Chords for Jon Boden singing Peter Bellamy's version of Rudyard Kipling's poem The Land.mpg
Tempo:
118.2 bpm
Chords used:
F
G
D
Ab
Eb
Tuning:Standard Tuning (EADGBE)Capo:+0fret
Start Jamming...
And Julius Fabricius, a prefect of the Weald, in the days of Diopletian, [D] owned a loam in the [Cm] field.
He called to him [F] a Hobden, Hobdemius, a Briton of the clay, saying,
What about that river bit for laying into hay?
And the [N] aged Hobden answered, I remember as a lad,
My father told your father that she wanted draining bad.
[D] And the more that you neglect her, the less [N] you'll get her clean.
Have it just as you were mined to, but if I was you, I'd drain.
So they draped it long crossways in the lavish [F] Roman style,
Still we find among the river drift their flakes of ancient tile.
And in droughty middle August, when the [Ab] bones of meadows show,
You can trace [G] the line they followed sixteen hundred years ago.
But then Julius Fabricius died, as even [F] prefects do,
And after certain centuries, Imperial Rome died too.
Then did robbers enter Britain from [Ab] across the raging main,
And our low [D] river field was won by Ogier the [F] Dane.
Well, could Ogier work his war boat?
Well, could Ogier wield his brand?
Much he knew of foaming water, not so much of farming land.
So he called to him a Hobden of the old unaltered blood,
Saying, what about that river bit?
She doesn't look [D] no good.
And the aged Hobden answered, it ain't for me to interfere,
But I've known that bit of meadow now for five and fifty years.
Have it just as you were mined to, but [E] I've proved it time on time,
If you want [F] to change their nature, you have got to give a lime.
Ogier sent his wains to Louis' thirty-hour solemn walk,
And he drew back greater fountains of the cool grey healing chalk,
And old Hobden spread his broadcast, never heeding what was it.
Which is why in cleaning ditches now and then we find a flint.
Ogier died, his sons grew English, and old Saxon was their name,
Until out of blossomed Normandy another [B] pirate came.
[Gm] Forge equiamented Britain and divided [Gb] with his men,
And our love [F] river field he gave to William of Warren.
But the brook, you know her habit, rose one stormy autumn night,
And drew back southern flitches to the banks to left and right,
And said William to his bare lips as they rode their tripping [N] rounds,
Og, what about that river bit?
The brook's got up no [Eb] bounds.
And the aged Hobden answered, take my [F] business to advise,
But you might have not what happened by the way the [Gm] valley lies.
[Eb] If you can't help back the water, you must try and save the soil,
Have it just as you've a [N] mind to, but if I was you I'd spile.
So they spiled along [F] the water course with trunks of willow trees,
And planks of elms behind the man immortal Okenese.
And when the spades of August whirl the [E] gravel beds away,
You [A] can trace their faith from fragments iron hard in iron [G] clay.
George I, Quinto, and O Sixto, I who own the river field,
I am fortified, entitled, deeds attested, signed and sealed,
Guaranteeing me [F] my assigns, my executors and heirs,
All sorts of powers and profits which are neither mine nor theirs.
I have rights of chase and warren as my dignity requires.
I can fish, but Hobden tickles.
I can shoot, but Hobden wires.
I repair, but he reopens certain gaps which men [N] allege
Have been used by every Hobden since the Hobden planted the hench.
Should I dug his morning progress or the track betraying view?
Dead man's maize dinner basket into which my [G] pheasant flew,
Confiscate his evening [N] faggot into which my conies ran,
Or summons him to judgment, I would sooner summon.
And for his dinner in the churchyard, thirty generations late,
[G] Their name was old in history when Doomsday Book was made.
And [F] the power and the piety and passion of his line
[N] Have receded, rooted, fruited in some land the law calls mine.
Not for any beast that burrows, not for any bird that [F] flies,
Would I lose his large sound counsel, Mrs.
Keen, amending I.
He is bailiff, woodsman, wheelwright, field surveyor, engineer,
And if flagrantly a [G] poacher take for me to interfere,
Of [Eb] what about that river bit I turn to him [A] again,
With Fabritius [Ab] and Ogier and William of Warren,
Have it just as you were mine to but.
