2007-09-23 Albert [recital program]

              School of Music
U N C G
Anne E. Albert
voice
Juan Pablo Andrade, piano
Radha Mundkur, piano
Graduate Recital
September 23, 2007
5:30 pm
Recital Hall, School of Music
Program
La Courte Paille (1960) Francis Poulenc
Le Sommeil (1899-1963)
Quelle aventure!
La reine de coeur
Ba, Be, Bi, Bo, Bu…
Les anges musicians
Le Carafon
Lune d’Avril
from The Nursery (1868-1872) Modest Mussorgsky
With Nanny (1835-1881)
In the Corner
The Beetle
With Dolly
Prayer at Bedtime
Riding the Hobby Horse
Intermission
Canciones para niños (1953) Xavier Montsalvatge
Paisaje (1912-2002)
El largato está llorando
Caracola
Canción tonta
Canción China en Europa
Cancióncilla sevillana
Miss Manners on Music (1998) Dominik Argento
Prologue (b.1927)
Manners at a Concert
Manners at the Ballet
Manners for Contemporary Music
Manners at a Church Recital
Manners at the Opera
Envoi
Anne Albert is a student of Dr. Robert Wells
________
In partial fulfillment of the degree requirements for the
Doctor of Musical Arts in Performance
Francis Poulenc:
La Courte Paille
Text by Maurice Careme (1899-1978)
I Le sommeil
Le sommeil est en voyage,
Mon Dieu! où est-il parti?
J'ai beau bercer mon petit;
Il pleure dans son lit cage,
Il pleure depuis midi.
Où le sommeil a-til mis
Son sable et ses rêves sages?
J'ai beau bercer mon petit;
Il se tourne tout en nage,
Il sanglote dans son lit.
Ah! reviens, reviens, sommeil,
Sur ton beau cheval de course!
Dans le ciel noir, la Grand Ourse
A enterré le soleil
Et ralumé ses abelles.
Si l'enfant ne dort pas bien,
Il ne dira pas bonjour,
Il ne dira rien demain
A ses doigts, au lait, au pain
Qui l'accueillent dans le jour.
II Quelle aventure!
Une puce dans sa voiture,
Tirait un petit éléphant
En regardant les devantures
Où scintillaient les diamants.
Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!
quelle aventure!
Qui va me croire, s'il m'entend?
L'éléphaneau, d'un air absent,
Suçait un pot de confiture.
Mais la puce n'en avait cure,
Elle tirait en souriant.
Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!
que cela dure
Et je vais me croire dément!
Soudain, le long d'une clôture,
La puce fondit dans le vent
Et je vis le jeune éléphant
Se sauver en fendant les murs.
Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!
la chose est sure,
Mais comment le dire à maman?
III La reine de coeur
Mollement accoudée
A ses vitres de lune,
La reine vous salue
The Short Straw
Sleep
Sleep is on vacation.
My God! Where has it gone?
I have rocked my little one well;
he cries in his crib,
he's been crying since noon.
Where has sleep put
its sand and its wise dreams?
I have rocked my little one well;
he turns, all sweaty,
he sobs in his bed.
Ah! return, return, sleep,
on your beautiful race horse!
In the black sky, the Big Bear
has buried the sun
and re-lit his bees.
If baby doesn't sleep well,
he won't say "good morning,"
he won't say anything tomorrow
to his fingers, to the milk, to the bread
that greet him with the day.
What an adventure!
A flea was pulling a little elephant
along in its carriage,
while looking at the shop windows
where diamonds sparkled.
My God! my God!
What an adventure!
Who'll believe me, if they hear me?
The little elephant casually
licked at a jar of jam,
but the flea didn't care;
she pulled along, smiling.
My God! my God!
How hard this is!
And I think I must be crazy!
Suddenly, near a fence,
the flea blew over in the wind,
and I saw the young elephant
save himself by knocking down the walls.
My God! my God!
it's really true,
but how can I tell Mommy?
The Queen of Hearts
Softly leaning
on her window-panes of moon,
the queen gestures to you
d’une fleur d’amandier.
C’est la reine de coeur.
Elle peut, s’il lui plait,
Vous mener en secret
Vers d’étranges demeures
Où il ne’st plus de portes,
De salles ni de tours
Et où les jeune mortes
Viennent parler d’amour.
La reine vous salue;
Hâtez-vous de la suivre
Dans son château de givre
Aux doux vitraux de lune.
IV Ba, Be, Bi, Bo, Bu
Ba, be, bi, bo, bu, bé!
Le chat a mis ses bottes,
Il va de porte en porte
Jouer, danser,
Danser, chanter -
Pou, chou, genou, hibou.
"Tu dois apprendre à lire,
A compter, à écrire,"
Lui crie-ton de partout.
Mais rikketikketau,
Le chat de s’esclaffer
En rentrant au château:
Il est le Chat Botté!
V Les anges musiciens
Sur les fils de la pluie,
Les anges du jeudi
Jouent longtemps de la harpe.
Et sous leurs doigts, Mozart
Tinte, délicieux,
En gouttes de joie bleue
Car c’est toujours Mozart
Que reprennent sans fin
Les anges musiciens
Qui, au long du jeudi,
Font chanter sur la harpe
La douceur de la pluie.
VI Le carafon
"Pourquoi, se plaignait la carafe,
N’aurais-je pas un carafon?
Au zoo, madame la giraffe
N’a-t-elle pas un girafon?"
Un sorcier qui passait par là,
A cheval sur un phonographe,
Enregistra la belle voix
De soprano de la carafe
Et la fit entendre à Merlin.
with an almond flower.
She is the Queen of Hearts.
She can, if she wishes,
lead you in secret
into strange dwellings
where there are no more doors,
or rooms, or towers,
and where the young dead
come to talk of love.
The queen salutes you;
hasten to follow her
into her hoar-frost castle
with smooth stained-glass moon windows.
Ba, Be, Bi, Bo, Bu
Ba, be, bi, bo, bu, bé!
The cat has put on his boots;
he goes from door to door,
playing, dancing,
dancing, singing -
Pou, chou, genou, hibou. *
"You ought to learn to read,
to count, to write,"
everyone calls out to him.
But rikketikketau,
the cat bursts out laughing,
returning to his castle:
He is Puss in Boots!
The musician angels
Upon the threads of the rain
the Thursday angels
play on the harp for a long time.
And beneath their fingers, Mozart
tinkles, deliciously,
in drops of blue joy
since it is always Mozart
which is played endlessly
by the musician angels
who, all day Thursday,
make their harps sing
the sweetness of the rain.
The baby carafe
"Why," lamented the carafe,
"couldn’t I have a baby carafe?
At the zoo, Mrs. Giraffe -
doesn’t she have a baby giraffe?"
A wizard who was riding by
astride a phonograph
recorded the beautiful
soprano voice of the carafe
and played it for Merlin.
"Fort bien, dit celui-ci, fort bien!"
Il frappa trois fois dans les mains
Et la dame de la maison
Se demande encore pourquoi
Elle trouva, ce matin-là
Un joli petit carafon
Blotti tout contre la carafe
Ainsi qu’au zoo le girafon
Pose son cou fragile et long
Sur le flanc clair de la girafe.
VII Lune d’Avril
Lune, belle lune, lune d’Avril,
Faites-moi voir en m’endormant
Le pêcher au coeur de safran,
Le poisson qui rit du grésil,
L’oiseau qui, lointain comme un cor,
Doucement réveille les morts
Et surtout, surtout le pays
Où il fait joie, où il fait clair,
Où, soleilleux de primevères,
On a brisé tous les fusils.
Lune, belle lune, lune d’avril,
Lune.
Modest Mussorgsky:
The Nusery
Text by Modest Mussorgsky
С няней
􀐴􃐄􀑄􄐄􀑖􅘄􀑖􅘄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐄􀑋􄬄􀑍􄴠 􀑑􅄄􀑒􅈄􀑉􄤬, 􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐄􀑒􅈄􀑣􆌄􀑝􅴄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐬,
􀐴􃐄􀑄􄐄􀑖􅘄􀑖􅘄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐄􀑋􄬄􀑍􄴠 􀑑􅄄􀑒􅈄􀑉􄤬, 􀑑􅄄􀑍􄴄􀑐􅀄􀑄􄐄􀑤􆐬,
􀐳􃌄􀑕􅔄􀑓􅌠 􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌄􀑇􄜄􀑓􅌠 􀑔􅐄􀑕􅔄􀑓􅌠 􀑅􄔄􀑘􅠄􀑏􄼄􀑘􅠠 􀑖􅘄􀑗􅜄􀑕􅔄􀑄􄐄􀑝􅴄􀑒􅈄􀑓􅌄􀑇􄜄􀑓􅌺:
􀐮􂸄􀑄􄐄􀑏􄼠 􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌄􀑗􅜠 􀑅􄔄􀑘􅠄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐠 􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌠 􀑐􅀄􀑉􄤄􀑖􅘄􀑄􄐄􀑑􅄠 􀑅􄔄􀑕􅔄􀑓􅌄􀑈􄠄􀑍􄴄􀑐􅀬,
􀐮􂸄􀑄􄐄􀑏􄼠 􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌄􀑗􅜠 􀑅􄔄􀑘􅠄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐠 􀑆􄘠 􀑐􅀄􀑉􄤄􀑖􅘠 􀑈􄠄􀑉􄤄􀑗􅜄􀑉􄤄􀑎􄸠
􀑒􅈄􀑓􅌄􀑖􅘄􀑍􄴄􀑐􅀠
􀐬􂰠 􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐄􀑏􄼠 􀑇􄜄􀑕􅔄􀑠􆀄􀑌􄰠 􀑓􅌄􀑒􅈠 􀑍􄴄􀑚􅨠 􀑅􄔄􀑉􄤄􀑐􅀄􀑠􆀄􀑉􄤠
􀑏􄼄􀑓􅌄􀑖􅘄􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌄􀑜􅰄􀑏􄼄􀑍􄴬,
􀐬􂰠 􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐄􀑏􄼠 􀑈􄠄􀑉􄤄􀑗􅜄􀑍􄴠 􀑗􅜄􀑉􄤠 􀑏􄼄􀑕􅔄􀑍􄴄􀑜􅰄􀑄􄐄􀑐􅀄􀑍􄴬,
􀑔􅐄􀑐􅀄􀑄􄐄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐄􀑐􅀄􀑍􄴡!
􀐱􃄄􀑤􆐄􀑒􅈄􀑣􆌄􀑝􅴄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐡!
