Ireland, Sea Fever
English composer John Ireland (1879-1962) studied composition with Charles Villiers Stanford at the Royal Conservatory. Introverted and timid, Ireland found Stanford’s exacting standards and sometimes harsh demeanor intimidating, but he credited Stanford with giving him a solid foundation. Ireland would join the faculty at the conservatory in 1923 and teach composition there to up-and-coming English composers like Benjamin Britten.
He also worked as an organist and choirmaster, spending much of his career at St. Luke’s Church in Chelsea. You may know him for his Good Friday hymn “My Song Is Love Unknown.”
Ireland first gained recognition in 1909 for his first Violin Sonata, winning the Cobbett Competition. He composed in many genres, sacred and secular, piano and organ, chamber orchestra and song. Most of his songs are relatively early works dating from 1912 through the 1920s.
Ireland’s setting of John Masefield’s poem Sea Fever was composed in 1913. Masefield (1878-1967) left school and went to sea in 1891. He spent several years at sea absorbing sea lore and training for a career as a seaman. But he developed a love for poetry and, seeing the futility of a life at sea, jumped ship in New York. He lived there in poverty while he devoured classic literature and eventually returned to England in 1897. He was soon publishing his poetry. Sea Fever first appeared in 1902. In 1930, Masefield was named as England’s poet laureate and retained that position until his death, holding the honor longer than any other except Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.