Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Langston Hughes vs. George S. Schuyler on Negro Art
George S. Schuyler, “The Negro-Art Hokum,” The Nation 122 (June 16, 1926): 662–3.
(NS: The Nation showed Schuyler’s polemic to Langston Hughes, whom the magazine’s editors then commissioned to write a polemic in response to Schuyler, “The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain,” which follows below.)
Negro art “made in America” is as non-existent as the widely advertised profundity of Cal Coolidge, the “seven years of progress” of Mayor Hylan, or the reported sophistication of New Yorkers. Negro art there has been, is, and will be among the numerous black nations of Africa; but to suggest the possibility of any such development among the ten million colored people in this republic is self-evident foolishness. Eager apostles from Greenwich Village, Harlem, and environs proclaimed a great renaissance of Negro art just around the corner waiting to be ushered on the scene by those whose hobby is taking races, nations, peoples, and movements under their wing. New art forms expressing the “peculiar” psychology of the Negro were about to flood the market. In short, the art of Homo Africanus was about to electrify the waiting world. Skeptics patiently waited. They still wait.
True, from dark-skinned sources have come those slave songs based on Protestant hymns and Biblical texts known as the spirituals, work songs and secular songs of sorrow and tough luck known as the blues, that outgrowth of ragtime known as jazz (in the development of which whites have assisted), and the Charleston, an eccentric dance invented by the gamins around the public market-place in Charleston, S. C. No one can or does deny this. But these are contributions of a caste in a certain section of the country. They are foreign to Northern Negroes, West Indian Negroes, and African Negroes. They are no more expressive or characteristic of the Negro race than the music and dancing of the Appalachian highlanders or the Dalmatian peasantry are expressive or characteristic of the Caucasian race. If one wishes to speak of the musical contributions of the peasantry of the south, very well. Any group under similar circumstances would have produced something similar. It is merely a coincidence that this peasant class happens to be of a darker hue than the other inhabitants of the land. One recalls the remarkable likeness of the minor strains of the Russian mujiks to those of the Southern Negro.
As for the literature, painting, and sculpture of Aframericans—such as there is—it is identical in kind with the literature, painting, and sculpture of white Americans: that is, it shows more or less evidence of European influence. In the field of drama little of any merit has been written by and about Negroes that could not have been written by whites. The dean of the Aframerican literati is W. E. B. Du Bois, a product of Harvard and German universities; the foremost Aframerican sculptor is Meta Warwick Fuller, a graduate of leading American art schools and former student of Rodin; while the most noted Aframerican painter, Henry Ossawa Tanner, is dean of American painters in Paris and has been decorated by the French Government. Now the work of these artists is no more “expressive of the Negro soul”—as the gushers put it—than are the scribblings of Octavus Cohen or Hugh Wiley.
This, of course, is easily understood if one stops to realize that the Aframerican is merely a lampblacked Anglo-Saxon. If the European immigrant after two or three generations of exposure to our schools, politics, advertising, moral crusades, and restaurants becomes indistinguishable from the mass of Americans of the older stock (despite the influence of the foreign-language press), how much truer must it be of the sons of Ham who have been subjected to what the uplifters call Americanism for the last three hundred years. Aside from his color, which ranges from very dark brown to pink, your American Negro is just plain American. Negroes and whites from the same localities in this country talk, think, and act about the same. Because a few writers with a paucity of themes have seized upon imbecilities of the Negro rustics and clowns and palmed them off as authentic and characteristic Aframerican behavior, the common notion that the black American is so “different” from his white neighbor has gained wide currency. The mere mention of the word “Negro” conjures up in the average white American’s mind a composite stereotype of Bert Williams, Aunt Jemima, Uncle Tom, Jack Johnson, Florian Slappey, and the various monstrosities scrawled by the cartoonists. Your average Aframerican no more resembles this stereotype than the average American resembles a composite of Andy Gump, Jim Jeffries, and a cartoon by Rube Goldberg.
Again, the Aframerican is subject to the same economic and social forces that mold the actions and thoughts of the white Americans. He is not living in a different world as some whites and a few Negroes would have me believe. When the jangling of his Connecticut alarm clock gets him out of his Grand Rapids bed to a breakfast similar to that eaten by his white brother across the street; when he toils at the same or similar work in mills, mines, factories, and commerce 2alongside the descendants of Spartacus, Robin Hood, and Erik the Red; when he wears similar clothing and speaks the same language with the same degree of perfection; when he reads the same Bible and belongs to the Baptist, Methodist, Episcopal, or Catholic church; when his fraternal affiliations also include the Elks, Masons, and Knights of Pythias; when he gets the same or similar schooling, lives in the same kind of houses, owns the same Hollywood version of life on the screen; when he smokes the same brands of tobacco and avidly peruses the same puerile periodicals; in short, when he responds to the same political, social, moral, and economic stimuli in precisely the same manner as his white neighbor, it is sheer nonsense to talk about “racial differences” as between the American black man and the American white man. Glance over a Negro newspaper (it is printed in good Americanese) and you will find the usual quota of crime news, scandal, personals, and uplift to be found in the average white newspaper—which, by the way, is more widely read by the Negroes than is the Negro press. In order to satisfy the cravings of an inferiority complex engendered by the colorphobia of the mob, the readers of the Negro newspapers are given a slight dash of racialistic seasoning. In the homes of the black and white Americans of the same cultural and economic level one finds similar furniture, literature, and conversation. How, then, can the black American be expected to produce art and literature dissimilar to that of the white American?
Consider Coleridge-Taylor, Edward Wilmot Blyden, and Claude McKay, the Englishmen; Pushkin, the Russian; Bridgewater, the Pole; Antar, the Arabian; Latino, the Spaniard; Dumas, père and fils,the Frenchmen; and Paul Laurence Dunbar, Charles W. Chestnut, and James Weldon Johnson, the Americans. All Negroes; yet their work shows the impress of nationality rather than race. They all reveal the psychology and culture of their environment—their color is incidental. Why should Negro artists of America vary from the national artistic norm when Negro artists in other countries have not done so? If we can foresee what kind of white citizens will inhabit this neck of the woods in the next generation by studying the sort of education and environment the children are exposed to now, it should not be difficult to reason that the adults of today are what they are because of the education and environment they were exposed to a generation ago. And that education and environment were about the same for blacks and whites. One contemplates the popularity of the Negro-art hokum and murmurs, “How-come?”
This nonsense is probably the last stand of the old myth palmed off by Negrophobists for all these many years, and recently rehashed by the sainted Harding, that there are “fundamental, eternal, and inescapable differences” between white and black Americans. That there are Negroes who will lend this myth a helping hand need occasion no surprise. It has been broadcast all over the world by the vociferous scions of slaveholders, “scientists” like Madison Grant and Lothrop Stoddard, and the patriots who flood the treasure of the Ku Klux Klan; and is believed, even today, by the majority of free, white citizens. On this baseless premise, so flattering to the white mob, that the blackamoor is inferior and fundamentally different, is erected the postulate that he must needs be peculiar; and when he attempts to portray life through the medium of art, it must of necessity be a peculiar art. While such reasoning may seem conclusive to the majority of Americans, it must be rejected with a loud guffaw by intelligent people.
See also:
“If We Must Die”: Claude McKay Limns the “New Negro”
The Harlem Renaissance: Zora Neale Hurston’s First Story
My thanks go out to the folks at History Matters.
The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain
By Langston Hughes
1926
THE NATION
One of the most promising of the young Negro poets said to me once, “I want to be a poet--not a Negro poet,” meaning, I believe, “I want to write like a white poet”; meaning subconsciously, “I would like to be a white poet”; meaning behind that, “I would like to be white.” And I was sorry the young man said that, for no great poet has ever been afraid of being himself. And I doubted then that, with his desire to run away spiritually from his race, this boy would ever be a great poet. But this is the mountain standing in the way of any true Negro art in America--this urge within the race toward whiteness, the desire to pour racial individuality into the mold of American standardization, and to be as little Negro and as much American as possible.
But let us look at the immediate background of this young poet. His family is of what I suppose one would call the Negro middle class: people who are by no means rich yet never uncomfortable nor hungry--smug, contented, respectable folk, members of the Baptist church. The father goes to work every morning. He is a chief steward at a large white club. The mother sometimes does fancy sewing or supervises parties for the rich families of the town. The children go to a mixed school. In the home they read white papers and magazines. And the mother often says “Don’t be like niggers” when the children are bad. A frequent phrase from the father is, “Look how well a white man does things.” And so the word white comes to be unconsciously a symbol of all virtues. It holds for the children beauty, morality, and money. The whisper of “I want to be white” runs silently through their minds. This young poet’s home is, I believe, a fairly typical home of the colored middle class. One sees immediately how difficult it would be for an artist born in such a home to interest himself in interpreting the beauty of his own people. He is never taught to see that beauty. He is taught rather not to see it, or if he does, to be ashamed of it when it is not according to Caucasian patterns.
For racial culture the home of a self-styled “high-class” Negro has nothing better to offer. Instead there will perhaps be more aping of things white than in a less cultured or less wealthy home. The father is perhaps a doctor, lawyer, landowner, or politician. The mother may be a social worker, or a teacher, or she may do nothing and have a maid. Father is often dark but he has usually married the lightest woman he could find. The family attend a fashionable church where few really colored faces are to be found. And they themselves draw a color line. In the North they go to white theaters and white movies. And in the South they have at least two cars and house “like white folks.” Nordic manners, Nordic faces, Nordic hair, Nordic art (if any), and an Episcopal heaven. A very high mountain indeed for the would-be racial artist to climb in order to discover himself and his people.
But then there are the low-down folks, the so-called common element, and they are the majority---may the Lord be praised! The people who have their hip of gin on Saturday nights and are not too important to themselves or the community, or too well fed, or too learned to watch the lazy world go round. They live on Seventh Street in Washington or State Street in Chicago and they do not particularly care whether they are like white folks or anybody else. Their joy runs, bang! into ecstasy. Their religion soars to a shout. Work maybe a little today, rest a little tomorrow. Play awhile. Sing awhile. 0, let’s dance! These common people are not afraid of spirituals, as for a long time their more intellectual brethren were, and jazz is their child. They furnish a wealth of colorful, distinctive material for any artist because they still hold their own individuality in the face of American standardizations. And perhaps these common people will give to the world its truly great Negro artist, the one who is not afraid to be himself. Whereas the better-class Negro would tell the artist what to do, the people at least let him alone when he does appear. And they are not ashamed of him--if they know he exists at all. And they accept what beauty is their own without question.
Certainly there is, for the American Negro artist who can escape the restrictions the more advanced among his own group would put upon him, a great field of unused material ready for his art. Without going outside his race, and even among the better classes with their “white” culture and conscious American manners, but still Negro enough to be different, there is sufficient matter to furnish a black artist with a lifetime of creative work. And when he chooses to touch on the relations between Negroes and whites in this country, with their innumerable overtones and undertones surely, and especially for literature and the drama, there is an inexhaustible supply of themes at hand. To these the Negro artist can give his racial individuality, his heritage of rhythm and warmth, and his incongruous humor that so often, as in the Blues, becomes ironic laughter mixed with tears. But let us look again at the mountain.
