Live from The White Hotel

A clear winters morning The sky a pale blue I still see the crescent, waining moon The tree boughs are creaking, Cold dew on the ground The chimney smoke rising, In whisp’d white clouds Unearthly twilight, On path’s crimson gold The last breath of summer, Clinging through the gloom The crow is cawing, With carrion song And I hear the songbird Of this November dawn

A changeling born of Burslem town, She shunned her mother in favour of sow, Upon her shoulder her familiar crow, Of Molly Leigh, so the story goes She’d make her ways up and down the streets, With a cart of hay and soured milk, Past the whispers of rumours rife, Don’t cross Molly Leigh or she’ll witch thee The reverend could stand Molly no more, With a gut full of ale he duly swore, “I will not rest til I see her hang, For am I not a Christian man” And as he said these fateful words, A crow did caw and the ale turned, The reverend cried in agony, “I swear that witch has poisoned me” When he rose from his bed a month had passed The crone was no more he’d missed his chance To his surprise he found she had not hanged Instead interred in holy ground “Damn the fool priest Damn Molly leigh I swear to the Lord this shall not be I will prize the lid of your hell bound tomb And drive a stake to the heart of thee” In the Yard of St John’s All Hallows Eve We sing these words as summons to thee In the hopes you may someday find peace Oh I ask you won’t you play with me Molly Leigh, Molly Leigh, You can’t catch me, Chase me round the old apple tree Molly Leigh, Molly Leigh, You shan’t catch me, Chase me down all the holes I can see, Chase me down all the holes I can see

Though I know not what I am held before I know It is not the one you call Lord No holy lamb’s blood, no cross, no crown No god, no master, just cold hard ground Baptised at thirteen and submerged for my sin To keep the man quiet, have my path begin For the scripture you teach I cannot believe To you it’s divine and to me it’s false pride Every young Sunday, marched up to your door Away from the joys of play and of love Redemptional hymns drone through the halls, Rejoicing in songs of eternal life I would see the flock tremble and shiver and shake Arms outstretched, for their miracle day With heads bowed low, the coffers would fill Part not with your pennies, All love should be free Plant a new seed And worship free, Let the Earth and Trees, Bring comfort to thee No trumpet will call No saviour will rise Let the Earth and Trees Bring comfort to thee

There was three kings into the east, Three kings both great and high, And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die. They took a plough and plough'd him down, Put clods upon his head, And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn was dead. But the chearful Spring came kindly on, And show'rs began to fall; John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surpris'd them all. The sultry suns of Summer came, And he grew thick and strong, His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, That no one should him wrong. The sober Autumn enter'd mild, When he grew wan and pale; His bending joints and drooping head Show'd he began to fail. His colour sicken'd more and more, He faded into age; And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage. They've taken a weapon, long and sharp, And cut him by the knee; Then ty'd him fast upon a cart, Like a rogue for forgerie. They laid him down upon his back, And cudgell'd him full sore; They hung him up before the storm, And turn'd him o'er and o'er. They filled up a darksome pit With water to the brim; They heaved in John Barleycorn, There let him sink or swim. They laid him out upon the floor, To work him farther woe; And still, as signs of life appear'd, They toss'd him to and fro. They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, The marrow of his bones; But a miller us'd him worst of all, For he crush'd him between two stones. And they hae taen his very heart's blood, And drank it round and round; And still the more and more they drank, Their joy did more abound. 'Twill make a man forget his woe; 'Twill heighten all his joy; 'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, Tho' the tear were in her eye. Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand!