Passing Through

Well I was wounded at the door, I recalled an Irish song

That my father used to sing when he was young

It told of beauty and of grace, Dublin ladies fair of face

Some of beggars and the poor when I was wounded at the door

When I was hurting well inside, I watched a moth fly fast outside

And was surprised he didn't strike the bedside light

Then I wondered if the reason was just the silly season

And I should be asleep but just a while

There goes the light, just passing through

Oh my lass, what shall we do?

There goes the light, just passing through

Oh my lass, what shall we do?

So I called upon a song to which I could belong

It was a song my mother used to sing to me

It told of gardens and flowers, kissed you well with secret powers

Led you home where it was warm and you could sleep

There goes the light, just passing through

Oh my lass, what shall we do?

There goes the light, just passing through

Oh my lass, what shall we do?