􀐥􂔄􀑉􄤄􀑈􄠄􀑡􆄠 􀑌􄰄􀑄􄐄􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌠 􀑍􄴄􀑚􅨬, 􀑈􄠄􀑉􄤄􀑗􅜄􀑉􄤄􀑎􄸭-􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌬, 􀑅􄔄􀑘􅠄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐠
􀑖􅘄􀑟􀑉􄤄􀑐􅀬,
􀐻􃬄􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌠 􀑓􅌄􀑅􄔄􀑍􄴄􀑈􄠄􀑉􄤄􀑐􅀄􀑍􄴠 􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐄􀑒􅈄􀑣􆌠 􀑖􅘄􀑗􅜄􀑄􄐄􀑕􅔄􀑘􅠄􀑣􆌬,
􀐳􃌄􀑄􄐄􀑔􅐄􀑘􅠠 􀑖􅘠 􀑑􅄄􀑄􄐄􀑑􅄄􀑓􅌄􀑎􄸠 􀑒􅈄􀑉􄤠 􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑖􅘄􀑐􅀄􀑘􅠄􀑝􅴄􀑄􄐄􀑐􅀄􀑍􄴮.
􀐥􂔄􀑉􄤄􀑈􄠄􀑡􆄠 􀑌􄰄􀑄􄐄􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌠 􀑓􅌄􀑒􅈠 􀑖􅘄􀑟􀑉􄤄􀑐􅀠 􀑍􄴄􀑚􅨬, 􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐄􀑒􅈄􀑣􆌄􀑝􅴄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐿?
􀐬􂰄􀑐􅀄􀑍􄴠 􀑆􄘄􀑓􅌄􀑗􅜠 􀑜􅰄􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌺:
􀐴􃐄􀑄􄐄􀑖􅘄􀑖􅘄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐄􀑋􄬄􀑍􄴠 􀑑􅄄􀑒􅈄􀑉􄤠 􀑐􅀄􀑘􅠄􀑜􅰄􀑝􅴄􀑉􄤠 􀑔􅐄􀑕􅔄􀑓􅌠 􀑛􅬄􀑄􄐄􀑕􅔄􀑤􆐠 􀑖􅘠
􀑛􅬄􀑄􄐄􀑕􅔄􀑍􄴄􀑛􅬄􀑉􄤄􀑎􄸬,
􀐻􃬄􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌠 􀑌􄰄􀑄􄐠 􀑑􅄄􀑓􅌄􀑕􅔄􀑉􄤄􀑑􅄠 􀑋􄬄􀑍􄴄􀑐􅀄􀑍􄴠 􀑆􄘠 􀑗􅜄􀑉􄤄􀑕􅔄􀑉􄤄􀑑􅄄􀑘􅠠
􀑅􄔄􀑓􅌄􀑇􄜄􀑄􄐄􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌄􀑑􅄮.
􀐨􂠄􀑞􅸄􀑊􄨠 􀑛􅬄􀑄􄐄􀑕􅔄􀑡􆄠 􀑆􄘄􀑖􅘄􀑊􄨠 􀑒􅈄􀑄􄐠 􀑒􅈄􀑓􅌄􀑇􄜄􀑘􅠠 􀑚􅨄􀑕􅔄􀑓􅌄􀑑􅄄􀑄􄐄􀑐􅀬,
􀐮􂸄􀑄􄐄􀑏􄼠 􀑖􅘄􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑗􅜄􀑏􄼄􀑒􅈄􀑊􄨄􀑗􅜄􀑖􅘄􀑤􆐬, 􀑗􅜄􀑄􄐄􀑏􄼠 􀑇􄜄􀑕􅔄􀑍􄴄􀑅􄔠
􀑆􄘄􀑠􆀄􀑕􅔄􀑄􄐄􀑖􅘄􀑗􅜄􀑉􄤄􀑗􅜬,
"Very well," said he, "very well!"
He clapped his hands three times
-And the lady of the house
still asks herself why
she found, that morning,
a pretty little baby carafe
leaning up against the carafe
just as in the zoo, the baby giraffe
leans its long and fragile neck
against the smooth flank of the giraffe.
April moon
Moon, beautiful moon, moon of April,
make me see in my dreams
the peach tree with a heart of saffron,
the fish that laughs at sleet,
the bird that, far away, like a horn,
sweetly wakens the dead
and above all, above all, the country
where there is joy, where it is bright,
where, sunny with springtime,
they have broken all the rifles.
Moon, beautiful moon, moon of April,
moon.
With Nanny
Come and tell me, Nanny dear,
That old tale you know so well,
About the wolf, that dreadful, wicked wolf.
How he used to roam around the house,
How he carried children to the wood
And devoured them not leaving a single bone
And the children used to weep and cry for
help...Nanny dear!
Was the reason he ate them every bit,
Because they would not do what their nannies
told them,
Disobeying both their parents, too,
So he ate those children, Nanny dear?
Wait a moment!
I would rather hear about the King and Queen,
Who lived beside the sea in a lovely palace.
He was lame and hobbled as he walked,
Wherever he stumbled, up sprang a
mushroom!
The Queen had such a nasty cold,
That when she sneezed all the window panes
cracked!
Yes, oh Nanny dear,
􀐷􃜠 􀑛􅬄􀑄􄐄􀑕􅔄􀑍􄴄􀑛􅬄􀑠􆀠 􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌠 􀑆􄘄􀑖􅘄􀑊􄨠 􀑒􅈄􀑄􄐄􀑖􅘄􀑑􅄄􀑓􅌄􀑕􅔄􀑏􄼠 􀑅􄔄􀑠􆀄􀑐􅀬,
􀐮􂸄􀑄􄐄􀑏􄼠 􀑜􅰄􀑍􄴄􀑚􅨄􀑒􅈄􀑊􄨄􀑗􅜬, 􀑖􅘄􀑗􅜄􀑉􄤄􀑏􄼄􀑐􅀄􀑄􄐠 􀑆􄘠 􀑈􄠄􀑕􅔄􀑉􄤄􀑅􄔄􀑉􄤄􀑌􄰄􀑇􄜄􀑍􄴠
􀐫􂬄􀑒􅈄􀑄􄐄􀑉􄤄􀑝􅴄􀑡􆄬, 􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐄􀑒􅈄􀑣􆌄􀑝􅴄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐺:
􀐶􃘄􀑠􆀠 􀑔􅐄􀑕􅔄􀑓􅌠 􀑅􄔄􀑘􅠄􀑏􄼄􀑘􅠠 􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌠 􀑘􅠄􀑋􄬠 􀑒􅈄􀑉􄤠
􀑕􅔄􀑄􄐄􀑖􅘄􀑖􅘄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐄􀑌􄰄􀑠􆀄􀑆􄘄􀑄􄐄􀑎􄸡!
􀐤􂐄􀑓􅌄􀑇􄜠 􀑖􅘠 􀑒􅈄􀑍􄴄􀑑􅄬, 􀑖􅘠 􀑅􄔄􀑘􅠄􀑏􄼄􀑓􅌄􀑎􄸡!
􀐴􃐄􀑄􄐄􀑖􅘄􀑖􅘄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐄􀑋􄬄􀑍􄴠 􀑑􅄄􀑒􅈄􀑉􄤬, 􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐄􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐬, 􀑗􅜄􀑠􆀬,
􀑖􅘄􀑑􅄄􀑉􄤄􀑝􅴄􀑒􅈄􀑘􅠄􀑣􆌭-􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌡!
􀐥􂔠 􀑘􅠄􀑇􄜄􀑐􅀄􀑘􅠠
􀐣􂌄􀑚􅨠 􀑗􅜄􀑠􆀠 􀑔􅐄􀑕􅔄􀑓􅌄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐄􀑌􄰄􀑒􅈄􀑍􄴄􀑏􄼡!
􀐮􂸄􀑐􅀄􀑘􅠄􀑅􄔄􀑓􅌄􀑏􄼠 􀑕􅔄􀑄􄐄􀑌􄰄􀑑􅄄􀑓􅌄􀑗􅜄􀑄􄐄􀑐􅀬, 􀑔􅐄􀑕􅔄􀑘􅠄􀑗􅜄􀑏􄼄􀑍􄴠
􀑕􅔄􀑄􄐄􀑖􅘄􀑗􅜄􀑉􄤄􀑕􅔄􀑤􆐄􀑐􅀬,
􀐣􂌄􀑚􅨠 􀑗􅜄􀑠􆀡! 􀑆􄘄􀑖􅘄􀑉􄤠 􀑔􅐄􀑉􄤄􀑗􅜄􀑐􅀄􀑍􄴠 􀑖􅘄􀑔􅐄􀑘􅠄􀑖􅘄􀑗􅜄􀑍􄴄􀑐􅀡!
􀐻􃬄􀑘􅠄􀑐􅀄􀑓􅌄􀑏􄼠 􀑆􄘄􀑉􄤄􀑖􅘄􀑡􆄠 􀑌􄰄􀑄􄐄􀑅􄔄􀑕􅔄􀑠􆀄􀑌􄰄􀑇􄜄􀑄􄐄􀑐􅀠
􀑜􅰄􀑉􄤄􀑕􅔄􀑒􅈄􀑍􄴄􀑐􅀄􀑄􄐄􀑑􅄄􀑍􄴡!
􀐥􂔠 􀑘􅠄􀑇􄜄􀑓􅌄􀑐􅀡! 􀐥􂔠 􀑘􅠄􀑇􄜄􀑓􅌄􀑐􅀡!
􀐳􃌄􀑓􅌄􀑝􅴄􀑊􄨄􀑐􅀠 􀑆􄘠 􀑘􅠄􀑇􄜄􀑓􅌄􀑐􅀡!
􀐳􃌄􀑕􅔄􀑓􅌄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐄􀑌􄰄􀑒􅈄􀑍􄴄􀑏􄼡!
􀑃􄌠 􀑒􅈄􀑍􄴄􀑜􅰄􀑉􄤄􀑇􄜄􀑓􅌠 􀑒􅈄􀑉􄤠 􀑖􅘄􀑈􄠄􀑉􄤄􀑐􅀄􀑄􄐄􀑐􅀬, 􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐄􀑒􅈄􀑣􆌄􀑝􅴄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐬,
􀑃􄌠 􀑜􅰄􀑘􅠄􀑐􅀄􀑓􅌄􀑜􅰄􀑉􄤄􀑏􄼠 􀑒􅈄􀑉􄤠 􀑗􅜄􀑕􅔄􀑓􅌄􀑇􄜄􀑄􄐄􀑐􅀬, 􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐄􀑒􅈄􀑣􆌄􀑝􅴄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐡!
