Poetry Monday :: Teachers

Of course we have teachers in school, but elsewhere as well.
In my neighbourhood lived a man called the watchmaker. Either he just went under my radar as I was a child, or he was very shy, or worked very much, because I never remember seeing him around. He was known for writing songs to the yearly Revue in our town (Revues in Denmark are/were more satirical, political and funny than daring). His songs taught me much of rhyme, metrics and so on.

In my youth many poets and writers lived 'normal' lives, and were poets on the sideline, and often under a pen-name. The author of today's poem The Evensong Bells are A-tolling. was more of a public figure. He ran a newspaper, was co-editor of another and owned a  theatre. This does not prevent me from only discovering him recently - he died in 1899, so I might be excused.

For many years I thought many of his songs were old, anonymous pieces, maybe because he sometimes recycled old folk tunes or modern instrumental pieces for his lyrics. But for this one he actually wrote both words and score.


The evensong bells are a-tolling.
The snow gently falling, the days short and dark
The nun in the chapel sings praise like a lark.
In the cloister the roses are growing.
The knight in a jousting was wounded and bled,
His cheeks were so pale and his tunic all red.
The evensong bells are a-tolling, a-tolling.

The knight in the abbey must stay into spring
The nun tends his wounds and she prays while she sings.
In the cloister the roses are growing.
She prays at his cot, gently easing his plight,
Alone in the chapel she weeps out of sight.
The evensong bells are a-tolling, a-tolling.

The flowers were blooming, and everything grew
The knight had his horse saddled up, bade adieu.
In the cloister the roses are growing.
He rode from the abbey with songs of renown.
The nun in her cell quiet sat, not a sound.
The evensong bells are a-tolling, a-tolling.

The flowers are wilting, the leaves turning brown.
The knight in his keep let his wedding be known.
In the cloister the roses are growing.
The nun picks the roses, the last to be found
Binds them to a wreath, for the bride as a crown.
The evensong bells are a-tolling, a-tolling.

Lyrics and music: Erik Bøgh (1860).
Translation: MotherOwl 2024

The Danish original:
 
 Hør klokkerne ringe til ave
Og sneen den føg så vide om jord,
men nonnen hun sang i det hellige kor:
Der er roser i klostrets have.
Og ridderen kom fra den blodige leg.
Så rød var hans brynje, hans kind var så bleg.
Hør klokkerne ringe til ave, til ave!

Og ridderen blev derinde til vår,
og nonnen ham plejed' og lægte hans sår.
Der er roser i klostrets have.
Hun bad ved hans leje så mangen en bøn,
hun bragte ham trøst, men selv græd hun i løn.
Hør klokkerne ringe til ave, til ave!

Da løvet blev grønt og fuglene sang,
sig ridderen atter i sadelen svang.
Der er roser i klostrets have.
Han jog gennem lunden med jublende røst,
men inde i cellen sad nonnen så tyst.
Hør klokkerne ringe til ave, til ave!

Da blomsterne visned' og bladene faldt,
hans bryllup på borgen man fejrede alt.
Der er roser i klostrets have.
Men nonnen hun plukked' de sidste, hun fandt,
til bruden, den glade, i krans hun dem bandt.
Hør klokkerne ringe til ave, til ave!

Erik Bøgh, 1822-99, var som forfatter, komponist og meddirektør
for Kasino i København en flittig leverandør af lystspil og vaudeviller.
Desuden var han redaktør af Folkets Avis og medredaktør af Dagens Nyheder.

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