Let me bring you songs from the wood: To make you feel much better than you could know - Dust you down from tip to toe - Show you how the garden grows - Hold you steady as you go - Join the chorus if you can: It'll make of you an honest man.
Let me bring you love from the field: Poppies red and roses filled with summer rain To heal the wound and still the pain That threatens again and again As you drag down every lovers' lane. Life's long celebration's here. I'll toast you all in penny cheer.
Let me bring you all things refined: Galliards and Lute songs served in chilling ale. Greeting well-met fellow, hail! I am the wind to fill your sail. I am the cross to take your nail: A singer of these ageless times - With kitchen prose and gutter rhymes.
Songs from the wood - make you feel much better Songs from the wood - make you feel much better
Songs from the wood Songs from the wood
Let me bring you love from the field: Poppies red and roses filled with summer rain To heal the wound and still the pain That threatens again and again As you drag down every lovers' lane. Life's long celebration's here. I'll toast you all in penny cheer.
Songs from the wood - make you feel much better Songs from the wood - make you feel much better
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!"
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
The Minstrel in the Gallery looked down upon the smiling faces. He met the gazes - observed the spaces between the old men's cackle. He brewed a song of love and hatred - oblique suggestions - and he waited. He polarized the pumpkin-eaters - static-humming panel-beaters - freshly day-glo'd factory cheaters (salaried and collar-scrubbing). He titillated men-of-action - belly warming, hands still rubbing on the parts they never mention. He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating one-line jokers - T.V. documentary makers (over-fed and undertakers). Sunday paper backgammon players - family-scarred and women-haters. Then he called the band down to the stage and he looked at all the friends he'd made.
The Minstrel in the Gallery looked down upon the smiling faces. He met the gazes - observed the spaces in between the old men's cackle. And he brewed a song of love and hatred - oblique suggestions - and he waited. He polarized the pumpkin-eaters - static-humming panel-beaters.
The Minstrel in the Gallery looked down on the rabbit-run. And threw away his looking-glass - saw his face in everyone. Hey!
He titillated men-of-action - belly warming, hands still rubbing on the parts they never mention (salaried and collar-scrubbing).
He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating one-line jokers - T.V. documentary makers (over-fed and undertakers). Sunday paper backgammon players - family-scarred and women-haters. Then he called the band down to the stage and he looked at all the friends he'd made.
The Minstrel in the Gallery looked down on the rabbit-run. And he threw away his looking-glass and saw his face in everyone. Hey! The Minstrel in the Gallery. Yes! Looked down upon the smiling faces. He met the gazes. Yeah! Mm. The Minstrel in the Gallery.
And ride with us young bonny lass - with the angels of the night. Crack wind clatter - flesh rein bite on an out-size unicorn. Rough-shod winging sky blue flight on a Cold Wind to Valhalla. And join with us please - Valkyrie maidens cry above the Cold Wind to Valhalla.
Break fast with the Gods. Night angels serve with ice-bound majesty. Frozen flaking fish raw nerve - in a cup of silver liquid fire. Moon jet brave beam split ceiling swerve and light the old Valhalla. Come join with us please - Valkyrie maidens cry above the Cold Wind to Valhalla.
The heroes rest upon the sighs of Thor's trusty hand-maidens. Midnight lonely whisper cries, "We're getting a bit short on heroes lately." Sword snap fright white pale good-byes in the desolation of Valhalla. And join with us please - Valkyrie maidens ride empty-handed on the Cold Wind to Valhalla.
Come, let me play with you, Black Satin Dancer. In all your giving, given is the answer. Tearing life from limb and looking sweeter than the brightest flower in my garden. Begging your pardon - shedding right unreason. Over sensation fly the fleeting seasons. Thin wind whispering on broken mandolin. Bending the minutes - the hours ever turning on that old gold story of mercy. Desperate breathing. Tongue nipple-teasing. Your fast river flowing - your Northern fire fed. Come, Black Satin Dancer, come softly to bed.
Black Satin Dancer, given is the answer. Tearing life from limb and looking sweeter than the brightest flower in my garden.
Come, let me play with you; Come, Black Satin Dancer. In all your giving, given is the answer. Your fast river flowing - your Northern fire fed. Come, Black Satin Dancer, come softly to bed.
Well I saw a bird today - flying from a bush and the wind blew it away. And the black-eyed mother sun scorched the butterfly at play - velvet veined I saw it burn. With a wintry storm-blown sigh, a silver cloud blew right on by And, taking in the morning, I sang - O Requiem. Well, my lady told me, "Stay." I looked aside and walked away along the Strand.
But I didn't say a word, as the train time-table blurred close behind the taxi stand. Saw her face in the tear-drop black cab window. Fading in the traffic; watched her go. And taking in the morning, heard myself singing - O Requiem. Here I go again. It's the same old story.
Well, I saw a bird today - I looked aside and walked away along the Strand.
A one, two, three. There's a haze on the skyline, to wish me on my way - And there's a note on the telephone - some roses on a tray. And the motorway's stretching right out to us all, as I pull on my old wings - One White Duck on your wall. Isn't it just too damn real? One White Duck on your wall. One Duck on your wall.
I'll catch a ride on your violin - strung upon your bow. And I'll float on your melody - sing your chorus soft and low. There's a picture-view postcard to say that I called. You can see from the fireplace, One White Duck on your wall. Isn't it just too damn real? One White Duck on your wall. One Duck on your wall.
So fly away Peter and fly away Paul - from the finger-tip ledge of contentment. The long restless rustle of high heel boots calls. And I'm probably bound to deceive you after all. Something must be wrong with me and my brain - if I'm so patently unrewarding. But my dreams are for dreaming and best left that way - and my zero to your power of ten equals nothing at all.
There's no double-lock defense; there's no chain on my door. And I'm available for consultation, But remember your way in is also my way out, and love's four-letter word is no compensation.
Well, I'm the Black Ace dog handler: I'm a waiter on skates - so don't you jump to your foreskin conclusion - Because I'm up to my deaf ears in cold breakfast trays - To be cleared before I can dine on your sweet Sunday lunch confusion.
Windy bus-stop. Click. Shop-window. Heel. Shady gentleman. Fly-button. Feel. In the underpass, the blind man stands. With cold flute hands. Symphony match-seller, breath out of time. You can call me on another line. Indian restaurants that curry my brain. Newspaper warriors changing the names they
advertise from the station stand. With cold print hands. Symphony word-player, I'll be your headline. If you catch me another time.
Didn't make her --- with my Baker Street Ruse. Couldn't shake her --- with my Baker Street Bruise. Like to take her --- but I'm just a Baker Street Muse.
Ale-spew, puddle-brew --- boys, throw it up clean. Coke and Bacardi colours them green. From the typing pool goes the mini-skirted princess with great finesse. Fertile earth-mother, your burial mound is fifty feet down in the Baker Street underground. (What the hell!) Walking down the gutter thinking, ``How the hell am I today?'' Well, I didn't really ask you but thanks all the same.
The tiger flashes sharpened teeth. Bowler-hatted; summer briefs Beneath his pinstriped skin.
To kill demands a business sense; Economy moves non-residence Approaching from down-wind.
Being a tiger means you laugh Whenever lesser tigers have To eat meat that's infected.
Being a tiger means your mate When overfed will defecate In places least expected.
Knowing a tiger means you must Accept his promise of mutual trust And offer him your throat.
Loving a tiger means you take Second place to the cake you bake And with undying servile obedience keep the stiffly starched collar of his conference shirt spotless and remove daily the daubed bloody evidence of his dastardly misdeeds from the otherwise immaculate elegance of his pinstripe tiger coat.
The tiger flashes sharpened teeth. Bowler-hatted; summer briefs Beneath his pinstriped skin.
To kill demands a business sense; Economy moves non-residence Approaching from down-wind.
Being a tiger means you laugh Whenever lesser tigers have To eat meat that's infected.
Being a tiger means your mate When overfed will defecate In places least expected.
Knowing a tiger means you must Accept his promise of mutual trust And offer him your throat.
Loving a tiger means you take Second place to the cake you bake And with undying servile obedience keep the stiffly starched collar of his conference shirt spotless and remove daily the daubed bloody evidence of his dastardly misdeeds from the otherwise immaculate elegance of his pinstripe tiger coat.
