I'll make love to you in all good places - Under black mountains, in open spaces. By deep brown rivers that slither darkly, Through far marches where the blue hare races.
Come with me to the Winged Isle - Northern father's western child. Where the dance of ages is playing still Through far marches of acres wild.
I'll make love to you in narrow side streets, With shuttered windows, and crumbling chimneys.
Come with me to the weary town - Discos silent under tiles That slide from roof-tops, scatter softly On concrete marches of acres wild.
By red bricks pointed with cement fingers Flaking damply from sagging shoulders.
Come with me to the Winged Isle - Northern father's western child. Where the dance of ages is playing still Through far marches of acres wild
The bomb's in the china. The fat's in the fire. There's no turkey left on the table. The commuter's return on the six o'clock flyer brings no bale of hay for the stable. Well, the light, it is failing along the green belt as we follow the hard road signs. Semi-detached in our suburban-ness --- we're living in these hard times.
Well the fly's in the milk and the cat's in the stew. Another bun in the oven --- oh, what to do? We'll laugh and we'll sing and try to bring a pound from your pocket. Good day to you. Oh, these hard times.
The politicians sat on the wall and traded with the union game. Someone slapped a writ on our deficit --- not a penny left to our name. Oh, the times are hard and the credits lean, and they toss and they turn in sleep. And the line they take is the line they make --- but it's not the line they keep.
The cow jumped over yesterday's moon and the lock ran away with the key. You know what you like, and you like what you know but there is no jam for tea. Well the light it is failing along the green belt as we follow the hard road signs. Semi-detached in our suburban-ness --- we're living in these hard times.
Good morning Weathercock, How'd you fare last night? Did the cold wind bite you, Did you face up to the fright When the leaves spin from October And whip around your tail? Did you shake from the blast, And did you shiver through the gale?
Give us direction, the best of goodwill, Put us in touch with fair winds. Sing to us softly, hum evening's song, Tell us what the blacksmith has done for you.
Do you simply reflect changes In the patterns of the sky, Or is it true to say the weather heeds The twinkle in your eye? Do you fight the rush of winter, And hold snowflakes at bay? Do you lift the dawn sun from the fields And help him on his way?
Good morning Weathercock, make this day bright. Put us in touch with your fair winds. Sing to us softly, hum evening's song. Point the way to better days we can share with you.
Iron-clad feather-feet pounding the dust An October's day, towards evening Sweat embossed veins standing proud to the plough Salt on a deep chest seasoning Last of the line at an honest day's toil Turning the deep sod under Flint at the fetlock, chasing the bone Flies at the nostrils plunder.
The Suffolk, the Clydesdale, the Percheron vie with the Shire on his feathers floating Hauling soft timber into the dusk to bed on a warm straw coating.
Heavy Horses, move the land under me Behind the plough gliding --- slipping and sliding free Now you're down to the few And there's no work to do The tractor's on its way.
Let me find you a filly for your proud stallion seed to keep the old line going. And we'll stand you abreast at the back of the wood behind the young trees growing To hide you from eyes that mock at your girth, and your eighteen hands at the shoulder And one day when the oil barons have all dripped dry and the nights are seen to draw colder They'll beg for your strength, your gentle power your noble grace and your bearing And you'll strain once again to the sound of the gulls in the wake of the deep plough, sharing.
Standing like tanks on the brow of the hill Up into the cold wind facing In stiff battle harness, chained to the world Against the low sun racing Bring me a wheel of oaken wood A rein of polished leather A Heavy Horse and a tumbling sky Brewing heavy weather.
Bring a song for the evening Clean brass to flash the dawn across these acres glistening like dew on a carpet lawn In these dark towns folk lie sleeping as the heavy horses thunder by to wake the dying city with the living horseman's cry At once the old hands quicken --- bring pick and wisp and curry comb --- thrill to the sound of all the heavy horses coming home.
Smile your little smile --- take some tea with me awhile. Brush away that black cloud from your shoulder. Twitch your whiskers. Feel that you're really real. Another tea-time --- another day older.
Puff warm breath on your tiny hands. You wish you were a man who every day can turn another page. Behind your glass you sit and look at my ever-open book --- One brown mouse sitting in a cage.
Do you wonder if I really care for you --- Am I just the company you keep --- Which one of us exercises on the old treadmill --- Who hides his head, pretending to sleep?
Smile your little smile --- take some tea with me awhile. And every day we'll turn another page. Behind our glass we'll sit and look at our ever-open book --- One brown mouse sitting in a cage.
I chase your every footstep and I follow every whim. When you call the tune I'm ready to strike up the battle hymn. My lady of the meadows --- My comber of the beach --- You've thrown the stick for your dog's trick but it's floating out of reach. The long road is a rainbow and the pot of gold lies there. So slip the chain and I'm off again --- You'll find me everywhere. I'm a Rover.
As the robin craves the summer to hide his smock of red, I need the pillow of your hair in which to hide my head. I'm simple in my sadness, resourceful in remorse. Then I'm down straining at the lead --- holding on a windward course.
Strip me from the bundle of balloons at every fair: colourful and carefree --- Designed to make you stare. But I'm lost and I'm losing the thread that holds me down. And I'm up hot and rising in the lights of every town.
Spine-tingling railway sleepers --- Sleepy houses lying four-square and firm Orange beams divide the darkness Rumbling fit to turn the waking worm. Sliding through Victorian tunnels where green moss oozes from the pores. Dull echoes from the wet embankments Battlefield allotments. Fresh open sores.
In late night commuter madness Double-locked black briefcase on the floor like a faithful dog with master sleeping in the draught beside the carriage door. To each Journeyman his own home-coming Cold supper nearing with each station stop Frosty flakes on empty platforms Fireside slippers waiting. Flip. Flop.
Journeyman night-tripping on the late fantasic Too late to stop for tea at Gerard's Cross and hear the soft shoes on the footbridge shuffle as the wheels turn biting on the midnight frost. On the late commuter special Carriage lights that flicker, fade and die Howling into hollow blackness Dusky diesel shudders in full cry. Down redundant morning papers Abandon crosswords with a cough Stationmaster in his wisdom told the guard to turn the heating off.
Oh the leaded window opened but you moved the dancing candle flame and the first moths of summer suicidal came, oh suicidal came.
And the new breeze chattered in its May-bud tenderness sending water-lilies sailing as she turned to get undressed.
And the long night awakened and we soared on powdered wings circling our tomorrows in the wary month of spring.
Chasing shadows slipping in the magic lantern's light - creatures of the candle on the night's light's rite.
Dipping and weaving, flutter through the golden needle's eye in our haystack madness, butterfly stroking on a spring-tide high.
Life's too long (as the lemmings said) as the candle burned and the moths were wed. And we'll all burn together as the wick grows higher before the candle's dead.
Oh the leaded window opened but you moved the dancing candle flame. And the first moths of summer suicidal came, oh suicidal came, to join in the worship of the light that never dies in the moments reflection of two moths spinning in her eyes.
Keep your eyes open and prick up your ears, Rehearse your loudest cry. There's folk out there who would do you harm So I'll sing you no lullaby.
There's a lock on the window, there's a chain on the door, And a big dog in the hall. But there's dragons and beasties out there in the night To snatch you if you fall.
So come out fighting with your rattle in hand, thrust and parry. Light A match to catch the devil's eye, bring a cross of fire to the fight. And let no sleep bring false relief from the tension of the fray. Come wake the dead with the scream of life, do battle with ghosts at play. And gather your toys at the call-to-arms and swing your big bear down Upon our necks when we come to set you sleeping safe and sound. It's as well we tell no lie to chase the face that cries. And little birds can't fly so keep an open eye. It's as well we tell no lie, so I'll sing you no lullaby.
It's as well we tell no lie to chase the face that cries. And little birds can't fly so keep an open eye. It's as well we tell no lie, so I'll sing you no lullaby.
Keep your eyes open and prick up your ears, Rehearse your loudest cry. There's folk out there who would do you harm So I'll sing you no lullaby.
There's a lock on the window, there's a chain on the door, And a big dog in the hall. But there's dragons and beasties out there in the night To snatch you if you fall.
So come out fighting with your rattle in hand, thrust and parry. Light A match to catch the devil's eye, bring a cross of fire to the fight. And let no sleep bring false relief from the tension of the fray. Come wake the dead with the scream of life, do battle with ghosts at play. And gather your toys at the call-to-arms and swing your big bear down. Upon our necks when we come to set you sleeping safe and sound. It's as well we tell no lie to chase the face that cries. And little birds can't fly so keep an open eye. It's as well we tell no lie, so I'll sing you no lullaby.
There's a light in the house in the wood in the valley. There's a thought in the head of the man. Who carries his dreams like the coat slung on his shoulder, Bringing you love in the cap in his hand.
And each step he takes is one half of a lifetime: no word he would say could you understand. So he bundles his regrets into a gesture of sorrow, Bringing you love cap in hand.
Catching breath as he looks through the dining-room window: candle lit table for two has been laid. Strange slippers by the fire. Strange boots in the hallway. Put my cap on my head. I turn and walk away.
Muscled, black with steel-green eye swishing through the rye grass with thoughts of mouse-and-apple pie. Tail balancing at half-mast. ...And the mouse police never sleeps --- lying in the cherry tree. Savage bed foot-warmer of purest feline ancestry. Look out, little furry folk! He's the all-night working cat. Eats but one in every ten --- leaves the others on the mat. ...And the mouse police never sleeps --- waiting by the cellar door. Window-box town crier; birth and death registrar. With claws that rake a furrow red --- licensed to mutilate. From warm milk on a lazy day to dawn patrol on hungry hate. ...No, the mouse police never sleeps --- climbing on the ivy. Windy roof-top weathercock. Warm-blooded night on a cold tile.
I believe in fires at midnight, when the dogs have all been fed. A golden toddy on the mantle; a broken gun beneath the bed. Silken mist outside the window - Frogs and newts slip in the dark. Too much hurry ruins a body: I'll sit easy; fan the spark.
Kindled by the dying embers, of another working day. Go upstairs: take off your make-up - Fold your clothes neatly away. Me, I'll sit and write this love song As I all too seldom do - Build a little fire this midnight. It's good to be back home with you.
Kindled by the dying embers, of another working day. Go upstairs: take off your make-up - Fold your clothes neatly away. Me, I'll sit and write this love song As I all too seldom do - Build a little fire this midnight. It's good to be back home with you.
There's a light in the house, in the wood in the valley. There's a thought in the head, of the man. Who carries his dreams, like the coat slung on his shoulder, Bringing you love, in the cap in his hand.
And each step he takes, is one half of a life-time:
No word he would say, could you understand. So he bundles his regrets, into a gesture of sorrow, Bringing you love, cap in hand.
Catching breath, as he looks through the dining-room window: Candle-lit table, for two has been laid. Strange slippers by the fire: Strange boots in the hall-way. Put my cap on my head - I turn, and walk away.
I'll buy you six bay mares, to put in your stable; Six golden apples bought with my pay. I am the first piper who calls the sweet tune But I must be gone by the seventh day.
So come on - I'm the Whistler. I have a fife and a drum to play. Get ready - for the Whistler. I whistle along on the seventh day. Whistle along on the seventh day.
All kinds of sadness I've left behind me. Many's the day when I have done wrong. But I'll be yours for ever and ever. Climb in the saddle and whistle along.
So come on - I'm the Whistler. I have a fife and a drum to play. Get ready - for the Whistler. I whistle along on the seventh day. Whistle along on the seventh day.
Deep red are the sunsets in mystical places. Black are the nights on summer-day sands. We'll find the speck of truth in each riddle: Hold the first grain of love in our hands
So come on - I'm the Whistler. I have a fife and a drum to play. Get ready - for the Whistler. I whistle along on the seventh day. So come on - I'm a Whistler. I have a fife and a drum to play. Get ready - for the Whistler. I whistle along on the seventh day. Whistle along on the seventh day.
Walking on Velvet Green - Scots Pine growing. Isn't it rare to be taking the air, sinning - Walking on Velvet Green.
Walking on Velvet Green - distant cows lowing. Never a care; with your legs in the air, loving - Walking on Velvet Green.
Won't you have my company, yes, take it in your hands. Go down on Velvet Green, with a country-man. Who's a young girl's fancy and an old maid's dream. Tell your mother that you walked all night on Velvet Green.
One dusky half-hour's ride up to the north. There lies your reputation and all that you're worth. Where the scent of wild roses turns the milk to cream. Tell your mother that you walked all night on Velvet Green.
And the long grass blows in the evening cool. And August's rare delight may be April's fool. But think not of that my love, I'm tight against the seam. And I'm growing up to meet you down on Velvet Green.
