Christmas Day: "Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming"

I made it. It's Christmas Day, though daylight has long since passed here at home in Youngstown, Ohio. It's 10:19 p.m. and I've spent a large chunk of the day driving/riding back from spending Christmas at my sister's place in Baltimore. I could have written this post earlier in the day, but I was lucky enough to spend this Christmas with my family, and I wasn't going to dedicate that time to writing my blog. As I said in my introduction to this project, Christmas didn't really happen for me last year, and I'm not complaining but I don't know when the next time is that all of us will be together like we were this year. So forgive me for putting this up just before the end of Christmas. On the other hand, if you feel like I do this year, I hope you spent the day enjoying Christmas in the presence of people you care about and not reading this blog. Hence why I don't feel guilty in posting late today, and I think I'll keep this brief. In that spirit...

I realize that isn't the most traditional version of "Lo, How A Rose E'er Blooming," but I like Feist's rendition so it's the one I used. Its instrumental simplicity also forces you to really listen to the lyrics, though they are translated and adapted from German. If I wanted to get technical, today's carol is "Es ist ein Ros entsprungen," which literally means "A rose has sprung up." It may have origins back as far as the 14th century, but the first known instance of its publication was in 1599 from a text dated 1580 that was found in St. Alban's Carthusian monestary in Trier, Germany. The 1599 publication was part of (and hopefully I get this right) Alte catholische geistliche Kirchengesiinge, which seems to be a collection of old Catholic carols. The author of the lyrics is anonymous, but they focus on a prophecy in the book of Isiah, which predicted a rose blooming from the "stem of Jesse." Jesse was the father of David, who would become king of the Israelites. Knowing that makes the first two stanzas (of an original 23, by the way) easier to understand:

Lo, how a Rose e'er blooming

From tender stem hath sprung!

Of Jesse's lineage coming

As men of old have sung

It came a flower bright

Amid the cold of winter

When half-gone was the night.

Isiah 'twas foretold it,

The Rose I have in mind:

With Mary we behold it,

The virgin mother kind.

To show God's love aright

She bore to men a savior

When half-gone was the night.

With the biblical prophesy we get a nice smattering of pagan ritual with the refraining last line "When half-gone was the night." I think it's symbolic that the anonymous author chose to use "night" and not "light," taking a kind of glass-is-half-full approach to the timing of Jesus' birth. 

Ever the optimists, those Germans!

Though the lyrics are lovely in English, as I'm sure they are to the German-speaking world in German, the Germans would have gotten them all to themselves if it hadn't been for Theodore Baker, a Dresden-born musicologist who spent much of his life in New York City. Baker's translation, though not the only one in existence, is the one that everyone knows today. He published his version in 1894. His life was really interesting. You should read more on him when you get the time, but I don't want to dedicate too much to him here. One last note on translations, though: if you hear the hymn "A Spotless Rose," that's a 1919 translation of the same text by Catherine Winkworth.

As lovely as the words are, it's the tune that really gets me. And apparently it is, by and large, original to the same text as "Es ist ein Ros entsprungen," although the harmonies and some of the text were revised by Michael Praetorius, a German composer of the times, shortly after the hymn's publication (Praetorius died in 1621). According to hymnary.com, which I've relied on heavily in the writing of this blog, "... it invites performance by an unaccompanied choir, so that all the fine part writing and subtle rhythms can be clearly heard." So without further ado, here's an unaccompanied choir that I think can do it justice:

This carol has a lot of love in the Coombs family. I'm pretty sure it's my dad's favorite carol, and it was up there with his mom, as it is with my sister, and obviously me. I don't know that it's my absolute favorite, since I can't seem to single out just one, but it's definitely in my top three. It is, without a doubt, the most musically pleasing one I've done on my list, which is why I've had it slated for Christmas Day from the beginning. It's impossible for me to listen to it and not feel a sense of peace and, in a weird way, a sort of finality and closure to the season. What more appropriate way for me to close out my blog? I think I am going to write an epilogue in the next few days that ties all this listening, research, reading, and writing from the past 25 days together, and I'd like to highlight some honorable mentions that didn't make the list. But that's for later. I'll leave you with one more favorite folky version of "Lo, How A Rose E'er Blooming" for your Christmas night. Whether you squeeze this post into the very end of your Christmas or are reading it in the following days, Merry Christmas.

December 24: "In the Bleak Midwinter"

In the bleak midwinter

Frosty wind made moan,

Earth stood hard as iron,

Water like a stone;

Snow had fallen, snow on snow

Snow on snow,

In the bleak midwinter

Long ago

As far as I'm concerned, we're there-- Christmas is here. If you're like me--or very unlike me but Italian--Christmas Eve is Christmas for you. The entire previous month has been leading up to these two days, and this is the last day of anticipation. Hell, without the anticipation Christmas just wouldn't feel like Christmas! Christmas Eve is where the fun peaks, because we all know that by midnight tomorrow it'll all be over (which is why I'm on board with the Appalachian idea of celebrating Christmas by partying all the way to Epiphany). As my mom likes to say yearly, "All this work for one shittin' day!" So today is to be savored and, even in the most secular celebrations, revered. Which is why I labored long and hard over which song I was going to do today. For most people, either Silent Night or O Holy Night is the anthem of Christmas Eve, but neither fits the bill for my purposes; I think if you turn on your local Christmas radio station today you'll hear interpretations of both aplenty. They're both universally known for good reason, though: they're remarkably beautiful songs. Yet for all their splendor I don't think either is as evocative as "In the Bleak Midwinter." 

Christina Rossetti, by her brother

The history of this carol is rather straightforward, especially compared to many of my entries, but not lacking in substance. That up there is the likeness of Christina Rossetti, considered by many to be Victorian England's greatest female poet. If you're into poetry (which, admittedly, I'm not) I'm sure you've read her stuff; if you haven't, there's no shortage of stuff to read, as I'm finding while writing this. Even a brief biography of her time on earth reads like a Shakespearean tragedy. She was born in London in 1830 to a banished Italian expatriate. Though her early childhood was relatively happy--as happy as a mid-19th century English childhood might be-- her family began to suffer as she progressed into her teens, with her father falling terminally ill and the family falling on financially hard times as a result. She suffered a nervous breakdown at 14, and in the wake of it became devoutly involved in the Anglo-Catholicism movement, which I've written on before. The combination of her deep newfound faith and her bouts of depression resulted in three broken engagements, and thereafter a mental state of almost perpetual melancholy. She channeled that melancholy into her writing, and established a name for herself well before her death in 1894, though most of her skill as a poet was recognized posthumously. In fact, "In the Bleak Midwinter" was not published until 1904, as part of a collection of her poetry called... well, Poetical Works. 

"I'll take tautologies for 4 million, Alex."

Even tune-less the poem is really melancholy; the third and defining word of the lyrics is bleak. And it tends to emphasize how it's not just Jesus who is born poor, it's also the vast majority of his followers, even into the modern era. The last verse reads:

What can I give him,

Poor as I am?

If I were a shepherd 

I would bring a lamb;

If I were a wise-man,

I would do my part,

Yet what I can I give him

Give my heart

So we're all poor and it's really cold outside: that's the gist of Rossetti's poem. We know she wrote it, as the book puts it, sometime before 1872, so well into her poetic career. It shows in the complex meter of the poem, which must have been hard to match musically. But matched it was, by not one, but two composers, and almost simultaneously, at that. The musical arrangement that most of us are familiar with (provided you've heard this song before) is a tune called "Cranham" written by the famous composer Gustav Holst specifically for the poem in 1906, a mere two years after its publishing date. The King's College Choir version at the top utilizes that tune. Holst's melody is fittingly melancholy, but aside from a handful of minor chords sprinkled in, it's in a major key. I believe "bittersweet" is the word that sappy people use for this. Holst's setting works well for a full, musically untrained singing the hymn, as it makes the complex meter easier to follow.

Three years later, in 1909, a music student at the Royal College of Music named Harold Darke composed his own musical setting for the poem. Quoting directly from Wikipedia, it is "more advanced and each verse is treated slightly differently, with solos for soprano and tenor (or a group of sopranos and tenors) and a delicate organ accompaniment." Darke officially published his version in 1911, and went on to be the choral director at King's College during the World War II years. Fittingly--and ironically, for our purposes--his is the version usually sung during the annual Nine Lessons and Carols performed by the choir. Thing is, it really only works when sung by a musically literate and well-rehearsed choir. Have a listen for yourself:

Though a much more obscure version, a 2008 poll of choirmasters worldwide named Darke's version the best Christmas carol ever written. And that may be true if you're a choirmaster, but for the rest of us I think the Holst version is more iconic. As a music theory plebeian I like the Holst melody much more. For me it helps draw out a lot of the imagery that I think Rossetti was going for when she wrote her poem. 

One last note, for posterity's sake: we all know that Jesus wasn't born in the wintertime, right? Historians, theologians, and smug people everywhere tend to agree that Jesus was much more likely born in the springtime. That would explain the shepherds keeping watch over their flocks of sheep in the pastures, and there's also nothing in the bible that even hints that it might have been wintertime when Jesus was born. Christmas was placed in sync with pagan winter festivals like Saturnalia in the 4th century. So there was no frosty wind making moan, earth standing hard as iron, or water like a stone when Jesus came into the world. But don't let that rob you of your holiday cheer. What's important is that this might be the case wherever you're spending this Christmas Eve, and there's something about Holst's version that feels like that stillness that only a cold winter night can feel like. For me, "In the Bleak Midwinter" is not only one of my favorite Christmas songs, but perfectly suited to Christmas Eve.

December 23: "The Holly and the Ivy"

I'm rather excited about the last days of this blog--not meaning that the blog will be ending-- but the songs that I'm going to be covering, as they're my favorite Christmas tunes. It's going to be just like Christmas for me! Except, you know... it'll actually be Christmas. "The Holly and the Ivy" has struck my fancy since I was a kid, thanks largely to my dad's extensive collection of recordings of Christmas brass ensembles, and the fact that I played in a handful in my high school years.

"The Blunder Years"

But "The Holly and the Ivy" really is a uniquely lovely song no matter who you are or how you play it. And as with all the best songs, the jury is still somewhat out on its origins. A cursory Google search may bring you to the conclusion that it's French, but that's probably just plain wrong. "How can you be so sure?" you say? Insightful question, dear reader! It appears in the Roud Folk Song Index as #514. The Roud Folk Song Index, or just "Roud" for short, is a collection of 25,000 folk songs originally written in the English language. The best folklorist research we've got place the song sometime in the late 17th or early 18th century, so not quite as old as I'm used to dealing with on here. Cecil Sharp, the famous English folklorist from the late 19th/early 20th century, included "The Holly and the Ivy" in his 1911 publication English Folk Carols. Later, Sharp would go on to personally record well preserved English ballads that he found in the southern Appalachians. But I digress... Sharp's version of the lyrics is the widely accepted one in the modern era. So what this whole long diatribe is getting at is... no, definitely not French.

Seriously, though, probably one of the winningest military records in the world.

All this fluff is really neither here nor there, because it does nothing to advance your knowledge of the substance of the carol, which is why you're here, isn't it? The content of the song is particularly nice to me, as the use of holly and ivy for the purpose of decorating one's dwelling is an ancient tradition. At the very least it dates back to when it seems most history dates back to, which is the 15th century. Why holly and ivy? I don't have a concrete answer on that, but I'm guessing it has a lot to do with why we celebrate evergreens at this time: they stay green and lush year round. 

So why don't we celebrate the Philly Phanatic?

Anyway, I've always liked the song, and there's no shortage of good recordings of it. So I'll give you one more that I like, from Mannheim Steamroller. I hope it increases the cheer of your semi-pagan-inspired yule.

December 22: "See Amid the Winter's Snow"

I have a very mild anachronism to admit to today: this is the wrong day to post this carol. I know, it sounds like exactly what you'd expect to hear a choir processing into a church for a Christmas Eve service. And this song is quite Christmas-y, relatively obscure, and overall easy to digest. So what's wrong with it? Well, "See Among the Winter's Snow" is widely known throughout England as "Hymn for Christmas Day." You will note, if you're very observant, that today is December 22. So I'm a few days early on this one, knowing its colloquial title, but don't worry-- I'm saving my very favorites for the remaining three days. Not that this isn't a good one, but as I'll discuss, and though I've never heard it before this year, for some reason it brings back memories of Protestant church basement dinners.

Commandment XI: Thou shalt have a drab fellowship hall that

smelleth of floor wax and burnt coffee.

Like I said, this song fits the bill nicely for my purposes, and is far from poorly written. It even has all the hallmarks of a 19th century hymn: a nice, even tempo, no long minors or cliffhangers, 4/4 time, and scale-downs into resolves at the end of every verse. You don't exactly have to be Mozart to pick this (or many of the hymns nearly identical to it) apart theoretically. And that's exactly the source of the love/hate relationship I'm experiencing with it-- it's too familiar. It seems like everything I awkwardly stood silently for while going to Sunday service as a kid. And yet, at the same time, this sort of hymn occupies so much of even a modern hymnal that you can scarce discuss any sort of religiously-influenced music without mentioning it. So here it is, my one mention of the simplistic style of church music that dominated the 19th century church, and, much like powdered mashed potatoes and dried-out ham, dominate traditional religious choral music to this day. There, you've had my disclaimer.

Just click "Accept" and continue.

Alright, so down to the nitty gritty. I've established that we're dealing with a 19th century carol and that it's English in origin, but it's back story is a bit more fun than the nature of the tune would imply. As was common of many hymns of the time, and as noted in previous posts on this blog, the lyrics and tune of a hymn were often written separately by different people. Such is the case with "See Amid the Winter's Snow": the tune was written by organist Sir John Goss, and the lyrics by the not-nearly-as-knightly Edward Caswall. Caswall, an Oxford man in the parlance of the times, converted from Protestantism to Catholicism in 1847 at the age of 33. Despite his very classical English education, this was as good as an act of war against one's family name, even into the 20th century. As if that weren't enough to do his good English name in, he was also the son of an Anglican pastor.

Still not one of these, though.

Though his original poem "See Amid the Winter's Snow" lacks a date of origin, it's original year of publication was 1858, so he wrote this one shortly after his conversion. Sir John Goss composed the tune he titled "Humility" in 1871 specifically for Caswall's poem, now hymn given its musical accompaniment. It's worth noting, at least to me, that the recording at the top was made in St. Paul's Cathedral, London, which is where Goss was musical director at the time of his composition. For all intents and purposes, though, that's where the fun ends and the church basements begin. Not that there's anything wrong with them, or this song I'll reiterate, but they don't command my fondest memories. But I'll also reiterate that I think this song--really, this style of hymn-- is important to include in my list because of its prevalence in hymnals to this day.

December 21: "I Wonder As I Wander"

December 21. The winter solstice is upon us, and without realizing it (but not wanting to miss out on the symbolism) I'm writing this post in the last hour of daylight. By the time I finish, it will be dark, and the next time the sun rises, we'll be on our way back toward summer. For all the repetitions of "Jesus is the reason for the season," that saying is utterly false. Before you stone me to death, hear me out. Most people know that Christmas is celebrated near the solstice to coincide with pagan traditions, specifically the Roman festival of Saturnalia, making the conversion from one holiday to the other an easy process for new converts. So if you want to be a realist about it, Jesus is merely the reason for the religious significance; the season, and its choosing, is entirely about the solstice. This has little to do with today's song of choice, except that I picked this one for its dark sound and minor key, reminding me of the darkness of the solstice. In fact, though a Celtic tune might have been more befitting today, "I Wonder As I Wander" is an Appalachian original.

If you can, watch that video in full screen. The imagery used in the background was fittingly filmed in southern Appalachia, the birthplace of the song in question. For all its ancient-sounding eeriness, the carol's earliest history begins in 1933 in the town of Murphy, NC. For those who don't like using Google maps, Murphy is about as far south and west as you can go in the state of North Carolina, and it's in an area known for being a hotbed of balladry and original Appalachian folk music. The story behind "I Wonder As I Wander" starts with a revivalist meeting in Murphy in mid-July of 1933. Most of the revivalists in attendance were extremely poor and, having been squatting in the town square for over a week, were about to be evicted by the police. A preacher by the name of Morgan and his wife asked to hold one last meeting to panhandle enough gas money to drive out of Murphy. When the police acquiesced, Morgan's daughter, Annie Morgan, sang the first lines of an old ballad that she had been taught. Luckily for her, a folklorist named John Jacob Niles was attending the revival meetings collecting and recording Appalachian ballads as he did for a living. He described seeing Annie singing in the square, wearing clothes that were 

"...unbelievably dirty and ragged, and she, too was unwashed. Her ash-blonde hair hung down in long skeins... But, best of all, she was beautiful, and in her untutored way, she could sing. She smiled as she sang, smiled rather sadly, and sang only a single line of a song."

Niles, taken with the haunting melody, offered her a quarter if she would repeat what she had just sung. She repeated her song seven more times, each for another quarter, and Niles recorded what he could in his notebook in his own musical shorthand until he ran out of quarters to give her. He left Murphy with "Three lines of verse, a garbled fragment of melodic material--and a magnificent idea." Niles extended what wrote down that day to a full melody and three verses, taking credit for all but the original lines he heard young Annie sing. 

Well done, Johnny.

Who's to say how far back the ballad might trace its roots? It's become popular far beyond Appalachia, partially thanks to John Niles' involvement in the folk revival of the 50's and 60's. Unlike many other Appalachian ballads, there is no paralleling version from medieval England that was found over there. Then again, we're working with bits and pieces, so who knows how much might have been lost in translation. The parts we do have seem to mirror the nomadic lifestyle led by Annie Morgan and her family: wandering from place to place with nothing at all, but remembering that Jesus' family did much the same thing before and immediately after he was born. Maybe their hardship and poverty is vindicated, then, in being like him-- that seems to be the message of the lyrics:

I wonder as I wander out under the sky

How Jesus the Savior did come for to die

For poor on'ry people like you and I;

I wonder as I wander out under the sky

When Mary birthed Jesus 'twas in a cow's stall

With wise men and shepherds and farmers and all

But high from God's heaven a star's light did fall

And the promise of ages it then did recall

I'll admit to being pretty infatuated with the dark, haunting melody of this one. Whether it's more Niles' invention or a traditional tune, it seems to fit the bill for the darkest day of the year. It feels like what wandering in the woods on a still winter's night feels like. And I have my own connection with Murphy, NC, particularly it's police department. No, I was never arrested there, but last time I was near Murphy it was snowy, cold, and windy, but far from the solstice. It was March 25, 2014, and I had just crossed the first state line on my thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail. Another thru hiker, a retired Coast Guardsman, in fact, had broken his ankle and hobbled his way to Muskrat Creek shelter, where Tim and I were staying the night. 

Muskrat Creek shelter, the following morning

His fellow hikers had already gotten a call out to Clay County emergency services in Murphy, and they sent up their EMT's, a police officer... and Claw Man. Claw Man is a longer story, but suffice it to say they got the wounded hiker out of there, leaving us to weather the coldest night I'd spend on the AT. But I'll never forget what the mountains looked like that night, under that crystal clear sky after the snow had blown through. If "I Wonder As I Wander" turned out to be inspired by the southern Appalachians in wintertime, I wouldn't be the least bit surprised.

December 20: "The Seven Joys of Mary"

I promised a couple of days ago that you hadn't seen the last of Great Big Sea on this blog. I find their rollicking, shanty-ish styling of many traditional tunes refreshing in the face of a seemingly never ending stream of choral versions of these carols that seem to sap all the fun out of them. At the beginning of that video Sean McCann, "The Shanty Man" claims that today's carol "The Seven Joys of Mary" comes from his home of Newfoundland. As far as he can tell it probably does, since Newfoundland is to Irish music in the New World what Appalachia is to English balladry. But, as we've come to learn about folk carols in the past nearly 3 weeks, almost all of them come from across the pond at some point. I also don't think this makes for a bad drinking song, especially if you're Catholic.

Where did the Protestants go astray?

The title of the song begs the question: what are the seven joys of Mary? In religious tradition, usually Roman Catholic, there are a number of events in the life of Mary as the mother of Jesus that are denoted as her "joys," almost always beginning with the annunciation--Gabriel appearing to Mary to tell her she will give birth to the son of God--and almost always ending with the "coronation of the virgin in heaven." In the devotional, which is used as a Franciscan Rosary, the joys are not all acts of Christ, but more often things that happened to Mary herself. Through the years the number has fluctuated: there were originally five joys of Mary, then seven, then nine, even as many as fifteen in some medieval texts of the devotional. Seems that over time Mary has gotten happier and happier!

