bind the waters whirling blindly; Tame the streaming torrent! Kindly Spare your folk; you have no other.” III. Vestur Grænland Leif Eiriksson of Vinland now returns To Eiriksfjord in Vestur Grænland With wealth of furs and timber. In the