􀐮􂸄􀑐􅀄􀑘􅠄􀑅􄔄􀑓􅌄􀑜􅰄􀑉􄤄􀑏􄼠 􀑕􅔄􀑄􄐄􀑌􄰄􀑑􅄄􀑓􅌄􀑗􅜄􀑄􄐄􀑐􅀠
􀑏􄼄􀑓􅌄􀑗􅜄􀑊􄨄􀑒􅈄􀑓􅌄􀑜􅰄􀑉􄤄􀑏􄼬,
􀐬􂰠 􀑔􅐄􀑕􅔄􀑘􅠄􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌄􀑜􅰄􀑏􄼄􀑍􄴠 􀑕􅔄􀑄􄐄􀑌􄰄􀑅􄔄􀑕􅔄􀑓􅌄􀑖􅘄􀑄􄐄􀑐􅀠
􀑏􄼄􀑓􅌄􀑗􅜄􀑊􄨄􀑒􅈄􀑓􅌄􀑜􅰄􀑉􄤄􀑏􄼬,
􀐣􂌠 􀐰􃀄􀑍􄴄􀑝􅴄􀑉􄤄􀑒􅈄􀑡􆄄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐠 􀑅􄔄􀑠􆀄􀑐􅀠 􀑔􅐄􀑄􄐄􀑍􄴄􀑒􅈄􀑡􆄄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐬,
􀐰􃀄􀑍􄴄􀑝􅴄􀑉􄤄􀑒􅈄􀑡􆄄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐠 􀑅􄔄􀑠􆀄􀑐􅀠 􀑘􅠄􀑑􅄄􀑒􅈄􀑍􄴄􀑛􅬄􀑄􄐮.
􀐣􂌠 􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐄􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐠 􀑌􄰄􀑐􅀄􀑄􄐄􀑤􆐬, 􀑖􅘄􀑗􅜄􀑄􄐄􀑕􅔄􀑄􄐄􀑤􆐬,
􀑘􅠠 􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐄􀑒􅈄􀑍􄴠 􀑒􅈄􀑓􅌄􀑖􅘄􀑍􄴄􀑏􄼠 􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌠 􀑌􄰄􀑄􄐄􀑔􅐄􀑄􄐄􀑜􅰄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐄􀑒􅈄􀑒􅈄􀑠􆀄􀑎􄸮.
􀐰􃀄􀑍􄴄􀑝􅴄􀑄􄐠 􀑜􅰄􀑍􄴄􀑖􅘄􀑗􅜄􀑉􄤄􀑒􅈄􀑡􆄄􀑏􄼄􀑍􄴄􀑎􄸬,
􀑔􅐄􀑕􅔄􀑍􄴄􀑜􅰄􀑉􄤄􀑖􅘄􀑄􄐄􀑒􅈄􀑒􅈄􀑠􆀄􀑎􄸬,
􀐣􂌠 􀑘􅠠 􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐄􀑒􅈄􀑍􄴠 􀑜􅰄􀑉􄤄􀑔􅐄􀑜􅰄􀑍􄴄􀑏􄼠 􀑒􅈄􀑄􄐠 􀑅􄔄􀑓􅌄􀑏􄼄􀑘􅠮.
􀐱􃄄􀑤􆐄􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐠 􀐰􃀄􀑍􄴄􀑝􅴄􀑉􄤄􀑒􅈄􀑡􆄄􀑏􄼄􀑘􅠠 􀑓􅌄􀑅􄔄􀑍􄴄􀑈􄠄􀑉􄤄􀑐􅀄􀑄􄐬,
􀑒􅈄􀑄􄐄􀑔􅐄􀑕􅔄􀑄􄐄􀑖􅘄􀑒􅈄􀑓􅌠 􀑆􄘠 􀑘􅠄􀑇􄜄􀑓􅌄􀑐􅀠 􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑖􅘄􀑗􅜄􀑄􄐄􀑆􄘄􀑍􄴄􀑐􅀄􀑄􄐠
􀐰􃀄􀑍􄴄􀑝􅴄􀑄􄐠 􀑅􄔄􀑓􅌄􀑐􅀄􀑡􆄄􀑝􅴄􀑉􄤠 􀑒􅈄􀑉􄤠 􀑅􄔄􀑘􅠄􀑈􄠄􀑉􄤄􀑗􅜠 􀑐􅀄􀑣􆌄􀑅􄔄􀑍􄴄􀑗􅜄􀑡􆄠
􀑖􅘄􀑆􄘄􀑓􅌄􀑣􆌠
􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐄􀑒􅈄􀑣􆌄􀑝􅴄􀑏􄼄􀑘􅠬, 􀑆􄘄􀑓􅌄􀑗􅜠 􀑜􅰄􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌡!
􀐪􂨄􀑘􅠄􀑏􄼠
􀐱􃄄􀑤􆐄􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐬, 􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐄􀑒􅈄􀑣􆌄􀑝􅴄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐡!
􀑜􅰄􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌠 􀑖􅘄􀑐􅀄􀑘􅠄􀑜􅰄􀑍􄴄􀑐􅀄􀑓􅌄􀑖􅘄􀑡􆄬, 􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐄􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐠 􀑈􄠄􀑘􅠄􀑝􅴄􀑉􄤄􀑒􅈄􀑡􆄄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐡!
􀑃􄌠 􀑍􄴄􀑇􄜄􀑕􅔄􀑄􄐄􀑐􅀠 􀑗􅜄􀑄􄐄􀑑􅄠 􀑒􅈄􀑄􄐠 􀑔􅐄􀑉􄤄􀑖􅘄􀑓􅌄􀑜􅰄􀑏􄼄􀑉􄤬,
􀑌􄰄􀑄􄐠 􀑅􄔄􀑉􄤄􀑖􅘄􀑉􄤄􀑈􄠄􀑏􄼄􀑓􅌄􀑎􄸬, 􀑇􄜄􀑈􄠄􀑉􄤠 􀑅􄔄􀑉􄤄􀑕􅔄􀑊􄨄􀑌􄰄􀑏􄼄􀑍􄴬,
􀐵􃔄􀑗􅜄􀑕􅔄􀑓􅌄􀑍􄴄􀑐􅀠 􀑈􄠄􀑓􅌄􀑑􅄄􀑍􄴄􀑏􄼠 􀑍􄴄􀑌􄰠 􀑐􅀄􀑘􅠄􀑜􅰄􀑍􄴄􀑒􅈄􀑓􅌄􀑜􅰄􀑉􄤄􀑏􄼠
􀑏􄼄􀑐􅀄􀑉􄤄􀑒􅈄􀑓􅌄􀑆􄘄􀑠􆀄􀑚􅨬,
􀐶􃘄􀑉􄤄􀑚􅨬, 􀑜􅰄􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌠 􀑑􅄄􀑒􅈄􀑉􄤠 􀑑􅄄􀑄􄐄􀑑􅄄􀑄􄐬, 􀑖􅘄􀑄􄐄􀑑􅄄􀑄􄐠 􀑑􅄄􀑄􄐄􀑑􅄄􀑄􄐠
I don't want to hear about the wolf again,
Let us leave him!
Let me hear the other, yes! that funny tale!
In the corner
Ah, you, mischievous boy!
My wool is upset, my needles astray,
Dear me!
All my stitches are dropped!
My knitting with ink is bespattered!
To the corner
Go to the corner
Mischievous boy!
I’ve never done a single thing at all, dear
Nanny, Never once did I touch your knitting!
The kitten played around and spoiled your
wool,
And needles all came out because of that.
And Mishenka behaved himself,
Mishenka was as good as gold.
But Nursey is a bad old thing,
and her nose is very dirty;
Misha's hair is smooth and nicely brushed,
Nanny's cap is never straight.
For no earthly reason Nanny's cross,
And I am sent in the corner here.
Little Misha doesn't love you any more
Nanny, so there!
The beetle
Nanny, dear Nanny!
think how awful, let me tell you!
On the grass I sat while playing,
By the arbor near the birches,
Busy building such a pretty house of maple,
With the pieces Mummy dear herself has cut
me.
Finished was my little cottage,
With a roof on, like a proper cottage...
Then!
There came a beetle and sat on my roof,
Big black one, thick and fat, oh! so fat,
His beard started wagging up and down,
His wicked eyes fixed upon me!
I was terrified! and then he buzzed loudly,
Spread his wings wide open
and flew towards me quickly.
􀑒􅈄􀑄􄐄􀑞􅸄􀑉􄤄􀑔􅐄􀑄􄐄􀑐􅀄􀑄􄐮.
􀐧􂜄􀑓􅌄􀑑􅄄􀑍􄴄􀑏􄼠 􀑘􅠄􀑋􄬠 􀑖􅘄􀑓􅌄􀑆􄘄􀑖􅘄􀑉􄤄􀑑􅄠 􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑖􅘄􀑗􅜄􀑕􅔄􀑓􅌄􀑍􄴄􀑐􅀬,
􀐧􂜄􀑓􅌄􀑑􅄄􀑍􄴄􀑏􄼠 􀑖􅘠 􀑏􄼄􀑕􅔄􀑠􆀄􀑝􅴄􀑏􄼄􀑓􅌄􀑎􄸬, 􀑒􅈄􀑄􄐄􀑖􅘄􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌄􀑤􆐄􀑞􅸄􀑍􄴄􀑎􄸠
􀑈􄠄􀑓􅌄􀑑􅄄􀑍􄴄􀑏􄼬,
􀐥􂔄􀑈􄠄􀑕􅔄􀑘􅠄􀑇􄜡!
􀐱􃄄􀑓􅌠 􀑖􅘄􀑄􄐄􀑑􅄄􀑓􅌄􀑎􄸠 􀑏􄼄􀑕􅔄􀑠􆀄􀑝􅴄􀑏􄼄􀑉􄤠 􀑋􄬄􀑘􅠄􀑏􄼠 􀑖􅘄􀑍􄴄􀑈􄠄􀑍􄴄􀑗􅜬,
􀐲􃈄􀑇􄜄􀑕􅔄􀑓􅌄􀑑􅄄􀑒􅈄􀑠􆀄􀑎􄸬, 􀑜􅰄􀑊􄨄􀑕􅔄􀑒􅈄􀑠􆀄􀑎􄸬, 􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌄􀑐􅀄􀑖􅘄􀑗􅜄􀑘􅠄􀑎􄸠
􀑗􅜄􀑄􄐄􀑏􄼄􀑓􅌄􀑎􄸬,
􀑘􅠄􀑖􅘄􀑄􄐄􀑑􅄄􀑍􄴠 􀑝􅴄􀑉􄤄􀑆􄘄􀑉􄤄􀑐􅀄􀑍􄴄􀑗􅜠 􀑖􅘄􀑗􅜄􀑕􅔄􀑄􄐄􀑝􅴄􀑒􅈄􀑓􅌠 􀑗􅜄􀑄􄐄􀑏􄼬,
􀐬􂰠 􀑔􅐄􀑕􅔄􀑤􆐄􀑑􅄄􀑓􅌠 􀑒􅈄􀑄􄐠 􀑑􅄄􀑉􄤄􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐠 􀑆􄘄􀑖􅘄􀑊􄨠 􀑖􅘄􀑑􅄄􀑓􅌄􀑗􅜄􀑕􅔄􀑍􄴄􀑗􅜡!
