Among the Crooked Stones - A Folk Song About Searching an Old English Churchyard. скачать в хорошем качестве

Among the Crooked Stones - A Folk Song About Searching an Old English Churchyard.

This song tells the story of walking through an old English churchyard in search of an ancestor’s lost resting place. Among weathered gravestones, moss-covered names, and ancient yew trees, the past begins to whisper through the quiet stones. Inspired by the experience many genealogists and family historians share, standing in centuries-old parish graveyards and searching for the names of those who came before us, this folk song reflects on memory, ancestry, and the stories carved into stone. Across England, churchyards hold generations of families, shepherds, bakers, farmers, children, and travellers whose lives shaped the villages and lanes we still walk today. Even when the names fade with time, their footsteps remain in the land and in the blood of those who follow. If you enjoy traditional storytelling folk music, genealogy, or exploring historic churchyards and graveyards, I hope this song resonates with you. Thank you for listening. Credits - Lyrics: Written by meMusic & Vocals: AI-generated. 🎤 Lyrics 🎤 The wind moves softly through the yews, The old stones lean and sigh, And somewhere in this quiet yard, My blood and story lie. I walked the lane at fading light, Where hedgerows claw the sky, Past the gate of rusted iron, Where the quiet sleepers lie. The yews stood black as watchful crows, The bells were cold and still, And every stone held whispered names, That time could never steal. So I wander through the crooked stones, Where the moss and ivy creep, Reading ghosts of weathered names, Of those who lie asleep. Somewhere here beneath the earth, Where the autumn shadows fall, Lies the blood that runs in me, Though I cannot read the wall. The church stood dark against the sky, Its tower worn by rain, And lichen traced the fading words, Like echoes of the slain. A shepherd's son, a baker's wife, A child who saw no spring, Their stories carved in broken stone, The only song they sing. So I wander through the crooked stones, Where the moss and ivy creep, Reading ghosts of weathered names, Of those who lie asleep. Somewhere here beneath the earth, Where the autumn shadows fall, Lies the blood that runs in me, Though I cannot read the wall. I brushed the soil from letters worn, Half lost to rain and years, A surname close to one I know, Appearing through my tears. No dates remained, no epitaph, Just fragments faint and small, But in that silent churchyard dark, I felt them through it all. Yes I wandered through the crooked stones, Where the moss and ivy creep, And though the names were worn away, Their watch the dead still keep. For every path and village lane, Every field and wall, Holds the steps of those before, And they still walk it all.