Benjamin Britten and Peter Pears Celebrity Recital

# Man, man, man is for the woman made

# And the woman for the man

# As the spur is for the jade

# As the scabbard's for the blade

# As for digging is the spade

# As for liquor is the can

# So man, man, man is for the woman made

# And the woman for the man

# As the sceptre's to be sway'd

# As for night's the serenade

# As for pudding is the pan

# And to cool us is the fan

# So man, man, man is for the woman made

# And the woman for the man

# Be she widow or be she maid

# Be she well or ill array'd

# Be she wanton, be she stayed

# Princess or harridan

# So man, man, man is for the woman made

# And the woman for the man. #

There's no doubt that Henry Purcell was convinced of the truth

of the title of his song, Man Is For The Woman Made.

But we are going to sing three songs

to throw some light on this eternal riddle,

and the first one is woman as an unforgettable memory

in The Foggy, Foggy Dew.

# When I was a bachelor I liv'd all alone

# And I worked at the weaver's trade

# And the only, only thing I ever did wrong

# Was to woo a fair young maid

# I wooed her in the wintertime

# And in the summer too

# And the only, only thing I did that was wrong

# Was to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew

# One night she came to my bedside

# Where I lay fast asleep

# She laid her head upon my bed

# And she began to weep

# She sighed, she cried

# She damn near died

# She said, "What shall I do?"

# So I hauled her into bed

# And covered up her head

# Just to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew

# Oh, I am a bachelor I live with my son

# And we work at the weaver's trade

# And every single time I look into his eyes

# He reminds me of that fair young maid

# He reminds me of the wintertime

# And of the summer too

# And of the many, many times that I held her in my arms

# Just to keep her from the foggy, foggy, dew. #

Now, woman as deceiver.

A jilted lover sings Waly, Waly.

# The water is wide

# I cannot get o'er

# And neither have I wings to fly

# Bring me a boat that will carry two

# And both shall row, my love and I

# Oh, down in the meadows the other day

# A-gathering flowers both fine and gay

# A-gathering flowers both red and blue

# I little thought what love can do

# I leaned my back up against some oak

# Thinking that it was a trusty tree

# But first it bended and then it broke

# And so did my false love to me

# A ship there is and she sails the sea

# She's loaded deep, as deep can be

# But not so deep as the love I'm in

# I know not if I sink or swim

# Oh, love is handsome and love is fine

# And love's a jewel while it is new

# But when it is old, it groweth cold

# And fades away like morning dew. #

And now, woman as a faithful companion.

The old English ballad, Sweet Polly Oliver.

# As sweet Polly Oliver lay musing in bed

# A sudden strange fancy came into her head

# "Nor father nor mother shall make me false prove

# "I'll 'list for a soldier and follow my love"

# So early next morning She softly arose

# And dressed herself up in her dead brother's clothes

# She cut her hair short and she stained her face brown

# And went for a soldier to fair London Town

# Then up spoke the sergeant one day at his drill

# "Now, who's good for nursing? A captain, he's ill"

# "I'm ready," said Polly To nurse him she's gone

# And finds it's her true love all wasted and wan

# The first week The doctor kept shaking his head

# "No nursing, young fellow, can save him," he said

# But when Polly Oliver had nursed him back to life

# He cried, "You have cherished him as if you were his wife"

# O, then Polly Oliver She burst into tears

# And told the good doctor her hopes and her fears

# And very shortly afterwards For better or for worse

# The captain took joyfully his pretty soldier nurse. #

So much for love and man being made for the woman.

Now three old English characters of a slightly different sort.

First, the old 'prentice's song from late 17th, early 18th century,

first printed at the time of the Beggar's Opera,

1728, by Henry Carey.

Sally In Our Alley.

# Of all the girls that are so smart

# There's none like pretty Sally

# She is the darling of my heart

# And lives in our alley

# There's ne'er a lady in the land

# That's half so sweet as Sally

# She is the darling of my heart

# And lives in our alley

# When she is by, I leave my work

# I love her so sincerely

# My master comes like any Turk

# And beats me most severely

# But let him bang his bellyful

# I'll bear it all for Sally

# She is the darling of my heart

# And lives in our alley

# My master carries me to church

# And often am I blamed

# Because I leave him in the lurch

# As soon as text is named

# I leave the church at sermon-time

# And slink away to Sally

# She is the darling of my heart

# And lives in our alley

# My master and the neighbours all

# Make gave of me and Sally

# And but for her I'd rather be

# A slave and row a galley

# But when my seven long years are out

# Why, then I'll marry Sally

# O, then we'll wed

# And then we'll bed

# But not in our alley. #

Tom Bowling was written by Charles Dibdin in the late 18th century,

as a song in memory of his brother, Tom, who was lost at sea.

