...is an astonishing album with lyrics like...
What would it leave me, if I was to go,
Like Jacob of old, to the well of the world,
To wax halls where candles burn on through the day,
To light you a path so you'd never lose your way,
I was down in the valley, where the shadows are long,
The birds in the Harp Tree, were singing this song,
There is time to deliver, time to receive,
All that you're lacking, of whatever you need,
Turn around, by the by,
You'll still see the sea,
As it was in the dawning,
As it always will be,
Raise up your bottles and drink down the blood,
You planted the vine here, in spite of the flood,
Turn an ear to the Harp Tree, an eye to the wall,
The songs in the singing, or nowhere at all,
Nowhere to come from, no place to retire,
No shelter nowhere, except in the fire,
The birds in the Harp Tree can finish their song,
Then rest in its branches, which is where they belong,
But where can a man go, that's sweet to his soul,
When his time is not ready, but he's still turning old,
Here's a dram for the piper, and a tune for his lady,
Outside the thin wall, the waves are still raging,
Here's on for the Harp Tree, and one for it's song,
One for the morning, when the night was to long,
Her's one for the candle, that lights you to bed,
And one for the sword, that hangs over your head,
Robert Hunter
What would it leave me, if I was to go,
Like Jacob of old, to the well of the world,
To wax halls where candles burn on through the day,
To light you a path so you'd never lose your way,
I was down in the valley, where the shadows are long,
The birds in the Harp Tree, were singing this song,
There is time to deliver, time to receive,
All that you're lacking, of whatever you need,
Turn around, by the by,
You'll still see the sea,
As it was in the dawning,
As it always will be,
Raise up your bottles and drink down the blood,
You planted the vine here, in spite of the flood,
Turn an ear to the Harp Tree, an eye to the wall,
The songs in the singing, or nowhere at all,
Nowhere to come from, no place to retire,
No shelter nowhere, except in the fire,
The birds in the Harp Tree can finish their song,
Then rest in its branches, which is where they belong,
But where can a man go, that's sweet to his soul,
When his time is not ready, but he's still turning old,
Here's a dram for the piper, and a tune for his lady,
Outside the thin wall, the waves are still raging,
Here's on for the Harp Tree, and one for it's song,
One for the morning, when the night was to long,
Her's one for the candle, that lights you to bed,
And one for the sword, that hangs over your head,
Robert Hunter
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