The Wicker Man (1973) Movie Script
- Good evening, Sergeant.
- Evening.
Get your hair cut, Mctaggart.
Ah, now, there's a message, Sergeant.
A message for us all.
However, there is a time
and place for everything.
Get it removed.
Any serious problems while i've been away?
No, Sergeant, nothing serious.
Just the usual.
Rape, sodomy, sacrilege.
You know.
The lord is my shepherd
I'll not want
He makes me down to lie
In pastures green
He leadeth me
The quiet waters by
He leadeth me
The quiet waters by
"I have received of the Lord...
"that which also i delivered unto you.
"And the Lord Jesus, the same night
in which he was betrayed,
"took bread.
"And when He had given thanks,
"He broke it and said,
"take, eat.
"'This is my body,
"'which is broken for you.
"This do in remembrance of me. '
"And after the same manner, He also took
the cup when he had eaten, saying,
"'this cup is the new covenant in my blood.
"'This do you, as oft as you drink it,
in remembrance of me.
"'For as often as you eat this bread...
"'and drink this wine,
"'you do show the Lord's death...
till He comes again. '"
That's for his nibs.
Postmarked Summerisle.
- He's got a bit of skirt over there, I bet.
- What, him?
The only woman he's interested in
is the Virgin Mary.
- I thought he was going steady with Mary Bannorg.
- Steady's the word.
Two years, he hasn't so
much as tickled her fancy.
He's keepin' himself pure
for the wedding day.
Ah, poor old Mary.
I don't know what she sees in him.
When those two are married,
she'll spend more time on her knees
in church than on her back in bed.
All right.
Mornin', all.
- Morning, Hugh.
- Good morning, Sergeant.
Um, there's an anonymous
letter for you, Sergeant.
Read it.
"Dear Sergeant Howie,
"none of us have seen May Morrison's
daughter Rowan since last year.
"She's only 12 and has been missing...
from her home for many months.
"She couldn't have left
the island by herself.
"She's too young, and her mother
won't say anything about it,
"just to mind
my own business.
"Well, I reckon it's all our business
when a kid disappears,
that's why i'm writing you this letter.
"A child lover.
Summerisle.
P.S. I enclose a picture
of Rowan Morrison. "
- Gonna go, Sergeant?
- Aye, aye, of course.
- Have you ever been there?
- Eh, no.
I've tasted the famous apples,
of course, but, uh -
it's odd, isn't it, all that fruit?
Well, the whole
principality is odd.
To start with,
they have no licensing laws.
Singing and dancing
on a Sunday.
Oh, aye, doubtless that would appeal to
a heathen brute like yourself, Mctaggart.
However, this is still, in theory,
a law-abiding christian country,
however unfashionable
that may seem.
Well, I'll call in on this patrol.
Will you call in at Mary's house,
tell her I'll be away overnight.
Oh, I am come
To the north country
Ochon, ochon,
Ochrie!
Without a penny
In my purse
To buy a meal
For me
One time I had
A hundred sheep
Ochon, ochon,
Ochrie!
Skipping o'er
Yon (that) narrow creek
And growing wool
For me
It was upon a lammas night
When corn rigs
are bonnie
Beneath the moon's
unclouded light
I held a while to Annie
The time went by
with careless heed
Till 'tween
the late and early
With small persuasion
she agreed
To see me
through the barley
Corn rigs and barley rigs and
Corn rigs are bonnie
I'll not forget
that happy night
Among the rigs with Annie
Will you send a dinghy, please?
Did you hear me?
I'd like a dinghy, if you please.
Hello, sir! Have you lost
your bearings?
No, sir, I don't think so.
- This is Summerisle, is it not?
- It is, sir!
Well, I'm right then. Now, would
you send a dinghy, please?
I'm afraid it can't be done, sir!
This is private property!
You can't land here
without written permission!
I, as you can see,
am a police officer.
A complaint has been
registered by a resident
of this island about a missing child.
Now, that makes it a police matter,
private property or not.
Now, will you send a dinghy, please?
Corn rigs and barley rigs
And corn rigs are bonnie
I'll not forget
that happy night
Among the rigs with Annie
Good day to you, sir.
I'm the harbour master.
Sergeant Howie, West Highland police.
A missing child
is always trouble.
Aye, aye, aye,
for everybody.
Perhaps you would be good enough
to explain matters to his lordship.
He's most particular
who lands here.
All in good time.
We, too, have our own particularities.
You know her?
Her name is Rowan Morrison.
No, no, never seen her before.
I don't know the face either.
Do you know her, Kenny?
She doesn't belong to this island.
No, I never saw her before.
No, she doesn't belong here
at all. Johnnie?
No, can't say I know her.
Now, now, what are you saying?
You're saying that she is not from the island.
Aye, that's right.
She's not from here.
Oh, you get Morrisons on Lewis and a
few on Mull. I would try there.
Thanks.
"None of us have seen May Morrison's
daughter Rowan since last year.
She's only 12, and she's been missing
from her home for many months. "
The mother's name
is May Morrison.
Oh, May! She quite slipped my memory.
Of course we've got May.
She keeps the post office in the high street.
- May Morrison? You're quite sure?
- Quite sure.
Well, thank you
for your help.
That's not May's daughter,
though!
No, she's not May's.
Then who is she?
The sky was blue
the wind was still
The moon was shining clearly
I set her down
with right good will
Among the rigs of barley
I kenned her heart
with all my own
I loved her most sincerely
I kissed her o'er
and o'er again
Among the rigs of barley
- Good afternoon!
- I like your rabbits.
Those are hares, not silly old rabbits.
Lovely march hares.
Can I help you?
- Mrs. Morrison- mrs. May Morrison?
- Yes.
- Sergeant Howie, West Highland police.
- Oh, my!
Did you come over in that aeroplane
that I saw flying round?
- Aye, that's right.
- What, just to see me?
Well, no, not exactly.
I'm making inquiries
about your daughter.
- We understand that she's missing.
- Missing? My daughter?
- Aye. You do have a daughter.
- Yes.
- And that's her?
- Oh, never.
I tell you no.
I think you'd better
come with me.
This is our Myrtle.
She was nine last thursday.
She's not a bit like the girl
in your photograph.
She must be at least
13 or 14, surely.
Myrtle, say hello.
This is Sergeant- oh!
- Howie.
- Oh.
- Hello, Myrtle.
How do you do? Look, mummy, I'm drawing a hare.
- Ah.
Excuse me, Sergeant.
Hello.
- Here you are. You can fill in the
ears in gray. Oh, sorry.
Thank you, Myrtle.
Myrtle, do you-
do you know Rowan?
Of course I do.
- You do?
- 'Course I do, silly.
- Uh, do you know where she is now?
- In the fields.
She runs and plays there all day.
Does she?
Do you think she'll be coming back for tea?
Tea? Hares don't
have tea, silly.
- Hares?
- She's a hare.
Rowan's a hare.
She has a lovely time.
- Well, tell me-
- Well, now, Sergeant.
You will stay and have
a cup of tea, won't you?
- Oh, well, yes, yes, please.
- Good.
- That's very kind of you.
- Um, not at all.
It must be thirsty work, asking all those questions, eh?
- Ah, aye.
- Hello.
- Good evening. Good evening.
- Good evening.
- Good evening.
Hello again.
- Are you the landlord here?
- Aye.
I'm Alder Macgreagor. And you must be
the policeman from the mainland.
Aye, that's right. Sergeant Howie,
West Highland constabulary.
I'm quite obviously not going
to get back to the mainland tonight
so I wondered if you had a room and
a bite of supper I could have.
- Could you manage that?
- Aye, I think that can be arranged.
My daughter Willow will show you to your room.
Willow!
Father?
This is Sergeant Howie,
a policeman from the mainland,
who will be spending
the night with us.
- This is my daughter, Willow.
- Good evening.
Show the Sergeant
to his room, would you?
Much has been said
of the strumpets of yore
Of wenches and bawdy
house queens by the score
But I sing of a baggage
that we all adore
The landlord's daughter
You'll never love another
Although she's not the kind of girl
To take home to your mother
Her ale, it is lively
and strong to the taste
It is brewed with discretion
never with haste
You can have all you like
if you swear not to waste
The landlord's daughter
And when her name is mentioned
The parts of every
gentleman do stand up
At attention
Now they say of the blossom
in all of the town
That she takes off her garter
and starts on the tug
That dolly who keeps her
ain't horrible now
While I'll take
the landlord's daughter
Oh, nothing can delight so
- As does the part that lies between
- Her left toe
And her right toe
- I'd like my supper now, please.
- It won't be long, Sergeant.
Oh, you don't want to let them worry you.
Why don't you have a wee drink?
No, thank you, not just now.
I think you all ought to know that
I am here on official business.
I am here to investigate the
disappearance of a young girl,
as doubtless, the harbour master
has already told you by now.
There's the girl.
Her name is Rowan Morrison.
Would you pass that among
your customers, please?
Now, if any of you can give me
any idea as to her whereabouts,
I'd be most grateful
if you'd let me know.
No, I'm afraid nobody's seen her, Sergeant.
Thank you. These Harvest
Festival photographs?
Aye. We have one taken at
the end of every summer.
- What happened to last year's?
- Mm, it got broke.
Your supper's ready, Sergeant.
Willow, show the Sergeant
to the dining room.
Thank you.
It's disgusting.
- Thank you.
- What's the matter, aren't you hungry?
Aye, it's just that most
of the food I've had-
the farmhouse soup, the potatoes,
broad beans- all come out of a can.
Broad beans, in their natural state,
aren't usually turquoise,
are they?
