Sycamore Queen

I must away now, and make my way home

Though the path is winding, and the stars are hidden oh

Over the drumlins, from belfast to comber

With the lights of the city, behind me I wonder

Over stream and hedgerow, thick gorse and ploughed land

Well the rain gently falling, is no trouble to me man

As I’m of the river, and I’m of the sea

And the water falling, it is flowing through me

They cut up the old land, to keep ‘em under the cold hand

And keep the oil flowing, right up to our waistbands

So there’s only one queen, that I would kneel for

The gray barked maple, the noble sycamore

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