# Here a sheer hulk

# Lies poor Tom Bowling

# The darling of our crew

# No more he'll hear the tempest howling

# For death hath broached him to

# His form was of the manliest beauty

# His heart was kind and soft

# Faithful below, Tom did his duty

# And now he's gone aloft

# And now he's gone aloft

# Tom never from his word departed

# His virtues were so rare

# His friends were many and true-hearted

# His Poll was kind and fair

# And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly

# Ah! Many's the time and oft

# But mirth is turn'd to melancholy

# For Tom is gone aloft

# For Tom is gone aloft

# Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather

# When He who all commands

# Shall give to call life's crew together

# The word to pipe all hands

# Thus Death that kings and tars despatches

# In vain Tom's life hath doff'd

# For tho' his body's under hatches

# His soul is gone aloft

# His soul is gone aloft. #

Now the third of these old English characters, The Lincolnshire Poacher.

# When I was bound apprentice in famous Lincolnshire

# Full well I served my master for more than seven year

# Till I took up to poaching As you shall quickly hear

# Oh, 'tis my delight on a shiny night in the season of the year

# As me and my companions were setting off a snare

# 'Twas then we spied a gamekeeper For him we did not care

# For we can wrestle and fight, me boys

# And jump o'er anywhere

# Oh, 'tis my delight on a shiny night in the season of the year

# As me and my companions was setting four or five

# And taking them all up again We caught a hare alive

# We caught a hare alive, me boys And through the woods did steer

# Oh, 'tis my delight on a shiny night in the season of the year

# I threw him on me shoulder, here And then we trudged home

# We took him to a neighbour's house and sold him for a crown

# We sold him for a crown, me boys But I did not tell you where

# Oh, 'tis my delight on a shiny night in the season of the year

# Success to every gentleman that lives in Lincolnshire

# Success to every poacher who wants to sell his hare

# Bad luck to every gamekeeper who will not sell his deer

# Oh, 'tis my delight on a shiny night in the season of the year

# Oh, 'tis my delight on a shiny night in the season of the year. #

Here, for full measure, is another old English character.

You probably know him.

He's The Ploughboy, the 18th-century statesman

who rose too rapidly for the 18th century, or so they say.

# A flaxen-headed cowboy As simple as may be

# And next a jolly ploughboy I whistled o'er the lea

# And soon I'll be a footman and strut in worsted lace

# And next I'll be a butler and whey my jolly face

# When steward I'm promoted I'll snip a tradesman's bills

# My master's coffers empty My pockets for to fill

# When lolling in my chariot So great a man I'll be

# So great a man, so great a man So great a man I'll be

# You'll forget the little ploughboy that whistled o'er the lea

# You'll forget the little ploughboy that whistled o'er the lea

# I'll buy votes at elections And when I've made my pelf

# I'll stand poll for the parliament and then vote in myself

# Whatever's good for me, sir I never will oppose

# And when my ayes are sold off Why then, I'll sell my noes

# I'll joke, harangue, and paragraph With speeches charm the ear

# And when I'm tired on my legs Then I'll sit down a peer

# In court or city honour So great a man I'll be

# So great a man, so great a man So great a man I'll be

# You'll forget the little ploughboy that whistled o'er the lea

# You'll forget the little ploughboy that whistled o'er the lea. #

# Oliver Cromwell lay buried and dead Hee-haw, buried and dead

# There grew an old apple tree over his head

# Hee-haw, over his head

# The apples are ripe and ready to fall

# Hee-haw, ready to fall

# There came an old woman to gather them all

# Hee-haw, gather them all

# Oliver rose and gave her a drop Hee-haw, gave her a drop

# Which made the old woman go hippety hop, hee-haw, hippety hop

# The saddle and bridle They lie on the shelf

# Hee-haw, they lie on the shelf

# If you want any more You can sing it yourself

# Hee-haw, sing it yourself. #

APPLAUSE