[Short haunting intro] [Verse 1] The old windmill groans above the field, Its wooden arms have long stood still. She takes her guitar out of its case And settles down in the same old place. Her coat is patched, her boots are worn, She’s been out here since early morn. The village sleeps, the road lies bare, But one by one, they gather there. [Chorus] Play on, play on, let the old strings ring, For the ones who lost most everything. For the ones who left and the ones who stayed, For the promises nobody made. Play on, play on, till the morning comes, Let the low strings roll like a funeral drum. She has no sermon, she has no throne, Just a battered guitar and a tune of her own. [Verse 2] An old man comes with a chair to mend, A girl who lost her oldest friend. A widow brings a loaf of bread, And tells her stories of the dead. No one asks what brought them here, No one laughs at another's tears. She plays the songs her mother knew, And every verse rings honest and true. [Chorus] Play on, play on, let the old strings ring, For the ones who lost most everything. For the ones who left and the ones who stayed, For the promises nobody made. Play on, play on, till the morning comes, Let the low strings roll like a funeral drum. She has no sermon, she has no throne, Just a battered guitar and a tune of her own. [Instrumental Break: Fingerpicked guitar, eerie bowed strings and a eerie ow folk drone] [Bridge] At the hour when the fields turn grey, Some hear their loved ones call their names. A familiar step on the garden path, A voice remembered from years gone past. She never claims to know what's true, Or what waits on the other side. She only plays until the chill lifts, And stays with those who cannot sleep. [Final Chorus: Full folk ensemble, powerful lead vocal and layered harmonies] Play on, play on, let the old strings ring, For the ones who lost most everything. For the ones who left and the ones who stayed, For the promises nobody made. Play on, play on, let the whole field hear, There's a place for the lost and the lonely here. No crown to claim, no debt to own, Just a battered guitar and a tune of her own. Play on, play on, till the morning comes, Let the old windmill sing along. When the last note fades and the crowd goes home, She'll still be there with her guitar alone. [Outro: Solo guitar, bowed strings fading] The old windmill groans above the field. The morning comes. The strings fall still. And somewhere down the road, Someone carries the song home.
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