The Singing Of England

Once upon a time, in a land far away, a young man dreamed a dream. He dared not to speak of this dream so wrote down the words in a song. From time to time during his life he glimpsed little scenes from this dream - cycling down a country road, hearing the birds sing at dawn, stumbling through an old tune on the squeezebox or maybe watching the joyous steps of the GogMagog Molly Dancers - and the dusty words of that song floated up into his mind for a while and waltzed in the sunlight..... 

The Singing Of England

Come you young men, come you girls of the springtime,

Come hand in hand across the green land

To greet this new day with the music of singing,

The valley so wide and the mountains so grand.

The troubles and fuss of the times we are born in

We'll lay to one side and let them pass by,

Crawl out from your sleeping bag on this bright morning

For the lark she is risen into the blue sky.

To the clattering and rattling of rusty old pushbikes,

To the plod of our walking boots as the day starts

With dust on our faces, who cares what we look like

The music of England will rise from our hearts.

There's mouth-organ music and melodious melodeons,

There's Tom the mad fiddler with never a care,

Little tin whistles and thumping great accordions

And best of all dancers with steps light as air.

Once long ago you well could have found us

All in the tall cities of England the green,

But now that we've seen all the beauty around us

With wide awake eyes we will sing out our dream.

The brambly briar and the wild rose of Albion,

Entangled, embracing in every hedgerow

Rejoicing, resplendent on King Arthur's Island,

Beside ancient highways we ramble and grow.

Take care.