A prominent Negro clubwoman in Philadelphia paid eleven dollars to hear Raquel Meller sing Andalusian popular songs.
But she told me a few weeks before she would not think of going to hear “that woman,” Clara Smith, a great black artist, sing Negro folksongs. And many an upper -class Negro church, even now, would not dream of employing a spiritual in its services. The drab melodies in white folks’ hymnbooks are much to be preferred. “We want to worship the Lord correctly and quietly. We don’t believe in ‘shouting.’ Let’s be dull like the Nordics,” they say, in effect.
The road for the serious black artist, then, who would produce a racial art is most certainly rocky and the mountain is high. Until recently he received almost no encouragement for his work from either white or colored people. The fine novels of Chesnutt’ go out of print with neither race noticing their passing. The quaint charm and humor of Dunbar’s’ dialect verse brought to him, in his day, largely the same kind of encouragement one would give a sideshow freak (A colored man writing poetry! How odd!) or a clown (How amusing!).
The present vogue in things Negro, although it may do as much harm as good for the budding artist, has at least done this: it has brought him forcibly to the attention of his own people among whom for so long, unless the other race had noticed him beforehand, he was a prophet with little honor.
The Negro artist works against an undertow of sharp criticism and misunderstanding from his own group and unintentional bribes from the whites. “Oh, be respectable, write about nice people, show how good we are,” say the Negroes. “Be stereotyped, don’t go too far, don’t shatter our illusions about you, don’t amuse us too seriously. We will pay you,” say the whites. Both would have told Jean Toomer not to write Cane. The colored people did not praise it. The white people did not buy it. Most of the colored people who did read Cane hate it. They are afraid of it. Although the critics gave it good reviews the public remained indifferent. Yet (excepting the work of Du Bois) Cane contains the finest prose written by a Negro in America. And like the singing of Robeson, it is truly racial.
But in spite of the Nordicized Negro intelligentsia and the desires of some white editors we have an honest American Negro literature already with us. Now I await the rise of the Negro theater. Our folk music, having achieved world-wide fame, offers itself to the genius of the great individual American composer who is to come. And within the next decade I expect to see the work of a growing school of colored artists who paint and model the beauty of dark faces and create with new technique the expressions of their own soul-world. And the Negro dancers who will dance like flame and the singers who will continue to carry our songs to all who listen-they will be with us in even greater numbers tomorrow.
Most of my own poems are racial in theme and treatment, derived from the life I know. In many of them I try to grasp and hold some of the meanings and rhythms of jazz. I am as sincere as I know how to be in these poems and yet after every reading I answer questions like these from my own people: Do you think Negroes should always write about Negroes? I wish you wouldn’t read some of your poems to white folks. How do you find anything interesting in a place like a cabaret? Why do you write about black people? You aren’t black. What makes you do so many jazz poems?
But jazz to me is one of the inherent expressions of Negro life in America; the eternal tom-tom beating in the Negro soul--the tom-tom of revolt against weariness in a white world, a world of subway trains, and work, work, work; the tom-tom of joy and laughter, and pain swallowed in a smile. Yet the Philadelphia clubwoman is ashamed to say that her race created it and she does not like me to write about it, The old subconscious “white is best” runs through her mind. Years of study under white teachers, a lifetime of white books, pictures, and papers, and white manners, morals, and Puritan standards made her dislike the spirituals. And now she turns up her nose at jazz and all its manifestations--likewise almost everything else distinctly racial. She doesn’t care for the Winold Reiss’ portraits of Negroes because they are “too Negro.” She does not want a true picture of herself from anybody. She wants the artist to flatter her, to make the white world believe that all negroes are as smug and as near white in soul as she wants to be. But, to my mind, it is the duty of the younger Negro artist, if he accepts any duties at all from outsiders, to change through the force of his art that old whispering “I want to be white,” hidden in the aspirations of his people, to “Why should I want to be white? I am a Negro--and beautiful”?
So I am ashamed for the black poet who says, “I want to be a poet, not a Negro poet,” as though his own racial world were not as interesting as any other world. I am ashamed, too, for the colored artist who runs from the painting of Negro faces to the painting of sunsets after the manner of the academicians because he fears the strange unwhiteness of his own features. An artist must be free to choose what he does, certainly, but he must also never be afraid to do what he must choose.
Let the blare of Negro jazz bands and the bellowing voice of Bessie Smith singing the Blues penetrate the closed ears of the colored near intellectuals until they listen and perhaps understand. Let Paul Robeson singing “Water Boy,” and Rudolph Fisher writing about the streets of Harlem, and Jean Toomer holding the heart of Georgia in his hands, and Aaron Douglas’s drawing strange black fantasies cause the smug Negro middle class to turn from their white, respectable, ordinary books and papers to catch a glimmer of their own beauty. We younger Negro artists who create now intend to express our individual dark-skinned selves without fear or shame. If white people are pleased we are glad. If they are not, it doesn’t matter. We know we are beautiful. And ugly too. The tom-tom cries and the tom-tom laughs. If colored people are pleased we are glad. If they are not, their displeasure doesn’t matter either. We build our temples for tomorrow, strong as we know how,
and we stand on top of the mountain, free within ourselves.
(Thanks to the folks at Modern American Poetry.)
George S. Schuyler, “The Negro-Art Hokum,” The Nation 122 (June 16, 1926): 662–3.
(NS: The Nation showed Schuyler’s polemic to Langston Hughes, whom the magazine’s editors then commissioned to write a polemic in response to Schuyler, “The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain,” which follows below.)
Negro art “made in America” is as non-existent as the widely advertised profundity of Cal Coolidge, the “seven years of progress” of Mayor Hylan, or the reported sophistication of New Yorkers. Negro art there has been, is, and will be among the numerous black nations of Africa; but to suggest the possibility of any such development among the ten million colored people in this republic is self-evident foolishness. Eager apostles from Greenwich Village, Harlem, and environs proclaimed a great renaissance of Negro art just around the corner waiting to be ushered on the scene by those whose hobby is taking races, nations, peoples, and movements under their wing. New art forms expressing the “peculiar” psychology of the Negro were about to flood the market. In short, the art of Homo Africanus was about to electrify the waiting world. Skeptics patiently waited. They still wait.
True, from dark-skinned sources have come those slave songs based on Protestant hymns and Biblical texts known as the spirituals, work songs and secular songs of sorrow and tough luck known as the blues, that outgrowth of ragtime known as jazz (in the development of which whites have assisted), and the Charleston, an eccentric dance invented by the gamins around the public market-place in Charleston, S. C. No one can or does deny this. But these are contributions of a caste in a certain section of the country. They are foreign to Northern Negroes, West Indian Negroes, and African Negroes. They are no more expressive or characteristic of the Negro race than the music and dancing of the Appalachian highlanders or the Dalmatian peasantry are expressive or characteristic of the Caucasian race. If one wishes to speak of the musical contributions of the peasantry of the south, very well. Any group under similar circumstances would have produced something similar. It is merely a coincidence that this peasant class happens to be of a darker hue than the other inhabitants of the land. One recalls the remarkable likeness of the minor strains of the Russian mujiks to those of the Southern Negro.
As for the literature, painting, and sculpture of Aframericans—such as there is—it is identical in kind with the literature, painting, and sculpture of white Americans: that is, it shows more or less evidence of European influence. In the field of drama little of any merit has been written by and about Negroes that could not have been written by whites. The dean of the Aframerican literati is W. E. B. Du Bois, a product of Harvard and German universities; the foremost Aframerican sculptor is Meta Warwick Fuller, a graduate of leading American art schools and former student of Rodin; while the most noted Aframerican painter, Henry Ossawa Tanner, is dean of American painters in Paris and has been decorated by the French Government. Now the work of these artists is no more “expressive of the Negro soul”—as the gushers put it—than are the scribblings of Octavus Cohen or Hugh Wiley.
This, of course, is easily understood if one stops to realize that the Aframerican is merely a lampblacked Anglo-Saxon. If the European immigrant after two or three generations of exposure to our schools, politics, advertising, moral crusades, and restaurants becomes indistinguishable from the mass of Americans of the older stock (despite the influence of the foreign-language press), how much truer must it be of the sons of Ham who have been subjected to what the uplifters call Americanism for the last three hundred years. Aside from his color, which ranges from very dark brown to pink, your American Negro is just plain American. Negroes and whites from the same localities in this country talk, think, and act about the same. Because a few writers with a paucity of themes have seized upon imbecilities of the Negro rustics and clowns and palmed them off as authentic and characteristic Aframerican behavior, the common notion that the black American is so “different” from his white neighbor has gained wide currency. The mere mention of the word “Negro” conjures up in the average white American’s mind a composite stereotype of Bert Williams, Aunt Jemima, Uncle Tom, Jack Johnson, Florian Slappey, and the various monstrosities scrawled by the cartoonists. Your average Aframerican no more resembles this stereotype than the average American resembles a composite of Andy Gump, Jim Jeffries, and a cartoon by Rube Goldberg.
Again, the Aframerican is subject to the same economic and social forces that mold the actions and thoughts of the white Americans. He is not living in a different world as some whites and a few Negroes would have me believe. When the jangling of his Connecticut alarm clock gets him out of his Grand Rapids bed to a breakfast similar to that eaten by his white brother across the street; when he toils at the same or similar work in mills, mines, factories, and commerce 2alongside the descendants of Spartacus, Robin Hood, and Erik the Red; when he wears similar clothing and speaks the same language with the same degree of perfection; when he reads the same Bible and belongs to the Baptist, Methodist, Episcopal, or Catholic church; when his fraternal affiliations also include the Elks, Masons, and Knights of Pythias; when he gets the same or similar schooling, lives in the same kind of houses, owns the same Hollywood version of life on the screen; when he smokes the same brands of tobacco and avidly peruses the same puerile periodicals; in short, when he responds to the same political, social, moral, and economic stimuli in precisely the same manner as his white neighbor, it is sheer nonsense to talk about “racial differences” as between the American black man and the American white man. Glance over a Negro newspaper (it is printed in good Americanese) and you will find the usual quota of crime news, scandal, personals, and uplift to be found in the average white newspaper—which, by the way, is more widely read by the Negroes than is the Negro press. In order to satisfy the cravings of an inferiority complex engendered by the colorphobia of the mob, the readers of the Negro newspapers are given a slight dash of racialistic seasoning. In the homes of the black and white Americans of the same cultural and economic level one finds similar furniture, literature, and conversation. How, then, can the black American be expected to produce art and literature dissimilar to that of the white American?
Consider Coleridge-Taylor, Edward Wilmot Blyden, and Claude McKay, the Englishmen; Pushkin, the Russian; Bridgewater, the Pole; Antar, the Arabian; Latino, the Spaniard; Dumas, père and fils,the Frenchmen; and Paul Laurence Dunbar, Charles W. Chestnut, and James Weldon Johnson, the Americans. All Negroes; yet their work shows the impress of nationality rather than race. They all reveal the psychology and culture of their environment—their color is incidental. Why should Negro artists of America vary from the national artistic norm when Negro artists in other countries have not done so? If we can foresee what kind of white citizens will inhabit this neck of the woods in the next generation by studying the sort of education and environment the children are exposed to now, it should not be difficult to reason that the adults of today are what they are because of the education and environment they were exposed to a generation ago. And that education and environment were about the same for blacks and whites. One contemplates the popularity of the Negro-art hokum and murmurs, “How-come?”
This nonsense is probably the last stand of the old myth palmed off by Negrophobists for all these many years, and recently rehashed by the sainted Harding, that there are “fundamental, eternal, and inescapable differences” between white and black Americans. That there are Negroes who will lend this myth a helping hand need occasion no surprise. It has been broadcast all over the world by the vociferous scions of slaveholders, “scientists” like Madison Grant and Lothrop Stoddard, and the patriots who flood the treasure of the Ku Klux Klan; and is believed, even today, by the majority of free, white citizens. On this baseless premise, so flattering to the white mob, that the blackamoor is inferior and fundamentally different, is erected the postulate that he must needs be peculiar; and when he attempts to portray life through the medium of art, it must of necessity be a peculiar art. While such reasoning may seem conclusive to the majority of Americans, it must be rejected with a loud guffaw by intelligent people.
See also:
“If We Must Die”: Claude McKay Limns the “New Negro”
The Harlem Renaissance: Zora Neale Hurston’s First Story
My thanks go out to the folks at History Matters.
The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain
By Langston Hughes
1926
THE NATION
One of the most promising of the young Negro poets said to me once, “I want to be a poet--not a Negro poet,” meaning, I believe, “I want to write like a white poet”; meaning subconsciously, “I would like to be a white poet”; meaning behind that, “I would like to be white.” And I was sorry the young man said that, for no great poet has ever been afraid of being himself. And I doubted then that, with his desire to run away spiritually from his race, this boy would ever be a great poet. But this is the mountain standing in the way of any true Negro art in America--this urge within the race toward whiteness, the desire to pour racial individuality into the mold of American standardization, and to be as little Negro and as much American as possible.
But let us look at the immediate background of this young poet. His family is of what I suppose one would call the Negro middle class: people who are by no means rich yet never uncomfortable nor hungry--smug, contented, respectable folk, members of the Baptist church. The father goes to work every morning. He is a chief steward at a large white club. The mother sometimes does fancy sewing or supervises parties for the rich families of the town. The children go to a mixed school. In the home they read white papers and magazines. And the mother often says “Don’t be like niggers” when the children are bad. A frequent phrase from the father is, “Look how well a white man does things.” And so the word white comes to be unconsciously a symbol of all virtues. It holds for the children beauty, morality, and money. The whisper of “I want to be white” runs silently through their minds. This young poet’s home is, I believe, a fairly typical home of the colored middle class. One sees immediately how difficult it would be for an artist born in such a home to interest himself in interpreting the beauty of his own people. He is never taught to see that beauty. He is taught rather not to see it, or if he does, to be ashamed of it when it is not according to Caucasian patterns.
For racial culture the home of a self-styled “high-class” Negro has nothing better to offer. Instead there will perhaps be more aping of things white than in a less cultured or less wealthy home. The father is perhaps a doctor, lawyer, landowner, or politician. The mother may be a social worker, or a teacher, or she may do nothing and have a maid. Father is often dark but he has usually married the lightest woman he could find. The family attend a fashionable church where few really colored faces are to be found. And they themselves draw a color line. In the North they go to white theaters and white movies. And in the South they have at least two cars and house “like white folks.” Nordic manners, Nordic faces, Nordic hair, Nordic art (if any), and an Episcopal heaven. A very high mountain indeed for the would-be racial artist to climb in order to discover himself and his people.
But then there are the low-down folks, the so-called common element, and they are the majority---may the Lord be praised! The people who have their hip of gin on Saturday nights and are not too important to themselves or the community, or too well fed, or too learned to watch the lazy world go round. They live on Seventh Street in Washington or State Street in Chicago and they do not particularly care whether they are like white folks or anybody else. Their joy runs, bang! into ecstasy. Their religion soars to a shout. Work maybe a little today, rest a little tomorrow. Play awhile. Sing awhile. 0, let’s dance! These common people are not afraid of spirituals, as for a long time their more intellectual brethren were, and jazz is their child. They furnish a wealth of colorful, distinctive material for any artist because they still hold their own individuality in the face of American standardizations. And perhaps these common people will give to the world its truly great Negro artist, the one who is not afraid to be himself. Whereas the better-class Negro would tell the artist what to do, the people at least let him alone when he does appear. And they are not ashamed of him--if they know he exists at all. And they accept what beauty is their own without question.
Certainly there is, for the American Negro artist who can escape the restrictions the more advanced among his own group would put upon him, a great field of unused material ready for his art. Without going outside his race, and even among the better classes with their “white” culture and conscious American manners, but still Negro enough to be different, there is sufficient matter to furnish a black artist with a lifetime of creative work. And when he chooses to touch on the relations between Negroes and whites in this country, with their innumerable overtones and undertones surely, and especially for literature and the drama, there is an inexhaustible supply of themes at hand. To these the Negro artist can give his racial individuality, his heritage of rhythm and warmth, and his incongruous humor that so often, as in the Blues, becomes ironic laughter mixed with tears. But let us look again at the mountain.
A prominent Negro clubwoman in Philadelphia paid eleven dollars to hear Raquel Meller sing Andalusian popular songs.
But she told me a few weeks before she would not think of going to hear “that woman,” Clara Smith, a great black artist, sing Negro folksongs. And many an upper -class Negro church, even now, would not dream of employing a spiritual in its services. The drab melodies in white folks’ hymnbooks are much to be preferred. “We want to worship the Lord correctly and quietly. We don’t believe in ‘shouting.’ Let’s be dull like the Nordics,” they say, in effect.
The road for the serious black artist, then, who would produce a racial art is most certainly rocky and the mountain is high. Until recently he received almost no encouragement for his work from either white or colored people. The fine novels of Chesnutt’ go out of print with neither race noticing their passing. The quaint charm and humor of Dunbar’s’ dialect verse brought to him, in his day, largely the same kind of encouragement one would give a sideshow freak (A colored man writing poetry! How odd!) or a clown (How amusing!).
The present vogue in things Negro, although it may do as much harm as good for the budding artist, has at least done this: it has brought him forcibly to the attention of his own people among whom for so long, unless the other race had noticed him beforehand, he was a prophet with little honor.
The Negro artist works against an undertow of sharp criticism and misunderstanding from his own group and unintentional bribes from the whites. “Oh, be respectable, write about nice people, show how good we are,” say the Negroes. “Be stereotyped, don’t go too far, don’t shatter our illusions about you, don’t amuse us too seriously. We will pay you,” say the whites. Both would have told Jean Toomer not to write Cane. The colored people did not praise it. The white people did not buy it. Most of the colored people who did read Cane hate it. They are afraid of it. Although the critics gave it good reviews the public remained indifferent. Yet (excepting the work of Du Bois) Cane contains the finest prose written by a Negro in America. And like the singing of Robeson, it is truly racial.
But in spite of the Nordicized Negro intelligentsia and the desires of some white editors we have an honest American Negro literature already with us. Now I await the rise of the Negro theater. Our folk music, having achieved world-wide fame, offers itself to the genius of the great individual American composer who is to come. And within the next decade I expect to see the work of a growing school of colored artists who paint and model the beauty of dark faces and create with new technique the expressions of their own soul-world. And the Negro dancers who will dance like flame and the singers who will continue to carry our songs to all who listen-they will be with us in even greater numbers tomorrow.
Most of my own poems are racial in theme and treatment, derived from the life I know. In many of them I try to grasp and hold some of the meanings and rhythms of jazz. I am as sincere as I know how to be in these poems and yet after every reading I answer questions like these from my own people: Do you think Negroes should always write about Negroes? I wish you wouldn’t read some of your poems to white folks. How do you find anything interesting in a place like a cabaret? Why do you write about black people? You aren’t black. What makes you do so many jazz poems?
But jazz to me is one of the inherent expressions of Negro life in America; the eternal tom-tom beating in the Negro soul--the tom-tom of revolt against weariness in a white world, a world of subway trains, and work, work, work; the tom-tom of joy and laughter, and pain swallowed in a smile. Yet the Philadelphia clubwoman is ashamed to say that her race created it and she does not like me to write about it, The old subconscious “white is best” runs through her mind. Years of study under white teachers, a lifetime of white books, pictures, and papers, and white manners, morals, and Puritan standards made her dislike the spirituals. And now she turns up her nose at jazz and all its manifestations--likewise almost everything else distinctly racial. She doesn’t care for the Winold Reiss’ portraits of Negroes because they are “too Negro.” She does not want a true picture of herself from anybody. She wants the artist to flatter her, to make the white world believe that all negroes are as smug and as near white in soul as she wants to be. But, to my mind, it is the duty of the younger Negro artist, if he accepts any duties at all from outsiders, to change through the force of his art that old whispering “I want to be white,” hidden in the aspirations of his people, to “Why should I want to be white? I am a Negro--and beautiful”?
So I am ashamed for the black poet who says, “I want to be a poet, not a Negro poet,” as though his own racial world were not as interesting as any other world. I am ashamed, too, for the colored artist who runs from the painting of Negro faces to the painting of sunsets after the manner of the academicians because he fears the strange unwhiteness of his own features. An artist must be free to choose what he does, certainly, but he must also never be afraid to do what he must choose.
Let the blare of Negro jazz bands and the bellowing voice of Bessie Smith singing the Blues penetrate the closed ears of the colored near intellectuals until they listen and perhaps understand. Let Paul Robeson singing “Water Boy,” and Rudolph Fisher writing about the streets of Harlem, and Jean Toomer holding the heart of Georgia in his hands, and Aaron Douglas’s drawing strange black fantasies cause the smug Negro middle class to turn from their white, respectable, ordinary books and papers to catch a glimmer of their own beauty. We younger Negro artists who create now intend to express our individual dark-skinned selves without fear or shame. If white people are pleased we are glad. If they are not, it doesn’t matter. We know we are beautiful. And ugly too. The tom-tom cries and the tom-tom laughs. If colored people are pleased we are glad. If they are not, their displeasure doesn’t matter either. We build our temples for tomorrow, strong as we know how,
and we stand on top of the mountain, free within ourselves.
(Thanks to the folks at Modern American Poetry.)
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
It’s the First Annual WEJB/NSU Christmas Concert!
Christmas Day, 2010
NSU
(I have been unable to get the videos to show up here, but if you go to this location, you should be able to play the concert. However, that blog sometimes requires up to 30 seconds, before the videos appear, but your patience will be rewarded.)
