Jethro Tull - Heavy Horses

Iron-clad feather-feet pounding the dust;
An october's day, towards evening.
Sweat-embossed veins standing proud to the plough;
Salt on a deep chest seasoning.
Last of the line at an honest day's toil;
Turning the deep sod under.
Flint at the fetlok, chasing the bone;
Flies, at the nostrils plunder.

The Suffolk, the Clydesdale, the Percheron vie
With the Shire on his feathers floating.
Hauling soft timbers into the dusk
To bed on a worm straw coating.

Heavy Horses, move the land under me.
Behind the plough gliding - slipping and sliding free.
Now you're down to the few and there's no work to do;
The tractor's on his way.

Let me find you a filly for your proud stallion seed,
To keep the old line going.
And we'll stand you abreast at the back of the wood
Behind the young trees growing.
To hide you from eyes that mock at your girth,
Your eighteen hands at the shoulder.
And one day when the oil barons have all dripped dry
And the nights are seen to grow colder
They'll beg for your strength, your gentle power
Your noble grace and your bearing.
And you'll strain once again to the sound of the gulls
In the wake of the deep plough, sharing.

Heavy Horses, move the land under me.
Behind the plough gliding - slipping and sliding free.
Now you're down to the few and there's no work to do;
The tractor's on his way.

Standing like tanks on the brow of the hill,
Up into the cold wind facing
In still battle harness chained to the world
Against the low sun racing.
Bring me a wheel of oaken wood,
A rein of polished leather.
A heavy horse and a tumbling sky,
Brewing heavy weather.

Bring a song for the evening,
Clean brass to flash the dawn
Across these acres glistening
Like dew on a carpet lawn.
In these dark townsfolk lie sleeping
As the heavy horses thunder by
To wake the dying city
With the living horseman's cry.

At once the old hands quicken,
Bring pick and wisp and carry comb
Thrill to the sound of all
The heavy horses coming home.

Iron-clad feather-feet pounding the dust;
An october's day, towards evening.
Sweat-embossed veins standing proud to the plough;
Salt on a deep chest seasoning.
Bring me a wheel of oaken wood,
A rein of polished leather.
A heavy horse and a tumbling sky,
Brewing heavy weather.

Heavy Horses, move the land under me.
Behind the plough gliding - slipping and sliding free.
Now you're down to the few and there's no work to do;
The tractor's on his way.