I have been enveloped by an old English tune for some time and have heard several versions but only one, a haunting melody by”The Mediaeval Baebes”, has such beauty and sorrow within it that I finally decided to make certain of the lyrics that I had for so long been singing.
Certainly there were differences between my ear and printed matter, but not too much, or so I thought……
Foweles in the frith
The fisses in the flod
And I mon waxe wod
Mulch sorwe I walke with
For best of bon and blod
Then I took a look at the meaning, which had changed more than a little from my earlier understanding, for now I could see the horrors of spring unveiled in their full majesty of terror……
Fowels in the wooded estuary
The fishes in the tidal flood
And I, an Angl, grow raging mad
Much sorrow I walk with
For (the) best (work) of bone and blood (mankind).
The more I look around at this world in which we live I am forced to ask myself if we deserve such a gift.
Surely the human race is to be viewed as a virus or some other “pest” in need of a cull…..
Oh, haven’t we done well in our stewardship of this our maternal planet, Urtha