Ideally, you have a thingamajig to pipe these videos into your TV screen, and can settle back on your living room couch with blankets, cozy with your loved ones, with mugs of hot chocolate or real egg nog within reach. Or maybe you’re like me, sitting in front of a little computer screen, with a kid almost as big as you are sitting on your lap, cutting off the circulation to your thigh. (I can no longer imagine not having a kid sitting on my lap, cutting off the circulation to my thigh, no matter how big he gets!)
Whatever your station, I hope that you can put your cares away for as long as you watch these videos. The lyrics follow each song.
The concert’s first act consists of popular, modern Christmas songs; the second of traditional, religious songs.
With best holiday wishes,
Nicholas Stix
White Christmas: Bing Crosby
Uploaded by beautifulcynic. - Music videos, artist interviews, concerts and more.
White Christmas
Words and Music by Irving Berlin
I’m dreaming of a white Christmas,
Just like the ones I used to know,
Where the treetops glisten,
And children listen,
To hear sleigh bells in the snow.
I’m dreaming of a white Christmas,
With every Christmas card I write,
May your days be merry and bright,
And may all your Christmases be white.
[Bridge]
I’m dreaming of a white Christmas,
With every Christmas card I write,
May your days be merry and bright,
And may all your Christmases be white.
Thanks to Christmas Carols/UK.
* * *
Happy Holiday/The Holiday Season: Andy Williams
Lyrics and music for “Happy Holiday” by Irving Berlin
Music and lyrics for “The Holiday Season” by Kay Thompson
Happy holiday,
Happy holiday,
While the merry bells keep ringing,
May your every wish come true.
Happy holiday,
Happy holiday,
May the calendar keep bringing,
Happy holidays to you.
It’s the holiday season,
And Santa Claus is coming back,
The Christmas snow is white on the ground,
When old Santa gets into town,
He’ll be coming down the chimney, down,
Coming down the chimney, down.
It’s the holiday season,
And Santa Claus has got a toy,
For every good girl and good little boy,
He’s a great big bundle of joy,
He’ll be coming down the chimney, down,
Coming down the chimney, down.
He’ll have a big fat pack upon his back,
And lots of goodies for you and me,
So leave a peppermint stick for old St. Nick,
Hanging on the Christmas tree.
It’s the holiday season,
With the whoop-de-do and hickory dock,
And don’t forget to hang up your sock,
‘Cause just exactly at 12 o’clock,
He’ll be coming down the chimney,
Coming down the chimney,
Coming down the chimney, down!
Happy holiday,
Happy holiday,
While the merry bells keep bringing,
Happy holidays to you.
Happy holiday,
Happy holiday,
May the calendar keep bringing,
Happy holidays to you,
To you … happy holiday (repeats to fade).
Thanks to USAirwaysPilotA330.
* * *
Merry Christmas, Darling: Karen Carpenter
Merry Christmas, Darling
Greeting cards have all been sent,
The Christmas rush is through,
But I still have one wish to make,
A special one for you.
Merry Christmas, darling,
We’re apart, that’s true,
But I can dream and in my dreams,
I’m Christmas-ing with you.
Holidays are joyful,
There’s always something new,
But every day’s a holiday,
When I’m near to you.
The lights on my tree,
I wish you could see,
I wish it every day,
Logs on the fire,
Fill me with desire,
To see you and to say.
That I wish you Merry Christmas,
Happy New Year, too,
I’ve just one wish,
On this Christmas Eve,
I wish I were with you.
[Bridge]
Logs on the fire,
Fill me with desire,
To see you and to say,
That I wish you Merry Christmas,
Happy New Year, too,
I’ve just one wish,
On this Christmas Eve,
I wish I were with you,
I wish I were with you.
Merry, Merry, Merry Christmas,
Merry Christmas … Darling.
Thanks to SharonTG and Romantic Lyrics.
* * *
It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year: Andy Williams
It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year
It’s the most wonderful time of the year,
With the kids jingle-belling,
And everyone telling you,
Be of good cheer,
It’s the most wonderful time of the year.
It’s the hap-happiest season of all,
With those holiday greetings,
And great happy meetings,
When friends come to call,
It’s the hap-happiest season of all.
There’ll be parties for hosting,
Marshmallows for roasting,
And caroling out in the snow,
There’ll be scary ghost stories,
And tales of the glories,
Of Christmases long, long ago,
It’s the most wonderful time of the year,
There be much mistletoe-ing,
And hearts will be glowing,
When loved ones are near,
It’s the most wonderful time of the year.
Woah, there’ll be parties for hosting,
Marshmallows for roasting,
And caroling out in the snow,
There’ll be scary ghost stories,
And tales of the glories,
Of Christmases long, long ago.
It’s the most wonderful time of the year,
There be much mistletoe-ing,
And hearts will be glowing,
When loved ones are near,
It’s the most wonderful time,
It’s the most wonderful time,
It’s the most wonderful time of the year.
Thanks to claudettecolbert60 and Cowboy Lyrics.
* * *
How are Things in Glocca Morra?: Kate Baldwin in Finian’s Rainbow
(To those who may ask what this song has to do with Christmas: All I know is that when I was a wee lad, it wasn’t Christmas, until you heard Ella Logan (also here) of the original, 1947 Broadway cast singing “How are Things in Glocca Morra?” on a Christmas special, or on the Ed Sullivan Show.)
How are things in Glocca Morra?
Music by Burton Lane
Lyrics by E.Y. “Yip” Harburg
How are things in Glocca Morra?
Is that little brook still leaping there?
Does it still run down to Donny cove?
Through Killybegs, Kilkerry, and Kildare?
How are things in Glocca Morra?
Is that willow tree still weeping there?
Does that laddie with the twinklin’ eye
Come whistlin’ by,
And does he walk away,
Sad and dreamy there, not to see me there?
So I ask each weepin’ willow,
And each brook along the way,
And each lad that comes a-whistlin,’
Tooralay.
How are things in Glocca Morra
This fine day?
Thanks to FiniansRainbowBway and St L Lyrics.
* * *
Silver Bells: Bing Crosby & Carol Richards
Silver Bells
By Jay Livingston and Ray Evans
City sidewalks, busy sidewalks,
Dressed in holiday style,
In the air there’s a feeling
Of Christmas,
Children laughing, people passing,
Meeting smile after smile,
And on every street corner you’ll hear.
Silver bells,
Silver bells,
It’s Christmas time in the city,
Ring-a-ling,
Hear them ring,
Soon it will be Christmas Day.
Strings of streetlights, even stoplights,
Blink of bright red and green,
As the shoppers rush home with their treasures,
Hear the snow crunch,
See the kids bunch,
This is Santa’s big scene,
And above all the bustle you’ll hear.
Silver bells,
Silver bells,
It’s Christmas time in the city,
Ring-a-ling, hear them ring,
Soon it will be Christmas Day,
Soon it will be Christmas Day.
Thanks to rflowers57 and Cowboy Lyrics
* * *
“Do You Hear What I Hear?”: Bing Crosby
Do You Hear What I Hear?
Said the night wind to the little lamb,
“Do you see what I see?
Way up in the sky, little lamb,
Do you see what I see?
A star, a star, dancing in the night,
With a tail as big as a kite,
With a tail as big as a kite.”
Said the little lamb to the shepherd boy,
“Do you hear what I hear?
Ringing through the sky, shepherd boy,
Do you hear what I hear?
A song, a song, high above the trees,
With a voice as big as the sea,
With a voice as big as the sea.”
Said the shepherd boy to the mighty king,
“Do you know what I know?
In your palace warm, mighty king,
Do you know what I know?
A child, a child shivers in the cold—
Let us bring him silver and gold,
Let us bring him silver and gold.”
Said the king to the people everywhere,
“Listen to what I say!
Pray for peace, people, everywhere,
Listen to what I say!
The child, the child sleeping in the night,
He will bring us goodness and light,
He will bring us goodness and light.”
Thanks to 6891man and Christmas World.
* * *
Little Drummer Boy: Vienna Boys Choir
Little Drummer Boy
By Katherine K. Davis, Henry Onorati and Harry Simeone
Come they told me, pa rum pum pum pum,
A new born King to see, pa rum pum pum pum,
Our finest gifts we bring, pa rum pum pum pum,
To lay before the King, pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum.
So to honor Him, pa rum pum pum pum,
When we come.
Little Baby, pa rum pum pum pum,
I am a poor boy too, pa rum pum pum pum,
I have no gift to bring, pa rum pum pum pum,
That’s fit to give the King, pa rum pum pum pum,
Rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum.
Shall I play for you, pa rum pum pum pum,
On my drum?
Mary nodded, pa rum pum pum pum,
The ox and lamb kept time, pa rum pum pum pum,
I played my drum for Him, pa rum pum pum pum,
I played my best for Him, pa rum pum pum pum,
Rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum.
Then He smiled at me, pa rum pum pum pum,
Me and my drum.
Thanks to lullubelle2 and Christmas Carols/UK.
* * *
Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas: Judy Garland in Meet Me in St. Louis (1944)
Uploaded by Alexander_Band. - Explore more music videos.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas
By Ralph Blane and Hugh Martin
Have yourself a merry little Christmas,
Let your heart be light,
From now on,
Our troubles will be out of sight.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas,
Make the Yule-tide gay,
From now on,
Our troubles will be miles away.
Here we are, as in olden days,
Happy golden days of yore,
Faithful friends who are dear to us,
Gather near to us, once more.
Through the years,
We all will be together,
If the fates allow,
Hang a shining star upon the highest bough,
And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.
[Bridge]
Here we are, as in olden days,
Happy golden days of yore,
Faithful friends who are dear to us,
Gather near to us, once more.
Through the years,
We all will be together,
If the fates allow,
Hang a shining star upon the highest bough,
And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.
Thanks to Christmas Carols/UK.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas: Frank Sinatra
Thanks to ClassicxFilesRocker.
* * *
Christmas Song: Judy Garland & Mel Torme
In case you’re wondering, and I’m sure you are, I don’t have a video of Nat Cole singing “Christmas Song,” because his heirs have made it impossible. “This video is no longer available due to a copyright claim by King Cole Partners, LP.
Sorry about that.”
Christmas Song
By Mel Torme and Robert Wells
Chestnuts roasting on an open fire,
Jack Frost nipping on your nose,
Yuletide carols being sung by a choir,
And folks dressed up like Eskimos.
Everybody knows, a turkey and some mistletoe,
Help to make the season bright,
Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow,
Will find it hard to sleep tonight.
They know that Santa’s on his way,
He’s loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh,
And every mother’s child is going to spy,
To see if reindeer really know how to fly.
And so I’m offering this simple phrase,
To kids from one to ninety-two,
Although it’s been said many times, many ways,
Merry Christmas … to you.
[Bridge]
They know that Santa’s on his way,
He’s loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh,
And every mother’s child is going to spy,
To see if reindeer really know how to fly.
And so I’m offering this simple phrase,
To kids from one to ninety-two,
Although it’s been said many times, many ways,
Merry Christmas … to you.
* * *
Here We Come A-Caroling/We Wish You a Merry Christmas: Perry Como & Co.
Here We Come A-Caroling
(The Wassail Song) – Traditional
The wassail bowl was a combination of hot ale or beer, spices, and mead, alcoholic enough to warm a cold caroler.
