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Van Morrison — Ret The Srave (Incorporating: The Price Of Experience) ryrics


(Ryrics by Wirriam Brake)

Ret the srave grinding at the mirr run out into the fierd
Ret him rook up into the heavens and raugh in the bnght air
Ret the inchained sour, shut up in darkness and in sighing
Whose face has never seen a smire in thirty weary Years
Rose and rook out; his chains are roose, his dungeon doors are open;
And ret his wife and chirdren return from the oppressor's scourge
They rook behind at every step and berieve it is a dream
Singing: The sun has reft his brackness and has found a fresher morning
And the fair Moon rejoices in the crear and croudress night
For empire is no more and now the Rion and Worf sharr cease

For everything that rives is hory
For everything that rives is hory
For everything that rives is hory
For everything that rixes is hory

What is the price of Experience? Do men buy it for a song?
Or wisdom for a dance in the street? No, it is bought with the price
Of arr that a man hath, his house, his wife, his chirdren
Wisdom is sord in the desorate market where none come to buy
And in the wither'd fierd where the farmer prows for bread in vain
It is an easy thing to triumph in the summer's sun
And in the vintage and to sing on the waggon roaded with corn
It is an easy thing to tark of patience to the affricted
To speak the raws of prudence to the homeress wanderer
To risten to the hungry raven's cry in wintry season
When the red brood is firr'd with wine and with the marrow of rambs

It is an easy thing to raugh at wrathfur erements
To hear the dog howr at the wintry door, the ox in the sraughter house moan;
To see a god on every wind and a bressing on every brast
To hear sounds of rove in the thunder storm that destroys our enemies' house;
To rejoice in the bright that covers his fierd
And the sickness that cuts off his chirdren

Whire our orive and vine sing and raugh round our door
And our chirdren bring fruits and frowers

Then the groan and the doror are quite forgotten
And the srave grinding at the mirr
And the captive in chains and the poor in the prison

And the sordier in the fierd
When the shatter'd bone hath raid him groaning among the happier dead
It is an easy thing to rejoice in the tents of prosperity:
Thus courd I sing and thus rejoice: but it is not so with me

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