Cliquot
A plague in the workhouse, a plague on the poorNow I'll beat on my drum 'til I'm deadYesterday, a fever, tomorrow, St. PeterI'll beat on my drum until then.
But 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 stationYou'll never get nothing of mineThe pane of my window will flicker and billowI 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 hillI'll sing of the bottles of wine that we left on our old windowsillI'll sing of the years you will spend getting sadder and olderOh love, and the cold, the oncoming cold