Behind the Lines with Anna Prohaska

Sopranist Anna Prohaska and pianist Eric Schneider took the stage at the Vienna Konzerthaus on 17th June 2014. The programme which I thoroughly enjoyed not least because of its variety, included the four songs featured below. Following the performance and the enthusiastic applause Anna Prohaska  autographed copies of her new cd "Behind the Lines" in the Mozartsaal foyer. 

Wand'ring in this place as in a wilderness,
No comfort have I nor yet assurance,
Desolate of joy, repleat with sadnesse:
Wherefore I may say, O deus, deus,
Non est dolor, sicut dolor meus.

Anonymous 


Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o' the great;
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke:
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan;
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renowne´d be thy grave!

William Shakespeare
(1564-1616)


In Flanders fields the poppies blow;
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks still bravely singing fly,
Scarce heard amidst the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from falling hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

John McCrae
(1872-1918) 


My Luve's in Germanie, send him hame;
Fechting brave for royalty:
He may ne'er his Jeanie see - send him hame.

He's as brave as brave can be - send him hame;
He wad rather fa' than flee;
His life is dear to me - send him hame.

Your luve  ne'er learnt to flee, bonnie dame;
But he fell in Germanie,
In the cause of royalty, Bonnie dame.

He'll ne'er come ower the sea - Willie's slain;
To his love and ain countrie:
This warld's nae mair for me - Willie's gane!

Hector McNeill 
(1746-1818)