- Hmm.
Some things in their natural state
have the most vivid colors.
I just wanted to know why, that's all.
Now, I wonder what you'll be
wanting for afters?
- Hmm, I'll have an apple.
- No apples.
No apples? On Summerisle?
I expect they've all been exported.
You can have peaches and cream,
if you like.
Aye, from a can, I suppose.
All right.
Cheer up. Food isn't
everything in life, you know.
Up, up, up, up!
Up, up, up, up, up, up!
- Where?
You'll find it at the top of the stair on your right.
I put my hand
On her knee
And she says
Do you want to see
I put my hand
- Willow Macgreagor.
On her breast
And she says
Do you want a kiss
Willow Macgreagor, I have the honor
to present to you Ash Buchanan.
Gently, Johnny
- Come up, Ash Buchanan.
Gently, Johnny
my jingaloe
another sacrifice
for Aphrodite, Willow.
You flatter me, your lordship.
Surely you mean,"to aphrodite. "
I make no such distinction.
You are the goddess of love in human form,
and I am merely your humble acolyte.
Enjoy yourself, and him.
Only make sure you are ready,
for tomorrow is tomorrow.
The day of death
and rebirth.
Yes.
And of a somewhat
more serious offering...
than tonight.
I put my hand
On her thigh
And she says
Do you want to try
I put my hand
On her belly
And she says
Do you want to fill me
Gently, gently
Gently, Johnny
My jingaloe
Gently, gently
Gently, Johnny
My jingaloe
I think I could turn
and live with animals.
They are so placid
and self-contained.
They do not lie awake in the dark
and weep for their sins.
They do not make me sick
discussing their duty to God.
Not one of them kneels to another
or to his own kind that lived thousands of years ago.
Not one of them is... respectable
Gently, gently
- or unhappy
Gently, Johnny
all over the earth.
Gently, Johnny
my jingaloe
Gently, gently
Gently, Johnny
My jingaloe
Good morning,
Sergeant.
- Morning.
- Isn't it glorious?
Aye, aye,
it's very nice.
I expect you'll be
going home tonight.
Well, that depends.
- Where's the school, please?
- On the far side of the green.
Thank you.
In the woods
there grew a tree
And a fine, fine tree
was he
And on that tree there was a limb
And on that limb
there was a branch
And on that branch
there was a nest
And in that nest
there was an egg
And in that egg
there was a bird
And from that bird
a feather came
And of that feather was
A bed
And on that bed
there was a girl
And on that girl
there was a man
And from that man
there was a seed
And from that seed
there was a boy
And from that boy
there was a man
And for that man
there was a grave
And from that grave
there grew
A tree
And on that bed
there was a girl
And on that girl
there was a man
And from that man there was a seed,
and from that seed there was a boy
And from that boy
there was a man
And for that man
there was a grave
And from that grave
there grew
A tree
And on that tree there was a limb
and on that limb
There was a branch and on that
branch there was a nest
And in that nest
there was an egg
And in that egg there was a bird,
and from that bird, a feather came
And of that feather was
A bed
Very well, girls. That's enough.
Now it's time to pay attention to me.
Now, uh, Daisy,
will you tell us what it is, please,
that the maypole represents?
Really, Daisy.
- You've been told often enough.
- Miss Rose, I know!
- All right, then, anybody.
- Phallic symbol.
The phallic symbol.
That is correct.
It is the image
of the penis,
which is venerated
in religions such as ours,
as simbolising the generative
force in nature.
Oh, can I help you?
C- could-could I have a word
with you, please, miss?
Certainly. Girls, open your desks
and take out your exercise books.
Miss, you can be quite sure that I shall
report this to the proper authorities.
Everywhere I go on this island,
it seems to me I find degeneracy.
and there is brawling in bars,
there is indecency in public places,
and there is corruption of the young,
and now I see it all stems from here-
it stems from the filth taught
here in this very schoolroom.
I was unaware that the police had
any authority in matters of education.
Aye, aye, well,
we'll see about that.
Girls, could I have
your attention, please?
Now, I am a police officer.
Well, as you can see.
I have come here
from the mainland...
to investigate the disappearance
of a young girl.
I have a photograph here-
excuse me-
which I would like you to pass
around amongst yourselves.
Meanwhile, I'll write her name
over there on the blackboard.
Rowan Morrison.
That's her name.
Now, do any of you recognize either
the name or the photograph?
- No.
- There's your answer, Sergeant.
If she existed, we would know.
- Whose desk is that?
- No one's.
Thank you.
The little old beetle goes round and round,
always the same way, you see,
till he ends up right up tight
to the nail, poor old thing.
"Poor old thing"?
Then why in God's name
do you do it, girl?
I'd like to see the
school register, please.
I'm afraid you'll have to have
Lord Summerisle's authority.
This is a police matter.
I'm afraid you'll have to have
a search warrant or permission
from Lord Summerisle himself.
I'm afraid you'll just have to
bear with me, won't you?
You're liars. You are
despicable little liars.
Rowan Morrison is a schoolmate
of yours, isn't she?
And that is her desk, isn't it?
- Well, isn't it?
- I think you ought to know-
And you are the biggest liar of all.
I warn you,
one more lie out of you,
and I will charge you
with obstruction,
and, believe me, Miss Rose,
that is a promise.
Now, for the last time,
where is Rowan Morrison?
I would like to speak
to you outside, Sergeant.
Girls, get on
with your reading.
It's the Rites and Rituals of May Day,
chapter five. I won't be long.
Well?
You don't understand, Sergeant.
Nobody was lying. I told you plainly.
If Rowan Morrison existed,
we would know of her.
You mean,
she doesn't exist?
She's dead?
You would say so.
Oh, come on, come on.
She's either dead,
or she's not dead.
Here, we do not use
the word-
We believe...
that when the human life
is over,
the soul returns
to trees, to air,
to fire, to water,
to animals,
so that Rowan Morrison
has simply returned...
to the life forces
in another form.
Do you mean to say you teach
the children this stuff?
Yes. I told you,
it is what we believe.
They never learn anything
of christianity?
Only as
a comparative religion.
The children find it
far easier to picture...
reincarnation
than resurrection.
Those rotting bodies are a great stumbling
block for the childish imagination.
Why, of course.
And may I ask,
where is the rotting body
of Rowan Morrison?
Right where you'd expect it to be-
in the earth.
You mean,
in the churchyard?
- In a manner of speaking.
- No.
In plain speaking.
The building attached to the
ground in which the body lies...
is no longer used
for christian worship,
so whether it is still
a churchyard is debatable.
But forgive me. I must get back to my girls.
Good morning to you.
"Here lieth Beech Buchanan,
protected by the ejaculation
of serpents. "
- Morning.
- Morning.
I see you plant trees
on most of the graves here.
- Aye, that's right.
- What tree is that?
That's a rowan.
- And who lies there?
- Rowan Morrison.
- How long has she been dead?
- Oh, six or seven months.
They're just a wee bit late
with the headstone.
What on earth's that?
It looks like a piece of skin.
- Why, so it is.
- Well, what is it?
The poor wee lassie's
navel string, of course.
Where else should it be but hung
on her own little tree?
Where does your minister live?
Minister?
Minister.
Oh, what a silly girl you are
to make all this fuss.
It's just a little frog.
It'll do that poor
sore throat good.
Now, anyone would think
you didn't want to get better.
Now, in he goes.
And out he comes. There. Now,
that didn't hurt much, did it?
- It tasted horrid.
- Never mind, darling. It's all over now.
Here's your sweet for being a brave girl.
Come on. Which one would you like?
There. He's got your horrid old sore
throat now, hasn't he, poor creature?
Can't you
hear him croaking?
Can I do anything for you, Sergeant?
I doubt it,
seeing you're all raving mad.
Doctor, tell me, did you sign Rowan
Morrison's death certificate?
Uh, Rowan Morrison.
Yes, I did. Why?
Could I see it,
please?
You, of all people, should
know that death certificates
are kept in the public
records office.
Now, if you
will excuse me.
Doctor.
Tell me,
how did Rowan Morrison die?
She was burnt to death,
as my lunch will be
if I continue talking to you.
- Good day.
- Good day.
- I'd like to see your index of deaths, please.
- Do you have authority?
- No, I meant from his lordship.
- I don't need it.
I'm afraid you have to get
permission from Lord Summerisle.
Miss, if you don't cooperate
with me here and now,
you may well find yourself inside a police
cell on the mainland tonight.
Have I made myself
quite clear?
Please.
Thank you.
"M."
"m," "m," "m," "m. "
"Benjamin and Rachel
Morrison. "
- Rachel and Benjamin- names from the Bible.
- Yes.
They were very old.
But, there's no record
of Rowan Morrison's death,
which means, of course,
there is no death certificate.
- Did you know her?
- Yes, of course.
- Is that her?
- Yes, that's her.
How did she die?
- I don't know.
- I don't know anything about her. Nothing.
Thank you.
Are you mr. Lennox,
the photographer?
Oh, I'm firstly a chemist,
secondly a photographer.
I understand that you take the harvest
festival photographs every year-
the ones I saw
in The Green Man.
Yes, it's rather humdrum work,
I'm afraid.
Do you know what happened
to last year's photograph?
Isn't it with the others?
No, no, it's not. No, apparently it's been
broken or damaged in some way.
- Oh, what a pity.
- Would you have a copy of it?
Oh, no, I don't keep copies.
Mr. Lennox, you were among the people
to whom I showed the photograph
in the Green Man.
Is that the girl?
- It's difficult to say.
