Go, silly worm, drudge, trudge, and travel,
Despising pain,
So thou may’st gain
Some honour, or some golden gravel:
But Death the while (to fill his number)
With sudden call
Takes thee from all,
To prove thy days but dream and slumber.
“The thing about English folk music is it has no cowshit in it. It’s never rough that way.”
Harrison Birtwhistle
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