Remote Be the Road

The following is a tune heard once in The Rusted Crown tavern, sung by the farmer who lives a couple of miles north up the Farm Road.

In the furrows at daybreak i steady the plow,

with the dew on my cuffs and a chill in my throat;

past the hedge of the hawthorn the river says now,

and the town answers back with a faraway note.

Remote, remote—be the road to the gate;

but a song finds the path that a cart cannot take.

On the lane into Evenshade, bells like a thread

pull the air through the pines and the ricks i have stored;

I can hear them but barely—the prayers being read

to Oghma and others in the library’s ward.

Remote, remote—be the road to the gate;

but a song finds the path that a cart cannot take.

I was young once and ran with a lute made of pine,

kept a rhyme in my pocket for luck and for bread;

I could measure a crowd by the sway of its spine,

turn a whisper to laughter with three words unsaid.

Remote, remote—be the road to the gate;

but a song finds the path that a cart cannot take.

Now I count by the dozens: the hens and the eggs,

sling a sack, set a hoe, keep the fox from the coop;

call the ox by his name and he lifts up his legs—

we two hold this field like a shield by the loop.

Remote, remote—be the road to the gate;

but a song finds the path that a cart cannot take.

When the wind off the Chionthar fiddles the straw,

and the swallows are writing their lines in the blue,

I remember the audience joy that i saw,

and the verse i near sold for a kiss, one or two.

Remote, remote—be the road to the gate;

but a song finds the path that a cart cannot take.

There’s a lad with a dream in his walk on the road,

and he looks at the fields like they’re bars on a cage;

i could tell him the earth loves a light, tender load,

and that ballads grow deep when they weather with age.

Remote, remote—be the road to the gate;

but a song finds the path that a cart cannot take.

So I sing to the pump and it gives me its heart,

and I hum to the wheel till it joins me in squeak;

every tool keeps a tempo; each task takes a part;

and the day learns a chorus until we grow weak.

Remote, remote—be the road to the gate;

but a song finds the path that a cart cannot take.

If the night brings a wagon of tales to my door,

I will trade them for hay and a cup by the flame;

I will listen, then answer with verse from my store—

for a bard is this farmer by long-ago name.

Remote, remote—be the road to the gate;

but a song finds the path that a cart cannot take.

And when owls from the village fly over the loam,

and the fields turn to silver and everything’s still,

I'm less like a loner than keeper of home—

I'm far from the halls, but I sing where i till.

Remote, remote—be the road to the gate;

but a song finds the path that a cart cannot take.