And here he takes command, for [N] whoever pays the taxes,
Old Marshal denotes the land.
He called to him [F] a Hobden, Hobdemius, a Briton of the clay, saying,
What about that river bit for laying into hay?
And the [N] aged Hobden answered, I remember as a lad,
My father told your father that she wanted draining bad.
[D] And the more that you neglect her, the less [N] you'll get her clean.
Have it just as you were mined to, but if I was you, I'd drain.
So they draped it long crossways in the lavish [F] Roman style,
Still we find among the river drift their flakes of ancient tile.
And in droughty middle August, when the [Ab] bones of meadows show,
You can trace [G] the line they followed sixteen hundred years ago.
But then Julius Fabricius died, as even [F] prefects do,
And after certain centuries, Imperial Rome died too.
Then did robbers enter Britain from [Ab] across the raging main,
And our low [D] river field was won by Ogier the [F] Dane.
Well, could Ogier work his war boat?
Well, could Ogier wield his brand?
Much he knew of foaming water, not so much of farming land.
So he called to him a Hobden of the old unaltered blood,
Saying, what about that river bit?
She doesn't look [D] no good.
And the aged Hobden answered, it ain't for me to interfere,
But I've known that bit of meadow now for five and fifty years.
Have it just as you were mined to, but [E] I've proved it time on time,
If you want [F] to change their nature, you have got to give a lime.
Ogier sent his wains to Louis' thirty-hour solemn walk,
And he drew back greater fountains of the cool grey healing chalk,
And old Hobden spread his broadcast, never heeding what was it.
Which is why in cleaning ditches now and then we find a flint.
Ogier died, his sons grew English, and old Saxon was their name,
Until out of blossomed Normandy another [B] pirate came.
[Gm] Forge equiamented Britain and divided [Gb] with his men,
And our love [F] river field he gave to William of Warren.
But the brook, you know her habit, rose one stormy autumn night,
And drew back southern flitches to the banks to left and right,
And said William to his bare lips as they rode their tripping [N] rounds,
Og, what about that river bit?
The brook's got up no [Eb] bounds.
And the aged Hobden answered, take my [F] business to advise,
But you might have not what happened by the way the [Gm] valley lies.
[Eb] If you can't help back the water, you must try and save the soil,
Have it just as you've a [N] mind to, but if I was you I'd spile.
So they spiled along [F] the water course with trunks of willow trees,
And planks of elms behind the man immortal Okenese.
And when the spades of August whirl the [E] gravel beds away,
You [A] can trace their faith from fragments iron hard in iron [G] clay.
George I, Quinto, and O Sixto, I who own the river field,
I am fortified, entitled, deeds attested, signed and sealed,
Guaranteeing me [F] my assigns, my executors and heirs,
All sorts of powers and profits which are neither mine nor theirs.
I have rights of chase and warren as my dignity requires.
I can fish, but Hobden tickles.
I can shoot, but Hobden wires.
I repair, but he reopens certain gaps which men [N] allege
Have been used by every Hobden since the Hobden planted the hench.
Should I dug his morning progress or the track betraying view?
Dead man's maize dinner basket into which my [G] pheasant flew,
Confiscate his evening [N] faggot into which my conies ran,
Or summons him to judgment, I would sooner summon.
And for his dinner in the churchyard, thirty generations late,
[G] Their name was old in history when Doomsday Book was made.
And [F] the power and the piety and passion of his line
[N] Have receded, rooted, fruited in some land the law calls mine.
Not for any beast that burrows, not for any bird that [F] flies,
Would I lose his large sound counsel, Mrs.
Keen, amending I.
He is bailiff, woodsman, wheelwright, field surveyor, engineer,
And if flagrantly a [G] poacher take for me to interfere,
Of [Eb] what about that river bit I turn to him [A] again,
With Fabritius [Ab] and Ogier and William of Warren,
Have it just as you were mine to but.
