| By the windy shores o Canada bay I broke my fast for Lucia’s day
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| A beguiling figure she blew my way & rattled me rovin' heart
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| The snipers crack, the metronome of pricy heels on polished stone
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| That I were soon to call my own by way o' the ancient art
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| I were cozened by a whiff-o-the-whim that scours the Costa harryin'
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| The likes o' men who’ve lost the lamp, the rudderless and bewildered
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| The sands below are littered wi' bones o' those who’ve taken a belly o' stones
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| And turned their backs on wives & homes to follow the black Matilda
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| Ho-ro m’lovelies cross yer hearts & hope to die
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| If e’er ye’re drawn beneath a murky fathom of her eye
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| Ho-ro my lovelies kiss yer arse a fond goodbye
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| Ye’ll never again be able to lift yer head so bloody high
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| For even the boys of Inverary know, from Tortuga to Jericho
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| She took three hundred souls below off the deck o' the Andalusia
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| The poets and the Sages tried to warn us down the ages
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| Their blood drips from the pages where they tell o' the Black Matilda
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| She pursed her lips & spun a tune as fine as any silk cocoon
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| That’s ever left McEacherns loom & held me there in a tawper
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| A bastard I was born y’ken? |
| I lived as tho' I’d never end
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| I’ll die a disenchanted man, they’ll bury me as a pauper
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| For men have drowned & men have swung, the brig at Iron Cove were hung
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| Wi' a garland of the old, the young, all battered & unfamiliar
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| Theres no poetry theres no tune, no point in howlin' at the moon
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| A caution to ye very soon ye’ll waltz yer Black Matilda
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| By the windy shores O' Canada bay I blew my friggin brains away
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| Its not as tho' i’m proud to say, its not as tho I coulda killed her
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| I’m off to Hells begotten shores where men like me have sailed before
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| And they shall sail forever more in the name o' the Black Matilda
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| Ho-Ro m’lovelies cross yer hearts & hope to die
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| Its enough to make ye cry, enough to make ye cry!
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| Ho-Ro m’lovelies kiss yer arse a fond goodbye
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| Its enough to make ye cry, enough to make ye DIE! |