The Birds’ Lullaby

Recording by Elektra Women’s Choir, directed by Morna Edmundson, marimba performed by Beverley Johnston

Fourth song in the suite Heart Songs of the White Wampum, a setting for four poems from the anthology Flint and Feather written by the Canadian poet E. Pauline Johnson. She was raised in Southern Ontario, the daughter of an English immigrant and a Mohawk Chief. Her Mohawk name was Tekahionwake. Two of the poems are taken from a previously published collection entitled The White Wampum. This title refers to a type of shell widely used as currency in North America around the time of western contact. The white wampum was a highly valuable denomination within this monetary system. These poems express Johnson’s love of nature, both in their joy and playfulness and in the sincere way they express feelings of compassion and tenderness. Pauline Johnson died in 1913 and is buried in Stanley Park, Vancouver.

Commissioned by Elektra Women’s Choir, Morna Edmundson, Artistic Director, Bella Voce Women’s Chorus of Vermont, Dr. Dawn Willis, Artistic Director, and the University of Toronto Women’s Chamber Choir,
Dr. Hilary Apfelstadt, Conductor.

Commissioned with the generous financial assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Diane Loomer Commissioning Fund for Elektra Women’s Choir.

IV. The Birds’ Lullaby

Sing to us, cedars; the twilight is creeping With shadowy garments, the wilderness through;
All day we have carolled, and now would be sleeping, So echo the anthems we warbled to you;
While we swing, swing,
And your branches sing, And we drowse to your dreamy whispering.

Sing to us, cedars; the night-wind is sighing, Is wooing, is pleading, to hear you reply;
And here in your arms we are restfully lying, And longing to dream to your soft lullaby;
While we swing, swing,
And your branches sing, And we drowse to your dreamy whispering.

Sing to us, cedars; your voice is so lowly, Your breathing so fragrant, your branches so strong;
Our little nest-cradles are swaying so slowly, While zephyrs are breathing their slumberous song.
And we swing, swing,
While your branches sing, And we drowse to your dreamy whispering.