- Oh, come on, man!
It was only eight months ago. Surely
you remember if it was that girl or not.
Thank you.
Corn rigs and barley rigs
And corn rigs are bonnie
I'll not forget
that happy night
Among the rigs with Annie
Take the flame inside
you burn and burn below
Fire seed and fire feed
and make the baby grow
Take the flame inside you
Burn and burn belay
Fire seed and fire feed
and make the baby stay
Take the flame inside you
burn and burn belong
Fire seed and fire feed
and make the baby strong
Take the flame inside you
burn and burn belie
Fire seed and fire feed
and make the baby cry
Take the flame inside you
burn and burn begin
Fire seed and fire feed
and make the baby king
- His lordship is expecting you, sir.
- Expecting me?
That's what his lordship told me, sir.
Would you please come this way?
In there, sir.
Good afternoon,
Sergeant Howie.
I trust the sight of the young
people refreshes you.
No, sir,
it does not refresh me.
Oh, I'm sorry.
One should always be open
to the regenerative influences.
- I understand you're looking for a missing girl.
- I've found her.
- Splendid.
- In her grave.
Your lordship is
a justice of the peace.
I need your permission to exhume
her body, have it transported
to the mainland
for a pathologist's report.
You suspect... foul play?
I suspect murder
and conspiracy to murder.
In that case,
you must go ahead.
Your lordship seems
strangely unconcerned.
I'm confident your suspicions
are wrong, Sergeant.
We don't commit murder up here.
We're a deeply religious people.
Religious!
With ruined churches,
no ministers, no priests...
and children dancing naked.
They do love
their divinity lessons.
But they-they
are-are naked.
Naturally. It's much too dangerous
to jump through the fire
with your clothes on.
What-what religion can-can-can
they possibly be learning...
j- jumping over bonfires?
Parthenogenesis.
What?
Literally, as Miss Rose would doubtless
say in her assiduous way,
reproduction
without sexual union.
Oh, what is all this?
I mean, you-you-you've got
fake-fake-fake biology, fake religion.
Sir, have these children
never heard of Jesus?
Himself the son of a virgin, impregnated,
I believe, by a ghost.
Do sit down, Sergeant.
Shocks are so much better
absorbed with the knees bent.
Please.
Now, those children
out there,
they're jumping
through the flames
in the hope that the god of fire
will make them fruitful.
Really, you can hardly
blame them.
After all, what girl would not
prefer the child of a god
to that of some
acne-scarred artisan?
- And you, you encourage them in this?
- Actively.
It's most important that each new
generation born on Summerisle
be made aware that here
the old gods aren't dead.
But what of the true god...
to whose glory churches and
monasteries have been built
on these islands
for generations past?
Now sir, what of him?
He's dead.
He can't complain.
He had his chance, and in the
modern parlance, he blew it.
- What?
- It's very simple.
Let me show you.
In the last century,
the islanders were starving.
Like our neighbors today, they were
scratching a bare subsistence from sheep
and sea.
Then in 1868, my grandfather
bought this barren island
and began to change things.
A distinguished victorian scientist,
agronomist, free thinker.
How formidably benevolent
he seems.
Essentially the face of a man
incredulous of all human good.
You are very cynical,
my lord.
What attracted my
grandfather to the island,
apart from the profuse source
of wiry labor that it promised,
was the unique combination
of volcanic soil
and the warm gulf stream
that surrounded it.
You see, his experiments
had led him to believe
that it was possible to induce
here the successful growth
of certain new strains of fruit
that he had developed.
So, with typical mid-victorian zeal,
he set to work.
The best way of accomplishing
this, so it seemed to him,
was to rouse the people
from their apathy...
by giving them back
their joyous old gods,
and as a result of
this worship,
the barren island would burgeon and
bring forth fruit in great abundance.
What he did, of course, was to develop
new cultivars of hardy fruits
suited to local conditions.
But, of course, to begin with,
they worked for him because
he fed them and clothed them,
but then later when the trees
starting fruiting,
it became
a very different matter,
and the ministers fled the island,
never to return.
What my grandfather
had started out of expediency,
My father continued out of... Love.
He brought me up the same way -
to reverence the music and the drama
and rituals of the old gods.
To love nature and to fear it,
and to rely on it and to
appease it where necessary.
- He brought me up -
- He brought you up to be a pagan!
A heathen, conceivably, but not,
I hope, an unenlightened one.
Lord Summerisle, I am interested
in one thing: the law.
But I must remind you, sir,
that despite everything you've said,
you are the subject of a christian country.
Now, sir, if I may have your permission
to exhume the body of Rowan Morrison.
I was under the impression I'd already given it to you.
Ah, there's your transport.
It's been a great pleasure
meeting a christian copper.
There was a tinker lived of late
Who walked the streets of Rhine.
He bore his pack, upon his back
Watches and plugs did cry
Oh, I have brass within my bag
My hammer's full of metal,
And as to skill I work in clouts
And mend a broken kettle.
A maiden did this tinker meet
And to him boldly say: "Oh, sure
My kettle hath much need
If you will pass my way. "
She took the tinker by the hand
And led him to her door.
Says she "My kettle I will show,
And you can clout it sure.
For patching and plugging is his delight
I found that in Rowan Morrison's grave.
- Little Rowan loved the march hares.
- Hmm.
It's sacrilege.
Only if the ground is consecrated
to the christian belief.
Personally, I think it makes
a very lovely transmutation.
I'm sure Rowan is most happy with it.
Do you not think so, Lord Summerisle?
Miss, I hope you don't think that I can
be made a fool of indefinitely.
Where is Rowan Morrison?
Why, here she is - what
remains of her physically.
Her soul, of course, may even now -
Lord Summerisle, where is Rowan Morrison?
Sergeant Howie, I think that...
you are supposed to be the detective here.
A child is reported missing on your island.
At first I'm told there is no such child.
I- I then - I then find that there is,
in fact, but that she has been killed.
I subsequently discover that
there is no death certificate.
and now I find that there is a grave.
There's no body.
Very perplexing for you.
What do you think could have happened?
I think Rowan Morrison was murdered...
under circumstances of pagan barbarity,
which I can scarcely bring myself to believe...
as taking place in the 20th century.
Now, it is my intention tomorrow
to return to the mainland...
and report my suspicions
to the Chief Constable
of the West Highland Constabulary.
And I will demand a full inquiry takes place
into the affairs of this heathen island.
You must, of course, do as you see fit, Sergeant.
Perhaps it's just as well that
you won't be here tomorrow,
to be offended by the sight of our
May Day celebrations here.
Broome, would you kindly
show the Sergeant out?
- This way, sir.
- Good-bye.
Fair maid, says he, your kettle's cracked
the cause is plainly told
There hath so many nails been drove
mine own could not take hold...
There's hardly any produce.
Well, that's it - the crops failed.
And it's Rowan! Rowan and the crops failed!
Now,
what does the old religion say about crop failure?
...to reverence the music,
the drama, the rituals of the old gods,
to love nature and to fear it,
to rely upon it and to
appease it when necessary.
Sacrifice.
Perhaps it's just as well that you won't be here...
to be offended by the sight of our
May Day celebrations tomorrow.
What if she's not dead?
What if Rowan's not dead?
Sergeant.
Heigh ho
Who is there
No one but me
My dear
Please
Come
Say how do
The things
I'll give to you
A stroke as gentle
As a feather
I'll catch a rainbow from the sky
And tie the ends
Together
Heigh ho
I am here
Am I not young
And fair
Please
Come
Say how do
The things
I'll show to you
Would you have
A wondrous sight
Mmm hmm-hmm-mmm
The midday Sun
At midnight
Fair maid
White and red
Comb you smooth
And stroke your head
Mmm mmm
Mmm mmm-mmm
How a maid can milk a bull
Mm-hmm, mm-hmm
And every stroke
A bucket full
We carry death out of the village!
We carry death out of the village!
"May Day festivals.
"Primitive man lived and died by his harvest.
"The purpose of his spring ceremonies
was to ensure a plentiful autumn.
"Relics of these fertility dramas
are to be found all over Europe.
"In Great Britain, for example, one can still see...
"harmless versions of them danced
in obscure villages on May Day.
"Their cast includes many alarming characters:
"A man-animal, or hobbyhorse,
"who canters at the head of the
procession charging at the girls;
"A man-woman, the sinister teaser,
"played by the community leader or priest;
"And a man-fool, Punch,
"most complex of all the symbolic figures -
"the privileged simpleton and king for a day.
"Six swordsmen follow these figures...
"and at the climax of the ceremony
lock their swords together...
"In a clear symbol of the Sun.
"In pagan times, however, these dances
were not simply picturesque jigs.
"They were frenzied rites ending in a sacrifice
"by which the dancers hoped desperately
to win over the goddess of the fields.
"In good times, they offered produce
to the gods and slaughtered animals,
"but in bad years, when the harvest had been poor,
"the sacrifice was a human being.
"In some cultures, it would be the king himself.
"In others, the most beloved virgin.
"Very often he or she would be kept hidden
for months preceding the ceremony,
"just as the Sun is hidden
from the Earth in winter.
Rowan's not dead!
"Methods of sacrifice differed.
"Sometimes the victim would
be drowned in the sea...
"or burnt to death in a huge sacrificial bonfire.
Sometimes the six swordsmen
ritually beheaded the virgin. "
Dear God in Heaven, even
these people can't be that mad.
"The chief priest then skinned the child,
"and wearing the still-warmed skin like a mantle,
"led the rejoicing crowds through the streets.
