IT’LL TAKE A LONG TIME
(By Sandy Denny. U.F.O. Music, Inc. (C) 1972)
Oh it’s like a storm at sea,
And everything is lost
And, the fretful sailors
Calling out their woes,
As to the waves they’re tossed.
Oh, they are all gentlemen,
And never will they know
If there is a reason each of them
Must go,
To join the cruel flow.
And it’ll take a long long time
It’ll take a long long time
It’ll take a long long time,
Oh it’ll take such a long long time.
There is no need for rules,
There’s no one to score the game
And there is no body
Living in this town
As even knows its name.
And it’ll take a long long time
It’ll take a long long time
It’ll take a long long time,
Long long time.
SWEET ROSEMARY
(By Sandy Denny. U.F.O. Music, Inc. (C) 1972)
My young man, oh he is so fine,
Sweet Rosemary did say.
She gathered flowers and she sang
All about her wedding day.
Oh when I was a lass at school
I looked out at the sky,
And now among the woodlands cool,
Gathering sweet primroses I.
I wish I was a little bird,
With wings that I could fly,
The I would find my own true love,
And when he’d speak then I’d be by.
My heart would flutter like the wings,
Oh, to see my own dear one.
And, pretty words I’d like to sing
All beneath the morning sun.
Oh, my young man, oh he is so fine,
Sweet Rosemary did say.
She gathered flowers and she sang
All about her wedding day.
She gathered flowers and she sang
All about her wedding day.
FOR NOBODY TO HEAR
(By Sandy Denny. U.F.O. Music, Inc. (C) 1972)
Although the flames they are so dim,
I can see them from over here.
But, this is no time to worry now,
No time to shed a tear.
The people are all smiling,
The letters are all too,
The flowers they are all arranged
And the notes they are all blue.
Where are the words to say to you,
Where do they all begin.
I should not have a lot to lose
And everything to win.
And I want you to be smiling,
I want you not to cry.
And even if I hide away,
Then you’ll get the notion why.
A symphony I learnt at school,
In pigeonholes so clear,
But it made me for to write no songs,
For nobody to hear.
And I see you are all smiling
Even in the candle light.
Just close your eyes and fall asleep,
And I think you’ll be alright.
Close your eyes and fall asleep,
And I think you’ll be alright.
TOMORROW IS A LONG TIME
(By Bob Dylan)
If today was not an endless highway,
If tonight was not a crooked trail,
If tomorrow wasn’t such a long time,
Then lonesome would mean nothing to you at all.
Yes, and only if my own true love was waiting,
And if I could hear his heart softly pounding,
Only if he was lying by me.
Then I’d lie in my bed once again.
I can’t see my reflection in the waters,
I can’t speak the sounds that show no pain,
I can’t hear the echo of my footsteps,
Or can’t remember the sound of my own name.
Yes, and only if my own true love was waiting,
And if I could hear his heart softly pounding,
Only if he was lying by me.
Then I’d lie in my bed once again.
There’s beauty in the silver, singing river,
There’s beauty in the sunrise in the sky,
But none of these and nothing else can touch the beauty
That I remember in my true love’s eyes.
Yes, and only if my own true love was waiting,
And if I could hear his heart softly pounding,
Only if he was lying by me.
Then I’d lie in my bed once again.
QUIET JOYS OF BROTHERHOOD
(By Richard Farina. Ryerson Music Publishers, Inc. (C) 1964)
As gentle tides go rolling by,
Along the salt sea strand
The colours blend and roll as one
Together in the sand.
And often do the winds entwine
Do send their distant call,
The quiet joys of brotherhood,
And love is lord of all.
The oak and weed together rise,
Along the common ground.
The mare and stallion light and dark
Have thunder in their sound.
The rainbow sign, the blended flower
Still have my heart in thrall.
The quiet joys of brotherhood,
And love is lord of all.
But man has come to plough the tide,
The oak lies on the ground.
I hear their tires in the fields,
They drive the stallion down.
The roses bleed both light and dark,
The winds do seldom call.
The running sands recall the time
When love was lord of all.
LISTEN LISTEN
(By Sandy Denny. U.F.O. Music, Inc. (C) 1972)
The young man rose his pretty face,
All for to feel the salty spray.