And here he takes command, for [N] whoever pays the taxes,
Old Marshal denotes the land.
Key:
F
G
D
Ab
Eb
F
G
D
And Julius Fabricius, a prefect of the Weald, in the days of Diopletian, [D] owned a loam in the [Cm] field.
He called to him [F] a Hobden, Hobdemius, a Briton of the clay, saying,
What about that river bit for laying into hay?
And the [N] aged Hobden answered, I remember as a lad,
My father told your father that she wanted draining bad.
[D] And the more that you neglect her, the less [N] you'll get her clean.
Have it just as you were mined to, but if I was you, I'd drain.
_ So they draped it long crossways in the lavish [F] Roman style,
Still we find among the river drift their flakes of ancient tile.
And in droughty middle August, when the [Ab] bones of meadows show,
You can trace [G] the line they followed sixteen hundred years ago.
But then Julius Fabricius died, as even [F] prefects do,
And after certain centuries, Imperial Rome died too.
Then did robbers enter Britain from [Ab] across the raging main,
And our low [D] river field was won by _ Ogier the [F] Dane.
Well, could Ogier work his war boat?
Well, could Ogier wield his brand?
Much he knew of foaming water, not so much of farming land.
So he called to him a Hobden of the old unaltered blood,
Saying, what about that river bit?
She doesn't look [D] no good.
And the aged Hobden answered, it ain't for me to interfere,
But I've known that bit of meadow now for five and fifty years.
Have it just as you were mined to, but [E] I've proved it time on time,
If you want [F] to change their nature, you have got to give a lime.
_ Ogier sent his wains to Louis' thirty-hour solemn walk,
And he drew back greater fountains of the cool grey healing chalk,
And old Hobden spread his broadcast, never heeding what was it.
Which is why in cleaning ditches now and then we find a flint.
Ogier died, his sons grew English, and old Saxon was their name,
Until out of blossomed Normandy another [B] pirate came.
[Gm] Forge equiamented Britain and divided [Gb] with his men,
And our love [F] river field he gave to William of Warren. _
But the brook, you know her habit, rose one stormy autumn night,
And drew back southern flitches to the banks to left and right,
And said William to his bare lips as they rode their tripping [N] rounds,
Og, what about that river bit?
The brook's got up no [Eb] bounds.
And the aged Hobden answered, take my [F] business to advise,
But you might have not what happened by the way the [Gm] valley lies.
[Eb] If you can't help back the water, you must try and save the soil,
Have it just as you've a [N] mind to, but if I was you I'd spile.
So they spiled along [F] the water course with trunks of willow trees,
And planks of elms behind the man immortal Okenese.
And when the spades of August whirl the [E] gravel beds away,
You [A] can trace their faith from fragments iron hard in iron _ [G] clay.
_ George I, Quinto, and O Sixto, I who own the river field,
I am fortified, entitled, deeds attested, signed and sealed,
_ Guaranteeing me [F] my assigns, my executors and heirs,
All sorts of powers and profits which are neither mine nor theirs.
I have rights of chase and warren as my dignity requires.
I can fish, but Hobden tickles.
I can shoot, but Hobden wires.
I repair, but he reopens certain gaps which men [N] allege
Have been used by every Hobden since the Hobden planted the hench.
Should I dug his morning progress or the track betraying view?
Dead man's maize dinner basket into which my [G] pheasant flew, _
Confiscate his evening [N] faggot into which my conies ran,
Or summons him to judgment, I would sooner summon.
And for his dinner in the churchyard, thirty generations late,
[G] Their name was old in history when Doomsday Book was made.
And [F] the power and the piety and passion of his line
[N] Have receded, rooted, fruited in some land the law calls mine.
Not for any beast that burrows, not for any bird that [F] flies,
Would I lose his large sound counsel, Mrs.
Keen, amending I.
He is bailiff, woodsman, wheelwright, field surveyor, engineer,
And if flagrantly a [G] poacher take for me to interfere,
Of [Eb] what about that river bit I turn to him [A] again,
With Fabritius [Ab] and Ogier and William of Warren,
Have it just as you were mine to but.
