David Garrett - ICONIC , Berlin

Danny boy Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling From glen to glen, and down the mountain side The summer’s gone, and all the roses falling ’Tis you, ’tis you must go and I must bide. But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow ’Tis I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so. But when ye come, and all the flowers are dying If I am dead, as dead I well may be You’ll come and find the place where I am lying And kneel and say an “Ave“ there for me. And I shall hear, tho’ soft you tread above me And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be For ye shall bend and tell me that you love me And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me. Londonderry Air ’Oh! shrive me, father - haste, haste, and shrive me, ’Ere sets yon dread and flaring sun; ’Its beams of peace, - nay, of sense, deprive me, ’Since yet the holy work’s undone.’ The sage, the wand’rer’s anguish balming, Soothed her heart to rest once more; And pardon’s promise torture calming, The Pilgrim told her sorrows o’er. The charms that caus’d in life’s young morning, The woes the sad one had deplor’d, Were now, alas! no more adorning, The lips that pardon sweet implor’d:- But oh! those eyes, so mildly beaming, Once seen, not Saints could e’er forget! - And soon the Father’s tears were streaming, When Devorgilla’s gaze he met! Gone, gone, was all the pride of beauty, That scorn’d and broke the bridal vow, And gave to passion all the duty So bold a heart would e’er allow; Yet all so humbly, all so mildly, The weeping fair her fault confess’d, Tho’ youth had viewed her wand’ring wildly, That age could ne’er deny her rest. The tale of woe full sadly ended, The word of peace the Father said, While balmy tear-drops fast descended, And droop’d the suppliant sinner’s head. The rose in gloom long drear and mourning, Not welcomes more the sun’s mild ray, Than Breffni’s Princess hail’d returning The gleam of rest that shriving-day. Would I Were Erin’s Apple Blossom o’er You Would I were Erin’s apple-blossom o’er you, Or Erin’s rose, in all its beauty blown, To drop my richest petals down before you, Within the garden where you walk alone; In hope you’d turn and pluck a little posy, With loving fingers through my foliage pressed, And kiss it close and set it blushing rosy To sigh out all its sweetness on your breast. Would I might take a pigeon’s flight towards you, And perch beside your window-pane above, And murmur how my heart of hearts it hoards you, O hundred thousand treasures of my love; In hope you’d stretch your slender hand and take me, And smooth my wildly-fluttering wings to rest, And lift me to your loving lips and make me My bower of blisses in your loving breast. And when the dew no longer pearls your roses, Nor gems your footprint on the glittering lawn, I’d follow you into the forest closes In the fond image of your sportive fawn; Till you should woo me ’neath the wavering cover With coaxing call and friendly hands and eyes, Where never yet a happy human lover His head has pillowed—mine to emparadise. Irish Love Song Would God I were the tender apple blossom That floats and falls from off the twisted bough To lie and faint within your silken bosom Within your silken bosom as that does now. Or would I were a little burnish’d apple For you to pluck me, gliding by so cold While sun and shade you robe of lawn will dapple Your robe of lawn, and you hair’s spun gold. Yea, would to God I were among the roses That lean to kiss you as you float between While on the lowest branch a bud uncloses A bud uncloses, to touch you, queen. Nay, since you will not love, would I were growing A happy daisy, in the garden path That so your silver foot might press me going Might press me going even unto death. I cannot tell I cannot tell why He Whom angels worship, Should set His love upon the sons of men, Or why, as Shepherd, He should seek the wanderers, To bring them back, they know not how or when. But this I know, that He was born of Mary When Bethlehem’s manger was His only home, And that He lived at Nazareth and laboured, And so the Saviour, Saviour of the world is come. I cannot tell how silently He suffered, As with His peace He graced this place of tears, Or how His heart upon the cross was broken, The crown of pain to three and thirty years. But this I know, He heals the brokenhearted, And stays our sin, and calms our lurking fear, And lifts the burden from the heavy laden, For yet the Saviour, Saviour of the world is here. I cannot tell how He will win the nations, How He will claim His earthly heritage, How satisfy the needs and aspirations Of East and West, of sinner and of sage. But this I know, all flesh shall see His glory, And He shall reap the harvest He has sown, And some glad day His sun shall shine in splendour When He the Saviour, Saviour of the world is known.