Michael Megenney
Monica Adams, piano
Wednesday, April 16, 2025
7:30 pm
Recital Hall
Willow Song (before 1650)
16, 2025, 7:30 PM
Weep You No More, Sad Fountains (1603)
When Laura Smiles (1601)
Flow My Tears (1600)
Dichterliebe, op. 48 (1840)
Im wunderschönen Monat Mai
Aus meinen Tränen sprießen
Die Rose, die Lilie, die Taube, die Sonne Wenn ich in deine Augen seh
Ich will meine Seele tauchen
Im Rhein, im heiligen Strome
Ich grolle nicht
A Simple Song, from Mass (1971)
Tel jour telle nuit (1937)
Bonne journée
Une ruine coquille vide
Le front comme un drapeau perdu
Une roulotte couverte en tuiles
The Only Home I Know, from Shenandoah (1988)
Corner of the Sky, from Pippin (1986)
Out There, from The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)
Anonymous
John Dowland (1563¬1626)
Philip Rosseter (1568–1623)
Dowland
Robert Schumann (1810–1856)
Leonard Bernstein (1918–1990)
Francis Poulenc (1899–1963)
Gary Geld (b. 1935)
Stephen Schwartz (b. 1948)
Alan Menken (b. 1949)
Being Alive, from Company (1983)
Stephen Sondheim (1930–2021)
STUDENT
This recital is presented as a degree requirement for a Bachelor of Music in music performance.
Michael Megenney is in his fourth year pursuing a bachelor’s degree in music performance with a concentration in voice at University of the Pacific. Studying with Daniel Ebbers, Michael has a broad range of performances from Italian baroque opera, to his most recent performance as Enoch Snow in Pacific Opera Theater’s production of Carousel.
After graduation, Megenney intends to continue his work in collaborative music and acting with plans to move to Los Angeles.
TEXTS AND TRANSLATIONS
Anonymous: Willow Song
The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree. Sing willow, willow, willow. With his hand on his bosom and his head upon her knee. Sing willow, willow, willow, willow O, willow, willow, willow, willow, shall be my garland. Sing all a green willow, willow, willow, willow Ay me, the green willow must be my garland.
He sighed in his singing and made a great moan. Sing all, a green willow. I am dead to all pleasure; my true love is gone. Sing willow, willow, willow, willow O, willow, willow, willow, willow, shall be my garland. Sing all a green willow, willow, willow, willow Ay me, the green willow must be my garland.
The mute bird sat by him was made tame by his moans. Sing all, a green willow. The true tears fell from him would have melted the stones. Sing willow, willow, willow, willow O, willow, willow, willow, willow, shall be my garland. Sing all a green willow, willow, willow, ¬¬willow Ay me, the green willow must be my garland.
TEXTS AND TRANSLATIONS
Take this for my farewell and latest adieu.
Sing all, a green willow. Write this on my tomb: that in love I was true. Sing willow, willow, willow, willow O, willow, willow, willow, willow, shall be my garland. Sing all a green willow, willow, willow, willow Ay me, the green willow must be my garland. —Anonymous
Dowland: Weep You No More, Sad Fountains
Weep you no more, sad fountains; What need you flow so fast?
Look how the snowy mountains Heaven’s sun doth gently waste. But my sun’s heavenly eyes
View not your weeping, That now lies sleeping, That now lies sleeping, Softly, softly, now softly lies sleeping. Sleep is a reconciling, A rest that peace begets.
Doth not the sunrise smiling When fair at e’en he sets?
Rest you then, Rest sad eyes, Melt not in weeping While she lies sleeping, While she lies sleeping, Softly, softly, now softly lies sleeping. —Unknown
Rosseter: When Laura Smiles
When Laura smiles her sight revives both night and day; The earth and heaven views with delight her wanton play; And her speech with ever flowing music doth repair The cruel wounds of sorrow and untamed despair.
The wanton spirits that remain in fleeting air
Affect for pastime to untwine her tressed hair; And the birds think sweet Aurora, Morning’s queen, doth shine from her bright sphere when Laura shows her looks divine.
Diana’s eyes are not adorn’d with greater power Than Laura’s when she lifts a while for sport to lure. But when she her eyes encloseth, blindness doth appear The chiefest grace of beauty sweetly seated there.
Love hath no fire but what he steals from her bright eyes. Time hath no power but that which in her pleasure lies. For she with her divine beauty all the world subdues And fills with heavenly spirits my humble muse.
—Thomas Campian
Dowland: Flow My Tears
Flow my tears fall from your springs, Exiled forever let me mourn: Where night’s black bird, her sad infamy sings, There let me live forlorn.
