School of Music
U N C G
Whitney Myers
soprano
Ināra Zandmane, piano
Graduate Recital
Saturday, April 18, 2009
7:30 pm
Recital Hall, School of Music
Program
Notturno Ottorino Respighi
Storia breve (1879-1936)
Tanto bella
Lagrime
Lʼultima ebbrezza
Luce
Chants dʼAuvergne Joseph Canteloube
Lou coucut (1879-1957)
Oï ayai
La delaïssádo
Lou boussu
Intermission
Drei Lieder der Ophelia, Op. 67 Richard Strauss
Wie erkenn ich mein Treulieb vor andern nun (1864-1949)
Guten Morgen, ʻs ist Sankt Valentinstag
Sie trugen ihn auf der Bahre bloß
I am in need of music Ben Moore
(b. 1960)
Beautiful Dreamer Stephen Foster
(1826-1864)
Black is the color of my true loveʼs hair John Jacob Niles
(1892-1980)
I canʼt be talkinʼ of love John Duke
(1899-1984)
When I have sung my songs Ernest Charles
(1895-1984)
Whitney Myers is a student of Dr. Nancy Walker
________
In partial fulfillment of the degree requirements for the
Master of Music in Performance
Ottorino Respighi:
Notturno
Text by Ada Negri (1870-1945)
Suʼ cespugli, vezzose,
In un sopor beato,
Si chinan le rose;
Lʼusignolo, celato
Tra le foglie rugiadose,
Gorgheggia innamorato.
O, che dolce mistero,
Che fascino gentile
Peʼl tiepido sentiero!...
Vieni, a ninfa sinile,
Coʼl passo tuo leggero
Tra li aliti dʼaprile;
E un bel nido fiorente,
Una capanna bruna
Mʼaccoglierà silente.
A la dolce fortuna,
Col raggio più lucente,
Sorriderà la luna!...
Storia breve
Text by Ada Negri (1870-1945)
Ella pareva un sogno di poeta;
Vestia sempre di bianco, e avea nel viso
La calma dʼuna sfinge dʼoriente.
Le cadea sino ai fianchi il crindi seta;
Trillava un canto nel suo breve riso,
Tra si statua il bel corpo indolente.
Amò non fu riamata. In fondo al core,
tranquilla in fronte, custodì la ria
Fiamma di quellʼamor senza parole.
Ma quel desio la consumò
Ne lʼore dʼun crepuscol dʼOttobre ella moria,
Come verbena quando manca il sole.
Tanto bella
Text by Ada Negri (1870-1945)
A la tua culla vennero le fate
E tʼacceser dʼincanto le pupille:
Ti guardaron gli astri e di faville
Cosparsero le ciocche inanellate.
Ninfe, sirene, in unʼallegra danza
Tʼappreser la voce armoniosa:
A la guancia diede il color la rosa,
Nocturnal
On shrubs, charming,
In a happy drowsiness,
The roses bend;
The nightingale, concealed
Between the dew dropped leaves,
Trill enchantingly.
Oh, that sweet mystery,
That gentle glamour
To the lukewarm path
You come, like a nymph,
With your light step
With breaths of April between them;
And a beautiful flourishing nest,
A brown hut
You received my silence.
To the sweet fortune,
With the most shining ray,
The moon will smile!...
Brief Story
She seemed a poetʼs dream;
Always dressed in white, and had on her face
The calm of a sphinx of the orient.
Long and lustrous flowed her silken hair;
Her short clear laughter like a trilled song,
Statue-like, her beautiful indolent body.
She loved without return. Yet fed the blaze,
Of passionʼs fire which her clear brow belied
Of this hidden flame she spoke to none.
The unfulfilled desire consumed her
In an October twilight hour she died,
As the vervain dies for want of sun.
So Beautiful
The fairies came to your cradle
And with their incantations, brightened your
eyes:
The stars looked down on you
And sprinkled your curly locks with sparkles.
Nymphs and sirens in a joyous dance
Gave you your harmonious voice:
The rose gave your cheeks their color,
A lʼalito, ogni fior la sua fragranza!
