Norman's song
(Poet's title: Normans Gesang)
Set by Schubert:
D 846
Schubert omitted the words in italics[April 1825]
Part of Sieben Gesänge aus Walter Scott’s Fräulein vom See
Die Nacht bricht bald herein, dann leg ich mich zur Ruh,
Die Heide ist mein Lager, das Farrnkraut deckt mich zu,
Mich lullt der Wache Tritt wohl in den Schlaf hinein,
Ach, muss so weit von dir, Maria, Holde, sein.
Und wird es morgen Abend, und kommt die trübe Zeit,
Dann ist vielleicht mein Lager der blutigrote Plaid,
Mein Abendlied verstummet, du schleichst dann trüb und bang.
Maria, ach, mich wecken kann nicht dein Totensang.
So musst’ ich von dir scheiden, du holde, süße Braut,
Wie magst du nach mir rufen, wie magst du weinen laut,
Ach, denken darf ich nicht an deinen herben Schmerz,
Ach, denken darf ich nicht an dein getreues Herz.
Nein, zärtlich treues Sehnen darf hegen Norman nicht,
Wenn in den Feind Clan-Alpine wie Sturm und Hagel bricht,
Wie ein gespannter Bogen sein mutig Herz dann sei,
Sein Fuß, Maria, wie der Pfeil so rasch und frei.
Wohl wird die Stunde kommen, wo nicht die Sonne scheint,
Du wankst zu deinem Norman, dein holdes Auge weint;
Doch fall ich in der Schlacht, hüllt Todesschauer mich,
O glaub, mein letzter Seufzer, Maria, ist für dich.
Doch kehr ich siegreich wieder aus kühner Männerschlacht,
Dann grüßen wir so freudig das Nahn der stillen Nacht,
Das Lager ist bereitet, uns winkt die süße Ruh,
Der Hänfling singt Brautlieder, Maria, hold uns zu.
Night is soon going to fall, then I shall lie down to rest,
The heath is my bed, the bracken will cover me,
The watchman’s steps will lull me to sleep:
Oh, I have to be so far from you, Mary, you beauty!
And when tomorrow evening comes and bleak times have arrived,
Then perhaps this blood-red plaid will be my bed,
My evening song will fall silent, you will creep around gloomy and anxious.
Mary, oh, even your funeral lament will not wake me up.
So have I had to leave you, you beautiful, sweet bride?
However much you call after me, however much you cry aloud,
Oh, I should not think about your bitter pain,
Oh, I should not think about your faithful heart.
No, tender, faithful longing is something that Norman should not feel,
When Clan-Alpine breaks into the enemy like storm and hail,
Therefore let his courageous heart by like a drawn bow,
Let his foot, Mary, be as swift and free as an arrow!
The hour is definitely coming when the sun will not shine,
You are staggering towards your Norman, your beautiful eyes are weeping.
But if I fall in the battle and the horror of death covers me,
Oh, believe, Mary, that my last sigh was for you.
But if I return victorious from this bold battle of men,
Then we shall greet the approach of quiet night with such joy,
The bed has been prepared, sweet rest is beckoning to us.
The linnet will sing beautiful bridal songs for us, Mary.
All translations into English that appear on this website, unless otherwise stated, are by Malcolm Wren. You are free to use them on condition that you acknowledge Malcolm Wren as the translator and schubertsong.uk as the source. Unless otherwise stated, the comments and essays that appear after the texts and translations are by Malcolm Wren and are © Copyright.
