Iron-clad feather-feet pounding the dust
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An October's day, towards evening
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Sweat embossed veins standing proud to the plough
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Salt on a deep chest seasoning
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Last of the line at an honest day's toil
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Turning the deep sod under
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Flint at the fetlock, chasing the bone
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Flies at the nostrils plunder.
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The Suffolk, the Clydesdale, the Percheron vie
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with the Shire on his feathers floating
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Hauling soft timber into the dusk
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to bed on a warm straw coating.
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Heavy Horses, move the land under me
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Behind the plough gliding --- slipping and sliding free
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Now you're down to the few
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And there's no work to do
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The tractor's on its way.
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Let me find you a filly for your proud stallion seed
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to keep the old line going.
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And we'll stand you abreast at the back of the wood
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behind the young trees growing
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To hide you from eyes that mock at your girth,
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and your eighteen hands at the shoulder
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And one day when the oil barons have all dripped dry
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and the nights are seen to draw colder
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They'll beg for your strength, your gentle power
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your noble grace and your bearing
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And you'll strain once again to the sound of the gulls
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in the wake of the deep plough, sharing.
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Standing like tanks on the brow of the hill
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Up into the cold wind facing
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In stiff battle harness, chained to the world
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Against the low sun racing
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Bring me a wheel of oaken wood
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A rein of polished leather
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A Heavy Horse and a tumbling sky
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Brewing heavy weather.
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Bring a song for the evening
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Clean brass to flash the dawn
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across these acres glistening
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like dew on a carpet lawn
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In these dark towns folk lie sleeping
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as the heavy horses thunder by
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to wake the dying city
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with the living horseman's cry
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At once the old hands quicken ---
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bring pick and wisp and curry comb ---
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thrill to the sound of all
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the heavy horses coming home.
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Heavy Horses
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Jethro Tull |