|
Eli, the barrowboy, you're the old town |
|
Sells coal and marigolds and he cries out all down the day |
|
Below the tamarac she is crying |
|
Corn cobs and candlewax for the buying, all down the day |
|
Would I could afford to buy my love a fine robe |
|
Made of gold and silk arabian thread |
|
She is dead and gone and lying in a pine grove |
|
And I must push my barrow all the day |
|
And I must push my barrow all the day |
|
Eli, the barrowboy, when they found him |
|
Dressed all in corduroy, he had drowned in the river down the way |
|
They laid his body down in a churchyard |
|
But still when the moon is out, with his pushcart, he calls down the day |
|
Would I could afford to buy my love a fine gown |
|
Made of gold and silk arabian thread |
|
But I am dead and gone and lying in a church ground |
|
But still I push my barrow all the day |
|
Still I push my barrow all the day |