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Themes and images in this text:
Blood Bows and arrows Courage Evening and the setting sun Farewell and leave taking Going to bed Hearts Heathland and moors Horses Husband and wife Night and the moon Red and purple Rest Serenades and songs at evening Tears and crying War, battles and fighting Weddings
The influence of Walter Scott’s ‘The Lady of the Lake’ on the United States of America was not limited to the song ‘Hail the Chief!’ (Schubert’s D 835 Bootgesang). The story was also the source of the idea that a Clan / Klan should muster its members by means of carrying a burning cross. This is the theme of Canto III of the poem, in which Roderick Dhu, the Chief of Clan Alpine summons all of his warriors to assemble immediately on Lanrick meadow ready for an uprising against the King of Scotland. He sends the burning cross around the countryside, and we are invited to follow it on a number of stops on the way. When it reaches the settlement of Duncraggan it becomes apparent that the warrior Duncan has just died (see Schubert’s D836 Coronach). Duncan’s son, Angus, has to put his duty to his Clan Chief before his duty to his dead father and bereaved mother. He takes up the burning cross and continues the relay so that the whole Clan can assemble promptly.
XIX.
Benledi saw the Cross of Fire,
It glanced like lightning up Strath-Ire.
O'er dale and hill the summons flew,
Nor rest nor pause young Angus knew;
The tear that gathered in his eye
He deft the mountain-breeze to dry;
Until, where Teith's young waters roll
Betwixt him and a wooded knoll
That graced the sable strath with green,
The chapel of Saint Bride was seen.
Swoln was the stream, remote the bridge,
But Angus paused not on the edge;
Though the clerk waves danced dizzily,
Though reeled his sympathetic eye,
He dashed amid the torrent's roar:
His right hand high the crosslet bore,
His left the pole-axe grasped, to guide
And stay his footing in the tide.
He stumbled twice,—the foam splashed high,
With hoarser swell the stream raced by;
And had he fallen,—forever there,
Farewell Duncraggan's orphan heir!
But still, as if in parting life,
Firmer he grasped the Cross of strife,
Until the opposing bank he gained,
And up the chapel pathway strained.
A blithesome rout that morning-tide
Had sought the chapel of Saint Bride.
Her troth Tombea's Mary gave
To Norman, heir of Armandave,
And, issuing from the Gothic arch,
The bridal now resumed their march.
In rude but glad procession came
Bonneted sire and coif-clad dame;
And plaided youth, with jest and jeer
Which snooded maiden would not hear:
And children, that, unwitting why,
Lent the gay shout their shrilly cry;
And minstrels, that in measures vied
Before the young and bonny bride,
Whose downcast eye and cheek disclose
The tear and blush of morning rose.
With virgin step and bashful hand
She held the kerchief's snowy band.
The gallant bridegroom by her side
Beheld his prize with victor's pride.
And the glad mother in her ear
Was closely whispering word of cheer.
XXI.
Who meets them at the churchyard gate?
The messenger of fear and fate!
Haste in his hurried accent lies,
And grief is swimming in his eyes.
All dripping from the recent flood,
Panting and travel-soiled he stood,
The fatal sign of fire and sword
Held forth, and spoke the appointed word:
'The muster-place is Lanrick mead;
Speed forth the signal! Norman, speed!'
And must he change so soon the hand
Just linked to his by holy band,
For the fell Cross of blood and brand?
And must the day so blithe that rose,
And promised rapture in the close,
Before its setting hour, divide
The bridegroom from the plighted bride?
O fatal doom'—it must! it must!
Clan-Alpine's cause, her Chieftain's trust,
Her summons dread, brook no delay;
Stretch to the race,—away! away!
XXII.
Yet slow he laid his plaid aside,
And lingering eyed his lovely bride,
Until he saw the starting tear
Speak woe he might not stop to cheer:
Then, trusting not a second look,
In haste he sped hind up the brook,
Nor backward glanced till on the heath
Where Lubnaig's lake supplies the Teith,—
What in the racer's bosom stirred?
The sickening pang of hope deferred,
And memory with a torturing train
Of all his morning visions vain.
Mingled with love's impatience, came
The manly thirst for martial fame;
The stormy joy of mountaineers
Ere yet they rush upon the spears;
And zeal for Clan and Chieftain burning,
And hope, from well-fought field returning,
With war's red honors on his crest,
To clasp his Mary to his breast.