Down vain lights shine you no more, No nights are dark enough for those That in despair their last fortunes deplore, Light doth but shame disclose.
Never may my woes be relieved, Since pity is fled, And tears, and sighs, and groans My weary days, my weary days Of all joys have been deprived.
From the highest spire of contentment, My fortune is thrown, And fear, and grief, and pain For my deserts, for my deserts Are my hopes, since hope is gone.
Hark you shadows that in darkness dwell, Learn to contemn light, Happy, happy they that in hell Feel not the world’s despite.
Schumann: Im wunderschön Monat Mai
Im wunderschönen Monat Mai, Als alle Knospen sprangen, Da ist in meinem Herzen Die Liebe aufgegangen.
Im wunderschönen Monat Mai, Als alle Vögel sangen, Da hab' ich ihr gestanden Mein Sehnen und Verlangen.
—Heinrich Heine
Schumann: Aus meinen Tränen Sprießen
Aus meinen Tränen sprießen Viel blühende Blumen hervor, Und meine Seufzer werden ein Nachtigallenchor.
Und wenn du mich lieb hast, Kindchen, Schenk' ich dir die Blumen all', Und vor deinem Fenster soll klingen Das Lied der Nachtigall.
—Heinrich Heine
Schumann: In the wonderfully beautiful month of may
In the wonderfully beautiful month of May
When all the buds are bursting open, There, from my own heart, Bursts forth my own love.
In the wonderfully beautiful month of May
When all the birds are singing, So have I confessed to her
My yearning and my longing.
—trans. Paul Hindemith
Schumann: From my tears sprout forth
From my tears sprout forth Many blooming flowers, And my sighing become joined with The chorus of the nightingales.
And if you love me, dear child, I will send you so many flowers; And before your window should sound The song of the nightingale.
—trans. Paul Hindemith
Schumann: Die Rose, die Lillie, die Taube, die Sonne
Die Rose, die Lilie, die Taube, die Sonne, Die liebt' ich einst alle in Liebeswonne. Ich lieb' sie nicht mehr, ich liebe alleine
Die Kleine, die Feine, die Reine, die Eine; Sie selber, aller Liebe Wonne
Ist Rose und Lilie und Taube und Sonne.
—Heinrich Heine
Schumann: The rose, the lily, the dove, the sun
The rose, the lily, the dove, the sun, I loved them all once in love's bliss. I love them no more, I love only
The Small, the Fine, the Pure the One;
She herself—the source of all love— Is the rose, lily, dove, and sun.
—trans. Paul Hindemith
Schumann: Wenn ich in deine Augen seh’
Wenn ich in deine Augen seh’, So schwindet all' mein Leid und Weh; Doch wenn ich küße deinen Mund, So werd' ich ganz und gar gesund.
Wenn ich mich lehn' an deine Brust, Kommt's über mich wie Himmelslust;
Doch wenn du sprichst: ich liebe dich! So muß ich weinen bitterlich.
—Heinrich Heine
Schumann: When I gaze into your eyes
When I gaze into your eyes, All my pain and woe vanishes; Yet when I kiss your lips, I am made wholly and entirely healthy.
When I lay against your breast
It comes over me like longing for heaven;
Yet when you say, "I love you!" I must cry so bitterly.
—trans. Paul Hindemith
Schumann: Ich will meine Seele tauchen
Ich will meine Seele tauchen In den Kelch der Lilie hinein; Die Lilie soll klingend hauchen Ein Lied von der Liebsten mein.
Das Lied soll schauern und beben, Wie der Kuss von ihrem Mund, Den sie mir einst gegeben In wunderbar süsser Stund’.
—Heinrich Heine
Schumann: Im Rhein, im heiligen Strome
Im Rhein, im heiligen Strome, Da spiegelt sich in den Well’n Mit seinem grossen Dome, Das grosse, heilige Köln.
Im Dom da steht ein Bildnis, Auf gold’nem Leder gemalt; In meines Lebens Wildnis Hat’s freundlich hineingestrahlt.
Es schweben Blumen und Eng’lein
Um unsre liebe Frau; Die Augen, die Lippen, die Wäng’lein, Die gleichen der Liebsten genau.
—Heinrich Heine
Schumann: Let me bathe my soul
Let me bathe my soul
In the lily’s chalice; The lily shall resound With a song of my beloved.
The songs shall tremble and quiver Like the kiss that her lips Once gave me In a wondrously sweet hour.
—Who translated?
Schumann: In the Rhine, in the holy river
In the Rhine, in the holy river, Mirrored in its waves, With its great cathedral, Stands great and holy Cologne.
In the cathedral hangs a picture, Painted on gilded leather; Into my life’s wilderness It has cast its friendly rays.
