Very belated Friday Poetry Blogging: Edward

This is my favorite ballad. I've hesitated to post it here, because it loses so much in black and white. There really is no way to convey in a typescript what it feels like to hear (or sing) this poem to its keening melody. It raises hairs and invokes silence.

I mean that quite literally. More than once, I've sung this one and heard the entire room fall hushed for full seconds afterward. In Ireland, grown men stood with their heads bowed until I was both awed and embarrassed. I asked one class to whom I sang it what difference it made to hear the text performed as a song, and a girl hugged herself, rubbing her upper arms, and said, "It's spooky."

Indeed it is.

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Edward

"How came that blood on your shirt sleeve,
Oh, dear love, tell me?"

"Well, it is the blood of my old grey hound
That chased the fox for me, me, me,
That chased the fox for me."

"It does look too pale for the old grey hound
That chased the fox for thee, thee, thee,
That chased the fox for thee."

"How came that blood on your shirt sleeve,
Oh, dear love, tell me?"

"Well it is the blood of the old grey mare
That ploughed the field for me, me, me,
That ploughed the field for me."

"It does look too pale for the old grey mare
That ploughed the field for thee, thee, thee,
That ploughed the field for thee."

"How came that blood on your shirt sleeve,
Oh, dear love, tell me?"

"Well, it is the blood of my brother-in-law
That went away with me, me, me,
That went away with me."

"And it's what will you do now, my love,
Oh, dear love, tell me?"

"Well, I'll set my foot on yonder ship,
And I'll sail across the sea, sea, sea,
I'll sail across the sea."

"And it's when will you be back, my love,
Oh, dear love, tell me?"

"When the moon sinks yonder in the sycamore tree,
And that will never be, be, be,
And that will never be."