Stacks Image 34
Recorded 1997
Label: Gaslight Records

Drums –
Simon Jeffries
Guitar [Lead Guitar] – Derek Heffernan
Keyboards, Percussion, String Arrangements – Chris Randall (2)
Violin – Jenny Benwell
Vocals, Acoustic Guitar, Electric Guitar, Producer – Paul Roland
Engineer – Rob Williams (12)

The Worlds Of Jonathan Waverly
The Gathering Man
Aleister Crowley
The Grey Cock
Last Coach To The Borgo Pass
White Lightning
Doctor Rocque
Down To The Bone
The Worlds Of Jonathan Waverley
He claimed he called on me to discuss a distinct possibility
‘What if there proved to be a parallel reality?’
He knows he’s not insane, but he says that he’s noticed a subtle change
Some things he can’t explain, they seem the same, but then again…
What once could be are the worlds of Jonathan Waverley
Quite how he came to be on the other side of eternity
He’d not confide to me, whether serum, science or sorcery.
The Gathering Man
It’s cold in the dark, here where we sleep
In the company of those whose secrets we keep
We’ll wait for the Gathering Man,
the grim gaunt Gathering Man,
We’ll wait for the Gathering Man to come.
We who must mark the dread measure of time
hunger for life and those left behind.
Pity us friend for we are the dead
‘Tis better we’re mute, that much is unsaid.
No comfort have we at eternity’s breast
Only angels of stone to watch over our rest.
If there is sun, no warmth does it bring
If there are birds, we have not heard them sing
If there’s a God, take us under thy wing.
Aleistair Crowley
He lives alone with the curtains drawn
This defrocked priest of the Golden Dawn
He takes his gin with mescaline
To bring a bloom to his slug-white skin.
Now each evening when the sun goes down
He dreads to find demons in his dressing gown.
When Bonny Charlie sailed o’er frae France
His skirling pipes struck up a merry dance
Bonny’s the coarse highland heather
Worn with the white cockade feather
He marched the clans to the walls of Derby town
And there the young pretender wheeled them round
In the rout of Culloden the English unleashed their hounds
The red coated butchers – to harry the stag to ground.
Where once the heather grew upon the glen
It does not grow and will not grow again
In the roads from Culloden
the English unleashed their hounds
The red coated butchers – to harry the stag to ground.
(note: harry = to harass)
High above the city throng
the asylum choir bay their mad song
They feast their eyes on the streets below
and lick their lips like carrion crow
It’s the age of the beast, the vile carrion feast
It’s the age of the beast
And you know that the beast must die
And you know that the beast must die
And you know that the beast will die
While old men sleep, they perch outside
Waiting on the boneyard bride
Who’ll stitch the sacks with hemp and hair
And hail the hearse that will take them there.
They lurk outside Old People’s homes
and etch their names on their headstones
These eldritch creatures of the night who feed on old and young alike.
Once the primal earth they trod,
these hounds of dark and nameless gods
Soon they’ll break free of their chains
and stalk the feeding grounds again.
I still recall the wondrous stories that my father told to me
Of the fair isle of Atlantis, the city beneath the sea
But in the autumn years the mind deceives
The tales he once regaled me with he now believes.
Far from the realm of the immortals stands the pillars of Hercules
And here arising from the waters a jewel set in an azure sea
The mythical lost continent of kings
The isle of which the poet wrote and the siren sings
There sailors crossed the seven oceans in ships with painted sails
Manned by scholars and philosophers and a poet to tell the tale.
Its splendours not confined to wealth alone
Its academies and libraries held all that was known.
It’s fate recorded in the chronicles of great antiquity
How the spurned, capricious gods cast the city beneath the sea
But father insists it will rise again
And why should I delude him that he lives in vain.
Luther stands, bible in hand, the mediator between God and Man
Understand, a righteous man must have the gospel truth at his command
Oh Praise the lord! The Lamb and the Sword,
Give what you can afford.
A servile streak six days a week but on the seventh he’s a salvation freak
He’ll damn the geek and praise the meek
Heaven help him turn the other cheek.
Luther has tattoos on his knuckles,
L-o-v-e is just a word on his right,
E-v-i-l is inscribed on the other
impelling him to ‘fight the good fight’.
He swears its true, the word came through,
‘the Good Lord gave me a good talking to,
The state we’re in is a state of sin
Cast Satan out and let the Good Lord in.’
Last Coach To The Borgo Pass
I took my last winter vacation
in the wild, unspoilt Carpathians
in a rugged, remote region
where the white haired wolves are legion
And, from where I was to learn, few travellers return.
The locals have a quaint tradition,
bordering on superstition
garlic garlands ring their beds
to warn away the undead
And they fear what darkness brings
It brings the beating of black wings.
Coachman spare the whip why must you drive so fast
Is this the road to hell through the Borgo Pass?
My host, the Count, sent word to me that
He craves convivial company
And if, perchance, I’d care to dine
He would surely favour mine
Besides, his coach now stood outside
‘Son, won’t you take a ride?’
White Lightning
Warden, sit and talk awhile before we walk that last mile
You know I’m going out in style
Warden. take me there,
Take me to the chair.
I was convicted, I was tried,
And they sentenced me to die
But in no grave will I lie
Warden. take me there
Take me to the chair.
White lightning flows through my veins
And it’s not electricity
A little secret, I can’t share
And that’s what’s killing me.
White lightning flows through my veins
No, they won’t burn me
A little secret, I can’t share
And that’s what’s killing me.
Doctor Rocque
Doctor Rocque, Doctor Rocque
He’s coming with dreams for sale
Doctor Rocque, Doctor Rocque
He’s bringing me dreams for sale.
What would I do without you.
Doctor Rocque, Doctor Rocque
He waits behind the wall of sleep
Doctor Rocque, Doctor Rocque
Where the dreams of the poppy are sweet

Down To The Bone
I don’t need the nightmares that you give to me
I don’t need to be what you want me to be
I don’t need blackmail or the third degree
I don’t want you around me no more.
I don’t like the friends you bring back home with you
I don’t want to wear in these dead men’s shoes
I don’t want to live alone inside the blues
I don’t want you around me no more.
You’re going to bring me to my knees
I can’t do anything to please
Your grinding me down to the bone.
I don’t need the ghost who looks out from your eyes
I don’t need you coming back to say goodbye
I don’t need you following me in disguise
I don’t want you around me no more.