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Red and Gold are royal colours |
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Peasant colours are green and brown |
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Green is the corn in the brown earth when it's growing |
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Red and gold when the harvest is cut down. |
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Through Cropredy in Oxfordshire the Cherwell takes its course |
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And the willows weep into its waters clear |
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My name it is Will Tims and it's here that I was born |
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And raised in faith my King and God to fear. |
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In 1644 the King in Oxford Town did dwell |
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Though we'd heard that Cromwell's army was nearby |
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It did not occur to me that little Cropredy |
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Could be witness to the meeting of both sides |
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On June the 29th that year I was about my work |
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Cutting hedges in the meadow by the stream |
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My blade slipped, I cut my hand and my own dear blood did flow |
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Upon the brown earth and the corn still green |
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Now it did distress me so to watch my own blood flow |
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And quickly soak into the greedy ground |
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In red and gold my colours swam and sweat broke on my brow |
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And faint I knew that I must lay me down |
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At first I thought the thundering was just inside my head |
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So I raised myself above the hedge to see |
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And I watched as in a dream as the armies fought downstream |
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The Battle for the Bridge at Cropredy |
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Now the King's men fought in red and gold though Cromwell's men were plainer |
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The blood they spilled was coloured just the same |
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Through the hedgerow's fragile cover I saw brother killing brother |
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And all of this was done in Jesus' name |
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All that day and all the next the battle it was raging |
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Though when darkness came I slipped away |
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But the crying of the dying kept me wakeful and just lying |
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In my bed until the dawning of the day |
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And the dreams I had were red and gold |
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And the little stream became a flood |
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From all my brothers killing one another |
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Till waking I realised it was all my own dear blood |
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Some were buried in the church and some just where they fell |
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With no markers to declare their place of rest |
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But the poppies they do grow where they were never sown |
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And to my mind they do declare it best |
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And each year when the green corn once again turns into gold |
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And the poppies in the field again remind me |
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Like the scar upon my hand and the blood spilled on this land |
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And the hungry earth so eager to confine me |
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For read and gold they are the colours |
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One is blood and one is power |
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Though I may find my rest in Cropredy Church |
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In golden fields forever will spring the poppy flower |
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By Cropredy the Cherwell is still bidden to keep flowing |
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And the willows by its side still gently weep |
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But still in restless dreams by this most peaceful stream |
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The poppies wake me from my rightful sleep |
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And the dreams I have are red and gold |
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And the little stream becomes a flood |
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From all my brothers killing one another |
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Till waking I realise it's all my own dear blood |