􀐬􂰄􀑖􅘄􀑔􅐄􀑘􅠄􀑇􄜄􀑄􄐄􀑐􅀄􀑖􅘄􀑤􆐠 􀑤􆐡! 􀐣􂌠 􀑋􄬄􀑘􅠄􀑏􄼠 􀑇􄜄􀑘􅠄􀑈􄠄􀑍􄴄􀑗􅜬,
􀑌􄰄􀑐􅀄􀑍􄴄􀑗􅜄􀑖􅘄􀑤􆐬,
􀐮􂸄􀑕􅔄􀑠􆀄􀑐􅀄􀑡􆄄􀑤􆐠 􀑕􅔄􀑄􄐄􀑖􅘄􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌄􀑔􅐄􀑠􆀄􀑕􅔄􀑍􄴄􀑐􅀬,
􀑖􅘄􀑚􅨄􀑆􄘄􀑄􄐄􀑗􅜄􀑍􄴄􀑗􅜄􀑡􆄠 􀑑􅄄􀑉􄤄􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐠 􀑚􅨄􀑓􅌄􀑜􅰄􀑉􄤄􀑗􅜡! . . .
􀐬􂰠 􀑒􅈄􀑄􄐄􀑐􅀄􀑉􄤄􀑗􅜄􀑉􄤄􀑐􅀬, 􀑆􄘠 􀑆􄘄􀑍􄴄􀑖􅘄􀑓􅌄􀑜􅰄􀑉􄤄􀑏􄼠 􀑑􅄄􀑉􄤄􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐠
􀑘􅠄􀑈􄠄􀑄􄐄􀑕􅔄􀑍􄴄􀑐􅀡!
􀑃􄌠 􀑔􅐄􀑕􅔄􀑍􄴄􀑗􅜄􀑄􄐄􀑍􄴄􀑐􅀄􀑖􅘄􀑤􆐬, 􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐄􀑒􅈄􀑣􆌄􀑝􅴄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐬,
􀑔􅐄􀑕􅔄􀑍􄴄􀑖􅘄􀑉􄤄􀑐􅀬, 􀑅􄔄􀑓􅌄􀑣􆌄􀑖􅘄􀑡􆄠
􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑝􅴄􀑉􄤄􀑆􄘄􀑉􄤄􀑐􅀄􀑡􆄄􀑒􅈄􀑘􅠄􀑗􅜄􀑡􆄄􀑖􅘄􀑤􆐡!
􀐶􃘄􀑓􅌄􀑐􅀄􀑡􆄄􀑏􄼄􀑓􅌠 􀑇􄜄􀑐􅀄􀑄􄐄􀑌􄰄􀑓􅌄􀑏􄼠 􀑓􅌄􀑈􄠄􀑍􄴄􀑒􅈠 􀑜􅰄􀑘􅠄􀑗􅜄􀑡􆄭-􀑜􅰄􀑘􅠄􀑗􅜄􀑡􆄠
􀑓􅌄􀑗􅜄􀑏􄼄􀑕􅔄􀑠􆀄􀑐􅀬,
􀐬􂰠 􀑜􅰄􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌭-􀑋􄬄􀑉􄤬, 􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑖􅘄􀑐􅀄􀑘􅠄􀑝􅴄􀑄􄐄􀑎􄸬, 􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐄􀑒􅈄􀑣􆌄􀑝􅴄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐺:
􀐪􂨄􀑘􅠄􀑏􄼠 􀑐􅀄􀑉􄤄􀑋􄬄􀑍􄴄􀑗􅜬, 􀑖􅘄􀑐􅀄􀑓􅌄􀑋􄬄􀑍􄴄􀑆􄘄􀑝􅴄􀑍􄴠 􀑐􅀄􀑄􄐄􀑔􅐄􀑏􄼄􀑍􄴬,
􀑏􄼄􀑆􄘄􀑉􄤄􀑕􅔄􀑚􅨄􀑘􅠠 􀑒􅈄􀑓􅌄􀑖􅘄􀑍􄴄􀑏􄼄􀑓􅌄􀑑􅄬, 􀑒􅈄􀑄􄐠 􀑖􅘄􀑔􅐄􀑍􄴄􀑒􅈄􀑏􄼄􀑉􄤬,
􀐬􂰠 􀑘􅠄􀑋􄬠 􀑒􅈄􀑉􄤠 􀑌􄰄􀑐􅀄􀑍􄴄􀑗􅜄􀑖􅘄􀑤􆐬, 􀑍􄴠 􀑘􅠄􀑖􅘄􀑄􄐄􀑑􅄄􀑍􄴠 􀑒􅈄􀑉􄤠
􀑝􅴄􀑉􄤄􀑆􄘄􀑉􄤄􀑐􅀄􀑍􄴄􀑗􅜬,
􀐬􂰠 􀑒􅈄􀑉􄤠 􀑇􄜄􀑘􅠄􀑈􄠄􀑍􄴄􀑗􅜠 􀑘􅠄􀑋􄬬, 􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌄􀑐􅀄􀑡􆄄􀑏􄼄􀑓􅌠
􀑏􄼄􀑕􅔄􀑠􆀄􀑐􅀄􀑠􆀄􀑝􅴄􀑏􄼄􀑍􄴠 􀑈􄠄􀑕􅔄􀑓􅌄􀑋􄬄􀑄􄐄􀑗􅜮.
􀐻􃬄􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌭-􀑋􄬬, 􀑓􅌄􀑒􅈠 􀑘􅠄􀑑􅄄􀑉􄤄􀑕􅔬, 􀑍􄴄􀑐􅀄􀑡􆄠
􀑔􅐄􀑕􅔄􀑍􄴄􀑗􅜄􀑆􄘄􀑓􅌄􀑕􅔄􀑍􄴄􀑐􅀄􀑖􅘄􀑤􆐿?
􀐻􃬄􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌭-􀑋􄬠 􀑢􆈄􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌬, 􀑜􅰄􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌭-􀑋􄬄􀑉􄤬,
􀑖􅘄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐄􀑋􄬄􀑍􄴠 􀑑􅄄􀑒􅈄􀑉􄤬, 􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐄􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐬, 􀑖􅘠 􀑋􄬄􀑘􅠄􀑏􄼄􀑓􅌄􀑑􅄭-􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌠
􀑖􅘄􀑗􅜄􀑄􄐄􀑐􅀄􀑓􅌄􀑖􅘄􀑡􆄿?
􀐰􃀄􀑉􄤄􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐠 􀑘􅠄􀑈􄠄􀑄􄐄􀑕􅔄􀑍􄴄􀑐􅀬, 􀑄􄐠 􀑖􅘄􀑄􄐄􀑑􅄠 􀑖􅘄􀑆􄘄􀑄􄐄􀑐􅀄􀑍􄴄􀑐􅀄􀑖􅘄􀑤􆐡!
􀐻􃬄􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌭-􀑋􄬠 􀑢􆈄􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌠 􀑖􅘠 􀑒􅈄􀑍􄴄􀑑􅄠 􀑖􅘄􀑗􅜄􀑄􄐄􀑐􅀄􀑓􅌄􀑖􅘄􀑡􆄬, 􀑖􅘠
􀑋􄬄􀑘􅠄􀑏􄼄􀑓􅌄􀑑􅄭-􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌡!
􀐵􃔠 􀑏􄼄􀑘􅠄􀑏􄼄􀑐􅀄􀑓􅌄􀑎􄸠
􀐶􃘄􀑤􆐄􀑔􅐄􀑄􄐬, 􀑅􄔄􀑄􄐄􀑎􄸬, 􀑅􄔄􀑄􄐄􀑎􄸬, 􀐶􃘄􀑤􆐄􀑔􅐄􀑄􄐬, 􀑖􅘄􀑔􅐄􀑍􄴬, 􀑘􅠄􀑖􅘄􀑒􅈄􀑍􄴬,
􀐷􃜄􀑇􄜄􀑓􅌄􀑑􅄄􀑓􅌄􀑒􅈠 􀑗􅜄􀑉􄤄􀑅􄔄􀑤􆐠 􀑆􄘄􀑓􅌄􀑌􄰄􀑡􆄄􀑑􅄄􀑍􄴡! 􀐶􃘄􀑤􆐄􀑔􅐄􀑄􄐡!
􀐵􃔄􀑔􅐄􀑄􄐄􀑗􅜄􀑡􆄠 􀑒􅈄􀑄􄐄􀑈􄠄􀑓􅌡!
􀐶􃘄􀑤􆐄􀑔􅐄􀑄􄐬, 􀑖􅘄􀑔􅐄􀑍􄴬, 􀑘􅠄􀑖􅘄􀑒􅈄􀑍􄴬, 􀐶􃘄􀑤􆐄􀑔􅐄􀑘􅠠 􀑅􄔄􀑘􅠄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐠
􀑖􅘄􀑟􀑉􄤄􀑖􅘄􀑗􅜬,
􀑖􅘄􀑉􄤄􀑕􅔄􀑠􆀄􀑎􄸠 􀑆􄘄􀑓􅌄􀑐􅀄􀑏􄼠 􀑆􄘄􀑓􅌄􀑌􄰄􀑡􆄄􀑑􅄄􀑊􄨄􀑗􅜬,
􀐥􂔠 􀑗􅜄􀑊􄨄􀑑􅄄􀑒􅈄􀑠􆀄􀑎􄸠 􀑐􅀄􀑉􄤄􀑖􅘠 􀑖􅘄􀑒􅈄􀑉􄤄􀑖􅘄􀑊􄨄􀑗􅜮.
􀐶􃘄􀑤􆐄􀑔􅐄􀑄􄐬, 􀑖􅘄􀑔􅐄􀑍􄴬, 􀑘􅠄􀑖􅘄􀑒􅈄􀑍􄴡!
􀐻􃬄􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌠 􀑆􄘄􀑓􅌠 􀑖􅘄􀑒􅈄􀑉􄤠 􀑘􅠄􀑆􄘄􀑍􄴄􀑈􄠄􀑍􄴄􀑝􅴄􀑡􆄬, 􀑑􅄄􀑒􅈄􀑉􄤠 􀑔􅐄􀑕􅔄􀑓􅌠 􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌠
And with a bound he hit me upon my temple.
So I bent down, Nanny dear,
Sat still and hardly dared to breathe!
One little peep I gave out of my eyes...
And fancy, what do you think, Nanny?
