by Aonghus

Where is the scycle Jack
the corn is gold and ripe

I’ve beaten it into a blade, Woman
and it off to war I fight

When will you return Jack
and the brown land tend

Well dead men pull no rake, Woman
so I’ll not see you again

Where do your bones lay Jack
so I may lay a flowered wreath

They were broke and ground to smoke
so spare your weav’ed grief

How does your soul Jack
where has it gone to sleep

To Hell! To Hell! my soul hath fell
and for me the angels weep