External linkrecruiting drive
My mother weeps as I leave her But I tell her it won’t be long, The murderers wail in Wandsworth Gaol But I shoot a more popular song. Down in the enemy country Under the enemy tree There lies a lad whose heart has gone bad Waiting for me, for me. He says I have no culture And that when I’ve stormed the pass I shall fall on the farm with a smoking arm And ravish his bonny lass. Under the willow the willow Death spreads her dripping wings And caught in the snare of the bleeding air. The butcher bird sings, sings, sings.