On his back there lay the beetle,
Held both feet together folded,
No longer angry, and his beard had ceased to
waggle,
No buzz left in him, just his wings could move
a bit.
Was he dead then, or only foxing?
What was he up to?
Oh tell me, Nanny! What's your opinion?
A blow he gave me, perhaps his last one!
What was he up to, that beetle?
With Dolly
Hush-a-by, Dolly, go to sleep!
Close your little eyes! Dolly! Sleep, will you!
Dolly, go to sleep, for if you're not good,
Great big wolf will come,
and steal you from home.
Dolly, go to sleep.
And you shall have sweet dreams,
Of fairies' gardens, lots of fruit-trees growing,
But when no one's looking
Fruit is turned to cakes and candy!
Come now, go to sleep, to sleep, Dolly!
At Bedtime
"Gentle God, watch over father and mother,
Bless, and keep them safe from harm!
Gentle God, watch over brother Vasenka
and brother Mishenka.
God, watch over Grandma who is so kind!
Give unto her years of health and happiness!
She is so very good,
she is so very old, God!
And bless, our Lord, aunt Katya,
Aunt Natasha, aunt Masha, aunt Parasha,
􀑕􅔄􀑄􄐄􀑖􅘄􀑖􅘄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐄􀑋􄬄􀑉􄤄􀑝􅴄􀑡􆄺:
􀐳􃌄􀑕􅔄􀑓􅌠 􀑓􅌄􀑖􅘄􀑗􅜄􀑕􅔄􀑓􅌄􀑆􄘠 􀑜􅰄􀑘􅠄􀑈􄠄􀑒􅈄􀑠􆀄􀑎􄸬, 􀑇􄜄􀑈􄠄􀑉􄤠 􀑒􅈄􀑍􄴠
􀑋􄬄􀑒􅈄􀑘􅠄􀑗􅜠 􀑒􅈄􀑍􄴠 􀑖􅘄􀑉􄤄􀑣􆌄􀑗􅜬,
􀐦􂘄􀑈􄠄􀑉􄤠 􀑛􅬄􀑆􄘄􀑉􄤄􀑗􅜄􀑘􅠄􀑗􅜠 􀑍􄴠 􀑌􄰄􀑕􅔄􀑉􄤄􀑣􆌄􀑗􅜠 􀑇􄜄􀑕􅔄􀑘􅠄􀑝􅴄􀑍􄴠
􀑒􅈄􀑄􄐄􀑐􅀄􀑍􄴄􀑆􄘄􀑒􅈄􀑠􆀄􀑉􄤬,
􀐧􂜄􀑉􄤄􀑒􅈄􀑡􆄠 􀑍􄴠 􀑒􅈄􀑓􅌄􀑜􅰄􀑡􆄠 􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑣􆌄􀑗􅜠 􀑔􅐄􀑗􅜄􀑍􄴄􀑜􅰄􀑏􄼄􀑍􄴠
􀑌􄰄􀑓􅌄􀑐􅀄􀑓􅌄􀑗􅜄􀑠􆀄􀑉􄤡!
􀐤􂐄􀑄􄐄􀑎􄸬, 􀑅􄔄􀑄􄐄􀑎􄸬, 􀑅􄔄􀑄􄐄􀑣􆌠 􀑅􄔄􀑄􄐄􀑎􄸬, 􀑅􄔄􀑄􄐄􀑎􄸬, 􀑅􄔄􀑄􄐄􀑎􄸬, 􀐶􃘄􀑤􆐄􀑔􅐄􀑄􄐡!
􀐱􃄄􀑄􄐠 􀑖􅘄􀑓􅌄􀑒􅈠 􀑇􄜄􀑕􅔄􀑤􆐄􀑈􄠄􀑘􅠄􀑞􅸄􀑍􄴄􀑎􄸠
,,􀐦􂘄􀑓􅌄􀑖􅘄􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑈􄠄􀑍􄴠 􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑑􅄄􀑍􄴄􀑐􅀄􀑘􅠄􀑎􄸠 􀑔􅐄􀑄􄐄􀑔􅐄􀑘􅠠 􀑍􄴠 􀑑􅄄􀑄􄐄􀑑􅄄􀑘􅠠
􀑍􄴠 􀑖􅘄􀑔􅐄􀑄􄐄􀑖􅘄􀑍􄴠 􀑍􄴄􀑚􅨬, 􀐦􂘄􀑓􅌄􀑖􅘄􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑈􄠄􀑍􄴡!
􀐦􂘄􀑓􅌄􀑖􅘄􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑈􄠄􀑍􄴠 􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑑􅄄􀑍􄴄􀑐􅀄􀑘􅠄􀑎􄸠 􀑅􄔄􀑕􅔄􀑄􄐄􀑗􅜄􀑛􅬄􀑄􄐠
􀐥􂔄􀑄􄐄􀑖􅘄􀑉􄤄􀑒􅈄􀑡􆄄􀑏􄼄􀑘􅠠
􀑍􄴠 􀑅􄔄􀑕􅔄􀑄􄐄􀑗􅜄􀑛􅬄􀑄􄐠 􀐰􃀄􀑍􄴄􀑝􅴄􀑉􄤄􀑒􅈄􀑡􆄄􀑏􄼄􀑘􅠡!
􀐦􂘄􀑓􅌄􀑖􅘄􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑈􄠄􀑍􄴠 􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑑􅄄􀑍􄴄􀑐􅀄􀑘􅠄􀑎􄸠 􀑅􄔄􀑄􄐄􀑅􄔄􀑘􅠄􀑝􅴄􀑏􄼄􀑘􅠠
􀑖􅘄􀑗􅜄􀑄􄐄􀑕􅔄􀑉􄤄􀑒􅈄􀑡􆄄􀑏􄼄􀑘􅠄􀑣􆌬,
􀐳􃌄􀑓􅌄􀑝􅴄􀑐􅀄􀑍􄴠 􀑗􅜄􀑠􆀠 􀑉􄤄􀑎􄸠 􀑈􄠄􀑓􅌄􀑅􄔄􀑕􅔄􀑓􅌄􀑉􄤠
􀑌􄰄􀑈􄠄􀑓􅌄􀑕􅔄􀑓􅌄􀑆􄘄􀑡􆄄􀑍􄴄􀑛􅬄􀑉􄤬,
􀐤􂐄􀑄􄐄􀑅􄔄􀑘􅠄􀑝􅴄􀑏􄼄􀑉􄤠 􀑈􄠄􀑓􅌄􀑅􄔄􀑕􅔄􀑉􄤄􀑒􅈄􀑡􆄄􀑏􄼄􀑓􅌄􀑎􄸬,
􀑅􄔄􀑄􄐄􀑅􄔄􀑘􅠄􀑝􅴄􀑏􄼄􀑉􄤠 􀑖􅘄􀑗􅜄􀑄􄐄􀑕􅔄􀑉􄤄􀑒􅈄􀑡􆄄􀑏􄼄􀑓􅌄􀑎􄸬, 􀐦􂘄􀑓􅌄􀑖􅘄􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑈􄠄􀑍􄴡!
􀐬􂰠 􀑖􅘄􀑔􅐄􀑄􄐄􀑖􅘄􀑍􄴬, 􀐤􂐄􀑓􅌄􀑋􄬄􀑉􄤠 􀑒􅈄􀑄􄐄􀑝􅴬, 􀑗􅜄􀑊􄨄􀑗􅜄􀑣􆌠 􀐮􂸄􀑄􄐄􀑗􅜄􀑣􆌬,
􀑗􅜄􀑊􄨄􀑗􅜄􀑣􆌠 􀐱􃄄􀑄􄐄􀑗􅜄􀑄􄐄􀑝􅴄􀑘􅠬, 􀑗􅜄􀑊􄨄􀑗􅜄􀑣􆌠 􀐰􃀄􀑄􄐄􀑝􅴄􀑘􅠬, 􀑗􅜄􀑊􄨄􀑗􅜄􀑣􆌠
􀐳􃌄􀑄􄐄􀑕􅔄􀑄􄐄􀑝􅴄􀑘􅠬,
􀐶􃘄􀑊􄨄􀑗􅜄􀑉􄤄􀑎􄸠 􀐯􂼄􀑣􆌄􀑅􄔄􀑘􅠬, 􀐥􂔄􀑄􄐄􀑕􅔄􀑣􆌬, 􀑍􄴠 􀐵􃔄􀑄􄐄􀑝􅴄􀑘􅠬,
􀑍􄴠 􀐲􃈄􀑐􅀄􀑣􆌬, 􀑍􄴠 􀐶􃘄􀑄􄐄􀑒􅈄􀑣􆌬, 􀑍􄴠 􀐱􃄄􀑄􄐄􀑈􄠄􀑣􆌬,
􀐧􂜄􀑤􆐄􀑈􄠄􀑉􄤄􀑎􄸠 􀐳􃌄􀑉􄤄􀑗􅜄􀑣􆌠 􀑍􄴠 􀐮􂸄􀑓􅌄􀑐􅀄􀑣􆌬, 􀑈􄠄􀑤􆐄􀑈􄠄􀑉􄤄􀑎􄸠
􀐥􂔄􀑓􅌄􀑐􅀄􀑓􅌄􀑈􄠄􀑣􆌠
􀑍􄴠 􀐦􂘄􀑕􅔄􀑍􄴄􀑝􅴄􀑘􅠬, 􀑍􄴠 􀐵􃔄􀑄􄐄􀑝􅴄􀑘􅠬, 􀑍􄴠 􀑆􄘄􀑖􅘄􀑉􄤄􀑚􅨠 􀑍􄴄􀑚􅨬,
􀐦􂘄􀑓􅌄􀑖􅘄􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑈􄠄􀑍􄴬, 􀑖􅘄􀑔􅐄􀑄􄐄􀑖􅘄􀑍􄴠 􀑍􄴠 􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑑􅄄􀑍􄴄􀑐􅀄􀑘􅠄􀑎􄸬,
􀑍􄴠 􀐸􃠄􀑍􄴄􀑐􅀄􀑣􆌬, 􀑍􄴠 􀐥􂔄􀑄􄐄􀑒􅈄􀑣􆌬, 􀑍􄴠 􀐰􃀄􀑍􄴄􀑗􅜄􀑣􆌬, 􀑍􄴠 􀐳􃌄􀑉􄤄􀑗􅜄􀑣􆌬,
􀑍􄴠 􀐧􂜄􀑄􄐄􀑝􅴄􀑘􅠬, 􀐳􃌄􀑄􄐄􀑝􅴄􀑘􅠬, 􀐵􃔄􀑓􅌄􀑒􅈄􀑣􆌬, 􀐧􂜄􀑘􅠄􀑒􅈄􀑣􆌄􀑝􅴄􀑏􄼄􀑘􅠮. . .