O tutta rilucente! O profumata!
Lagrime
Text by Ada Negri (1870-1945)
Tornai: la bocca tiepida
Sovra la fronte tʼho posata al fine,
Mentre la mano fervida
Stringea le trecce del tup folto crine!
Ma la tua fronte più che neve gelida,
Ma la tua fronte bianca come cera
Mutato ha il bacio in un acuto spasimo
Mʼha piena lʼalma dʼun angoscia fiera!…
Ohʼl lungo desiderio
Or di speranza più non si conforta:
Quel bacio mio fu lʼultimo,
Povera morta!...
Lʼultima ebbrezza
Text by Ada Negri (1870-1945)
Un ultimo profumo innebriante versa,
magico fiore intorno a me:
Spandi un ultimo raggio a me dinante
astro di luce che mortal non è!...
O melodia sublime, indefinita,
Un ultima tua nota io voglio udir,
Che mʼecheggi nellʼanima rapita
Come ardente cadenza di sospir!...
Un guardo ancor de li occhi tuoi possenti
Un sorriso un accento un bacio ancor!
Dammi lʼultima ebbrezza che mʼannienti
Nel fremito supremo dellʼamor!...
Luce
Text by Ada Negri (1870-1945)
A fasci sʼeffonde
per lʼaria tranquilla,
colora, sfavilla,
la mite frescura
del verde ravviva,
sʼingemma giuliva,
per terra e per ciel,
vittoriosa, calda e senza vel.
Son perle irridate
Danzanti nellʼonde,
Son nozze di bionde
Farfalle e di rose,
La vita pagana
And every flower its perfume to your breath!
So brilliant and so fragrant!
Tears
You return the lukewarm mouth
Over the brow, I had you to the end.
While the fervent hand
Grips the braid of your thick hair!
But your brow is more than ice cold,
Your face has a white appearance
The kiss has changed into an acute pang
It has my soul full of a fair anguish!…
Oh the long desire
I am not comforted by the hope
That my kiss was the last
Poor dead girl!...
The Last Intoxication
One last intoxicating perfume pours,
From the magical flower around me:
You strip one last sparkling ray from me
Star of light that is not mortal!...
Oh sublime melody, indefinite,
I want to hear your final note,
You echo my kidnapped soul
Like the burning cadence of a sigh!...
One still look from your strong eyes
A smile an accent a still kiss!
Give me the last intoxication that destroys me
In the supreme quiver of love!...
Light
The beam pours itself
For the calm air
Color, it sparkles
The mild coolness
Of the green revives,
It is studded with merry gems,
On the ground and in the sky,
Victorious, warm and without veil.
Here pearls iridescent
Dancing in the waves
A wedding of fair
Butterflies and of roses
The pagan life
Dolcissima emana
Dai baci dei fior…
Il mondo esulta
E tutto grida: Amor!
Mi sento nellʼalma
La speme fluire,
Lʼimmenso gioire
Di vivere sento,
Qual schiera di rondini
I sogni ridenti fra i raggi lucenti
Si librano a vol…
Son milionaria del genio e del sol!...
Joseph Canteloube:
Lou Coucut
Text by Joseph Canteloube (1879-1957)
Lou coucut oquʼos un áuzel
Que nʼio pas capt plus de to bel
Coumo lou coucut que canto,
Lou mió coucut, lou tió coucut,
E lou coucut dès autres! Dió?
Obès pas entendut canta lou coucut?
Per obal, ol found del prat,
Sé nʼio un áubré flourit è gronat
Qué lou coucut lʼi canto.
Lou mió coucut, lou tió coucut,
E lou coucut dès autres. Dió?
Obès pas entendut canta lou coucut?
E se toutse les coucuts
Bou liòu pourta souneto,
Ô! Forióu çin cent troumpetoï!
Lou mió coucut, lou tió coucut,
E lou coucut dès autres. Dió?
Obès pas entendut canta lou coucut?
