Nightjar! nightjar!
Won't you sing a song?
Calls the little grey man,
As he winds his way along,
Another twisty tangled path,
From yet another dusty road,
Leading out to distant places,
To collect what he is owed,
He swings his leather satchel,
Gaily singing as he swings,
Of the people who must pay him,
And his love of shiny things.
Nightjar! nightjar!
Please don't let me die!
Cries the little grey man,
With the arrow in his eye,
Falling down in to the cornfield,
Softly weeping as he bleeds,
Blood now dripping onto soil,
Soaking down into the seeds,
As a waxing moon is rising,
In the skies above the corn,
Hear the nightjar singing brightly,
Of the dead and the reborn.
Nightjar! nightjar!
Has there been no trace?
Calls a fearful farmer,
Worry worn upon his face,
Last night there was no visit,
For the laying on of hands,
For the bringing of the rainfall,
For the blessing of the lands,
Tell me why were we forsaken,
Tell me why must it be thus?
Oh daughter, oh my daughter,
What will now become of us?
Nightjar! nightjar!
Don't you tell a tale,
Warns the farmer's daughter,
Sat beside him on the rail,
In a pretty purple dress,
Bought as new that very day,
From the trader on the wagon,
Who had passed along their way,
Then the farmer spies his bow,
With its arrows near the door,
There were five within the quiver,
Now they number only four.
Won't you sing a song?
Calls the little grey man,
As he winds his way along,
Another twisty tangled path,
From yet another dusty road,
Leading out to distant places,
To collect what he is owed,
He swings his leather satchel,
Gaily singing as he swings,
Of the people who must pay him,
And his love of shiny things.
Nightjar! nightjar!
Please don't let me die!
Cries the little grey man,
With the arrow in his eye,
Falling down in to the cornfield,
Softly weeping as he bleeds,
Blood now dripping onto soil,
Soaking down into the seeds,
As a waxing moon is rising,
In the skies above the corn,
Hear the nightjar singing brightly,
Of the dead and the reborn.
Nightjar! nightjar!
Has there been no trace?
Calls a fearful farmer,
Worry worn upon his face,
Last night there was no visit,
For the laying on of hands,
For the bringing of the rainfall,
For the blessing of the lands,
Tell me why were we forsaken,
Tell me why must it be thus?
Oh daughter, oh my daughter,
What will now become of us?
Nightjar! nightjar!
Don't you tell a tale,
Warns the farmer's daughter,
Sat beside him on the rail,
In a pretty purple dress,
Bought as new that very day,
From the trader on the wagon,
Who had passed along their way,
Then the farmer spies his bow,
With its arrows near the door,
There were five within the quiver,
Now they number only four.
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