􀐱􃄄􀑤􆐄􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐡! 􀑄􄐬, 􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐄􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐡! 􀐮􂸄􀑄􄐄􀑏􄼠 􀑈􄠄􀑄􄐄􀑐􅀄􀑡􆄄􀑝􅴄􀑉􄤬, 􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐄􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐿?``
,,􀐥􂔄􀑍􄴄􀑝􅴄􀑡􆄠 􀑗􅜄􀑠􆀬, 􀑔􅐄􀑕􅔄􀑓􅌄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐄􀑌􄰄􀑒􅈄􀑍􄴄􀑛􅬄􀑄􄐠 􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐄􀑤􆐡!
􀐷􃜄􀑋􄬠 􀑖􅘄􀑏􄼄􀑓􅌄􀑐􅀄􀑡􆄄􀑏􄼄􀑓􅌠 􀑕􅔄􀑄􄐄􀑌􄰠 􀑘􅠄􀑜􅰄􀑍􄴄􀑐􅀄􀑄􄐺:
􀐦􂘄􀑓􅌄􀑖􅘄􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑈􄠄􀑍􄴠 􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑑􅄄􀑍􄴄􀑐􅀄􀑘􅠄􀑎􄸠 􀑍􄴠 􀑑􅄄􀑉􄤄􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐠
􀑇􄜄􀑕􅔄􀑉􄤄􀑝􅴄􀑒􅈄􀑘􅠄􀑣􆌡!``
,,􀐦􂘄􀑓􅌄􀑖􅘄􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑈􄠄􀑍􄴠 􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑑􅄄􀑍􄴄􀑐􅀄􀑘􅠄􀑎􄸠 􀑍􄴠 􀑑􅄄􀑉􄤄􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐠
􀑇􄜄􀑕􅔄􀑉􄤄􀑝􅴄􀑒􅈄􀑘􅠄􀑣􆌡!
􀐶􃘄􀑄􄐄􀑏􄼬, 􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐄􀑒􅈄􀑣􆌄􀑝􅴄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐿?``
􀐳􃌄􀑓􅌄􀑉􄤄􀑚􅨄􀑄􄐄􀑐􅀠 􀑒􅈄􀑄􄐠 􀑔􅐄􀑄􄐄􀑐􅀄􀑓􅌄􀑜􅰄􀑏􄼄􀑉􄤠
,,􀐦􂘄􀑉􄤄􀑎􄸡! 􀐦􂘄􀑓􅌄􀑔􅐬, 􀑇􄜄􀑓􅌄􀑔􅐡! 􀐦􂘄􀑉􄤄􀑎􄸬, 􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑈􄠄􀑍􄴡! 􀐦􂘄􀑉􄤄􀑎􄸡! 􀐦􂘄􀑉􄤄􀑎􄸡!
􀐶􃘄􀑄􄐬, ..., 􀑗􅜄􀑄􄐬, 􀑇􄜄􀑉􄤄􀑎􄸡! 􀐶􃘄􀑄􄐬, ..., 􀑗􅜄􀑄􄐬, 􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑈􄠄􀑍􄴡!
􀐶􃘄􀑔􅐄􀑕􅔄􀑘􅠡! . . . 􀑖􅘄􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌄􀑎􄸡! 􀐥􂔄􀑄􄐄􀑖􅘄􀑤􆐬, 􀑄􄐠 􀐥􂔄􀑄􄐄􀑖􅘄􀑤􆐡!
􀐵􃔄􀑐􅀄􀑘􅠄􀑝􅴄􀑄􄐄􀑎􄸬, 􀑔􅐄􀑕􅔄􀑍􄴄􀑚􅨄􀑓􅌄􀑈􄠄􀑍􄴠 􀑍􄴄􀑇􄜄􀑕􅔄􀑄􄐄􀑗􅜄􀑡􆄠
And my aunties Lyuba, Varya and Sasha,
and Olya, and Tanya, and Nadya,
Uncles Petya and Kolya, uncles Volodya
and Grisha, and Sasha, and the rest of them.
God, protect and defend them,
With Filya and Vanya and Mitya, and Petya
And Dasha, Pasha, Sonya, Dunyushka...
Nanny, do tell me what comes next?"
"Really, what a dreadful memory!
How often must I tell you:
God, watch over and protect little me."
God, watch over and protect little me.
Now is it right, Nanny?"
Riding the Hobby Horse
"Hi! Trot! Trot, trot! get along! Gee up! Gee up!
Gee up! Gee up! One we go! Still faster!
Enough! Who, whoa! Vasya, hi Vasya!
Listen, will you come and play this evening?
Come very early!
Gee up now! trot! Goodbye, Vasya!
I've to go a distance...
But I'll be home long before it's dark,
For you know I'm put to bed so dreadfully
early...
Promise don't be late!
Gee up! Still faster!
Gee up! Hi, quickly, trot, trot!
Oh it hurts! Oh, my leg! Oh it hurts! Oh my
leg!..."
"My darling, what's the matter?
You mustn't cry now,
It will soon be better, my love!
Come, stand up properly:
There, my child, Look isn't that lovely!
Can you see?
In the bushes on the left! Oh, what a wonderful
little bird!
What wonderful plumage!
See it? Now come! All right?"
"All right! I have been to Yukki, mummy!
And now I must quickly travel home!
Trot, trot! Visitors are coming, trot!
We must hurry!..."
􀑖􅘄􀑉􄤄􀑇􄜄􀑓􅌄􀑈􄠄􀑒􅈄􀑤􆐡!
􀐶􃘄􀑓􅌄􀑐􅀄􀑡􆄄􀑏􄼄􀑓􅌠 􀑒􅈄􀑉􄤠 􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑌􄰄􀑈􄠄􀑒􅈄􀑓􅌡!
􀐱􃄄􀑘􅠠 􀑗􅜄􀑠􆀬, 􀑇􄜄􀑓􅌄􀑔􅐡! 􀐦􂘄􀑓􅌄􀑔􅐡! 􀐳􃌄􀑕􅔄􀑓􅌄􀑞􅸄􀑄􄐄􀑎􄸬, 􀐥􂔄􀑄􄐄􀑖􅘄􀑤􆐡!
􀑃􄌠 􀑆􄘠 􀑂􄈄􀑏􄼄􀑏􄼄􀑍􄴠 􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑉􄤄􀑚􅨄􀑄􄐄􀑐􅀮...
􀐶􃘄􀑓􅌄􀑐􅀄􀑡􆄄􀑏􄼄􀑓􅌠 􀑏􄼠 􀑆􄘄􀑉􄤄􀑜􅰄􀑉􄤄􀑕􅔄􀑘􅠠 􀑒􅈄􀑉􄤄􀑔􅐄􀑕􅔄􀑉􄤄􀑑􅄄􀑉􄤄􀑒􅈄􀑒􅈄􀑓􅌠
􀑅􄔄􀑘􅠄􀑈􄠄􀑘􅠬,
􀐰􃀄􀑠􆀠 􀑆􄘄􀑉􄤄􀑈􄠄􀑡􆄠 􀑕􅔄􀑄􄐄􀑒􅈄􀑓􅌬, 􀑓􅌄􀑜􅰄􀑉􄤄􀑒􅈄􀑡􆄠 􀑕􅔄􀑄􄐄􀑒􅈄􀑓􅌠
􀑖􅘄􀑔􅐄􀑄􄐄􀑗􅜄􀑡􆄠 􀑐􅀄􀑓􅌄􀑋􄬄􀑍􄴄􀑑􅄄􀑖􅘄􀑤􆐮...
􀐳􃌄􀑕􅔄􀑍􄴄􀑚􅨄􀑓􅌄􀑈􄠄􀑍􄴬, 􀑖􅘄􀑑􅄄􀑓􅌄􀑗􅜄􀑕􅔄􀑍􄴡!
􀐶􃘄􀑄􄐬, ... 􀑗􅜄􀑄􄐬, 􀑇􄜄􀑉􄤄􀑎􄸡! 􀐶􃘄􀑄􄐬, ..., 􀑗􅜄􀑄􄐬, 􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑈􄠄􀑍􄴡!
􀐦􂘄􀑓􅌄􀑔􅐡! 􀐦􂘄􀑉􄤄􀑎􄸬, 􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑈􄠄􀑍􄴡! 􀐦􂘄􀑉􄤄􀑎􄸬, 􀑇􄜄􀑉􄤄􀑎􄸠 􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑈􄠄􀑍􄴡! 􀐦􂘄􀑉􄤄􀑎􄸬,
􀑇􄜄􀑉􄤄􀑎􄸡! 􀐴􃐄􀑄􄐄􀑌􄰄􀑈􄠄􀑄􄐄􀑆􄘄􀑐􅀄􀑣􆌡!
􀐲􃈄􀑎􄸬, 􀑅􄔄􀑓􅌄􀑐􅀄􀑡􆄄􀑒􅈄􀑓􅌡! 􀐲􃈄􀑎􄸬, 􀑒􅈄􀑓􅌄􀑇􄜄􀑘􅠡! 􀐲􃈄􀑎􄸬, 􀑅􄔄􀑓􅌄􀑐􅀄􀑡􆄄􀑒􅈄􀑓􅌡!
􀐲􃈄􀑎􄸬, 􀑒􅈄􀑓􅌄􀑇􄜄􀑘􅠮. . . ``
,,􀐰􃀄􀑍􄴄􀑐􅀄􀑠􆀄􀑎􄸠 􀑑􅄄􀑓􅌄􀑎􄸬, 􀑑􅄄􀑓􅌄􀑎􄸠 􀑑􅄄􀑄􄐄􀑐􅀄􀑡􆄄􀑜􅰄􀑍􄴄􀑏􄼬, 􀑜􅰄􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌠 􀑌􄰄􀑄􄐠
􀑇􄜄􀑓􅌄􀑕􅔄􀑉􄤿?
􀐱􃄄􀑘􅠬, 􀑔􅐄􀑓􅌄􀑐􅀄􀑒􅈄􀑓􅌠 􀑔􅐄􀑐􅀄􀑄􄐄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐄􀑗􅜄􀑡􆄡!
􀐳􃌄􀑕􅔄􀑓􅌄􀑎􄸄􀑈􄠄􀑊􄨄􀑗􅜬, 􀑑􅄄􀑓􅌄􀑎􄸠 􀑈􄠄􀑕􅔄􀑘􅠄􀑇􄜡!
