Albert Herring, op. 39, Act 2: For three precious weeks Songtext
von Benjamin Britten

The three precious weeks
Been toiling and scraping
But still hurrying, hurrying, scurrying
With the name in sight
And now at the eleventh hour
You, you, you
Keep everything waiting
Because of the bike
I think you′re lazy
And most reprehensible
Surely you know
That the mitt's indispensable
Late-ness on May Day
Is quite indefensible
It′s twenty past
Then I must fly
Or they'll leave me out


To Bob Bluff
That could be much more sensible
That's a fine sight for sore eyes

Don′t you think it′s a splendid surprise?

And they make all this fuss
'Cause Albert′s too shy
To go out on a bust

What were things like down there in the town?

Churchyard's agog with a crowd of folk
Who couldn′t get in for the service
Seats have been kept for the band of hope
And each choir boy has got a new surplice
The vicar is preaching on living chaste
For the hereafter
Some of his listeners are solemn-faced
Some near to laughter
And Albert, sitting there in his pew
The book he looks, on tenterhooks
He's in the mood to escape if he could
I′d like to see him go for good

Sid, tell me the truth about why you were late

What do you mean?


You've got some scheme

How did you guess?

I know, by the grin on your face
And the gleam in your eye. Confess

Can you keep a secret?

One as an oyster

Then I'll tell you the plot while we empty this box