Charles Burney
(1726 - 1814)
The Despairing Shepherd (Cantata)
(Tenor,2 Violins,Viola,'Cello,Keyboard)
Score, part(s) and cover page (PDF), €3.00 for bundled copies Buy this item(1726 - 1814)
The Despairing Shepherd (Cantata)
(Tenor,2 Violins,Viola,'Cello,Keyboard)
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149509 : Burney : The Despairing Shepherd (Cantata) : sheet music
Catalogued as Choral - Secular (Songs and Concert Airs)
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Published by James Oswald at an early stage of Burney's career, when he was collaborating with Oswald to produce music for the theatre and for the London pleasure gardens.
Lyrics: John Gay
The sun was sunk beneath the hills,
The western clouds were edg'd with gold.
The sky was clear, the winds were still,
The flocks were penn’d within their fold;
When from the silence of the grove,
Poor Damon thus, despair'd of Love:
Who seeks to pluck the fragrant rose
From the bare rock, or oozy beach;
Who, from each barren weed that grows,
Expects the Grape or blushing peach,
With equal faith, may hope to find
The truth of love in womankind.
I have no flocks, nor fleecy care,
No fields that shine with golden grain,
Nor meadows green, nor gardens fair,
A virgin's venal heart to gain:
Then all in vain my sighs would prove
For I alas! have nought but love.
How wretched is the faithful youth,
Since women's hearts are bought and sold;
They ask not vows of sacred truth:
Whene'er they sigh they sigh for gold.
Gold can the scorn of frowns remove,
But I alas! have nought but love.
To buy the gems of India's coast,
What wealth, what riches can suffice?
But all their fire can never boast
The living lustre of her eyes:
For there the world too cheap would prove,
But I alas! have nought but love.
Oh! Sylvia, since not gems, nor ore,
Can with thy brighter self compare,
Consider that I proffer more
(more seldom found): a heart sincere.
Let treasure meaner beauties move;
Who pays thy worth must pay in love.
The sun was sunk beneath the hills,
The western clouds were edg'd with gold.
The sky was clear, the winds were still,
The flocks were penn’d within their fold;
When from the silence of the grove,
Poor Damon thus, despair'd of Love:
Who seeks to pluck the fragrant rose
From the bare rock, or oozy beach;
Who, from each barren weed that grows,
Expects the Grape or blushing peach,
With equal faith, may hope to find
The truth of love in womankind.
I have no flocks, nor fleecy care,
No fields that shine with golden grain,
Nor meadows green, nor gardens fair,
A virgin's venal heart to gain:
Then all in vain my sighs would prove
For I alas! have nought but love.
How wretched is the faithful youth,
Since women's hearts are bought and sold;
They ask not vows of sacred truth:
Whene'er they sigh they sigh for gold.
Gold can the scorn of frowns remove,
But I alas! have nought but love.
To buy the gems of India's coast,
What wealth, what riches can suffice?
But all their fire can never boast
The living lustre of her eyes:
For there the world too cheap would prove,
But I alas! have nought but love.
Oh! Sylvia, since not gems, nor ore,
Can with thy brighter self compare,
Consider that I proffer more
(more seldom found): a heart sincere.
Let treasure meaner beauties move;
Who pays thy worth must pay in love.