When storms are mustering they say
I’ll come and take you all away.
I am a traveller by trade,
I only have what I have made.
A fortune teller too they say,
And I can take you all away.
Listen, listen to him do,
He is the one who is for you.
Listen, they say,
He’ll come and take us all away.
And over there the young man stayed,
Upon on the rocks so rough and grey.
Watching the boy. Watching the day.
Thinking of how he came to be.
A young man he, he is so real,
And never more to go astray.
He is of value now they say,
And he can take himself away.
Listen, listen to him do,
He is the one who is for you.
Listen, they say,
He’ll come and take us all away.
THE LADY
(By Sandy Denny. U.F.O. Music, Inc. (C) 1972)
The lady she had a silver longue.
For to sing she said,
And maybe that’s all.
Wait for the dawn and we will have that song.
When it ends it will seem
That we hear silence fall.
The lady she had a golden heart,
For to love she said
And she did not lie.
Wait for the dawn and we’ll watch for the sun.
As we turn it will seem
To arise in the sky.
We heard that song while watching the skies,
Oh the sound it rang,
So clear through the cold.
Then silence fell and the sun did arise
On a beautiful morning of silver and gold.
BUSHES AND BRIARS (Thistles and Thorns)
(By Sandy Denny. U.F.O. Music, Inc. (C) 1972)
I can’t believe that it’s so cold
And there ain’t been no snow.
The sound of music it comes to me
>From every place I go.
Sunday morning, there’s no one in church,
But the clergy’s chosen man
And he is fine I won’t worry about him.
Got the book in his hand.
Oh, there’s a bitter east wind, and the fields are swaying,
The crows are round their nests.
I wonder what he’s in there a saying
To all those souls at rest.
I see the path which lead to the door,
And the clergy’s chosen man.
Bushes and briars,
You and I,
Where do we stand?
I wonder if he knows I’m here,
Watching the briars grow.
And all these people beneath my shoes,
I wonder if they know.
There was a time when every last one,
Knew a clergy’s chosen man.
Where are they now?
Thistles and thorns,
Among the sand.
I can’t believe that it’s so cold
And there ain’t been no snow.
The sound of music it comes to me
>From every place I go.
Sunday morning, there’s no one in church,
But the clergy’s chosen man
Bushes and briars,
Thistles and thorns
Upon the land.
IT SUITS ME WELL
(By Sandy Denny. U.F.O. Music, Inc. (C) 1972)
My name is Jan the gypsy
I travel the land.
There are no chains about me
I am me own man.
I can tell a fair old story which I’m sure ain’t no surprise
Of the places I have been, oh,
And they ain’t no lies.
I’ve never had a proper home,
Not one like yours is.
I’ve nearly always had a caravan
With ‘orses.
And I know you won’t believe me
Though it is the truth to tell
That the living it is hard, oh,
But it suits me well.
I am I traveller of the seas,
I am a sailor.
The ocean has been good to me,
She ain’t no jailor.
I can tell a fair old story which I’m sure ain’t no surprise
Of the places I have sailed, oh,
And they ain’t no lies.
I’ve never had a garden,
Or a place with windows.
I stand upon the salty deck,
And feel the wind blow.
And I know you won’t believe me
Though it is the truth to tell
That the living it is hard, oh,
But it suits me well.
My mother was a fireeater,
‘Fore she desert us.
So when I was only severn years old
I joined the circus.
And I can tell a fair old story which I’m sure ain’t no surprise
Of the places we have played, oh,
And it ain’t no lies.
I’ve never had no money,
And no hope to get none.
I can always get a penny,
When there is good reason.
And I know you won’t believe me
Though it is the truth to tell
That the living it is hard, oh,
But it suits me well.
THE MUSIC WEAVER
(By Sandy Denny. U.F.O. Music, Inc. (C) 1972)
I’m a long way from you,
I’m a long way from home.
And who cares for the feeling
Of being alone.
The notes and the words
They will always unfold
And I’m left with a manuscript
That will grow old
And the secret’s all told anyway.
So the song it is yours,
And the song it is mine.
And a cold wind it blows
Through good fortunes of time.
The hobo he leaves
When the going is bad
And the music he weaves
Is so gentle and sad.
But freedom he has anyway.
Prepared by: Paul Hosken ([email protected])