*Ahem*

As a devotional, the idea goes back to at least the 15th century--doesn't everything?--but as a carol it takes many forms from many times and places, usually beginning around that time all the way up to the 19th century. A likely first form of the carol can be found in "Off the 5 Joyes Of Owr Lady," transcribed by Thomas Wright from the same manuscript as "This Endris Night", which dates from around 1475. Obviously that one is short a couple of joys, but other version from only slightly later make up for them, and seven seems to be the agreed upon number by the early 19th century. After filtering through all the songs that are "the same, only different" on this subject, we have the following breakdown of joys if you're English vs. if you're American and need everything Disney-fied:

English                                                                                   American

1. Jesus sucking at her breast                                                1. Jesus being born

2. Jesus curing the lame                                                        2. Curing the lame

3. Jesus curing the blind                                                        3. Curing the blind

4. Jesus raising the dead                                                        4. Reading the Old Testament in the

5. Jesus bearing the cross                                                          temple

6. Jesus wearing the crown of heaven                                   5. Raising the dead

7. Writing with a golden pen (?)                                            6. Rising from the dead

                                                                                               7. Wearing the crown of heaven

If you're paying attention and maybe did some homework, you've noted that these joys in the carol versions we have today are different from Mary's joys in the Seven Joys of the Virgin as a devotional. Maybe the meter works better this way, maybe someone just is bad at translating, but I don't have a concrete explanation for why that is. Also, much like "The Twelve Apostles," another counting song, this tune hasn't always been associated with Christmas. In fact, in its medieval version, it was a year-round thing. But in modern times this is considered a Christmas song, and that's the only time of year you're likely to hear it, boldly assuming that you ever will outside of this post. I said at the beginning that I like rollicking shanty version best, because I'm a folk musician, but here's something a little more formal for those of you who wear nice clothes to concerts:

December 19: "The Babe of Bethlehem" ("Ye Nations All, On You I Call")

I made it home for Christmas, even if this isn't where I'll be spending it, but the important thing is I'll be with family. As such I'm back to serving up freshly written posts. The last 3 days were all written last week and then put on ice while I made a little road trip back to Ohio, and I'll admit to doing very little editing to them before hurling them into the blogosphere. So be nice if I have a few signature misplaced modifiers and awkward sentence structuring; these things usually get worked out after a cursory read through. Today I'm back with another shape-note song that I heard around the time I found "Star in the East." Matter of fact, most of the background you need to know on "Babe of Bethlehem," or "Ye Nations All, On You I Call" (after it's first line) can be found in my December 7th post on "Star in the East." 

What this once high-brow blog has become

That version up above is from the Seeger sisters, whose brother was renowned banjo player Mike Seeger, and Pete Seeger, probably the most famous of them all, was a half-brother. It was recorded and produced by Smithsonian Folkways, which probably does more to preserve American folk music than all other societies formed for that cause combined. "Babe of Bethlehem" appears alongside hundreds of shape-note tunes in William Walker's Southern Harmony because, well... because he wrote it. Not just the book, but the song itself. Actually, as it happens, Walker wrote the vast majority of the shape-note hymns contained in his collection, which led me to wonder just what is this guy's story? Honestly, had I known that "Babe of Bethlehem's" story didn't take me much further than another blog post I might have picked a different hymn, but just listen to it! It's unique, and kind of foreboding, and has that unique haunting Appalachian quality to it. 

Not like that, though.

William Walker was born in, lived in, and died in Spartanburg, South Carolina. Spartanburg is also the birthplace of Denny's, putting it high in the running for the most southern place in America. He gave himself the nickname "Singing Billy" at an early age to distinguish him from the presumably non-singing William Walkers in Spartanburg. He must have lived up to the name, since the first edition of Southern Harmony was compiled and published by him when he was just 26. Some people can barely keep a blog of original posts together by that age! It should be noted, though, that as a composer Walker wasn't 100% original. A 20th century editor of the 1854 edition of Southern Harmony named Glen Wilcox noted, partially quoting Walker, 

"to a 'great many good airs (which I could not find in any publication, nor in manuscript)' he has written parts and assigned himself as composer. This ... shows his tacit acceptance of the commonality of many of the tunes... and the probability that many had achieved the status of folk song, although he of course did not use that term." (The Southern Harmony and Musical Companion, facsimile edition with editor's introduction, 1987).

So who knows how old "Babe of Bethlehem," or any of Walker's tunes, might be. It seems the most popular modern version is the one below by Andrew Parrott, one an album subtitled "Seven Centuries of Christmas Music." I suppose 1835 falls within that time frame, but is it really that ancient? It seems doubtful, even if there is a pre-dating English version, which there usually is. Still, by the time it gets recorded in America it's a whole new song by most standards.

December 18: "The Twelve Apostles" ("Green Grow the Rushes, O")

Did you watch that video in its entirety? If not, I'd encourage you to go back and do so. Firstly because it's by Newfoundland-based Great Big Sea, a band which I think is grossly underappreciated for their preservation of songs like this, and I really like their style and their music in general. Secondly, it's lively and intended to bring Christmas cheer, and what good is reading this blog anyway if you're not going to listen to the music that is the subject? The roots of today's song (I hesitate to call it a carol, and that's part of why I'm so excited about it) are deep and obscure, so I hope you'll bear with the twists and turns that come along with "The Twelve Apostles." And if you haven't got a drink in your hand (if you imbibe) for this one, I highly recommend it, for this is as close to a Christmas drinking song as I intend to get.

Christmas comes but once a year...

The song above goes under many names in modern times, including "The Twelve Prophets," "The Carol of the Twelve Numbers," and "The Ten Commandments"). Obviously this song follows the basic structure of "The Twelve Days of Christmas," but it's far more likely that the latter took from the former, not the other way around. "Green Grow the Rushes, O," while English in origin, is thought, in concept, to span much of the western world in many languages, including Hebrew, and to cross the border from Christianity Paganism (or rather vice versa) given its age. However, as a result of its word-of-mouth style, not limited to its singing, modern interpretations are likely very different from the versions from which they trace their roots. 

