The Ghost Of A Tree chords by Richard Dawson
Verse 1
G
Riding through Yorkshire,
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F
G
D
we come upon the ghost of a tree
G
at Buttertop's Pass.
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Gb
Golden and green, flap in its leaves,
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Gb
Ab
though it is win ter and
Gb
there is no breeze.
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G
Seven little sparrows,
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G
D
pale as soldiers
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Ab
F#
Hopping in amongst the
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F#
curling boughs
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D
Then comes a shout
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Ab
from one of our party
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Gb
Ab
Old Albert Bow sfield's
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fallen down a hole
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G
Am
D
Gb
Ab
Hope upon hope, fastened to a rope,
Eb
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not able to ascertain how
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Gb
deep it goes.
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Alba, can you hear me?
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Gb
Make a sound,
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Gb
G
if you can't make a sound,
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Gb
Ab
Gb
then clap to stones.
Am
Leaving behind our friend
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F
in the lime pit,
Am
we hurry on in quiet dread.
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Am
Into the fog, smothering the dales,
Am
the raindrops are falling
like the bars of a jail.
D
Ab
F#
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F
For it in the arsehole of the world
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A row of burnt out hoists
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F
we made our beds
F
Lying awake,
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F#
looking up through the black wooden beams
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F
Am
I can see the Milky Way
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Am
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Comes there a scream
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Gb
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out of the sky
Am
D
G
A great ball of fire goes
Am
hurtling by
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Am
Everyone's awake now,
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Gb
what the hell is happening today?
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E
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Am
Gb
It's all so queer
Abm
Am
C
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C
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C
We
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D
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Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
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F#
Rising at dawn to find Thomas Knox
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Will not from his sleep be
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summoned forth
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Am
Faced like a mask, fixed in a gasp,
we wrap him in blankets
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Am
and we cover him with grass
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Onward with our journey through Taolo
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and over Headley Hill
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D
Am
F
past Hanging Stone
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F
Cold on an end to fill our bellies
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with dark bloody meat
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Am
and sour black beer
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Am
F
There we were warned
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never to stray,
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G
far from the road
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Am
through Kyo Bog
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F
Several of the children
from the village
disappeared last month
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Gb
D
without a trace
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Eb
Ab
Three hours later we go in single file
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Ab
Gb
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through a maze of moaning soil
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Gb
Reeking of dung, droning of flies
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Gb
The moss on the trees
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glows as we pass by
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G
There is something awful alive
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D
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in this place
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We are most relieved
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to leave behind
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The moon is a peach
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in the brown fields of Kibblesworth
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It won't be long till we get home
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Cramping our guts,
Biling our throats,
Mischief undulating through our bones.
Suddenly the city lights around us,
Disappearing up into the clouds.
Seven little sparrows, pale as soldiers
Hopping in amongst the curling bars
Bye!
The Ghost Of A Tree
Richard Dawson
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