Blue skies are over Cotswold And April snows go by, The lasses turn their ribbons For April's in the sky, And April is the season When Sabbath girls are dressed, From Rodboro' to Campden, In all their silken best. An ankle is a marvel When first the buds are brown, And not a lass but knows it From Stow to Gloucester town. And not a girl goes walking Along the Cotswold lanes But knows men's eyes in April Are quicker than their brains. It's little that it matters, So long as you're alive, If you're eighteen in April, Or rising sixty-five, When April comes to Amberley With skies of April blue, And Cotswold girls are briding With slyly tilted shoe.
Three Cotswold Songs
Song Cycle by Michael (Dewar) Head (1900 - 1976)
1. Cotswold love  [sung text not yet checked]
- by John Drinkwater (1882 - 1937), "Cotswold love" [author's text checked 1 time against a primary source]
2. Mamble  [sung text checked 1 time]
I never went to Mamble That lies above the Teme, So I wonder who's in Mamble, And whether people seem Who breed and brew along there As lazy as the name, And whether any song there Sets alehouse wits aflame. The finger-post says Mamble, And that is all I know Of the narrow road to Mamble, And should I turn and go To that place of lazy token That lies above the Teme, There might be a Mamble broken That was lissom in a dream. So leave the road to Mamble And take another road To as good a place as Mamble Be it lazy as a toad; Who travels Worcester county Takes any place that comes When April tosses bounty To the cherries and the plums.
- by John Drinkwater (1882 - 1937), "Mamble", appears in Swords and Ploughshares, first published 1915 [author's text checked 1 time against a primary source]
See other settings of this text.Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
3. A vagabond song  [sung text not yet checked]
I know the pools where the grayling rise, I know the trees where the filberts fall, I know the woods where the red fox lies, The twisted elms where the brown owls call And I've seldom a shilling to call my own, And there's never a girl I'd marry, I thank the Lord I'm a rolling stone With never a care to carry. I talk to the stars as they come and go On every night from July to June, I'm free of the speech of the winds that blow, And I know what weather will sing what tune. I sow no seed and I pay no rent, And I thank no man for his bounties, But I've a treasure that's never spent, I'm lord of a dozen counties.
- by John Drinkwater (1882 - 1937), "The vagabond" [author's text checked 1 time against a primary source]