Cliquot

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 lead 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 nothing of mine

The pane of my window will flicker and billow

I won't leave a stitching behind

Oh 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