Oï Ayaï
Text by Joseph Canteloube (1879-1957)
“Oï, ayaï, couçi ièu foraï?
Nʼaï pas de couoïffo!”
Pierrou boʼlo fièyro,
Pierrou lo li croumpo,
Pierre lo li pourto,
Pierrou lo li dounʼ,
Inquèrʼ ès pas lèvado,
Dzomaï nè sé lèvo!
“Lèvo, lèvo, lou dzour bè!
Morgoridoto, lèvoté!”
“Oï, ayaï, couçi ièu foraï?
Nʼaï pas de coutilhou!”
Sends out sweetness
From the kisses of the flower…
The world exults
And all shout: Love!
I feel in my soul
The flowing hope,
The immense rejoicing
To feel alive,
Which a rank of swallows
The happy dreams between the shining rays
They hover at flight…
I am a millionaire of genius and of light!...
The Cuckoo
The cuckoo is a beautiful bird
There are none as beautiful
As the cuckoo that sings,
Than my cuckoo, than your cuckoo,
Than the other cuckoos! Say?
Have you not heard the cuckoo sing?
There at the end of the meadow,
There is a garnet red bloomed tree
And there the cuckoo sings.
Heʼs my cuckoo, heʼs your cuckoo,
Heʼs everybodyʼs cuckoo. Say?
Have you not heard the cuckoo sing?
And of course if all the cuckoos
Wanted to carry bells,
Oh! They would out do five hundred trumpets!
Heʼs my cuckoo, heʼs your cuckoo,
Heʼs everybodyʼs cuckoo. Say?
Have you not heard the cuckoo sing?
Oh Dear!
“Oh dear, what will I do?
I do not have a bonnet!”
Pierre goes to the fair,
Pierre buys it for her,
Pierre carries it to her,
Pierre gives it to her,
She is still in bed,
She never can get up!
“Get up, get up, it is morning!
Margarite get yourself up!”
“Oh dear, what will I do?
I do not have a petticoat!”
Pierrou boʼlo fièyro,
Pierrou lo li croumpo,
Pierrou lo li pourto,
Pierrou lo li dounʼ,
Inquèrʼ ès pas lèvado,
Dzomaï nè sé lèvo!
“Lèvo, lèvo, lou dzour bè!
Morgoridoto, lèvoté!”
“Oï, ayaï, couçi ièu foraï?
Que nʼaï pas de comio!”
Pierrou boʼlo fièyro,
Pierrou lo li croumpo,
Pierrou lo li pourto,
Pierrou lo li dounʼ,
Inquèrʼ ès pas lèvado,
Dzomaï nè sé lèvo!
“Lèvo, lèvo, lou dzour bè!
Morgoridoto, lèvoté!”
“Oï, moun Diou! Que fo frèt!
Me cal quitta loulièt!”
Prenguet lo comio,
È maï lou coutilhou,
È maï lou boborel,
È maï lou moutsodou,
È sès poulidos caussos,
E metèt la couoiffo.
“Que soui bèlo.” so diguèt!
E Morgorido sé lèvèt!
La Delaïssádo
Text by Joseph Canteloube (1879-1957)
Uno pastourèlo, èspèrʼ,
Olaï al capt del bouès
Lou gala doguélo,
Mè né bèn pas!
“Ay! Souï délaïssado!
Qué nʼaï pas vist lou mio galant;
Crésio qué mʼaïmábo,
È ton lʼaïmé iéu!”
Luziguèt lʼestèlo,
Aquèlo qué marco lo nuèt,
È lo pauro pastoureletto
Démouret à ploura…
Lou Boussu
Text by Joseph Canteloube (1879-1957)
Dzanètou tsouʼl poumièirou
Què sé souloumbravo,
Pierre goes to the fair,
Pierre buys it for her,
Pierre carries it to her,
Pierre gives it to her,
She is still in bed,
She never can get up!
“Get up, get up, it is morning!
Margarite, get yourself up!”
“Oh dear, what will I do?
I do not have a shirt!”
