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 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