Your native language

عربي

Arabic

عربي

简体中文

Chinese

简体中文

Nederlands

Dutch

Nederlands

Français

French

Français

Deutsch

German

Deutsch

Italiano

Italian

Italiano

日本語

Japanese

日本語

한국인

Korean

한국인

Polski

Polish

Polski

Português

Portuguese

Português

Română

Romanian

Română

Русский

Russian

Русский

Español

Spanish

Español

Türk

Turkish

Türk

Українська

Ukrainian

Українська
User Avatar

Sound


Interface


Difficulty level


Accent



interface language

en

Lyrkit YouTube Lyrkit Instagram Lyrkit Facebook
Cookie policy   |   Support   |   FAQ
1
register / login
Lyrkit

donate

5$

Lyrkit

donate

10$

Lyrkit

donate

20$

Lyrkit

And/Or support me in social. networks:


Lyrkit YouTube Lyrkit Instagram Lyrkit Facebook
John Denver

The Ballad Of St. Anne's Reel

 

The Ballad Of St. Anne's Reel

(album: Autograph - 1980)


He was stranded in some tiny town on fair Prince Edward Isle,
awaiting for a ship to come and find him
A one-horse place, a friendly face, some coffee and a tiny trace
of fiddling in the distance far behind him.

A dime across the counter, then, a shy hello, a brand new friend.
A walk along the street in the wintry weather.
A yellow light, an open door, a welcome friend, there's room for more,
And then they're standing there inside together.

He said I've heard that tune before somewhere, but I can't remember when.
Was it on some other friendly shore or did I hear it on the wind?
Was it written on the sky above? I think I heard it from someone I love,
but I never heard it sound so sweet since then

Now his feet begin to tap, a little boy says I'll take your hat.
He's caught up in the magic of her smile.
And leap, the heart inside him went, and off across the floor he sent
his clumsy body graceful as a child.

He said there's magic in the fiddler's arm, there's magic in this town.
There's magic in the dancers' feet and the way they put them down.
People smiling everywhere, boots and ribbons, locks of hair,
and laughter and old blue suits and Easter gowns.

Now the sailor's gone, the room is bare, the old piano's sitting there,
someone's hat's left hanging on the rack.
And empty chairs, the wooden floor that feels the touch of shoes no more,
awaiting for the dancers to come back.

And the fiddle's in the closet of some daughter of the town.
The strings are broke and the bow is gone and the cover's buttoned down.
But sometimes on December nights, when the air is cold and the wind is right,
There's a melody that passes through this town.

done

Did you add all the unfamiliar words from this song?