"The priest thus represented the goddess reborn
and guaranteed another
successful harvest next year. "
Good morning, Sergeant!
I need to get to my plane.
Oh, well, on May Day,
I'd better take you out myself.
That's it.
Here, right.
I shall be back shortly with
some more police officers.
Have a good flight then!
Hey, you come back here!
I said, come back here!
What's the matter? Won't she go?
No. Has anyone been here?
Not to my knowledge, Sergeant.
If any of the children had been interfering
with it, I'm sure I would have seen-
I warn you: you're obstructing a police officer.
I am not obstructing you, Sergeant.
You could maybe get old Sam there
to row you to the mainland.
You'd be back in a week.
Well, I'll just have to find Rowan Morrison myself.
- Everything under control, Oak?
- Aye, my lord.
Mr. Macgreagor, I trust we aren't going to
have to let out your costume again this year.
I think I'll manage, my lord, but it does
seem to shrink a little each year.
I know.
My friends, enough now.
We shall all reassemble outside
the town hall at 3:00 sharp...
and then process through the
village and the countryside,
down to the beach below the stones,
by the route which has
become sacred to our rite.
This year at the procession's end,
as has already been proclaimed,
a holy sacrifice will be offered up jointly to Nuada,
our most sacred god of the Sun,
and to Avellenau, the beloved
goddess of our orchards,
in order that we may furnish
them with renewed power...
to quicken the growth of our crops.
- Hail the Queen of the May!
- Hail the Queen of the May!
Hail the Queen of the May!
Why, Sergeant, I thought you'd gone back.
Mrs. Morrison, I don't know if you know it or not,
But Rowan is not dead.
- They've got her hidden somewhere.
- They?
Now, if you know where she is, I beg you
to tell me now before it's too late.
- Sergeant, I've already told you -
- In the name of God, woman,
what kind of mother are you,
that can stand by and
see your own child slaughtered?
Sergeant, if I were you, I would
go back to the mainland.
Stop interfering in things
that are no concern of yours.
I am going to search every house in
this place during the next few hours.
and if anybody, including you, stands in my way,
they'll be arrested as accomplices to murder.
You'll simply never understand
the true nature of sacrifice.
Heathens! Bloody heathens!
Yes?
- Take those masks off.
- No.
Take them off!
- What do you think you're doing?
- Searching every house...
for a missing child.
Baa baa black sheep,
Have you any wool
Yes, sir, yes, sir,
Three bags full
I- I'm sorry.
- What's that?
- The life of the fields.
John Barleycorn.
What's in here?
- What's that?
- That's my costume - the salmon of knowledge.
Hello. You're back early.
Where are the other coppers?
There aren't any. The plane wouldn't start.
Give me a glass of whiskey, please.
So he spent his time instead turning
the whole village upside down.
- Just give me a glass of whiskey.
- No wonder he's worn out.
Did you find the girl?
No, well, I can't say I'm very surprised.
I'm going to rest in my bed
for half an hour.
I do not wish to be disturbed.
I'd stay there until tonight, if I was you.
We don't much relish strangers around today.
He's asleep.
I don't like to use it on him, really.
The laird said we're to take no chances, didn't he?
I know, but with the Hand of Glory there's
no telling when you wake.
He might sleep for days.
- All the better.
- Shh!
- We don't want him butting in. Go on, light it up.
That will make you sleep, my pretty Sergeant.
I'm away to change.
We can't do without Punch.
You best get on ahead.
They've given you girls five
minutes start, haven't they?
Good-bye.
What's the matter with you, Macgreagor?
Do you call that dancing?
Cut some capers, man. Use your bladder.
Play the fool. That's what you're here for.
I suppose you've been getting
drunk at your own bar.
That's more like it!
Good, good!
Here comes the job, that you chop off your head!
Chop, chop, chop, chop.
Chop, chop, chop, chop.
Everyone must go through, Macgreagor.
It's a game of chance, remember.
It's Holly. Well done.
Now, my friends, to the beach.
O god of the sea,
I offer you this ale as a libation,
that you may bestow upon us
in the year to come
the rich and diverse fruits of your kingdom.
Hail, god of the seas!
Accept our offering!
And now, for our more dreadful sacrifice...
yo those who command the fruit of the Earth.
It's Rowan.
What's the matter, Mr. Macgreagor?
Now, don't be frightened. I'm a police officer.
- I've got to try and get you away.
- Hurry, mister, please.
- I don't like it here. They're coming.
Do you know what they're gonna do?
- They're going to -
- Come on, come on. Hurry, hurry!
We can escape through the cave. I know the way.
Quickly.
That's the way out up there.
Come on. It's through a big tunnel.
We seem to have lost our torch-bearing friends.
I'm sorry.
It was worse than I remembered it.
- Did I do it right?
- You did it beautifully.
Dear little Rowan.
Rowan, darling. Come on, now.
Welcome, fool.
You have come of your own
free will to the appointed place.
The game is over.
Game? What game?
The game of the hunted leading the hunter.
You came here to find Rowan Morrison,
but it is we who have found you
and brought you here
and controlled your every thought
and action since you arrived.
Principally, we persuaded you to think
that Rowan Morrison was
being held as a sacrifice
because our crops failed last year.
I know your crops failed.
I saw the harvest photograph.
Oh, yes. They failed, all right, disastrously so...
for the first time since my grandfather came here.
The blossom came but the fruit
withered and died on the bough.
That must not happen again this year.
It is our most earnest belief that the
best way of preventing this
is to offer to our god of the Sun and
to the goddess of our orchards
the most acceptable sacrifice
that lies in our power.
Animals are fine, but their acceptability is limited.
A little child is even better,
but not nearly as effective
as the right kind of adult.
What do you mean,
"right kind of adult"?
You, Sergeant, are the right kind of adult,
as our painstaking researches have revealed.
You, uniquely, were the one we needed.
A man who would come
here of his own free will.
A man who has come here with the power
of a king by representing the law.
A man who would come here as a virgin.
A man who has come here as a fool.
Get out of my way.
You are the fool, Mr. Howie -
Punch, one of the great fool-victims of history,
for you have accepted the role of king for a day,
and who but a fool would do that?
But you will be revered and anointed as a king.
You will undergo death and rebirth -
resurrection, if you like.
The rebirth, sadly, will not be yours,
but that of our crops.
I am a christian,
and as a christian, I hope for resurrection.
And even if you kill me now,
it is I who will live again,
not your damned apples.
Sleep
Close and fast
No matter what you do,
you can't change the fact
that I believe in the life eternal,
as promised to us by our lord, Jesus Christ.
I believe in the life eternal
as promised to us by our lord, Jesus Christ.
That is good.
For believing what you do,
we confer upon you
a rare gift these days -
a martyr's death.
You will not only have life eternal,
but you will sit with
the saints among the elect.
Come.
It is time to keep your appointment
with The Wicker Man.
Now, wait!
Now, all of you, just wait and listen to me.
And you can wrap it up any way you like.
You are about to commit murder.
Can you not see? There is no Sun god.
There is no goddess of the fields.
Your crops failed because your strains failed.
Fruit is not meant to be grown on these islands.
It's against nature.
Don't you see that killing me is not
going to bring back your apples?
Summerisle, you know it won't.
Go on, man. Tell them. Tell them it won't.
I know it will.
Well, don't you understand that
if your crops fail this year,
next year you're going to have to
have another blood sacrifice?
And next year, no one less than the
king of Summerisle himself will do.
If the crops fail, Summerisle,
next year your people
will kill you on May Day.
They will not fail.
The sacrifice of the willing king,
like virgin fool, will be accepted.
But don't you see I'll be missed?
- They'll come looking for me.
- There will be no traces. Bring him up, Oak.
- Go on.
- No!
Think! Just think what you're doing!
Think what you're doing! Think!
In the name of God, think what you're doing!
Oh, God! Oh, Jesus Christ!
Oh, my God! Christ!
No, no, dear God!
No, Christ!
No, no!
Mighty god of the Sun,
bountiful goddess of our orchards,
accept our sacrifice and make our blossoms fruit.
Mighty god of the Sun,
bountiful goddess of our orchards...
- Hear ye the words of the lord!
...accept our sacrifice and make our blossoms fruit.
Awake, ye heathens, and hold!
It is the Lord who hath laid waste your orchards!
It is he who hath made them bare!
- Reverence the sacrifice.
Hold, ye husbandmen,
because the harvest of
your field hath perished
and the vine is dried up
and the apple tree languisheth!
Even all the trees of the field are withered
because the truth is withered away
from the sons of men.
Desire shall fail
and ye shall all die
accursed!
Summer is a-comin' in
Loudly sing cuckoo
Grows the seed and blows the mead
And springs the wood anew
Sing cuckoo
Ewe bleats harshly after lamb
Cows after calves make moo
The lord's my shepherd
I'll not want
He takes me down
to lie
in pastures -
Oh, God.
Grows the seed and blows the mead
And springs the wood anew
- Sing cuckoo
- Oh, God.
I humbly entreat you for the soul
of this, thy servant, Neil Howie...
who will today depart from this world.
Do not deliver me into the enemy's hands...
or put me out of mind forever.
Let me not undergo the real pains of hell,
dear God, because I die unshriven
- Cuckoo, cuckoo
- and establish me
in that bliss
which knows no ending,
- Cuckoo
- through Christ,
our lord.
Grows the seed and blows the mead
Failure! Failure!
Sing cuckoo
Ewe bleats harshly after lamb
Cows after calves make moo
Bullock stamps and deer champs
Now shrilly sing cuckoo
Cuckoo, cuckoo
Wild bird are you
Be never still, cuckoo
from the original Close Caption file
- Evening.
