A friend gifted me a login for his live streamed show at the Barbican a few weeks ago. I knew very little about him, and my girlfriend and I sat down to watch expecting mainly acousticy folk songs. When he finished singing this song acapella, we both just sat in silence, absolutely gob-smacked for a few moments. Absolutely incredible performance. Intense is the right word. Just incredibly, incredibly intense. Amazing!
Riding through Yorkshire, we come upon the ghost of a tree at Buttertubs Pass Golden and green, flapping its leaves, Though it is win’er and there is no breeze. Seven little sparrows pale as soldiers Hopping in amongst the curling boughs Then comes a shout from one of our party Old Albert Bousefield’s fallen down a hole Hope upon hope, fastened to a rope Not able-o-ascertain how deep it goes. “Albert can you hear me? Make a sound! If you can’t make a sound then clap two stones” Leaving behind our friend in the lime pit We hurry on in quiet dread Into the fog, smothering the Dales The raindrops are falling like the bars of a jail Buried in the arsehole of the world A row of burned out huts we made our beds Lying awake looking up through the black wooden beams I can see the Milky Way Comes there a scream out of the sky A great ball of fire goes hurtling by Everyone’s awake now. What the hell is happening today? It’s all so queer Rising at dawn to find Thomas Knox has not from his sleep been summoned forth Face like a mask, fixed in a gasp, We wrap him in blankets and we cover him with grass Onward with our journey through Tow Low Over Headley Hill, past Hanging Stone Called on an inn to fill our bellies With dark bloody meat and sour black beer There we were warned never to stray Far from the road through Kayo Bog Several of the children from the village Disappeared last month without a trace Three hours later we go in single file through a maze of moaning soil Reeking of dung, droning of flies The moss on the trees glows as we pass by There is something awful alive in this place We are most relieved to leave behind The moon is a peach in the brown fields of Kibblesworth It won’t be long 'til we get home Cramp in our guts, bile in our throats Mischief undulating through our bones Suddenly the city lights around us Disappearing up into the clouds Seven little sparrows pale as soldiers Hopping in amongst the curling boughs
