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From a BBC Late Show Feat. Roots Based
Artists.
I was nineteen when I came to town, they
called it the Summer of Love
They were burning babies, burning flags. The
hawks against the doves
I took a job in the steamie down on Cauldrum
Street
And I fell in love with a laundry girl who
was working next to me
Oh she was a rare thing, fine as a bee's wing
So fine a breath of wind might blow her away
She was a lost child, oh she was running wild
She said "As long as there's no price on
love, I'll stay.
And you wouldn't want me any other way"
Brown hair zig-zag around her face and a look
of half-surprise
Like a fox caught in the headlights, there
was animal in her eyes
She said "Young man, oh can't you see I'm not
the factory kind
If you don't take me out of here I'll surely
lose my mind"
Oh she was a rare thing, fine as a bee's wing
So fine that I might crush her where she lay
She was a lost child, she was running wild
She said "As long as there's no price on
love, I'll stay.
And you wouldn't want me any other way"
We busked around the market towns and picked
fruit down in Kent
And we could tinker lamps and pots and knives
wherever we went
And I said that we might settle down, get a
few acres dug
Fire burning in the hearth and babies on the
rug
She said "Oh man, you foolish man, it surely
sounds like hell.
You might be lord of half the world, you'll
not own me as well"
Oh she was a rare thing, fine as a bee's wing
So fine a breath of wind might blow her away
She was a lost child, oh she was running wild
She said "As long as there's no price on
love, I'll stay.
And you wouldn't want me any other way"
We was camping down the Gower one time, the
work was pretty good
She thought we shouldn't wait for the frost
and I thought maybe we should
We was drinking more in those days and
tempers reached a pitch
And like a fool I let her run with the
rambling itch
Oh the last I heard she's sleeping rough back
on the Derby beat
White Horse in her hip pocket and a wolfhound
at her feet
And they say she even married once, a man
named Romany Brown
But even a gypsy caravan was too much
settling down
And they say her flower is faded now, hard
weather and hard booze
But maybe that's just the price you pay for
the chains you refuse
Oh she was a rare thing, fine as a bee's wing
And I miss her more than ever words could say
If I could just taste all of her wildness now
If I could hold her in my arms today
Well I wouldn't want her any other way
Tags : Richard Thompson Beeswing Anne Briggs |
