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Heavy horsesBy jethro tullIron-clad feather-feet pounding the dustOn october's day, towards eveningSweat embossed veins standing proud to the ploughSalt on a deep chest, seasoningLast of the line at an honest day's toilTurning the deep sod underFlint at the fetlock, chasing the boneFlies at the nostrils plunder.The suffolk, the clydesdale, the percheron vieWith the shire on his feathers floatingHauling soft timber into the duskTo bed on a warm straw coating.Heavy horses, move the land under meBehind the plough gliding --- slipping and sliding freeNow you're down to the fewAnd there's no work to doThe tractor's on it's way.Let me find you a filly for your proud stallion seedTo keep the old line going.And we'll stand you abreast at the back of the woodsBehind the young trees growingTo hide you from eyes that mock at your girth,You're eighteen hands at the shoulderAnd one day when the oil barons have all dripped dryAnd the nights are seen to draw colderThey'll beg for your strength, your gentle powerYour noble grace and your bearingAnd you'll strain once again to the sound of the gullsIn the wake of the deep plough, sharing.Standing like tanks on the brow of the hillUp into the cold wind facingIn stiff battle harness, chained to the worldAgainst the low sun racingBring me a wheel of oaken woodA rein of polished leatherA heavy horse and a tumbling skyBrewing heavy weather.Bring a song for the eveningClean brass to flash the dawnAcross these acres glisteningLike dew on a carpet lawnIn these dark towns folk lie sleepingAs the heavy horses thunder byTo wake the dying cityWith the living horseman's cryAt once the old hands quicken ---Bring pick and wisp and curry comb ---Thrill to the sound of allThe heavy horses coming home.Iron-clad feather-feet pounding the dustOn october's day, towards eveningSweat embossed veins standing proud to the ploughSalt on a deep chest, seasoningBring me a wheel of oaken woodA rein of polished leatherA heavy horse and a tumbling skyBrewing heavy weather.Heavy horses, move the land under meBehind the plough gliding --- slipping and sliding freeNow you're down to the fewAnd there's no work to doThe tractor's on it's way.
Heavy horsesBy jethro tullIron-clad feather-feet pounding the dustOn october's day, towards eveningSweat embossed veins standing proud to the ploughSalt on a deep chest, seasoningLast of the line at an honest day's toilTurning the deep sod underFlint at the fetlock, chasing the boneFlies at the nostrils plunder.The suffolk, the clydesdale, the percheron vieWith the shire on his feathers floatingHauling soft timber into the duskTo bed on a warm straw coating.Heavy horses, move the land under meBehind the plough gliding --- slipping and sliding freeNow you're down to the fewAnd there's no work to doThe tractor's on it's way.Let me find you a filly for your proud stallion seedTo keep the old line going.And we'll stand you abreast at the back of the woodsBehind the young trees growingTo hide you from eyes that mock at your girth,You're eighteen hands at the shoulderAnd one day when the oil barons have all dripped dryAnd the nights are seen to draw colderThey'll beg for your strength, your gentle powerYour noble grace and your bearingAnd you'll strain once again to the sound of the gullsIn the wake of the deep plough, sharing.Standing like tanks on the brow of the hillUp into the cold wind facingIn stiff battle harness, chained to the worldAgainst the low sun racingBring me a wheel of oaken woodA rein of polished leatherA heavy horse and a tumbling skyBrewing heavy weather.Bring a song for the eveningClean brass to flash the dawnAcross these acres glisteningLike dew on a carpet lawnIn these dark towns folk lie sleepingAs the heavy horses thunder byTo wake the dying cityWith the living horseman's cryAt once the old hands quicken ---Bring pick and wisp and curry comb ---Thrill to the sound of allThe heavy horses coming home.Iron-clad feather-feet pounding the dustOn october's day, towards eveningSweat embossed veins standing proud to the ploughSalt on a deep chest, seasoningBring me a wheel of oaken woodA rein of polished leatherA heavy horse and a tumbling skyBrewing heavy weather.Heavy horses, move the land under meBehind the plough gliding --- slipping and sliding freeNow you're down to the fewAnd there's no work to doThe tractor's on it's way.
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