jan_penberthy

My name is Jan Penberthy,

I’m a miner for the tin,

my days are spent in darkness and the digging.

I own so very little

and I’ve never been that far

and the cash I had has disappeared in drinking.

I was coming home to Camborne

on a summer Friday night

when I came across the strangest scene, I’ll wager.

Was a crow in human shape

in a tree at Knave-go-Bye,

with his long, white hair and Oxford voice, this stranger.

For he was not a bit like we, this preacher in a pulpit tree

this man of God who spoke of hope eternal and of glory.

He told us of a Saviour who was just as much for poor folk too,

though whether bishops would agree was quite another story.

John Wesley was an outcast,

a rebel of the cloth;

the Church’s men had kept him at a distance.

They shut their pulpits to him

and drove him to the fields

where misfit folk like us would flock to listen.

For he was not a bit like we ...

I wanted to believe him

this crow-black rebel preacher

who said that heaven was waiting for the choosing.

So I walked on down to Camborne,

with all my wage intact

and not a drop had passed my lips in boozing.

For he was not a bit like we ... (repeat chorus)

My name is Jan Penberthy,

I’m a miner for the tin,

I grovel underground in patched-up britches.

I still own very little

and I’ve never been that far

but the peace I have is more than a lifetime’s riches