Flowers and cherubs hover Around Our beloved Lady; Her eyes, her lips, her cheeks Are the image of my love’s.
—Who translated?
Schumann: Ich grolle nicht
Ich grolle nicht, und wenn das Herz auch bricht, Ewig verlor’nes Lieb! ich grolle nicht. Wie du auch strahlst in Diamantenpracht, Es fällt kein Strahl in deines Herzens Nacht.
Das weiss ich längst. Ich sah dich ja im Traume, Und sah die Nacht in deines Herzens Raume, Und sah die Schlang’, die dir am Herzen frisst, Ich sah, mein Lieb, wie sehr du elend bist. Ich grolle nicht.
—Heinrich Heine
Schumann: I bear no grudge I bear no grudge, though my heart is breaking, O love forever lost! I bear no grudge. However you gleam in diamond splendour, No ray falls in the night of your heart.
I’ve known that long. For I saw you in my dreams, And saw the night within your heart, And saw the serpent gnawing at your heart; I saw, my love, how pitiful you are. I bear no grudge.
—trans. Richard Stokes
Bernstein: A Simple Song
Sing God a simple song: Laude, Laude… Make it up as you go along: Laude, Laude… Sing like you like to sing. God loves all simple things, For God is the simplest of all.
I will sing the Lord a new song To praise Him, to bless Him, to bless the Lord. I will sing his praises while I live All of my days.
Blessed is the one who loves the Lord. Blessed is the one who praises Him. Lauda, Lauda, Laude… And walks in his ways.
I will lift up my eyes
To the hills from whence comes my help. I will lift up my voice to the Lord Singing Lauda, Laude.
For the Lord is my shade, Is the shade upon my right hand, And the sun shall not smite me by day Nor the moon by night.
Blessed is the one who loves the Lord. Lauda, Lauda, Laude, And walks in his ways.
Lauda, Lauda, Laude, Lauda, Lauda, di da di, day… All of my days.
—Leonard Bernstein, Stephen Schwartz
Poulenc: Bonne journée
Bonne journée j'ai revu qui je n'oublie pas
Qui je n'oublierai jamais
Et des femmes fugaces dont les yeux
Me faisaient une haie d'honneur
Elles s'enveloppèrent dans leurs sourires
Bonne journée j'ai vu mes amis sans soucis
Les hommes ne pesaient pas lourd
Un qui passait
Son ombre changée en souris
Fuyait dans le ruisseau
J'ai vu le ciel très grand
Le beau regard des gens privés de tout
Plage distant où personne n'aborde
Bonne journée qui commença mélancolique
Noire sous les arbres verts
Mais qui soudain trempée d'aurore
M'entra dans le cœur par surprise.
—Paul Éluard
Poulenc: Good day
Good day I saw again whom I do not forget
Whom I shall never forget
And fugacious women whose eyes
Formed a hedge of honour for me
They wrapped themselves in their smiles
good day I saw my friends without a care
The men were not heavy
One who was passing by His shadow turned into a mouse
Was fleeing in the stream
I saw the sky very big
The beautiful gaze of those people deprived of everything
Distant beach on which nobody lands
Good day which started melancholy
Black beneath the green trees
But which suddenly drenched in dawn
Came into my heart by surprise.
—trans. Christopher Goldsack
Poulenc: Une ruine coquille vide
Une ruine coquille vide
Pleure dans son tablier
Les enfants qui jouent autour d'elle
Font moin de bruit que des mouches
La ruine s'en va à tâtons
Chercher ses vaches dans un pré
J'ai vu le jour vois cela
Sans en avoir honte
Il est minuit comme un flèche
Dans un cœur à la portée
Des folâtres lueurs nocturnes
Qui contredisent le sommeil.
—Paul Éluard
Poulenc: Le front comme un drapeau perdu
Le front comme un drapeau perdu
Je te traîne quand je suis seul
Dans des rues froides
Des chambres noires
En criant misère
Je ne veux pas les lâcher
Tes mains claires et compliquées
Nées dans le miroir clos des miennes
Tout le reste est parfait
Tout le reste est encore plus inutile
Que la vie
Creuse la terre sous ton ombre
Une nappe d'eau près des seins
Où se noyer
Comme une pierre.
Poulenc: A ruin an empty shell
A ruin an empty shell
Weeps into its apron
The children who play around it
Make less noise than flies
Groping the ruin leaves
To fetch its cows in a meadow
I saw the day I see it
Without being ashamed
it is midnight like an arrow
In a heart within reach
Of the flitting nocturnal glimmerings
Which counter sleep.
