Corvin Thorne

The Bishop lost his finest mare
Upon a Sunday night,
And swore before the morning prayers
He'd have the matter right.

He called the watch, he called the clerk,
He called the magistrate,
And said, "If she is not returned,
Someone shall rue the date!"

Oh, bring the mare and ring the bell,
And let the honest people tell
How every man in all the town
Was innocent until found out!

So raise a glass and drink your fill,
The truth is somewhere on the hill,
And if the Bishop wants his horse,
He'd best go ask the horse, of course!

The magistrate produced a man
Whose boots were caked in mud,
The fellow swore he'd spent the night
With cousins by the flood.

The cousins swore they'd never met,
Their mother swore they had,
And then the clerk declared the mud
Was surely very bad.

Oh, bring the mare and ring the bell,
And let the honest people tell
How every man in all the town
Was innocent until found out!

So raise a glass and drink your fill,
The truth is somewhere on the hill,
And if the Bishop wants his horse,
He'd best go ask the horse, of course!

The watchman claimed he'd seen a priest
Ride swiftly through the gate,
The priest declared he'd been asleep
And surely couldn't skate.

The clerk explained the gate was shut,
The keeper said it wasn't,
And half the town produced a tale
Of someone's distant cousin.

"Who saw the horse?" "Not I, my lord!"
"Who took the reins?" "Upon my word!"
"Who left the gate?" "That wasn't me!"
"Then where's the mare?" "Behind that tree!"

They found her in the orchard,
Where the Bishop's apples grew,
And standing by her side there was
A foal of chestnut hue.

The Bishop stared, the clerk turned red,
The magistrate looked sore,
For she had never been away —
They'd missed her near the door!

Oh, bring the mare and ring the bell,
There's not a thief in town to tell!
The magistrate may close the case,
The Bishop's lost a little face!

So raise a glass and drink your fill,
The truth was waiting on the hill,
And if the Bishop wants his horse,
He'd best go ask the horse, of course!

And the foal was named His Reverence.

There was a room above the stairs
Where winter couldn't stay,
A little fire, a wooden chair,
And songs to end the day.

She brought me bread and mulled red wine,
And laughed to hear me sing,
And said she'd wait until the roads
Were opened in the spring.

So leave a candle in the window,
Leave a little light for me,
For every road that takes me farther
Brings me back to what could be.

And if the winter finds me wandering,
And the years have taken flight,
Keep the room above the stairs
For one more night.

The second year her father smiled
And said she'd gone to town,
To work a season by the river
Where the barges travel down.

The third he said she'd written once,
The fourth he said no more,
And every year the room grew colder
Though the fire burned as before.

So leave a candle in the window,
Leave a little light for me,
For every road that takes me farther
Brings me back to what could be.

And if the winter finds me wandering,
And the years have taken flight,
Keep the room above the stairs
For one more night.

The fifth year brought another keeper,
Who scarcely knew her name,
The sixth a painted sign above
A doorway much the same.

And when I asked about her father,
They told me he had died,
And all his books and little treasures
Had been carried out beside.

I found a letter in the mantel,
Folded twice and stained with smoke.
It bore my name in faded ink,
And this was all she wrote:

"I waited through the springtime rain,
I waited through the fall,
But there are roads that lead away
And roads that never call.

If ever you should sing again
Of all the places passed,
Remember there was once a room
Where you were meant to last."

So leave a candle in the window,
Though no one waits for me,
For every road that took me farther
Took the life that might have been.

And if the winter finds me wandering,
And the years have taken flight,
I'll remember that old room
Above the stairs tonight.

I left the inn at half past nine,
With rain upon my coat,
The keeper said, "The road is fine,
But mind the thirteenth post."

I laughed and paid another penny,
Took the western road,
And met a man beside the ditch
Who carried not a load.

He wore a coat of Sunday black,
His boots were clean and dry,
He asked me where the road led on,
And looked me in the eye.

"To Harrowgate," I said to him,
"If weather lets me through."
He smiled and said, "I've walked this way
Since all these roads were new."

Oh, the road is long, the night is deep,
And promises are hard to keep.
If a stranger knows the way you've come,
Best ask him where he's from.

For the mileposts lie, the torches fail,
And every traveller has a tale.
But some who walk the Fallow road
Have nowhere left to go.

He knew the name my mother bore,
The village where I grew,
He knew the winter I was born,
And every debt I knew.

I asked him how he came by these,
He answered with a grin,
"One learns a great deal standing near
The doors men won't go in."

We reached the stone at mile thirteen,
Where no more torches stood.
He stopped beside an ancient tree
That leaned above the wood.

"Before we part," he said to me,
"I've one thing left to know:
Why did the keeper bar his door
The moment you did go?"

Oh, the road is long, the night is deep,
And promises are hard to keep.
If a stranger knows the way you've come,
Best ask him where he's from.

For the mileposts lie, the torches fail,
And every traveller has a tale.
But some who walk the Fallow road
Have nowhere left to go.

I said, "You've mistaken me, good sir."
He said, "Perhaps I have."
Then drew a little silver bell
From somewhere in his coat.
And when he rang it once,
I heard behind me
The footsteps of thirteen men.

At morning they found thirteen prints
Beside the western mile,
A coat upon an empty branch,
A bell beneath a stile.

And at the inn a stranger came
With rain upon his coat,
Who paid a penny for his ale
And asked about the road.

Go north out of Harrowgate when the market's done,
Past the Priorgate lamps and the setting sun,
And you'll count them, the lamps, as the road climbs on —
Every gate and every staithe with a light upon.

And who keeps them burning in the middle of the day?
The parish pays the oil, and the parish will not say;
But a carter told me once with his hand upon the rein:
"Count the lamps going out, lad, and count them home again."

For there's always a last lit place on the road,
A lane end, a gate, where a lamp is owed;
And the man who goes past it at the fall of the day
Had better know the reason, or had better stay.

I met a young drover by the Ketton Gate,
With his flock bound north and the hour grown late;
He laughed at the lamp, and he laughed at me,
And he went on past it, where no lamps be.

For there's always a last lit place on the road,
A lane end, a gate, where a lamp is owed;
And the man who goes past it at the fall of the day
Had better know the reason, or had better stay.

In the spring they found the flock on the High Wold side,
All grazing quiet, with the fold gate wide;
And the lamp at the lane end was burning still —
But there's one lamp more now, up on Gant Fell hill.

For there's always a last lit place on the road,
A lane end, a gate, where a lamp is owed;
And the man who goes past it at the fall of the day
Had better know the reason, or had better stay.

She kept the fold at Thwaite Head where the hiring gossip goes,
And I came down for the clip one June with the dust upon my clothes;
She sold me bread and a bed of straw and a look I can't forget,
And I said I'd come by Martinmas — and I've not come back yet.

So keep a lamp for me, my love, where the fold gate meets the snow,
For the passes close in November, and a man can't always go;
The road is long, and the road is cold, and it takes more than it gives,
But I'll come down by Thwaite Head again, as long as the fiddler lives.

I've sung in the inn at Rigg Head where they clear the long room down,
I've sung by the meres at the reed-men's fires, and in every market town;
And every room that bid me stay, and every lass who'd smile,
I sang them all the song of you, and walked another mile.

So keep a lamp for me, my love, where the fold gate meets the snow,
For the passes close in November, and a man can't always go;
The road is long, and the road is cold, and it takes more than it gives,
But I'll come down by Thwaite Head again, as long as the fiddler lives.

They say the snow lay early on the Wold this year gone by,
And the high road shut by October beneath a leaden sky;
If you've wed a grazier's son, my love, I'll not lay it to your blame —
Just leave the lamp at the fold gate lit, and I'll know you all the same.

So keep a lamp for me, my love, where the fold gate meets the snow,
For the passes close in November, and a man can't always go;
The road is long, and the road is cold, and it takes more than it gives,
But I'll come down by Thwaite Head again, as long as the fiddler lives.

A London clerk come up the March with a satchel and a plan,
To cross the meres to Redmarsh as cheap as any man;
Says the ferrylord, "A penny, sir, to carry you across,"
Says the clerk, "I'll wade it, thank you — it's a shallow sort of moss."

With a penny to go over and a penny to come back,
And a penny for the reed rights and a penny for your pack;
Oh, the cheapest road in the fen country is the one you never take,
So pay the ferrylord his penny, sir, for your own dear sake!

He waded in to his ankles and he waded to his knee,
He waded to his waistcoat, where the eels come up to see;
And the ferrylord rowed alongside with his pipe and his oar at rest:
"It's tuppence now to pull you out, sir — and a penny for the vest."

With a penny to go over and a penny to come back,
And a penny for the reed rights and a penny for your pack;
Oh, the cheapest road in the fen country is the one you never take,
So pay the ferrylord his penny, sir, for your own dear sake!

He's paid the pull, he's paid the vest, he's paid to dry his hat,
He's paid a toll on the reed he grabbed, and a penny for the cat;
And he come to Redmarsh in the dark with one boot and his shirt,
Eleven pence the poorer and a stone the more of dirt!

With a penny to go over and a penny to come back,
And a penny for the reed rights and a penny for your pack;
Oh, the cheapest road in the fen country is the one you never take,
So pay the ferrylord his penny, sir, for your own dear sake!

Now the moral, friends, is simple, and I'll sing it soft and slow:
There's water here that's owned by men, and water that is not, you know;
And the penny's not for the rowing, sir, nor the reed, nor the cat, nor the boat —
The penny's for the one beneath, that lets you stay afloat.

With a penny to go over and a penny to come back,
And a penny for the reed rights and a penny for your pack;
Oh, the cheapest road in the fen country is the one you never take,
So pay the ferrylord his penny, sir, for your own dear sake!