Here we come a-caroling among the leaves so green,
Here we come a-wand’ring so fair to be seen,
Love and joy come to you,
And to you glad Christmas too,
And God bless you and send you a Happy New Year,
And God send you a Happy New Year.
We are not daily beggars that beg from door to door,
But we are neighbors’ children whom you have seen before,
Love and joy come to you,
And to you glad Christmas too,
And God bless you and send you a Happy New Year,
And God send you a Happy New Year.
God bless the master of this house, likewise the mistress too,
And all the little children that round the table go,
Love and joy come to you,
And to you glad Christmas, too,
And God bless you and send you a Happy New Year,
And God send you a Happy New Year.
We Wish You a Merry Christmas
We wish you a Merry Christmas,
We wish you a Merry Christmas,
We wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year,
Good tidings we bring to you and your kin,
Good tidings for Christmas and a Happy New Year.
Oh, bring us a figgy pudding,
Oh, bring us a figgy pudding,
Oh, bring us a figgy pudding and a cup of good cheer.
We won’t go until we get some,
We won’t go until we get some,
We won’t go until we get some, so bring some out here.
We wish you a Merry Christmas,
We wish you a Merry Christmas,
We wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
Thanks to ElRadioLatina, Butler Webs Christmas Carols, and Christmas Carols/UK.
* * *
Hark! The Herald Angels Sing/It Came Upon A Midnight Clear: Bing Crosby
Hark! The Herald Angels Sing
Words by Charles Wesley,
Music by Felix Mendelssohn
Hark! The herald angels sing,
“Glory to the newborn King!
Peace on earth and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled,”
Joyful, all ye nations rise,
Join the triumph of the skies,
With the angelic host proclaim,
“Christ is born in Bethlehem!”
Christ by highest heaven adored,
Christ the everlasting Lord!
Late in time behold Him come,
Offspring of a Virgin’s womb,
Veiled in flesh, the Godhead see,
Hail the incarnate Deity,
Pleased as man with man to dwell,
Jesus, our Emmanuel!
Hark! The herald angels sing,
“Glory to the newborn King!
Peace on earth and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled,”
Joyful, all ye nations rise,
Join the triumph of the skies,
With the angelic host proclaim,
“Christ is born in Bethlehem!”
Hail the heaven-born Prince of Peace!
Hail the Son of Righteousness!
Light and life to all He brings,
Ris’n with healing in His wings,
Mild He lays His glory by,
Born that man no more may die,
Born to raise the sons of earth;
Born to give them second birth.
Hark! The herald angels sing,
“Glory to the newborn King!
Peace on earth and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled,”
Joyful, all ye nations rise,
Join the triumph of the skies,
With the angelic host proclaim,
“Christ is born in Bethlehem!”
It Came Upon A Midnight Clear
Edmund Hamilton Sears
It came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth,
To touch their harps of gold:
“Peace on the earth, goodwill to men
From heavens all gracious King!”
The world in solemn stillness lay,
To hear the angels sing.
Still through the cloven skies they come,
With peaceful wings unfurled,
And still their heavenly music floats,
O’er all the weary world:
Above its sad and lowly plains,
They bend on hovering wing,
And ever o’er its Babel sounds,
The blessed angels sing.
O ye beneath life’s crushing load,
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way,
With painful steps and slow,
Look now, for glad and golden hours,
Come swiftly on the wing,
Oh rest beside the weary road,
And hear the angels sing.
For lo! the days are hastening on,
By prophets seen of old,
When with the ever-circling years,
Shall come the time foretold,
When the new heaven and earth shall own,
The Prince of Peace, their King,
And the whole world send back the song,
Which now the angels sing.
Thanks to newfilmscjc40, Butler Webs Christmas Carols, and Christmas Carols/UK.
* * *
I Wonder as I Wander: The John Brown University Choir
(Yes, the video looks awful, and the mike needed to be closer, but bear with it. The soprano sings like an angel and, as Maureen Hegarty and Barbra Streisand’s versions make all too clear, this song requires a soprano.)
I Wonder While I Wander
I wonder as I wander out under the sky,
How Jesus the Savior did come for to die,
For poor on’ry people like you and like I,
I wonder as I wander out under the sky.
When Mary birthed Jesus ‘twas in a cow’s stall,
With wise men and farmers and shepherds and all,
But high from God’s heaven, a star’s light did fall,
And the promise of ages it then did recall.
If Jesus had wanted for any wee thing,
A star in the sky or a bird on the wing,
Or all of God’s Angels in heaven to sing,
He surely could have it, ‘cause he was the King.
I wonder as I wander out under the sky,
How Jesus the Savior did come for to die,
For poor on’ry people like you and like I,
I wonder as I wander out under the sky.
Thanks to jernigana and Oldie Lyrics.
* * *
Silent Night: Bing Crosby
Silent Night
Silent night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright,
Round yon’ Virgin Mother and Child,
Holy Infant, so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace.
Silent night, holy night!
Shepherds quake at the sight,
Glories stream from heaven afar,
Heavenly hosts sing, Alleluia!
Christ, the Savior is born,
Christ, the Savior is born.
Silent night, holy night,
Son of God, love’s pure light,
Radiant beams from Thy holy face,
With the dawn of redeeming grace,
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth,
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth.
Thanks to bigwallypants and Christmas Carols/UK.
* * *
Deck the Halls: Bing Crosby
Deck the Halls
By Sonal Panse
Deck the halls with boughs of holly,
Fa la la la la, la la la la,
‘Tis the season to be jolly,
Fa la la la la, la la la la,
Don we now our gay apparel,
Fa la la la la, la la la la,
Troll the ancient Yultide carol,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
See the blazing Yule before us,
Fa la la la la, la la la la,
Strike the harp and join the chorus,
Fa la la la la, la la la la,
Follow me in merry measure,
Fa la la, la la la, la la la,
While I tell of Yuletide’s treasure,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Fast away the old year passes,
Fa la la la la, la la la la,
Hail the new, ye lads and lasses,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Sing we joyous all together,
Fa la la, la la la, la la la,
Heedless of the wind and weather.
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Thanks to bigwallypants and Christmas Carols/UK.
* * *
Oh, Little Town of Bethlehem: The Mormon Tabernacle Choir
Oh, Little Town of Bethlehem
O little town of Bethlehem,
How still we see thee lie,
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep,
The silent stars go by,
Yet in thy dark streets shineth,
The everlasting light,
The hopes and fears of all the years,
Are met in thee tonight.
For Christ is born of Mary,
And gathered all above,
While mortals sleep, the angels keep,
Their watch of wondering love,
O morning stars together,
Proclaim the holy birth,
And praises sing to God the King,
And peace to men on earth.
How silently, how silently,
The wondrous gift is given!
So God imparts to human hearts,
The blessings of His heaven,
No ear may hear His coming,
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive him still,
The dear Christ enters in.
O holy Child of Bethlehem,
Descend to us, we pray,
Cast out our sin and enter in,
Be born to us today,
We hear the Christmas angels,
The great glad tidings tell,
O come to us, abide with us,
Our Lord Emmanuel.
Thanks to DandC25v12 and Christmas Carols/UK.
* * *
O Come, All Ye Faithful: The Mormon Tabernacle
O Come All Ye Faithful
O Come All Ye Faithful
Joyful and triumphant,
O come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem.
Come and behold Him,
Born the King of Angels;
O come, let us adore Him,
O come, let us adore Him,
O come, let us adore Him,
Christ the Lord.
O Sing, choirs of angels,
Sing in exultation,
Sing all that hear in heaven God’s holy word.
Give to our Father glory in the Highest;
O come, let us adore Him,
O come, let us adore Him,
O come, let us adore Him,
Christ the Lord.
All Hail! Lord, we greet Thee,
Born this happy morning,
O Jesus! for evermore be Thy name adored.
Word of the Father, now in flesh appearing;
O come, let us adore Him,
O come, let us adore Him,
O come, let us adore Him,
Christ the Lord.
Thanks to MormonChristmas and Christmas Carols/UK.
* * *
Ave Maria: Schubert
Ave Maria Prayer : The Latin text of the Ave Maria prayer
set to the music by Franz Schubert
Ave Maria Gratia plena
Maria Gratia plena
Maria Gratia plena
Ave, ave dominus
Dominus tecum
Benedicta tu in mulieribus
Et benedictus
Et benedictus fructus ventris
Ventris tui Jesus
Ave Maria
Ave Maria Mater dei
Ora pro nobis pecatoribus
Ora, ora pro nobis
Ora ora pro nobis pecatoribus
Nunc et in hora mortis
In hora mortis, mortis nostrae
In hora mortis nostrae
Ave Maria!
Ave Maria
German translation by Adam Storck from
“The Lady of the Lake” by Sir Walter Scott
Ave Maria! Ave Maria! maiden mild!
Listen to a maiden’s prayer!
Thou canst hear though from the wild,
Thou canst save amid despair.
Safe may we sleep beneath thy care,
Though banish’d, outcast and reviled -
Maiden! hear a maiden’s prayer;
Mother, hear a suppliant child!
Ave Maria!
Ave Maria! undefiled!
The flinty couch we now must share
Shall seem this down of eider piled,
If thy protection hover there.
The murky cavern’s heavy air
Shall breathe of balm if thou hast smiled;
Then, Maiden! hear a maiden’s prayer;
Mother, list a suppliant child!
Ave Maria!
Ave Maria! stainless styled!
Foul demons of the earth and air,
From this their wonted haunt exiled,
Shall flee before thy presence fair.
We bow us to our lot of care,
Beneath thy guidance reconciled;
Hear for a maid a maiden’s prayer,
And for a father hear a child!
Ave Maria!
Ave Maria
German translation by Adam Storck from “The Lady of the Lake” by Sir Walter Scott.
Thanks to Daishi001 and Christmas Carols/UK.
* * *
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen: Bing Crosby
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
God rest ye merry, gentlemen
Let nothing you dismay
Remember, Christ, our Saviour
Was born on Christmas day
To save us all from Satan’s power
When we were gone astray
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy
In Bethlehem, in Israel,
This blessed Babe was born
And laid within a manger
Upon this blessed morn
The which His Mother Mary
Did nothing take in scorn
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy
From God our Heavenly Father
A blessed Angel came;
And unto certain Shepherds
Brought tidings of the same:
How that in Bethlehem was born
The Son of God by Name.
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy
“Fear not then,” said the Angel,
“Let nothing you affright,
This day is born a Saviour
Of a pure Virgin bright,
To free all those who trust in Him
From Satan’s power and might.”
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy
The shepherds at those tidings
Rejoiced much in mind,
And left their flocks a-feeding
In tempest, storm and wind:
And went to Bethlehem straightway
The Son of God to find.
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy
And when they came to Bethlehem
Where our dear Saviour lay,
They found Him in a manger,
Where oxen feed on hay;
His Mother Mary kneeling down,
Unto the Lord did pray.
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy
Now to the Lord sing praises,
All you within this place,
And with true love and brotherhood
Each other now embrace;
This holy tide of Christmas
All other doth deface.
