There were no Canterbury tales told around the fire
No roundelays from ancient days played upon the lyre
Just an old guitar brought from afar with loving care
A grizzled old unshaven cow-hand was the guitar player.
No Spencerian tale in Denley vale, no Beowulf at all
No rousing charge of light brigade or foreign soldier's fall
No mention was there of breaking the British square
Just gnarled fingers and quaint tunes of the guitar player....
The firelight saw no reflection of Queen Mab or faerie
Among those gathered near the fire there was no antiquary
No crone nor hag to be found for casting of the runes
Just an old guitar and a few light and lilting tunes....
No one there had ever heard of a hayrick head of hair
No one knew of Lawrence and his Arabian exploits there
No one there knew a thing about any English Boer war
As the night wore on and the man played his old guitar....
Unlettered, untutored, barely able to write their names
Knowing only a dance or two and a few card games
Eating fatback, drinking hot coffee from a Mason jar
And idling the night away with the sounds of an old guitar.....
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