Get your hair cut, Mctaggart.
Ah, now, there's a message, Sergeant.
A message for us all.
However, there is a time
and place for everything.
Get it removed.
Any serious problems while i've been away?
No, Sergeant, nothing serious.
Just the usual.
Rape, sodomy, sacrilege.
You know.
The lord is my shepherd
I'll not want
He makes me down to lie
In pastures green
He leadeth me
The quiet waters by
He leadeth me
The quiet waters by
"I have received of the Lord...
"that which also i delivered unto you.
"And the Lord Jesus, the same night
in which he was betrayed,
"took bread.
"And when He had given thanks,
"He broke it and said,
"take, eat.
"'This is my body,
"'which is broken for you.
"This do in remembrance of me. '
"And after the same manner, He also took
the cup when he had eaten, saying,
"'this cup is the new covenant in my blood.
"'This do you, as oft as you drink it,
in remembrance of me.
"'For as often as you eat this bread...
"'and drink this wine,
"'you do show the Lord's death...
till He comes again. '"
That's for his nibs.
Postmarked Summerisle.
- He's got a bit of skirt over there, I bet.
- What, him?
The only woman he's interested in
is the Virgin Mary.
- I thought he was going steady with Mary Bannorg.
- Steady's the word.
Two years, he hasn't so
much as tickled her fancy.
He's keepin' himself pure
for the wedding day.
Ah, poor old Mary.
I don't know what she sees in him.
When those two are married,
she'll spend more time on her knees
in church than on her back in bed.
All right.
Mornin', all.
- Morning, Hugh.
- Good morning, Sergeant.
Um, there's an anonymous
letter for you, Sergeant.
Read it.
"Dear Sergeant Howie,
"none of us have seen May Morrison's
daughter Rowan since last year.
"She's only 12 and has been missing...
from her home for many months.
"She couldn't have left
the island by herself.
"She's too young, and her mother
won't say anything about it,
"just to mind
my own business.
"Well, I reckon it's all our business
when a kid disappears,
that's why i'm writing you this letter.
"A child lover.
Summerisle.
P.S. I enclose a picture
of Rowan Morrison. "
- Gonna go, Sergeant?
- Aye, aye, of course.
- Have you ever been there?
- Eh, no.
I've tasted the famous apples,
of course, but, uh -
it's odd, isn't it, all that fruit?
Well, the whole
principality is odd.
To start with,
they have no licensing laws.
Singing and dancing
on a Sunday.
Oh, aye, doubtless that would appeal to
a heathen brute like yourself, Mctaggart.
However, this is still, in theory,
a law-abiding christian country,
however unfashionable
that may seem.
Well, I'll call in on this patrol.
Will you call in at Mary's house,
tell her I'll be away overnight.
Oh, I am come
To the north country
Ochon, ochon,
Ochrie!
Without a penny
In my purse
To buy a meal
For me
One time I had
A hundred sheep
Ochon, ochon,
Ochrie!
Skipping o'er
Yon (that) narrow creek
And growing wool
For me
It was upon a lammas night
When corn rigs
are bonnie
Beneath the moon's
unclouded light
I held a while to Annie
The time went by
with careless heed
Till 'tween
the late and early
With small persuasion
she agreed
To see me
through the barley
Corn rigs and barley rigs and
Corn rigs are bonnie
I'll not forget
that happy night
Among the rigs with Annie
Will you send a dinghy, please?
Did you hear me?
I'd like a dinghy, if you please.
Hello, sir! Have you lost
your bearings?
No, sir, I don't think so.
- This is Summerisle, is it not?
- It is, sir!
Well, I'm right then. Now, would
you send a dinghy, please?
I'm afraid it can't be done, sir!
This is private property!
You can't land here
without written permission!
I, as you can see,
am a police officer.
A complaint has been
registered by a resident
of this island about a missing child.
Now, that makes it a police matter,
private property or not.
Now, will you send a dinghy, please?
Corn rigs and barley rigs
And corn rigs are bonnie
I'll not forget
that happy night
Among the rigs with Annie
Good day to you, sir.
I'm the harbour master.
Sergeant Howie, West Highland police.
A missing child
is always trouble.
Aye, aye, aye,
for everybody.
Perhaps you would be good enough
to explain matters to his lordship.
He's most particular
who lands here.
All in good time.
We, too, have our own particularities.
You know her?
Her name is Rowan Morrison.
No, no, never seen her before.
I don't know the face either.
Do you know her, Kenny?
She doesn't belong to this island.
No, I never saw her before.
No, she doesn't belong here
at all. Johnnie?
No, can't say I know her.
Now, now, what are you saying?
You're saying that she is not from the island.
Aye, that's right.
She's not from here.
Oh, you get Morrisons on Lewis and a
few on Mull. I would try there.
Thanks.
"None of us have seen May Morrison's
daughter Rowan since last year.
She's only 12, and she's been missing
from her home for many months. "
The mother's name
is May Morrison.
Oh, May! She quite slipped my memory.
Of course we've got May.
She keeps the post office in the high street.
- May Morrison? You're quite sure?
- Quite sure.
Well, thank you
for your help.
That's not May's daughter,
though!
No, she's not May's.
Then who is she?
The sky was blue
the wind was still
The moon was shining clearly
I set her down
with right good will
Among the rigs of barley
I kenned her heart
with all my own
I loved her most sincerely
I kissed her o'er
and o'er again
Among the rigs of barley
- Good afternoon!
- I like your rabbits.
Those are hares, not silly old rabbits.
Lovely march hares.
Can I help you?
- Mrs. Morrison- mrs. May Morrison?
- Yes.
- Sergeant Howie, West Highland police.
- Oh, my!
Did you come over in that aeroplane
that I saw flying round?
- Aye, that's right.
- What, just to see me?
Well, no, not exactly.
I'm making inquiries
about your daughter.
- We understand that she's missing.
- Missing? My daughter?
- Aye. You do have a daughter.
- Yes.
- And that's her?
- Oh, never.
I tell you no.
I think you'd better
come with me.
This is our Myrtle.
She was nine last thursday.
She's not a bit like the girl
in your photograph.
She must be at least
13 or 14, surely.
Myrtle, say hello.
This is Sergeant- oh!
- Howie.
- Oh.
- Hello, Myrtle.
How do you do? Look, mummy, I'm drawing a hare.
- Ah.
Excuse me, Sergeant.
Hello.
- Here you are. You can fill in the
ears in gray. Oh, sorry.
Thank you, Myrtle.
Myrtle, do you-
do you know Rowan?
Of course I do.
- You do?
- 'Course I do, silly.
- Uh, do you know where she is now?
- In the fields.
She runs and plays there all day.
Does she?
Do you think she'll be coming back for tea?
Tea? Hares don't
have tea, silly.
- Hares?
- She's a hare.
Rowan's a hare.
She has a lovely time.
- Well, tell me-
- Well, now, Sergeant.
You will stay and have
a cup of tea, won't you?
- Oh, well, yes, yes, please.
- Good.
- That's very kind of you.
- Um, not at all.
It must be thirsty work, asking all those questions, eh?
- Ah, aye.
- Hello.
- Good evening. Good evening.
- Good evening.
- Good evening.
Hello again.
- Are you the landlord here?
- Aye.
I'm Alder Macgreagor. And you must be
the policeman from the mainland.
Aye, that's right. Sergeant Howie,
West Highland constabulary.
I'm quite obviously not going
to get back to the mainland tonight
so I wondered if you had a room and
a bite of supper I could have.
- Could you manage that?
- Aye, I think that can be arranged.
My daughter Willow will show you to your room.
Willow!
Father?
This is Sergeant Howie,
a policeman from the mainland,
who will be spending
the night with us.
- This is my daughter, Willow.
- Good evening.
Show the Sergeant
to his room, would you?
Much has been said
of the strumpets of yore
Of wenches and bawdy
house queens by the score
But I sing of a baggage
that we all adore
The landlord's daughter
You'll never love another
Although she's not the kind of girl
To take home to your mother
Her ale, it is lively
and strong to the taste
It is brewed with discretion
never with haste
You can have all you like
if you swear not to waste
The landlord's daughter
And when her name is mentioned
The parts of every
gentleman do stand up
At attention
Now they say of the blossom
in all of the town
That she takes off her garter
and starts on the tug
That dolly who keeps her
ain't horrible now
While I'll take
the landlord's daughter
Oh, nothing can delight so
- As does the part that lies between
- Her left toe
And her right toe
- I'd like my supper now, please.
- It won't be long, Sergeant.
Oh, you don't want to let them worry you.
Why don't you have a wee drink?
No, thank you, not just now.
I think you all ought to know that
I am here on official business.
I am here to investigate the
disappearance of a young girl,
as doubtless, the harbour master
has already told you by now.
There's the girl.
Her name is Rowan Morrison.
Would you pass that among
your customers, please?
Now, if any of you can give me
any idea as to her whereabouts,
I'd be most grateful
if you'd let me know.
No, I'm afraid nobody's seen her, Sergeant.
Thank you. These Harvest
Festival photographs?
Aye. We have one taken at
the end of every summer.
- What happened to last year's?
- Mm, it got broke.
Your supper's ready, Sergeant.
Willow, show the Sergeant
to the dining room.
Thank you.
It's disgusting.
- Thank you.
- What's the matter, aren't you hungry?
Aye, it's just that most
of the food I've had-
the farmhouse soup, the potatoes,
broad beans- all come out of a can.
Broad beans, in their natural state,
aren't usually turquoise,
are they?