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy
Thanks to ChristmasJingleBells and Christmas Carols/UK
* * *
Good King Wenceslas: York Minster 1995 Choir and Soloists
Good King Wenceslas
Good King Wenceslas looked out
On the feast of Stephen
When the snow lay round about
Deep and crisp and even
Brightly shone the moon that night
Though the frost was cruel
When a poor man came in sight
Gath’ring winter fuel
“Hither, page, and stand by me
If thou know’st it, telling
Yonder peasant, who is he?
Where and what his dwelling?”
“Sire, he lives a good league hence
Underneath the mountain
Right against the forest fence
By Saint Agnes’ fountain.”
“Bring me flesh and bring me wine
Bring me pine logs hither
Thou and I will see him dine
When we bear him thither.”
Page and monarch forth they went
Forth they went together
Through the rude wind’s wild lament
And the bitter weather
“Sire, the night is darker now
And the wind blows stronger
Fails my heart, I know not how,
I can go no longer.”
“Mark my footsteps, my good page
Tread thou in them boldly
Thou shalt find the winter’s rage
Freeze thy blood less coldly.”
In his master’s steps he trod
Where the snow lay dinted
Heat was in the very sod
Which the Saint had printed
Therefore, Christian men, be sure
Wealth or rank possessing
Ye who now will bless the poor
Shall yourselves find blessing
Thanks to notyobs and Christmas Carols/UK.
* * *
Joy to the World: Bing Crosby
Joy to the World
Joy to the world, the Lord is come!
Let earth receive her King;
Let every heart prepare Him room,
And Heaven and nature sing,
And Heaven and nature sing,
And Heaven, and Heaven, and nature sing.
Joy to the world, the Savior reigns!
Let men their songs employ;
While fields and floods, rocks, hills and plains
Repeat the sounding joy,
Repeat the sounding joy,
Repeat, repeat, the sounding joy.
No more let sins and sorrows grow,
Nor thorns infest the ground;
He comes to make His blessings flow
Far as the curse is found,
Far as the curse is found,
Far as, far as, the curse is found.
He rules the world with truth and grace,
And makes the nations prove
The glories of His righteousness,
And wonders of His love,
And wonders of His love,
And wonders, wonders, of His love.
Thanks to KatJu1986 and Chrsitmas Carols/UK.
* * *
The Twelve Days of Christmas: Roger Whittaker
The Twelve Days of Christmas
On the first day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me,
A partridge in a pear tree.
On the second day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the third day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the fourth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the fifth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the sixth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the seventh day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the eighth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the ninth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me,
Nine ladies dancing,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the tenth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me,
Ten lords a-leaping,
Nine ladies dancing,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the eleventh day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me,
Eleven pipers piping,
Ten lords a-leaping,
Nine ladies dancing,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the twelfth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me,
Twelve drummers drumming,
Eleven pipers piping,
Ten lords a-leaping,
Nine ladies dancing,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree!
Thanks to healthyhabits007 and Christmas Carols/UK.
* * *
The First Noel
The First Noel
The First Noel, the Angels did say,
Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay,
In fields where they lay keeping their sheep,
On a cold winter’s night that was so deep,
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel,
Born is the King of Israel!
They looked up and saw a star,
Shining in the East beyond them far,
And to the earth it gave great light,
And so it continued both day and night,
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel,
Born is the King of Israel!
And by the light of that same star,
Three Wise men came from country far,
To seek for a King was their intent,
And to follow the star wherever it went,
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel,
Born is the King of Israel!
This star drew nigh to the northwest,
O’er Bethlehem it took its rest,
And there it did both pause and stay,
Right o’er the place where Jesus lay,
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel,
Born is the King of Israel!
Then entered in those wise men three,
Full reverently upon their knee,
And offered there in His presence,
Their gold and myrrh and frankincense,
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel,
Born is the King of Israel!
Then let us all with one accord,
Sing praises to our heavenly Lord,
That hath made Heaven and earth of nought,
And with his blood mankind has bought,
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel,
Born is the King of Israel!
Thanks to anime1217 and Christmas Carols/UK.
Christmas Day, 2010
NSU
(I have been unable to get the videos to show up here, but if you go to this location, you should be able to play the concert. However, that blog sometimes requires up to 30 seconds, before the videos appear, but your patience will be rewarded.)
Ideally, you have a thingamajig to pipe these videos into your TV screen, and can settle back on your living room couch with blankets, cozy with your loved ones, with mugs of hot chocolate or real egg nog within reach. Or maybe you’re like me, sitting in front of a little computer screen, with a kid almost as big as you are sitting on your lap, cutting off the circulation to your thigh. (I can no longer imagine not having a kid sitting on my lap, cutting off the circulation to my thigh, no matter how big he gets!)
Whatever your station, I hope that you can put your cares away for as long as you watch these videos. The lyrics follow each song.
The concert’s first act consists of popular, modern Christmas songs; the second of traditional, religious songs.
With best holiday wishes,
Nicholas Stix
White Christmas: Bing Crosby
Uploaded by beautifulcynic. - Music videos, artist interviews, concerts and more.
White Christmas
Words and Music by Irving Berlin
I’m dreaming of a white Christmas,
Just like the ones I used to know,
Where the treetops glisten,
And children listen,
To hear sleigh bells in the snow.
I’m dreaming of a white Christmas,
With every Christmas card I write,
May your days be merry and bright,
And may all your Christmases be white.
[Bridge]
I’m dreaming of a white Christmas,
With every Christmas card I write,
May your days be merry and bright,
And may all your Christmases be white.
Thanks to Christmas Carols/UK.
Happy Holiday/The Holiday Season: Andy Williams
Lyrics and music for “Happy Holiday” by Irving Berlin
Music and lyrics for “The Holiday Season” by Kay Thompson
Happy holiday,
Happy holiday,
While the merry bells keep ringing,
May your every wish come true.
Happy holiday,
Happy holiday,
May the calendar keep bringing,
Happy holidays to you.
It’s the holiday season,
And Santa Claus is coming back,
The Christmas snow is white on the ground,
When old Santa gets into town,
He’ll be coming down the chimney, down,
Coming down the chimney, down.
It’s the holiday season,
And Santa Claus has got a toy,
For every good girl and good little boy,
He’s a great big bundle of joy,
He’ll be coming down the chimney, down,
Coming down the chimney, down.
He’ll have a big fat pack upon his back,
And lots of goodies for you and me,
So leave a peppermint stick for old St. Nick,
Hanging on the Christmas tree.
It’s the holiday season,
With the whoop-de-do and hickory dock,
And don’t forget to hang up your sock,
‘Cause just exactly at 12 o’clock,
He’ll be coming down the chimney,
Coming down the chimney,
Coming down the chimney, down!
Happy holiday,
Happy holiday,
While the merry bells keep bringing,
Happy holidays to you.
Happy holiday,
Happy holiday,
May the calendar keep bringing,
Happy holidays to you,
To you … happy holiday (repeats to fade).
Thanks to USAirwaysPilotA330.
Merry Christmas, Darling: Karen Carpenter
Merry Christmas, Darling
Greeting cards have all been sent,
The Christmas rush is through,
But I still have one wish to make,
A special one for you.
Merry Christmas, darling,
We’re apart, that’s true,
But I can dream and in my dreams,
I’m Christmas-ing with you.
Holidays are joyful,
There’s always something new,
But every day’s a holiday,
When I’m near to you.
The lights on my tree,
I wish you could see,
I wish it every day,
Logs on the fire,
Fill me with desire,
To see you and to say.
That I wish you Merry Christmas,
Happy New Year, too,
I’ve just one wish,
On this Christmas Eve,
I wish I were with you.
[Bridge]
Logs on the fire,
Fill me with desire,
To see you and to say,
That I wish you Merry Christmas,
Happy New Year, too,
I’ve just one wish,
On this Christmas Eve,
I wish I were with you,
I wish I were with you.
Merry, Merry, Merry Christmas,
Merry Christmas … Darling.
Thanks to SharonTG and Romantic Lyrics.
It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year: Andy Williams
It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year
It’s the most wonderful time of the year,
With the kids jingle-belling,
And everyone telling you,
Be of good cheer,
It’s the most wonderful time of the year.
It’s the hap-happiest season of all,
With those holiday greetings,
And great happy meetings,
When friends come to call,
It’s the hap-happiest season of all.
There’ll be parties for hosting,
Marshmallows for roasting,
And caroling out in the snow,
There’ll be scary ghost stories,
And tales of the glories,
Of Christmases long, long ago,
It’s the most wonderful time of the year,
There be much mistletoe-ing,
And hearts will be glowing,
When loved ones are near,
It’s the most wonderful time of the year.
Woah, there’ll be parties for hosting,
Marshmallows for roasting,
And caroling out in the snow,
There’ll be scary ghost stories,
And tales of the glories,
Of Christmases long, long ago.
It’s the most wonderful time of the year,
There be much mistletoe-ing,
And hearts will be glowing,
When loved ones are near,
It’s the most wonderful time,
It’s the most wonderful time,
It’s the most wonderful time of the year.
Thanks to claudettecolbert60 and Cowboy Lyrics.
How are Things in Glocca Morra?: Kate Baldwin in Finian’s Rainbow
(To those who may ask what this song has to do with Christmas: All I know is that when I was a wee lad, it wasn’t Christmas, until you heard Ella Logan (also here) of the original, 1947 Broadway cast singing “How are Things in Glocca Morra?” on a Christmas special, or on the Ed Sullivan Show.)
How are things in Glocca Morra?
Music by Burton Lane
Lyrics by E.Y. “Yip” Harburg
How are things in Glocca Morra?
Is that little brook still leaping there?
Does it still run down to Donny cove?
Through Killybegs, Kilkerry, and Kildare?
How are things in Glocca Morra?
Is that willow tree still weeping there?
Does that laddie with the twinklin’ eye
Come whistlin’ by,
And does he walk away,
Sad and dreamy there, not to see me there?
So I ask each weepin’ willow,
And each brook along the way,
And each lad that comes a-whistlin,’
Tooralay.
How are things in Glocca Morra
This fine day?
Thanks to FiniansRainbowBway and St L Lyrics.
Silver Bells: Bing Crosby & Carol Richards
Silver Bells
By Jay Livingston and Ray Evans
City sidewalks, busy sidewalks,
Dressed in holiday style,
In the air there’s a feeling
Of Christmas,
Children laughing, people passing,
Meeting smile after smile,
And on every street corner you’ll hear.
Silver bells,
Silver bells,
It’s Christmas time in the city,
Ring-a-ling,
Hear them ring,
Soon it will be Christmas Day.
Strings of streetlights, even stoplights,
Blink of bright red and green,
As the shoppers rush home with their treasures,
Hear the snow crunch,
See the kids bunch,
This is Santa’s big scene,
And above all the bustle you’ll hear.
Silver bells,
Silver bells,
It’s Christmas time in the city,
Ring-a-ling, hear them ring,
Soon it will be Christmas Day,
Soon it will be Christmas Day.