􀐳􃌄􀑓􅌄􀑖􅘄􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌄􀑎􄸭-􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐬, 􀑆􄘄􀑖􅘄􀑗􅜄􀑄􄐄􀑒􅈄􀑡􆄠 􀑒􅈄􀑄􄐠 􀑒􅈄􀑓􅌄􀑋􄬄􀑏􄼄􀑍􄴠
􀑔􅐄􀑕􅔄􀑤􆐄􀑑􅄄􀑓􅌺:
􀐥􂔄􀑓􅌄􀑗􅜠 􀑗􅜄􀑄􄐄􀑏􄼬, 􀑈􄠄􀑍􄴄􀑗􅜄􀑤􆐡! 􀐳􃌄􀑓􅌄􀑖􅘄􀑑􅄄􀑓􅌄􀑗􅜄􀑕􅔄􀑍􄴬, 􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐄􀑤􆐠
􀑔􅐄􀑕􅔄􀑉􄤄􀑐􅀄􀑉􄤄􀑖􅘄􀑗􅜄􀑡􆄡!
􀐥􂔄􀑍􄴄􀑈􄠄􀑍􄴄􀑝􅴄􀑡􆄿?
􀐥􂔠 􀑏􄼄􀑘􅠄􀑖􅘄􀑗􅜄􀑄􄐄􀑚􅨠 􀑒􅈄􀑄􄐄􀑐􅀄􀑉􄤄􀑆􄘄􀑓􅌡! 􀐣􂌄􀑚􅨬, 􀑜􅰄􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌠 􀑌􄰄􀑄􄐠
􀑔􅐄􀑗􅜄􀑍􄴄􀑜􅰄􀑏􄼄􀑄􄐠 􀑈􄠄􀑍􄴄􀑆􄘄􀑒􅈄􀑄􄐄􀑤􆐡!
􀐻􃬄􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌠 􀑌􄰄􀑄􄐠 􀑔􅐄􀑊􄨄􀑕􅔄􀑠􆀄􀑝􅴄􀑏􄼄􀑍􄴡!
􀐥􂔄􀑍􄴄􀑈􄠄􀑍􄴄􀑝􅴄􀑡􆄿? ... 􀐱􃄄􀑘􅠠 􀑜􅰄􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌿? 􀐳􃌄􀑕􅔄􀑓􅌄􀑝􅴄􀑐􅀄􀑓􅌿?``
,,􀐳􃌄􀑕􅔄􀑓􅌄􀑝􅴄􀑐􅀄􀑓􅌡! 􀑃􄌠 􀑆􄘠 􀑂􄈄􀑏􄼄􀑏􄼄􀑍􄴠 􀑖􅘄􀑟􀑉􄤄􀑌􄰄􀑈􄠄􀑍􄴄􀑐􅀬, 􀑑􅄄􀑄􄐄􀑑􅄄􀑄􄐡!
􀐶􃘄􀑉􄤄􀑔􅐄􀑉􄤄􀑕􅔄􀑡􆄠 􀑈􄠄􀑓􅌄􀑑􅄄􀑓􅌄􀑎􄸠 􀑗􅜄􀑓􅌄􀑕􅔄􀑓􅌄􀑔􅐄􀑍􄴄􀑗􅜄􀑡􆄄􀑖􅘄􀑤􆐠
􀑒􅈄􀑄􄐄􀑈􄠄􀑓􅌠 ...
􀐦􂘄􀑓􅌄􀑔􅐡! 􀐦􂘄􀑓􅌄􀑔􅐡! 􀐦􂘄􀑓􅌄􀑖􅘄􀑗􅜄􀑍􄴠 􀑅􄔄􀑘􅠄􀑈􄠄􀑘􅠄􀑗􅜮... 􀐦􂘄􀑓􅌄􀑔􅐡!
􀐶􃘄􀑓􅌄􀑕􅔄􀑓􅌄􀑔􅐄􀑍􄴄􀑗􅜄􀑡􆄄􀑖􅘄􀑤􆐠 􀑒􅈄􀑄􄐄􀑈􄠄􀑓􅌡!...``
Xavier Montsalvatge:
Canciones para niños
Text by Frederico Garcia Lorca
I. Paisaje
La tarde equivocada se vistió de frio.
Detrás de los cristales turbios, todos los niños,
Ven convertirse en pájaros un árbol amarillo.
La tarde está tendida a lo largo del rio.
Y un rubor de manzana tiembla en los
tejadillos.
II. El largato está llorando
El largato está llorando
La largata está llorando.
El largato y la largata
Songs for Children
Landscape
The mistaken afternoon got dressed in cold.
Behind the windows, misted up, all the children
See turned into birds the yellow tree.
The afternoon is stretched along the river.
And a red flush of apple trembles on the
rooftops.
Mr. Lizard is crying
Mr. Lizard is crying.
Mrs. Lizard is crying.
Mr. and Mrs. Lizard are crying
in their little white aprons.
They have lost by accident
their wedding ring.
Oh dear, their ring of lead!
Oh dear, their little leaden ring!
A large, unpopulated sky
Takes the birds up in its balloon.
The sun, that round captain,
wears a silk jacket.
See how old they are!
How old are the lizards!
Oh dear, how they cry and cry!
Oh dear, how they are crying!
Conch
They’ve brought me a conch.
Inside it sings
an ocean atlas.
My heart
is filled with water
and little fish
of shade and silver.
They’ve brought me a conch.
Silly Song
Mama. I want to be made of silver.
Son you will be very cold.
Mama. I want to be made of water.
Son you will be very cold.
Con delantalitos blancos.
Han perdido sin querer
su anillo de deposados.
Ay su anillo de plomo!
Ay su anillito plomado!
Un cielo grande sin gente
Montaba en globo a los pájaros. Ah.
El sol, capitán redondo
Lleva un chalesco raso.
Mi radlos que viejos son!
Que viejos son los largatos!
Ay, como lloran y lloran!
Ay, como están llorando.
III. Caracola
Me han traido una caracola.
Dentro le canta
un mar de mapa.
Mi Corazon
se lllena de agua
son pececillos
de sombra y plata.
Me han traido una caracola.
IV. Cancion Tonta
Mamá. Yo quiero ser de plata
Hijo tendrás mucho frio.
Mamá. Yo quiero ser de agua.
Hijo tendrás mucho frio.
Mamá. Bórdame en tu almohada
Eso si! Ahora mismo!
V. Cancion China en Europa
La señorita del abanico,
va por el Puente del fresco rio.
Los caballeros con sus leivitas,
miran el Puente sin baradillas.
La señorita del abanico
y los volantes busca marido.
Los caballeros están casados
con altas rubias de idioma blanco.
Los grillos cantan por el Oeste.
Mama, embroider me into your pillowcase.
Of course! Right away.
Chinese song in Europe
The woman with the fan
is crossing the bridge of the cool stream.
The gentleman with their coats
are watching the bridge with no rails.
The woman with the fan
is seeking a husband.
The gentlemen are married to
tall blonds who speak Whiteman’s language.
The crickets are singing in the West.
(The woman walks through the grass.)
The crickets are singing beneath the flowers.
(The gentleman are off to the North.)
Sevillan ditty
It was dawning in the orange grove
Little golden bees were searching for honey.
Where will the honey be?
It is in the blue flower, Isabel.
In that rosemary flower.
Little seat of gold for the moor.
Little seat of tinsel for his wife
(La señorita va por el verde.)
Los grillos cantan bajo las flores.
(Los caballeros van por el Norte.)
VI. Cancioncila sevillana
Amanecía en el naranjel.
Abejjitas de oro buscaban la miel.
Donde estará la miel?
Está la flor azul, Isabel.
En la flor de romero aquel.
Sillita de oro para el moro.
Silla de oropel para su mujer.
Dominick Argento
Miss Manners on Music
Text by Judith Martin
I. Prologue
The adage that Silence is Golden has never been more true, in Miss Manner’s opinion.
Its value is rising astonishingly everyday, and it is getting corresponding harder for most people to
have any.
By silence, Miss Manners means something you can hear a bird tweet in. …individuals
and industries have combined to produce a constant stream of nasty noise masquerading
everywhere under the inappropriate name of music.
Restaurants, hotel lobbies and shops are wired for sound. Hand-carried radios take
care of the streets and buses. In private houses…the fancy sounds of mild classical music used
as a “background.”
The fact is that all this noise is rude. It is rude to the captured audience of half-listeners,
and what is more, it is rude to the music.
Music worth listening to is worth listening to.
2. Manners at a Concert
DEAR MISS MANNERS:
I believe in shushing people who talk during concerts. I didn’t pay to hear them
blabbering. Yet a friend who went with me told me I was being rude in telling people to shut up.
It seems to me that what rudeness is, it talking during music.
GENTLE READER:
Both are rude. The polite thing would be to say to the noisy person, I” beg your
pardon, but I can’t hear the music. I wonder if you mind talking more softly?” By the time you
have said all this, a third party will utter a loud shush, thereby accomplishing your purpose without
sacrificing your manners.
3.Manners at the Ballet
DEAR MISS MANNERS:
When is it appropriate to clap at the ballet?
GENTLE READER:
Serious-minded people believe that clapping should be confined to the bows at the
ends of performances and detest any such manifestations while music is being played. By
prevailing standards however, applause is also customary at the ballet for any stage set more
elaborate than one painted tree and an oversized mushroom stool; at the appearance of a
favorite dancer; and for any three leaps or four turns.
4.Manners for Contemporary Music
DEAR MISS MANNERS:
I attend the symphony regularly, and I am getting tired of hearing new compositions
which do nothing for me except grate on my nerves like a piece of chalk scraped across a
blackboard. Is it polite to boo such a piece? I’ve read that they used to tear up the seats in Paris
theatres. Why should we in the United States be so polite and suffer in silence?
GENTLE READER:
Miss Manners is not against the proper expression of displeasure, as well as pleasure,
at musical events. Although too timid herself to boo, she does not recognize the need to thank
performing artists for their efforts, and therefore interprets applause as a show of approval for the
success of those efforts; where there is room for approval, there must also be room for
disapproval.
If you boo a piece at its premiere, the disapproval is assumed to be for the composer,
and it is those occasions where people had such high old times in Paris and elsewhere.
However, tearing up seats in the auditorium as a sign of aesthetic disapproval usually turned out
to have been an historical error, marking one for future generations as a major philistine scorning
composers who later turned out to be regarded as immortals. If you boo at a later performance,
your comment is taken as critical of the performers.
5.Manners at a Church Recital
DEAR MISS MANNERS:
I recently attended a vocal recital with Malcolm, a friend from my church choir. During
one particular rendition, Malcolm jabbed me in the side and whispered, “Are you aware that you
are moving your head in time to the music?” I stopped immediately but felt irritated that he would
tell me how to behave. Since then, Malcolm has mentioned at least four times that I so
embarrassed him by my “ignorant behavior” that he wanted to “crawl underneath the pew!” I do
concede that a church recital is fairly formal.
