I can't believe that it's so cold
And there ain't been no snow.
The sound of music it comes to me
From every place I go.
Sunday morning, there's no one in church,
But the clergy's chosen man
And he is fine I won't worry about him.
Got the book in his hand.
Oh, there's a bitter east wind, and the fields are swaying,
The crows are round their nests.
I wonder what he's in there saying
To all those souls at rest.
I see the path which lead to the door,
And the clergy's chosen man.
Bushes and briars
You and I,
Where do we stand?
I wonder if he knows I'm here,
Watching the briars grow.
And all these people beneath my shoes,
I wonder if they know.
There was a time when every last one,
Knew a clergy's chosen man.
Where are they now?
Thistles and thorns,
Among the sand.
I can't believe that it's so cold
And there ain't been no snow.
The sound of music it comes to me
From every place I go.
Sunday morning, there's no one in church,
But the clergy's chosen man
Bushes and briars,
Thistles and thorns
Upon the land.