Song of the Scythe

I was three spires south of Minster

When the marshland ceased to moan

And my grief became a garland

And her death a dovecote

And the hoodeners start their reincarnation act of their play

And the reaper strikes the whetstone

For the sharpening of his blade

"Swing away, the fallow years away"

Sings the beheaded land

To the dying of the day

To the dying of the day

To the dying of the day