And so, as at the end of every day, to the platform of sleep, at last; and just prior to drifting off, to let the mind range over that subtle, all-important inducer of sleep (no, not the Valium! but the humble lullaby.)

Apparently, we ought to have sensed its advent from the womb, according to some scientific circles. For we all have experienced the gentle swaying and rocking as our pregnant mothers moved about, carrying us, foetally curled up and cosy inside.

Once we’d slid down the maternal chute, into the real world gasping and wailing (some sagely term this a kind of infant-like prescience; others merely argue it’s the shock of the doctor’s slap to our rump; ostensibly to get the breathing going, it is said, but also it is pointed out to give us our first real hint of further knocks to come, so ‘get real, little thing, this is also what life’s all about!’) we needed to be soothed.

And presto, in the midst of the turmoil ... the instinctive crooned notes of a lullaby, (pronounced ‘lull a bye’, by the way as most of us are aware, and not ‘lull a bee’ as one acquaintance was known to term it until it was pointed out to the said individual that lulling a bee called into question an entirely different set of skills some of which could end up on the more severe side of a sting operation.)

Anyhow, the lullaby, as it turns out has been around for yonks. In other words, for as long as infants have needed sleep. (In another article I will ponder upon whether the usefulness of the lullaby is approaching its end, in this day and age. For the word itself appears to have disappeared from usage. It has, on the other hand, spawned a set of synonyms such as “Chill Out” and “Lounge and Trance”, to describe music by which one may doze off or, alternatively, which may be why sometimes it’s all called alternative music — we may be induced into a state of nightmare. But that’s for another time.)

When the lullaby was enjoying its peak, it is said that even the classical composers jumped in quickly to write/orchestrate pieces to induce infants into the waiting arms of Morpheus. Brahms’ Wiegenlied is, arguably it is claimed, the most famous of all the lullabies. Composer Nicholas Maw’s Nocturne The World in the Evening was subtitled ‘Lullaby for a Large Orchestra’. It would be interesting to know how many people courageously bought tickets to attend that show, given that by the very title itself the various sections (first and second fiddlers, brass blowers, tympanists et al were likely to nod off mid-way through the script. ‘Last man blowing’ may have been an alternate subtitle.) But of course, I jest.

Closer to my time, the Beatles sang the very obviously, appropriately titled Good Night; a lush arrangement of strings around a nice gentle rocking rhythm in what I imagine would be triple meter with the voice of Ringo (I think) wishing everyone ‘good night, sleep tight’. By the time the Cure sang ‘Lullaby’, the rhythm was clearly indicating broken/chopped up sleep patterns. ‘On candystripe legs, spiderman comes softly through the shadow of the evening sun/stealing past the windows of the blissfully dead ...’ And so go the lyrics; and so goes sleep.

Hang on, I hear, someone say, those lyrics are somewhat scary.

Why, yes, indeed. They may be but don’t go blaming the Cure. When I was a child I got lullabys sung to me too. One, in particular, which I have no doubt was chanted proximate to the ears of millions of other little ones. You want scary lullabies, try this. Many of us imbibed its horrifying message and still somehow managed to find both Morpheus and Hypnos. ‘Rock-a-bye baby on the tree top/when the wind blows the cradle will rock/when the bough breaks the cradle will fall/down will come baby cradle and all.’ Was the lullaby ever useful? Well the jury’s out on that one, far as I’m concerned.

Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.