1. |
Haul Away
09:17
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It is time to go now,
Haul away your anchor,
Haul away your anchor,
It’s our sailing time.
Get her on her course now,
Haul away your halyards,
Haul away your halyards.
It’s our sailing time.
Waves are breaking under,
Haul away down Channel,
Haul away down Channel,
On the evening tide.
When the day is over,
Haul away for Heaven,
Haul away for Heaven,
God be by your side.
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2. |
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Hugh McMillan
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3. |
The River Prints part 1
01:31
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Lyrics by Hugh McMillan:
Sky folds into a formula of water
where trees drown in cloud
and the texture of grass and sandstone
only rolls and breaks
in the wake of skating ducks.
There are pictures taken here.
Some show barques and cutters
tied up on sleek banking,
ladies in big hats flushed from
waltzes round the bandstand,
wee boys flexing black toes
in the grass, couples bowed
lovingly on Sunday benches,
smiling soldiers killing time
before the Great War, and so on: the faces blacken, melt into sepia
till the last, the earliest, not a soul in sight,
just the spire flat on the river,
the willows again, the wash of birds.
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4. |
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by Hugh McMillan:
Lean over and see hidden trees
on the surface
moving without wind
and walls swimming
and gulls racing their blunt images
across the silence,
through the towers of the town
dreamily shaking,
and there, my head,
set square in the hieroglyph
of reed and water, in place.
How long passes?
There are homes and pubs
and people waiting
but the black gulls, their flight is perfect,
matching dip and dart and distance,
and never leaving
the rapture of the dark.
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5. |
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6. |
The River Prints part 2
01:20
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by Hugh McMillan
We scratch our names in stone.
The piano player from the Titanic
is nearer my God to thee,
but still made a pitch at immortality
in old moss and Dumfries tile,
as do Letchy and Asbo Dargo,
their names carved deep in what’s left
of Kelly’s Shelter, a labour of love
and post-industrial vandalism.
Ideally this needs to be all on one page, cut ‘cont’.
The things we chuck up tumble down,
even in my short time,
moss up or are drawn away
by the river, nonchalantly
carrying today our kebab boxes
and sherry bottles, filled with messages
for other cities, out to sea.
Sunk in a timeless broth of sky
the Nith prevails.
Though we blaze and make a fuss,
we are the temporary stuff.
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7. |
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by Hugh McMillan:
She was an astronaut in stone,
all her building
was meant to span the gap
between earth and our imagining
and this bridge was the same,
connecting us to the green islands,
pilgrims to their inner place.
Even now the bridge seems
to arch above the pizza shacks
and flats that hunch on either bank.
Here I first saw birds on black water,
here I kissed my first cheeseclothed girl.
Sometimes the bridge was less than solid,
a bridge too far, a dreamed of bridge,
a bridge that held at one end
a drifting fleet of moonlit pubs,
more brilliant than any field of stars.
It was a bridge of history,
Kings, bishops, bodysnatchers,
and a million more melted
on either side like ice or smoke,
a bridge of mystery, indeed:
only a hundred yards to walk,
and the infinity of space between.
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8. |
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9. |
Lacuna
04:33
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10. |
The Reiver Wife
05:32
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By Jules Horne:
What kind o wife wad serve an empty dish?
A donnert wife. A pare wife.
But a cah mak broth frae burrit banes
Frae river stanes
(I wish).
So here’s your denner
Lord of the manor.
Aye, your spurs!
I’m hoping something stirs
Man o mine.
It’s time to ride.
For your wife.
Up on the hill at the corbie tree
Where the derkness gaithers tae roost
First the fecht, then the feast.
Bonny red mou, bonny blue ee.
Venge, o venge ma sweet son
Afore the morn.
What kind o man wouldna venge his son?
A pare man. A feart man.
But a cah mak sons frae blood and hair
Frae bone and air
and thairm.
So saddle your horse.
Set your course.
Aye, your knife!
A life for a life
Man o mine.
It’s time to ride.
For your son.
Up on the hill at the corbie tree
Where the derkness gaithers tae roost
First the fecht, then the feast.
Bonny red mou, bonny blue ee.
Venge, o venge ma sweet son
Afore the morn.
The morn.
O what kind o mither taks anither’s son?
A seek wife. A deil-wife.
Filling her yearning wame wi a knot
O perfect hate.
Am din.
So open the gate.
Cry them back.
Catch them quick.
It’s no ower late
Man o mine.
Bide.
Up on the hill at the corbie tree
Where the derkness gaithers tae roost
First the fecht, then the feast.
Bonny red mou, bonny blue ee.
Deil alane in the corbie tree
Awa afore the morn.
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11. |
The Kist Bride
05:10
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By Jules Horne:
Ninety-seven… ninety-eight… ninety-nine…
One hundred!
Coming, ready or not!
Quick! Hide!
I’ll clamber in this kist.
I’m lost.
A corridor
I’ve never seen afore.
But you’ll come and find me.
Can hardly lift the lid.
Will I be missed
Inside this kist?
I don’t care.
It’s my day.
My wedding day.
They’ll come and find me.
Fifty-three… fifty-four… fifty-five…
Never felt so alive.
My heart magnified
My love magnified
Everything magnified
Inside this kist.
Tonight we’ll coorie
Like this in the dark.
Hello, you.
Close and new.
Come and find me.
Thirty-three… thirty-two…
Where are you?
Not that much air in here.
The oak’s thick.
The lid’s stuck.
I’ll get a row.
Should I shout now?
Find me! Find me!
Come and find me!
Come find me.
Ten...
Is this the end?
Never felt so alone.
Heart magnified
Dread magnified
Here and now and heat and dust is all there is.
This kist and my fingers.
Six
Breath
Five
Less
Four
Breath
Three
Less
Two
…
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12. |
The Palimpsest
04:49
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By Jules Horne:
red red rose
sweetly played
They want me to sing to impress
To wear my most fashionable dress
Lace my stays tight, behave
And yet seem so eager for love –
melody
love is like
They want me to sit up straight
Present myself on a plate.
Look – she can cook, sing, sew!
But I know and you know –
newly sprung
deep in love
This song is only for you
My bonny blushing lad.
Look up and feel the air
Shiver atween us two
A Secret reach
A note kiss
A song touch
From here to you.
This may be all there ever is:
Your hand around my waist
The beat of my wrist
The whirl of the dance
This dream, this now –
fair thee weel
fair art thou
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13. |
This Cradle of Hills
09:31
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Artisan Edinburgh, UK
Artisan was founded in 2009 as a piano trio by Aisling O’Dea (violin), Clea Friend (cello), and Simon Smith (piano). The trio performed regularly in their home city of Edinburgh and around Scotland, delivering exciting performances of core piano trio repertoire, alongside commissions of new works from Scottish and UK composers, including Suzanne Parry. ... more
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