The emigrant's grave - Abrams, Harriett

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"Emigrés of high status were received in England at the very outset of the French revolution. These were followed after the Terror by refugees of all classes, often of little means. This song is typical of Miss Abrams' style, popular with contemporaries, but striking a strange note to the modern ear, in which almost jaunty tunes are married to somewhat febrile sentiments."

◈ Genre → Arias ♬ Besetzung → solo high ¶ Sprache → Englisch

Stimmen 1

Instrumente Keyboard

Seiten 4

CPDL Nr. 71400

Bearbeiter Christopher Shaw

Veröffentlicht 2022-11-04

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Why mourn ye, why strew ye those flow'rets around To yon new-sodded grave as your slow steps advanc'd; In yon new-sodded grave, ever dear be the ground! Lies the stranger we lov'd, the poor exile of France; And is the poor exile at rest from his woe, No longer the sport of misfortune and chance? Mourn on, village mourners, my tears too shall flow For the stranger ye lov'd, the poor exile of France. Oh! kind was his nature, though bitter his fate, And gay was his converse, though broken his heart; No comfort, no hope his own breast could elate, Though comfort and hope he to all could impart. Ever joyless himself in the joys of the plain, Still foremost was he, mirth and pleasure to raise. How sad was his soul, yet how blithe was his strain When he sung me the song of more fortunate days! One pleasure he knew in his straw-cover'd shed; For the snow-beaten beggar, his faggot to trim, One tear of delight he could drop on the bread Which he shar'd with the poor, the still poorer than him! And when, round his death-bed profusely we cast Ev'ry gift, ev'ry solace our Hamlet could bring, He blest us with sighs, which we thought were his last, But he still had a pray'r for his country and king! Poor exile, adieu! undisturb'd be thy sleep! From the feast, from the wake from the village green dance. How oft shall we wander at moonlight to weep O'er the stranger we lov'd, the poor exile of France! To the church-bidden bride shall thy mem'ry impart One pang, as her eyes on thy cold relics glance; One flow'r from her garland, one tear from her heart, Shall drop on the grave of the exile of France.