The Lass from the Low Countree

Note: This is my own personal story. There is NO factual basis for this to be the backstory of this piece. If you wish to use this story, contact me for permission. That being said, you might want to read up on your smallpox and cowpox facts before beginning. Also, a note: it's not quite all that beautifully polished, but you'll get the idea easily enough.


“Annabel, get your head out of the clouds.” Oh, how often had she heard those words lately? She wasn’t focused, she wasn’t practical. How did it matter to them where her mind went while she peeled potatoes? Alright, maybe she missed a few spots here and there, but a little potato skin wouldn’t harm a person. That sickness she had heard Him speak about… now that would do some harm.

“Father’s never going to send you back to the market, you know. Not after the way you’ve been dreaming your days away since he let you go last week. Jane’s been having to do nearly all of your chores over again.” Her sister, Clare, the eldest of the three, was prone to exaggeration, and was always trying to look after young Jane. Clare had more practical matters to think of, as she was to be married in a year. Her future was set, no more time for daydreams. How could she understand Annabel’s love of the village, where so much happened… where He was? “What happened last week that you are so far away?” But no, Annabel smiled simply and shrugged, moving on to the next task, ignoring Clare’s question, resolving to focus more on her chores.

For she had similarly resolved not to tell her family what events had transpired at the market last week. She was sure that they would worry and fret. Hadn’t He warned the crowd of the sickness spreading across the land? Her parents would simply hold her and her sisters close to home, and then she might never see Him. They wouldn’t believe the most important part. That as their handsome Lord spoke to the crowd, warning them to stay away from the nearby villages that the sickness had already been to, he had looked straight at her and promised to do his noble best to keep their tiny village safe and healthy. He promised to keep her safe. Well, perhaps he didn’t say that, exactly. But oh, he meant it. She could tell. How often did Father say one thing and mean another? It was just the same.

A dusty cloud on the horizon, moving quickly. She continued her sweeping of the porch, using her curiosity to slow down, reasoning that she was simply taking the time to make sure she did her job well. A few moments later, she identified the little bay pony as her uncle’s and the rider as Robin, her cousin. Adorable little Robin had grown up to be quite the adventurous young man, although usually her uncle did not let him go so far from home on his own. It was a shame that they lived too far away to visit more often. Still, they were close to enough to see once in a while… her heart froze. Robin was dismounting and she could see the shadows in his eyes. No, there were shadows in his face, too. She was frozen. She couldn’t move. It didn’t matter. His too-thin body, worn from more than just the long ride, had swept past her, calling out for her mother. She could hear them moving around, her mother gathering up herbs and having Robin repeat back her instructions, word for word.

Before she knew it, Robin and his little bay were racing away again, and her mother was standing on the porch steps, watching him disappear over the horizon. When not even a speck of dust trail was visible, she turned back toward the house, giving Annabel a weak smile and saying, “finish soon, dear one, then come help me with dinner,” before disappearing herself into the house once more. Father would be back from the market with Jane soon, and at dinner they would all surely find out what Robin’s hasty visit was about.

Annabel sat numb as her mother recounted Robin’s visit. Her father then spoke of the market, how everyone was afraid of any strangers. And how, living so far from the village himself, many had regarded him with veiled fear in their eyes. At least Jane had been spared that, for she had been at her singing lesson and then with her friends at the dressmaker’s shop. A simple comment that they had had no visitors at home lately had spared her the fear that Father had been victim of.
“You didn’t mention His Lordship speaking last week, Annabel,” Father was asking her. She should have realized that he would have heard about it this week. She should have mentioned it, for then maybe Robin wouldn’t have come in the house. But no, had was just tired from the ride, he couldn’t have brought the sickness to her home. Everything would be fine. She swallowed her own fear and replied that she had noticed a crowd, but had been trying to finish her shopping and not return home late, so she had not paid much mind. Jane looked at her oddly, for she had always been able to tell when Annabel was being untruthful, had always been able to tell what she was really thinking. A quick glare and Jane turned back toward her food, as Father began speaking of other events of the day, people he had run into and the price of flour, allowing Annabel’s mind to wander.