Thanks to rflowers57 and Cowboy Lyrics
“Do You Hear What I Hear?”: Bing Crosby
Do You Hear What I Hear?
Said the night wind to the little lamb,
“Do you see what I see?
Way up in the sky, little lamb,
Do you see what I see?
A star, a star, dancing in the night,
With a tail as big as a kite,
With a tail as big as a kite.”
Said the little lamb to the shepherd boy,
“Do you hear what I hear?
Ringing through the sky, shepherd boy,
Do you hear what I hear?
A song, a song, high above the trees,
With a voice as big as the sea,
With a voice as big as the sea.”
Said the shepherd boy to the mighty king,
“Do you know what I know?
In your palace warm, mighty king,
Do you know what I know?
A child, a child shivers in the cold—
Let us bring him silver and gold,
Let us bring him silver and gold.”
Said the king to the people everywhere,
“Listen to what I say!
Pray for peace, people, everywhere,
Listen to what I say!
The child, the child sleeping in the night,
He will bring us goodness and light,
He will bring us goodness and light.”
Thanks to 6891man and Christmas World.
Little Drummer Boy: Vienna Boys Choir
Little Drummer Boy
By Katherine K. Davis, Henry Onorati and Harry Simeone
Come they told me, pa rum pum pum pum,
A new born King to see, pa rum pum pum pum,
Our finest gifts we bring, pa rum pum pum pum,
To lay before the King, pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum.
So to honor Him, pa rum pum pum pum,
When we come.
Little Baby, pa rum pum pum pum,
I am a poor boy too, pa rum pum pum pum,
I have no gift to bring, pa rum pum pum pum,
That’s fit to give the King, pa rum pum pum pum,
Rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum.
Shall I play for you, pa rum pum pum pum,
On my drum?
Mary nodded, pa rum pum pum pum,
The ox and lamb kept time, pa rum pum pum pum,
I played my drum for Him, pa rum pum pum pum,
I played my best for Him, pa rum pum pum pum,
Rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum.
Then He smiled at me, pa rum pum pum pum,
Me and my drum.
Thanks to lullubelle2 and Christmas Carols/UK.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas: Judy Garland in Meet Me in St. Louis (1944)
Uploaded by Alexander_Band. - Explore more music videos.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas
By Ralph Blane and Hugh Martin
Have yourself a merry little Christmas,
Let your heart be light,
From now on,
Our troubles will be out of sight.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas,
Make the Yule-tide gay,
From now on,
Our troubles will be miles away.
Here we are, as in olden days,
Happy golden days of yore,
Faithful friends who are dear to us,
Gather near to us, once more.
Through the years,
We all will be together,
If the fates allow,
Hang a shining star upon the highest bough,
And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.
[Bridge]
Here we are, as in olden days,
Happy golden days of yore,
Faithful friends who are dear to us,
Gather near to us, once more.
Through the years,
We all will be together,
If the fates allow,
Hang a shining star upon the highest bough,
And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.
Thanks to Christmas Carols/UK.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas: Frank Sinatra
Thanks to ClassicxFilesRocker.
Christmas Song: Judy Garland & Mel Torme
In case you’re wondering, and I’m sure you are, I don’t have a video of Nat Cole singing “Christmas Song,” because his heirs have made it impossible. “This video is no longer available due to a copyright claim by King Cole Partners, LP.
Sorry about that.”
Christmas Song
By Mel Torme and Robert Wells
Chestnuts roasting on an open fire,
Jack Frost nipping on your nose,
Yuletide carols being sung by a choir,
And folks dressed up like Eskimos.
Everybody knows, a turkey and some mistletoe,
Help to make the season bright,
Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow,
Will find it hard to sleep tonight.
They know that Santa’s on his way,
He’s loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh,
And every mother’s child is going to spy,
To see if reindeer really know how to fly.
And so I’m offering this simple phrase,
To kids from one to ninety-two,
Although it’s been said many times, many ways,
Merry Christmas … to you.
[Bridge]
They know that Santa’s on his way,
He’s loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh,
And every mother’s child is going to spy,
To see if reindeer really know how to fly.
And so I’m offering this simple phrase,
To kids from one to ninety-two,
Although it’s been said many times, many ways,
Merry Christmas … to you.
Here We Come A-Caroling/We Wish You a Merry Christmas: Perry Como & Co.
Here We Come A-Caroling
(The Wassail Song) – Traditional
The wassail bowl was a combination of hot ale or beer, spices, and mead, alcoholic enough to warm a cold caroler.
Here we come a-caroling among the leaves so green,
Here we come a-wand’ring so fair to be seen,
Love and joy come to you,
And to you glad Christmas too,
And God bless you and send you a Happy New Year,
And God send you a Happy New Year.
We are not daily beggars that beg from door to door,
But we are neighbors’ children whom you have seen before,
Love and joy come to you,
And to you glad Christmas too,
And God bless you and send you a Happy New Year,
And God send you a Happy New Year.
God bless the master of this house, likewise the mistress too,
And all the little children that round the table go,
Love and joy come to you,
And to you glad Christmas, too,
And God bless you and send you a Happy New Year,
And God send you a Happy New Year.
We Wish You a Merry Christmas
We wish you a Merry Christmas,
We wish you a Merry Christmas,
We wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year,
Good tidings we bring to you and your kin,
Good tidings for Christmas and a Happy New Year.
Oh, bring us a figgy pudding,
Oh, bring us a figgy pudding,
Oh, bring us a figgy pudding and a cup of good cheer.
We won’t go until we get some,
We won’t go until we get some,
We won’t go until we get some, so bring some out here.
We wish you a Merry Christmas,
We wish you a Merry Christmas,
We wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
Thanks to ElRadioLatina, Butler Webs Christmas Carols, and Christmas Carols/UK.
Hark! The Herald Angels Sing/It Came Upon A Midnight Clear: Bing Crosby
Hark! The Herald Angels Sing
Words by Charles Wesley,
Music by Felix Mendelssohn
Hark! The herald angels sing,
“Glory to the newborn King!
Peace on earth and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled,”
Joyful, all ye nations rise,
Join the triumph of the skies,
With the angelic host proclaim,
“Christ is born in Bethlehem!”
Christ by highest heaven adored,
Christ the everlasting Lord!
Late in time behold Him come,
Offspring of a Virgin’s womb,
Veiled in flesh, the Godhead see,
Hail the incarnate Deity,
Pleased as man with man to dwell,
Jesus, our Emmanuel!
Hark! The herald angels sing,
“Glory to the newborn King!
Peace on earth and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled,”
Joyful, all ye nations rise,
Join the triumph of the skies,
With the angelic host proclaim,
“Christ is born in Bethlehem!”
Hail the heaven-born Prince of Peace!
Hail the Son of Righteousness!
Light and life to all He brings,
Ris’n with healing in His wings,
Mild He lays His glory by,
Born that man no more may die,
Born to raise the sons of earth;
Born to give them second birth.
Hark! The herald angels sing,
“Glory to the newborn King!
Peace on earth and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled,”
Joyful, all ye nations rise,
Join the triumph of the skies,
With the angelic host proclaim,
“Christ is born in Bethlehem!”
It Came Upon A Midnight Clear
Edmund Hamilton Sears
It came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth,
To touch their harps of gold:
“Peace on the earth, goodwill to men
From heavens all gracious King!”
The world in solemn stillness lay,
To hear the angels sing.
Still through the cloven skies they come,
With peaceful wings unfurled,
And still their heavenly music floats,
O’er all the weary world:
Above its sad and lowly plains,
They bend on hovering wing,
And ever o’er its Babel sounds,
The blessed angels sing.
O ye beneath life’s crushing load,
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way,
With painful steps and slow,
Look now, for glad and golden hours,
Come swiftly on the wing,
Oh rest beside the weary road,
And hear the angels sing.
For lo! the days are hastening on,
By prophets seen of old,
When with the ever-circling years,
Shall come the time foretold,
When the new heaven and earth shall own,
The Prince of Peace, their King,
And the whole world send back the song,
Which now the angels sing.
Thanks to newfilmscjc40, Butler Webs Christmas Carols, and Christmas Carols/UK.
I Wonder as I Wander: The John Brown University Choir
(Yes, the video looks awful, and the mike needed to be closer, but bear with it. The soprano sings like an angel and, as Maureen Hegarty and Barbra Streisand’s versions make all too clear, this song requires a soprano.)
I Wonder While I Wander
I wonder as I wander out under the sky,
How Jesus the Savior did come for to die,
For poor on’ry people like you and like I,
I wonder as I wander out under the sky.
When Mary birthed Jesus ‘twas in a cow’s stall,
With wise men and farmers and shepherds and all,
But high from God’s heaven, a star’s light did fall,
And the promise of ages it then did recall.
If Jesus had wanted for any wee thing,
A star in the sky or a bird on the wing,
Or all of God’s Angels in heaven to sing,
He surely could have it, ‘cause he was the King.
I wonder as I wander out under the sky,
How Jesus the Savior did come for to die,
For poor on’ry people like you and like I,
I wonder as I wander out under the sky.
Thanks to jernigana and Oldie Lyrics.
Silent Night: Bing Crosby
Silent Night
Silent night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright,
Round yon’ Virgin Mother and Child,
Holy Infant, so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace.
Silent night, holy night!
Shepherds quake at the sight,
Glories stream from heaven afar,
Heavenly hosts sing, Alleluia!
Christ, the Savior is born,
Christ, the Savior is born.
Silent night, holy night,
Son of God, love’s pure light,
Radiant beams from Thy holy face,
With the dawn of redeeming grace,
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth,
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth.
Thanks to bigwallypants and Christmas Carols/UK.
Deck the Halls: Bing Crosby
Deck the Halls
By Sonal Panse
Deck the halls with boughs of holly,
Fa la la la la, la la la la,
‘Tis the season to be jolly,
Fa la la la la, la la la la,
Don we now our gay apparel,
Fa la la la la, la la la la,
Troll the ancient Yultide carol,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
See the blazing Yule before us,
Fa la la la la, la la la la,
Strike the harp and join the chorus,
Fa la la la la, la la la la,
Follow me in merry measure,
Fa la la, la la la, la la la,
While I tell of Yuletide’s treasure,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Fast away the old year passes,
Fa la la la la, la la la la,
Hail the new, ye lads and lasses,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Sing we joyous all together,
Fa la la, la la la, la la la,
Heedless of the wind and weather.
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Thanks to bigwallypants and Christmas Carols/UK.
Oh, Little Town of Bethlehem: The Mormon Tabernacle Choir
Oh, Little Town of Bethlehem
O little town of Bethlehem,
How still we see thee lie,
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep,
The silent stars go by,
Yet in thy dark streets shineth,
The everlasting light,
The hopes and fears of all the years,
Are met in thee tonight.
For Christ is born of Mary,
And gathered all above,
While mortals sleep, the angels keep,
Their watch of wondering love,
O morning stars together,
Proclaim the holy birth,
And praises sing to God the King,
And peace to men on earth.
How silently, how silently,
The wondrous gift is given!
