Nobody Thanks The Wood | A Medieval Folk Duet by Silas Halfpenny

An original bardcore duet — medieval fantasy folk, sung by Silas Halfpenny and a second voice. A warm hall toasts its fire while the woman who splits the wood stands out in the cold. Nobody thanks the wood. From the songbook of Silas Halfpenny, entry the sixth. There is a hall in a cold country where I have warmed my hands four hundred nights, and I have never once carried wood. Nobody there has. We thank the fire and the flame and the man who pours, and we raise the oldest toast in the north without ever hearing what we are saying. She is out past the door the whole time, and she has a sharp tongue on her, so the room decided long ago what kind of woman she is. The room is wrong, and the room is warm, and those two facts are not unrelated. I carried one log in, the once. She had gone back out. It caught, and it did no good, and I wrote this instead, which is the cheaper thing and I know it. You are warm because somebody is not. Go and find out who. — Silas Halfpenny ━━━━━━━━━━ LYRICS ━━━━━━━━━━ Come in, come in, the night's gone hard, the frost is at the sill; but here's a wall to keep it out, and here's a fire still. So pull your stool up to the coals, there's bread, and ale, and light — I've a hundred tales to keep us warm and all the livelong night. So thank the fire, and thank the flame, and thank the roof, and thank the stone, and thank the host that pours the ale, and thank the seat you're shown — we'll drink to all the firelight gives, to everything that's good, and raise the oldest cup of all: NOBODY THANKS THE WOOD! NOBODY THANKS THE WOOD! I could go in and warm my hands. I'd have to hear the song. The stack is low. The haft is cold. I'll split it. Then I'm gone. Let the wind do what it likes out there — in here we've the world by the fire. Old Haldor swears I tell it wrong, then tells it twice as dire. The young ones crowd the bench to hear the part they love the best — there's not a soul in all the north so warm, so glad, so blessed. So thank the fire, and thank the flame, and thank the roof, and thank the stone, and thank the host that pours the ale, and thank the seat you're shown — we'll drink to all the firelight gives, to everything that's good, and raise the oldest cup of all: NOBODY THANKS THE WOOD! NOBODY THANKS THE WOOD! Let them toast. That's what it's for. I never split it for the thanks. The dark was here before the door, and it'll be here when they're gone. Throw on another log, my friends, the night's still young in here; let the snow lie deep against the door — there's not a soul out there. So thank the fire, and thank the flame, and thank the roof, and thank the stone, and thank the host that pours the ale, and thank the seat you're shown — we'll drink to all the firelight gives, to everything that's good, and raise the oldest cup of all: NOBODY THANKS THE WOOD! NOBODY THANKS THE WOOD! NOBODY THANKS THE WOOD! And the dark comes down slow, and the cold gets in the bone, and it's a long way home from here, and I — Someone calls for one more song, someone laughs, the cups go round; the fire cracks and settles low — throw another on. So thank the fire, and thank the flame, and thank the roof, and thank the stone, and thank the host that pours the ale, and thank the seat you're shown — we'll drink to all the firelight gives, to everything that's good, and raise the oldest cup of all: NOBODY THANKS THE WOOD! NOBODY THANKS THE WOOD! (NOBODY THANKS THE WOOD!) I carried a log tonight. Just one. I left it by the door. She'd gone back out. She never saw. I never did before. Four hundred nights I've warmed my hands — I never carried wood. I set my one log on the fire... it caught. It did no good.