Riding through Yorkshire, we come upon the
Ghost of a tree at Buttertubs Pass
Golden and green, flapping its leaves,
Though it is winter and there is no breeze
Seven little sparrows pale as soldiers
Hopping in amongst the curling boughs

Then comes a shout from one of our party
Old Albert Bousefield's fallen down a hole
Hope upon hope, fastened to a rope
Not able to ascertain how deep it goes
"Albert can you hear me? Make a sound!
If you can't make a sound then clap two stones"

Leaving behind our friend in the lime pit
We hurry on in quiet dread
Into the fog, smothering the Dales
The raindrops are falling like the bars of a jail
Buried in the arsehole of the world
A row of burned out huts we made our beds

Lying awake looking up through the black wooden beams
I can see the Milky Way
Comes there a scream out of the sky
A great ball of fire goes hurtling by
Everyone’s awake now. What the hell
Is happening today? It's all so queer
Rising at dawn to find Thomas Knox
will not from his sleep be summoned forth
Face like a mask, fixed in a gasp,
We wrap him in blankets and we cover him with grass
Onward with our journey through Tow Law
and over Headley Hill, past Hanging Stone

Called on an inn to fill our bellies
With dark bloody meat and sour black beer
There we were warned never to stray
Far from the road through Kyo Bog
Several of the children from the village
Disappeared last month without a trace

Three hours later we go in single-
file though a maze of moaning soil
Reeking of dung, droning of flies
The moss on the trees glows as we pass by
There is something awful alive in this place
We are most relieved to leave behind

The moon is a peach in the brown fields of Kibblesworth
It won't be long 'til we get home
Cramp in our guts, bile in our throats
Mischief undulating through our bones
Suddenly the city lights around us
Disappearing up into the clouds
Seven little sparrows pale as soldiers
Hopping in amongst the curling boughs