A plague in the workhouse, a plague on the poor Now Ill beat on my drum til Im dead Yesterday, a fever, tomorrow, St. Peter Ill beat on my drum until then.
But what melody will lead my lover from his bed? What melody will see him in my arms again?
Set fire to foundation and burn out the station Youll never get nothing of mine The pane of my window will flicker and billow I wont leave a stitching behind
But what melody will lead my lover from his bed? What melody will see him in my arms again?
Ill sing of the walls of the well and the house at the top of the hill Ill sing of the bottles of wine that we left on our old windowsill Ill sing of the years you will spend getting sadder and older Oh love, and the cold, the oncoming cold
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