(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.