A plague in the workhouse, a plague on the poor
Now I'll beat on my drum till I'm dead
Yesterday a fever
Tomorrow St. Peter, I'll beat on my drum until then
What melody will bring my lover from his bed
What melody will see him in my arms again
Set fire to foundation and burn out the station
You'll never get nothin of mine
The pane of my window will flicker and billow
I won't leave a stitching behind
But what melody will lead my lover from his bed
What melody will see him in my arms again
I'll sing of the walls of the well
And the house at the top of the hill
I'll sing of the bottles of wine that we left on our old windowsill
I'll sing of the years you will spend getting sadder and older oh love
And the cold, the oncoming cold