I'm not telling you what to do, I'm just trying to spread Christmas cheer. 

I honestly don't know where to begin in the analysis of this song. As far as musical structure, it seems to be whatever you want it to be, as in the very shanty-inspired version above. Lyrically, it's a whole different animal from anything I've tackled to date. Cecil Sharp, whom I've mentioned before for his collections of English and Celtic folklore, noted in 1916 that the lyrics are "so corrupt, indeed, that in some cases we can do little more than guess at their original meaning." It seems that this is a folk song in its truest form, which is to say that the original version is entirely unrecorded in writing and effectively unknown to history. To me, the translation of that is "perfect."

One more, for  posterity. 

On to the lyrical breakdown, since the lyrics-- much more so than the tune-- define this song. We obviously have twelve stanzas, apparently one for each of the twelve apostles. Beginning from the first:

One is one and all alone, and forever more shall be.

Most people take this to refer to God.

Two, two were lily-white babes, clothed all in green, oh

... Adam and Eve

Three of them were rivals (or drivers, riders, or wisers)

Each has its own meaning: the rivals may refer to Peter, James, and John, the drivers/riders/wisers the Magi.

Four were gospel preachers (makers)

...Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John

Five were ferrymen under the boat (bush?) also, Five for the symbols at your door

... Hard to say

Six, the six pall bearers (or proud walkers)

... Either a simple allusion to a funeral, or a reference to the six jars of water Jesus turned to wine

Seven, seven stars under the sky

...Any of a number of constellations, but probably referring to the seven original planets, excluding Earth

Eight for the April Rainers

...Either the rains of Noah's flood or a star cluster that rises in April

Nine bright-eyed shiners

...Possibly the nine orders of angels

Ten, the Ten Commandments

... Self explanatory

Eleven for the eleven who went to heaven

... Jesus' faithful apostles, excluding Judas Iscariot

Twelve for the twelve apostles

... Self explanatory

There are countless arrangments, versions, and translations of this song, so this is far from the be all, end all of the carol. The stanzas likely differ depending on the language and the translator, and even the English language versions vary from region to region. In fact, the Great Big Sea version seems largely based on a version popularized in Appalachia and the Ozarks toward the beginning of the 20th century. Take what you will from it, I just think it's a nice respite from the same "Twelve Days of Christmas" that we're all used to and sick of.

December 17: "Tua Bethlem Dref"

Full disclosure: this is a last minute change to the list. Today's carol was slated to be "The Babe of Bethlehem," but as I listened to it I realized that it's kind of a convoluted song that includes nothing not already examined here. Also, it comes from 15th century England, and not to put down the carols I've posted here from that period, but I'm getting burned out on it. I didn't want the blog post to feel like a redundant chore in which I post carols unheard in America, but widespread in England, and I felt like I was starting to head down that road. So I cut it. Suffice it to say, I'm absolutely shooting from the hip today, so today's analysis might seem comparatively thin, since I picked a carol that I find far more interesting, if limited on historical data. Don't be fooled by the title; "Tua Bethlem Dref" is not written in some sort of exotic language from the Orient. Nope, that's Welsh, my friends, and if you know me (or in the case of a lot of my readers, my dad) you know that the family name is also a Welsh word. As my dad always says of St. David's Day, "Today we celebrate the only Celtic people to never make a good whisky." Well if there's the one thing the Welsh do very well, it's singing, and do they ever do it a lot.

Your average Welsh house party.

The best I can do on the history on this one is tell you that it was written in 1934 by a little-known Welsh composer named Edward Arthur, which is a pseudonym for his real name David Evans. Between those three, I think he managed to exhaust the total supply of popular Welsh names (coming from someone who's first name is Evan, middle name David). The song gained popularity throughout the British Isles due to its inclusion in A Child's Christmas in Wales, which is both a 1952 radio broadcast and later a work of fiction depicting a child's sense of nostalgia for Christmas. Whether "Tua Bethlem Dref" was included in just one of these and not the other or both remains unclear from what I can gather. That's about it for the history, in all honesty. Which is kind of nice, because I'd like to at least show the lyrics in their original Welsh form, since it's effectively a dead language, apart from its role in Welsh singing. Here's one translation that includes the Welsh lyrics:

Tua Bethlem dref
(To-ward Bethl’em town)
Awn yn fintai gref,
(We-e goooo in a crowd)
Ac addolwn Ef.
(And we wo–rship him)
Tua’r preseb awn
(Go to the stable)
Gyda chalon lawn,
(With a heart so full)
A phenlinio wnawn.
(And we’ll kneel down, we’ll kneel down.)
Gyda’r llwythau
(With a great throng)
Unwn ninnau
(We–e tooooo come along)
Ar y llwybrau
(On the paths that go to Him.)

At y crud.
(To the crib, everyone)
I fachgennyn Mair,
(To Mary’s little son)
Y tragwyddol Air,
(To the eternal Word.)
Dygwn roddion:
(Gifts, gifts we bring)
Serch y galon,
(Love in our hearts singing)
Aur anrhegion, thus a myrr.
(Gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh.)
Tua Bethlem dref
(To-ward Bethl’em town)
Awn yn fintal gref,
(We-e goooo in a crowd)
Ac addolwn Ef.
(And we wo–rship him.)