Stung by such thoughts, o'er bank and brae,
Like fire from flint he glanced away,
While high resolve and feeling strong
Burst into voluntary song.
XXIII.
Song.
The heath this night must be my bed,
The bracken curtain for my head,
My lullaby the warder's tread,
Far, far, from love and thee, Mary;
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid,
My couch may be my bloody plaid,
My vesper song thy wail, sweet maid!
It will not waken me, Mary!
I may not, dare not, fancy now
The grief that clouds thy lovely brow,
I dare not think upon thy vow,
And all it promised me, Mary.
No fond regret must Norman know;
When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe,
His heart must be like bended bow,
His foot like arrow free, Mary.
A time will come with feeling fraught,
For, if I fall in battle fought,
Thy hapless lover's dying thought
Shall be a thought on thee, Mary.
And if returned from conquered foes,
How blithely will the evening close,
How sweet the linnet sing repose,
To my young bride and me, Mary!
Norman has thus been introduced to us as a warrior who is as willing to leave his new bride on his wedding day as Angus was to leave his unburied father on the day of his funeral. Norman’s declaration to Mary is that of a determined warrior who fully expects to die in the coming battle. Mary has no say in the matter.
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Scott’s original
The heath this night must be my bed,
The bracken curtain for my head,
My lullaby the warder’s tread,
Far, far, from love and thee, Mary;
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid,
My couch may be my bloody plaid,
My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid!
It will not waken me, Mary!
I may not, dare not, fancy now
The grief that clouds thy lovely brow,
I dare not think upon thy vow,
And all it promised me, Mary.
No fond regret must Norman know;
When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe,
His heart must be like bended bow,
His foot like arrow free, Mary.
A time will come with feeling fraught!
For, if I fall in battle fought,
Thy hapless lover’s dying thought
Shall be a thought on thee, Mary.
And if returned from conquered foes,
How blithely will the evening close,
How sweet the linnet sing repose,
To my young bride and me, Mary!
Storck’s German
Die Nacht bricht bald herein, dann leg’ ich mich zur Ruh’,
Die Heide ist mein Lager, das Farrnkraut deckt mich zu,
Mich lullt der Wache Tritt wohl in den Schlaf hinein:
Ach, muß so weit von dir, Maria, Holde, seyn!
Und wird es morgen Abend, und kommt die trübe Zeit,
Dann ist vielleicht mein Lager der blutigrothe Plaid,
Mein Abendlied verstummet, du schleichst dann trüb und bang.
Maria, ach, mich wecken kann nicht dein Todtensang.
So mußt’ ich von dir scheiden, du holde süße Braut?
Wie magst du mir nachrufen, wie magst du weinen laut!
Ach, denken darf ich nicht an deinen herben Schmerz,
Ach, denken darf ich nicht an dein getreues Herz.
Nein, zärtlich treues Sehnen darf hegen Norman nicht,
Wenn in den Feind Clan-Alpine wie Sturm und Hagel bricht,
Wie ein gespannter Bogen sein muthig Herz dann sey,
Sein Fuß, Maria, wie der Pfeil so rasch und frei!
Wohl wird die Stunde kommen, wo nicht die Sonne scheint,
Du wankst zu deinem Norman, dein holdes Auge weint.
Doch fall’ ich in der Schlacht, hüllt Todesschauer mich,
O, glaub’, mein letzter Seufzer, Maria, ist für dich.
Doch kehr’ ich siegreich wieder aus kühner Männerschlacht,
Dann grüßen wir so freudig das Nahn der stillen Nacht,
Das Lager ist bereitet, uns winkt die süße Ruh.
Der Hänfling singt Brautlieder, Maria, hold uns zu.