—trans. Christopher Goldsack
Poulenc: With the forehead like a lost flag
With the forehead like a lost flag
I drag you when I am alone
In cold streets
Dark rooms
Screaming misery
I do not want to let them go
Your clear and complicated hands
Born in the closed mirror of my own
All the rest is perfect
All the rest is even more useless
Than life
Dig out the earth beneath your shadow
A water table near the breasts
In which to drown
Like a stone.
—Paul Éluard
—trans. Christopher Goldsack
Poulenc: Une roulotte couverte en tuiles
Une roulotte couverte en tuiles
Le cheval mort un enfant maître
Pensant le front bleu de haine
A deux seins s'abattant sur lui
Comme deux poings
Ce mélodrame nous arrache
La raison du cœur.
—Paul Éluard
Geld: The Only Home I Know
Poulenc: A Gypsy wagon roofed with tiles
A gypsy wagon roofed with tiles
A dead horse a child master
Thinking his brow blue with hatred
Of two breasts beating upon him
Like two fists
This melodrama tears
Our heart's reason from us.
—trans. Christopher Goldsack
The willow that I used to climb may bend a little more. The paint may be peeling off the front porch and the door. No matter what, I’m headin’ back and whistlin’ as I go. For better or for worse, it’s still the only home I know.
The garden mama used to tend may now be overgrown. Our friends and neighbors moved away to distant parts unknown. It could be no one’s waitin’ there to smile and say “Hello,” Still my heart is yearnin’ for the only home I know.
The memories I left behind may all have turned to dust. A penny in a wishing well, copper turned to rust.
I can’t remember why I left or what I hope to find. I only know that more and more, I’m back there in my mind. A fireplace, a gentle face, a warm and friendly glow. Please let it be the way it was, the only home I know. The only home I know.
—Peter Udell
Schwartz: Corner of the Sky
Everything has its season, everything has its time. Show me a reason and I’ll soon show you a rhyme. Cats fit on the windowsill, children fit in the snow. Why do I feel I don’t fit in anywhere I go? Rivers belong where they can ramble, Eagles belong where they can fly; I’ve got to be where my spirit can run free, Got to find my corner of the sky.
Every man has his daydreams, every man has his goals. People like the way dreams have of sticking to the soul. Thunderclouds have their lightening, nightingales have their song, And don’t you see, I want my life to be something more than long. Rivers belong where they can ramble, Eagles belong where they can fly; I’ve got to be where my spirit can run free, Got to find my corner of the sky.
So many men seemed destined to settle for something small. But I won’t rest until I know I’ll have it all. So don’t ask where I’m going, just listen when I’m gone. And far away, you’ll hear me singing softly to the dawn: Rivers belong where they can ramble, Eagles belong where they can fly; I’ve got to be where my spirit can run free, Got to find my corner of the sky.
—Stephen Schwartz
Menken: Out There
Safe behind these windows and these parapets of stone, Gazing at the people down below me. All my life I watch them as I hide up here alone, Hungry for the histories they show me.
All my life I memorize their faces, Knowing them as the will never know me. All my life I wonder how it feels to pass a day, Not above them, but part of them
And out there, living in the sun. Give me one day out there. All I ask is one to hold forever. Out there, where they all live unaware, What I’d give, what I’d dare, Just to live one day out there.
Out there among the millers and the weavers and their wives, Through the roofs and gables I can see them. Every day they shout and scold and go about their lives, Heedless of the gift it is to be them.
If I was in their skin, I’d treasure every instant Out there, strolling by the Seine, Taste a morning out there like ordinary men who freely walk about there. Just one day and then I swear I’ll be content With my share, Won’t resent, won’t despair Old and bent, I don’t care, I’ll have spent one day out there.
—Stephen Schwartz
Sondheim: Being Alive
Someone to hold you too close, Someone to hurt you too deep, Someone to sit in your chair, To ruin your sleep, to make you aware Of being alive.
Someone to need you too much, Someone to know you too well, Someone to pull you up short, To put you through hell, to give you support, Is being alive.
Someone you have to let in, Someone whose feelings you spare, Someone who like it or not, Will want though to share, a little, a lot Is being alive.
Someone to crowd you with love, Someone to force you to care. Someone to make you come through, Who’ll always be there, as frightened as you, Of being alive.
Somebody hold me too close, Somebody hurt me too deep, Somebody sit in my chair, And ruin my sleep, and make me aware Of being alive.
Somebody need me too much, Somebody know me too well; Somebody pull me up short And put me through hell, and give me support For being alive.
Make me alive, make me alive, Make me confused, mock me with praise, Let me be used, vary my days. But alone is alone, not alive.
Somebody crowd me with love, Somebody force me to care. Somebody let me come through, I’ll always be there, as frightened as you To help us survive being alive.
—Stephen Sondheim