- Hmm.
Some things in their natural state
have the most vivid colors.
I just wanted to know why, that's all.
Now, I wonder what you'll be
wanting for afters?
- Hmm, I'll have an apple.
- No apples.
No apples? On Summerisle?
I expect they've all been exported.
You can have peaches and cream,
if you like.
Aye, from a can, I suppose.
All right.
Cheer up. Food isn't
everything in life, you know.
Up, up, up, up!
Up, up, up, up, up, up!
- Where?
You'll find it at the top of the stair on your right.
I put my hand
On her knee
And she says
Do you want to see
I put my hand
- Willow Macgreagor.
On her breast
And she says
Do you want a kiss
Willow Macgreagor, I have the honor
to present to you Ash Buchanan.
Gently, Johnny
- Come up, Ash Buchanan.
Gently, Johnny
my jingaloe
another sacrifice
for Aphrodite, Willow.
You flatter me, your lordship.
Surely you mean,"to aphrodite. "
I make no such distinction.
You are the goddess of love in human form,
and I am merely your humble acolyte.
Enjoy yourself, and him.
Only make sure you are ready,
for tomorrow is tomorrow.
The day of death
and rebirth.
Yes.
And of a somewhat
more serious offering...
than tonight.
I put my hand
On her thigh
And she says
Do you want to try
I put my hand
On her belly
And she says
Do you want to fill me
Gently, gently
Gently, Johnny
My jingaloe
Gently, gently
Gently, Johnny
My jingaloe
I think I could turn
and live with animals.
They are so placid
and self-contained.
They do not lie awake in the dark
and weep for their sins.
They do not make me sick
discussing their duty to God.
Not one of them kneels to another
or to his own kind that lived thousands of years ago.
Not one of them is... respectable
Gently, gently
- or unhappy
Gently, Johnny
all over the earth.
Gently, Johnny
my jingaloe
Gently, gently
Gently, Johnny
My jingaloe
Good morning,
Sergeant.
- Morning.
- Isn't it glorious?
Aye, aye,
it's very nice.
I expect you'll be
going home tonight.
Well, that depends.
- Where's the school, please?
- On the far side of the green.
Thank you.
In the woods
there grew a tree
And a fine, fine tree
was he
And on that tree there was a limb
And on that limb
there was a branch
And on that branch
there was a nest
And in that nest
there was an egg
And in that egg
there was a bird
And from that bird
a feather came
And of that feather was
A bed
And on that bed
there was a girl
And on that girl
there was a man
And from that man
there was a seed
And from that seed
there was a boy
And from that boy
there was a man
And for that man
there was a grave
And from that grave
there grew
A tree
And on that bed
there was a girl
And on that girl
there was a man
And from that man there was a seed,
and from that seed there was a boy
And from that boy
there was a man
And for that man
there was a grave
And from that grave
there grew
A tree
And on that tree there was a limb
and on that limb
There was a branch and on that
branch there was a nest
And in that nest
there was an egg
And in that egg there was a bird,
and from that bird, a feather came
And of that feather was
A bed
Very well, girls. That's enough.
Now it's time to pay attention to me.
Now, uh, Daisy,
will you tell us what it is, please,
that the maypole represents?
Really, Daisy.
- You've been told often enough.
- Miss Rose, I know!
- All right, then, anybody.
- Phallic symbol.
The phallic symbol.
That is correct.
It is the image
of the penis,
which is venerated
in religions such as ours,
as simbolising the generative
force in nature.
Oh, can I help you?
C- could-could I have a word
with you, please, miss?
Certainly. Girls, open your desks
and take out your exercise books.
Miss, you can be quite sure that I shall
report this to the proper authorities.
Everywhere I go on this island,
it seems to me I find degeneracy.
and there is brawling in bars,
there is indecency in public places,
and there is corruption of the young,
and now I see it all stems from here-
it stems from the filth taught
here in this very schoolroom.
I was unaware that the police had
any authority in matters of education.
Aye, aye, well,
we'll see about that.
Girls, could I have
your attention, please?
Now, I am a police officer.
Well, as you can see.
I have come here
from the mainland...
to investigate the disappearance
of a young girl.
I have a photograph here-
excuse me-
which I would like you to pass
around amongst yourselves.
Meanwhile, I'll write her name
over there on the blackboard.
Rowan Morrison.
That's her name.
Now, do any of you recognize either
the name or the photograph?
- No.
- There's your answer, Sergeant.
If she existed, we would know.
- Whose desk is that?
- No one's.
Thank you.
The little old beetle goes round and round,
always the same way, you see,
till he ends up right up tight
to the nail, poor old thing.
"Poor old thing"?
Then why in God's name
do you do it, girl?
I'd like to see the
school register, please.
I'm afraid you'll have to have
Lord Summerisle's authority.
This is a police matter.
I'm afraid you'll have to have
a search warrant or permission
from Lord Summerisle himself.
I'm afraid you'll just have to
bear with me, won't you?
You're liars. You are
despicable little liars.
Rowan Morrison is a schoolmate
of yours, isn't she?
And that is her desk, isn't it?
- Well, isn't it?
- I think you ought to know-
And you are the biggest liar of all.
I warn you,
one more lie out of you,
and I will charge you
with obstruction,
and, believe me, Miss Rose,
that is a promise.
Now, for the last time,
where is Rowan Morrison?
I would like to speak
to you outside, Sergeant.
Girls, get on
with your reading.
It's the Rites and Rituals of May Day,
chapter five. I won't be long.
Well?
You don't understand, Sergeant.
Nobody was lying. I told you plainly.
If Rowan Morrison existed,
we would know of her.
You mean,
she doesn't exist?
She's dead?
You would say so.
Oh, come on, come on.
She's either dead,
or she's not dead.
Here, we do not use
the word-
We believe...
that when the human life
is over,
the soul returns
to trees, to air,
to fire, to water,
to animals,
so that Rowan Morrison
has simply returned...
to the life forces
in another form.
Do you mean to say you teach
the children this stuff?
Yes. I told you,
it is what we believe.
They never learn anything
of christianity?
Only as
a comparative religion.
The children find it
far easier to picture...
reincarnation
than resurrection.
Those rotting bodies are a great stumbling
block for the childish imagination.
Why, of course.
And may I ask,
where is the rotting body
of Rowan Morrison?
Right where you'd expect it to be-
in the earth.
You mean,
in the churchyard?
- In a manner of speaking.
- No.
In plain speaking.
The building attached to the
ground in which the body lies...
is no longer used
for christian worship,
so whether it is still
a churchyard is debatable.
But forgive me. I must get back to my girls.
Good morning to you.
"Here lieth Beech Buchanan,
protected by the ejaculation
of serpents. "
- Morning.
- Morning.
I see you plant trees
on most of the graves here.
- Aye, that's right.
- What tree is that?
That's a rowan.
- And who lies there?
- Rowan Morrison.
- How long has she been dead?
- Oh, six or seven months.
They're just a wee bit late
with the headstone.
What on earth's that?
It looks like a piece of skin.
- Why, so it is.
- Well, what is it?
The poor wee lassie's
navel string, of course.
Where else should it be but hung
on her own little tree?
Where does your minister live?
Minister?
Minister.
Oh, what a silly girl you are
to make all this fuss.
It's just a little frog.
It'll do that poor
sore throat good.
Now, anyone would think
you didn't want to get better.
Now, in he goes.
And out he comes. There. Now,
that didn't hurt much, did it?
- It tasted horrid.
- Never mind, darling. It's all over now.
Here's your sweet for being a brave girl.
Come on. Which one would you like?
There. He's got your horrid old sore
throat now, hasn't he, poor creature?
Can't you
hear him croaking?
Can I do anything for you, Sergeant?
I doubt it,
seeing you're all raving mad.
Doctor, tell me, did you sign Rowan
Morrison's death certificate?
Uh, Rowan Morrison.
Yes, I did. Why?
Could I see it,
please?
You, of all people, should
know that death certificates
are kept in the public
records office.
Now, if you
will excuse me.
Doctor.
Tell me,
how did Rowan Morrison die?
She was burnt to death,
as my lunch will be
if I continue talking to you.
- Good day.
- Good day.
- I'd like to see your index of deaths, please.
- Do you have authority?
- No, I meant from his lordship.
- I don't need it.
I'm afraid you have to get
permission from Lord Summerisle.
Miss, if you don't cooperate
with me here and now,
you may well find yourself inside a police
cell on the mainland tonight.
Have I made myself
quite clear?
Please.
Thank you.
"M."
"m," "m," "m," "m. "
"Benjamin and Rachel
Morrison. "
- Rachel and Benjamin- names from the Bible.
- Yes.
They were very old.
But, there's no record
of Rowan Morrison's death,
which means, of course,
there is no death certificate.
- Did you know her?
- Yes, of course.
- Is that her?
- Yes, that's her.
How did she die?
- I don't know.
- I don't know anything about her. Nothing.
Thank you.
Are you mr. Lennox,
the photographer?
Oh, I'm firstly a chemist,
secondly a photographer.
I understand that you take the harvest
festival photographs every year-
the ones I saw
in The Green Man.
Yes, it's rather humdrum work,
I'm afraid.
Do you know what happened
to last year's photograph?
Isn't it with the others?
No, no, it's not. No, apparently it's been
broken or damaged in some way.
- Oh, what a pity.
- Would you have a copy of it?
Oh, no, I don't keep copies.
Mr. Lennox, you were among the people
to whom I showed the photograph
in the Green Man.
Is that the girl?
- It's difficult to say.
- Oh, come on, man!
It was only eight months ago. Surely
you remember if it was that girl or not.
Thank you.
Corn rigs and barley rigs
And corn rigs are bonnie
I'll not forget
that happy night
Among the rigs with Annie
Take the flame inside
you burn and burn below
Fire seed and fire feed
and make the baby grow
Take the flame inside you
Burn and burn belay
Fire seed and fire feed
and make the baby stay
Take the flame inside you
burn and burn belong
Fire seed and fire feed
and make the baby strong
Take the flame inside you
burn and burn belie
Fire seed and fire feed
and make the baby cry
Take the flame inside you
burn and burn begin
Fire seed and fire feed
and make the baby king
- His lordship is expecting you, sir.
- Expecting me?
That's what his lordship told me, sir.
Would you please come this way?
In there, sir.
Good afternoon,
Sergeant Howie.
I trust the sight of the young
people refreshes you.
No, sir,
it does not refresh me.
Oh, I'm sorry.
One should always be open
to the regenerative influences.
- I understand you're looking for a missing girl.
- I've found her.
- Splendid.
- In her grave.
Your lordship is
a justice of the peace.
I need your permission to exhume
her body, have it transported
to the mainland
for a pathologist's report.
You suspect... foul play?
I suspect murder
and conspiracy to murder.
In that case,
you must go ahead.
Your lordship seems
strangely unconcerned.
I'm confident your suspicions
are wrong, Sergeant.
We don't commit murder up here.
We're a deeply religious people.
Religious!
With ruined churches,
no ministers, no priests...
and children dancing naked.
They do love
their divinity lessons.
But they-they
are-are naked.
Naturally. It's much too dangerous
to jump through the fire
with your clothes on.
What-what religion can-can-can
they possibly be learning...
j- jumping over bonfires?
Parthenogenesis.
What?
Literally, as Miss Rose would doubtless
say in her assiduous way,
reproduction
without sexual union.
Oh, what is all this?
I mean, you-you-you've got
fake-fake-fake biology, fake religion.
Sir, have these children
never heard of Jesus?
Himself the son of a virgin, impregnated,
I believe, by a ghost.
Do sit down, Sergeant.
Shocks are so much better
absorbed with the knees bent.
Please.
Now, those children
out there,
they're jumping
through the flames
in the hope that the god of fire
will make them fruitful.
Really, you can hardly
blame them.
After all, what girl would not
prefer the child of a god
to that of some
acne-scarred artisan?
- And you, you encourage them in this?
- Actively.
It's most important that each new
generation born on Summerisle
be made aware that here
the old gods aren't dead.
But what of the true god...
to whose glory churches and
monasteries have been built
on these islands
for generations past?
Now sir, what of him?
He's dead.
He can't complain.
He had his chance, and in the
modern parlance, he blew it.
- What?
- It's very simple.
Let me show you.
In the last century,
the islanders were starving.
Like our neighbors today, they were
scratching a bare subsistence from sheep
and sea.
Then in 1868, my grandfather
bought this barren island
and began to change things.
A distinguished victorian scientist,
agronomist, free thinker.
How formidably benevolent
he seems.
Essentially the face of a man
incredulous of all human good.
You are very cynical,
my lord.
What attracted my
grandfather to the island,
apart from the profuse source
of wiry labor that it promised,
was the unique combination
of volcanic soil
and the warm gulf stream
that surrounded it.
You see, his experiments
had led him to believe
that it was possible to induce
here the successful growth
of certain new strains of fruit
that he had developed.
So, with typical mid-victorian zeal,
he set to work.
The best way of accomplishing
this, so it seemed to him,
was to rouse the people
from their apathy...
by giving them back
their joyous old gods,
and as a result of
this worship,
the barren island would burgeon and
bring forth fruit in great abundance.
What he did, of course, was to develop
new cultivars of hardy fruits
suited to local conditions.
But, of course, to begin with,
they worked for him because
he fed them and clothed them,
but then later when the trees
starting fruiting,
it became
a very different matter,
and the ministers fled the island,
never to return.
What my grandfather
had started out of expediency,
My father continued out of... Love.
He brought me up the same way -
to reverence the music and the drama
and rituals of the old gods.
To love nature and to fear it,
and to rely on it and to
appease it where necessary.
- He brought me up -
- He brought you up to be a pagan!
A heathen, conceivably, but not,
I hope, an unenlightened one.
Lord Summerisle, I am interested
in one thing: the law.
But I must remind you, sir,
that despite everything you've said,
you are the subject of a christian country.
Now, sir, if I may have your permission
to exhume the body of Rowan Morrison.
I was under the impression I'd already given it to you.
Ah, there's your transport.
It's been a great pleasure
meeting a christian copper.
There was a tinker lived of late
Who walked the streets of Rhine.
He bore his pack, upon his back
Watches and plugs did cry
Oh, I have brass within my bag
My hammer's full of metal,
And as to skill I work in clouts
And mend a broken kettle.
A maiden did this tinker meet
And to him boldly say: "Oh, sure
My kettle hath much need
If you will pass my way. "
She took the tinker by the hand
And led him to her door.
Says she "My kettle I will show,
And you can clout it sure.
For patching and plugging is his delight
I found that in Rowan Morrison's grave.
- Little Rowan loved the march hares.
- Hmm.
It's sacrilege.
Only if the ground is consecrated
to the christian belief.
Personally, I think it makes
a very lovely transmutation.
I'm sure Rowan is most happy with it.
Do you not think so, Lord Summerisle?
Miss, I hope you don't think that I can
be made a fool of indefinitely.
Where is Rowan Morrison?
Why, here she is - what
remains of her physically.
Her soul, of course, may even now -
Lord Summerisle, where is Rowan Morrison?
Sergeant Howie, I think that...
you are supposed to be the detective here.
A child is reported missing on your island.
At first I'm told there is no such child.
I- I then - I then find that there is,
in fact, but that she has been killed.
I subsequently discover that
there is no death certificate.
and now I find that there is a grave.
There's no body.
Very perplexing for you.
What do you think could have happened?
I think Rowan Morrison was murdered...
under circumstances of pagan barbarity,
which I can scarcely bring myself to believe...
as taking place in the 20th century.
Now, it is my intention tomorrow
to return to the mainland...
and report my suspicions
to the Chief Constable
of the West Highland Constabulary.
And I will demand a full inquiry takes place
into the affairs of this heathen island.
You must, of course, do as you see fit, Sergeant.
Perhaps it's just as well that
you won't be here tomorrow,
to be offended by the sight of our
May Day celebrations here.
Broome, would you kindly
show the Sergeant out?
- This way, sir.
- Good-bye.
Fair maid, says he, your kettle's cracked
the cause is plainly told
There hath so many nails been drove
mine own could not take hold...
There's hardly any produce.
Well, that's it - the crops failed.
And it's Rowan! Rowan and the crops failed!
Now,
what does the old religion say about crop failure?
...to reverence the music,
the drama, the rituals of the old gods,
to love nature and to fear it,
to rely upon it and to
appease it when necessary.
Sacrifice.
Perhaps it's just as well that you won't be here...
to be offended by the sight of our
May Day celebrations tomorrow.
What if she's not dead?
What if Rowan's not dead?
Sergeant.
Heigh ho
Who is there
No one but me
My dear
Please
Come
Say how do
The things
I'll give to you
A stroke as gentle
As a feather
I'll catch a rainbow from the sky
And tie the ends
Together
Heigh ho
I am here
Am I not young
And fair
Please
Come
Say how do
The things
I'll show to you
Would you have
A wondrous sight
Mmm hmm-hmm-mmm
The midday Sun
At midnight
Fair maid
White and red
Comb you smooth
And stroke your head
Mmm mmm
Mmm mmm-mmm
How a maid can milk a bull
Mm-hmm, mm-hmm
And every stroke
A bucket full
We carry death out of the village!
We carry death out of the village!
"May Day festivals.
"Primitive man lived and died by his harvest.
"The purpose of his spring ceremonies
was to ensure a plentiful autumn.
"Relics of these fertility dramas
are to be found all over Europe.
"In Great Britain, for example, one can still see...
"harmless versions of them danced
in obscure villages on May Day.
"Their cast includes many alarming characters:
"A man-animal, or hobbyhorse,
"who canters at the head of the
procession charging at the girls;
"A man-woman, the sinister teaser,
"played by the community leader or priest;
"And a man-fool, Punch,
"most complex of all the symbolic figures -
"the privileged simpleton and king for a day.
"Six swordsmen follow these figures...
"and at the climax of the ceremony
lock their swords together...
"In a clear symbol of the Sun.
"In pagan times, however, these dances
were not simply picturesque jigs.
"They were frenzied rites ending in a sacrifice
"by which the dancers hoped desperately
to win over the goddess of the fields.
"In good times, they offered produce
to the gods and slaughtered animals,
"but in bad years, when the harvest had been poor,
"the sacrifice was a human being.
"In some cultures, it would be the king himself.
"In others, the most beloved virgin.
"Very often he or she would be kept hidden
for months preceding the ceremony,
"just as the Sun is hidden
from the Earth in winter.
Rowan's not dead!
"Methods of sacrifice differed.
"Sometimes the victim would
be drowned in the sea...
"or burnt to death in a huge sacrificial bonfire.
Sometimes the six swordsmen
ritually beheaded the virgin. "
Dear God in Heaven, even
these people can't be that mad.
"The chief priest then skinned the child,
"and wearing the still-warmed skin like a mantle,
"led the rejoicing crowds through the streets.
"The priest thus represented the goddess reborn
and guaranteed another
successful harvest next year. "
Good morning, Sergeant!
