Songs of Araby

SPECTATOR COMPETITION No. 423 Report by Herbert B. Grimsditch

In view of the current situation in the Arab world and Kashmir, competitors were invited to rewrite the famous ballad 'I'll Sing thee Songs of Araby,' fitting their lyrics to the music.

O COMPETITORS! Vocative, you see (like mensa, O table!), but meant also to be minatory and reproachful, because this time you put up a pretty poor show. In fact, after a first quick glance • through your entries, I was tempted to paraphrase the noble Duke of Wellington, as he looked at a new draft in Spain, and say : 'I don't know what effect these entries will have on Spectator readers, but, by God, they terrify me.'

I should have thought that anybody who had ever been to a musical party or a popular concert would have known this bewitching song as well as he knew 'The. Mountains of Mourne,' or 'Drake Goes West,' or 'For You Alone.' I have known it from childhood; and it remains one of my favourite washing-up songs—especially since, at a strictly private function, I can let myself go on that wonderful concluding coda : To cheat thee of a sigh,

Or charm thee to a tear!

(The final 'tear,' of course, is taken on falsetto.)

You were certainly set a diabolical task, namely, to write a Middle Eastern and Kashmiri political parody on a short, light, love-lyric. But very few of you thought it worth while to procure a copy from Messrs. Chappell; few of you had any idea of the proper length; and, alas, few of you could even scan: I begin to fear that 'time's winged chariot, hurrying near,' has rushed me. into an age where 'Songs of Araby' is not so well known as it used to be. Therefore a word of history.

At the Brighton Festival of 1877 (some decades before my birth, I hasten to say!) there was played a cantata called Lalla Rookh, containing this song, which had a succes fou. The author was a broth of an Irish bohemian oil-painter, William Gorman Wills (1828.91), who, in middle life, had developed a talent for slick historical plays, of which he turned out a number. They included that cele- brated, old-time blood-and-thunder melodrama A Royal Divorce.

The composer was Frederic Clay (1838-89), who wrote mostly for the stage, but who, among other things, made a setting for 'The Sands of Dee.' Had he lived in the gramophone age, he would have made a fortune, by what Grove justly calls . . a natural gift of graceful melody and a feeling' ior rich harmonic colouring.' But he did not survive, to enjoy even the full benefit of the less generods rewards of those days, for he died aged fifty-one after suffering some years of paralysis.

Here, is the sung version of. Araby from the score :

I'll sing thee songs of Araby, And tales of fair Cashmere, Wild tales to cheat thee of a sigh, Or charm thee to a tear.

[Refrain] And dreams of delight shall on thei And rainbow visions rise, break, [Ns] And all my soul shall strive to wake

Sweet wonder in thine eyes.

Through those twin lakes, when wonder wakes, My raptur'd song shall sink, And as the diver dives for pearls, Bring tears, bright tears to their brink.

And dreams of delight . . [etc.] To cheat thee ofa sigh, Or charm thee to a tear!

Perhaps I asked too much. Yet in several years' avid reading of the Competitions page, I have seen you attempt, and accomplish, mightier tasks.

However, one bright light shone out. Rhoda Tuck Pook, envisaging the great difficulty of boil- ing down Middle Eastern and Kashmiri politics into two short stanzas, very originally chose another method—namely to switch the parody to a different subject while preserving the form. Her construction and metre were impeccable; and so, though for some reason she used only one stanza, I have no hesitation in awarding her a first prize of three guineas for the following: FROM THE HORROR PRODUCER I'll show you Things from space or deep Whose viscid shapes appal,

Designed to cheat you of your sleep And drive you up the wall.'

And beads of cold sweat shall on you break, Your prickling hairs shall rise, As all my monsters strive to wake New loathing in your eyes, As all my monsters strive to wake New loathing in your eyes. •

To cheat you of your sleep And drive you up the wall.

In the end, I decided to, split the three remain- ing guineas among Joan Ackner, -R. Kennard Davis, and H. B. McCaskie, though again none of them quite succeeded in producing the true prosodic system. Here they are: (JOAN ACKNER)

I'll sing you songs of Arab States; And Kashmir's severed vale,

Sad songs called 'Britain without oil' And 'Even Pandits fail.'

[Refrain] And pacts and pledges seem made to break, While Russian hopes fast rise, And since we find no peace on earth, Let's strive for open skies. The Western stock sinks low, And Pakistan says 'Plebiscite!'

And India still says 'No! '

Repeat Refrain.

(It. KENNARD DAVIS) I'll sing thee songs of Araby And tales of wild Cashmere, To move Macmillan to a sigh And Selwyn to a tear.

There potentates of shifty States Our politics embroil,

While fervid dreams and Soviet schemes' And fears for Eastern oil

Move Harold to a sigh And Selwyn to a tear.

There bold Nehru, and Nasser too For domination strive, While fresh alarms of foreign arms Keep turbulance alive.

Here wild Pathifis concoct their plans To extirpate Hindus, And Muslim there with zest prepare To massacre the Jews; To extirpate Hindus And massacre the Jews. $ The wonder's gone from Araby, The glamour from Cashmere,

Where now gaunt derricks shock the eye Or howling mobs the ear;

The sheikh of romance sells oil today, Cashmere is all in a stew, Why, there, my love, let fancy stray When here at home in Kew No derricks shock the eye, No howling mobs the ear?

While Arabs toil in search of oil, While Hind and Islam brawl, Nasser and Nehru play their own Sly games of grab for it all; The sheikh of romance . . . [etc.]

This business, of course, has got me singing this. infectious song all over the flat. I must set a flfre course for Rigoletto, 11 Trovatore, La Boberld

e

'The Criminal Cried as, he cast him Down,' my Girl' and so on. Somehow I've got to get out of my system.

(H. B. MCCASKIE)