I wish I could pay homage to my ancestors and tell you that I can read  a single word of that, but I can't. I do happen to know that f's in Welsh (Cymraeg in it's own tongue, because it makes me feel smarter) are pronounced like v's. So take that into consideration if you stumbled through mouthing the words once already. There you go, dad, I did my best to do our people proud, but I think I should leave the singing and poetry and coal mining to them. In parting, here's one more, slightly faster choral version, because for as much I can't read the lyrics, I think this is really unique sounding song:

December 16: "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day"

Sorry for the extreme hipster-ness of that video, but I really like that version of the song. Also I wanted to post one that really put emphasis on the lyrics of today's unsung Christmas song, "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day." This was a last minute addition to my now-complete list of obscure carols that will take me through Christmas Day. I found room for it as soon as I read up on its origin and heard it sung because this one needs to be heard this year. And I'm sorry, but I don't think that there'll be too much comic relief in this post. Sometimes things just need writing about.

That is renowned American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in a photograph from 1868, five years after he penned the poem upon which "I Heard the Bells" is based. I'm sure there are many books written on Longfellow's life; he did, after all, seem to write the folk history of the United States in poetry. In case you don't remember, he is the author of Paul Revere's Ride and The Song of Hiawatha. To call him America's greatest poet might do his work just enough justice. But like those of so many creatives, Longfellow's life was full of tragic twists that undoubtedly gave some weight to his writing. Not least of these turns was the death of his second wife, Frances, in a fire on July 9, 1861. Her death led him to self-medicate in classic 19th century style: with laudanum and ether, and probably a good deal of alcohol. Even eighteen years later he grieved her loss in his poem The Cross of Snow, in which he wrote:

Such is the cross I wear upon my breast

These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes

And seasons, changeless since the day she died

Longfellow produced little poetry after the incident, finding his creativity stifled by his grief. It was exacerbated by his son Charles' decision to enlist in the Union Army in March of 1863 without his father's blessing. He told his father what I imagine he already knew in a letter, writing, "I have tried hard to resist the temptation of going without your leave but cannot any longer." Though Longfellow was an abolitionist, throwing his wealth and status behind the movement as early as the 1840's, he had no interest in his son risking his life in the war brought on in no small part by slavery. Then on  November 27 of that year Lieutenant Charles Longfellow of the 1st Massachusetts Cavalry was badly wounded by a shot through the back at the battle of Mine Run in central Virginia. 

Illustration from the Battle, published in Harper's Weekly

Though the bullet partially severed Charles' spine, he was miraculously not paralyzed, though his total recovery time was estimated at no less than six months when his father arrived to tend to his son in Washington on December 3. He returned to his home in Cambridge, MA and on Christmas Day, in a state of "trouble and anxiety" in his words, he penned the poem Christmas Bells. In it he lamented that while the bells brought thoughts of "peace on Earth, good will to men," but the knowledge of the war's cost to his own family made him doubt the truth of the idea:

Till ringing, singing on its way

The world revolved from night to day

A voice, a chime,

A chant sublime

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth

The cannon thundered in the South

And with the sound

The carols drowned 

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

...

And in despair I bowed my head;

"There is no peace on earth" I said;

"For hate is strong

And mocks the song

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

The final verse, however, gives hope for the future:

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:

"God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;

The Wrong shall fail

The Right prevail

With peace on earth, good-will to men."

In 1872 an English organist, John Calkin, set Wadsworth's poem to music, using an original tune. That tune, which is fittingly sad, is still used as the music to the carol, and is the music used in the version at top. Another arrangement from Johnny Marks, writer of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," was widely popular in the 1950's and 60's, but it doesn't carry the same sadness that I think is befitting the poem. Also, Calkin's hymn omitted the two verses that make direct reference to the Civil War, which changes the context of the words drastically. 

I think it's obvious why I made room for this one on the list: I needed to hear it. I've said before that I believe these are dark times for the world, and it's not just a matter of perception. Things are bad, and there's no getting around it. People are afraid for countless reasons, and once again we're a divided country--not North and South, but from umpteen different angles and directions. We need to remember that we're not the first people who have lived to see times like these; they've come before and they'll come again, just like Christmas comes every year to give us all something to pause for, even if only for a day. Forgive me for getting on my soapbox, but I feel like I can't read that last stanza enough: "The Wrong shall fail, the Right prevail, With peace on earth, good-will to men." Remember why this poem exists, and where it came from, and remember that this too, like that, shall pass.

December 15: "Wexford Carol"

Remember yesterday, when I promised not to do another medieval English carol for today? I held true to my word, for today's is a medieval Irish carol! "Wexford Carol" takes its name from County Wexford, which is on the east coast of Ireland, and one of the few traditionally English-speaking counties of Ireland, rather than Gaelic-speaking. Its English language tradition is likely responsible for so English-sounding a name for the country; to be honest, after adding it to my list, I assumed it was yet another English carol based on the name alone.