And here he takes command, for [N] whoever pays the taxes,
Old Marshal _ denotes the _ _ land. _ _
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
He called to him [F] a Hobden, Hobdemius, a Briton of the clay, saying,
What about that river bit for laying into hay?
And the [N] aged Hobden answered, I remember as a lad,
My father told your father that she wanted draining bad.
[D] And the more that you neglect her, the less [N] you'll get her clean.
Have it just as you were mined to, but if I was you, I'd drain.
_ So they draped it long crossways in the lavish [F] Roman style,
Still we find among the river drift their flakes of ancient tile.
And in droughty middle August, when the [Ab] bones of meadows show,
You can trace [G] the line they followed sixteen hundred years ago.
But then Julius Fabricius died, as even [F] prefects do,
And after certain centuries, Imperial Rome died too.
Then did robbers enter Britain from [Ab] across the raging main,
And our low [D] river field was won by _ Ogier the [F] Dane.
Well, could Ogier work his war boat?
Well, could Ogier wield his brand?
Much he knew of foaming water, not so much of farming land.
So he called to him a Hobden of the old unaltered blood,
Saying, what about that river bit?
She doesn't look [D] no good.
And the aged Hobden answered, it ain't for me to interfere,
But I've known that bit of meadow now for five and fifty years.
Have it just as you were mined to, but [E] I've proved it time on time,
If you want [F] to change their nature, you have got to give a lime.
_ Ogier sent his wains to Louis' thirty-hour solemn walk,
And he drew back greater fountains of the cool grey healing chalk,
And old Hobden spread his broadcast, never heeding what was it.
Which is why in cleaning ditches now and then we find a flint.
Ogier died, his sons grew English, and old Saxon was their name,
Until out of blossomed Normandy another [B] pirate came.
[Gm] Forge equiamented Britain and divided [Gb] with his men,
And our love [F] river field he gave to William of Warren. _
But the brook, you know her habit, rose one stormy autumn night,
And drew back southern flitches to the banks to left and right,
And said William to his bare lips as they rode their tripping [N] rounds,
Og, what about that river bit?
The brook's got up no [Eb] bounds.
And the aged Hobden answered, take my [F] business to advise,
But you might have not what happened by the way the [Gm] valley lies.
[Eb] If you can't help back the water, you must try and save the soil,
Have it just as you've a [N] mind to, but if I was you I'd spile.
So they spiled along [F] the water course with trunks of willow trees,
And planks of elms behind the man immortal Okenese.
And when the spades of August whirl the [E] gravel beds away,
You [A] can trace their faith from fragments iron hard in iron _ [G] clay.
_ George I, Quinto, and O Sixto, I who own the river field,
I am fortified, entitled, deeds attested, signed and sealed,
_ Guaranteeing me [F] my assigns, my executors and heirs,
All sorts of powers and profits which are neither mine nor theirs.
I have rights of chase and warren as my dignity requires.
I can fish, but Hobden tickles.
I can shoot, but Hobden wires.
I repair, but he reopens certain gaps which men [N] allege
Have been used by every Hobden since the Hobden planted the hench.
Should I dug his morning progress or the track betraying view?
Dead man's maize dinner basket into which my [G] pheasant flew, _
Confiscate his evening [N] faggot into which my conies ran,
Or summons him to judgment, I would sooner summon.
And for his dinner in the churchyard, thirty generations late,
[G] Their name was old in history when Doomsday Book was made.
And [F] the power and the piety and passion of his line
[N] Have receded, rooted, fruited in some land the law calls mine.
Not for any beast that burrows, not for any bird that [F] flies,
Would I lose his large sound counsel, Mrs.
Keen, amending I.
He is bailiff, woodsman, wheelwright, field surveyor, engineer,
And if flagrantly a [G] poacher take for me to interfere,
Of [Eb] what about that river bit I turn to him [A] again,
With Fabritius [Ab] and Ogier and William of Warren,
Have it just as you were mine to but.
And here he takes command, for [N] whoever pays the taxes,
Old Marshal _ denotes the _ _ land. _ _
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _