The Fancy Passes (audio capture)

I’ve posted other versions of this, but I quite liked this one, audio captured from a video set I did for ‘Own Your Voice’ a few days ago. I’ve slightly processed it to reduce clipping, but I’ll probably replace it with a mastered version later on. It’s one of my settings of a poem from ‘A Shropshire Lad’, published in 1896 by A.E. Housman (d. 1936). I’m currently working on a recording project centred on Shropshire which is likely to include several of my Housman settings.

A Shropshire Lad XVIII

Oh, when I was in love with you,
Then I was clean and brave,
And miles around the wonder grew
How well did I behave.

And now the fancy passes by,
And nothing will remain,
And miles around they’ll say that I
Am quite myself again.

David Harley

Tears of Morning (first pass)

Another Housman setting: words from Last Poems. I’ve followed the example of Michael Raven in using two separate (but consecutive) verses that are clearly connected thematically and in form, at least as far as this stand-alone song is concerned. However, in the suite of songs/pieces that this might eventually be used for, XXVI will probably be enough. The suite is going to be gloomy enough as it is…

Mike Raven used a traditional tune for his setting that sounds familiar, but I’m not sure from where. I think I may have heard it attached to The Holy Well but wouldn’t swear to it. That setting is beautifully sung unaccompanied by Joan Mills on the CD ‘A Shropshire Lad’ (with Mike Raven) reviewed here. However, I’ve put a new tune to it.

Full version:


Version recorded for Ian Semple’s programme on CoastFM, but not actually used.



And here are Housman’s verses.


The half-moon westers low, my love,
And the wind brings up the rain;
And wide apart lie we, my love,
And seas between the twain.

I know not if it rains, my love,
In the land where you do lie;
And oh, so sound you sleep, my love,
You know no more than I.


The sigh that heaves the grasses
Whence thou wilt never rise
Is of the air that passes
And knows not if it sighs.

The diamond tears adorning
Thy low mound on the lea,
Those are the tears of morning,
That weeps, but not for thee.

David Harley