Lyrics by Frank DiGiacomo and Julian R. Pace, drawn from Down-adown-derry, a poem by Walter de la Mare,
republished in America by Dover Publications in a collection called Songs of Childhood.
Photography by Sherry Eckstein.
At curtain rise, Beauty, her Sisters and her Father are busy in separate parts of their cottage. Beauty sits embroidering before the hearth; her Father sits at table, attended by the First Sister; the Second Sister is at a spinning wheel. Beauty sings a folk song as she works; the others add their voices to hers expressing their individual thoughts, then join her in the song.
LYRICS
Beauty:
Down-adown-derry, sweet child of the moon,
gathering daisies near the banks of the Lûne,
sees a white fairy skip buxom and free
where the waters go brawling in rills to the sea;
singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry, sweet child of the moon,
through the green grasses runs fleetly and soon,
and lo! on a lily she sees one recline
whose eyes in her wee face like the water-sparks shine;
singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry, and shrill was her tune:
“Come to my water-house, child of the moon;
come in your pink gown, your curls on your head,
to wear the white samite and rubies instead”;
singing down-adown-derry.
“Down-adown-derry, lean fish of the sea,
bring lanthorns for feasting the gay Faërie;
and it’s dancing on sand 'tis that’s smoother than wool—
foam-fruit and wild honey to pleasure you full”;
singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry, sweet child of the moon
looked large on the fairy midst the lilies of the Lûne;
and all the grey ripples to the mill racing by,
with harps and with timbrels did ringing reply;
singing down-adown-derry.
“Down-adown-derry,” sang the Fairy of the Lûne,
piercing the heart of the child of the moon;
and lo! when like roses the clouds of the sun faded at dusk,
gone, gone, gone, was the child of the moon;
singing down-adown-derry.
Singing down-adown-derry, the daisies are few;
frost twinkles powd’ry in haunts of the dew;
only the robin perched on a white thorn
can comfort the heart of a father forlorn;
singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry, there’s snow in the air;
ice where the lily bloomed waxen and fair;
he may call o’er the water, cry—cry through the mill;
but the child of the moon, alas! alas, alas!
answer ne’er will;
singing down-adown-derry.
Ah!
First Sister:
How quiet she has grown of late;
how quiet she has grown of late!
Soon she will excuse herself and go off to bed
to dream of her Beast and her devoted servants—soon, soon.
Soon she will be leaving us again, again.
But what will then become of Father when she is gone?
Can’t she see how he depends on her?
Can’t she see?
Her presence these past weeks
has lightened the weight of his years.
Oh, Beauty, your Sisters would mourn your leaving;
but we are young and strong enough to make our way without you.
But as for our poor Father!...
If she leaves him again, what will he do?
Ah, ah! He will wither into hopeless old age.
Surely in the goodness of her heart she must see Father’s need of her
and will not abandon him again.
I will not think about it—Beauty cannot leave us now.
Singing down-adown-derry, the daisies are few;
frost twinkles powd’ry in haunts of the dew;
only the robin perched on a white thorn
can comfort the heart of a father, a father forlorn;
singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry, there’s snow in the air;
ice where the lily bloomed waxen and fair;
he may call o’er the water,
he may cry through the mill, alas!
singing down-adown-derry.
Ah!
Second Sister:
There she sits!
There she sits, absorbed in her thoughts of her mysterious life in her new home.
Who could believe her tales?
Who could believe her tales—
animals to wait upon her, and a hideous but kindly Beast to love her!
Still, her life is not as difficult,
her danger not as great, as at first we feared.
The clothes she wears are of the finest...
Poor old Father will never now regain our former wealth;
but in this poverty my youth will quickly fade away.
Oh, Beauty, deserving as you are, still l wish l’d gone instead of you!
Oh, Beauty, deserving as you are, still l wish I’d gone instead of you!
Still l wish l’d gone instead of you!
She is more beautiful than ever.
Surely her life is easier than ours; but it is no more than she deserves.
Ah, Beauty,
I wish that my own true knight would come,
and bear me off to carefree luxury!
Down-adown-derry, there’s snow in the air;
ice where the lily bloomed waxen and fair;
he may call o’er the water, cry through the mill;
but the child of the moon, alas!
Alas, alas!
singing down-adown-derry.
Ah!
Father:
Oh, my dear Beauty,
you keep so much apart, so much apart, so involved in thoughts of your new life.
You used to sit at my feet and sing sweet songs for me
at evening by the hearth.
And before, when we were wealthy, and you a laughing little girl,
you used to sit wide-eyed on my knee to hear my tales of far-off lands,
or tell me of a butterfly you’d seen drink dew from a flower.
Someday we’ll be rich again and I will buy back our dear old house,
to live in as we once did.
But I forgot—
you have another home now, another life.
Down-adown-derry, the daisies are few;
frost twinkles powd’ry in haunts of the dew;
ah, only the robin perched on a white thorn
can comfort the heart of a father forlorn;
singing down-adown-derry.
Down-adown-derry, there’s snow in the air;
ice where the lily bloomed waxen and fair;
he may call o’er the water, cry through the mill; ah, ah, ah!
singing down-adown-derry.
Ah!