So God imparts to human hearts,
The blessings of His heaven,
No ear may hear His coming,
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive him still,
The dear Christ enters in.
O holy Child of Bethlehem,
Descend to us, we pray,
Cast out our sin and enter in,
Be born to us today,
We hear the Christmas angels,
The great glad tidings tell,
O come to us, abide with us,
Our Lord Emmanuel.
Thanks to DandC25v12 and Christmas Carols/UK.
O Come, All Ye Faithful: The Mormon Tabernacle
O Come All Ye Faithful
O Come All Ye Faithful
Joyful and triumphant,
O come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem.
Come and behold Him,
Born the King of Angels;
O come, let us adore Him,
O come, let us adore Him,
O come, let us adore Him,
Christ the Lord.
O Sing, choirs of angels,
Sing in exultation,
Sing all that hear in heaven God’s holy word.
Give to our Father glory in the Highest;
O come, let us adore Him,
O come, let us adore Him,
O come, let us adore Him,
Christ the Lord.
All Hail! Lord, we greet Thee,
Born this happy morning,
O Jesus! for evermore be Thy name adored.
Word of the Father, now in flesh appearing;
O come, let us adore Him,
O come, let us adore Him,
O come, let us adore Him,
Christ the Lord.
Thanks to MormonChristmas and Christmas Carols/UK.
Ave Maria: Schubert
Ave Maria Prayer : The Latin text of the Ave Maria prayer
set to the music by Franz Schubert
Ave Maria Gratia plena
Maria Gratia plena
Maria Gratia plena
Ave, ave dominus
Dominus tecum
Benedicta tu in mulieribus
Et benedictus
Et benedictus fructus ventris
Ventris tui Jesus
Ave Maria
Ave Maria Mater dei
Ora pro nobis pecatoribus
Ora, ora pro nobis
Ora ora pro nobis pecatoribus
Nunc et in hora mortis
In hora mortis, mortis nostrae
In hora mortis nostrae
Ave Maria!
Ave Maria
German translation by Adam Storck from
“The Lady of the Lake” by Sir Walter Scott
Ave Maria! Ave Maria! maiden mild!
Listen to a maiden’s prayer!
Thou canst hear though from the wild,
Thou canst save amid despair.
Safe may we sleep beneath thy care,
Though banish’d, outcast and reviled -
Maiden! hear a maiden’s prayer;
Mother, hear a suppliant child!
Ave Maria!
Ave Maria! undefiled!
The flinty couch we now must share
Shall seem this down of eider piled,
If thy protection hover there.
The murky cavern’s heavy air
Shall breathe of balm if thou hast smiled;
Then, Maiden! hear a maiden’s prayer;
Mother, list a suppliant child!
Ave Maria!
Ave Maria! stainless styled!
Foul demons of the earth and air,
From this their wonted haunt exiled,
Shall flee before thy presence fair.
We bow us to our lot of care,
Beneath thy guidance reconciled;
Hear for a maid a maiden’s prayer,
And for a father hear a child!
Ave Maria!
Ave Maria
German translation by Adam Storck from “The Lady of the Lake” by Sir Walter Scott.
Thanks to Daishi001 and Christmas Carols/UK.
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen: Bing Crosby
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
God rest ye merry, gentlemen
Let nothing you dismay
Remember, Christ, our Saviour
Was born on Christmas day
To save us all from Satan’s power
When we were gone astray
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy
In Bethlehem, in Israel,
This blessed Babe was born
And laid within a manger
Upon this blessed morn
The which His Mother Mary
Did nothing take in scorn
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy
From God our Heavenly Father
A blessed Angel came;
And unto certain Shepherds
Brought tidings of the same:
How that in Bethlehem was born
The Son of God by Name.
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy
“Fear not then,” said the Angel,
“Let nothing you affright,
This day is born a Saviour
Of a pure Virgin bright,
To free all those who trust in Him
From Satan’s power and might.”
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy
The shepherds at those tidings
Rejoiced much in mind,
And left their flocks a-feeding
In tempest, storm and wind:
And went to Bethlehem straightway
The Son of God to find.
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy
And when they came to Bethlehem
Where our dear Saviour lay,
They found Him in a manger,
Where oxen feed on hay;
His Mother Mary kneeling down,
Unto the Lord did pray.
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy
Now to the Lord sing praises,
All you within this place,
And with true love and brotherhood
Each other now embrace;
This holy tide of Christmas
All other doth deface.
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy
Thanks to ChristmasJingleBells and Christmas Carols/UK
Good King Wenceslas: York Minster 1995 Choir and Soloists
Good King Wenceslas
Good King Wenceslas looked out
On the feast of Stephen
When the snow lay round about
Deep and crisp and even
Brightly shone the moon that night
Though the frost was cruel
When a poor man came in sight
Gath’ring winter fuel
“Hither, page, and stand by me
If thou know’st it, telling
Yonder peasant, who is he?
Where and what his dwelling?”
“Sire, he lives a good league hence
Underneath the mountain
Right against the forest fence
By Saint Agnes’ fountain.”
“Bring me flesh and bring me wine
Bring me pine logs hither
Thou and I will see him dine
When we bear him thither.”
Page and monarch forth they went
Forth they went together
Through the rude wind’s wild lament
And the bitter weather
“Sire, the night is darker now
And the wind blows stronger
Fails my heart, I know not how,
I can go no longer.”
“Mark my footsteps, my good page
Tread thou in them boldly
Thou shalt find the winter’s rage
Freeze thy blood less coldly.”
In his master’s steps he trod
Where the snow lay dinted
Heat was in the very sod
Which the Saint had printed
Therefore, Christian men, be sure
Wealth or rank possessing
Ye who now will bless the poor
Shall yourselves find blessing
Thanks to notyobs and Christmas Carols/UK.
Joy to the World: Bing Crosby
Joy to the World
Joy to the world, the Lord is come!
Let earth receive her King;
Let every heart prepare Him room,
And Heaven and nature sing,
And Heaven and nature sing,
And Heaven, and Heaven, and nature sing.
Joy to the world, the Savior reigns!
Let men their songs employ;
While fields and floods, rocks, hills and plains
Repeat the sounding joy,
Repeat the sounding joy,
Repeat, repeat, the sounding joy.
No more let sins and sorrows grow,
Nor thorns infest the ground;
He comes to make His blessings flow
Far as the curse is found,
Far as the curse is found,
Far as, far as, the curse is found.
He rules the world with truth and grace,
And makes the nations prove
The glories of His righteousness,
And wonders of His love,
And wonders of His love,
And wonders, wonders, of His love.
Thanks to KatJu1986 and Chrsitmas Carols/UK.
The Twelve Days of Christmas: Roger Whittaker
The Twelve Days of Christmas
On the first day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me,
A partridge in a pear tree.
On the second day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the third day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the fourth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the fifth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the sixth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the seventh day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the eighth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the ninth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me,
Nine ladies dancing,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the tenth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me,
Ten lords a-leaping,
Nine ladies dancing,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the eleventh day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me,
Eleven pipers piping,
Ten lords a-leaping,
Nine ladies dancing,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the twelfth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me,
Twelve drummers drumming,
Eleven pipers piping,
Ten lords a-leaping,
Nine ladies dancing,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree!
Thanks to healthyhabits007 and Christmas Carols/UK.
The First Noel
The First Noel
The First Noel, the Angels did say,
Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay,
In fields where they lay keeping their sheep,
On a cold winter’s night that was so deep,
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel,
Born is the King of Israel!
They looked up and saw a star,
Shining in the East beyond them far,
And to the earth it gave great light,
And so it continued both day and night,
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel,
Born is the King of Israel!
And by the light of that same star,
Three Wise men came from country far,
To seek for a King was their intent,
And to follow the star wherever it went,
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel,
Born is the King of Israel!
This star drew nigh to the northwest,
O’er Bethlehem it took its rest,
And there it did both pause and stay,
Right o’er the place where Jesus lay,
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel,
Born is the King of Israel!
Then entered in those wise men three,
Full reverently upon their knee,
And offered there in His presence,
Their gold and myrrh and frankincense,
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel,
Born is the King of Israel!
Then let us all with one accord,
Sing praises to our heavenly Lord,
That hath made Heaven and earth of nought,
And with his blood mankind has bought,
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel,
Born is the King of Israel!
Thanks to anime1217 and Christmas Carols/UK.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
What’s Your Mama’s Name, Child?
By Dallas Frazier & Earl Montgomery
(This is Tanya Tucker, apparently lip-synching to this recording, since she sounds identical to it, and I don’t see any musicians or backup singers accompanying her.)
What’s your mama’s name, child?
What’s your mama’s name?
Thirty some-odd years ago, a young man came to Memphis,
Asking ‘bout a rose that used to blossom in his world,
People never took the time to mind the young man’s questions,
Till one day they heard him ask a little green-eyed girl,
“What’s your mama’s name, child, what’s your mama’s name?
Does she ever talk about a place called New Orleans?
Has she ever mentioned a man named Buford Wilson?
What’s your mama’s name, child, what’s your mama’s name?”
Twenty some-odd years ago a drunkard down in Memphis,
Lost a month of life and labor to the county jail,
Just because he asked a little green-eyed girl a question,
And offered her a nickel’s worth of candy if she’d tell.
A year and some-odd days ago an old man died in Memphis,
Just another wayward soul the county had to claim,
Inside the old man’s ragged coat they found a faded letter,
That said, “You have a daughter, and her eyes are Wilson green.”
“What’s your mama’s name, child, what’s your mama’s name?
Does she ever talk about a place called New Orleans?
Has she ever mentioned a man named Buford Wilson?
What’s your mama’s name, child, what’s your mama’s name?”
What’s your mama’s name, child, what’s your mama’s name?
By Dallas Frazier & Earl Montgomery
(This is Tanya Tucker, apparently lip-synching to this recording, since she sounds identical to it, and I don’t see any musicians or backup singers accompanying her.)
What’s your mama’s name, child?
What’s your mama’s name?
Thirty some-odd years ago, a young man came to Memphis,
Asking ‘bout a rose that used to blossom in his world,
People never took the time to mind the young man’s questions,
Till one day they heard him ask a little green-eyed girl,
“What’s your mama’s name, child, what’s your mama’s name?
Does she ever talk about a place called New Orleans?
Has she ever mentioned a man named Buford Wilson?
What’s your mama’s name, child, what’s your mama’s name?”
Twenty some-odd years ago a drunkard down in Memphis,
Lost a month of life and labor to the county jail,
Just because he asked a little green-eyed girl a question,
And offered her a nickel’s worth of candy if she’d tell.
A year and some-odd days ago an old man died in Memphis,
Just another wayward soul the county had to claim,
Inside the old man’s ragged coat they found a faded letter,
That said, “You have a daughter, and her eyes are Wilson green.”
“What’s your mama’s name, child, what’s your mama’s name?
Does she ever talk about a place called New Orleans?
Has she ever mentioned a man named Buford Wilson?
What’s your mama’s name, child, what’s your mama’s name?”
What’s your mama’s name, child, what’s your mama’s name?
