Behold a wonder here: it’s DOWLAND ever through the ages…
Take up thy LUTE old friend.
Strike us a GALLIARD fit for the Queen herself.
The years have passed, great musician of our soul,
and the chill of autumn hangs in the summer air.
Mistress winter threatens to leap upon us; shall I strive to stay time?
Let fly thine arrows on the golden strings,
O thou original rock star of the Elizabethan dream.
They would not have ye as their lutanist but we would have ye John –
410 years later; we invite you into the inner court of our sorrowful souls.
All hail John Dowland, faithful musician upon the lyre of our lying hearts…
Sing like a dying swan, Master Dowland –
the casks are still half full and the moon hath never shone so lovely.
What know they of truth or beauty, John? What ears have they
to sweetly divine the harmonies you entwine around the bowers of our declining hours…
Down, down, down in a dying fall of ascending harmony –
down toward the celestial heights of sorrow…
The spheres may move, the English gardens groove, but JOHN thy music lingers ever
in the meadows of our memory and in the smiling froth of our ale-pints.
Awake, sweet love, and excuse my wrongs – do not die before thy day.
The ages have grown grey, Master Dowland –
the music has grown thick with Babylonian dullness –
but thy jewels of perfect sorrow only shine more truly in the light of this leaden age.
Thine airs refresh, oh shepherd of aeolian pastures,
across the flocks and meadows of the centuries,
dispelling the stench of this present world – and we thank you for your music.