He would come to save her soon. He said he would. He would come—“…will be making his spring tour of the country this week,” Father was saying, looking at each of his children in turn, as Annabel’s attention snapped back toward reality, “so be sure you mind your manners should His Lordship stop by here.” He was coming. A tour of the countryside was a perfect excuse to come take her away. Oh, to even see him again would bring her such great joy. The rest of the night’s chores were only half-done at best, as Annabel’s mind thought ahead to the coming week, when he might arrive, and all manner of other dreams.

The next day Mother collapsed in the yard. Thankfully Father was at home, working in the barn, and he picked her up and carried her into the house. He sent Jane out to the barn, as if the cows would keep her safe. Although, perhaps it was true. Jane did love the animals so much. Then again, Jane had been sick with the cowpox only a few months ago, and was perhaps not quite recovered yet. Father instructed Annabel and Clare to continue about their chores as usual, and he cooked dinner, and cared for Mother so carefully. Jane slept that night in the barn.

The next day Clare stayed in the house. She tried to get her work done, but Annabel found herself working harder than ever to make sure everything got done. Father had not gotten up yet, and was sicker than Mother had been. When Jane tried to come in and help with the chores, Annabel gave her some quick food and sent her back out to care for the animals. If she was harsh with Jane, it was for her own good. No sense in them all taking ill, now.

The sun rose merrily on the fourth day after Mother’s collapse. As the fields filled with the golden rays, and Mother was able to get up and help a bit with the chores, Annabel began to feel a bit of hope. Until she noticed the rash on herself. She kept quiet about it. It was probably just because of the new fabric her dress was made of. Mother would never notice, since her eyesight seemed to be failing a bit since she had taken ill. And she was only so tired because she had been working so hard for the past few days. A little extra sleep and she would be fine. But why was it so cold?

Annabel took a few extra moments while sweeping again, this time to try to absorb some of the sun’s warmth into her body. She had been chilled all night, and the day’s light wasn’t helping her to feel any warmer. The realization that Father was not going to get better only added to the cold seeping into every part of her body.

Another dust cloud bloomed on the horizon. Robin again, she mused, and returned to sweeping. When she next looked up, however, she realized that the horse and rider couldn’t possibly be Robin. It was, instead, a full-grown man, on a magnificent white stallion. Only a person of high birth could have such a glorious horse. Oh, joy of joys! Him! Could it really be him? And, of course, it was.

Horse and rider slowed and stopped just inside of speaking range of the horse. He stared at her in calloused indifference as she curtsied, smiled, and spoke to him. “Oh, good sir, how good of you to stop by our quiet home. My Father is not able to come speak with you right now—" but he was turning away, quickly. Annabel called after him, “No, wait! I can come with you, I’m not sick, only Father—" but it was too late, he was gone. How could he leave her so harshly, so quickly?

As she turned back toward the house, her legs gave out from under her. Jane was there, quickly, quietly, giving her a warm drink, and singing a quiet lullaby. She struggled against her younger sister’s arms, but Jane had always been able to tell what was she was really thinking, and no amount of protest would convince her that Annabel was just tired. As Jane helped her into the house, still singing, Annabel wondered if the flowers were sleepy today, too, or if the wind was singing with Jane, or Jane with the wind.


Father and Annabel were buried next to each other in the meadow behind the house. Annabel used to love to sit out where the flowers grew free and talk to them. Maybe they could hear her, for they always seemed to be answering, nodding in agreement, or shaking with laughter. Clare recovered except for some scarring, and when her fiancée was taken by the sickness just before the wedding, she moved in with his family, to care for his aging parents. Mother’s eyesight never did return fully, and I stayed with her, caring for her, and singing to her as often as she asked. His Lordship never did get the sickness, and he ruled fairly, but without sympathies, to the full extent of his days. Annabel never told me specifically how she felt about him, but then again, I always was able to tell what she was really thinking no matter what face she put on to the world.



