Heavy Horses -- Jethro Tull

In these dark towns folk 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 curry comb ---
Thrill to the sound of all
The heavy horses coming home.

I'm posting this song today for two reasons.

1.) My friend Pam of Stardust Organics is pursuing a project to promote draft horses and carriage horses as both living history and our living future.

2.) Up in New York, my carriage driving brethren have a hearing tomorrow on two bills in NYC City Council. One proposes to ban all horse carriages in NYC. The other would give the carriage horses and drivers a fare raise. You can read more about it at these blogs: centralparkcarriagehorses and thewhiffletreenyc



Heavy horses
By jethro tull

Iron-clad feather-feet pounding the dust
On 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 fetlock, chasing the bone
Flies at the nostrils plunder.

The Suffolk, the Clydesdale, the Percheron vie
With the Shire on his feathers floating
Hauling soft timber into the dusk
To bed on a warm 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 its 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 woods
Behind the young trees growing
To hide you from eyes that mock at your girth,
Youre eighteen hands at the shoulder

And one day when the oil barons have all dripped dry
And the nights are seen to draw colder
Theyll beg for your strength, your gentle power
Your noble grace and your bearing
And youll strain once again to the sound of the gulls
In the wake of the deep plough, sharing.

Standing like tanks on the brow of the hill
Up into the cold wind facing
In stiff 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 towns folk 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 curry comb ---
Thrill to the sound of all
The heavy horses coming home.

Iron-clad feather-feet pounding the dust
On 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 its way.

L'hiver viendra, les gars, l'hiver viendra

Le jument de Michao, elle s'en repentira...

Right now, Bubba the Round is on turnout. Jean-Leo over at Percheron-International recently published a post about Breton draft horses. I think they look an awful lot like Bubba. (Or, rather, Bubba looks a lot like a Breton draft horse, particularly the rounder specimens.)

You can be the judge of Bubba's parentage. I found this lovely video of Bretons on youtube (you will also note the large numbers of people wearing white shirts and black vests):



The music in the video is a traditional Breton song called "Le Jument de Michao."

Here are the lyrics:

Et dans dix ans je m'en irai
J'entends le loup et le renard chanter
Et dans dix ans je m'en irai
J'entends le loup et le renard chanter

J'entends le loup, le renard et la belette
J'entends le loup et le renard chanter
J'entends le loup, le renard et la belette
J'entends le loup et le renard chanter

Et dans dix ans je m'en irai
Et dans dix ans je m'en irai

La jument de Michao et son petit poulain
Sont passés dans le pré, ont mangé tout le foin
La jument de Michao et son petit poulain
Sont passés dans le pré, ont mangé tout le foin

L'hiver viendra les gars, l'hiver viendra
La jument de Michao, elle s'en repentira
L'hiver viendra les gars, l'hiver viendra
La jument de Michao, elle s'en repentira

Translation:

In ten years I'm going to leave
I hear the wolf and the fox singing
In ten years I'm going to leave
I hear the wolf and the fox singing.

I hear the wolf, the fox, and the weasel
I hear the wolf and the fox singing
I hear the wolf, the fox, and the weasel
I hear the wolf and the fox singing

In ten years I'm going to leave
In ten years I'm going to leave

The mare of Michao and her little foal
Passed through the pasture and ate up all the hay
The mare of Michao and her little foal
Passed through the pasture and ate up all the hay

Winter is coming, boys, winter is coming
The mare of Michao is going to be sorry for it
Winter is coming, boys, winter is coming
The mare of Michao is going to be sorry for it.



Bubba spends all of his waking hours attempting to eat all the hay wherever he is.

This is the time of year when bad weather forces the carriage horses to either go on turnout or to stay in the barn. And it's when metaphorically we regret all the hay we ate in the field and didn't leave for the winter. A snow storm is coming in the next couple of days, so it looks like it's going to be at least Thursday before anyone does any work.

(Meanwhile, Bubba is out in Lancaster County eating so much hay that, if it's anything like last year, he won't be able to fit in the shafts come spring. If there's anything Bubba will repent for, it will be for getting so fat he'll have to go on a diet.)

On a tangentially related note:

We heard our own "wolf" Rinnie the German Shepherd singing yesterday afternoon when Noodle locked him in one of the stalls outside. I think Noodle was tired of Rinnie chasing him all the time.


Rinnie last year.

Some pics of Bubba from this summer: