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.
|
|
-----------------
|
Heavy Horses (Edited Version)
|
Jethro Tull |