Digging - Seamus Heaney

Celtic Dark Folk, cinematic tribal percussion, Viking throat chanting

+ Show full styles

V5.5

[Verse 1: The Snug Gun - Quiet Intensity]
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground.
My father, digging. I look down

[Verse 2: The Rhythm of the Steppe - Bodhrán and Taglharpa enter]
[A heavy, rhythmic Celtic Bodhrán drum enters. A scratchy, bowed Taglharpa plays a haunting melody that sounds like wood and earth.]
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

[Chorus: The Bright Edge - Powerful Beats and Viking Chants]
[The beat explodes into a massive, tribal cinematic stomp. A deep male choir begins a wordless, powerful Viking chant in the background.]
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.

[Verse 3: The Grandfather - Fast Rhythmic Flow]
[The Uilleann pipes enter with a wild, piercing melody. The beat becomes faster and more aggressive.]
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

[Bridge: Sensory Awakening - Shamanic and Dark]
[The drums drop out, leaving only the deep throat singing and the sound of wet earth squelching.]
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

[Climax: The Vow - Maximum Epic Volume]
[A final, thunderous orchestral explosion. The Taglharpa, Pipes, and massive War Drums merge into a wall of sound.]
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it

[Outro: The Echo of the Bog]
[The heavy beats stop abruptly. Only the deep Viking drone remains, fading slowly into the sound of wind and a single, echoing Langspil string.]
I’ll dig with it.
I’ll dig with it.

[End]

2563/7500

[Intro: The Weight of the Tool] [The track opens with a low, vibrating drone from an Icelandic Langspil. A sharp, metallic sound—like a blade being sharpened—slices through the air. A deep, rhythmic Viking grunt begins: "Hah... Huh... Hah... Huh..." simulating the breath of a laborer.] [Verse 1: The Snug Gun - Quiet Intensity] Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. Under my window, a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground. My father, digging. I look down [Verse 2: The Rhythm of the Steppe - Bodhrán and Taglharpa enter] [A heavy, rhythmic Celtic Bodhrán drum enters. A scratchy, bowed Taglharpa plays a haunting melody that sounds like wood and earth.] Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds Bends low, comes up twenty years away Stooping in rhythm through potato drills Where he was digging. The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly. [Chorus: The Bright Edge - Powerful Beats and Viking Chants] [The beat explodes into a massive, tribal cinematic stomp. A deep male choir begins a wordless, powerful Viking chant in the background.] He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked Loving their cool hardness in our hands. By God, the old man could handle a spade. Just like his old man. [Verse 3: The Grandfather - Fast Rhythmic Flow] [The Uilleann pipes enter with a wild, piercing melody. The beat becomes faster and more aggressive.] My grandfather cut more turf in a day Than any other man on Toner’s bog. Once I carried him milk in a bottle Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up To drink it, then fell to right away Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods Over his shoulder, going down and down For the good turf. Digging. [Bridge: Sensory Awakening - Shamanic and Dark] [The drums drop out, leaving only the deep throat singing and the sound of wet earth squelching.] The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge Through living roots awaken in my head. But I’ve no spade to follow men like them. [Climax: The Vow - Maximum Epic Volume] [A final, thunderous orchestral explosion. The Taglharpa, Pipes, and massive War Drums merge into a wall of sound.] Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I’ll dig with it [Outro: The Echo of the Bog] [The heavy beats stop abruptly. Only the deep Viking drone remains, fading slowly into the sound of wind and a single, echoing Langspil string.] I’ll dig with it. I’ll dig with it. [End]

0/500