Pierre goes to the fair,
Pierre buys it for her,
Pierre carries it to her,
Pierre gives it to her,
She is still in bed,
She never can get up!
“Get up, get up, it is morning!
Margarite, get yourself up!”
“Oh my God! How cold it is!
I must get out of bed!”
She took the shirt,
And the petticoat,
And the apron,
And the handkerchief,
And the pants,
And put on her bonnet.
“How beautiful I am.” she says!
And Margarite got up!
The Forsaken Shepherdess
A shepherdess awaits,
Over at the top of the wood
For the one that she loves,
But he does not come!
“Ah! He has forsaken me!
I do not see my loved one;
I believed that he loved me,
And I love him so!”
When the star appears,
That announces the night,
And the poor shepherdess
Remains alone to cry…
The Hunchback
Jeanette under an apple tree
Is resting in the shade,
Què sé souloumbravo si,
Què sé souloumbravo la.
Oqui possèt un boussu
Què lo mirolhavo,
Què lo mirolhavo si,
Què lo mirolhavo la.
Ah! Poulido Dzanètou!
Boussèrès lo mèouno!
Boussèrès lo mèouno si!
Boussèrès lo mèouno la!
Per qué ieu lo bouostro sio
Cal coupa lo bosso!
Cal coupa lo bosso si!
Cal coupa lo bosso la!
Oï! Pècairé, Dzanètou!
Gordorai mo bosso!
Gordorai mo bosso si!
Gordorai mo bosso la!
Richard Strauss:
Drei Lieder der Ophelia
Text by Karl Joseph Simrock (1802-1876) after
William Shakespeareʼs Hamlet
Wie erkenn ich mein Treulieb vor andern nun
Wie erkenn ich mein Treulieb
vor andern nun?
An dem Muschelhut und Stab
Und den Sandalschuhn.
Er ist tot und lange hin,
Tot und hin, Fräulein!
Ihm zu Häupten grünes Gras,
Ihm zu Fuß ein Stein. O ho!
Auf seinem Bahrtuch, weiß wie Schnee,
Viel liebe Blumen trauern.
Sie gehn zu Grabe naß,
O weh! Vor Liebesschauern.
Guten Morgen, ʻs ist Sankt Valentinstag
Guten Morgen, ʻs ist Sankt Valentinstag,
So früh vor Sonnenschein.
Ich junge Maid am Fensterschlag
Will Euer Valentin sein.
Der junge Mann tut Hosen an,
Tät auf die Kammertür,
Ließ ein die Maid, die als Maid
ging nimmermehr herfür.
Bei Sankt Niklas und Charitas!
Ein unverschämt Geschlecht!
Ein junger Mann tutʼs, wenn er kann,
Is resting in the shade here,
Is resting in the shade there.
There passes by a hunchback
And he looks at her,
And he looks at her here,
And he looks at her there.
Ah! Gentle Jeanette!
I want you to be my sweetheart!
I want you to be my sweetheart here!
I want you to be my sweetheart there!
For me to be your sweetheart
You must cut off your hump!
You must cut off your hump here!
You must cut off your hump there!
Ouch! Go to the devil Jeanette!
I will keep my hump!
I will keep my hump here!
I will keep my hump there!
Three Songs of Ophelia
How should I your true-love know
How should I your true-love know
From another one?
By his cockle hat and staff
And his sandal shoon.
He is dead and gone,
Dead and gone, Lady!
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone. O ho!
White his shroud as the mountain snow,
Larded all with sweet flowers.
Which bewept to the grave did not go,
With true-love showers.
Tomorrow is Saint Valentineʼs day
Tomorrow is Saint Valentineʼs day.
All in the morning betime,
And I a maid at your window
To be your Valentine.
Then up he rose and donned his cloʼes
And dupped the chamber door,
Let in the maid, that out a maid
Never departed more.
By Gis and by Saint Charity!
Alack, and fie for shame!
Young men will doʼt if they come toʼt.
fürwahr, das ist nicht recht.