I need to get to my plane.
Oh, well, on May Day,
I'd better take you out myself.
That's it.
Here, right.
I shall be back shortly with
some more police officers.
Have a good flight then!
Hey, you come back here!
I said, come back here!
What's the matter? Won't she go?
No. Has anyone been here?
Not to my knowledge, Sergeant.
If any of the children had been interfering
with it, I'm sure I would have seen-
I warn you: you're obstructing a police officer.
I am not obstructing you, Sergeant.
You could maybe get old Sam there
to row you to the mainland.
You'd be back in a week.
Well, I'll just have to find Rowan Morrison myself.
- Everything under control, Oak?
- Aye, my lord.
Mr. Macgreagor, I trust we aren't going to
have to let out your costume again this year.
I think I'll manage, my lord, but it does
seem to shrink a little each year.
I know.
My friends, enough now.
We shall all reassemble outside
the town hall at 3:00 sharp...
and then process through the
village and the countryside,
down to the beach below the stones,
by the route which has
become sacred to our rite.
This year at the procession's end,
as has already been proclaimed,
a holy sacrifice will be offered up jointly to Nuada,
our most sacred god of the Sun,
and to Avellenau, the beloved
goddess of our orchards,
in order that we may furnish
them with renewed power...
to quicken the growth of our crops.
- Hail the Queen of the May!
- Hail the Queen of the May!
Hail the Queen of the May!
Why, Sergeant, I thought you'd gone back.
Mrs. Morrison, I don't know if you know it or not,
But Rowan is not dead.
- They've got her hidden somewhere.
- They?
Now, if you know where she is, I beg you
to tell me now before it's too late.
- Sergeant, I've already told you -
- In the name of God, woman,
what kind of mother are you,
that can stand by and
see your own child slaughtered?
Sergeant, if I were you, I would
go back to the mainland.
Stop interfering in things
that are no concern of yours.
I am going to search every house in
this place during the next few hours.
and if anybody, including you, stands in my way,
they'll be arrested as accomplices to murder.
You'll simply never understand
the true nature of sacrifice.
Heathens! Bloody heathens!
Yes?
- Take those masks off.
- No.
Take them off!
- What do you think you're doing?
- Searching every house...
for a missing child.
Baa baa black sheep,
Have you any wool
Yes, sir, yes, sir,
Three bags full
I- I'm sorry.
- What's that?
- The life of the fields.
John Barleycorn.
What's in here?
- What's that?
- That's my costume - the salmon of knowledge.
Hello. You're back early.
Where are the other coppers?
There aren't any. The plane wouldn't start.
Give me a glass of whiskey, please.
So he spent his time instead turning
the whole village upside down.
- Just give me a glass of whiskey.
- No wonder he's worn out.
Did you find the girl?
No, well, I can't say I'm very surprised.
I'm going to rest in my bed
for half an hour.
I do not wish to be disturbed.
I'd stay there until tonight, if I was you.
We don't much relish strangers around today.
He's asleep.
I don't like to use it on him, really.
The laird said we're to take no chances, didn't he?
I know, but with the Hand of Glory there's
no telling when you wake.
He might sleep for days.
- All the better.
- Shh!
- We don't want him butting in. Go on, light it up.
That will make you sleep, my pretty Sergeant.
I'm away to change.
We can't do without Punch.
You best get on ahead.
They've given you girls five
minutes start, haven't they?
Good-bye.
What's the matter with you, Macgreagor?
Do you call that dancing?
Cut some capers, man. Use your bladder.
Play the fool. That's what you're here for.
I suppose you've been getting
drunk at your own bar.
That's more like it!
Good, good!
Here comes the job, that you chop off your head!
Chop, chop, chop, chop.
Chop, chop, chop, chop.
Everyone must go through, Macgreagor.
It's a game of chance, remember.
It's Holly. Well done.
Now, my friends, to the beach.
O god of the sea,
I offer you this ale as a libation,
that you may bestow upon us
in the year to come
the rich and diverse fruits of your kingdom.
Hail, god of the seas!
Accept our offering!
And now, for our more dreadful sacrifice...
yo those who command the fruit of the Earth.
It's Rowan.
What's the matter, Mr. Macgreagor?
Now, don't be frightened. I'm a police officer.
- I've got to try and get you away.
- Hurry, mister, please.
- I don't like it here. They're coming.
Do you know what they're gonna do?
- They're going to -
- Come on, come on. Hurry, hurry!
We can escape through the cave. I know the way.
Quickly.
That's the way out up there.
Come on. It's through a big tunnel.
We seem to have lost our torch-bearing friends.
I'm sorry.
It was worse than I remembered it.
- Did I do it right?
- You did it beautifully.
Dear little Rowan.
Rowan, darling. Come on, now.
Welcome, fool.
You have come of your own
free will to the appointed place.
The game is over.
Game? What game?
The game of the hunted leading the hunter.
You came here to find Rowan Morrison,
but it is we who have found you
and brought you here
and controlled your every thought
and action since you arrived.
Principally, we persuaded you to think
that Rowan Morrison was
being held as a sacrifice
because our crops failed last year.
I know your crops failed.
I saw the harvest photograph.
Oh, yes. They failed, all right, disastrously so...
for the first time since my grandfather came here.
The blossom came but the fruit
withered and died on the bough.
That must not happen again this year.
It is our most earnest belief that the
best way of preventing this
is to offer to our god of the Sun and
to the goddess of our orchards
the most acceptable sacrifice
that lies in our power.
Animals are fine, but their acceptability is limited.
A little child is even better,
but not nearly as effective
as the right kind of adult.
What do you mean,
"right kind of adult"?
You, Sergeant, are the right kind of adult,
as our painstaking researches have revealed.
You, uniquely, were the one we needed.
A man who would come
here of his own free will.
A man who has come here with the power
of a king by representing the law.
A man who would come here as a virgin.
A man who has come here as a fool.
Get out of my way.
You are the fool, Mr. Howie -
Punch, one of the great fool-victims of history,
for you have accepted the role of king for a day,
and who but a fool would do that?
But you will be revered and anointed as a king.
You will undergo death and rebirth -
resurrection, if you like.
The rebirth, sadly, will not be yours,
but that of our crops.
I am a christian,
and as a christian, I hope for resurrection.
And even if you kill me now,
it is I who will live again,
not your damned apples.
Sleep
Close and fast
No matter what you do,
you can't change the fact
that I believe in the life eternal,
as promised to us by our lord, Jesus Christ.
I believe in the life eternal
as promised to us by our lord, Jesus Christ.
That is good.
For believing what you do,
we confer upon you
a rare gift these days -
a martyr's death.
You will not only have life eternal,
but you will sit with
the saints among the elect.
Come.
It is time to keep your appointment
with The Wicker Man.
Now, wait!
Now, all of you, just wait and listen to me.
And you can wrap it up any way you like.
You are about to commit murder.
Can you not see? There is no Sun god.
There is no goddess of the fields.
Your crops failed because your strains failed.
Fruit is not meant to be grown on these islands.
It's against nature.
Don't you see that killing me is not
going to bring back your apples?
Summerisle, you know it won't.
Go on, man. Tell them. Tell them it won't.
I know it will.
Well, don't you understand that
if your crops fail this year,
next year you're going to have to
have another blood sacrifice?
And next year, no one less than the
king of Summerisle himself will do.
If the crops fail, Summerisle,
next year your people
will kill you on May Day.
They will not fail.
The sacrifice of the willing king,
like virgin fool, will be accepted.
But don't you see I'll be missed?
- They'll come looking for me.
- There will be no traces. Bring him up, Oak.
- Go on.
- No!
Think! Just think what you're doing!
Think what you're doing! Think!
In the name of God, think what you're doing!
Oh, God! Oh, Jesus Christ!
Oh, my God! Christ!
No, no, dear God!
No, Christ!
No, no!
Mighty god of the Sun,
bountiful goddess of our orchards,
accept our sacrifice and make our blossoms fruit.
Mighty god of the Sun,
bountiful goddess of our orchards...
- Hear ye the words of the lord!
...accept our sacrifice and make our blossoms fruit.
Awake, ye heathens, and hold!
It is the Lord who hath laid waste your orchards!
It is he who hath made them bare!
- Reverence the sacrifice.
Hold, ye husbandmen,
because the harvest of
your field hath perished
and the vine is dried up
and the apple tree languisheth!
Even all the trees of the field are withered
because the truth is withered away
from the sons of men.
Desire shall fail
and ye shall all die
accursed!
Summer is a-comin' in
Loudly sing cuckoo
Grows the seed and blows the mead
And springs the wood anew
Sing cuckoo
Ewe bleats harshly after lamb
Cows after calves make moo
The lord's my shepherd
I'll not want
He takes me down
to lie
in pastures -
Oh, God.
Grows the seed and blows the mead
And springs the wood anew
- Sing cuckoo
- Oh, God.
I humbly entreat you for the soul
of this, thy servant, Neil Howie...
who will today depart from this world.
Do not deliver me into the enemy's hands...
or put me out of mind forever.
Let me not undergo the real pains of hell,
dear God, because I die unshriven
- Cuckoo, cuckoo
- and establish me
in that bliss
which knows no ending,
- Cuckoo
- through Christ,
our lord.
Grows the seed and blows the mead
Failure! Failure!
Sing cuckoo
Ewe bleats harshly after lamb
Cows after calves make moo
Bullock stamps and deer champs
Now shrilly sing cuckoo
Cuckoo, cuckoo
Wild bird are you
Be never still, cuckoo
from the original Close Caption file