I am in my fifties and have attended many recitals and stage plays. Malcolm made me
feel like a country bumpkin. Did I behave inappropriately? Don’t mince words, Miss Manners-give
it to me straight!
GENTLE READER:
Too bad Malcolm didn’t crawl under the pew! He would be better off out of sight
because he committed three serious breaches of etiquette (whispering, correcting, and jabbing)
and by your count, four afterward. Nodding the head slightly is, Miss Manners assures you,
nothing whatsoever in comparison. As an annoyance, it is in a category with small-gestured
conducting on one’s own lap, which puts it way below foot tapping and snoring. Concert manners
vary not only according to the program and hall, but by country and century. At choice Italian
opera houses, failing to deliver and mid-aria critique to the singer is considered to show a
lamentable lack of interest. So, while it is true that a trance like state, eyes blank and lips slightly
curved in the idiot position, is the safest stance to take, there is no rule applicable to all
occasions. Except that Malcolm is not the person with whom to enjoy music.
6.Manners at the Opera
DEAR MISS MANNERS:
In am terribly upset about some people’s deplorable conduct at the conclusion of a
recent opera. Barely had the final curtain touched the stage, the opera stars yet not gone forward
to take their bows, and throngs of what I consider extremely rude patrons started a fast exit up
the aisles, supposedly to beat the crowds to the doors, parking lots, or after-theatre suppers. My
being able to rise and applaud the players on stage is as much a part of an enjoyable evening at
the opera as the actual performance, but when six people push their way past me to make their
exits, and a near platoon is enroute from the front rows, I am personally angered, and goodness
knows what the performers must think seeing a sea of backs.
I cannot believe that this is proper conduct, but I am at a loss on how either to halt this
exodus or to appease my anger. Would you please help?
GENTLE READER:
Well, actually, no. In fact, as a violent opera lover herself, Miss Manners (who just
lovers violent operas) endorses the lively school of audience reaction, rather than the genteel one
that you represent. Uniformly respectful applause is the result of ritualizing the experience of
attending an opera to the point that no real expression of opinion is permitted.
If Miss Manners were an opera singer (and she has all the qualifications but voice) she
would prefer the occasional excesses of enthusiasm when ecstatic fans pulled her carriage
through the streets (even if it also meant occasional obviously misguided disapproval) to hearing
the same tepid politeness for her triumphs and her failures.
7.Envoi
DEAR MISS MANNERS:
Who says there is a “right” way of doing things and a “wrong”?
GENTLE READER:
Miss Manners does. You want to make something of it?
Program Notes
Francis Poulenc (1899-1963) is considered by many to be the last great composer of
melodie. He composed nearly 150 songs, setting the texts of Apollinaire, Eluard, Jacob, and
Vilmorin. He would at times spend months studying the poetry to understand the natural prosody,
rhythm, and breath points in the phrase. For these reasons, Poulenc is considered a master at
signifying the proper meaning of a line of poetry. The text is the primary ingredient in Poulenc’s
song composition, and he made it his ambition to compose his songs in a style that matched the
text.
This trait is clearly demonstrated in his last song cycle, La Courte Paille, written in
1960. The poet, Maurice Carême was a native of Belgium, spending most of his early life as a
teacher before retiring to write literature. Much of Carême’s output is centered on the lives of
children; therefore he has affectionately been dubbed “the poet of joy”, “the poet of peace” and
“the poet of children.”
Poulenc dedicated the cycle to Denise Duval, an artistic singer who was instrumental
in the development of leading roles in Poulenc’s operas. “On the charming poems of Maurice
Carême, half-way between Francis Jammes and Max Jacob, I have composed seven short songs
for Denise Duval, or more precisely, for Denise Duval to sing to her small son aged six. These
melancholy and impish sketches are without pretension. They should be sung with tenderness.
This is the most certain way to touch a child’s heart.”i Poulenc drew the texts for this cycle from
two of Carême’s collections of poetry: La cage aux grillons and Le Voleur d’étincelles. When
asked for a fitting title for these seven poems, Carême named the song cycle La Courte Paille.
Musically, these songs reflect many of the traditional characteristics of Poulenc’s
composition, including lyrical melodies, frequent use of major and minor shifts, added thirds, the
use of Jazz language in chord progressions, short rests at the ends of phrases, frequent
modulations, musical ideas in 2 or 4 bar units, shorter phrases, often through-composed songs,
and a high integration of the voice and piano, so much so that is often difficult to hear the voice
and piano lines individually. Poulenc had an expert taste for the use of the pedal and marked his
scores very specifically with tempo and musical instructions. He greatly distained rubato and
rarely calls for it in his scores. Keith Daniel has placed Poulenc’s song output into six categories:
popular songs, childlike songs, prayer-like songs, tender and lyrical songs, patter songs, and
dramatic songs that are fast or slow. The seven settings in La Courte Paille may be mostly
considered childlike, simple songs, but they also alternate between patter songs, dramatic songs,
and tender, lyrical songs.
Modest Mussorgsky (1839-1881) is considered the most famous member of the
Russian Five, a nationalist group of composers who dominated the composition of Russian song
in the mid 19th century. Mussorgsky was especially known for his sense of realism and his desire
to depict real people in everyday situations. “It is the people I want to depict; sleeping or waking,
eating and drinking, I have them constantly in my mind’s eye; again and again they rise before
me all their reality-huge, unvarnished, and with no tinsel.”ii He was inspired by the realist writers
of the day, Tolstoy and Pushkin. Mussorgsky achieved his goals by depicting everyday dramas
in his songs that serve as short scenes or vignettes.
Mussorgsky also promoted his Nationalist ideals through his song composition. One
of the ways he did so was through the setting of the Russian language. He set the text in a
natural and speech-like manner, always finding the proper declamation to match everyday
speech. For example, the rests in the music most often fall at natural breaks in the spoken line.
His music has a distinct tone in the richness of textures and harmonies.
The seven songs in the cycle The Nursery (1868-1872) are each individual dramas
that come together to portray a day in the life of a child, or more precisely, a family of children.
The vivid characters, including the three children, the Nanny, and a brief appearance of Mother,
bring to life the joys and trials of life in the nursery from a child’s perspective. While the begging
for the retelling of the Nanny’s stories, the lullabies sung to a doll, and the exaggerated bedtime
prayers depict the innocence and sweetness that are unique to children, the naughty child who
unwinds nanny’s ball of yarn and the child racing to and fro on the hobby horse demonstrate the
young ones at mischief and play. The terror exhibited by the little girl when a beetle crashes into
her forehead and lies unconscious on the ground is another charming account of everyday life
from a young point of view.
Mussorgsky is the poet of this cycle and skillfully expresses the text through natural
speech patterns and the language of a child. The voices of these children are undeniably both
realistic and entertaining. While the Russian spirit is prominent throughout, we also recognize the
universal nature of children everywhere.
Xavier Montsalvatge (1912-2002) was born in the Catalan region of Gerona, Spain. A
composer, critic and teacher, he studied piano at the Barcelona Conservatory and was deeply
influenced by his Spanish and Catalan forbearers as well as Stravinsky and the members of Les
Six. He is perhaps best known for his Cinco canciones negras, which demonstrate his interest in
African American, West Indian and Cuban music and rhythm.
Montsalvatge enjoyed simple melodic material paired with chromatic harmony. His
music is not unconventional in the 20th century vein, but its mixture of cultures and musical
languages gives it a unique and exotic style. At one point in his compositional life he went
through an abandonment of tonality, and this is reflected in much of his work on a smaller scale.
He won a number of prizes in Spain in the 1980s, including the National Music Prize in 1985.
Montsalvatge was greatly interested in children’s poetry and the world of children. He
is well known in Spain for his children’s opera, El gato con botas (1948). His lesser known song
cycle, Canciones para niños was composed in 1953 and was later narrated and given orchestral
accompaniment. The texts are from the poetry of Federico Garcia Lorca (1898-1936), a Spanish
poet and playwright of great national fame. He was also a member of the “Generation of 1927,” a
group of poets that brought Spanish writers into the word of the avant-garde. In 1936,
Montsalvatge was executed by soldiers at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War.
The texts that Montsalvatge used in Canciones para niños are primarily from the
imaginative eyes of a child. Paisage presents a beautiful landscape, in which children interpret
leaves falling off of the trees as yellow birds rising into the air. El largato está llorando is the
charming tale of the lizards that have lost their wedding rings. Caracola is about a child’s delight
upon receiving an ocean shell. Canción tonta is a child testing the bounds of silliness with his
mother. Canción China en Europa is another descriptive piece about a Chinese woman who is
looking for a husband among western men. Cancioncilla sevillana tells the story of bees making
honey. Some of these seemly simple themes are embedded with a deeper symbolism that may
easily escape a child’s notice, but are not any less effective as children’s songs.
Dominick Argento (b. 1927) is a prominent American composer, particularly of
American Opera. He demonstrates an expert knowledge of the voice, which explains why the
majority of his compositions are of the vocal variety. His music combines straight tonality,
atonality and twelve tone writing in a seamless and unimposing manner. Argento stated his
preference for writing prose in an issue of Opera Monthly: “I’ve almost given up setting poetry,
just because prose allows me more freedom musically to make lines longer, to make them go
interesting directions. Poetry in a sense dictates the highs and loves, the duration, the rhythm. I
find it liberating to work with prose.”iii
In 1995, Robert Martin, contacted Argento and asked him to consider writing a song
cycle for his wife Judith Martin, also known as Miss Manners. Mr. Martin explained to Argento
that he was his wife’s favorite living composer and for the occasion of her sixtieth birthday, he
wanted to commission a song cycle that utilized texts from her newspaper articles. After one and
a half years of skirting the question, Argento finally agreed to the task and set about reviewing
four large volumes of newspaper articles by Miss Manners in order to find a text. He hit on his
material when he read a letter about manners at the ballet, and he then searched for more
excerpts dealing with music. As soon as he settled on the seven excerpts of text, the music
came to him quickly and naturally.
The work was premiered on September 12th, 1998 for Miss Manners and her one
hundred and fifty birthday guests, to the lady’s great surprise. Phyllis Pancella, Miss Manner’s
favorite singer, joined with Tim Hoekman at the piano, performed the piece to the delight of the
audience. The recital was followed by a proper English high tea.
i Pierre Bernac, Francis Poulenc: The Man and His Songs, 1977.
ii Carol Kimball, Song, A Guide to Style and Literature, 1996.
iii Roger Pines, “Dominick Argento. Writing American Bel Canto,” Opera Monthly 1:8, 22.