We'll follow the old track way down to the river Through knee long dew wet grass the robes of the dusk At the pict stone we'll leave the best milk and some butter For the old god who lives in the gold barley husk Three willows there are that do grow by the river Wild magick is locked in their knotted tree roots We'll gather together and summon that wildness And dream of the Corn God's bright green barley shoots Oh honey comb maiden brown apple tree mother We call on your power and sing you Wassail Your radiant brow lights the dim days of winter The sheaves that you cradle vow bread and brown ale
And low the old Inn and the lights and the fire And the fiddler's old tune and the shuffling of feet Soon for us shall be quiet and rest and desire And to-morrow's uprising to deeds shall be sweet *
The willow spreads leaf quilts upon the dark river A summer brown hare bids the full moon farewell See there the far lights of the village are shining Where blacksmiths and bards have their own tales to tell We'll stop at the circle of stones near the river Where a bonfire is burning its embers to ash The pipes and the drums send us weaving and wheeling A dance to reflect the blue night's starry sash Oh Hazelnut gardener old man of the forest We call on your power and sing you Wassail Your radiant brow is the life of the greenwood The seeds that you sow are the heart of the ale
And low the old Inn and the lights and the fire And the fiddler's old tune and the shuffling of feet Soon for us shall be quiet and rest and desire And to-morrow's uprising to deeds shall be sweet *
We'll follow the old track away from the river To ale and good company to butter bread We'll toast at the hearthside the long days of summer And wend in the darkness our way home to bed Our Lady of Leaf Bud now stands in the shadows Her gown stained with blackberries rosehips and blood The Green Man stands proud in his crown of ripe acorns That soon shall be hidden beneath winter's hood Oh Queen of the Three Crowns oh mistletoe flower We call on your blessing and sing you Wassail The air's getting cold and the night's getting longer But the King of the Wheel spins a magical tale
And low the old Inn and the lights and the fire And the fiddler's old tune and the shuffling of feet Soon for us shall be quiet and rest and desire And to-morrow's uprising to deeds shall be sweet *Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
