Young Bonnie Barb of Corman Downs
Sits wilting by the way.
Her husband sailed away from town
To save the land, to serve the crown.
He told the lass to stay, oh stay.
He told the lass to stay.
The moon is gone, the sun is here.
Barb paces by the shore.
She waits for red sails to appear,
But swells within her deep the fear
She'll see him, oh, no more, no more.
She'll see him, oh, no more.
The flautists pipe, the men cavort.
"Come, Barbara!" they shout.
"There is no red sail at the port,
And we are come to thee to court.
Come Barbara, come out! Come out!
Come Barbara, come out!"
Up, Barbara! And through the door!
She shuts and locks it tight.
Though fear would for despair implore
Her longing heart she can't ingore.
She soldiers out at night, at night.
She soldiers out at night.
And so it was in Corman Downs,
Before the winter's chill,
Young Bonnie Barb forsook the town
To seek her man, who served the crown.
She wanders for him still, oh still.
She wanders for him still.
As I've been listening to more and more classical music, I've heard a lot of folksongs - the sort of music I haven't really listened to since I was in high school, where I was required to perform traditional songs in class. I find they have a certain charm - one which eluded me when I was still pubescent - so I thought I'd try my hand at writing one. It's not bad. A third draft of this piece would probably fix most of what's here, but I've spent more time on it than I intended.
Admittedly, that time was more spent on making sure "Corman Downs" isn't a real place than actually composing the words, but whatever.
The picture was a slap-dash job - took me maybe fifteen minutes. I'll admit it's one of the weaker pictures I've drawn for the Project, but just look at that water! Not professional in its composition, perhaps, but I think it's the best water I've ever drawn.
Well, I'M proud of it, at any rate.
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