Oh, he was a lord of high degree,
And she was a lass from the Low Countree,
But she loved his lordship so tenderly!
Oh, sorrow, sing sorrow!
Now she sleeps in the valley where the wild flowers nod,
And no one knows she loved him but herself and God.

One morn, when the sun was on the mead,
He passed by her door on a milk-white steed;
She smiled and she spoke, but he paid no heed.
Oh, sorrow, sing sorrow!
Now she sleeps in the valley where the wild flowers nod,
And no one knows she loved him but herself and God.

If you be a lass from the Low Countree,
Don't love of no lord of high degree;
They hain't got a heart for sympathy.
Oh sorrow, sing sorrow!
Now she sleeps in the valley where the wild flowers nod,
And no one knows she loved him but herself and God.
(Song by John Jacob Niles)

endings

Endings are hard to write. Especially when your narrator dies. It makes writing the ending a bit difficult. But I think I have figured it out.

See, I have this piece that I'm working on in my voice lessons that's a folk song. However, I haven't been able to find out if there is any specific backstory on it, so I wrote my own.

Unfortunately, the line "now she sleeps in the valley where the wildflowers nod," means that I can't just have it end all happy-peppy. Hmmm..........

I'll probably post the story up here when it's all finished and polished. For now, go Google the lyrics to "The Lass from the Low Countree" by John Jacob Niles.

How I feel on... ...the war in Iraq (part I)

Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the flowers gone,
Long time ago?
Where have all the flowers gone,
Young girls picked them, every one.
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the young girls gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the young girls gone,
Long time ago?
Where have all the young girls gone,
Gone to young men, every one.
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the young men gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the young men gone,
Long time ago?
Where have all the young men gone,
Gone to soldiers, every one.
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the soldiers gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the soldiers gone,
Long time ago?
Where have all the soldiers gone,
Gone to graveyards, every one.
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the graveyards gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the graveyards gone,
Long time ago?
Where have all the graveyards gone,
Gone to flowers, every one.
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?




Oh my name it is nothin'
My age it means less
The country I come from
Is called the Midwest
I's taught and brought up there
The laws to abide
And that land that I live in
Has God on its side.

Oh the history books tell it
They tell it so well
The cavalries charged
The Indians fell
The cavalries charged
The Indians died
Oh the country was young
With God on its side.

Oh the Spanish-American
War had its day
And the Civil War too
Was soon laid away
And the names of the heroes
I's made to memorize
With guns in their hands
And God on their side.

Oh the First World War, boys
It closed out its fate
The reason for fighting
I never got straight
But I learned to accept it
Accept it with pride
For you don't count the dead
When God's on your side.

When the Second World War
Came to an end
We forgave the Germans
And we were friends
Though they murdered six million
In the ovens they fried
The Germans now too
Have God on their side.

I've learned to hate Russians
All through my whole life
If another war starts
It's them we must fight
To hate them and fear them
To run and to hide
And accept it all bravely
With God on my side.

But now we got weapons
Of the chemical dust
If fire them we're forced to
Then fire them we must
One push of the button
And a shot the world wide
And you never ask questions
When God's on your side.

In a many dark hour
I've been thinkin' about this
That Jesus Christ
Was betrayed by a kiss
But I can't think for you
You'll have to decide
Whether Judas Iscariot
Had God on his side.

So now as I'm leavin'
I'm weary as Hell
The confusion I'm feelin'
Ain't no tongue can tell
The words fill my head
And fall to the floor
If God's on our side
He'll stop the next war.




How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
Yes, 'n' how many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes, 'n' how many times must the cannon balls fly
Before they're forever banned?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

How many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky?
Yes, 'n' how many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry?
Yes, 'n' how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

How many years can a mountain exist
Before it's washed to the sea?
Yes, 'n' how many years can some people exist
Before they're allowed to be free?
Yes, 'n' how many times can a man turn his head,
Pretending he just doesn't see?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind




When you find that 1960s protest music has started being applicable again... what does that say?