The Ghost of a Tree - Richard Dawson



     
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The Ghost of a Tree Lyrics


Riding through Yorkshire,
we come upon the ghost of a tree at Buttertubs Pass
Golden and green, flapping its leaves,
Though it is winter and there is no breeze.
Seven little sparrows pale as soldiers
Hopping in amongst the curling boughsThen 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 to 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 bedsLying 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 queerRising 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 Law
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 traceThree 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 behindThe 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
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Enjoy the lyrics !!!

A much-loved musical spectacle in his native Newcastle for many years now, Richard Dawson is a skewed troubadour who sings and plays guitar with a rare intensity and a very singular style. Dawson’s music is a collision of opposites, his hoarsely cracking voice suddenly rising to a magical soar that’s been compared to Tim Buckley, John Martyn and Richard Youngs, while his battered acoustic guitar veers from stumble to sublime in a way that can recall Sir Richard Bishop or Captain Beefheart, add this to his snaring way with words and Dawson’s got you pinned.

Richard Dawson on Last.fm.


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Richard Dawson