The nightingales return to the U.K. every April after over-wintering in Western Africa. Their numbers have declined enormously in recent years and the I’ve written this song to celebrate the their homecoming. 

From the soil, a song shall arise, 
Up from the root and the stone;
Lifted high on the air and the wind,
Calling the nightingale home.
Calling the nightingale home

Deep voices have called you from far distant shores,
Through tempests and torments you’ve flown.
Our hearts call to your heart; a blessing we give
As we welcome the nightingale home.
As we welcome the nightingale home.

We long for your healing and heart-lifting song,
To restore us in blood and in bone.
Piercing our night with your lyrics of love.
We welcome the nightingale home.
We welcome the nightingale home.

Nightingale (Demo)

A few years ago, I joined Twitter and started searching for positive, uplifting people to follow. Thankfully I found @SeaSkyCraster, an account in which Mick Oxley, an artist living in Craster, Northumberland, posts the sun rising each morning. His photos are beautiful, and his view from his sea window, the changing light and colours, inspire his art. 
Mick has kindly allowed me to use one of his pictures with this upload of my song, and you can find more on Twitter, @mickoxley , or his website,
www.mickoxley.com .

Through his sea window, as the tides rise and fall,
The artist prepares as the first seagulls call.
On his palette he mixes the colours of dawn
And summons the soul of his north-eastern home.

Through the haar, Dunstanburgh Castle 
Beckons ghosts to the fore,
As the northern sea foams on the timeless seashore.
The fiery sun rises, casting shadows and gold,
Giving strength to the new  from the power of the old.

As the mystery of the water meets the spirits of the air,
They are captured by the artist, who blends them with care.

 And as the year turns, time and tides ebb and flow
We gaze with the artist,  through his sea window,
Through the gift of his hands and the skill of his eye,
He brings us the blessings of sea and of sky.

As the mystery of the water meets the spirits of the air,
They are captured by the artist, who blends them with care.

Through his sea window, as the tides rise and fall,
The artist prepares as the first seagulls call.
On his palette he mixes the colours of dawn
And summons the soul of his north-eastern home.

Sea Window Craster

The Spider

It was one summer's morning,
As I lay on my bed,
I spied an ancient spider,
A-spinning of her thread.
She wove it in a sunny beam,
As clear as glass might be;
The oldest nun that ever spun
Ne'er spun so fine as she.

The first that came into the net.
A silly fly, was slain;
The next that came, a hornet bold,
Soon broke the net in twain.
And so I ofttimes wonder why
Are poor men brought to shame,
While rich men live in vanity,
And all men praise their name.

O if I had but Agur's wish,
And it might come to me,
That I were neither poor nor rich,
How happy I should be!
For riches are but vanity,
I heard the wise man cry,
And when you think to hold them fast,
Away from you they fly.

If rich men would advis-ed be,
And stewards would be just,
And to their tenants frank and free,
When they are put in trust;
The hump from off the camel's back
Would easily be shaven;
The camel pass the needle's eye,
The rich man enter heaven.


Source: Broadwood, Lucy, 1893, English Country Songs, Leadenhall Press, London
Lucy Broadwood wrote:

From Miss Mason's Nursery Rhymes and Country Songs. The words, taken down from a peasant, were disentangled and partly re-written by the Rev. Canon Edward Mason.)

This is given as one of the songs from Derbyshire.

The Spider

I originally wrote Frost On the Fields to sing on my morning walk as the sun one on the Winter Solstice, but adapt the words so it can be applicable on any frosty day as a reminder to myself of the hope that’s a.ways there if we can be patient and wait.
I later put a guitar accompaniment to it but enjoy singing it unaccompanied in the woods too.
Though the frost is on the fields
And a chill in the air, 
There’s a stirring in the hearts of
The deer and the hare

Oh the Solstice Sun shall rise 
And our hearts will be surprised
By the warmth in our blood
And the hope in our eyes.

Though the grey clouds may hang heavy
And cold winds blow from the east,
There’s a stirring in the heart of
Each bird and each beast

And the Solstice Sun shall rise
And our hearts will be surprised
But the warmth in our blood
And the hope in our eyes.

Though the earth may seem to slumber
Beneath a white wintry cloak, 
There’s a stirring in the roots
Of the pine & the oak. 

And a new day shall arise
And our hearts will be surprised
But the warmth in our blood
And the hope in our eyes.

Frost On The Fields

Although the idea for this song has been trundling around in my head for several years, it was 2020 that brought it to life. The robin is such a feisty, determined bird, and it struck me that, like so many facing difficulties and uncertainty, it battles through, “bloodied but unbowed”, as it says in the final verse, from the poem “Invictus”. It’s as if it wears the blood on its breast as a badge of its defiance. 
I feel stronger when I sing this song, and it stirs hope in my heart.

Blood of Another Year / Robin

Germinating songwriter, simple country wench, mistress of the soil.

With my roots in the folk revival of the 60s and 70s, I’m a folk singer at heart, in love with everything from unaccompanied traditional folk through to folk rock, contemporary folk, American folk and beyond. 
Over the years, I’ve been inspired by singers such as Anne Briggs, Joan Baez, Sandy Denny, Maddy Prior & Joni Mitchell. More recently I’ve been enjoying the music of Rhiannon Giddens & Karine Polwart.
Having abandoned my music for decades, I’ve been encouraged by dear friends to pick up my guitar and start to sing again. I’ve only recently begun to write my own music and  it feels as if I’ve opened a door and found an undiscovered landscape which I now plan to explore. 
I never knew there were songs within me, but gradually they’re emerging, and so am I.

Suzanne Harper

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