This song dates from before 1800, and was written by Matthew 'Monk' Lewis, one of the darkest and strangest Gothic writers. The tune is 'Fie! Gar Rub Her O'er Wi' Strae', Scottish traditional.
singer
songwriter
acoustic
folk
british
guitarist
song
celtic
traditional
fingerstyle
scottish
scotland
guitar
kelso
Story behind the song
Matthew Lewis, a friend of Walter Scott and his circle, became infamous for his novel 'The Monk' which had a Gothic sensuality unacceptable in his time - but popular enough to make him a best-seller. 'Monk' Lewis took his own life. 'Crazy Jane' is a little-known song lyric I discovered in an 1812 volume of Scottish tunes, set down as 'alternative words'. I am not aware of anyone who has recorded this song, clearly written for a woman to sing, but rather fun for a mad bloke to sing too. It is, for me, the 'See Emily Play' of the Regency Gothic-Romantic period.
It is accompanied on a tiny guitar, a Brook Bovey, possibly the smallest regularly tuned (13-56 strings) guitar made with its 21.7 inch scale and miniature body. The guitar has no problems at all with volume. Everything is miked - two Behringer C2s for the guitar, one AKG C2000B for the vocal, but all live simultaneously and with loads of crossfeed. There's a stack of reverb and vocal fx added just to boost the haunted abbey atmosphere of this galant parlour song.
Lyrics
Why, fair maid, in every feature,
Are such signs of fear expressed?
Can a wandering wretched creature
With such terror fill they breast?
Do my frenzied looks alarm thee?
Trust me, sweet, thy fears are vain;
Not for kingdoms would I harm thee,
Shun not then poor crazy Jane.
Dost thou weep to see my anguish?
Mark me and avoid my woe;
When men flatter, sigh, and languish,
Think them false – I found them so.
For I loved, oh so sincerely!
None could ever love again!
But the youth I loved so dearly
Stole the wits of crazy Jane.
Fondly my young heart received him,
Which was doomed to love but one,
He sigh’d – he vow’d – and I believed him,
He was false, and I undone.
From that hour has Reason never
Held her empire o’er my brain;
Henry fled – with him for ever
Fled the wits of crazy Jane.
Now forlorn and broken-hearted,
And with frenzied thoughts beset,
On that spot where once we parted,
On that spot where first we met,
Still I sing my love-lorn ditty,
Still I slowly pace the plain;
Whilst each passer-by, in pity,
Cries, “God help thee, crazy Jane!”
Matthew 'Monk' Lewis, 1790s