Every Irish person's reaction to that last line

As it happens, the origins of "Wexford Carol" are the subject of some debate in the realms of carol history academia (that's totally a thing). If you skim the surface of its history you'll find many claims of the carol dating to the 12th century, often in it's "original" Gaelic form. However, as I said before, County Wexford is an English speaking region, so it's much more likely that the opposite is true: the lyrics were originally in English and adapted to Irish Gaelic by musicians intent on preserving the language, especially in the early 20th century. So it seems that while the carol may well date to a few centuries ago, it's likely not that old. There's a bit of revisionist history at play here. The author is anonymous, and likely will remain so, since there are a number of other carols which are strikingly similar to "Wexford Carol, lyrically anyway, dating from the late medieval period. But some historical digging seems to place the modern version in a specific location: Enniscorthy, the second-largest town in County Wexford at just over 10,000 residents. Suffice it to say, this is a rural part of the emerald isle. The basis for that being the town of origin comes from the song's original transcriber, Dr. William Grattan Flood, musical director at St. Aidan's Cathedral in Enniscorthy from 1895 until his death in 1928. Dr. Flood apparently transcribed both the lyrics and the music from a local singer in the town, obviously sometime in the early 20th century (quite possibly 1928, the year of his death), giving us the version we know today. However, Flood's interpretation of the tune may not be reflective of its traditional nature, as one source claims, "his appreciation of detail was enthusiastic rather than thorough, and the content of his books were often distorted by his national and religious commitment."

Romanticizing traditional Irish culture?

Nah, never heard of that.

The lyrics describe the Nativity almost point for point, beginning with Mary and Joseph finding nowhere to stay in Bethlehem and ending with the arrival of the shepherds. The rhyme scheme of the lyrics is another argument against an early medieval origin, since apparently such a method was not used until the 15th century at the earliest, which also might explain the  parallel origin of similar carols ("All You That Are to Mirth Inclined," "Old Christmas Returned" which also seem to date from the 15th or 16th century). However, it's "Wexford Carol's" tune that draws attention to it, which employs a haunting mixolydian mode form, giving it a sort of unfinished or cliff-hanging feel. That's thanks to a minor seventh in an otherwise major scale. Feel free to read all about it on your own time, because that's a gross oversimplification of it, but I have neither the time nor music theory knowledge to explain it further. It's easier to just listen to it.

It turns out I kept my promise even better than I had expected: not only is this carol decidedly not English, but it's also probably not medieval either! Even if it is, and not all evidence for that case is refuted, one problem with word-of-mouth passing of music is that by the time the song makes it into writing it's almost a completely different song than it was centuries before. So in theory you could argue that even proven "traditional" carols are merely their 18th and 19th century interpretations and bastardizations of their former selves. There's nothing particularly wrong with that, it just makes me wonder just how ancient some of our other "ancient" traditions really are.

December 14: "This Endris Night"

My sweetest bird, 'tis thus betid

Though thou be king verray,

But nevertheless I will not cease 

To sing "By, by, lullay"

I'm getting this faint feeling like I might be overdoing it with the late-medieval English carols, but there's seems to be just a never ending supply of really good, largely forgotten ones from that period. Even half of the ones known by heart in modern America can trace their roots back to that era. Tomorrow I think I'll take a break from them, and I can promise that they won't all be English poems from the 14th-17th century, but it's hard to turn down a lyrical gem like "This Endris Night." And if  the above video gives you memories back to the scene in "Animal House" where John Belushi smashes the guitar on the wall, I'd have to agree with you that out of context it is a little much. But for my purposes here, and in general, I really like hearing songs played in the style and on the instruments of their period. So please, don't smash my proverbial guitar.

"Sorry."

Beyond the lyrics, which I'll get to later, I'm really taken with the history of this one because it's origins are probably the most unknown of any song I've done so far, despite being relatively popular as a carol worldwide, though drowned-out for most laymen by the "old favorites." Even though it sometimes goes under an additional name--"The Virgin and Child"-- and two other middle-English spellings ("Thys Endris Night" and "Thys Ender Night") the lyrics we have are predominantly taken from a single  late 15th century manuscript and prepared for the Percy Society of London-- a short-lived English literary historical society-- in 1847. We're taking it on the editor  of that publication, Thomas Wright's, word that this comes from when he said it comes from in the first place. There's not even a hint of evidence as to an original author, and any music to which the poem from the manuscript is set originates after Wright's publication. Since then there have been multiple versions and arrangements of the poem as a song, to the point where we still don't have anything close to a consensus on the tune of the thing. My personal favorite tune is the one to which the poem is sang in ye olde video above; in a choral setting it sounds like this:

That doesn't mean that this is the most popular way of singing it. If you go on YouTube and search "This Endris Night" you'll find as many different arrangements as their are first page videos. So, as much as I'd love to say more for the history of this one, I'm afraid that's where the trail dead ends. Which leaves us with the lyrical content of the piece, the main work of art. The Wright-version lyrics are in their semi-medieval form, so many of the words' meanings differ drastically from their modern definition. First and foremost, endris means "previously," so the title can be read as "A few days ago tonight." The basic gist of the story within the song is that Mary, observed from the third person, is sitting and singing a lullaby ("by, by, lullay") to baby Jesus. Their dialogue, in which the infant speaks, centers around the idea that though Jesus is the son of God, he is still Mary's son, and so as long as he's good and keeps quiet she'll still cuddle him and sing to him. It's got a surprisingly human feel to it, especially coming out of such a hyper-religious period. The closing stanzas read:

Now sweet son, since it is come so,

That all is at Thy will,

I pray Thee grant to me a boon (favor)

If it be right and skill (reasonable, fair)

That child or man, who will or can

Be merry on my day,

To bliss Though bring- and I shall sing

Lullay, by, by, lullay

Today the poem, turned carol, is today, "praised for the unusual delicacy and lyrical flourish for a poem of the period." It's a real bummer and a half that we have no one on which to heap all that praise, but maybe the mystery of the hymn adds to the wholesomeness of it.