At last the war-song rings in full triumphant blast, where trumpets and
the shrill fife lead, and the lower brass, with cymbals and drums (big
and little) mark the march. Then to the returning pranks the tune roars
in low basses and reeds, and at last a big conclusive phrase descends
from the height to meet the rising figure of the basses.
Now the reel dances in furious tumult (instead of the first whisper) and
dies down through the slower cadence.
An entirely new scene is here. To a blended tinkle of harp, reeds and
high strings sounds a delicate air, quick and light, yet with a tinge of
plaint that may be a part of all Celtic song. It were rude to spoil
[Music: (Woodwind, with a triplet pulse of harp and rhythmic strings)]
its fine fragrance with some rough title of meaning; nor do we feel a
strong sense of romance, rather a whim of Northern fantasy.
Over a single note of bass sings a new strain of elegy, taken up by
other voices, varying with the
[Music: (Clarinets)]
tinkling air. Suddenly in rushes the first reel, softly as at first; but
over it sings still the new sad tune, then yields to the wild whims and
pranks that lead to the war-song in resonant chorus, joined at the
height by the reel below. They change places, the tune ringing in the
bass. In the martial tumult the tinkling air is likewise infected with
saucy vigor, but suddenly retires abashed into its shell of fairy sound,
and over it sings the elegy in various choirs.
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