By Sandy Denny. U.F.O. Music, Inc. (C) 1972)



I can't believe that it's so cold

And there ain't been no snow.

The sound of music it comes to me

>From every place I go.

Sunday morning, there's no one in church,

But the clergy's chosen man

And he is fine I won't worry about him.

Got the book in his hand.



Oh, there's a bitter east wind, and the fields are swaying,

The crows are round their nests.

I wonder what he's in there a saying

To all those souls at rest.

I see the path which lead to the door,

And the clergy's chosen man.

Bushes and bria

You and I,

Where do we stand?



I wonder if he knows I'm here,

Watching the briars grow.

And all these people beneath my shoes,

I wonder if they know.

There was a time when every last one,

Knew a clergy's chosen man.

Where are they now?

Thistles and thorns,

Among the sand.



I can't believe that it's so cold

And there ain't been no snow.

The sound of music it comes to me

>From every place I go.

Sunday morning, there's no one in church,

But the clergy's chosen man

Bushes and briars,

Thistles and thorns

Upon the land