On religious music...

[conuly]

Regarding my earlier post (which I didn't get to until recently, as I was trying to simultaneously memorize "Black Jack Davey" (success!) and "Pretty Polly" (uh...) which was a bit hard), one of the commentors winced, or said she did, about offering up a hymn.

Despite the fact that I'm not religious in the slightest (though fascinated by religion), I love hymns. No, seriously. I find that they tend towards a beauty secular music *wishes* it could emulate. I modify the words so they're pretty much in line with my ethics, ignore the parts that directly reference god, christ, or other religious figures, and belt them out in the shower. Why do you think I know that you can sing Amazing Grace to the tune of Skibbereen, or Danny Boy?

*nods*

Hymns? Love 'em. Same with carols. I figure I don't have to believe it to sing it, so long as I'm doing it for my own personal enjoyment, and it's completely uncoerced.

On a similar note, I'm trying now to dig out my copy of Handel's Messiah, but I think that might be a lost cause...

Comments

[satyrblade.livejournal.com]

He rode up hills and he rode down dales
Over many a wild high mountain
And they did say that saw him go
'Black Jack Davy, he is hunting...'

[bridgetester.livejournal.com]

William Allingham--The Fairies

Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting,
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather.
Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.

High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music,
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen,
Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back
Between the night and morrow;
They thought she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag leaves,
Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite?
He shall find the thornies set
In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting,
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather.