IF you were able to distil the essence of English folk-song, you would finish up with the typical English melody.

That’s the theory, anyway. It was the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow that all the major English composers, with the exception of Elgar, chased relentlessly during the first half of the 20th century.

So a programme devoted to settings of English folk-song is undeniably alluring. We could join the treasure-hunt, too. York Cantores, under Peter Collis, devoted half their Saturday evening to pre-war figures, half to living composers. The contrast was instructive and fulfilling.

Take Linden Lea, the tune that made Vaughan Williams’ name. It sounds folky; it’s actually his own invention.

But he set the tone by varying the harmonies with each verse. So did Grainger, wildly, in Brigg Fair (inspiration for Delius). Both were smoothly done here.

Holst’s Six Choral Folk Songs, Op 36, from Hampshire and the South West, were an ear-opener, cleverly varied: plaintive in Matthew, Mark, Luke & John, catchy with off-beat rhythms in The Song of the Blacksmith, moody in I Love My Love.

Modern composers have been less reverential towards the original tune, tending to break it up. John Rutter’s Five Childhood Lyrics were typical, with teasing harmony in Monday’s Child, witty in The Owl & the Pussy Cat. There was a similar freedom in three Grayston Ives arrangements.

A pleasing, unpretentious evening where the music was allowed to speak for itself.