The Hare Chase (music - Martha Woods, lyrics - Martha Woods)

Johnny Pascoe was a farmer,

Idle as the Summer noon.

Faithless as the fine fair weather

On the Cornish moors in

June Tremaine was his fine lover,

Swore that they would never part,

But Johnny left her one dark Summer,

She died of a broken heart.

Johnny Pascoe, oh-so-heartless

Went straight back to cutting corn,

But from his work, he was distracted,

One bright Autumn Monday morn.

He heard hounds all in the distance

Chasing after a wild hare.

So, his best horse he unharnessed,

Rode away to find them

There he charged and there he galloped,

Hooves like thunder on the ground.

Through the gorse and through the heather,

Catching up with all the

Hounds charged swiftly ‘round the bend

And of the hare he caught a glimpse,

And for a moment in his mind,

He swore that he could hear her sing:

Johnny, stand still and heed my warning,

For this is not the first time that we’ve met.

I am the ghost of a girl who was once your lover

But you went and you broke my heart

without regret.

And though in the grave, my body’s resting,

My spirit is burning with revenge.

So, Johnny, go back to the farm, this is my warning.

Just give up the chase now,

And let me go!

But hares can’t sing, and minds can’t wander in the middle of a chase.

So, on they charged and on they galloped,

Through the wind and through the

Rain fell fast and rain fell heavy,

Wind blew hard in horse’s eyes.

Johnny cried and horse, he stumbled

Straight into an open mine.

Down they fell and down they tumbled,

Startled horse and frightened man

And from that moment, Johnny Pascoe,

He was never seen again.

And as she leapt away, the wild hare

Couldn’t help but crack a grin,

For at last, she’d broken even,

Softly she began to sing:

Johnny, you heeded not my warning,

The most tragic of fates you have now met,

But alas, you should never have broken my heart so cruelly

And you should have given up the chase

And let me go!

Johnny Pascoe was a farmer,

Idle as the Summer noon,

Faithless as the fine fair weather

On the Cornish moors in

June Tremaine lies six feet under

For her kind heart he did break,

But John lies twenty-one yards deeper,

Finally, he met his fate.