Language of the soil
(by Rosalind Brady and Simon Barron)
I took on the farm here when I was 30
I learnt alot from my Dad
He was a farmer he knew the old ways
Of course they don’t work like that now
After the rain it bleating came
We’d turn the sheaves to dry in the sun
Thorns in the crop and in your fingers
Flittered to scaddicks o that was a job
When I took on Hoodball Farm
I learnt the lay of the land
The dent of rock the scent of the earth
Tthe sun on the shining corn
And these words I say to you here
Have grown out of the Devon soil
Out of the breadth of the working people
The rhythm that rolls with the toil
A cold winter evening a fall of snow
I went up on high ground to check the sheep
The ground was covered with six inches of white
They’re in no trouble there’s fodder to eat
I looked to the west and the moon was in the southeast
Saw it like a rainbow
A snowmoonbow on the star lit woods
The wind had dropped and all was still
When I took on Hoodball Farm
I learnt the lay of the land
The dent of rock the scent of the earth
The sun on the shining corn
And these words I say to you here
Have grown out of the Devon soil
Out of the breadth of the working people
The rhythm that rolls with the toil