Jethro Tull - Heavy Horses
Iron-clad, feather feet pounding the dust,
On 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 it’s 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 woods
Behind the young trees growing.
To hide you from eyes that mock at your girth,
You’re 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.
Iron-clad, feather feet pounding the dust,
On october’s day, towards evening.
Sweat embossed veins standing proud to the plough.
Salt on a deep chest, seasoning.
Bring me a wheel of oaken wood,
A rein of polished leather,
A heavy horse and a tumbling sky,
Brewing heavy weather.
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 it’s way.
These lyrics are copywritten by their owner.
They are posted for metaphysical reasons only.
Please read them here only.