Here we are in New South Wales Shearing sheep as big as whales With leather necks and jaggy tails And hides as tough as rusty nails When shearing comes
It's 4am and we're sailing away from the port that we call home I feel a pain that I cannot explain a feeling I know all too well Tears won't help
With prohibition on you can make a tidy sum a sturdy craft a few good hands the guts to run the rum the thirsty pay handsomely for a measly little tot
I've drunk an ocean And I've drowned in the tide And sitting here in this bar I've swallowed more than my pride... Vancouver, B.C. Is where it began
Diggin' the Grave does not have lyrics. It's an instrumental.
And still I live in hope to see the Holy Ground once more. (Shouted) Fine girl you are! Fare thee well, my lovely Dinah, a thousand times adieu. For
I've come to the conclusion life is here to pull my chain One step forward ten steps back its too much for my brain Seven days of misery will start to
I won't lead you won't follow Come on up here and stand beside me We'll just keep doing what we're doing And the world will come around you'll see Ain
It was Friday morn, when we set sail and we were not far from the land. When our Captain he spied, a mermaid so fair with a comb and glass in her hand
We moved into a house on twelvth avenue it was a rising damp with an alley for a view A skin of peeling paint and an attic full of mice to turn the shower
Tim Finnegan lived in Walkin' Street A gentle Irishman mighty odd; He'd a beautiful brogue both rich and sweet And to rise in the world he carried a hod
Oh, whisky you're the devil you're leading me astray over hills and mountains and to Amerikay you're sweeter stronger dacenter you're spunkier nor tea
When I woke up I was just like you But in today's paper on page 22 I'm right there for all to see me in my entirety No longer will I live in relative
Though they drain their bodies underground Who'd dare to push them around? Make way for the Molly McGuires They're drinkers they're liars but they'
By the time you read this letter I'll be far away from here I've left to find my fortune Outside of the weir The world is not this island To dig and
As I went home on Monday night as drunk as drunk could be I saw a horse outside the door where my old horse should be Well, I called me wife and I said
Mr. Valentine's dead, and he's drinking Manhattans, singing a coal miner's tune. In his daddy's tuxedo and Fred Astaire shoes, he's the best looking corpse
Vertaling: Town Pants. Ontbyt met St Swithin.