Sie sprach: Eh Ihr gescherzt mit mir,
Verspracht Ihr mich zu frein.
Ich brächʼs auch nicht beim
Sonnenlicht,
Wärst du nicht kommen herein.
Sie trugen ihn auf der Bahre bloß
Sie trugen ihn auf der Bahre bloß,
Leider, ach leider, den Liebsten!
Manche Träne fiel in des Grabes Schoß
fahr wohl, fahr wohl, meine Taube!
Mein junger frischer Hansel istʼs,
der mir gefällt --
und kommt er nimmermehr?
Er ist tot, o weh!
In dein Totbett geh,
er kommt dir nimmermehr.
Sein Bart war weiß wie Schnee,
Sein Haupt wie Flachs dazu.
Er ist hin, er ist hin,
kein Trauern bringt Gewinn:
Mit seiner Seele Ruh
und mit allen Christenseelen!
Darum bet ich! Gott sei mit euch!
Ben Moore:
I am in need of Music
Text by Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979)
I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling fingertips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to
glow!
There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through the fading colors
deep
To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.
By cock, they are to blame.
Quoth she, “Before you tumbled me,
You promised me to wed.”
He answers: “”So would I ʻaʼ done by
Yonder sun,
An thou hadst not come to by bed.”
They bore him barefaced on the bier
They bore him barefaced on the bier,
Hey non nony, nony, hey nony
And in his grave rained many a tear-
Fare you well, my dove!
For bonny sweet Robin is
All my joy.
And will ʻa not come again?
No, no, he is dead!
Go to thy death bed;
He never will come again.
His beard was white as snow,
All flaxen was his poll.
He is gone, he is gone
And we cast away moan:
God ʻaʼ mercy on his soul!
And of all Christian souls,
I pray God. God bye you!
Stephen Foster:
Beautiful Dreamer
Text by Stephen Foster (1826-1964)
Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me;
Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee.
Sounds of the rude world heard in the day,
Lulled by the moonlight have all passed away.
Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song,
List while I woo thee with soft melody.
Gone are the cares of lifeʼs busy throng.
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
Beautiful dreamer, out in the sea
Mermaids are chanting the wild lorelei.
Over the streamlet vapors are born,
Waiting to fade at the bright coming morn.
Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart,
Eʼen as the morn on the streamlet and sea;
Then will all clouds of sorrow depart.
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
John Jacob Niles:
Black is the color of my true loveʼs hair
Text collected and adapted by John Jacob
Niles (1892-1980)
Black, black is the color of my true loveʼs hair,
Her lips are something rosy fair,
The pertest face and the daintiest hands
I love the grass whereon she stands.
I love my love and well she knows,
I love the grass whereon she goes;
If she on earth no more I see,
My life will quickly leave me.
I go to troublesome to mourn, to weep,
But satisfied I neʼer can sleep;
Iʼll write her a note in a few little lines,
Iʼll suffer death ten thousand times.
Black, black is the color of my true loveʼs hair,
Her lips are something rosy fair,
The pretest face and the daintiest hands
I love the grass whereon she stands.
Ernest Charles:
When I have sung my songs
Text by Ernest Charles (1895-1984)
When I have sung my songs to you,
Iʼll sing no more.
ʻTwould be a sacrilege to sing at another door.
Weʼve worked so hard to hold our dreams,
Just you and I.
I could not share them all again
Iʼd rather die with just the thought
That I had loved so well, so true,
That I could never sing again,
Except to you.
John Duke:
I canʼt be talkinʼ of love
Text by Esther Matthews
I canʼt be talkinʼ of love, dear,
I canʼt be talkinʼ of love.
If there be one thing I canʼt talk of,
That one thing do be love.
But thatʼs not sayinʼ that Iʼm not lovinʼ,
Still water, you know, runs deep,
And I do be lovinʼ so deep, dear,
I be lovinʼ you in my sleep.
But I canʼt be talkinʼ of love, dear,
I canʼt be talkinʼ of love.
If there be one thing I canʼt talk of,
That one thing do be love.