Back translation
Night is soon going to fall, then I shall lie down to rest,
The heath is my bed, the bracken will cover me,
The watchman’s steps will lull me to sleep:
Oh, I have to be so far from you, Mary, you beauty!
And when tomorrow evening comes and bleak times have arrived,
Then perhaps this blood-red plaid will be my bed,
My evening song will fall silent, you will creep around gloomy and anxious.
Mary, oh, even your funeral lament will not wake me up.
So have I had to leave you, you beautiful, sweet bride?
However much you call after me, however much you cry aloud,
Oh, I should not think about your bitter pain,
Oh, I should not think about your faithful heart.
No, tender, faithful longing is something that Norman should not feel,
When Clan-Alpine breaks into the enemy like storm and hail,
Therefore let his courageous heart by like a drawn bow,
Let his foot, Mary, be as swift and free as an arrow!
The hour is definitely coming when the sun will not shine,
You are staggering towards your Norman, your beautiful eyes are weeping.
But if I fall in the battle and the horror of death covers me,
Oh, believe, Mary, that my last sigh was for you.
But if I return victorious from this bold battle of men,
Then we shall greet the approach of quiet night with such joy,
The bed has been prepared, sweet rest is beckoning to us.
The linnet will sing beautiful bridal songs for us, Mary.
Original Spelling and note on the text Normans Gesang Die Nacht bricht bald herein, dann leg' ich mich zur Ruh', Die Heide ist mein Lager, das Farrnkraut deckt mich zu, Mich lullt der Wache Tritt wohl in den Schlaf hinein: Ach, muß so weit von dir, Maria, Holde, seyn! Und wird es morgen Abend, und kommt die trübe Zeit, Dann ist vielleicht mein Lager der blutigrothe Plaid, Mein Abendlied verstummet, du schleichst dann trüb und bang. Maria, ach, mich wecken kann nicht dein Todtensang. So mußt' ich von dir scheiden, du holde süße Braut? Wie magst du nach mir rufen1, wie magst du weinen laut! Ach, denken darf ich nicht an deinen herben Schmerz, Ach, denken darf ich nicht an dein getreues Herz. Nein, zärtlich treues Sehnen darf hegen Norman nicht, Wenn in den Feind Clan-Alpine wie Sturm und Hagel bricht, Wie ein gespannter Bogen sein muthig Herz dann sey, Sein Fuß, Maria, wie der Pfeil so rasch und frei! Wohl wird die Stunde kommen, wo nicht die Sonne scheint, Du wankst zu deinem Norman, dein holdes Auge weint. Doch fall' ich in der Schlacht, hüllt Todesschauer mich, O, glaub', mein letzter Seufzer, Maria, ist für dich. Doch kehr' ich siegreich wieder aus kühner Männerschlacht, Dann grüßen wir so freudig das Nahn der stillen Nacht, Das Lager ist bereitet, uns winkt die süße Ruh. Der Hänfling singt Brautlieder, Maria, hold uns zu. 1 Schubert appears to have changed Storck's 'mir nachrufen' to 'nach mir rufen'
Confirmed by Peter Rastl with Schubert’s source, Das Fräulein vom See. Ein Gedicht in sechs Gesängen von Walter Scott. Aus dem Englischen, und mit einer historischen Einleitung und Anmerkungen von D. Adam Storck, weiland Professor in Bremen. Zweite, vom Uebersetzer selbst noch verbesserte Auflage. Essen, bei G. D. Bädeker. 1823, pages 118-119; and with Das Fräulein vom See. Ein Gedicht in sechs Gesängen von Walter Scott. Aus dem Englischen, und mit einer historischen Einleitung und Anmerkungen von D. Adam Storck, Professor in Bremen. Essen, bei G. D. Bädeker. 1819, pages 126-127.
To see an early edition of the text, go to page 118 here: https://books.google.at/books?id=p0YRAQAAMAAJ
For the full text of The Lady of the Lake: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/3011/3011-h/3011-h.htm