I've not heard this in a while, so it gave me a excuse to play it and work/write it out.


The Lark

I heard a lark, in flight and song
and I looked and listened as I walked along
I asked her what vision inspired her sweet lilt
in terrain hardly barren and hardly yet built
and she told me what she sang of...

She sang of a river though barely a stream
by which bluebells and heather and winberry teem
near an old mill where trout are there to be seen
and its banks that boast myriads of yellows and greens
and folk come with guns to shoot heron...

Then my songstress sang of the village of Delph
with a tune so enchanting I warbled myself
of dwellings so rustric and pastoral they calm
so contented, so restful, so peaceful, so warm
where folk come to get drunk on Whit Friday...

Then she sang of a meadow by a river of sorts
where her 26 men fought a battle in shorts
without effort, she to her fair altitude soared
then she dropped like a stone and she whistled the score
screaming 'Saddleworth, that's not enough'...

But when she gave me the sad tones of High Moor
Of the fly-tipping sites, well her throat warbled sore
an' t'wasn't only the eye-sore that burgled her breath
t'was the sound of a slug as it heralded death
but larks still sings on High Moor...