 notAmos Performing Editions 1 Lansdown Place East, Bath BA1 5ET, UK +44 (0) 1225 316145 Performing editions of pre‑classical music with full preview/playback and instant download |
John Clarke-Whitfeld
(1770 - 1836)
I will rest on the cold turf
(S.A.T.B.+reduction)
Full score (PDF), €0.00 for unlimited copies Download this item(1770 - 1836)
I will rest on the cold turf
(S.A.T.B.+reduction)
Printable cover page (PDF), €0.00 for unlimited copies Download this item
If you have any problem obtaining a PDF, please see our help page. If that does not resolve the issue, please click here.
This work, Clarke-Whitfeld : I will rest on the cold turf : scoreid 147302, as published by notAmos Performing Editions, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. All relevant attributions should state its URL as https://www.notamos.co.uk/detail.php?scoreid=147302. Permissions beyond the scope of this licence may be available at https://www.notamos.co.uk/index.php?sheet=about.
| Enquire about this score |
| About John Clarke-Whitfeld |
| Full Catalogue |
| About us | Help, privacy, cookies |
| About John Clarke-Whitfeld |
| Full Catalogue |
| About us | Help, privacy, cookies |
from Eight Glees, Op. 4. Published in 1798, when Clarke was Master of the Boys at the Chapel Royal, Dublin.
The text is taken from Mary Robinson's novel "Hubert de Sevrac, a novel of the eighteenth century".
The text is taken from Mary Robinson's novel "Hubert de Sevrac, a novel of the eighteenth century".
Lyrics: Mary Robinson
I will rest on the cold turf, the thistle shall drink my tears.
Grieve not, O spirit of revenge.
The sun will chase me, like a shadow over the desert,
and I shall be seen no more.
The ghost of my father calls;
his white robes wave in the tempest.
His beard is like the falling snow.
Mournful is his song; it moans
like the breezes of twilight,
it vibrates on the caverned rock,
it wakes me from my bed of thorns.
Gashed is his bosom; his hands are stained with gore.
His eyes are closed for ever.
O world, what are thy joys?
Where are thy comforts, offspring of sorrow?
I will rest on the cold turf, the thistle shall drink my tears.
Grieve not, O spirit of revenge.
The sun will chase me, like a shadow over the desert,
and I shall be seen no more.
The ghost of my father calls;
his white robes wave in the tempest.
His beard is like the falling snow.
Mournful is his song; it moans
like the breezes of twilight,
it vibrates on the caverned rock,
it wakes me from my bed of thorns.
Gashed is his bosom; his hands are stained with gore.
His eyes are closed for ever.
O world, what are thy joys?
Where are thy comforts, offspring of sorrow?