| We waited in our summer camps, we waited all summer long
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| To be paid for the bloody work we had done
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| I fought with Freeborn John, I fought with General Ireton
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| The best of men in the worst of times
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| I have honours to my name, I have served my God
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| And not that fool of a king
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| But when I close my eyes to dream I see pikes against the sky
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| I hear dying men and horses scream
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| And no one tells us what is happening
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| No one seems to know what is happening
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| Through those November rains, we were on the march again
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| To Putney with our elected men
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| And in the Church the leaders talked
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| And outside we stamped our feet against the cold
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| And dared to hope
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| News from home comes slow and it is never good
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| The harvest poor and too few to gather
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| We were sent to hang two men caught stealing food
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| By a frozen river
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| And no one ever tells us what is happening
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| No one seems to know what’s happening
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| They say in London town the streets are alive with talk
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| The Assembly of Saints to be taken down
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| I say let them rot in Hell — it will be God’s will
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| To see a land that is free
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| Everywhere there are prophets
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| Everywhere there are words
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| All rumours and rapture
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| But I just long to go home, turn my face into the sun
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| And now I know Jerusalem
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| And no one ever tells us what is happening
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| No one seems to know what is happening |