I hang from a beam of old pine
Watching the cold winter line
The mist hides the valley below
The wind makes the heavy rope go
The cobblestones freeze in the night
The village is hidden from sight
A taxi cab idles in vain
He waits for the end of the rain
Ring out the iron and gold
The story of winter is told
Swing in the shivering air
Calling the ghosts to the square
I feel every strike in my chest
The village is put to the test
The driver he smokes by the gate
He knows that the passengers wait
Ring out the iron and gold
The story of winter is told
Swing in the shivering air
Calling the ghosts to the square
The frost bites the copper and tin
Letting the north wind rush in
The hammer hits hard on my side
Nowhere for a traveler to hide
The driver he hums a low song
The road to the city is long
He knows that the weather is grim
The chances of leaving are slim
I toll for the sheep in the fold
The air is a blanket of cold
The mist is a wall in the street
Where winter and loneliness meet
Ring out the iron and gold
The story of winter is told
Swing in the shivering air
Calling the ghosts to the square
Bells in the grey.
Bells in the grey.
Swing low.
Swing low.