Now I may tell you that it's love and not just lust. And if we live the lie, let's lie in trust. On golden daffodils, to catch the silver stream That washes out the wild oat seed on Velvet Green.
We'll dream as lovers under the stars: Of civilizations raging afar. And the ragged dawn breaks on your battle scars As you walk home cold and alone upon Velvet Green.
Walking on Velvet Green - Scots Pine growing. Isn't it rare to be taking the air, sinning - Walking on Velvet Green.
Walking on Velvet Green - distant cows lowing. Never a care; with your legs in the air, loving - Walking on Velvet Green.
Now is the solstice of the year. Winter is the glad song that you hear. Seven maids move in seven time. Have the lads up ready in the line. Ring out these bells. Ring out, ring Solstice Bells. Ring, Solstice Bells.
Join together 'neath the Mistle-toe. By the Holly oak where-on it grows. Seven Druids dance in seven time. Sing the song the Bells call loudly chime. Ring out these bells. Ring out, ring Solstice Bells. Ring, Solstice Bells.
Ring out. Ring out the Solstice Bells. Ring out. Ring out the Solstice Bells.
Praise be to the distant sister Sun. Joyful as the silver planets run. Seven maids move in seven time. Sing the song the Bells call loudly chime. Ring out those bells. Ring out, ring Solstice Bells. Ring, Solstice Bells.
One day I walked the road and crossed a field to go by where the hounds ran hard. And on the master raced: behind the hunters chased to where the path was barred. One fine young lady's horse refused the fence to clear. I unlocked the gate but she did wait until the pack had disappeared.
Crop-handle carved in bone; sat high upon a throne of finest English leather. The Queen of all the Pack: this joker raised his hat and talked about the weather. All should be warned about this high-born Hunting Girl. She took this simple man's downfall in hand; I raised the flag that she unfurled.
Boot leather flashing and spur-necks the size of my thumb. This high-born hunter had tastes as strange as they come.
Unbridled passion: I took the bit in my teeth. Her standing over: me on my knees underneath.
My lady, be discrete. I must get to my feet and go back to the farm. Whilst I appreciate you are no deviate, I might come to some harm. I'm not inclined to acts refined, if that's how it goes. Oh, high-born Hunting Girl, I'm just a normal low-born so-and-so.
May I make my fond excuses for the late-ness of the hour; But we accept your invitation, and would bring you Beltane's flower. For the May Day is the great day, sung along the old straight track. And those who ancient lines did ley will heed this song that calls them back.
Pass the word and pass the lady and pass the plate to all who hunger. And pass the wit of ancient wisdom, pass the Cup of Crimson Wonder. And pass the Cup of Crimson Wonder.
Ask the Green Man where he comes from, ask the cup that fills with red. Ask the old grey standing stones who show the sun his way to bed. Question all as to their ways, and learn the secrets that they hold. Walk the lines of Nature's palm, crossed with silver and with gold.
Pass the cup and pass the lady and pass the plate to all who hunger. And pass the wit of ancient wisdom, pass the Cup of Crimson Wonder. And pass the Cup of Crimson Wonder.
Join in black December's sadness, lie in August's welcome corn. Stir the cup that's ever filling with the blood of all that's born. But the May Day is the great day, sung along the old straight track. And those who ancient lines did ley will heed this song that calls them back.
Pass the word and pass the lady and pass the plate to all who hunger. And pass the wit of ancient wisdom, pass the Cup of Crimson Wonder. And pass the Cup of Crimson Wonder.
He sits quietly under every tree In the folds of his velvet gown. He drinks from the empty acorn cup. The dew that dawn sweetly bestows. And taps his cane upon the ground - Signals the snow drops, it's time to grow
It's no fun being Jack-in-the-Green: No place to dance, no time for song. He wears the colours of the summer soldier; And carries the green flag all the winter long.
Jack do you never sleep - does the green still run deep in your heart? Or will these changing times, motorways, powerlines, keep us apart? Well, I don't think so. I saw some grass growing through the pavements today.
The Rowan, the Oak and the Holly tree Are the charges left for him to groom.
Each blade of grass whispers, "Jack-in-the-Green." "Oh Jack, please help me through my winter's night." And - "We are the berries on the Holly tree: Oh, the Mistle Thrush is coming. Jack, put out the light!"
