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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 lover's 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. Greetings 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.
Have you seen Jack-In-The-Green? With his long tail hanging down. He quietly sits 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 snowdrops 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 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 you 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 mistlethrush is coming. Jack, put out the light.
May I make my fond excuses for the lateness of the hour, but we accept your invitation, and we 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 lay will heed the song that calls them back. Pass the word and pass the lady, pass the plate to all who hunger. Pass the wit of ancient wisdom, 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 that show the sun its 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, pass the plate to all who hunger. Pass the wit of ancient wisdom, 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 lay will heed this song that calls them back. Pass the word and pass the lady, pass the plate to all who hunger. Pass the wit of ancient wisdom, 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 spurnecks the size of my thumb. This highborn 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 discreet. 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 a line. Ring out these bells. Ring out, ring solstice bells. Ring solstice bells. Join together beneath the mistletoe. By the holy oak whereon it grows. Seven druids dance in seven time. Sing the song the bells call, loudly chiming. Ring out these bells. Ring out, ring solstice bells. Ring 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 chiming. Ring out those bells. Ring out, ring solstice bells. Ring solstice bells. Ring on, ring out. Ring on, ring out.
Walking on velvet green. Scots pine growing. Isn't it rare to be taking the air, singing. 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 girls 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, singing. 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 sun-sets 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.
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.
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 the body. I'll sit easy … fan the spark kindled by the dying embers of another working day. Go upstairs … take off your makeup 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.
Lyrics: © Chrysalis Records Ltd., London, UK, 1977 - All Rights
Too Old To Rock 'n'Roll: Too Young To Die!
Repeat: The Best Of Jethro Tull - Vol.II